Popular Statesman Quotes

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." [The New Statesman, February 25, 1933]

A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue the policy he deems advantageous to his country, but he has at the same time to recognize the force of popular feeling. Popular feeling is very often sentimental, muddleheaded, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be disregarded for all that.

Though the colored man is no longer subject to be bought and sold, he is still surrounded by an adverse sentiment which fetters all his movements. In his downward course he meets with no resistance, but his course upward is resented and resisted at every step of his progress. If he comes in ignorance, rags, and wretchedness, he conforms to the popular belief of his character, and in that character he is welcome. But if he shall come as a gentleman, a scholar, and a statesman, he is hailed as a contradiction to the national faith concerning his race, and his coming is resented as impudence. In the one case he may provoke contempt and derision, but in the other he is an affront to pride and provokes malice. Let him do what he will, there is at present, therefore, no escape for him. The color line meets him everywhere, and in a measure shuts him out from all respectable and profitable trades and callings.

Unlike the political opportunist, the true statesman values principle above popularity, and works to create popularity for those political principles which are wise and just.

Stoicism was one of the four principal schools of philosophy in ancient Athens, alongside Plato’s Academy, Aristotle’s Lyceum, and Epicurus’s Garden, where it flourished for some 250 years. It proved especially popular among the Romans, attracting admirers as diverse as the statesman Seneca, the ex-slave Epictetus, and the Emperor Marcus Aurelius.

The kind of thinking required for the successful conduct of foreign policy must at times be diametrically opposed to the kind of considerations by which the masses and their representatives are likely to be moved. The peculiar qualities of the statesman's mind are not always likely to find a favorable response in the popular mind. The statesman must think in terms of the national interest, conceived as power among other powers. The popular mind, unaware of the fine distinctions of the statesman's thinking, reasons more often than not in the simple moralistic and legalistic terms of absolute good and absolute evil. The statesman must take the long view, proceeding slowly and by detours, paying with small losses for great advantage; he must be able to temporize, to compromise, to bide his time. The popular mind wants quick results; it will sacrifice tomorrow's real benefit for today's apparent advantage.

One of those popular interpreters, for example, was the British statesman Lord Haldane, who fancied himself a philosopher and scientific scholar. In 1921, he published a book called The Reign of Relativity, which enlisted Einstein’s theory to support his own political views on the need to avoid dogmatism in order to have a dynamic society. “Einstein’s principle of the relativity of our measurements of space and time cannot be taken in isolation,” he wrote. “When its import is considered it may well be found to have its counterpart in other domains of nature and of knowledge generally.

That evening Cicero met Brutus and some of his fellow ‘Liberators’ on the Capitoline Hill, where they had installed themselves. He had not been part of the plot, but some said that Brutus had called out Cicero’s name as he plunged his knife into Caesar – and in any case, as an elder statesman, he was likely to be a useful figurehead to have on board in the aftermath. Cicero’s advice was clear: they should summon the senate to meet on the Capitoline straight away. But they dithered and left the initiative to Caesar’s followers, who soon exploited the popular mood, which was certainly not behind the killers, despite Cicero’s later fantasies that most ordinary Romans in the end believed that the tyrant had to go. The majority still preferred the reforms of Caesar – the support for the poor, the overseas settlements and the occasional cash handouts – to fine-sounding ideas of liberty, which might amount to not much more than an alibi for elite self-interest and the continued exploitation of the underclass, as those at the sharp end of Brutus’ exactions in Cyprus could well have observed.

Lincoln asserted the right to form his own opinions only in cases where he did not know the will of the public. But what if he knew their will and disagreed with it? What if his conscience dictated a course at variance with popular opinion? The eighteenth-century statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke had thought much on this question. “Your representative,” Burke remarked, “owes you not his industry only, but his judgment; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your opinion.

Other reasons account for Hamilton’s failure to snatch the prize. Though blessed with a great executive mind and a consummate policy maker, Hamilton could never master the smooth restraint of a mature politician. His conception of leadership was noble but limiting: the true statesman defied the wishes of the people, if necessary, and shook them from wishful thinking and complacency. Hamilton lived in a world of moral absolutes and was not especially prone to compromise or consensus building. Where Washington and Jefferson had a gift for voicing the hopes of ordinary people, Hamilton had no special interest in echoing popular preferences. Much too avowedly elitist to become president, he lacked what Woodrow Wilson defined as an essential ingredient for political leadership: “profound sympathy with those whom he leads—a sympathy which is insight—an insight which is of the heart rather than of the intellect.” Alexander Hamilton enjoyed no such mystic bond with the American people. This may have been why Madison was so adamant that “Hamilton never could have got in” as president.

Ducking ponds where dogs chased ducks were popular amusements at parks, and sometimes, to increase the fun, an owl would be tied to the duck’s back, which caused it to dive in terror until one or both of the birds died.

There is usually a moment in the life of a new president when he begins to see himself not as an aspirant desperate to win but as a statesman above the squalor and sweat of actual vote getting. Rising men do not like to be reminded of the smell of the stables; dignitaries dislike recollections of the dust through which they have come.

A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue the policy he deems advantageous to his country, but he has at the same time to recognize the force of popular feeling. Popular feeling is very often sentimental, muddleheaded, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be disregarded for all that.” “How

Mr. Walpole was almost the only statesman in the House who spoke out boldly against it. He warned them, in eloquent and solemn language, of the evils that would ensue. It countenanced, he said, “the dangerous practice of stockjobbing, and would divert the genius of the nation from trade and industry. It would hold out a dangerous lure to decoy the unwary to their ruin, by making them part with the earnings of their labour for a prospect of imaginary wealth. The great principle of the project was an evil of first-rate magnitude; it was to raise artificially the value of the stock, by exciting and keeping up a general infatuation, and by promising dividends out of funds which could never be adequate to the purpose. In a prophetic spirit he added, that if the plan succeeded, the directors would become masters of the government, form a new and absolute aristocracy in the kingdom, and control the resolutions of the legislature.

There were even conservatives who, though they went along with Hitler’s nationalist goals and his anti-Weimar fulminations, opposed him because they couldn’t abide his populism—to them, he was too democratic. These individuals could be as ferocious in their opposition as any Communist. A pertinent example of the type was Friedrich Reck, a popular novelist and friend of Oswald Spengler and Gregor Strasser. He was a confirmed reactionary—a rueful monarchist and an unapologetic elitist (“increased life expectancy,” he said, “is largely due to the incubation of basically unfit children”). But to him, Hitler was the plebeian embodiment of “mass man,” “a deeply miscarried human being,” a “poor devil sprung out of a Strindbergian excremental Hell.” Reck shared many of the premises of Hitler, but no one outdid him in his detestation of “that power-drunk schizophrenic,” the “Prince of Darkness himself.” To those conservatives who grudgingly went along, the Nazis may have been a threat to law and order at the time of the putsch but not after. The greater threat, the long-term threat, was Marxism. Even if Hitler was extreme, even if he was vulgar, even if his anti-Semitism was pathologically obsessional, he remained a German nationalist of obvious talent and a useful tool in the battle against Communism. And so he would never lack for sympathizers in high places, like the judges at his treason trial, even if they looked down on him and didn’t take him as seriously as they should have. Hindenburg’s own dislike of Hitler had less to do with ideology than with simple snobbery—here was a revered German general being compelled to deal on a level of equality with an anonymous German corporal. This conservative tolerance for the Nazis (which always had the potential, as conditions worsened, to shade over into extreme nationalism and then into war crimes) finds an echo in Joachim Fest’s observation that down to 1938, Hitler could be considered a great German statesman, as well as in Henry Kissinger’s opinion that Hitler’s intentions were ambiguous—until they weren’t.

Paul von Hindenburg was a popular Prussian field marshal, statesman, and politician during World War I. In 1919, Hindenburg, who was a proud, self-assured general officer, was subpoenaed to appear before the Reichstag commission, which can be thought of as Germany’s Congress. He cautiously avoided answering any questions about who was responsible for Germany’s defeat in the “World War of 1918.” Instead of a direct answer, he read a prepared statement that had been carefully scrutinized in advance by his attorney. Hindenburg, ever mindful of his legacy, testified that the German Army had been on the verge of winning the war in the autumn of 1918, and that the enormous defeat had been caused by a Dolchstoß, a traitorous blow. By saying this he deflected any personal fault for the war, by insinuating that treacherous individuals and unpatriotic left- leaning socialist politicians were to blame for the demoralizing and embarrassing defeat. Despite being threatened with a contempt citation by the Commission for refusing to respond to questions, Hindenburg, after reading his statement, simply walked out of the hearings. He successfully relied on his status as a nationalist and conservative war hero to provide him with protection from additional hearings or prosecution. It turned out that Hindenburg was actually right in his assessment, and he was never indicted for walking out on the Reichstag. In 1925, Hindenburg then became the second Weimar President.

A tremendously popular war hero and statesman, George Washington, won the first American election with one hundred percent of the electoral votes, and he remains the only president ever

Not coincidentally, the growing popularity of globalism is linked to an anti-biblical worldview that involves the push for same-sex marriage, dismantling the institution of marriage, abortion, New Age and occult beliefs, and a decline in morals. “The biblical perspective that God has laid out is very antithetical to the kinds of things that globalists aspire to,” Missler says. “But it’s no surprise because the Bible talks about how this globalism appeal is going to be the very instrument that will be used to enslave people.” The widespread acceptance of globalism and its anti-biblical positions didn’t appear out of nowhere. Some of the world’s most prominent figures have promoted globalism and the creation of a world government, including iconic broadcast journalist Walter Cronkite, theoretical physicist Albert Einstein, author and biochemistry professor Isaac Asimov, Soviet statesman Mikhail Gorbachev, UN assistant secretary-general Robert