{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_816/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_816","id":"gutenberg_816","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/816","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - American","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","Category: Sociology","Democracy -- United States","United States -- Politics and government","United States -- Social conditions"],"text":"Produced by David Reed and David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nDEMOCRACY IN AMERICA\n\nBy Alexis De Tocqueville\n\n\nTranslated by Henry Reeve\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Two: Influence Of Democracy On Progress Of Opinion In\nthe United States.\n\n\n\n\n\nDe Tocqueville's Preface To The Second Part\n\nThe Americans live in a democratic state of society, which has naturally\nsuggested to them certain laws and a certain political character. This\nsame state of society has, moreover, engendered amongst them a\nmultitude of feelings and opinions which were unknown amongst the elder\naristocratic communities of Europe: it has destroyed or modified all the\nrelations which before existed, and established others of a novel kind.\nThe--aspect of civil society has been no less affected by these changes\nthan that of the political world. The former subject has been treated\nof in the work on the Democracy of America, which I published five years\nago; to examine the latter is the object of the present book; but these\ntwo parts complete each other, and form one and the same work.\n\nI must at once warn the reader against an error which would be extremely\nprejudicial to me. When he finds that I attribute so many different\nconsequences to the principle of equality, he may thence infer that I\nconsider that principle to be the sole cause of all that takes place in\nthe present age: but this would be to impute to me a very narrow view. A\nmultitude of opinions, feelings, and propensities are now in existence,\nwhich owe their origin to circumstances unconnected with or even\ncontrary to the principle of equality. Thus if I were to select the\nUnited States as an example, I could easily prove that the nature of the\ncountry, the origin of its inhabitants, the religion of its founders,\ntheir acquired knowledge, and their former habits, have exercised, and\nstill exercise, independently of democracy, a vast influence upon the\nthoughts and feelings of that people. Different causes, but no less\ndistinct from the circumstance of the equality of conditions, might be\ntraced in Europe, and would explain a great portion of the occurrences\ntaking place amongst us.\n\nI acknowledge the existence of all these different causes, and their\npower, but my subject does not lead me to treat of them. I have not\nundertaken to unfold the reason of all our inclinations and all our\nnotions: my only object is to show in what respects the principle of\nequality has modified both the former and the latter.\n\nSome readers may perhaps be astonished that--firmly persuaded as I\nam that the democratic revolution which we are witnessing is an\nirresistible fact against which it would be neither desirable nor wise\nto struggle--I should often have had occasion in this book to address\nlanguage of such severity to those democratic communities which this\nrevolution has brought into being. My answer is simply, that it is\nbecause I am not an adversary of democracy, that I have sought to speak\nof democracy in all sincerity.\n\nMen will not accept truth at the hands of their enemies, and truth is\nseldom offered to them by their friends: for this reason I have spoken\nit. I was persuaded that many would take upon themselves to announce the\nnew blessings which the principle of equality promises to mankind, but\nthat few would dare to point out from afar the dangers with which\nit threatens them. To those perils therefore I have turned my chief\nattention, and believing that I had discovered them clearly, I have not\nhad the cowardice to leave them untold.\n\nI trust that my readers will find in this Second Part that impartiality\nwhich seems to have been remarked in the former work. Placed as I am in\nthe midst of the conflicting opinions between which we are divided,\nI have endeavored to suppress within me for a time the favorable\nsympathies or the adverse emotions with which each of them inspires\nme. If those who read this book can find a single sentence intended to\nflatter any of the great parties which have agitated my country, or any\nof those petty factions which now harass and weaken it, let such readers\nraise their voices to accuse me.\n\nThe subject I have sought to embrace is immense, for it includes the\ngreater part of the feelings and opinions to which the new state of\nsociety has given birth. Such a subject is doubtless above my strength,\nand in treating it I have not succeeded in satisfying myself. But, if\nI have not been able to reach the goal which I had in view, my readers\nwill at least do me the justice to acknowledge that I have conceived and\nfollowed up my undertaking in a spirit not unworthy of success.\n\nA. De T.\n\nMarch, 1840\n\n\n\n\nSection I: Influence of Democracy on the Action of Intellect in The\nUnited States.\n\n\n\n\nChapter I: Philosophical Method Among the Americans\n\nI think that in no country in the civilized world is less attention\npaid to philosophy than in the United States. The Americans have no\nphilosophical school of their own; and they care but little for all\nthe schools into which Europe is divided, the very names of which are\nscarcely known to them. Nevertheless it is easy to perceive that almost\nall the inhabitants of the United States conduct their understanding in\nthe same manner, and govern it by the same rules; that is to say,\nthat without ever having taken the trouble to define the rules of a\nphilosophical method, they are in possession of one, common to the whole\npeople. To evade the bondage of system and habit, of family maxims,\nclass opinions, and, in some degree, of national prejudices; to accept\ntradition only as a means of information, and existing facts only as a\nlesson used in doing otherwise, and doing better; to seek the reason\nof things for one's self, and in one's self alone; to tend to results\nwithout being bound to means, and to aim at the substance through the\nform;--such are the principal characteristics of what I shall call the\nphilosophical method of the Americans. But if I go further, and if I\nseek amongst these characteristics that which predominates over and\nincludes almost all the rest, I discover that in most of the operations\nof the mind, each American appeals to the individual exercise of his own\nunderstanding alone. America is therefore one of the countries in the\nworld where philosophy is least studied, and where the precepts of\nDescartes are best applied. Nor is this surprising. The Americans do not\nread the works of Descartes, because their social condition deters them\nfrom speculative studies; but they follow his maxims because this very\nsocial condition naturally disposes their understanding to adopt them.\nIn the midst of the continual movement which agitates a democratic\ncommunity, the tie which unites one generation to another is relaxed\nor broken; every man readily loses the trace of the ideas of his\nforefathers or takes no care about them. Nor can men living in this\nstate of society derive their belief from the opinions of the class to\nwhich they belong, for, so to speak, there are no longer any classes, or\nthose which still exist are composed of such mobile elements, that\ntheir body can never exercise a real control over its members. As to the\ninfluence which the intelligence of one man has on that of another, it\nmust necessarily be very limited in a country where the citizens, placed\non the footing of a general similitude, are all closely seen by each\nother; and where, as no signs of incontestable greatness or superiority\nare perceived in any one of them, they are constantly brought back to\ntheir own reason as the most obvious and proximate source of truth. It\nis not only confidence in this or that man which is then destroyed, but\nthe taste for trusting the ipse dixit of any man whatsoever. Everyone\nshuts himself up in his own breast, and affects from that point to judge\nthe world.\n\nThe practice which obtains amongst the Americans of fixing the standard\nof their judgment in themselves alone, leads them to other habits of\nmind. As they perceive that they succeed in resolving without assistance\nall the little difficulties which their practical life presents, they\nreadily conclude that everything in the world may be explained, and that\nnothing in it transcends the limits of the understanding. Thus they fall\nto denying what they cannot comprehend; which leaves them but little\nfaith for whatever is extraordinary, and an almost insurmountable\ndistaste for whatever is supernatural. As it is on their own testimony\nthat they are accustomed to rely, they like to discern the object which\nengages their attention with extreme clearness; they therefore strip off\nas much as possible all that covers it, they rid themselves of whatever\nseparates them from it, they remove whatever conceals it from sight,\nin order to view it more closely and in the broad light of day. This\ndisposition of the mind soon leads them to contemn forms, which they\nregard as useless and inconvenient veils placed between them and the\ntruth.\n\nThe Americans then have not required to extract their philosophical\nmethod from books; they have found it in themselves. The same thing may\nbe remarked in what has taken place in Europe. This same method has\nonly been established and made popular in Europe in proportion as the\ncondition of society has become more equal, and men have grown more like\neach other. Let us consider for a moment the connection of the periods\nin which this change may be traced. In the sixteenth century the\nReformers subjected some of the dogmas of the ancient faith to the\nscrutiny of private judgment; but they still withheld from it the\njudgment of all the rest. In the seventeenth century, Bacon in the\nnatural sciences, and Descartes in the study of philosophy in the strict\nsense of the term, abolished recognized formulas, destroyed the\nempire of tradition, and overthrew the authority of the schools. The\nphilosophers of the eighteenth century, generalizing at length the same\nprinciple, undertook to submit to the private judgment of each man all\nthe objects of his belief.\n\nWho does not perceive that Luther, Descartes, and Voltaire employed\nthe same method, and that they differed only in the greater or less use\nwhich they professed should be made of it? Why did the Reformers confine\nthemselves so closely within the circle of religious ideas? Why did\nDescartes, choosing only to apply his method to certain matters, though\nhe had made it fit to be applied to all, declare that men might judge\nfor themselves in matters philosophical but not in matters political?\nHow happened it that in the eighteenth century those general\napplications were all at once drawn from this same method, which\nDescartes and his predecessors had either not perceived or had rejected?\nTo what, lastly, is the fact to be attributed, that at this period\nthe method we are speaking of suddenly emerged from the schools, to\npenetrate into society and become the common standard of intelligence;\nand that, after it had become popular among the French, it has been\nostensibly adopted or secretly followed by all the nations of Europe?\n\nThe philosophical method here designated may have been engendered in\nthe sixteenth century--it may have been more accurately defined and more\nextensively applied in the seventeenth; but neither in the one nor in\nthe other could it be commonly adopted. Political laws, the condition\nof society, and the habits of mind which are derived from these causes,\nwere as yet opposed to it. It was discovered at a time when men were\nbeginning to equalize and assimilate their conditions. It could only be\ngenerally followed in ages when those conditions had at length become\nnearly equal, and men nearly alike.\n\nThe philosophical method of the eighteenth century is then not only\nFrench, but it is democratic; and this explains why it was so readily\nadmitted throughout Europe, where it has contributed so powerfully to\nchange the face of society. It is not because the French have changed\ntheir former opinions, and altered their former manners, that they have\nconvulsed the world; but because they were the first to generalize and\nbring to light a philosophical method, by the assistance of which it\nbecame easy to attack all that was old, and to open a path to all that\nwas new.\n\nIf it be asked why, at the present day, this same method is more\nrigorously followed and more frequently applied by the French than by\nthe Americans, although the principle of equality be no less complete,\nand of more ancient date, amongst the latter people, the fact may be\nattributed to two circumstances, which it is essential to have clearly\nunderstood in the first instance. It must never be forgotten that\nreligion gave birth to Anglo-American society. In the United States\nreligion is therefore commingled with all the habits of the nation and\nall the feelings of patriotism; whence it derives a peculiar force.\nTo this powerful reason another of no less intensity may be added: in\nAmerican religion has, as it were, laid down its own limits. Religious\ninstitutions have remained wholly distinct from political institutions,\nso that former laws have been easily changed whilst former belief has\nremained unshaken. Christianity has therefore retained a strong hold on\nthe public mind in America; and, I would more particularly remark, that\nits sway is not only that of a philosophical doctrine which has been\nadopted upon inquiry, but of a religion which is believed without\ndiscussion. In the United States Christian sects are infinitely\ndiversified and perpetually modified; but Christianity itself is a fact\nso irresistibly established, that no one undertakes either to attack or\nto defend it. The Americans, having admitted the principal doctrines of\nthe Christian religion without inquiry, are obliged to accept in like\nmanner a great number of moral truths originating in it and connected\nwith it. Hence the activity of individual analysis is restrained within\nnarrow limits, and many of the most important of human opinions are\nremoved from the range of its influence.\n\nThe second circumstance to which I have alluded is the following: the\nsocial condition and the constitution of the Americans are democratic,\nbut they have not had a democratic revolution. They arrived upon the\nsoil they occupy in nearly the condition in which we see them at the\npresent day; and this is of very considerable importance.\n\nThere are no revolutions which do not shake existing belief, enervate\nauthority, and throw doubts over commonly received ideas. The effect of\nall revolutions is therefore, more or less, to surrender men to their\nown guidance, and to open to the mind of every man a void and almost\nunlimited range of speculation. When equality of conditions succeeds\na protracted conflict between the different classes of which the elder\nsociety was composed, envy, hatred, and uncharitableness, pride, and\nexaggerated self-confidence are apt to seize upon the human heart,\nand plant their sway there for a time. This, independently of equality\nitself, tends powerfully to divide men--to lead them to mistrust the\njudgment of others, and to seek the light of truth nowhere but in their\nown understandings. Everyone then attempts to be his own sufficient\nguide, and makes it his boast to form his own opinions on all subjects.\nMen are no longer bound together by ideas, but by interests; and it\nwould seem as if human opinions were reduced to a sort of intellectual\ndust, scattered on every side, unable to collect, unable to cohere.\n\nThus, that independence of mind which equality supposes to exist, is\nnever so great, nor ever appears so excessive, as at the time when\nequality is beginning to establish itself, and in the course of that\npainful labor by which it is established. That sort of intellectual\nfreedom which equality may give ought, therefore, to be very carefully\ndistinguished from the anarchy which revolution brings. Each of these\ntwo things must be severally considered, in order not to conceive\nexaggerated hopes or fears of the future.\n\nI believe that the men who will live under the new forms of society will\nmake frequent use of their private judgment; but I am far from thinking\nthat they will often abuse it. This is attributable to a cause of more\ngeneral application to all democratic countries, and which, in the\nlong run, must needs restrain in them the independence of individual\nspeculation within fixed, and sometimes narrow, limits. I shall proceed\nto point out this cause in the next chapter.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II: Of The Principal Source Of Belief Among Democratic Nations\n\nAt different periods dogmatical belief is more or less abundant. It\narises in different ways, and it may change its object or its form; but\nunder no circumstances will dogmatical belief cease to exist, or, in\nother words, men will never cease to entertain some implicit opinions\nwithout trying them by actual discussion. If everyone undertook to form\nhis own opinions and to seek for truth by isolated paths struck out by\nhimself alone, it is not to be supposed that any considerable number of\nmen would ever unite in any common belief. But obviously without such\ncommon belief no society can prosper--say rather no society can subsist;\nfor without ideas held in common, there is no common action, and without\ncommon action, there may still be men, but there is no social body. In\norder that society should exist, and, a fortiori, that a society should\nprosper, it is required that all the minds of the citizens should be\nrallied and held together by certain predominant ideas; and this cannot\nbe the case, unless each of them sometimes draws his opinions from the\ncommon source, and consents to accept certain matters of belief at the\nhands of the community.\n\nIf I now consider man in his isolated capacity, I find that dogmatical\nbelief is not less indispensable to him in order to live alone, than it\nis to enable him to co-operate with his fellow-creatures. If man were\nforced to demonstrate to himself all the truths of which he makes\ndaily use, his task would never end. He would exhaust his strength\nin preparatory exercises, without advancing beyond them. As, from the\nshortness of his life, he has not the time, nor, from the limits of his\nintelligence, the capacity, to accomplish this, he is reduced to take\nupon trust a number of facts and opinions which he has not had either\nthe time or the power to verify himself, but which men of greater\nability have sought out, or which the world adopts. On this groundwork\nhe raises for himself the structure of his own thoughts; nor is he led\nto proceed in this manner by choice so much as he is constrained by the\ninflexible law of his condition. There is no philosopher of such great\nparts in the world, but that he believes a million of things on the\nfaith of other people, and supposes a great many more truths than he\ndemonstrates. This is not only necessary but desirable. A man who should\nundertake to inquire into everything for himself, could devote to each\nthing but little time and attention. His task would keep his mind in\nperpetual unrest, which would prevent him from penetrating to the depth\nof any truth, or of grappling his mind indissolubly to any conviction.\nHis intellect would be at once independent and powerless. He must\ntherefore make his choice from amongst the various objects of human\nbelief, and he must adopt many opinions without discussion, in order\nto search the better into that smaller number which he sets apart for\ninvestigation. It is true that whoever receives an opinion on the word\nof another, does so far enslave his mind; but it is a salutary servitude\nwhich allows him to make a good use of freedom.\n\nA principle of authority must then always occur, under all\ncircumstances, in some part or other of the moral and intellectual\nworld. Its place is variable, but a place it necessarily has. The\nindependence of individual minds may be greater, or it may be less:\nunbounded it cannot be. Thus the question is, not to know whether any\nintellectual authority exists in the ages of democracy, but simply where\nit resides and by what standard it is to be measured.\n\nI have shown in the preceding chapter how the equality of conditions\nleads men to entertain a sort of instinctive incredulity of the\nsupernatural, and a very lofty and often exaggerated opinion of the\nhuman understanding. The men who live at a period of social equality are\nnot therefore easily led to place that intellectual authority to which\nthey bow either beyond or above humanity. They commonly seek for the\nsources of truth in themselves, or in those who are like themselves.\nThis would be enough to prove that at such periods no new religion could\nbe established, and that all schemes for such a purpose would be not\nonly impious but absurd and irrational. It may be foreseen that a\ndemocratic people will not easily give credence to divine missions; that\nthey will turn modern prophets to a ready jest; and they that will seek\nto discover the chief arbiter of their belief within, and not beyond,\nthe limits of their kind.\n\nWhen the ranks of society are unequal, and men unlike each other in\ncondition, there are some individuals invested with all the power of\nsuperior intelligence, learning, and enlightenment, whilst the multitude\nis sunk in ignorance and prejudice. Men living at these aristocratic\nperiods are therefore naturally induced to shape their opinions by the\nsuperior standard of a person or a class of persons, whilst they are\naverse to recognize the infallibility of the mass of the people.\n\nThe contrary takes place in ages of equality. The nearer the citizens\nare drawn to the common level of an equal and similar condition, the\nless prone does each man become to place implicit faith in a certain man\nor a certain class of men. But his readiness to believe the multitude\nincreases, and opinion is more than ever mistress of the world. Not only\nis common opinion the only guide which private judgment retains amongst\na democratic people, but amongst such a people it possesses a power\ninfinitely beyond what it has elsewhere. At periods of equality men have\nno faith in one another, by reason of their common resemblance; but this\nvery resemblance gives them almost unbounded confidence in the judgment\nof the public; for it would not seem probable, as they are all endowed\nwith equal means of judging, but that the greater truth should go with\nthe greater number.\n\nWhen the inhabitant of a democratic country compares himself\nindividually with all those about him, he feels with pride that he is\nthe equal of any one of them; but when he comes to survey the totality\nof his fellows, and to place himself in contrast to so huge a body,\nhe is instantly overwhelmed by the sense of his own insignificance and\nweakness. The same equality which renders him independent of each of his\nfellow-citizens taken severally, exposes him alone and unprotected to\nthe influence of the greater number. The public has therefore among a\ndemocratic people a singular power, of which aristocratic nations could\nnever so much as conceive an idea; for it does not persuade to certain\nopinions, but it enforces them, and infuses them into the faculties by a\nsort of enormous pressure of the minds of all upon the reason of each.\n\nIn the United States the majority undertakes to supply a multitude of\nready-made opinions for the use of individuals, who are thus relieved\nfrom the necessity of forming opinions of their own. Everybody there\nadopts great numbers of theories, on philosophy, morals, and politics,\nwithout inquiry, upon public trust; and if we look to it very narrowly,\nit will be perceived that religion herself holds her sway there, much\nless as a doctrine of revelation than as a commonly received opinion.\nThe fact that the political laws of the Americans are such that the\nmajority rules the community with sovereign sway, materially increases\nthe power which that majority naturally exercises over the mind. For\nnothing is more customary in man than to recognize superior wisdom in\nthe person of his oppressor. This political omnipotence of the majority\nin the United States doubtless augments the influence which public\nopinion would obtain without it over the mind of each member of the\ncommunity; but the foundations of that influence do not rest upon it.\nThey must be sought for in the principle of equality itself, not in the\nmore or less popular institutions which men living under that condition\nmay give themselves. The intellectual dominion of the greater number\nwould probably be less absolute amongst a democratic people governed\nby a king than in the sphere of a pure democracy, but it will always be\nextremely absolute; and by whatever political laws men are governed in\nthe ages of equality, it may be foreseen that faith in public\nopinion will become a species of religion there, and the majority its\nministering prophet.\n\nThus intellectual authority will be different, but it will not be\ndiminished; and far from thinking that it will disappear, I augur that\nit may readily acquire too much preponderance, and confine the action\nof private judgment within narrower limits than are suited either to\nthe greatness or the happiness of the human race. In the principle of\nequality I very clearly discern two tendencies; the one leading the mind\nof every man to untried thoughts, the other inclined to prohibit him\nfrom thinking at all. And I perceive how, under the dominion of certain\nlaws, democracy would extinguish that liberty of the mind to which a\ndemocratic social condition is favorable; so that, after having broken\nall the bondage once imposed on it by ranks or by men, the human mind\nwould be closely fettered to the general will of the greatest number.\n\nIf the absolute power of the majority were to be substituted by\ndemocratic nations, for all the different powers which checked or\nretarded overmuch the energy of individual minds, the evil would\nonly have changed its symptoms. Men would not have found the means of\nindependent life; they would simply have invented (no easy task) a new\ndress for servitude. There is--and I cannot repeat it too often--there\nis in this matter for profound reflection for those who look on freedom\nas a holy thing, and who hate not only the despot, but despotism. For\nmyself, when I feel the hand of power lie heavy on my brow, I care but\nlittle to know who oppresses me; and I am not the more disposed to pass\nbeneath the yoke, because it is held out to me by the arms of a million\nof men.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III: Why The Americans Display More Readiness And More Taste For\nGeneral Ideas Than Their Forefathers, The English.\n\nThe Deity does not regard the human race collectively. He surveys at one\nglance and severally all the beings of whom mankind is composed, and he\ndiscerns in each man the resemblances which assimilate him to all his\nfellows, and the differences which distinguish him from them. God,\ntherefore, stands in no need of general ideas; that is to say, he is\nnever sensible of the necessity of collecting a considerable number\nof analogous objects under the same form for greater convenience in\nthinking. Such is, however, not the case with man. If the human mind\nwere to attempt to examine and pass a judgment on all the individual\ncases before it, the immensity of detail would soon lead it astray\nand bewilder its discernment: in this strait, man has recourse to\nan imperfect but necessary expedient, which at once assists and\ndemonstrates his weakness. Having superficially considered a certain\nnumber of objects, and remarked their resemblance, he assigns to them a\ncommon name, sets them apart, and proceeds onwards.\n\nGeneral ideas are no proof of the strength, but rather of the\ninsufficiency of the human intellect; for there are in nature no\nbeings exactly alike, no things precisely identical, nor any rules\nindiscriminately and alike applicable to several objects at once. The\nchief merit of general ideas is, that they enable the human mind to\npass a rapid judgment on a great many objects at once; but, on the other\nhand, the notions they convey are never otherwise than incomplete, and\nthey always cause the mind to lose as much in accuracy as it gains\nin comprehensiveness. As social bodies advance in civilization, they\nacquire the knowledge of new facts, and they daily lay hold almost\nunconsciously of some particular truths. The more truths of this kind a\nman apprehends, the more general ideas is he naturally led to conceive.\nA multitude of particular facts cannot be seen separately, without at\nlast discovering the common tie which connects them. Several individuals\nlead to the perception of the species; several species to that of the\ngenus. Hence the habit and the taste for general ideas will always\nbe greatest amongst a people of ancient cultivation and extensive\nknowledge.\n\nBut there are other reasons which impel men to generalize their ideas,\nor which restrain them from it.\n\nThe Americans are much more addicted to the use of general ideas than\nthe English, and entertain a much greater relish for them: this appears\nvery singular at first sight, when it is remembered that the two nations\nhave the same origin, that they lived for centuries under the same laws,\nand that they still incessantly interchange their opinions and their\nmanners. This contrast becomes much more striking still, if we fix our\neyes on our own part of the world, and compare together the two most\nenlightened nations which inhabit it. It would seem as if the mind of\nthe English could only tear itself reluctantly and painfully away from\nthe observation of particular facts, to rise from them to their causes;\nand that it only generalizes in spite of itself. Amongst the French, on\nthe contrary, the taste for general ideas would seem to have grown to\nso ardent a passion, that it must be satisfied on every occasion. I am\ninformed, every morning when I wake, that some general and eternal law\nhas just been discovered, which I never heard mentioned before. There is\nnot a mediocre scribbler who does not try his hand at discovering truths\napplicable to a great kingdom, and who is very ill pleased with himself\nif he does not succeed in compressing the human race into the compass\nof an article. So great a dissimilarity between two very enlightened\nnations surprises me. If I again turn my attention to England, and\nobserve the events which have occurred there in the last half-century,\nI think I may affirm that a taste for general ideas increases in that\ncountry in proportion as its ancient constitution is weakened.\n\nThe state of civilization is therefore insufficient by itself to explain\nwhat suggests to the human mind the love of general ideas, or diverts it\nfrom them. When the conditions of men are very unequal, and inequality\nitself is the permanent state of society, individual men gradually\nbecome so dissimilar that each class assumes the aspect of a distinct\nrace: only one of these classes is ever in view at the same instant; and\nlosing sight of that general tie which binds them all within the vast\nbosom of mankind, the observation invariably rests not on man, but on\ncertain men. Those who live in this aristocratic state of society never,\ntherefore, conceive very general ideas respecting themselves, and that\nis enough to imbue them with an habitual distrust of such ideas, and\nan instinctive aversion of them. He, on the contrary, who inhabits a\ndemocratic country, sees around him, one very hand, men differing but\nlittle from each other; he cannot turn his mind to any one portion of\nmankind, without expanding and dilating his thought till it embrace the\nwhole. All the truths which are applicable to himself, appear to him\nequally and similarly applicable to each of his fellow-citizens and\nfellow-men. Having contracted the habit of generalizing his ideas in\nthe study which engages him most, and interests him more than others,\nhe transfers the same habit to all his pursuits; and thus it is that\nthe craving to discover general laws in everything, to include a great\nnumber of objects under the same formula, and to explain a mass of facts\nby a single cause, becomes an ardent, and sometimes an undiscerning,\npassion in the human mind.\n\nNothing shows the truth of this proposition more clearly than the\nopinions of the ancients respecting their slaves. The most profound and\ncapacious minds of Rome and Greece were never able to reach the idea, at\nonce so general and so simple, of the common likeness of men, and of the\ncommon birthright of each to freedom: they strove to prove that slavery\nwas in the order of nature, and that it would always exist. Nay, more,\neverything shows that those of the ancients who had passed from the\nservile to the free condition, many of whom have left us excellent\nwritings, did themselves regard servitude in no other light.\n\nAll the great writers of antiquity belonged to the aristocracy\nof masters, or at least they saw that aristocracy established and\nuncontested before their eyes. Their mind, after it had expanded itself\nin several directions, was barred from further progress in this one; and\nthe advent of Jesus Christ upon earth was required to teach that all the\nmembers of the human race are by nature equal and alike.\n\nIn the ages of equality all men are independent of each other, isolated\nand weak. The movements of the multitude are not permanently guided\nby the will of any individuals; at such times humanity seems always to\nadvance of itself. In order, therefore, to explain what is passing in\nthe world, man is driven to seek for some great causes, which, acting\nin the same manner on all our fellow-creatures, thus impel them all\ninvoluntarily to pursue the same track. This again naturally leads the\nhuman mind to conceive general ideas, and superinduces a taste for them.\n\nI have already shown in what way the equality of conditions leads every\nman to investigate truths for himself. It may readily be perceived that\na method of this kind must insensibly beget a tendency to general ideas\nin the human mind. When I repudiate the traditions of rank, profession,\nand birth; when I escape from the authority of example, to seek out, by\nthe single effort of my reason, the path to be followed, I am inclined\nto derive the motives of my opinions from human nature itself; which\nleads me necessarily, and almost unconsciously, to adopt a great number\nof very general notions.\n\nAll that I have here said explains the reasons for which the English\ndisplay much less readiness and taste or the generalization of ideas\nthan their American progeny, and still less again than their French\nneighbors; and likewise the reason for which the English of the present\nday display more of these qualities than their forefathers did. The\nEnglish have long been a very enlightened and a very aristocratic\nnation; their enlightened condition urged them constantly to generalize,\nand their aristocratic habits confined them to particularize. Hence\narose that philosophy, at once bold and timid, broad and narrow,\nwhich has hitherto prevailed in England, and which still obstructs and\nstagnates in so many minds in that country.\n\nIndependently of the causes I have pointed out in what goes before,\nothers may be discerned less apparent, but no less efficacious, which\nengender amongst almost every democratic people a taste, and frequently\na passion, for general ideas. An accurate distinction must be taken\nbetween ideas of this kind. Some are the result of slow, minute, and\nconscientious labor of the mind, and these extend the sphere of human\nknowledge; others spring up at once from the first rapid exercise of the\nwits, and beget none but very superficial and very uncertain notions.\nMen who live in ages of equality have a great deal of curiosity and very\nlittle leisure; their life is so practical, so confused, so excited, so\nactive, that but little time remains to them for thought. Such men are\nprone to general ideas because they spare them the trouble of studying\nparticulars; they contain, if I may so speak, a great deal in a little\ncompass, and give, in a little time, a great return. If then, upon a\nbrief and inattentive investigation, a common relation is thought to be\ndetected between certain obtects, inquiry is not pushed any further; and\nwithout examining in detail how far these different objects differ or\nagree, they are hastily arranged under one formulary, in order to pass\nto another subject.\n\nOne of the distinguishing characteristics of a democratic period is the\ntaste all men have at such ties for easy success and present enjoyment.\nThis occurs in the pursuits of the intellect as well as in all others.\nMost of those who live at a time of equality are full of an ambition at\nonce aspiring and relaxed: they would fain succeed brilliantly and at\nonce, but they would be dispensed from great efforts to obtain success.\nThese conflicting tendencies lead straight to the research of general\nideas, by aid of which they flatter themselves that they can figure very\nimportantly at a small expense, and draw the attention of the public\nwith very little trouble. And I know not whether they be wrong in\nthinking thus. For their readers are as much averse to investigating\nanything to the bottom as they can be themselves; and what is generally\nsought in the productions of the mind is easy pleasure and information\nwithout labor.\n\nIf aristocratic nations do not make sufficient use of general ideas,\nand frequently treat them with inconsiderate disdain, it is true, on\nthe other hand, that a democratic people is ever ready to carry ideas of\nthis kind to excess, and to espouse the with injudicious warmth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV: Why The Americans Have Never Been So Eager As The French For\nGeneral Ideas In Political Matters\n\nI observed in the last chapter, that the Americans show a less decided\ntaste for general ideas than the French; this is more especially true in\npolitical matters. Although the Americans infuse into their legislation\ninfinitely more general ideas than the English, and although they pay\nmuch more attention than the latter people to the adjustment of the\npractice of affairs to theory, no political bodies in the United\nStates have ever shown so warm an attachment to general ideas as the\nConstituent Assembly and the Convention in France. At no time has the\nAmerican people laid hold on ideas of this kind with the passionate\nenergy of the French people in the eighteenth century, or displayed the\nsame blind confidence in the value and absolute truth of any theory.\nThis difference between the Americans and the French originates in\nseveral causes, but principally in the following one. The Americans form\na democratic people, which has always itself directed public affairs.\nThe French are a democratic people, who, for a long time, could only\nspeculate on the best manner of conducting them. The social condition of\nFrance led that people to conceive very general ideas on the subject\nof government, whilst its political constitution prevented it from\ncorrecting those ideas by experiment, and from gradually detecting their\ninsufficiency; whereas in America the two things constantly balance and\ncorrect each other.\n\nIt may seem, at first sight, that this is very much opposed to what I\nhave said before, that democratic nations derive their love of theory\nfrom the excitement of their active life. A more attentive examination\nwill show that there is nothing contradictory in the proposition. Men\nliving in democratic countries eagerly lay hold of general ideas because\nthey have but little leisure, and because these ideas spare them the\ntrouble of studying particulars. This is true; but it is only to be\nunderstood to apply to those matters which are not the necessary and\nhabitual subjects of their thoughts. Mercantile men will take up very\neagerly, and without any very close scrutiny, all the general ideas on\nphilosophy, politics, science, or the arts, which may be presented to\nthem; but for such as relate to commerce, they will not receive them\nwithout inquiry, or adopt them without reserve. The same thing applies\nto statesmen with regard to general ideas in politics. If, then, there\nbe a subject upon which a democratic people is peculiarly liable to\nabandon itself, blindly and extravagantly, to general ideas, the best\ncorrective that can be used will be to make that subject a part of\nthe daily practical occupation of that people. The people will then be\ncompelled to enter upon its details, and the details will teach them the\nweak points of the theory. This remedy may frequently be a painful one,\nbut its effect is certain.\n\nThus it happens, that the democratic institutions which compel every\ncitizen to take a practical part in the government, moderate that\nexcessive taste for general theories in politics which the principle of\nequality suggests.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V: Of The Manner In Which Religion In The United States Avails\nItself Of Democratic Tendencies\n\nI have laid it down in a preceding chapter that men cannot do without\ndogmatical belief; and even that it is very much to be desired that such\nbelief should exist amongst them. I now add, that of all the kinds of\ndogmatical belief the most desirable appears to me to be dogmatical\nbelief in matters of religion; and this is a very clear inference, even\nfrom no higher consideration than the interests of this world. There is\nhardly any human action, however particular a character be assigned\nto it, which does not originate in some very general idea men have\nconceived of the Deity, of his relation to mankind, of the nature of\ntheir own souls, and of their duties to their fellow-creatures. Nor can\nanything prevent these ideas from being the common spring from which\neverything else emanates. Men are therefore immeasurably interested in\nacquiring fixed ideas of God, of the soul, and of their common duties\nto their Creator and to their fellow-men; for doubt on these first\nprinciples would abandon all their actions to the impulse of chance,\nand would condemn them to live, to a certain extent, powerless and\nundisciplined.\n\nThis is then the subject on which it is most important for each of us to\nentertain fixed ideas; and unhappily it is also the subject on which\nit is most difficult for each of us, left to himself, to settle his\nopinions by the sole force of his reason. None but minds singularly free\nfrom the ordinary anxieties of life--minds at once penetrating, subtle,\nand trained by thinking--can even with the assistance of much time and\ncare, sound the depth of these most necessary truths. And, indeed, we\nsee that these philosophers are themselves almost always enshrouded in\nuncertainties; that at every step the natural light which illuminates\ntheir path grows dimmer and less secure; and that, in spite of all their\nefforts, they have as yet only discovered a small number of conflicting\nnotions, on which the mind of man has been tossed about for thousands of\nyears, without either laying a firmer grasp on truth, or finding novelty\neven in its errors. Studies of this nature are far above the average\ncapacity of men; and even if the majority of mankind were capable of\nsuch pursuits, it is evident that leisure to cultivate them would still\nbe wanting. Fixed ideas of God and human nature are indispensable to the\ndaily practice of men's lives; but the practice of their lives prevents\nthem from acquiring such ideas.\n\nThe difficulty appears to me to be without a parallel. Amongst the\nsciences there are some which are useful to the mass of mankind, and\nwhich are within its reach; others can only be approached by the few,\nand are not cultivated by the many, who require nothing beyond their\nmore remote applications: but the daily practice of the science I speak\nof is indispensable to all, although the study of it is inaccessible to\nthe far greater number.\n\nGeneral ideas respecting God and human nature are therefore the ideas\nabove all others which it is most suitable to withdraw from the habitual\naction of private judgment, and in which there is most to gain and least\nto lose by recognizing a principle of authority. The first object and\none of the principal advantages of religions, is to furnish to each of\nthese fundamental questions a solution which is at once clear, precise,\nintelligible to the mass of mankind, and lasting. There are religions\nwhich are very false and very absurd; but it may be affirmed, that any\nreligion which remains within the circle I have just traced, without\naspiring to go beyond it (as many religions have attempted to do, for\nthe purpose of enclosing on every side the free progress of the human\nmind), imposes a salutary restraint on the intellect; and it must be\nadmitted that, if it do not save men in another world, such religion is\nat least very conducive to their happiness and their greatness in this.\nThis is more especially true of men living in free countries. When\nthe religion of a people is destroyed, doubt gets hold of the highest\nportions of the intellect, and half paralyzes all the rest of its\npowers. Every man accustoms himself to entertain none but confused\nand changing notions on the subjects most interesting to his\nfellow-creatures and himself. His opinions are ill-defended and easily\nabandoned: and, despairing of ever resolving by himself the hardest\nproblems of the destiny of man, he ignobly submits to think no more\nabout them. Such a condition cannot but enervate the soul, relax the\nsprings of the will, and prepare a people for servitude. Nor does it\nonly happen, in such a case, that they allow their freedom to be wrested\nfrom them; they frequently themselves surrender it. When there is no\nlonger any principle of authority in religion any more than in\npolitics, men are speedily frightened at the aspect of this unbounded\nindependence. The constant agitation of all surrounding things alarms\nand exhausts them. As everything is at sea in the sphere of the\nintellect, they determine at least that the mechanism of society should\nbe firm and fixed; and as they cannot resume their ancient belief, they\nassume a master.\n\nFor my own part, I doubt whether man can ever support at the same time\ncomplete religious independence and entire public freedom. And I am\ninclined to think, that if faith be wanting in him, he must serve; and\nif he be free, he must believe.\n\nPerhaps, however, this great utility of religions is still more obvious\namongst nations where equality of conditions prevails than amongst\nothers. It must be acknowledged that equality, which brings great\nbenefits into the world, nevertheless suggests to men (as will be shown\nhereafter) some very dangerous propensities. It tends to isolate them\nfrom each other, to concentrate every man's attention upon himself; and\nit lays open the soul to an inordinate love of material gratification.\nThe greatest advantage of religion is to inspire diametrically contrary\nprinciples. There is no religion which does not place the object of\nman's desires above and beyond the treasures of earth, and which does\nnot naturally raise his soul to regions far above those of the senses.\nNor is there any which does not impose on man some sort of duties to\nhis kind, and thus draws him at times from the contemplation of himself.\nThis occurs in religions the most false and dangerous. Religious nations\nare therefore naturally strong on the very point on which democratic\nnations are weak; which shows of what importance it is for men to\npreserve their religion as their conditions become more equal.\n\nI have neither the right nor the intention of examining the supernatural\nmeans which God employs to infuse religious belief into the heart of\nman. I am at this moment considering religions in a purely human point\nof view: my object is to inquire by what means they may most easily\nretain their sway in the democratic ages upon which we are entering. It\nhas been shown that, at times of general cultivation and equality,\nthe human mind does not consent to adopt dogmatical opinions without\nreluctance, and feels their necessity acutely in spiritual matters only.\nThis proves, in the first place, that at such times religions ought,\nmore cautiously than at any other, to confine themselves within their\nown precincts; for in seeking to extend their power beyond religious\nmatters, they incur a risk of not being believed at all. The circle\nwithin which they seek to bound the human intellect ought therefore to\nbe carefully traced, and beyond its verge the mind should be left in\nentire freedom to its own guidance. Mahommed professed to derive from\nHeaven, and he has inserted in the Koran, not only a body of religious\ndoctrines, but political maxims, civil and criminal laws, and theories\nof science. The gospel, on the contrary, only speaks of the general\nrelations of men to God and to each other--beyond which it inculcates\nand imposes no point of faith. This alone, besides a thousand other\nreasons, would suffice to prove that the former of these religions will\nnever long predominate in a cultivated and democratic age, whilst the\nlatter is destined to retain its sway at these as at all other periods.\n\nBut in continuation of this branch of the subject, I find that in\norder for religions to maintain their authority, humanly speaking, in\ndemocratic ages, they must not only confine themselves strictly within\nthe circle of spiritual matters: their power also depends very much\non the nature of the belief they inculcate, on the external forms they\nassume, and on the obligations they impose. The preceding observation,\nthat equality leads men to very general and very extensive notions, is\nprincipally to be understood as applied to the question of religion. Men\nliving in a similar and equal condition in the world readily conceive\nthe idea of the one God, governing every man by the same laws, and\ngranting to every man future happiness on the same conditions. The idea\nof the unity of mankind constantly leads them back to the idea of the\nunity of the Creator; whilst, on the contrary, in a state of society\nwhere men are broken up into very unequal ranks, they are apt to devise\nas many deities as there are nations, castes, classes, or families, and\nto trace a thousand private roads to heaven.\n\nIt cannot be denied that Christianity itself has felt, to a certain\nextent, the influence which social and political conditions exercise\non religious opinions. At the epoch at which the Christian religion\nappeared upon earth, Providence, by whom the world was doubtless\nprepared for its coming, had gathered a large portion of the human race,\nlike an immense flock, under the sceptre of the Caesars. The men of whom\nthis multitude was composed were distinguished by numerous differences;\nbut they had thus much in common, that they all obeyed the same laws,\nand that every subject was so weak and insignificant in relation to the\nimperial potentate, that all appeared equal when their condition\nwas contrasted with his. This novel and peculiar state of mankind\nnecessarily predisposed men to listen to the general truths which\nChristianity teaches, and may serve to explain the facility and rapidity\nwith which they then penetrated into the human mind. The counterpart of\nthis state of things was exhibited after the destruction of the\nempire. The Roman world being then as it were shattered into a thousand\nfragments, each nation resumed its pristine individuality. An infinite\nscale of ranks very soon grew up in the bosom of these nations; the\ndifferent races were more sharply defined, and each nation was divided\nby castes into several peoples. In the midst of this common effort,\nwhich seemed to be urging human society to the greatest conceivable\namount of voluntary subdivision, Christianity did not lose sight of\nthe leading general ideas which it had brought into the world. But it\nappeared, nevertheless, to lend itself, as much as was possible, to\nthose new tendencies to which the fractional distribution of mankind\nhad given birth. Men continued to worship an only God, the Creator and\nPreserver of all things; but every people, every city, and, so to speak,\nevery man, thought to obtain some distinct privilege, and win the favor\nof an especial patron at the foot of the Throne of Grace. Unable\nto subdivide the Deity, they multiplied and improperly enhanced the\nimportance of the divine agents. The homage due to saints and angels\nbecame an almost idolatrous worship amongst the majority of the\nChristian world; and apprehensions might be entertained for a moment\nlest the religion of Christ should retrograde towards the superstitions\nwhich it had subdued. It seems evident, that the more the barriers are\nremoved which separate nation from nation amongst mankind, and citizen\nfrom citizen amongst a people, the stronger is the bent of the human\nmind, as if by its own impulse, towards the idea of an only and\nall-powerful Being, dispensing equal laws in the same manner to every\nman. In democratic ages, then, it is more particularly important not\nto allow the homage paid to secondary agents to be confounded with the\nworship due to the Creator alone.\n\nAnother truth is no less clear--that religions ought to assume fewer\nexternal observances in democratic periods than at any others. In\nspeaking of philosophical method among the Americans, I have shown that\nnothing is more repugnant to the human mind in an age of equality than\nthe idea of subjection to forms. Men living at such times are impatient\nof figures; to their eyes symbols appear to be the puerile artifice\nwhich is used to conceal or to set off truths, which should more\nnaturally be bared to the light of open day: they are unmoved by\nceremonial observances, and they are predisposed to attach a secondary\nimportance to the details of public worship. Those whose care it is to\nregulate the external forms of religion in a democratic age should pay\na close attention to these natural propensities of the human mind, in\norder not unnecessarily to run counter to them. I firmly believe in the\nnecessity of forms, which fix the human mind in the contemplation of\nabstract truths, and stimulate its ardor in the pursuit of them, whilst\nthey invigorate its powers of retaining them steadfastly. Nor do I\nsuppose that it is possible to maintain a religion without external\nobservances; but, on the other hand, I am persuaded that, in the ages\nupon which we are entering, it would be peculiarly dangerous to multiply\nthem beyond measure; and that they ought rather to be limited to as much\nas is absolutely necessary to perpetuate the doctrine itself, which is\nthe substance of religions of which the ritual is only the form. *a\nA religion which should become more minute, more peremptory, and more\nsurcharged with small observances at a time in which men are becoming\nmore equal, would soon find itself reduced to a band of fanatical\nzealots in the midst of an infidel people.\n\n[Footnote a: In all religions there are some ceremonies which are\ninherent in the substance of the faith itself, and in these nothing\nshould, on any account, be changed. This is especially the case with\nRoman Catholicism, in which the doctrine and the form are frequently so\nclosely united as to form one point of belief.]\n\nI anticipate the objection, that as all religions have general and\neternal truths for their object, they cannot thus shape themselves\nto the shifting spirit of every age without forfeiting their claim\nto certainty in the eyes of mankind. To this I reply again, that the\nprincipal opinions which constitute belief, and which theologians\ncall articles of faith, must be very carefully distinguished from the\naccessories connected with them. Religions are obliged to hold fast to\nthe former, whatever be the peculiar spirit of the age; but they should\ntake good care not to bind themselves in the same manner to the\nlatter at a time when everything is in transition, and when the mind,\naccustomed to the moving pageant of human affairs, reluctantly endures\nthe attempt to fix it to any given point. The fixity of external and\nsecondary things can only afford a chance of duration when civil society\nis itself fixed; under any other circumstances I hold it to be perilous.\n\nWe shall have occasion to see that, of all the passions which originate\nin, or are fostered by, equality, there is one which it renders\npeculiarly intense, and which it infuses at the same time into the heart\nof every man: I mean the love of well-being. The taste for well-being\nis the prominent and indelible feature of democratic ages. It may be\nbelieved that a religion which should undertake to destroy so deep\nseated a passion, would meet its own destruction thence in the end; and\nif it attempted to wean men entirely from the contemplation of the good\nthings of this world, in order to devote their faculties exclusively to\nthe thought of another, it may be foreseen that the soul would at length\nescape from its grasp, to plunge into the exclusive enjoyment of present\nand material pleasures. The chief concern of religions is to purify,\nto regulate, and to restrain the excessive and exclusive taste for\nwell-being which men feel at periods of equality; but they would err in\nattempting to control it completely or to eradicate it. They will not\nsucceed in curing men of the love of riches: but they may still persuade\nmen to enrich themselves by none but honest means.\n\nThis brings me to a final consideration, which comprises, as it were,\nall the others. The more the conditions of men are equalized and\nassimilated to each other, the more important is it for religions,\nwhilst they carefully abstain from the daily turmoil of secular affairs,\nnot needlessly to run counter to the ideas which generally prevail, and\nthe permanent interests which exist in the mass of the people. For as\npublic opinion grows to be more and more evidently the first and most\nirresistible of existing powers, the religious principle has no external\nsupport strong enough to enable it long to resist its attacks. This\nis not less true of a democratic people, ruled by a despot, than in a\nrepublic. In ages of equality, kings may often command obedience,\nbut the majority always commands belief: to the majority, therefore,\ndeference is to be paid in whatsoever is not contrary to the faith.\n\nI showed in my former volumes how the American clergy stand aloof from\nsecular affairs. This is the most obvious, but it is not the only,\nexample of their self-restraint. In America religion is a distinct\nsphere, in which the priest is sovereign, but out of which he takes\ncare never to go. Within its limits he is the master of the mind;\nbeyond them, he leaves men to themselves, and surrenders them to the\nindependence and instability which belong to their nature and their\nage. I have seen no country in which Christianity is clothed with fewer\nforms, figures, and observances than in the United States; or where\nit presents more distinct, more simple, or more general notions to the\nmind. Although the Christians of America are divided into a multitude of\nsects, they all look upon their religion in the same light. This applies\nto Roman Catholicism as well as to the other forms of belief. There\nare no Romish priests who show less taste for the minute individual\nobservances for extraordinary or peculiar means of salvation, or who\ncling more to the spirit, and less to the letter of the law, than the\nRoman Catholic priests of the United States. Nowhere is that doctrine of\nthe Church, which prohibits the worship reserved to God alone from\nbeing offered to the saints, more clearly inculcated or more generally\nfollowed. Yet the Roman Catholics of America are very submissive and\nvery sincere.\n\nAnother remark is applicable to the clergy of every communion. The\nAmerican ministers of the gospel do not attempt to draw or to fix all\nthe thoughts of man upon the life to come; they are willing to surrender\na portion of his heart to the cares of the present; seeming to consider\nthe goods of this world as important, although as secondary, objects.\nIf they take no part themselves in productive labor, they are at least\ninterested in its progression, and ready to applaud its results; and\nwhilst they never cease to point to the other world as the great object\nof the hopes and fears of the believer, they do not forbid him honestly\nto court prosperity in this. Far from attempting to show that these\nthings are distinct and contrary to one another, they study rather to\nfind out on what point they are most nearly and closely connected.\n\nAll the American clergy know and respect the intellectual supremacy\nexercised by the majority; they never sustain any but necessary\nconflicts with it. They take no share in the altercations of parties,\nbut they readily adopt the general opinions of their country and their\nage; and they allow themselves to be borne away without opposition in\nthe current of feeling and opinion by which everything around them is\ncarried along. They endeavor to amend their contemporaries, but they do\nnot quit fellowship with them. Public opinion is therefore never hostile\nto them; it rather supports and protects them; and their belief owes its\nauthority at the same time to the strength which is its own, and to that\nwhich they borrow from the opinions of the majority. Thus it is that, by\nrespecting all democratic tendencies not absolutely contrary to herself,\nand by making use of several of them for her own purposes, religion\nsustains an advantageous struggle with that spirit of individual\nindependence which is her most dangerous antagonist.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI: Of The Progress Of Roman Catholicism In The United States\n\nAmerica is the most democratic country in the world, and it is at the\nsame time (according to reports worthy of belief) the country in which\nthe Roman Catholic religion makes most progress. At first sight this is\nsurprising. Two things must here be accurately distinguished: equality\ninclines men to wish to form their own opinions; but, on the other hand,\nit imbues them with the taste and the idea of unity, simplicity,\nand impartiality in the power which governs society. Men living in\ndemocratic ages are therefore very prone to shake off all religious\nauthority; but if they consent to subject themselves to any authority\nof this kind, they choose at least that it should be single and uniform.\nReligious powers not radiating from a common centre are naturally\nrepugnant to their minds; and they almost as readily conceive that there\nshould be no religion, as that there should be several. At the present\ntime, more than in any preceding one, Roman Catholics are seen to lapse\ninto infidelity, and Protestants to be converted to Roman Catholicism.\nIf the Roman Catholic faith be considered within the pale of the church,\nit would seem to be losing ground; without that pale, to be gaining it.\nNor is this circumstance difficult of explanation. The men of our\ndays are naturally disposed to believe; but, as soon as they have any\nreligion, they immediately find in themselves a latent propensity which\nurges them unconsciously towards Catholicism. Many of the doctrines and\nthe practices of the Romish Church astonish them; but they feel a secret\nadmiration for its discipline, and its great unity attracts them.\nIf Catholicism could at length withdraw itself from the political\nanimosities to which it has given rise, I have hardly any doubt but that\nthe same spirit of the age, which appears to be so opposed to it, would\nbecome so favorable as to admit of its great and sudden advancement.\nOne of the most ordinary weaknesses of the human intellect is to seek to\nreconcile contrary principles, and to purchase peace at the expense\nof logic. Thus there have ever been, and will ever be, men who, after\nhaving submitted some portion of their religious belief to the principle\nof authority, will seek to exempt several other parts of their faith\nfrom its influence, and to keep their minds floating at random between\nliberty and obedience. But I am inclined to believe that the number of\nthese thinkers will be less in democratic than in other ages; and that\nour posterity will tend more and more to a single division into two\nparts--some relinquishing Christianity entirely, and others returning to\nthe bosom of the Church of Rome.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII: Of The Cause Of A Leaning To Pantheism Amongst Democratic\nNations\n\nI shall take occasion hereafter to show under what form the\npreponderating taste of a democratic people for very general ideas\nmanifests itself in politics; but I would point out, at the present\nstage of my work, its principal effect on philosophy. It cannot be\ndenied that pantheism has made great progress in our age. The writings\nof a part of Europe bear visible marks of it: the Germans introduce it\ninto philosophy, and the French into literature. Most of the works of\nimagination published in France contain some opinions or some tinge\ncaught from pantheistical doctrines, or they disclose some tendency to\nsuch doctrines in their authors. This appears to me not only to proceed\nfrom an accidental, but from a permanent cause.\n\nWhen the conditions of society are becoming more equal, and each\nindividual man becomes more like all the rest, more weak and more\ninsignificant, a habit grows up of ceasing to notice the citizens to\nconsider only the people, and of overlooking individuals to think only\nof their kind. At such times the human mind seeks to embrace a multitude\nof different objects at once; and it constantly strives to succeed in\nconnecting a variety of consequences with a single cause. The idea\nof unity so possesses itself of man, and is sought for by him so\nuniversally, that if he thinks he has found it, he readily yields\nhimself up to repose in that belief. Nor does he content himself with\nthe discovery that nothing is in the world but a creation and a Creator;\nstill embarrassed by this primary division of things, he seeks to expand\nand to simplify his conception by including God and the universe in one\ngreat whole. If there be a philosophical system which teaches that all\nthings material and immaterial, visible and invisible, which the world\ncontains, are only to be considered as the several parts of an immense\nBeing, which alone remains unchanged amidst the continual change and\nceaseless transformation of all that constitutes it, we may readily\ninfer that such a system, although it destroy the individuality of\nman--nay, rather because it destroys that individuality--will have\nsecret charms for men living in democracies. All their habits of\nthought prepare them to conceive it, and predispose them to adopt it.\nIt naturally attracts and fixes their imagination; it fosters the pride,\nwhilst it soothes the indolence, of their minds. Amongst the different\nsystems by whose aid philosophy endeavors to explain the universe, I\nbelieve pantheism to be one of those most fitted to seduce the human\nmind in democratic ages. Against it all who abide in their attachment to\nthe true greatness of man should struggle and combine.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII: The Principle Of Equality Suggests To The Americans The\nIdea Of The Indefinite Perfectibility Of Man\n\nEquality suggests to the human mind several ideas which would not have\noriginated from any other source, and it modifies almost all those\npreviously entertained. I take as an example the idea of human\nperfectibility, because it is one of the principal notions that the\nintellect can conceive, and because it constitutes of itself a great\nphilosophical theory, which is every instant to be traced by its\nconsequences in the practice of human affairs. Although man has many\npoints of resemblance with the brute creation, one characteristic is\npeculiar to himself--he improves: they are incapable of improvement.\nMankind could not fail to discover this difference from its earliest\nperiod. The idea of perfectibility is therefore as old as the world;\nequality did not give birth to it, although it has imparted to it a\nnovel character.\n\nWhen the citizens of a community are classed according to their rank,\ntheir profession, or their birth, and when all men are constrained to\nfollow the career which happens to open before them, everyone thinks\nthat the utmost limits of human power are to be discerned in proximity\nto himself, and none seeks any longer to resist the inevitable law of\nhis destiny. Not indeed that an aristocratic people absolutely contests\nman's faculty of self-improvement, but they do not hold it to be\nindefinite; amelioration they conceive, but not change: they imagine\nthat the future condition of society may be better, but not essentially\ndifferent; and whilst they admit that mankind has made vast strides\nin improvement, and may still have some to make, they assign to it\nbeforehand certain impassable limits. Thus they do not presume that they\nhave arrived at the supreme good or at absolute truth (what people\nor what man was ever wild enough to imagine it?) but they cherish a\npersuasion that they have pretty nearly reached that degree of greatness\nand knowledge which our imperfect nature admits of; and as nothing\nmoves about them they are willing to fancy that everything is in its fit\nplace. Then it is that the legislator affects to lay down eternal laws;\nthat kings and nations will raise none but imperishable monuments; and\nthat the present generation undertakes to spare generations to come the\ncare of regulating their destinies.\n\nIn proportion as castes disappear and the classes of society\napproximate--as manners, customs, and laws vary, from the tumultuous\nintercourse of men--as new facts arise--as new truths are brought\nto light--as ancient opinions are dissipated, and others take their\nplace--the image of an ideal perfection, forever on the wing, presents\nitself to the human mind. Continual changes are then every instant\noccurring under the observation of every man: the position of some\nis rendered worse; and he learns but too well, that no people and\nno individual, how enlightened soever they may be, can lay claim to\ninfallibility;--the condition of others is improved; whence he infers\nthat man is endowed with an indefinite faculty of improvement. His\nreverses teach him that none may hope to have discovered absolute\ngood--his success stimulates him to the never-ending pursuit of\nit. Thus, forever seeking--forever falling, to rise again--often\ndisappointed, but not discouraged--he tends unceasingly towards that\nunmeasured greatness so indistinctly visible at the end of the long\ntrack which humanity has yet to tread. It can hardly be believed\nhow many facts naturally flow from the philosophical theory of the\nindefinite perfectibility of man, or how strong an influence it\nexercises even on men who, living entirely for the purposes of action\nand not of thought, seem to conform their actions to it, without knowing\nanything about it. I accost an American sailor, and I inquire why the\nships of his country are built so as to last but for a short time;\nhe answers without hesitation that the art of navigation is every day\nmaking such rapid progress, that the finest vessel would become almost\nuseless if it lasted beyond a certain number of years. In these words,\nwhich fell accidentally and on a particular subject from a man of rude\nattainments, I recognize the general and systematic idea upon which a\ngreat people directs all its concerns.\n\nAristocratic nations are naturally too apt to narrow the scope of human\nperfectibility; democratic nations to expand it beyond compass.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX: The Example Of The Americans Does Not Prove That A\nDemocratic People Can Have No Aptitude And No Taste For Science,\nLiterature, Or Art\n\nIt must be acknowledged that amongst few of the civilized nations of\nour time have the higher sciences made less progress than in the United\nStates; and in few have great artists, fine poets, or celebrated writers\nbeen more rare. Many Europeans, struck by this fact, have looked upon it\nas a natural and inevitable result of equality; and they have supposed\nthat if a democratic state of society and democratic institutions were\never to prevail over the whole earth, the human mind would gradually\nfind its beacon-lights grow dim, and men would relapse into a period of\ndarkness. To reason thus is, I think, to confound several ideas which\nit is important to divide and to examine separately: it is to mingle,\nunintentionally, what is democratic with what is only American.\n\nThe religion professed by the first emigrants, and bequeathed by them\nto their descendants, simple in its form of worship, austere and\nalmost harsh in its principles, and hostile to external symbols and to\nceremonial pomp, is naturally unfavorable to the fine arts, and only\nyields a reluctant sufferance to the pleasures of literature. The\nAmericans are a very old and a very enlightened people, who have fallen\nupon a new and unbounded country, where they may extend themselves at\npleasure, and which they may fertilize without difficulty. This state\nof things is without a parallel in the history of the world. In America,\nthen, every one finds facilities, unknown elsewhere, for making or\nincreasing his fortune. The spirit of gain is always on the stretch, and\nthe human mind, constantly diverted from the pleasures of imagination\nand the labors of the intellect, is there swayed by no impulse but the\npursuit of wealth. Not only are manufacturing and commercial classes to\nbe found in the United States, as they are in all other countries; but\nwhat never occurred elsewhere, the whole community is simultaneously\nengaged in productive industry and commerce. I am convinced that, if\nthe Americans had been alone in the world, with the freedom and the\nknowledge acquired by their forefathers, and the passions which are\ntheir own, they would not have been slow to discover that progress\ncannot long be made in the application of the sciences without\ncultivating the theory of them; that all the arts are perfected by one\nanother: and, however absorbed they might have been by the pursuit\nof the principal object of their desires, they would speedily have\nadmitted, that it is necessary to turn aside from it occasionally, in\norder the better to attain it in the end.\n\nThe taste for the pleasures of the mind is moreover so natural to the\nheart of civilized man, that amongst the polite nations, which are least\ndisposed to give themselves up to these pursuits, a certain number of\ncitizens are always to be found who take part in them. This intellectual\ncraving, when once felt, would very soon have been satisfied. But at the\nvery time when the Americans were naturally inclined to require nothing\nof science but its special applications to the useful arts and the means\nof rendering life comfortable, learned and literary Europe was engaged\nin exploring the common sources of truth, and in improving at the same\ntime all that can minister to the pleasures or satisfy the wants of man.\nAt the head of the enlightened nations of the Old World the inhabitants\nof the United States more particularly distinguished one, to which they\nwere closely united by a common origin and by kindred habits. Amongst\nthis people they found distinguished men of science, artists of skill,\nwriters of eminence, and they were enabled to enjoy the treasures of the\nintellect without requiring to labor in amassing them. I cannot consent\nto separate America from Europe, in spite of the ocean which intervenes.\nI consider the people of the United States as that portion of the\nEnglish people which is commissioned to explore the wilds of the New\nWorld; whilst the rest of the nation, enjoying more leisure and less\nharassed by the drudgery of life, may devote its energies to thought,\nand enlarge in all directions the empire of the mind. The position of\nthe Americans is therefore quite exceptional, and it may be believed\nthat no democratic people will ever be placed in a similar one. Their\nstrictly Puritanical origin--their exclusively commercial habits--even\nthe country they inhabit, which seems to divert their minds from the\npursuit of science, literature, and the arts--the proximity of Europe,\nwhich allows them to neglect these pursuits without relapsing into\nbarbarism--a thousand special causes, of which I have only been able to\npoint out the most important--have singularly concurred to fix the mind\nof the American upon purely practical objects. His passions, his wants,\nhis education, and everything about him seem to unite in drawing the\nnative of the United States earthward: his religion alone bids him turn,\nfrom time to time, a transient and distracted glance to heaven. Let us\ncease then to view all democratic nations under the mask of the American\npeople, and let us attempt to survey them at length with their own\nproper features.\n\nIt is possible to conceive a people not subdivided into any castes or\nscale of ranks; in which the law, recognizing no privileges, should\ndivide inherited property into equal shares; but which, at the same\ntime, should be without knowledge and without freedom. Nor is this an\nempty hypothesis: a despot may find that it is his interest to render\nhis subjects equal and to leave them ignorant, in order more easily to\nkeep them slaves. Not only would a democratic people of this kind show\nneither aptitude nor taste for science, literature, or art, but it would\nprobably never arrive at the possession of them. The law of descent\nwould of itself provide for the destruction of fortunes at each\nsucceeding generation; and new fortunes would be acquired by none. The\npoor man, without either knowledge or freedom, would not so much as\nconceive the idea of raising himself to wealth; and the rich man\nwould allow himself to be degraded to poverty, without a notion of\nself-defence. Between these two members of the community complete and\ninvincible equality would soon be established.\n\nNo one would then have time or taste to devote himself to the pursuits\nor pleasures of the intellect; but all men would remain paralyzed by\na state of common ignorance and equal servitude. When I conceive a\ndemocratic society of this kind, I fancy myself in one of those low,\nclose, and gloomy abodes, where the light which breaks in from without\nsoon faints and fades away. A sudden heaviness overpowers me, and I\ngrope through the surrounding darkness, to find the aperture which will\nrestore me to daylight and the air.\n\nBut all this is not applicable to men already enlightened who retain\ntheir freedom, after having abolished from amongst them those peculiar\nand hereditary rights which perpetuated the tenure of property in the\nhands of certain individuals or certain bodies. When men living in a\ndemocratic state of society are enlightened, they readily discover that\nthey are confined and fixed within no limits which constrain them to\ntake up with their present fortune. They all therefore conceive the idea\nof increasing it; if they are free, they all attempt it, but all do\nnot succeed in the same manner. The legislature, it is true, no\nlonger grants privileges, but they are bestowed by nature. As natural\ninequality is very great, fortunes become unequal as soon as every man\nexerts all his faculties to get rich. The law of descent prevents the\nestablishment of wealthy families; but it does not prevent the existence\nof wealthy individuals. It constantly brings back the members of the\ncommunity to a common level, from which they as constantly escape:\nand the inequality of fortunes augments in proportion as knowledge is\ndiffused and liberty increased.\n\nA sect which arose in our time, and was celebrated for its talents and\nits extravagance, proposed to concentrate all property into the hands of\na central power, whose function it should afterwards be to parcel it\nout to individuals, according to their capacity. This would have been a\nmethod of escaping from that complete and eternal equality which seems\nto threaten democratic society. But it would be a simpler and less\ndangerous remedy to grant no privilege to any, giving to all equal\ncultivation and equal independence, and leaving everyone to determine\nhis own position. Natural inequality will very soon make way for itself,\nand wealth will spontaneously pass into the hands of the most capable.\n\nFree and democratic communities, then, will always contain a\nconsiderable number of people enjoying opulence or competency. The\nwealthy will not be so closely linked to each other as the members of\nthe former aristocratic class of society: their propensities will be\ndifferent, and they will scarcely ever enjoy leisure as secure or as\ncomplete: but they will be far more numerous than those who belonged to\nthat class of society could ever be. These persons will not be strictly\nconfined to the cares of practical life, and they will still be able,\nthough in different degrees, to indulge in the pursuits and pleasures of\nthe intellect. In those pleasures they will indulge; for if it be true\nthat the human mind leans on one side to the narrow, the practical,\nand the useful, it naturally rises on the other to the infinite, the\nspiritual, and the beautiful. Physical wants confine it to the earth;\nbut, as soon as the tie is loosened, it will unbend itself again.\n\nNot only will the number of those who can take an interest in the\nproductions of the mind be enlarged, but the taste for intellectual\nenjoyment will descend, step by step, even to those who, in aristocratic\nsocieties, seem to have neither time nor ability to in indulge in them.\nWhen hereditary wealth, the privileges of rank, and the prerogatives of\nbirth have ceased to be, and when every man derives his strength from\nhimself alone, it becomes evident that the chief cause of disparity\nbetween the fortunes of men is the mind. Whatever tends to invigorate,\nto extend, or to adorn the mind, instantly rises to great value. The\nutility of knowledge becomes singularly conspicuous even to the eyes of\nthe multitude: those who have no taste for its charms set store upon its\nresults, and make some efforts to acquire it. In free and enlightened\ndemocratic ages, there is nothing to separate men from each other or\nto retain them in their peculiar sphere; they rise or sink with extreme\nrapidity. All classes live in perpetual intercourse from their great\nproximity to each other. They communicate and intermingle every\nday--they imitate and envy one other: this suggests to the people many\nideas, notions, and desires which it would never have entertained if the\ndistinctions of rank had been fixed and society at rest. In such\nnations the servant never considers himself as an entire stranger to\nthe pleasures and toils of his master, nor the poor man to those of the\nrich; the rural population assimilates itself to that of the towns, and\nthe provinces to the capital. No one easily allows himself to be reduced\nto the mere material cares of life; and the humblest artisan casts\nat times an eager and a furtive glance into the higher regions of the\nintellect. People do not read with the same notions or in the same\nmanner as they do in an aristocratic community; but the circle of\nreaders is unceasingly expanded, till it includes all the citizens.\n\nAs soon as the multitude begins to take an interest in the labors of the\nmind, it finds out that to excel in some of them is a powerful method of\nacquiring fame, power, or wealth. The restless ambition which equality\nbegets instantly takes this direction as it does all others. The number\nof those who cultivate science, letters, and the arts, becomes immense.\nThe intellectual world starts into prodigious activity: everyone\nendeavors to open for himself a path there, and to draw the eyes of the\npublic after him. Something analogous occurs to what happens in society\nin the United States, politically considered. What is done is often\nimperfect, but the attempts are innumerable; and, although the results\nof individual effort are commonly very small, the total amount is always\nvery large.\n\nIt is therefore not true to assert that men living in democratic ages\nare naturally indifferent to science, literature, and the arts: only it\nmust be acknowledged that they cultivate them after their own\nfashion, and bring to the task their own peculiar qualifications and\ndeficiencies.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X: Why The Americans Are More Addicted To Practical Than To\nTheoretical Science\n\nIf a democratic state of society and democratic institutions do not\nstop the career of the human mind, they incontestably guide it in one\ndirection in preference to another. Their effects, thus circumscribed,\nare still exceedingly great; and I trust I may be pardoned if I pause\nfor a moment to survey them. We had occasion, in speaking of the\nphilosophical method of the American people, to make several remarks\nwhich must here be turned to account.\n\nEquality begets in man the desire of judging of everything for himself:\nit gives him, in all things, a taste for the tangible and the real,\na contempt for tradition and for forms. These general tendencies are\nprincipally discernible in the peculiar subject of this chapter. Those\nwho cultivate the sciences amongst a democratic people are always afraid\nof losing their way in visionary speculation. They mistrust systems;\nthey adhere closely to facts and the study of facts with their own\nsenses. As they do not easily defer to the mere name of any fellow-man,\nthey are never inclined to rest upon any man's authority; but, on the\ncontrary, they are unremitting in their efforts to point out the weaker\npoints of their neighbors' opinions. Scientific precedents have very\nlittle weight with them; they are never long detained by the subtilty\nof the schools, nor ready to accept big words for sterling coin; they\npenetrate, as far as they can, into the principal parts of the subject\nwhich engages them, and they expound them in the vernacular tongue.\nScientific pursuits then follow a freer and a safer course, but a less\nlofty one.\n\nThe mind may, as it appears to me, divide science into three parts. The\nfirst comprises the most theoretical principles, and those more abstract\nnotions whose application is either unknown or very remote. The second\nis composed of those general truths which still belong to pure theory,\nbut lead, nevertheless, by a straight and short road to practical\nresults. Methods of application and means of execution make up the\nthird. Each of these different portions of science may be separately\ncultivated, although reason and experience show that none of them can\nprosper long, if it be absolutely cut off from the two others.\n\nIn America the purely practical part of science is admirably understood,\nand careful attention is paid to the theoretical portion which is\nimmediately requisite to application. On this head the Americans always\ndisplay a clear, free, original, and inventive power of mind. But\nhardly anyone in the United States devotes himself to the essentially\ntheoretical and abstract portion of human knowledge. In this respect\nthe Americans carry to excess a tendency which is, I think, discernible,\nthough in a less degree, amongst all democratic nations.\n\nNothing is more necessary to the culture of the higher sciences, or of\nthe more elevated departments of science, than meditation; and nothing\nis less suited to meditation than the structure of democratic society.\nWe do not find there, as amongst an aristocratic people, one class which\nclings to a state of repose because it is well off; and another which\ndoes not venture to stir because it despairs of improving its condition.\nEveryone is actively in motion: some in quest of power, others of\ngain. In the midst of this universal tumult--this incessant conflict of\njarring interests--this continual stride of men after fortune--where is\nthat calm to be found which is necessary for the deeper combinations\nof the intellect? How can the mind dwell upon any single point, when\neverything whirls around it, and man himself is swept and beaten onwards\nby the heady current which rolls all things in its course? But the\npermanent agitation which subsists in the bosom of a peaceable and\nestablished democracy, must be distinguished from the tumultuous and\nrevolutionary movements which almost always attend the birth and growth\nof democratic society. When a violent revolution occurs amongst a highly\ncivilized people, it cannot fail to give a sudden impulse to their\nfeelings and their opinions. This is more particularly true of\ndemocratic revolutions, which stir up all the classes of which a people\nis composed, and beget, at the same time, inordinate ambition in the\nbreast of every member of the community. The French made most surprising\nadvances in the exact sciences at the very time at which they were\nfinishing the destruction of the remains of their former feudal society;\nyet this sudden fecundity is not to be attributed to democracy, but to\nthe unexampled revolution which attended its growth. What happened at\nthat period was a special incident, and it would be unwise to regard\nit as the test of a general principle. Great revolutions are not\nmore common amongst democratic nations than amongst others: I am even\ninclined to believe that they are less so. But there prevails amongst\nthose populations a small distressing motion--a sort of incessant\njostling of men--which annoys and disturbs the mind, without exciting\nor elevating it. Men who live in democratic communities not only seldom\nindulge in meditation, but they naturally entertain very little esteem\nfor it. A democratic state of society and democratic institutions plunge\nthe greater part of men in constant active life; and the habits of\nmind which are suited to an active life, are not always suited to a\ncontemplative one. The man of action is frequently obliged to content\nhimself with the best he can get, because he would never accomplish\nhis purpose if he chose to carry every detail to perfection. He has\nperpetually occasion to rely on ideas which he has not had leisure\nto search to the bottom; for he is much more frequently aided by the\nopportunity of an idea than by its strict accuracy; and, in the long\nrun, he risks less in making use of some false principles, than in\nspending his time in establishing all his principles on the basis of\ntruth. The world is not led by long or learned demonstrations; a rapid\nglance at particular incidents, the daily study of the fleeting passions\nof the multitude, the accidents of the time, and the art of turning them\nto account, decide all its affairs.\n\nIn the ages in which active life is the condition of almost everyone,\nmen are therefore generally led to attach an excessive value to the\nrapid bursts and superficial conceptions of the intellect; and, on\nthe other hand, to depreciate below their true standard its slower and\ndeeper labors. This opinion of the public influences the judgment of the\nmen who cultivate the sciences; they are persuaded that they may succeed\nin those pursuits without meditation, or deterred from such pursuits as\ndemand it.\n\nThere are several methods of studying the sciences. Amongst a multitude\nof men you will find a selfish, mercantile, and trading taste for\nthe discoveries of the mind, which must not be confounded with that\ndisinterested passion which is kindled in the heart of the few. A desire\nto utilize knowledge is one thing; the pure desire to know is another.\nI do not doubt that in a few minds and far between, an ardent,\ninexhaustible love of truth springs up, self-supported, and living in\nceaseless fruition without ever attaining the satisfaction which it\nseeks. This ardent love it is--this proud, disinterested love of what is\ntrue--which raises men to the abstract sources of truth, to draw their\nmother-knowledge thence. If Pascal had had nothing in view but some\nlarge gain, or even if he had been stimulated by the love of fame alone,\nI cannot conceive that he would ever have been able to rally all the\npowers of his mind, as he did, for the better discovery of the most\nhidden things of the Creator. When I see him, as it were, tear his soul\nfrom the midst of all the cares of life to devote it wholly to these\nresearches, and, prematurely snapping the links which bind the frame to\nlife, die of old age before forty, I stand amazed, and I perceive that\nno ordinary cause is at work to produce efforts so extra-ordinary.\n\nThe future will prove whether these passions, at once so rare and so\nproductive, come into being and into growth as easily in the midst of\ndemocratic as in aristocratic communities. For myself, I confess that\nI am slow to believe it. In aristocratic society, the class which gives\nthe tone to opinion, and has the supreme guidance of affairs, being\npermanently and hereditarily placed above the multitude, naturally\nconceives a lofty idea of itself and of man. It loves to invent for\nhim noble pleasures, to carve out splendid objects for his ambition.\nAristocracies often commit very tyrannical and very inhuman actions;\nbut they rarely entertain grovelling thoughts; and they show a kind of\nhaughty contempt of little pleasures, even whilst they indulge in\nthem. The effect is greatly to raise the general pitch of society. In\naristocratic ages vast ideas are commonly entertained of the dignity,\nthe power, and the greatness of man. These opinions exert their\ninfluence on those who cultivate the sciences, as well as on the rest\nof the community. They facilitate the natural impulse of the mind to the\nhighest regions of thought, and they naturally prepare it to conceive\na sublime--nay, almost a divine--love of truth. Men of science at such\nperiods are consequently carried away by theory; and it even happens\nthat they frequently conceive an inconsiderate contempt for the\npractical part of learning. \"Archimedes,\" says Plutarch, \"was of so\nlofty a spirit, that he never condescended to write any treatise on the\nmanner of constructing all these engines of offence and defence. And as\nhe held this science of inventing and putting together engines, and all\narts generally speaking which tended to any useful end in practice, to\nbe vile, low, and mercenary, he spent his talents and his studious hours\nin writing of those things only whose beauty and subtilty had in them\nno admixture of necessity.\" Such is the aristocratic aim of science; in\ndemocratic nations it cannot be the same.\n\nThe greater part of the men who constitute these nations are extremely\neager in the pursuit of actual and physical gratification. As they are\nalways dissatisfied with the position which they occupy, and are always\nfree to leave it, they think of nothing but the means of changing their\nfortune, or of increasing it. To minds thus predisposed, every new\nmethod which leads by a shorter road to wealth, every machine which\nspares labor, every instrument which diminishes the cost of production,\nevery discovery which facilitates pleasures or augments them, seems to\nbe the grandest effort of the human intellect. It is chiefly from\nthese motives that a democratic people addicts itself to scientific\npursuits--that it understands, and that it respects them. In\naristocratic ages, science is more particularly called upon to furnish\ngratification to the mind; in democracies, to the body. You may be sure\nthat the more a nation is democratic, enlightened, and free, the greater\nwill be the number of these interested promoters of scientific genius,\nand the more will discoveries immediately applicable to productive\nindustry confer gain, fame, and even power on their authors. For in\ndemocracies the working class takes a part in public affairs; and public\nhonors, as well as pecuniary remuneration, may be awarded to those who\ndeserve them. In a community thus organized it may easily be conceived\nthat the human mind may be led insensibly to the neglect of theory; and\nthat it is urged, on the contrary, with unparalleled vehemence to the\napplications of science, or at least to that portion of theoretical\nscience which is necessary to those who make such applications. In vain\nwill some innate propensity raise the mind towards the loftier spheres\nof the intellect; interest draws it down to the middle zone. There it\nmay develop all its energy and restless activity, there it may engender\nall its wonders. These very Americans, who have not discovered one of\nthe general laws of mechanics, have introduced into navigation an engine\nwhich changes the aspect of the world.\n\nAssuredly I do not content that the democratic nations of our time are\ndestined to witness the extinction of the transcendent luminaries of\nman's intelligence, nor even that no new lights will ever start into\nexistence. At the age at which the world has now arrived, and amongst so\nmany cultivated nations, perpetually excited by the fever of productive\nindustry, the bonds which connect the different parts of science\ntogether cannot fail to strike the observation; and the taste for\npractical science itself, if it be enlightened, ought to lead men not to\nneglect theory. In the midst of such numberless attempted applications\nof so many experiments, repeated every day, it is almost impossible that\ngeneral laws should not frequently be brought to light; so that great\ndiscoveries would be frequent, though great inventors be rare. I\nbelieve, moreover, in the high calling of scientific minds. If the\ndemocratic principle does not, on the one hand, induce men to cultivate\nscience for its own sake, on the other it enormously increases the\nnumber of those who do cultivate it. Nor is it credible that, from\namongst so great a multitude no speculative genius should from time to\ntime arise, inflamed by the love of truth alone. Such a one, we may be\nsure, would dive into the deepest mysteries of nature, whatever be\nthe spirit of his country or his age. He requires no assistance in his\ncourse--enough that he be not checked in it.\n\nAll that I mean to say is this:--permanent inequality of conditions\nleads men to confine themselves to the arrogant and sterile research\nof abstract truths; whilst the social condition and the institutions\nof democracy prepare them to seek the immediate and useful practical\nresults of the sciences. This tendency is natural and inevitable: it is\ncurious to be acquainted with it, and it may be necessary to point\nit out. If those who are called upon to guide the nations of our time\nclearly discerned from afar off these new tendencies, which will soon\nbe irresistible, they would understand that, possessing education\nand freedom, men living in democratic ages cannot fail to improve the\nindustrial part of science; and that henceforward all the efforts of\nthe constituted authorities ought to be directed to support the highest\nbranches of learning, and to foster the nobler passion for science\nitself. In the present age the human mind must be coerced into\ntheoretical studies; it runs of its own accord to practical\napplications; and, instead of perpetually referring it to the minute\nexamination of secondary effects, it is well to divert it from them\nsometimes, in order to raise it up to the contemplation of primary\ncauses. Because the civilization of ancient Rome perished in consequence\nof the invasion of the barbarians, we are perhaps too apt to think that\ncivilization cannot perish in any other manner. If the light by which we\nare guided is ever extinguished, it will dwindle by degrees, and expire\nof itself. By dint of close adherence to mere applications, principles\nwould be lost sight of; and when the principles were wholly forgotten,\nthe methods derived from them would be ill-pursued. New methods could\nno longer be invented, and men would continue to apply, without\nintelligence, and without art, scientific processes no longer\nunderstood.\n\nWhen Europeans first arrived in China, three hundred years ago,\nthey found that almost all the arts had reached a certain degree of\nperfection there; and they were surprised that a people which had\nattained this point should not have gone beyond it. At a later period\nthey discovered some traces of the higher branches of science which were\nlost. The nation was absorbed in productive industry: the greater part\nof its scientific processes had been preserved, but science itself no\nlonger existed there. This served to explain the strangely motionless\nstate in which they found the minds of this people. The Chinese, in\nfollowing the track of their forefathers, had forgotten the reasons by\nwhich the latter had been guided. They still used the formula, without\nasking for its meaning: they retained the instrument, but they no longer\npossessed the art of altering or renewing it. The Chinese, then, had\nlost the power of change; for them to improve was impossible. They\nwere compelled, at all times and in all points, to imitate their\npredecessors, lest they should stray into utter darkness, by deviating\nfor an instant from the path already laid down for them. The source of\nhuman knowledge was all but dry; and though the stream still ran on, it\ncould neither swell its waters nor alter its channel. Notwithstanding\nthis, China had subsisted peaceably for centuries. The invaders who had\nconquered the country assumed the manners of the inhabitants, and\norder prevailed there. A sort of physical prosperity was everywhere\ndiscernible: revolutions were rare, and war was, so to speak, unknown.\n\nIt is then a fallacy to flatter ourselves with the reflection that the\nbarbarians are still far from us; for if there be some nations which\nallow civilization to be torn from their grasp, there are others who\ntrample it themselves under their feet.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI: Of The Spirit In Which The Americans Cultivate The Arts\n\nIt would be to waste the time of my readers and my own if I strove\nto demonstrate how the general mediocrity of fortunes, the absence of\nsuperfluous wealth, the universal desire of comfort, and the constant\nefforts by which everyone attempts to procure it, make the taste for the\nuseful predominate over the love of the beautiful in the heart of man.\nDemocratic nations, amongst which all these things exist, will therefore\ncultivate the arts which serve to render life easy, in preference to\nthose whose object is to adorn it. They will habitually prefer the\nuseful to the beautiful, and they will require that the beautiful should\nbe useful. But I propose to go further; and after having pointed out\nthis first feature, to sketch several others.\n\nIt commonly happens that in the ages of privilege the practice of\nalmost all the arts becomes a privilege; and that every profession is\na separate walk, upon which it is not allowable for everyone to enter.\nEven when productive industry is free, the fixed character which\nbelongs to aristocratic nations gradually segregates all the persons who\npractise the same art, till they form a distinct class, always composed\nof the same families, whose members are all known to each other, and\namongst whom a public opinion of their own and a species of corporate\npride soon spring up. In a class or guild of this kind, each artisan has\nnot only his fortune to make, but his reputation to preserve. He is not\nexclusively swayed by his own interest, or even by that of his customer,\nbut by that of the body to which he belongs; and the interest of that\nbody is, that each artisan should produce the best possible workmanship.\nIn aristocratic ages, the object of the arts is therefore to manufacture\nas well as possible--not with the greatest despatch, or at the lowest\nrate.\n\nWhen, on the contrary, every profession is open to all--when a multitude\nof persons are constantly embracing and abandoning it--and when its\nseveral members are strangers to each other, indifferent, and from their\nnumbers hardly seen amongst themselves; the social tie is destroyed,\nand each workman, standing alone, endeavors simply to gain the greatest\npossible quantity of money at the least possible cost. The will of the\ncustomer is then his only limit. But at the same time a corresponding\nrevolution takes place in the customer also. In countries in which\nriches as well as power are concentrated and retained in the hands of\nthe few, the use of the greater part of this world's goods belongs to a\nsmall number of individuals, who are always the same. Necessity, public\nopinion, or moderate desires exclude all others from the enjoyment\nof them. As this aristocratic class remains fixed at the pinnacle of\ngreatness on which it stands, without diminution or increase, it is\nalways acted upon by the same wants and affected by them in the same\nmanner. The men of whom it is composed naturally derive from their\nsuperior and hereditary position a taste for what is extremely well made\nand lasting. This affects the general way of thinking of the nation in\nrelation to the arts. It often occurs, among such a people, that even\nthe peasant will rather go without the object he covets, than procure it\nin a state of imperfection. In aristocracies, then, the handicraftsmen\nwork for only a limited number of very fastidious customers: the\nprofit they hope to make depends principally on the perfection of their\nworkmanship.\n\nSuch is no longer the case when, all privileges being abolished, ranks\nare intermingled, and men are forever rising or sinking upon the ladder\nof society. Amongst a democratic people a number of citizens always\nexist whose patrimony is divided and decreasing. They have contracted,\nunder more prosperous circumstances, certain wants, which remain after\nthe means of satisfying such wants are gone; and they are anxiously\nlooking out for some surreptitious method of providing for them. On the\nother hand, there are always in democracies a large number of men whose\nfortune is upon the increase, but whose desires grow much faster than\ntheir fortunes: and who gloat upon the gifts of wealth in anticipation,\nlong before they have means to command them. Such men eager to find some\nshort cut to these gratifications, already almost within their reach.\nFrom the combination of these causes the result is, that in democracies\nthere are always a multitude of individuals whose wants are above their\nmeans, and who are very willing to take up with imperfect satisfaction\nrather than abandon the object of their desires.\n\nThe artisan readily understands these passions, for he himself partakes\nin them: in an aristocracy he would seek to sell his workmanship at a\nhigh price to the few; he now conceives that the more expeditious way of\ngetting rich is to sell them at a low price to all. But there are only\ntwo ways of lowering the price of commodities. The first is to discover\nsome better, shorter, and more ingenious method of producing them: the\nsecond is to manufacture a larger quantity of goods, nearly similar,\nbut of less value. Amongst a democratic population, all the intellectual\nfaculties of the workman are directed to these two objects: he strives\nto invent methods which may enable him not only to work better, but\nquicker and cheaper; or, if he cannot succeed in that, to diminish the\nintrinsic qualities of the thing he makes, without rendering it wholly\nunfit for the use for which it is intended. When none but the wealthy\nhad watches, they were almost all very good ones: few are now made which\nare worth much, but everybody has one in his pocket. Thus the democratic\nprinciple not only tends to direct the human mind to the useful arts,\nbut it induces the artisan to produce with greater rapidity a quantity\nof imperfect commodities, and the consumer to content himself with these\ncommodities.\n\nNot that in democracies the arts are incapable of producing very\ncommendable works, if such be required. This may occasionally be the\ncase, if customers appear who are ready to pay for time and trouble.\nIn this rivalry of every kind of industry--in the midst of this immense\ncompetition and these countless experiments, some excellent workmen are\nformed who reach the utmost limits of their craft. But they have rarely\nan opportunity of displaying what they can do; they are scrupulously\nsparing of their powers; they remain in a state of accomplished\nmediocrity, which condemns itself, and, though it be very well able\nto shoot beyond the mark before it, aims only at what it hits. In\naristocracies, on the contrary, workmen always do all they can; and\nwhen they stop, it is because they have reached the limit of their\nattainments.\n\nWhen I arrive in a country where I find some of the finest productions\nof the arts, I learn from this fact nothing of the social condition or\nof the political constitution of the country. But if I perceive that\nthe productions of the arts are generally of an inferior quality, very\nabundant and very cheap, I am convinced that, amongst the people where\nthis occurs, privilege is on the decline, and that ranks are beginning\nto intermingle, and will soon be confounded together.\n\nThe handicraftsmen of democratic ages endeavor not only to bring their\nuseful productions within the reach of the whole community, but they\nstrive to give to all their commodities attractive qualities which they\ndo not in reality possess. In the confusion of all ranks everyone hopes\nto appear what he is not, and makes great exertions to succeed in this\nobject. This sentiment indeed, which is but too natural to the heart of\nman, does not originate in the democratic principle; but that principle\napplies it to material objects. To mimic virtue is of every age; but the\nhypocrisy of luxury belongs more particularly to the ages of democracy.\n\nTo satisfy these new cravings of human vanity the arts have recourse to\nevery species of imposture: and these devices sometimes go so far as to\ndefeat their own purpose. Imitation diamonds are now made which may be\neasily mistaken for real ones; as soon as the art of fabricating false\ndiamonds shall have reached so high a degree of perfection that they\ncannot be distinguished from real ones, it is probable that both one and\nthe other will be abandoned, and become mere pebbles again.\n\nThis leads me to speak of those arts which are called the fine arts, by\nway of distinction. I do not believe that it is a necessary effect of a\ndemocratic social condition and of democratic institutions to diminish\nthe number of men who cultivate the fine arts; but these causes exert\na very powerful influence on the manner in which these arts are\ncultivated. Many of those who had already contracted a taste for the\nfine arts are impoverished: on the other hand, many of those who are not\nyet rich begin to conceive that taste, at least by imitation; and the\nnumber of consumers increases, but opulent and fastidious consumers\nbecome more scarce. Something analogous to what I have already\npointed out in the useful arts then takes place in the fine arts;\nthe productions of artists are more numerous, but the merit of each\nproduction is diminished. No longer able to soar to what is great, they\ncultivate what is pretty and elegant; and appearance is more attended\nto than reality. In aristocracies a few great pictures are produced;\nin democratic countries, a vast number of insignificant ones. In the\nformer, statues are raised of bronze; in the latter, they are modelled\nin plaster.\n\nWhen I arrived for the first time at New York, by that part of the\nAtlantic Ocean which is called the Narrows, I was surprised to perceive\nalong the shore, at some distance from the city, a considerable number\nof little palaces of white marble, several of which were built after the\nmodels of ancient architecture. When I went the next day to inspect more\nclosely the building which had particularly attracted my notice, I found\nthat its walls were of whitewashed brick, and its columns of painted\nwood. All the edifices which I had admired the night before were of the\nsame kind.\n\nThe social condition and the institutions of democracy impart, moreover,\ncertain peculiar tendencies to all the imitative arts, which it is easy\nto point out. They frequently withdraw them from the delineation of the\nsoul to fix them exclusively on that of the body: and they substitute\nthe representation of motion and sensation for that of sentiment and\nthought: in a word, they put the real in the place of the ideal. I doubt\nwhether Raphael studied the minutest intricacies of the mechanism of the\nhuman body as thoroughly as the draughtsmen of our own time. He did not\nattach the same importance to rigorous accuracy on this point as they\ndo, because he aspired to surpass nature. He sought to make of man\nsomething which should be superior to man, and to embellish beauty's\nself. David and his scholars were, on the contrary, as good anatomists\nas they were good painters. They wonderfully depicted the models which\nthey had before their eyes, but they rarely imagined anything beyond\nthem: they followed nature with fidelity: whilst Raphael sought for\nsomething better than nature. They have left us an exact portraiture\nof man; but he discloses in his works a glimpse of the Divinity. This\nremark as to the manner of treating a subject is no less applicable to\nthe choice of it. The painters of the Middle Ages generally sought far\nabove themselves, and away from their own time, for mighty subjects,\nwhich left to their imagination an unbounded range. Our painters\nfrequently employ their talents in the exact imitation of the details\nof private life, which they have always before their eyes; and they are\nforever copying trivial objects, the originals of which are only too\nabundant in nature.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII: Why The Americans Raise Some Monuments So Insignificant,\nAnd Others So Important\n\nI have just observed, that in democratic ages monuments of the arts tend\nto become more numerous and less important. I now hasten to point out\nthe exception to this rule. In a democratic community individuals are\nvery powerless; but the State which represents them all, and contains\nthem all in its grasp, is very powerful. Nowhere do citizens appear so\ninsignificant as in a democratic nation; nowhere does the nation itself\nappear greater, or does the mind more easily take in a wide general\nsurvey of it. In democratic communities the imagination is compressed\nwhen men consider themselves; it expands indefinitely when they think\nof the State. Hence it is that the same men who live on a small scale in\nnarrow dwellings, frequently aspire to gigantic splendor in the erection\nof their public monuments.\n\nThe Americans traced out the circuit of an immense city on the site\nwhich they intended to make their capital, but which, up to the present\ntime, is hardly more densely peopled than Pontoise, though, according\nto them, it will one day contain a million of inhabitants. They have\nalready rooted up trees for ten miles round, lest they should interfere\nwith the future citizens of this imaginary metropolis. They have erected\na magnificent palace for Congress in the centre of the city, and have\ngiven it the pompous name of the Capitol. The several States of the\nUnion are every day planning and erecting for themselves prodigious\nundertakings, which would astonish the engineers of the great European\nnations. Thus democracy not only leads men to a vast number of\ninconsiderable productions; it also leads them to raise some monuments\non the largest scale: but between these two extremes there is a blank.\nA few scattered remains of enormous buildings can therefore teach us\nnothing of the social condition and the institutions of the people by\nwhom they were raised. I may add, though the remark leads me to step\nout of my subject, that they do not make us better acquainted with its\ngreatness, its civilization, and its real prosperity. Whensoever a power\nof any kind shall be able to make a whole people co-operate in a single\nundertaking, that power, with a little knowledge and a great deal of\ntime, will succeed in obtaining something enormous from the co-operation\nof efforts so multiplied. But this does not lead to the conclusion that\nthe people was very happy, very enlightened, or even very strong.\n\nThe Spaniards found the City of Mexico full of magnificent temples\nand vast palaces; but that did not prevent Cortes from conquering the\nMexican Empire with 600 foot soldiers and sixteen horses. If the Romans\nhad been better acquainted with the laws of hydraulics, they would not\nhave constructed all the aqueducts which surround the ruins of their\ncities--they would have made a better use of their power and their\nwealth. If they had invented the steam-engine, perhaps they would not\nhave extended to the extremities of their empire those long artificial\nroads which are called Roman roads. These things are at once the\nsplendid memorials of their ignorance and of their greatness. A people\nwhich should leave no other vestige of its track than a few leaden pipes\nin the earth and a few iron rods upon its surface, might have been more\nthe master of nature than the Romans.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII: Literary Characteristics Of Democratic Ages\n\nWhen a traveller goes into a bookseller's shop in the United States,\nand examines the American books upon the shelves, the number of works\nappears extremely great; whilst that of known authors appears, on the\ncontrary, to be extremely small. He will first meet with a number\nof elementary treatises, destined to teach the rudiments of human\nknowledge. Most of these books are written in Europe; the Americans\nreprint them, adapting them to their own country. Next comes an enormous\nquantity of religious works, Bibles, sermons, edifying anecdotes,\ncontroversial divinity, and reports of charitable societies; lastly,\nappears the long catalogue of political pamphlets. In America, parties\ndo not write books to combat each others' opinions, but pamphlets which\nare circulated for a day with incredible rapidity, and then expire. In\nthe midst of all these obscure productions of the human brain are to be\nfound the more remarkable works of that small number of authors, whose\nnames are, or ought to be, known to Europeans.\n\nAlthough America is perhaps in our days the civilized country in\nwhich literature is least attended to, a large number of persons are\nnevertheless to be found there who take an interest in the productions\nof the mind, and who make them, if not the study of their lives, at\nleast the charm of their leisure hours. But England supplies these\nreaders with the larger portion of the books which they require. Almost\nall important English books are republished in the United States. The\nliterary genius of Great Britain still darts its rays into the recesses\nof the forests of the New World. There is hardly a pioneer's hut which\ndoes not contain a few odd volumes of Shakespeare. I remember that I\nread the feudal play of Henry V for the first time in a loghouse.\n\nNot only do the Americans constantly draw upon the treasures of English\nliterature, but it may be said with truth that they find the literature\nof England growing on their own soil. The larger part of that small\nnumber of men in the United States who are engaged in the composition of\nliterary works are English in substance, and still more so in form.\nThus they transport into the midst of democracy the ideas and literary\nfashions which are current amongst the aristocratic nation they have\ntaken for their model. They paint with colors borrowed from foreign\nmanners; and as they hardly ever represent the country they were born\nin as it really is, they are seldom popular there. The citizens of the\nUnited States are themselves so convinced that it is not for them that\nbooks are published, that before they can make up their minds upon the\nmerit of one of their authors, they generally wait till his fame has\nbeen ratified in England, just as in pictures the author of an original\nis held to be entitled to judge of the merit of a copy. The inhabitants\nof the United States have then at present, properly speaking, no\nliterature. The only authors whom I acknowledge as American are the\njournalists. They indeed are not great writers, but they speak the\nlanguage of their countrymen, and make themselves heard by them. Other\nauthors are aliens; they are to the Americans what the imitators of the\nGreeks and Romans were to us at the revival of learning--an object of\ncuriosity, not of general sympathy. They amuse the mind, but they do not\nact upon the manners of the people.\n\nI have already said that this state of things is very far from\noriginating in democracy alone, and that the causes of it must be sought\nfor in several peculiar circumstances independent of the democratic\nprinciple. If the Americans, retaining the same laws and social\ncondition, had had a different origin, and had been transported\ninto another country, I do not question that they would have had\na literature. Even as they now are, I am convinced that they will\nultimately have one; but its character will be different from that which\nmarks the American literary productions of our time, and that character\nwill be peculiarly its own. Nor is it impossible to trace this character\nbeforehand.\n\nI suppose an aristocratic people amongst whom letters are cultivated;\nthe labors of the mind, as well as the affairs of state, are conducted\nby a ruling class in society. The literary as well as the political\ncareer is almost entirely confined to this class, or to those nearest\nto it in rank. These premises suffice to give me a key to all the rest.\nWhen a small number of the same men are engaged at the same time upon\nthe same objects, they easily concert with one another, and agree upon\ncertain leading rules which are to govern them each and all. If the\nobject which attracts the attention of these men is literature, the\nproductions of the mind will soon be subjected by them to precise\ncanons, from which it will no longer be allowable to depart. If these\nmen occupy a hereditary position in the country, they will be naturally\ninclined, not only to adopt a certain number of fixed rules for\nthemselves, but to follow those which their forefathers laid down for\ntheir own guidance; their code will be at once strict and traditional.\nAs they are not necessarily engrossed by the cares of daily life--as\nthey have never been so, any more than their fathers were before\nthem--they have learned to take an interest, for several generations\nback, in the labors of the mind. They have learned to understand\nliterature as an art, to love it in the end for its own sake, and to\nfeel a scholar-like satisfaction in seeing men conform to its rules. Nor\nis this all: the men of whom I speak began and will end their lives in\neasy or in affluent circumstances; hence they have naturally conceived\na taste for choice gratifications, and a love of refined and delicate\npleasures. Nay more, a kind of indolence of mind and heart, which they\nfrequently contract in the midst of this long and peaceful enjoyment\nof so much welfare, leads them to put aside, even from their pleasures,\nwhatever might be too startling or too acute. They had rather be amused\nthan intensely excited; they wish to be interested, but not to be\ncarried away.\n\nNow let us fancy a great number of literary performances executed by the\nmen, or for the men, whom I have just described, and we shall readily\nconceive a style of literature in which everything will be regular and\nprearranged. The slightest work will be carefully touched in its least\ndetails; art and labor will be conspicuous in everything; each kind of\nwriting will have rules of its own, from which it will not be allowed to\nswerve, and which distinguish it from all others. Style will be thought\nof almost as much importance as thought; and the form will be no less\nconsidered than the matter: the diction will be polished, measured,\nand uniform. The tone of the mind will be always dignified, seldom very\nanimated; and writers will care more to perfect what they produce than\nto multiply their productions. It will sometimes happen that the members\nof the literary class, always living amongst themselves and writing for\nthemselves alone, will lose sight of the rest of the world, which will\ninfect them with a false and labored style; they will lay down minute\nliterary rules for their exclusive use, which will insensibly lead them\nto deviate from common-sense, and finally to transgress the bounds of\nnature. By dint of striving after a mode of parlance different from\nthe vulgar, they will arrive at a sort of aristocratic jargon, which is\nhardly less remote from pure language than is the coarse dialect of the\npeople. Such are the natural perils of literature amongst aristocracies.\nEvery aristocracy which keeps itself entirely aloof from the people\nbecomes impotent--a fact which is as true in literature as it is in\npolitics. *a\n\n[Footnote a: All this is especially true of the aristocratic countries\nwhich have been long and peacefully subject to a monarchical government.\nWhen liberty prevails in an aristocracy, the higher ranks are constantly\nobliged to make use of the lower classes; and when they use, they\napproach them. This frequently introduces something of a democratic\nspirit into an aristocratic community. There springs up, moreover, in a\nprivileged body, governing with energy and an habitually bold policy, a\ntaste for stir and excitement which must infallibly affect all literary\nperformances.]\n\nLet us now turn the picture and consider the other side of it; let us\ntransport ourselves into the midst of a democracy, not unprepared by\nancient traditions and present culture to partake in the pleasures of\nthe mind. Ranks are there intermingled and confounded; knowledge and\npower are both infinitely subdivided, and, if I may use the expression,\nscattered on every side. Here then is a motley multitude, whose\nintellectual wants are to be supplied. These new votaries of the\npleasures of the mind have not all received the same education; they\ndo not possess the same degree of culture as their fathers, nor any\nresemblance to them--nay, they perpetually differ from themselves,\nfor they live in a state of incessant change of place, feelings,\nand fortunes. The mind of each member of the community is therefore\nunattached to that of his fellow-citizens by tradition or by common\nhabits; and they have never had the power, the inclination, nor the\ntime to concert together. It is, however, from the bosom of this\nheterogeneous and agitated mass that authors spring; and from the same\nsource their profits and their fame are distributed. I can without\ndifficulty understand that, under these circumstances, I must expect\nto meet in the literature of such a people with but few of those strict\nconventional rules which are admitted by readers and by writers in\naristocratic ages. If it should happen that the men of some one period\nwere agreed upon any such rules, that would prove nothing for the\nfollowing period; for amongst democratic nations each new generation is\na new people. Amongst such nations, then, literature will not easily\nbe subjected to strict rules, and it is impossible that any such rules\nshould ever be permanent.\n\nIn democracies it is by no means the case that all the men who cultivate\nliterature have received a literary education; and most of those who\nhave some tinge of belles-lettres are either engaged in politics, or in\na profession which only allows them to taste occasionally and by stealth\nthe pleasures of the mind. These pleasures, therefore, do not constitute\nthe principal charm of their lives; but they are considered as a\ntransient and necessary recreation amidst the serious labors of life.\nSuch man can never acquire a sufficiently intimate knowledge of the art\nof literature to appreciate its more delicate beauties; and the minor\nshades of expression must escape them. As the time they can devote to\nletters is very short, they seek to make the best use of the whole of\nit. They prefer books which may be easily procured, quickly read, and\nwhich require no learned researches to be understood. They ask for\nbeauties, self-proffered and easily enjoyed; above all, they must have\nwhat is unexpected and new. Accustomed to the struggle, the crosses, and\nthe monotony of practical life, they require rapid emotions, startling\npassages--truths or errors brilliant enough to rouse them up, and to\nplunge them at once, as if by violence, into the midst of a subject.\n\nWhy should I say more? or who does not understand what is about to\nfollow, before I have expressed it? Taken as a whole, literature\nin democratic ages can never present, as it does in the periods of\naristocracy, an aspect of order, regularity, science, and art; its form\nwill, on the contrary, ordinarily be slighted, sometimes despised. Style\nwill frequently be fantastic, incorrect, overburdened, and loose--almost\nalways vehement and bold. Authors will aim at rapidity of execution,\nmore than at perfection of detail. Small productions will be more\ncommon than bulky books; there will be more wit than erudition, more\nimagination than profundity; and literary performances will bear marks\nof an untutored and rude vigor of thought--frequently of great variety\nand singular fecundity. The object of authors will be to astonish rather\nthan to please, and to stir the passions more than to charm the taste.\nHere and there, indeed, writers will doubtless occur who will choose\na different track, and who will, if they are gifted with superior\nabilities, succeed in finding readers, in spite of their defects or\ntheir better qualities; but these exceptions will be rare, and even\nthe authors who shall so depart from the received practice in the main\nsubject of their works, will always relapse into it in some lesser\ndetails.\n\nI have just depicted two extreme conditions: the transition by which a\nnation passes from the former to the latter is not sudden but gradual,\nand marked with shades of very various intensity. In the passage which\nconducts a lettered people from the one to the other, there is almost\nalways a moment at which the literary genius of democratic nations has\nits confluence with that of aristocracies, and both seek to establish\ntheir joint sway over the human mind. Such epochs are transient, but\nvery brilliant: they are fertile without exuberance, and animated\nwithout confusion. The French literature of the eighteenth century may\nserve as an example.\n\nI should say more than I mean if I were to assert that the literature of\na nation is always subordinate to its social condition and its political\nconstitution. I am aware that, independently of these causes, there\nare several others which confer certain characteristics on literary\nproductions; but these appear to me to be the chief. The relations which\nexist between the social and political condition of a people and the\ngenius of its authors are always very numerous: whoever knows the one is\nnever completely ignorant of the other.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV: The Trade Of Literature\n\nDemocracy not only infuses a taste for letters among the trading\nclasses, but introduces a trading spirit into literature. In\naristocracies, readers are fastidious and few in number; in democracies,\nthey are far more numerous and far less difficult to please. The\nconsequence is, that among aristocratic nations, no one can hope to\nsucceed without immense exertions, and that these exertions may bestow\na great deal of fame, but can never earn much money; whilst among\ndemocratic nations, a writer may flatter himself that he will obtain at\na cheap rate a meagre reputation and a large fortune. For this\npurpose he need not be admired; it is enough that he is liked. The\never-increasing crowd of readers, and their continual craving for\nsomething new, insure the sale of books which nobody much esteems.\n\nIn democratic periods the public frequently treat authors as kings do\ntheir courtiers; they enrich, and they despise them. What more is needed\nby the venal souls which are born in courts, or which are worthy to live\nthere? Democratic literature is always infested with a tribe of writers\nwho look upon letters as a mere trade: and for some few great authors\nwho adorn it you may reckon thousands of idea-mongers.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV: The Study Of Greek And Latin Literature Peculiarly Useful In\nDemocratic Communities\n\nWhat was called the People in the most democratic republics of\nantiquity, was very unlike what we designate by that term. In Athens,\nall the citizens took part in public affairs; but there were only 20,000\ncitizens to more than 350,000 inhabitants. All the rest were slaves, and\ndischarged the greater part of those duties which belong at the present\nday to the lower or even to the middle classes. Athens, then, with her\nuniversal suffrage, was after all merely an aristocratic republic in\nwhich all the nobles had an equal right to the government. The struggle\nbetween the patricians and plebeians of Rome must be considered in\nthe same light: it was simply an intestine feud between the elder and\nyounger branches of the same family. All the citizens belonged, in fact,\nto the aristocracy, and partook of its character.\n\nIt is moreover to be remarked, that amongst the ancients books were\nalways scarce and dear; and that very great difficulties impeded their\npublication and circulation. These circumstances concentrated literary\ntastes and habits amongst a small number of men, who formed a small\nliterary aristocracy out of the choicer spirits of the great political\naristocracy. Accordingly nothing goes to prove that literature was ever\ntreated as a trade amongst the Greeks and Romans.\n\nThese peoples, which not only constituted aristocracies, but very\npolished and free nations, of course imparted to their literary\nproductions the defects and the merits which characterize the literature\nof aristocratic ages. And indeed a very superficial survey of the\nliterary remains of the ancients will suffice to convince us, that if\nthose writers were sometimes deficient in variety, or fertility in their\nsubjects, or in boldness, vivacity, or power of generalization in\ntheir thoughts, they always displayed exquisite care and skill in their\ndetails. Nothing in their works seems to be done hastily or at random:\nevery line is written for the eye of the connoisseur, and is shaped\nafter some conception of ideal beauty. No literature places those fine\nqualities, in which the writers of democracies are naturally deficient,\nin bolder relief than that of the ancients; no literature, therefore,\nought to be more studied in democratic ages. This study is better suited\nthan any other to combat the literary defects inherent in those ages; as\nfor their more praiseworthy literary qualities, they will spring up of\ntheir own accord, without its being necessary to learn to acquire them.\n\nIt is important that this point should be clearly understood. A\nparticular study may be useful to the literature of a people, without\nbeing appropriate to its social and political wants. If men were to\npersist in teaching nothing but the literature of the dead languages in\na community where everyone is habitually led to make vehement exertions\nto augment or to maintain his fortune, the result would be a very\npolished, but a very dangerous, race of citizens. For as their social\nand political condition would give them every day a sense of wants which\ntheir education would never teach them to supply, they would perturb the\nState, in the name of the Greeks and Romans, instead of enriching it by\ntheir productive industry.\n\nIt is evident that in democratic communities the interest of\nindividuals, as well as the security of the commonwealth, demands that\nthe education of the greater number should be scientific, commercial,\nand industrial, rather than literary. Greek and Latin should not be\ntaught in all schools; but it is important that those who by their\nnatural disposition or their fortune are destined to cultivate letters\nor prepared to relish them, should find schools where a complete\nknowledge of ancient literature may be acquired, and where the true\nscholar may be formed. A few excellent universities would do more\ntowards the attainment of this object than a vast number of bad grammar\nschools, where superfluous matters, badly learned, stand in the way of\nsound instruction in necessary studies.\n\nAll who aspire to literary excellence in democratic nations, ought\nfrequently to refresh themselves at the springs of ancient literature:\nthere is no more wholesome course for the mind. Not that I hold the\nliterary productions of the ancients to be irreproachable; but I\nthink that they have some especial merits, admirably calculated to\ncounterbalance our peculiar defects. They are a prop on the side on\nwhich we are in most danger of falling.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI: The Effect Of Democracy On Language\n\nIf the reader has rightly understood what I have already said on\nthe subject of literature in general, he will have no difficulty in\ncomprehending that species of influence which a democratic social\ncondition and democratic institutions may exercise over language itself,\nwhich is the chief instrument of thought.\n\nAmerican authors may truly be said to live more in England than in their\nown country; since they constantly study the English writers, and take\nthem every day for their models. But such is not the case with the bulk\nof the population, which is more immediately subjected to the peculiar\ncauses acting upon the United States. It is not then to the written, but\nto the spoken language that attention must be paid, if we would detect\nthe modifications which the idiom of an aristocratic people may undergo\nwhen it becomes the language of a democracy.\n\nEnglishmen of education, and more competent judges than I can be myself\nof the nicer shades of expression, have frequently assured me that\nthe language of the educated classes in the United States is notably\ndifferent from that of the educated classes in Great Britain. They\ncomplain not only that the Americans have brought into use a number of\nnew words--the difference and the distance between the two countries\nmight suffice to explain that much--but that these new words are more\nespecially taken from the jargon of parties, the mechanical arts, or the\nlanguage of trade. They assert, in addition to this, that old English\nwords are often used by the Americans in new acceptations; and lastly,\nthat the inhabitants of the United States frequently intermingle their\nphraseology in the strangest manner, and sometimes place words together\nwhich are always kept apart in the language of the mother-country. These\nremarks, which were made to me at various times by persons who appeared\nto be worthy of credit, led me to reflect upon the subject; and my\nreflections brought me, by theoretical reasoning, to the same point at\nwhich my informants had arrived by practical observation.\n\nIn aristocracies, language must naturally partake of that state of\nrepose in which everything remains. Few new words are coined, because\nfew new things are made; and even if new things were made, they would\nbe designated by known words, whose meaning has been determined by\ntradition. If it happens that the human mind bestirs itself at length,\nor is roused by light breaking in from without, the novel expressions\nwhich are introduced are characterized by a degree of learning,\nintelligence, and philosophy, which shows that they do not originate\nin a democracy. After the fall of Constantinople had turned the tide of\nscience and literature towards the west, the French language was almost\nimmediately invaded by a multitude of new words, which had all Greek\nor Latin roots. An erudite neologism then sprang up in France which was\nconfined to the educated classes, and which produced no sensible effect,\nor at least a very gradual one, upon the people. All the nations of\nEurope successively exhibited the same change. Milton alone introduced\nmore than six hundred words into the English language, almost all\nderived from the Latin, the Greek, or the Hebrew. The constant agitation\nwhich prevails in a democratic community tends unceasingly, on the\ncontrary, to change the character of the language, as it does the aspect\nof affairs. In the midst of this general stir and competition of minds,\na great number of new ideas are formed, old ideas are lost, or reappear,\nor are subdivided into an infinite variety of minor shades. The\nconsequence is, that many words must fall into desuetude, and others\nmust be brought into use.\n\nDemocratic nations love change for its own sake; and this is seen in\ntheir language as much as in their politics. Even when they do not\nneed to change words, they sometimes feel a wish to transform them. The\ngenius of a democratic people is not only shown by the great number of\nwords they bring into use, but also by the nature of the ideas these new\nwords represent. Amongst such a people the majority lays down the law\nin language as well as in everything else; its prevailing spirit is as\nmanifest in that as in other respects. But the majority is more engaged\nin business than in study--in political and commercial interests than in\nphilosophical speculation or literary pursuits. Most of the words coined\nor adopted for its use will therefore bear the mark of these habits;\nthey will mainly serve to express the wants of business, the passions of\nparty, or the details of the public administration. In these departments\nthe language will constantly spread, whilst on the other hand it will\ngradually lose ground in metaphysics and theology.\n\nAs to the source from which democratic nations are wont to derive their\nnew expressions, and the manner in which they go to work to coin them,\nboth may easily be described. Men living in democratic countries know\nbut little of the language which was spoken at Athens and at Rome,\nand they do not care to dive into the lore of antiquity to find the\nexpression they happen to want. If they have sometimes recourse to\nlearned etymologies, vanity will induce them to search at the roots of\nthe dead languages; but erudition does not naturally furnish them with\nits resources. The most ignorant, it sometimes happens, will use them\nmost. The eminently democratic desire to get above their own sphere will\noften lead them to seek to dignify a vulgar profession by a Greek or\nLatin name. The lower the calling is, and the more remote from learning,\nthe more pompous and erudite is its appellation. Thus the French\nrope-dancers have transformed themselves into acrobates and funambules.\n\nIn the absence of knowledge of the dead languages, democratic\nnations are apt to borrow words from living tongues; for their mutual\nintercourse becomes perpetual, and the inhabitants of different\ncountries imitate each other the more readily as they grow more like\neach other every day.\n\nBut it is principally upon their own languages that democratic nations\nattempt to perpetrate innovations. From time to time they resume\nforgotten expressions in their vocabulary, which they restore to use; or\nthey borrow from some particular class of the community a term peculiar\nto it, which they introduce with a figurative meaning into the language\nof daily life. Many expressions which originally belonged to the\ntechnical language of a profession or a party, are thus drawn into\ngeneral circulation.\n\nThe most common expedient employed by democratic nations to make an\ninnovation in language consists in giving some unwonted meaning to\nan expression already in use. This method is very simple, prompt, and\nconvenient; no learning is required to use it aright, and ignorance\nitself rather facilitates the practice; but that practice is most\ndangerous to the language. When a democratic people doubles the meaning\nof a word in this way, they sometimes render the signification which it\nretains as ambiguous as that which it acquires. An author begins by a\nslight deflection of a known expression from its primitive meaning, and\nhe adapts it, thus modified, as well as he can to his subject. A second\nwriter twists the sense of the expression in another way; a third takes\npossession of it for another purpose; and as there is no common appeal\nto the sentence of a permanent tribunal which may definitely settle the\nsignification of the word, it remains in an ambiguous condition. The\nconsequence is that writers hardly ever appear to dwell upon a single\nthought, but they always seem to point their aim at a knot of ideas,\nleaving the reader to judge which of them has been hit. This is a\ndeplorable consequence of democracy. I had rather that the language\nshould be made hideous with words imported from the Chinese, the\nTartars, or the Hurons, than that the meaning of a word in our own\nlanguage should become indeterminate. Harmony and uniformity are\nonly secondary beauties in composition; many of these things are\nconventional, and, strictly speaking, it is possible to forego them; but\nwithout clear phraseology there is no good language.\n\nThe principle of equality necessarily introduces several other changes\ninto language. In aristocratic ages, when each nation tends to stand\naloof from all others and likes to have distinct characteristics of its\nown, it often happens that several peoples which have a common origin\nbecome nevertheless estranged from each other, so that, without ceasing\nto understand the same language, they no longer all speak it in the same\nmanner. In these ages each nation is divided into a certain number of\nclasses, which see but little of each other, and do not intermingle.\nEach of these classes contracts, and invariably retains, habits of\nmind peculiar to itself, and adopts by choice certain words and certain\nterms, which afterwards pass from generation to generation, like their\nestates. The same idiom then comprises a language of the poor and a\nlanguage of the rich--a language of the citizen and a language of the\nnobility--a learned language and a vulgar one. The deeper the divisions,\nand the more impassable the barriers of society become, the more must\nthis be the case. I would lay a wager, that amongst the castes of India\nthere are amazing variations of language, and that there is almost\nas much difference between the language of the pariah and that of the\nBrahmin as there is in their dress. When, on the contrary, men, being no\nlonger restrained by ranks, meet on terms of constant intercourse--when\ncastes are destroyed, and the classes of society are recruited and\nintermixed with each other, all the words of a language are mingled.\nThose which are unsuitable to the greater number perish; the remainder\nform a common store, whence everyone chooses pretty nearly at random.\nAlmost all the different dialects which divided the idioms of European\nnations are manifestly declining; there is no patois in the New World,\nand it is disappearing every day from the old countries.\n\nThe influence of this revolution in social conditions is as much felt\nin style as it is in phraseology. Not only does everyone use the same\nwords, but a habit springs up of using them without discrimination. The\nrules which style had set up are almost abolished: the line ceases to\nbe drawn between expressions which seem by their very nature vulgar, and\nother which appear to be refined. Persons springing from different ranks\nof society carry the terms and expressions they are accustomed to use\nwith them, into whatever circumstances they may pass; thus the origin\nof words is lost like the origin of individuals, and there is as much\nconfusion in language as there is in society.\n\nI am aware that in the classification of words there are rules which do\nnot belong to one form of society any more than to another, but which\nare derived from the nature of things. Some expressions and phrases\nare vulgar, because the ideas they are meant to express are low in\nthemselves; others are of a higher character, because the objects they\nare intended to designate are naturally elevated. No intermixture of\nranks will ever efface these differences. But the principle of equality\ncannot fail to root out whatever is merely conventional and arbitrary\nin the forms of thought. Perhaps the necessary classification which\nI pointed out in the last sentence will always be less respected by a\ndemocratic people than by any other, because amongst such a people\nthere are no men who are permanently disposed by education, culture, and\nleisure to study the natural laws of language, and who cause those laws\nto be respected by their own observance of them.\n\nI shall not quit this topic without touching on a feature of democratic\nlanguages, which is perhaps more characteristic of them than any other.\nIt has already been shown that democratic nations have a taste, and\nsometimes a passion, for general ideas, and that this arises from their\npeculiar merits and defects. This liking for general ideas is displayed\nin democratic languages by the continual use of generic terms or\nabstract expressions, and by the manner in which they are employed.\nThis is the great merit and the great imperfection of these languages.\nDemocratic nations are passionately addicted to generic terms or\nabstract expressions, because these modes of speech enlarge thought,\nand assist the operations of the mind by enabling it to include several\nobjects in a small compass. A French democratic writer will be apt\nto say capacites in the abstract for men of capacity, and without\nparticularizing the objects to which their capacity is applied: he will\ntalk about actualities to designate in one word the things passing\nbefore his eyes at the instant; and he will comprehend under the term\neventualities whatever may happen in the universe, dating from the moment\nat which he speaks. Democratic writers are perpetually coining words of\nthis kind, in which they sublimate into further abstraction the abstract\nterms of the language. Nay, more, to render their mode of speech more\nsuccinct, they personify the subject of these abstract terms, and make\nit act like a real entity. Thus they would say in French, \"La force des\nchoses veut que les capacites gouvernent.\"\n\nI cannot better illustrate what I mean than by my own example. I have\nfrequently used the word \"equality\" in an absolute sense--nay, I have\npersonified equality in several places; thus I have said that equality\ndoes such and such things, or refrains from doing others. It may be\naffirmed that the writers of the age of Louis XIV would not have used\nthese expressions: they would never have thought of using the word\n\"equality\" without applying it to some particular object; and they would\nrather have renounced the term altogether than have consented to make a\nliving personage of it.\n\nThese abstract terms which abound in democratic languages, and which are\nused on every occasion without attaching them to any particular fact,\nenlarge and obscure the thoughts they are intended to convey; they\nrender the mode of speech more succinct, and the idea contained in\nit less clear. But with regard to language, democratic nations prefer\nobscurity to labor. I know not indeed whether this loose style has not\nsome secret charm for those who speak and write amongst these nations.\nAs the men who live there are frequently left to the efforts of their\nindividual powers of mind, they are almost always a prey to doubt; and\nas their situation in life is forever changing, they are never held fast\nto any of their opinions by the certain tenure of their fortunes. Men\nliving in democratic countries are, then, apt to entertain unsettled\nideas, and they require loose expressions to convey them. As they never\nknow whether the idea they express to-day will be appropriate to the new\nposition they may occupy to-morrow, they naturally acquire a liking for\nabstract terms. An abstract term is like a box with a false bottom: you\nmay put in it what ideas you please, and take them out again without\nbeing observed.\n\nAmongst all nations, generic and abstract terms form the basis of\nlanguage. I do not, therefore, affect to expel these terms from\ndemocratic languages; I simply remark that men have an especial\ntendency, in the ages of democracy, to multiply words of this kind--to\ntake them always by themselves in their most abstract acceptation, and\nto use them on all occasions, even when the nature of the discourse does\nnot require them.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII: Of Some Of The Sources Of Poetry Amongst Democratic\nNations\n\nVarious different significations have been given to the word \"poetry.\"\nIt would weary my readers if I were to lead them into a discussion as to\nwhich of these definitions ought to be selected: I prefer telling them\nat once that which I have chosen. In my opinion, poetry is the search\nand the delineation of the ideal. The poet is he who, by suppressing a\npart of what exists, by adding some imaginary touches to the picture,\nand by combining certain real circumstances, but which do not in fact\nconcurrently happen, completes and extends the work of nature. Thus the\nobject of poetry is not to represent what is true, but to adorn it,\nand to present to the mind some loftier imagery. Verse, regarded as the\nideal beauty of language, may be eminently poetical; but verse does not,\nof itself, constitute poetry.\n\nI now proceed to inquire whether, amongst the actions, the sentiments,\nand the opinions of democratic nations, there are any which lead to a\nconception of ideal beauty, and which may for this reason be\nconsidered as natural sources of poetry. It must in the first place, be\nacknowledged that the taste for ideal beauty, and the pleasure derived\nfrom the expression of it, are never so intense or so diffused amongst a\ndemocratic as amongst an aristocratic people. In aristocratic nations it\nsometimes happens that the body goes on to act as it were spontaneously,\nwhilst the higher faculties are bound and burdened by repose. Amongst\nthese nations the people will very often display poetic tastes, and\nsometimes allow their fancy to range beyond and above what surrounds\nthem. But in democracies the love of physical gratification, the notion\nof bettering one's condition, the excitement of competition, the charm\nof anticipated success, are so many spurs to urge men onwards in the\nactive professions they have embraced, without allowing them to deviate\nfor an instant from the track. The main stress of the faculties is to\nthis point. The imagination is not extinct; but its chief function is to\ndevise what may be useful, and to represent what is real.\n\nThe principle of equality not only diverts men from the description of\nideal beauty--it also diminishes the number of objects to be described.\nAristocracy, by maintaining society in a fixed position, is favorable\nto the solidity and duration of positive religions, as well as to the\nstability of political institutions. It not only keeps the human mind\nwithin a certain sphere of belief, but it predisposes the mind to adopt\none faith rather than another. An aristocratic people will always be\nprone to place intermediate powers between God and man. In this respect\nit may be said that the aristocratic element is favorable to poetry.\nWhen the universe is peopled with supernatural creatures, not palpable\nto the senses but discovered by the mind, the imagination ranges\nfreely, and poets, finding a thousand subjects to delineate, also find\na countless audience to take an interest in their productions. In\ndemocratic ages it sometimes happens, on the contrary, that men are as\nmuch afloat in matters of belief as they are in their laws. Scepticism\nthen draws the imagination of poets back to earth, and confines them to\nthe real and visible world. Even when the principle of equality does\nnot disturb religious belief, it tends to simplify it, and to divert\nattention from secondary agents, to fix it principally on the Supreme\nPower. Aristocracy naturally leads the human mind to the contemplation\nof the past, and fixes it there. Democracy, on the contrary, gives men\na sort of instinctive distaste for what is ancient. In this respect\naristocracy is far more favorable to poetry; for things commonly grow\nlarger and more obscure as they are more remote; and for this twofold\nreason they are better suited to the delineation of the ideal.\n\nAfter having deprived poetry of the past, the principle of equality\nrobs it in part of the present. Amongst aristocratic nations there are a\ncertain number of privileged personages, whose situation is, as it were,\nwithout and above the condition of man; to these, power, wealth, fame,\nwit, refinement, and distinction in all things appear peculiarly to\nbelong. The crowd never sees them very closely, or does not watch them\nin minute details; and little is needed to make the description of such\nmen poetical. On the other hand, amongst the same people, you will meet\nwith classes so ignorant, low, and enslaved, that they are no less fit\nobjects for poetry from the excess of their rudeness and wretchedness,\nthan the former are from their greatness and refinement. Besides, as\nthe different classes of which an aristocratic community is composed\nare widely separated, and imperfectly acquainted with each other, the\nimagination may always represent them with some addition to, or some\nsubtraction from, what they really are. In democratic communities, where\nmen are all insignificant and very much alike, each man instantly sees\nall his fellows when he surveys himself. The poets of democratic ages\ncan never, therefore, take any man in particular as the subject of a\npiece; for an object of slender importance, which is distinctly seen\non all sides, will never lend itself to an ideal conception. Thus the\nprinciple of equality; in proportion as it has established itself in\nthe world, has dried up most of the old springs of poetry. Let us now\nattempt to show what new ones it may disclose.\n\nWhen scepticism had depopulated heaven, and the progress of equality\nhad reduced each individual to smaller and better known proportions, the\npoets, not yet aware of what they could substitute for the great themes\nwhich were departing together with the aristocracy, turned their eyes\nto inanimate nature. As they lost sight of gods and heroes, they set\nthemselves to describe streams and mountains. Thence originated in\nthe last century, that kind of poetry which has been called, by way\nof distinction, the descriptive. Some have thought that this sort of\ndelineation, embellished with all the physical and inanimate objects\nwhich cover the earth, was the kind of poetry peculiar to democratic\nages; but I believe this to be an error, and that it only belongs to a\nperiod of transition.\n\nI am persuaded that in the end democracy diverts the imagination from\nall that is external to man, and fixes it on man alone. Democratic\nnations may amuse themselves for a while with considering the\nproductions of nature; but they are only excited in reality by a survey\nof themselves. Here, and here alone, the true sources of poetry amongst\nsuch nations are to be found; and it may be believed that the poets who\nshall neglect to draw their inspirations hence, will lose all sway over\nthe minds which they would enchant, and will be left in the end with\nnone but unimpassioned spectators of their transports. I have shown how\nthe ideas of progression and of the indefinite perfectibility of the\nhuman race belong to democratic ages. Democratic nations care but little\nfor what has been, but they are haunted by visions of what will be; in\nthis direction their unbounded imagination grows and dilates beyond all\nmeasure. Here then is the wildest range open to the genius of poets,\nwhich allows them to remove their performances to a sufficient distance\nfrom the eye. Democracy shuts the past against the poet, but opens\nthe future before him. As all the citizens who compose a democratic\ncommunity are nearly equal and alike, the poet cannot dwell upon any one\nof them; but the nation itself invites the exercise of his powers. The\ngeneral similitude of individuals, which renders any one of them taken\nseparately an improper subject of poetry, allows poets to include them\nall in the same imagery, and to take a general survey of the people\nitself. Democractic nations have a clearer perception than any others of\ntheir own aspect; and an aspect so imposing is admirably fitted to the\ndelineation of the ideal.\n\nI readily admit that the Americans have no poets; I cannot allow that\nthey have no poetic ideas. In Europe people talk a great deal of the\nwilds of America, but the Americans themselves never think about them:\nthey are insensible to the wonders of inanimate nature, and they may be\nsaid not to perceive the mighty forests which surround them till they\nfall beneath the hatchet. Their eyes are fixed upon another sight: the\nAmerican people views its own march across these wilds--drying swamps,\nturning the course of rivers, peopling solitudes, and subduing nature.\nThis magnificent image of themselves does not meet the gaze of the\nAmericans at intervals only; it may be said to haunt every one of them\nin his least as well as in his most important actions, and to be always\nflitting before his mind. Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid,\nso crowded with paltry interests, in one word so anti-poetic, as the\nlife of a man in the United States. But amongst the thoughts which it\nsuggests there is always one which is full of poetry, and that is the\nhidden nerve which gives vigor to the frame.\n\nIn aristocratic ages each people, as well as each individual, is prone\nto stand separate and aloof from all others. In democratic ages, the\nextreme fluctuations of men and the impatience of their desires keep\nthem perpetually on the move; so that the inhabitants of different\ncountries intermingle, see, listen to, and borrow from each other's\nstores. It is not only then the members of the same community who grow\nmore alike; communities are themselves assimilated to one another,\nand the whole assemblage presents to the eye of the spectator one vast\ndemocracy, each citizen of which is a people. This displays the aspect\nof mankind for the first time in the broadest light. All that belongs\nto the existence of the human race taken as a whole, to its vicissitudes\nand to its future, becomes an abundant mine of poetry. The poets who\nlived in aristocratic ages have been eminently successful in their\ndelineations of certain incidents in the life of a people or a man;\nbut none of them ever ventured to include within his performances the\ndestinies of mankind--a task which poets writing in democratic ages may\nattempt. At that same time at which every man, raising his eyes above\nhis country, begins at length to discern mankind at large, the Divinity\nis more and more manifest to the human mind in full and entire majesty.\nIf in democratic ages faith in positive religions be often shaken, and\nthe belief in intermediate agents, by whatever name they are called, be\novercast; on the other hand men are disposed to conceive a far broader\nidea of Providence itself, and its interference in human affairs assumes\na new and more imposing appearance to their eyes. Looking at the human\nrace as one great whole, they easily conceive that its destinies are\nregulated by the same design; and in the actions of every individual\nthey are led to acknowledge a trace of that universal and eternal plan\non which God rules our race. This consideration may be taken as another\nprolific source of poetry which is opened in democratic ages. Democratic\npoets will always appear trivial and frigid if they seek to invest gods,\ndemons, or angels, with corporeal forms, and if they attempt to draw\nthem down from heaven to dispute the supremacy of earth. But if they\nstrive to connect the great events they commemorate with the general\nprovidential designs which govern the universe, and, without showing the\nfinger of the Supreme Governor, reveal the thoughts of the Supreme Mind,\ntheir works will be admired and understood, for the imagination of their\ncontemporaries takes this direction of its own accord.\n\nIt may be foreseen in the like manner that poets living in democratic\nages will prefer the delineation of passions and ideas to that of\npersons and achievements. The language, the dress, and the daily actions\nof men in democracies are repugnant to ideal conceptions. These things\nare not poetical in themselves; and, if it were otherwise, they would\ncease to be so, because they are too familiar to all those to whom the\npoet would speak of them. This forces the poet constantly to search\nbelow the external surface which is palpable to the senses, in order to\nread the inner soul: and nothing lends itself more to the delineation\nof the ideal than the scrutiny of the hidden depths in the immaterial\nnature of man. I need not to ramble over earth and sky to discover\na wondrous object woven of contrasts, of greatness and littleness\ninfinite, of intense gloom and of amazing brightness--capable at once\nof exciting pity, admiration, terror, contempt. I find that object in\nmyself. Man springs out of nothing, crosses time, and disappears forever\nin the bosom of God; he is seen but for a moment, staggering on the\nverge of the two abysses, and there he is lost. If man were wholly\nignorant of himself, he would have no poetry in him; for it is\nimpossible to describe what the mind does not conceive. If man clearly\ndiscerned his own nature, his imagination would remain idle, and\nwould have nothing to add to the picture. But the nature of man is\nsufficiently disclosed for him to apprehend something of himself; and\nsufficiently obscure for all the rest to be plunged in thick darkness,\nin which he gropes forever--and forever in vain--to lay hold on some\ncompleter notion of his being.\n\nAmongst a democratic people poetry will not be fed with legendary lays\nor the memorials of old traditions. The poet will not attempt to people\nthe universe with supernatural beings in whom his readers and his own\nfancy have ceased to believe; nor will he present virtues and vices\nin the mask of frigid personification, which are better received under\ntheir own features. All these resources fail him; but Man remains, and\nthe poet needs no more. The destinies of mankind--man himself, taken\naloof from his age and his country, and standing in the presence of\nNature and of God, with his passions, his doubts, his rare prosperities,\nand inconceivable wretchedness--will become the chief, if not the sole\ntheme of poetry amongst these nations. Experience may confirm this\nassertion, if we consider the productions of the greatest poets who have\nappeared since the world has been turned to democracy. The authors of\nour age who have so admirably delineated the features of Faust, Childe\nHarold, Rene, and Jocelyn, did not seek to record the actions of an\nindividual, but to enlarge and to throw light on some of the obscurer\nrecesses of the human heart. Such are the poems of democracy. The\nprinciple of equality does not then destroy all the subjects of poetry:\nit renders them less numerous, but more vast.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII: Of The Inflated Style Of American Writers And Orators\n\nI have frequently remarked that the Americans, who generally treat\nof business in clear, plain language, devoid of all ornament, and so\nextremely simple as to be often coarse, are apt to become inflated\nas soon as they attempt a more poetical diction. They then vent their\npomposity from one end of a harangue to the other; and to hear them\nlavish imagery on every occasion, one might fancy that they never spoke\nof anything with simplicity. The English are more rarely given to a\nsimilar failing. The cause of this may be pointed out without much\ndifficulty. In democratic communities each citizen is habitually engaged\nin the contemplation of a very puny object, namely himself. If he ever\nraises his looks higher, he then perceives nothing but the immense form\nof society at large, or the still more imposing aspect of mankind. His\nideas are all either extremely minute and clear, or extremely general\nand vague: what lies between is an open void. When he has been drawn out\nof his own sphere, therefore, he always expects that some amazing object\nwill be offered to his attention; and it is on these terms alone that he\nconsents to tear himself for an instant from the petty complicated cares\nwhich form the charm and the excitement of his life. This appears to me\nsufficiently to explain why men in democracies, whose concerns are in\ngeneral so paltry, call upon their poets for conceptions so vast and\ndescriptions so unlimited.\n\nThe authors, on their part, do not fail to obey a propensity of which\nthey themselves partake; they perpetually inflate their imaginations,\nand expanding them beyond all bounds, they not unfrequently abandon\nthe great in order to reach the gigantic. By these means they hope to\nattract the observation of the multitude, and to fix it easily upon\nthemselves: nor are their hopes disappointed; for as the multitude\nseeks for nothing in poetry but subjects of very vast dimensions, it\nhas neither the time to measure with accuracy the proportions of all the\nsubjects set before it, nor a taste sufficiently correct to perceive\nat once in what respect they are out of proportion. The author and the\npublic at once vitiate one another.\n\nWe have just seen that amongst democratic nations, the sources of poetry\nare grand, but not abundant. They are soon exhausted: and poets, not\nfinding the elements of the ideal in what is real and true, abandon\nthem entirely and create monsters. I do not fear that the poetry of\ndemocratic nations will prove too insipid, or that it will fly too near\nthe ground; I rather apprehend that it will be forever losing itself in\nthe clouds, and that it will range at last to purely imaginary regions.\nI fear that the productions of democratic poets may often be surcharged\nwith immense and incoherent imagery, with exaggerated descriptions and\nstrange creations; and that the fantastic beings of their brain may\nsometimes make us regret the world of reality.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX: Some Observations On The Drama Amongst Democratic Nations\n\nWhen the revolution which subverts the social and political state of an\naristocratic people begins to penetrate into literature, it generally\nfirst manifests itself in the drama, and it always remains conspicuous\nthere. The spectator of a dramatic piece is, to a certain extent, taken\nby surprise by the impression it conveys. He has no time to refer to his\nmemory, or to consult those more able to judge than himself. It does\nnot occur to him to resist the new literary tendencies which begin to\nbe felt by him; he yields to them before he knows what they are. Authors\nare very prompt in discovering which way the taste of the public is thus\nsecretly inclined. They shape their productions accordingly; and the\nliterature of the stage, after having served to indicate the approaching\nliterary revolution, speedily completes its accomplishment. If you would\njudge beforehand of the literature of a people which is lapsing into\ndemocracy, study its dramatic productions.\n\nThe literature of the stage, moreover, even amongst aristocratic\nnations, constitutes the most democratic part of their literature.\nNo kind of literary gratification is so much within the reach of the\nmultitude as that which is derived from theatrical representations.\nNeither preparation nor study is required to enjoy them: they lay hold\non you in the midst of your prejudices and your ignorance. When the yet\nuntutored love of the pleasures of the mind begins to affect a class\nof the community, it instantly draws them to the stage. The theatres\nof aristocratic nations have always been filled with spectators not\nbelonging to the aristocracy. At the theatre alone the higher ranks mix\nwith the middle and the lower classes; there alone do the former consent\nto listen to the opinion of the latter, or at least to allow them\nto give an opinion at all. At the theatre, men of cultivation and of\nliterary attainments have always had more difficulty than elsewhere in\nmaking their taste prevail over that of the people, and in preventing\nthemselves from being carried away by the latter. The pit has frequently\nmade laws for the boxes.\n\nIf it be difficult for an aristocracy to prevent the people from getting\nthe upper hand in the theatre, it will readily be understood that the\npeople will be supreme there when democratic principles have crept into\nthe laws and manners--when ranks are intermixed--when minds, as well as\nfortunes, are brought more nearly together--and when the upper class\nhas lost, with its hereditary wealth, its power, its precedents, and its\nleisure. The tastes and propensities natural to democratic nations, in\nrespect to literature, will therefore first be discernible in the drama,\nand it may be foreseen that they will break out there with vehemence. In\nwritten productions, the literary canons of aristocracy will be gently,\ngradually, and, so to speak, legally modified; at the theatre they\nwill be riotously overthrown. The drama brings out most of the\ngood qualities, and almost all the defects, inherent in democratic\nliterature. Democratic peoples hold erudition very cheap, and care but\nlittle for what occurred at Rome and Athens; they want to hear something\nwhich concerns themselves, and the delineation of the present age is\nwhat they demand.\n\nWhen the heroes and the manners of antiquity are frequently brought\nupon the stage, and dramatic authors faithfully observe the rules of\nantiquated precedent, that is enough to warrant a conclusion that the\ndemocratic classes have not yet got the upper hand of the theatres.\nRacine makes a very humble apology in the preface to the \"Britannicus\"\nfor having disposed of Junia amongst the Vestals, who, according to\nAulus Gellius, he says, \"admitted no one below six years of age nor\nabove ten.\" We may be sure that he would neither have accused himself\nof the offence, nor defended himself from censure, if he had written for\nour contemporaries. A fact of this kind not only illustrates the state\nof literature at the time when it occurred, but also that of society\nitself. A democratic stage does not prove that the nation is in a state\nof democracy, for, as we have just seen, even in aristocracies it may\nhappen that democratic tastes affect the drama; but when the spirit\nof aristocracy reigns exclusively on the stage, the fact irrefragably\ndemonstrates that the whole of society is aristocratic; and it may be\nboldly inferred that the same lettered and learned class which sways the\ndramatic writers commands the people and governs the country.\n\nThe refined tastes and the arrogant bearing of an aristocracy will\nrarely fail to lead it, when it manages the stage, to make a kind of\nselection in human nature. Some of the conditions of society claim\nits chief interest; and the scenes which delineate their manners are\npreferred upon the stage. Certain virtues, and even certain vices,\nare thought more particularly to deserve to figure there; and they are\napplauded whilst all others are excluded. Upon the stage, as well\nas elsewhere, an aristocratic audience will only meet personages of\nquality, and share the emotions of kings. The same thing applies to\nstyle: an aristocracy is apt to impose upon dramatic authors certain\nmodes of expression which give the key in which everything is to be\ndelivered. By these means the stage frequently comes to delineate only\none side of man, or sometimes even to represent what is not to be met\nwith in human nature at all--to rise above nature and to go beyond it.\n\nIn democratic communities the spectators have no such partialities,\nand they rarely display any such antipathies: they like to see upon the\nstage that medley of conditions, of feelings, and of opinions, which\noccurs before their eyes. The drama becomes more striking, more common,\nand more true. Sometimes, however, those who write for the stage in\ndemocracies also transgress the bounds of human nature--but it is on\na different side from their predecessors. By seeking to represent in\nminute detail the little singularities of the moment and the peculiar\ncharacteristics of certain personages, they forget to portray the\ngeneral features of the race.\n\nWhen the democratic classes rule the stage, they introduce as much\nlicense in the manner of treating subjects as in the choice of them.\nAs the love of the drama is, of all literary tastes, that which is most\nnatural to democratic nations, the number of authors and of spectators,\nas well as of theatrical representations, is constantly increasing\namongst these communities. A multitude composed of elements so\ndifferent, and scattered in so many different places, cannot acknowledge\nthe same rules or submit to the same laws. No concurrence is possible\namongst judges so numerous, who know not when they may meet again; and\ntherefore each pronounces his own sentence on the piece. If the effect\nof democracy is generally to question the authority of all literary\nrules and conventions, on the stage it abolishes them altogether, and\nputs in their place nothing but the whim of each author and of each\npublic.\n\nThe drama also displays in an especial manner the truth of what I have\nsaid before in speaking more generally of style and art in democratic\nliterature. In reading the criticisms which were occasioned by the\ndramatic productions of the age of Louis XIV, one is surprised to remark\nthe great stress which the public laid on the probability of the plot,\nand the importance which was attached to the perfect consistency of\nthe characters, and to their doing nothing which could not be easily\nexplained and understood. The value which was set upon the forms of\nlanguage at that period, and the paltry strife about words with which\ndramatic authors were assailed, are no less surprising. It would\nseem that the men of the age of Louis XIV attached very exaggerated\nimportance to those details, which may be perceived in the study, but\nwhich escape attention on the stage. For, after all, the principal\nobject of a dramatic piece is to be performed, and its chief merit is to\naffect the audience. But the audience and the readers in that age were\nthe same: on quitting the theatre they called up the author for judgment\nto their own firesides. In democracies, dramatic pieces are listened to,\nbut not read. Most of those who frequent the amusements of the stage do\nnot go there to seek the pleasures of the mind, but the keen emotions of\nthe heart. They do not expect to hear a fine literary work, but to see\na play; and provided the author writes the language of his country\ncorrectly enough to be understood, and that his characters excite\ncuriosity and awaken sympathy, the audience are satisfied. They ask no\nmore of fiction, and immediately return to real life. Accuracy of style\nis therefore less required, because the attentive observance of its\nrules is less perceptible on the stage. As for the probability of the\nplot, it is incompatible with perpetual novelty, surprise, and rapidity\nof invention. It is therefore neglected, and the public excuses the\nneglect. You may be sure that if you succeed in bringing your audience\ninto the presence of something that affects them, they will not care by\nwhat road you brought them there; and they will never reproach you for\nhaving excited their emotions in spite of dramatic rules.\n\nThe Americans very broadly display all the different propensities which\nI have here described when they go to the theatres; but it must be\nacknowledged that as yet a very small number of them go to theatres at\nall. Although playgoers and plays have prodigiously increased in the\nUnited States in the last forty years, the population indulges in this\nkind of amusement with the greatest reserve. This is attributable to\npeculiar causes, which the reader is already acquainted with, and of\nwhich a few words will suffice to remind him. The Puritans who founded\nthe American republics were not only enemies to amusements, but they\nprofessed an especial abhorrence for the stage. They considered it as\nan abominable pastime; and as long as their principles prevailed with\nundivided sway, scenic performances were wholly unknown amongst them.\nThese opinions of the first fathers of the colony have left very deep\nmarks on the minds of their descendants. The extreme regularity of\nhabits and the great strictness of manners which are observable in the\nUnited States, have as yet opposed additional obstacles to the growth\nof dramatic art. There are no dramatic subjects in a country which has\nwitnessed no great political catastrophes, and in which love invariably\nleads by a straight and easy road to matrimony. People who spend every\nday in the week in making money, and the Sunday in going to church, have\nnothing to invite the muse of Comedy.\n\nA single fact suffices to show that the stage is not very popular in the\nUnited States. The Americans, whose laws allow of the utmost freedom\nand even license of language in all other respects, have nevertheless\nsubjected their dramatic authors to a sort of censorship. Theatrical\nperformances can only take place by permission of the municipal\nauthorities. This may serve to show how much communities are like\nindividuals; they surrender themselves unscrupulously to their ruling\npassions, and afterwards take the greatest care not to yield too much to\nthe vehemence of tastes which they do not possess.\n\nNo portion of literature is connected by closer or more numerous ties\nwith the present condition of society than the drama. The drama of one\nperiod can never be suited to the following age, if in the interval an\nimportant revolution has changed the manners and the laws of the nation.\nThe great authors of a preceding age may be read; but pieces written\nfor a different public will not be followed. The dramatic authors of the\npast live only in books. The traditional taste of certain individuals,\nvanity, fashion, or the genius of an actor may sustain or resuscitate\nfor a time the aristocratic drama amongst a democracy; but it will\nspeedily fall away of itself--not overthrown, but abandoned.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX: Characteristics Of Historians In Democratic Ages\n\nHistorians who write in aristocratic ages are wont to refer all\noccurrences to the particular will or temper of certain individuals; and\nthey are apt to attribute the most important revolutions to very\nslight accidents. They trace out the smallest causes with sagacity,\nand frequently leave the greatest unperceived. Historians who live in\ndemocratic ages exhibit precisely opposite characteristics. Most of them\nattribute hardly any influence to the individual over the destiny of the\nrace, nor to citizens over the fate of a people; but, on the other hand,\nthey assign great general causes to all petty incidents. These contrary\ntendencies explain each other.\n\nWhen the historian of aristocratic ages surveys the theatre of the\nworld, he at once perceives a very small number of prominent actors, who\nmanage the whole piece. These great personages, who occupy the front of\nthe stage, arrest the observation, and fix it on themselves; and whilst\nthe historian is bent on penetrating the secret motives which make them\nspeak and act, the rest escape his memory. The importance of the things\nwhich some men are seen to do, gives him an exaggerated estimate of the\ninfluence which one man may possess; and naturally leads him to think,\nthat in order to explain the impulses of the multitude, it is necessary\nto refer them to the particular influence of some one individual.\n\nWhen, on the contrary, all the citizens are independent of one another,\nand each of them is individually weak, no one is seen to exert a great,\nor still less a lasting power, over the community. At first sight,\nindividuals appear to be absolutely devoid of any influence over it;\nand society would seem to advance alone by the free and voluntary\nconcurrence of all the men who compose it. This naturally prompts the\nmind to search for that general reason which operates upon so many men's\nfaculties at the same time, and turns them simultaneously in the same\ndirection.\n\nI am very well convinced that even amongst democratic nations, the\ngenius, the vices, or the virtues of certain individuals retard or\naccelerate the natural current of a people's history: but causes of\nthis secondary and fortuitous nature are infinitely more various, more\nconcealed, more complex, less powerful, and consequently less easy to\ntrace in periods of equality than in ages of aristocracy, when the task\nof the historian is simply to detach from the mass of general events the\nparticular influences of one man or of a few men. In the former case\nthe historian is soon wearied by the toil; his mind loses itself in this\nlabyrinth; and, in his inability clearly to discern or conspicuously to\npoint out the influence of individuals, he denies their existence.\nHe prefers talking about the characteristics of race, the physical\nconformation of the country, or the genius of civilization, which\nabridges his own labors, and satisfies his reader far better at less\ncost.\n\nM. de Lafayette says somewhere in his \"Memoirs\" that the exaggerated\nsystem of general causes affords surprising consolations to second-rate\nstatesmen. I will add, that its effects are not less consolatory to\nsecond-rate historians; it can always furnish a few mighty reasons\nto extricate them from the most difficult part of their work, and it\nindulges the indolence or incapacity of their minds, whilst it confers\nupon them the honors of deep thinking.\n\nFor myself, I am of opinion that at all times one great portion of the\nevents of this world are attributable to general facts, and another to\nspecial influences. These two kinds of cause are always in operation:\ntheir proportion only varies. General facts serve to explain more things\nin democratic than in aristocratic ages, and fewer things are then\nassignable to special influences. At periods of aristocracy the\nreverse takes place: special influences are stronger, general causes\nweaker--unless indeed we consider as a general cause the fact itself of\nthe inequality of conditions, which allows some individuals to baffle\nthe natural tendencies of all the rest. The historians who seek to\ndescribe what occurs in democratic societies are right, therefore, in\nassigning much to general causes, and in devoting their chief attention\nto discover them; but they are wrong in wholly denying the special\ninfluence of individuals, because they cannot easily trace or follow it.\n\nThe historians who live in democratic ages are not only prone to assign\na great cause to every incident, but they are also given to connect\nincidents together, so as to deduce a system from them. In aristocratic\nages, as the attention of historians is constantly drawn to individuals,\nthe connection of events escapes them; or rather, they do not believe\nin any such connection. To them the clew of history seems every instant\ncrossed and broken by the step of man. In democratic ages, on the\ncontrary, as the historian sees much more of actions than of actors, he\nmay easily establish some kind of sequency and methodical order amongst\nthe former. Ancient literature, which is so rich in fine historical\ncompositions, does not contain a single great historical system, whilst\nthe poorest of modern literatures abound with them. It would appear\nthat the ancient historians did not make sufficient use of those general\ntheories which our historical writers are ever ready to carry to excess.\n\nThose who write in democratic ages have another more dangerous tendency.\nWhen the traces of individual action upon nations are lost, it often\nhappens that the world goes on to move, though the moving agent is no\nlonger discoverable. As it becomes extremely difficult to discern and\nto analyze the reasons which, acting separately on the volition of each\nmember of the community, concur in the end to produce movement in the\nold mass, men are led to believe that this movement is involuntary, and\nthat societies unconsciously obey some superior force ruling over them.\nBut even when the general fact which governs the private volition of all\nindividuals is supposed to be discovered upon the earth, the principle\nof human free-will is not secure. A cause sufficiently extensive to\naffect millions of men at once, and sufficiently strong to bend them all\ntogether in the same direction, may well seem irresistible: having seen\nthat mankind do yield to it, the mind is close upon the inference that\nmankind cannot resist it.\n\nHistorians who live in democratic ages, then, not only deny that the few\nhave any power of acting upon the destiny of a people, but they deprive\nthe people themselves of the power of modifying their own condition, and\nthey subject them either to an inflexible Providence, or to some blind\nnecessity. According to them, each nation is indissolubly bound by its\nposition, its origin, its precedents, and its character, to a certain\nlot which no efforts can ever change. They involve generation in\ngeneration, and thus, going back from age to age, and from necessity\nto necessity, up to the origin of the world, they forge a close and\nenormous chain, which girds and binds the human race. To their minds it\nis not enough to show what events have occurred: they would fain show\nthat events could not have occurred otherwise. They take a nation\narrived at a certain stage of its history, and they affirm that it could\nnot but follow the track which brought it thither. It is easier to\nmake such an assertion than to show by what means the nation might have\nadopted a better course.\n\nIn reading the historians of aristocratic ages, and especially those of\nantiquity, it would seem that, to be master of his lot, and to govern\nhis fellow-creatures, man requires only to be master of himself. In\nperusing the historical volumes which our age has produced, it would\nseem that man is utterly powerless over himself and over all around him.\nThe historians of antiquity taught how to command: those of our time\nteach only how to obey; in their writings the author often appears\ngreat, but humanity is always diminutive. If this doctrine of necessity,\nwhich is so attractive to those who write history in democratic ages,\npasses from authors to their readers, till it infects the whole mass\nof the community and gets possession of the public mind, it will soon\nparalyze the activity of modern society, and reduce Christians to the\nlevel of the Turks. I would moreover observe, that such principles\nare peculiarly dangerous at the period at which we are arrived. Our\ncontemporaries are but too prone to doubt of the human free-will,\nbecause each of them feels himself confined on every side by his own\nweakness; but they are still willing to acknowledge the strength and\nindependence of men united in society. Let not this principle be lost\nsight of; for the great object in our time is to raise the faculties of\nmen, not to complete their prostration.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI: Of Parliamentary Eloquence In The United States\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations all the members of the community are\nconnected with and dependent upon each other; the graduated scale of\ndifferent ranks acts as a tie, which keeps everyone in his proper place\nand the whole body in subordination. Something of the same kind always\noccurs in the political assemblies of these nations. Parties naturally\nrange themselves under certain leaders, whom they obey by a sort of\ninstinct, which is only the result of habits contracted elsewhere. They\ncarry the manners of general society into the lesser assemblage.\n\nIn democratic countries it often happens that a great number of citizens\nare tending to the same point; but each one only moves thither, or at\nleast flatters himself that he moves, of his own accord. Accustomed to\nregulate his doings by personal impulse alone, he does not willingly\nsubmit to dictation from without. This taste and habit of independence\naccompany him into the councils of the nation. If he consents to connect\nhimself with other men in the prosecution of the same purpose, at least\nhe chooses to remain free to contribute to the common success after his\nown fashion. Hence it is that in democratic countries parties are so\nimpatient of control, and are never manageable except in moments of\ngreat public danger. Even then, the authority of leaders, which under\nsuch circumstances may be able to make men act or speak, hardly ever\nreaches the extent of making them keep silence.\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations the members of political assemblies are\nat the same time members of the aristocracy. Each of them enjoys high\nestablished rank in his own right, and the position which he occupies\nin the assembly is often less important in his eyes than that which\nhe fills in the country. This consoles him for playing no part in\nthe discussion of public affairs, and restrains him from too eagerly\nattempting to play an insignificant one.\n\nIn America, it generally happens that a Representative only becomes\nsomebody from his position in the Assembly. He is therefore perpetually\nhaunted by a craving to acquire importance there, and he feels a\npetulant desire to be constantly obtruding his opinions upon the House.\nHis own vanity is not the only stimulant which urges him on in this\ncourse, but that of his constituents, and the continual necessity\nof propitiating them. Amongst aristocratic nations a member of the\nlegislature is rarely in strict dependence upon his constituents: he is\nfrequently to them a sort of unavoidable representative; sometimes they\nare themselves strictly dependent upon him; and if at length they reject\nhim, he may easily get elected elsewhere, or, retiring from public life,\nhe may still enjoy the pleasures of splendid idleness. In a democratic\ncountry like the United States a Representative has hardly ever\na lasting hold on the minds of his constituents. However small an\nelectoral body may be, the fluctuations of democracy are constantly\nchanging its aspect; it must, therefore, be courted unceasingly. He\nis never sure of his supporters, and, if they forsake him, he is\nleft without a resource; for his natural position is not sufficiently\nelevated for him to be easily known to those not close to him; and,\nwith the complete state of independence prevailing among the people, he\ncannot hope that his friends or the government will send him down to be\nreturned by an electoral body unacquainted with him. The seeds of his\nfortune are, therefore, sown in his own neighborhood; from that nook of\nearth he must start, to raise himself to the command of a people and\nto influence the destinies of the world. Thus it is natural that in\ndemocratic countries the members of political assemblies think more of\ntheir constituents than of their party, whilst in aristocracies they\nthink more of their party than of their constituents.\n\nBut what ought to be said to gratify constituents is not always what\nought to be said in order to serve the party to which Representatives\nprofess to belong. The general interest of a party frequently demands\nthat members belonging to it should not speak on great questions which\nthey understand imperfectly; that they should speak but little on those\nminor questions which impede the great ones; lastly, and for the most\npart, that they should not speak at all. To keep silence is the\nmost useful service that an indifferent spokesman can render to the\ncommonwealth. Constituents, however, do not think so. The population of\na district sends a representative to take a part in the government of\na country, because they entertain a very lofty notion of his merits.\nAs men appear greater in proportion to the littleness of the objects\nby which they are surrounded, it may be assumed that the opinion\nentertained of the delegate will be so much the higher as talents are\nmore rare among his constituents. It will therefore frequently happen\nthat the less constituents have to expect from their representative, the\nmore they will anticipate from him; and, however incompetent he may be,\nthey will not fail to call upon him for signal exertions, corresponding\nto the rank they have conferred upon him.\n\nIndependently of his position as a legislator of the State, electors\nalso regard their Representative as the natural patron of the\nconstituency in the Legislature; they almost consider him as the proxy\nof each of his supporters, and they flatter themselves that he will not\nbe less zealous in defense of their private interests than of those\nof the country. Thus electors are well assured beforehand that the\nRepresentative of their choice will be an orator; that he will speak\noften if he can, and that in case he is forced to refrain, he will\nstrive at any rate to compress into his less frequent orations an\ninquiry into all the great questions of state, combined with a statement\nof all the petty grievances they have themselves to complain to; so\nthat, though he be not able to come forward frequently, he should on\neach occasion prove what he is capable of doing; and that, instead of\nperpetually lavishing his powers, he should occasionally condense them\nin a small compass, so as to furnish a sort of complete and brilliant\nepitome of his constituents and of himself. On these terms they will\nvote for him at the next election. These conditions drive worthy men of\nhumble abilities to despair, who, knowing their own powers, would never\nvoluntarily have come forward. But thus urged on, the Representative\nbegins to speak, to the great alarm of his friends; and rushing\nimprudently into the midst of the most celebrated orators, he perplexes\nthe debate and wearies the House.\n\nAll laws which tend to make the Representative more dependent on the\nelector, not only affect the conduct of the legislators, as I\nhave remarked elsewhere, but also their language. They exercise a\nsimultaneous influence on affairs themselves, and on the manner in which\naffairs are discussed.\n\nThere is hardly a member of Congress who can make up his mind to go home\nwithout having despatched at least one speech to his constituents;\nnor who will endure any interruption until he has introduced into\nhis harangue whatever useful suggestions may be made touching the\nfour-and-twenty States of which the Union is composed, and especially\nthe district which he represents. He therefore presents to the mind of\nhis auditors a succession of great general truths (which he himself only\ncomprehends, and expresses, confusedly), and of petty minutia, which he\nis but too able to discover and to point out. The consequence is that\nthe debates of that great assembly are frequently vague and perplexed,\nand that they seem rather to drag their slow length along than to\nadvance towards a distinct object. Some such state of things will, I\nbelieve, always arise in the public assemblies of democracies.\n\nPropitious circumstances and good laws might succeed in drawing to the\nlegislature of a democratic people men very superior to those who are\nreturned by the Americans to Congress; but nothing will ever prevent the\nmen of slender abilities who sit there from obtruding themselves with\ncomplacency, and in all ways, upon the public. The evil does not appear\nto me to be susceptible of entire cure, because it not only originates\nin the tactics of that assembly, but in its constitution and in that\nof the country. The inhabitants of the United States seem themselves to\nconsider the matter in this light; and they show their long experience\nof parliamentary life not by abstaining from making bad speeches, but by\ncourageously submitting to hear them made. They are resigned to it, as\nto an evil which they know to be inevitable.\n\nWe have shown the petty side of political debates in democratic\nassemblies--let us now exhibit the more imposing one. The proceedings\nwithin the Parliament of England for the last one hundred and fifty\nyears have never occasioned any great sensation out of that country; the\nopinions and feelings expressed by the speakers have never awakened much\nsympathy, even amongst the nations placed nearest to the great arena of\nBritish liberty; whereas Europe was excited by the very first debates\nwhich took place in the small colonial assemblies of America at the\ntime of the Revolution. This was attributable not only to particular\nand fortuitous circumstances, but to general and lasting causes. I can\nconceive nothing more admirable or more powerful than a great orator\ndebating on great questions of state in a democratic assembly. As no\nparticular class is ever represented there by men commissioned to defend\nits own interests, it is always to the whole nation, and in the name of\nthe whole nation, that the orator speaks. This expands his thoughts,\nand heightens his power of language. As precedents have there but\nlittle weight-as there are no longer any privileges attached to certain\nproperty, nor any rights inherent in certain bodies or in certain\nindividuals, the mind must have recourse to general truths derived from\nhuman nature to resolve the particular question under discussion. Hence\nthe political debates of a democratic people, however small it may be,\nhave a degree of breadth which frequently renders them attractive to\nmankind. All men are interested by them, because they treat of man, who\nis everywhere the same. Amongst the greatest aristocratic nations, on\nthe contrary, the most general questions are almost always argued on\nsome special grounds derived from the practice of a particular time, or\nthe rights of a particular class; which interest that class alone, or at\nmost the people amongst whom that class happens to exist. It is owing\nto this, as much as to the greatness of the French people, and the\nfavorable disposition of the nations who listen to them, that the great\neffect which the French political debates sometimes produce in the\nworld, must be attributed. The orators of France frequently speak to\nmankind, even when they are addressing their countrymen only.\n\n\n\n\nSection 2: Influence of Democracy on the Feelings of Americans\n\n\n\n\nChapter I: Why Democratic Nations Show A More Ardent And Enduring Love\nOf Equality Than Of Liberty\n\nThe first and most intense passion which is engendered by the equality\nof conditions is, I need hardly say, the love of that same equality. My\nreaders will therefore not be surprised that I speak of its before\nall others. Everybody has remarked that in our time, and especially in\nFrance, this passion for equality is every day gaining ground in the\nhuman heart. It has been said a hundred times that our contemporaries\nare far more ardently and tenaciously attached to equality than to\nfreedom; but as I do not find that the causes of the fact have been\nsufficiently analyzed, I shall endeavor to point them out.\n\nIt is possible to imagine an extreme point at which freedom and equality\nwould meet and be confounded together. Let us suppose that all the\nmembers of the community take a part in the government, and that each of\nthem has an equal right to take a part in it. As none is different from\nhis fellows, none can exercise a tyrannical power: men will be perfectly\nfree, because they will all be entirely equal; and they will all be\nperfectly equal, because they will be entirely free. To this ideal state\ndemocratic nations tend. Such is the completest form that equality can\nassume upon earth; but there are a thousand others which, without being\nequally perfect, are not less cherished by those nations.\n\nThe principle of equality may be established in civil society, without\nprevailing in the political world. Equal rights may exist of indulging\nin the same pleasures, of entering the same professions, of frequenting\nthe same places--in a word, of living in the same manner and seeking\nwealth by the same means, although all men do not take an equal share\nin the government. A kind of equality may even be established in the\npolitical world, though there should be no political freedom there. A\nman may be the equal of all his countrymen save one, who is the master\nof all without distinction, and who selects equally from among them\nall the agents of his power. Several other combinations might be easily\nimagined, by which very great equality would be united to institutions\nmore or less free, or even to institutions wholly without freedom.\nAlthough men cannot become absolutely equal unless they be entirely\nfree, and consequently equality, pushed to its furthest extent, may be\nconfounded with freedom, yet there is good reason for distinguishing the\none from the other. The taste which men have for liberty, and that which\nthey feel for equality, are, in fact, two different things; and I am\nnot afraid to add that, amongst democratic nations, they are two unequal\nthings.\n\nUpon close inspection, it will be seen that there is in every age some\npeculiar and preponderating fact with which all others are connected;\nthis fact almost always gives birth to some pregnant idea or some ruling\npassion, which attracts to itself, and bears away in its course, all the\nfeelings and opinions of the time: it is like a great stream, towards\nwhich each of the surrounding rivulets seems to flow. Freedom has\nappeared in the world at different times and under various forms; it\nhas not been exclusively bound to any social condition, and it is\nnot confined to democracies. Freedom cannot, therefore, form the\ndistinguishing characteristic of democratic ages. The peculiar and\npreponderating fact which marks those ages as its own is the equality\nof conditions; the ruling passion of men in those periods is the love\nof this equality. Ask not what singular charm the men of democratic ages\nfind in being equal, or what special reasons they may have for clinging\nso tenaciously to equality rather than to the other advantages which\nsociety holds out to them: equality is the distinguishing characteristic\nof the age they live in; that, of itself, is enough to explain that they\nprefer it to all the rest.\n\nBut independently of this reason there are several others, which will at\nall times habitually lead men to prefer equality to freedom. If a people\ncould ever succeed in destroying, or even in diminishing, the equality\nwhich prevails in its own body, this could only be accomplished by long\nand laborious efforts. Its social condition must be modified, its laws\nabolished, its opinions superseded, its habits changed, its manners\ncorrupted. But political liberty is more easily lost; to neglect to\nhold it fast is to allow it to escape. Men therefore not only cling to\nequality because it is dear to them; they also adhere to it because they\nthink it will last forever.\n\nThat political freedom may compromise in its excesses the tranquillity,\nthe property, the lives of individuals, is obvious to the narrowest\nand most unthinking minds. But, on the contrary, none but attentive and\nclear-sighted men perceive the perils with which equality threatens us,\nand they commonly avoid pointing them out. They know that the calamities\nthey apprehend are remote, and flatter themselves that they will only\nfall upon future generations, for which the present generation takes\nbut little thought. The evils which freedom sometimes brings with it are\nimmediate; they are apparent to all, and all are more or less affected\nby them. The evils which extreme equality may produce are slowly\ndisclosed; they creep gradually into the social frame; they are only\nseen at intervals, and at the moment at which they become most violent\nhabit already causes them to be no longer felt. The advantages which\nfreedom brings are only shown by length of time; and it is always easy\nto mistake the cause in which they originate. The advantages of equality\nare instantaneous, and they may constantly be traced from their source.\nPolitical liberty bestows exalted pleasures, from time to time, upon a\ncertain number of citizens. Equality every day confers a number of small\nenjoyments on every man. The charms of equality are every instant felt,\nand are within the reach of all; the noblest hearts are not insensible\nto them, and the most vulgar souls exult in them. The passion which\nequality engenders must therefore be at once strong and general. Men\ncannot enjoy political liberty unpurchased by some sacrifices, and they\nnever obtain it without great exertions. But the pleasures of equality\nare self-proffered: each of the petty incidents of life seems to\noccasion them, and in order to taste them nothing is required but to\nlive.\n\nDemocratic nations are at all times fond of equality, but there are\ncertain epochs at which the passion they entertain for it swells to the\nheight of fury. This occurs at the moment when the old social system,\nlong menaced, completes its own destruction after a last intestine\nstruggle, and when the barriers of rank are at length thrown down. At\nsuch times men pounce upon equality as their booty, and they cling to\nit as to some precious treasure which they fear to lose. The passion for\nequality penetrates on every side into men's hearts, expands there,\nand fills them entirely. Tell them not that by this blind surrender of\nthemselves to an exclusive passion they risk their dearest interests:\nthey are deaf. Show them not freedom escaping from their grasp, whilst\nthey are looking another way: they are blind--or rather, they can\ndiscern but one sole object to be desired in the universe.\n\nWhat I have said is applicable to all democratic nations: what I am\nabout to say concerns the French alone. Amongst most modern nations, and\nespecially amongst all those of the Continent of Europe, the taste and\nthe idea of freedom only began to exist and to extend themselves at\nthe time when social conditions were tending to equality, and as\na consequence of that very equality. Absolute kings were the most\nefficient levellers of ranks amongst their subjects. Amongst these\nnations equality preceded freedom: equality was therefore a fact of some\nstanding when freedom was still a novelty: the one had already created\ncustoms, opinions, and laws belonging to it, when the other, alone and\nfor the first time, came into actual existence. Thus the latter was\nstill only an affair of opinion and of taste, whilst the former had\nalready crept into the habits of the people, possessed itself of their\nmanners, and given a particular turn to the smallest actions of their\nlives. Can it be wondered that the men of our own time prefer the one to\nthe other?\n\nI think that democratic communities have a natural taste for freedom:\nleft to themselves, they will seek it, cherish it, and view any\nprivation of it with regret. But for equality, their passion is ardent,\ninsatiable, incessant, invincible: they call for equality in freedom;\nand if they cannot obtain that, they still call for equality in slavery.\nThey will endure poverty, servitude, barbarism--but they will not endure\naristocracy. This is true at all times, and especially true in our own.\nAll men and all powers seeking to cope with this irresistible passion,\nwill be overthrown and destroyed by it. In our age, freedom cannot be\nestablished without it, and despotism itself cannot reign without its\nsupport.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II: Of Individualism In Democratic Countries\n\nI have shown how it is that in ages of equality every man seeks for his\nopinions within himself: I am now about to show how it is that, in\nthe same ages, all his feelings are turned towards himself alone.\nIndividualism *a is a novel expression, to which a novel idea has given\nbirth. Our fathers were only acquainted with egotism. Egotism is a\npassionate and exaggerated love of self, which leads a man to connect\neverything with his own person, and to prefer himself to everything in\nthe world. Individualism is a mature and calm feeling, which disposes\neach member of the community to sever himself from the mass of his\nfellow-creatures; and to draw apart with his family and his friends; so\nthat, after he has thus formed a little circle of his own, he willingly\nleaves society at large to itself. Egotism originates in blind instinct:\nindividualism proceeds from erroneous judgment more than from depraved\nfeelings; it originates as much in the deficiencies of the mind as in\nthe perversity of the heart. Egotism blights the germ of all virtue;\nindividualism, at first, only saps the virtues of public life; but,\nin the long run, it attacks and destroys all others, and is at length\nabsorbed in downright egotism. Egotism is a vice as old as the world,\nwhich does not belong to one form of society more than to another:\nindividualism is of democratic origin, and it threatens to spread in the\nsame ratio as the equality of conditions.\n\n[Footnote a: [I adopt the expression of the original, however strange it\nmay seem to the English ear, partly because it illustrates the remark\non the introduction of general terms into democratic language which was\nmade in a preceding chapter, and partly because I know of no English\nword exactly equivalent to the expression. The chapter itself defines\nthe meaning attached to it by the author.--Translator's Note.]]\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations, as families remain for centuries in the\nsame condition, often on the same spot, all generations become as it\nwere contemporaneous. A man almost always knows his forefathers, and\nrespects them: he thinks he already sees his remote descendants, and he\nloves them. He willingly imposes duties on himself towards the\nformer and the latter; and he will frequently sacrifice his personal\ngratifications to those who went before and to those who will come after\nhim. Aristocratic institutions have, moreover, the effect of closely\nbinding every man to several of his fellow-citizens. As the classes of\nan aristocratic people are strongly marked and permanent, each of\nthem is regarded by its own members as a sort of lesser country,\nmore tangible and more cherished than the country at large. As in\naristocratic communities all the citizens occupy fixed positions, one\nabove the other, the result is that each of them always sees a man above\nhimself whose patronage is necessary to him, and below himself another\nman whose co-operation he may claim. Men living in aristocratic ages\nare therefore almost always closely attached to something placed out of\ntheir own sphere, and they are often disposed to forget themselves. It\nis true that in those ages the notion of human fellowship is faint, and\nthat men seldom think of sacrificing themselves for mankind; but they\noften sacrifice themselves for other men. In democratic ages, on the\ncontrary, when the duties of each individual to the race are much more\nclear, devoted service to any one man becomes more rare; the bond of\nhuman affection is extended, but it is relaxed.\n\nAmongst democratic nations new families are constantly springing up,\nothers are constantly falling away, and all that remain change their\ncondition; the woof of time is every instant broken, and the track of\ngenerations effaced. Those who went before are soon forgotten; of those\nwho will come after no one has any idea: the interest of man is confined\nto those in close propinquity to himself. As each class approximates\nto other classes, and intermingles with them, its members become\nindifferent and as strangers to one another. Aristocracy had made a\nchain of all the members of the community, from the peasant to the king:\ndemocracy breaks that chain, and severs every link of it. As social\nconditions become more equal, the number of persons increases who,\nalthough they are neither rich enough nor powerful enough to exercise\nany great influence over their fellow-creatures, have nevertheless\nacquired or retained sufficient education and fortune to satisfy their\nown wants. They owe nothing to any man, they expect nothing from any\nman; they acquire the habit of always considering themselves as standing\nalone, and they are apt to imagine that their whole destiny is in\ntheir own hands. Thus not only does democracy make every man forget\nhis ancestors, but it hides his descendants, and separates his\ncontemporaries from him; it throws him back forever upon himself alone,\nand threatens in the end to confine him entirely within the solitude of\nhis own heart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III: Individualism Stronger At The Close Of A Democratic\nRevolution Than At Other Periods\n\nThe period when the construction of democratic society upon the ruins of\nan aristocracy has just been completed, is especially that at which this\nseparation of men from one another, and the egotism resulting from it,\nmost forcibly strike the observation. Democratic communities not only\ncontain a large number of independent citizens, but they are constantly\nfilled with men who, having entered but yesterday upon their independent\ncondition, are intoxicated with their new power. They entertain a\npresumptuous confidence in their strength, and as they do not suppose\nthat they can henceforward ever have occasion to claim the assistance of\ntheir fellow-creatures, they do not scruple to show that they care for\nnobody but themselves.\n\nAn aristocracy seldom yields without a protracted struggle, in the\ncourse of which implacable animosities are kindled between the different\nclasses of society. These passions survive the victory, and traces of\nthem may be observed in the midst of the democratic confusion which\nensues. Those members of the community who were at the top of the late\ngradations of rank cannot immediately forget their former greatness;\nthey will long regard themselves as aliens in the midst of the newly\ncomposed society. They look upon all those whom this state of society\nhas made their equals as oppressors, whose destiny can excite no\nsympathy; they have lost sight of their former equals, and feel no\nlonger bound by a common interest to their fate: each of them, standing\naloof, thinks that he is reduced to care for himself alone. Those, on\nthe contrary, who were formerly at the foot of the social scale, and who\nhave been brought up to the common level by a sudden revolution, cannot\nenjoy their newly acquired independence without secret uneasiness; and\nif they meet with some of their former superiors on the same footing as\nthemselves, they stand aloof from them with an expression of triumph and\nof fear. It is, then, commonly at the outset of democratic society that\ncitizens are most disposed to live apart. Democracy leads men not to\ndraw near to their fellow-creatures; but democratic revolutions lead\nthem to shun each other, and perpetuate in a state of equality the\nanimosities which the state of inequality engendered. The great\nadvantage of the Americans is that they have arrived at a state of\ndemocracy without having to endure a democratic revolution; and that\nthey are born equal, instead of becoming so.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV: That The Americans Combat The Effects Of Individualism By\nFree Institutions\n\nDespotism, which is of a very timorous nature, is never more secure of\ncontinuance than when it can keep men asunder; and all is influence\nis commonly exerted for that purpose. No vice of the human heart is so\nacceptable to it as egotism: a despot easily forgives his subjects for\nnot loving him, provided they do not love each other. He does not ask\nthem to assist him in governing the State; it is enough that they do not\naspire to govern it themselves. He stigmatizes as turbulent and\nunruly spirits those who would combine their exertions to promote the\nprosperity of the community, and, perverting the natural meaning of\nwords, he applauds as good citizens those who have no sympathy for any\nbut themselves. Thus the vices which despotism engenders are precisely\nthose which equality fosters. These two things mutually and perniciously\ncomplete and assist each other. Equality places men side by side,\nunconnected by any common tie; despotism raises barriers to keep\nthem asunder; the former predisposes them not to consider their\nfellow-creatures, the latter makes general indifference a sort of public\nvirtue.\n\nDespotism then, which is at all times dangerous, is more particularly to\nbe feared in democratic ages. It is easy to see that in those same ages\nmen stand most in need of freedom. When the members of a community are\nforced to attend to public affairs, they are necessarily drawn from\nthe circle of their own interests, and snatched at times from\nself-observation. As soon as a man begins to treat of public affairs\nin public, he begins to perceive that he is not so independent of his\nfellow-men as he had at first imagined, and that, in order to obtain\ntheir support, he must often lend them his co-operation.\n\nWhen the public is supreme, there is no man who does not feel the value\nof public goodwill, or who does not endeavor to court it by drawing to\nhimself the esteem and affection of those amongst whom he is to live.\nMany of the passions which congeal and keep asunder human hearts,\nare then obliged to retire and hide below the surface. Pride must be\ndissembled; disdain dares not break out; egotism fears its own self.\nUnder a free government, as most public offices are elective, the men\nwhose elevated minds or aspiring hopes are too closely circumscribed in\nprivate life, constantly feel that they cannot do without the population\nwhich surrounds them. Men learn at such times to think of their\nfellow-men from ambitious motives; and they frequently find it, in a\nmanner, their interest to forget themselves.\n\nI may here be met by an objection derived from electioneering intrigues,\nthe meannesses of candidates, and the calumnies of their opponents.\nThese are opportunities for animosity which occur the oftener the more\nfrequent elections become. Such evils are doubtless great, but they are\ntransient; whereas the benefits which attend them remain. The desire\nof being elected may lead some men for a time to violent hostility; but\nthis same desire leads all men in the long run mutually to support\neach other; and if it happens that an election accidentally severs two\nfriends, the electoral system brings a multitude of citizens permanently\ntogether, who would always have remained unknown to each other. Freedom\nengenders private animosities, but despotism gives birth to general\nindifference.\n\nThe Americans have combated by free institutions the tendency of\nequality to keep men asunder, and they have subdued it. The legislators\nof America did not suppose that a general representation of the whole\nnation would suffice to ward off a disorder at once so natural to the\nframe of democratic society, and so fatal: they also thought that\nit would be well to infuse political life into each portion of the\nterritory, in order to multiply to an infinite extent opportunities of\nacting in concert for all the members of the community, and to make them\nconstantly feel their mutual dependence on each other. The plan was a\nwise one. The general affairs of a country only engage the attention of\nleading politicians, who assemble from time to time in the same places;\nand as they often lose sight of each other afterwards, no lasting ties\nare established between them. But if the object be to have the local\naffairs of a district conducted by the men who reside there, the same\npersons are always in contact, and they are, in a manner, forced to be\nacquainted, and to adapt themselves to one another.\n\nIt is difficult to draw a man out of his own circle to interest him in\nthe destiny of the State, because he does not clearly understand what\ninfluence the destiny of the State can have upon his own lot. But if it\nbe proposed to make a road cross the end of his estate, he will see at\na glance that there is a connection between this small public affair and\nhis greatest private affairs; and he will discover, without its being\nshown to him, the close tie which unites private to general interest.\nThus, far more may be done by intrusting to the citizens the\nadministration of minor affairs than by surrendering to them the control\nof important ones, towards interesting them in the public welfare, and\nconvincing them that they constantly stand in need one of the other in\norder to provide for it. A brilliant achievement may win for you the\nfavor of a people at one stroke; but to earn the love and respect of\nthe population which surrounds you, a long succession of little services\nrendered and of obscure good deeds--a constant habit of kindness, and\nan established reputation for disinterestedness--will be required.\nLocal freedom, then, which leads a great number of citizens to value the\naffection of their neighbors and of their kindred, perpetually brings\nmen together, and forces them to help one another, in spite of the\npropensities which sever them.\n\nIn the United States the more opulent citizens take great care not to\nstand aloof from the people; on the contrary, they constantly keep on\neasy terms with the lower classes: they listen to them, they speak to\nthem every day. They know that the rich in democracies always stand in\nneed of the poor; and that in democratic ages you attach a poor man to\nyou more by your manner than by benefits conferred. The magnitude of\nsuch benefits, which sets off the difference of conditions, causes a\nsecret irritation to those who reap advantage from them; but the charm\nof simplicity of manners is almost irresistible: their affability\ncarries men away, and even their want of polish is not always\ndispleasing. This truth does not take root at once in the minds of the\nrich. They generally resist it as long as the democratic revolution\nlasts, and they do not acknowledge it immediately after that revolution\nis accomplished. They are very ready to do good to the people, but\nthey still choose to keep them at arm's length; they think that is\nsufficient, but they are mistaken. They might spend fortunes thus\nwithout warming the hearts of the population around them;--that\npopulation does not ask them for the sacrifice of their money, but of\ntheir pride.\n\nIt would seem as if every imagination in the United States were upon\nthe stretch to invent means of increasing the wealth and satisfying\nthe wants of the public. The best-informed inhabitants of each district\nconstantly use their information to discover new truths which may\naugment the general prosperity; and if they have made any such\ndiscoveries, they eagerly surrender them to the mass of the people.\n\nWhen the vices and weaknesses, frequently exhibited by those who\ngovern in America, are closely examined, the prosperity of the people\noccasions--but improperly occasions--surprise. Elected magistrates do\nnot make the American democracy flourish; it flourishes because the\nmagistrates are elective.\n\nIt would be unjust to suppose that the patriotism and the zeal which\nevery American displays for the welfare of his fellow-citizens are\nwholly insincere. Although private interest directs the greater part\nof human actions in the United States as well as elsewhere, it does\nnot regulate them all. I must say that I have often seen Americans make\ngreat and real sacrifices to the public welfare; and I have remarked\na hundred instances in which they hardly ever failed to lend faithful\nsupport to each other. The free institutions which the inhabitants of\nthe United States possess, and the political rights of which they make\nso much use, remind every citizen, and in a thousand ways, that he lives\nin society. They every instant impress upon his mind the notion that it\nis the duty, as well as the interest of men, to make themselves useful\nto their fellow-creatures; and as he sees no particular ground of\nanimosity to them, since he is never either their master or their slave,\nhis heart readily leans to the side of kindness. Men attend to the\ninterests of the public, first by necessity, afterwards by choice: what\nwas intentional becomes an instinct; and by dint of working for the good\nof one's fellow citizens, the habit and the taste for serving them is at\nlength acquired.\n\nMany people in France consider equality of conditions as one evil, and\npolitical freedom as a second. When they are obliged to yield to the\nformer, they strive at least to escape from the latter. But I contend\nthat in order to combat the evils which equality may produce, there is\nonly one effectual remedy--namely, political freedom.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V: Of The Use Which The Americans Make Of Public Associations In\nCivil Life\n\nI do not propose to speak of those political associations--by the aid of\nwhich men endeavor to defend themselves against the despotic influence\nof a majority--or against the aggressions of regal power. That subject I\nhave already treated. If each citizen did not learn, in proportion as\nhe individually becomes more feeble, and consequently more incapable\nof preserving his freedom single-handed, to combine with his\nfellow-citizens for the purpose of defending it, it is clear that\ntyranny would unavoidably increase together with equality.\n\nThose associations only which are formed in civil life, without\nreference to political objects, are here adverted to. The political\nassociations which exist in the United States are only a single feature\nin the midst of the immense assemblage of associations in that country.\nAmericans of all ages, all conditions, and all dispositions, constantly\nform associations. They have not only commercial and manufacturing\ncompanies, in which all take part, but associations of a thousand other\nkinds--religious, moral, serious, futile, extensive, or restricted,\nenormous or diminutive. The Americans make associations to give\nentertainments, to found establishments for education, to build inns,\nto construct churches, to diffuse books, to send missionaries to\nthe antipodes; and in this manner they found hospitals, prisons, and\nschools. If it be proposed to advance some truth, or to foster some\nfeeling by the encouragement of a great example, they form a society.\nWherever, at the head of some new undertaking, you see the government\nin France, or a man of rank in England, in the United States you will be\nsure to find an association. I met with several kinds of associations in\nAmerica, of which I confess I had no previous notion; and I have often\nadmired the extreme skill with which the inhabitants of the United\nStates succeed in proposing a common object to the exertions of a great\nmany men, and in getting them voluntarily to pursue it. I have since\ntravelled over England, whence the Americans have taken some of their\nlaws and many of their customs; and it seemed to me that the principle\nof association was by no means so constantly or so adroitly used in\nthat country. The English often perform great things singly; whereas the\nAmericans form associations for the smallest undertakings. It is evident\nthat the former people consider association as a powerful means of\naction, but the latter seem to regard it as the only means they have of\nacting.\n\nThus the most democratic country on the face of the earth is that in\nwhich men have in our time carried to the highest perfection the art of\npursuing in common the object of their common desires, and have applied\nthis new science to the greatest number of purposes. Is this the result\nof accident? or is there in reality any necessary connection between the\nprinciple of association and that of equality? Aristocratic communities\nalways contain, amongst a multitude of persons who by themselves are\npowerless, a small number of powerful and wealthy citizens, each of whom\ncan achieve great undertakings single-handed. In aristocratic societies\nmen do not need to combine in order to act, because they are strongly\nheld together. Every wealthy and powerful citizen constitutes the head\nof a permanent and compulsory association, composed of all those who are\ndependent upon him, or whom he makes subservient to the execution of his\ndesigns. Amongst democratic nations, on the contrary, all the citizens\nare independent and feeble; they can do hardly anything by themselves,\nand none of them can oblige his fellow-men to lend him their assistance.\nThey all, therefore, fall into a state of incapacity, if they do not\nlearn voluntarily to help each other. If men living in democratic\ncountries had no right and no inclination to associate for political\npurposes, their independence would be in great jeopardy; but they might\nlong preserve their wealth and their cultivation: whereas if they\nnever acquired the habit of forming associations in ordinary life,\ncivilization itself would be endangered. A people amongst which\nindividuals should lose the power of achieving great things\nsingle-handed, without acquiring the means of producing them by united\nexertions, would soon relapse into barbarism.\n\nUnhappily, the same social condition which renders associations so\nnecessary to democratic nations, renders their formation more difficult\namongst those nations than amongst all others. When several members of\nan aristocracy agree to combine, they easily succeed in doing so; as\neach of them brings great strength to the partnership, the number of its\nmembers may be very limited; and when the members of an association\nare limited in number, they may easily become mutually acquainted,\nunderstand each other, and establish fixed regulations. The same\nopportunities do not occur amongst democratic nations, where the\nassociated members must always be very numerous for their association to\nhave any power.\n\nI am aware that many of my countrymen are not in the least embarrassed\nby this difficulty. They contend that the more enfeebled and incompetent\nthe citizens become, the more able and active the government ought to\nbe rendered, in order that society at large may execute what individuals\ncan no longer accomplish. They believe this answers the whole\ndifficulty, but I think they are mistaken. A government might perform\nthe part of some of the largest American companies; and several States,\nmembers of the Union, have already attempted it; but what political\npower could ever carry on the vast multitude of lesser undertakings\nwhich the American citizens perform every day, with the assistance of\nthe principle of association? It is easy to foresee that the time is\ndrawing near when man will be less and less able to produce, of himself\nalone, the commonest necessaries of life. The task of the governing\npower will therefore perpetually increase, and its very efforts will\nextend it every day. The more it stands in the place of associations,\nthe more will individuals, losing the notion of combining together,\nrequire its assistance: these are causes and effects which unceasingly\nengender each other. Will the administration of the country ultimately\nassume the management of all the manufacturers, which no single\ncitizen is able to carry on? And if a time at length arrives, when, in\nconsequence of the extreme subdivision of landed property, the soil\nis split into an infinite number of parcels, so that it can only be\ncultivated by companies of husbandmen, will it be necessary that the\nhead of the government should leave the helm of state to follow the\nplough? The morals and the intelligence of a democratic people would be\nas much endangered as its business and manufactures, if the government\never wholly usurped the place of private companies.\n\nFeelings and opinions are recruited, the heart is enlarged, and the\nhuman mind is developed by no other means than by the reciprocal\ninfluence of men upon each other. I have shown that these influences are\nalmost null in democratic countries; they must therefore be artificially\ncreated, and this can only be accomplished by associations.\n\nWhen the members of an aristocratic community adopt a new opinion, or\nconceive a new sentiment, they give it a station, as it were, beside\nthemselves, upon the lofty platform where they stand; and opinions\nor sentiments so conspicuous to the eyes of the multitude are easily\nintroduced into the minds or hearts of all around. In democratic\ncountries the governing power alone is naturally in a condition to\nact in this manner; but it is easy to see that its action is always\ninadequate, and often dangerous. A government can no more be competent\nto keep alive and to renew the circulation of opinions and feelings\namongst a great people, than to manage all the speculations of\nproductive industry. No sooner does a government attempt to go\nbeyond its political sphere and to enter upon this new track, than\nit exercises, even unintentionally, an insupportable tyranny; for a\ngovernment can only dictate strict rules, the opinions which it favors\nare rigidly enforced, and it is never easy to discriminate between its\nadvice and its commands. Worse still will be the case if the government\nreally believes itself interested in preventing all circulation of\nideas; it will then stand motionless, and oppressed by the heaviness of\nvoluntary torpor. Governments therefore should not be the only active\npowers: associations ought, in democratic nations, to stand in lieu of\nthose powerful private individuals whom the equality of conditions has\nswept away.\n\nAs soon as several of the inhabitants of the United States have taken\nup an opinion or a feeling which they wish to promote in the world,\nthey look out for mutual assistance; and as soon as they have found each\nother out, they combine. From that moment they are no longer isolated\nmen, but a power seen from afar, whose actions serve for an example,\nand whose language is listened to. The first time I heard in the United\nStates that 100,000 men had bound themselves publicly to abstain from\nspirituous liquors, it appeared to me more like a joke than a serious\nengagement; and I did not at once perceive why these temperate citizens\ncould not content themselves with drinking water by their own firesides.\nI at last understood that 300,000 Americans, alarmed by the progress\nof drunkenness around them, had made up their minds to patronize\ntemperance. They acted just in the same way as a man of high rank who\nshould dress very plainly, in order to inspire the humbler orders with\na contempt of luxury. It is probable that if these 100,000 men had lived\nin France, each of them would singly have memorialized the government to\nwatch the public-houses all over the kingdom.\n\nNothing, in my opinion, is more deserving of our attention than the\nintellectual and moral associations of America. The political and\nindustrial associations of that country strike us forcibly; but the\nothers elude our observation, or if we discover them, we understand them\nimperfectly, because we have hardly ever seen anything of the kind.\nIt must, however, be acknowledged that they are as necessary to the\nAmerican people as the former, and perhaps more so. In democratic\ncountries the science of association is the mother of science; the\nprogress of all the rest depends upon the progress it has made. Amongst\nthe laws which rule human societies there is one which seems to be more\nprecise and clear than all others. If men are to remain civilized, or to\nbecome so, the art of associating together must grow and improve in the\nsame ratio in which the equality of conditions is increased.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI: Of The Relation Between Public Associations And Newspapers\n\nWhen men are no longer united amongst themselves by firm and lasting\nties, it is impossible to obtain the cooperation of any great number of\nthem, unless you can persuade every man whose concurrence you require\nthat this private interest obliges him voluntarily to unite his\nexertions to the exertions of all the rest. This can only be habitually\nand conveniently effected by means of a newspaper; nothing but a\nnewspaper can drop the same thought into a thousand minds at the same\nmoment. A newspaper is an adviser who does not require to be sought, but\nwho comes of his own accord, and talks to you briefly every day of the\ncommon weal, without distracting you from your private affairs.\n\nNewspapers therefore become more necessary in proportion as men become\nmore equal, and individualism more to be feared. To suppose that they\nonly serve to protect freedom would be to diminish their importance:\nthey maintain civilization. I shall not deny that in democratic\ncountries newspapers frequently lead the citizens to launch together in\nvery ill-digested schemes; but if there were no newspapers there would\nbe no common activity. The evil which they produce is therefore much\nless than that which they cure.\n\nThe effect of a newspaper is not only to suggest the same purpose to\na great number of persons, but also to furnish means for executing in\ncommon the designs which they may have singly conceived. The principal\ncitizens who inhabit an aristocratic country discern each other from\nafar; and if they wish to unite their forces, they move towards each\nother, drawing a multitude of men after them. It frequently happens, on\nthe contrary, in democratic countries, that a great number of men who\nwish or who want to combine cannot accomplish it, because as they are\nvery insignificant and lost amidst the crowd, they cannot see, and know\nnot where to find, one another. A newspaper then takes up the notion or\nthe feeling which had occurred simultaneously, but singly, to each of\nthem. All are then immediately guided towards this beacon; and these\nwandering minds, which had long sought each other in darkness, at length\nmeet and unite.\n\nThe newspaper brought them together, and the newspaper is still\nnecessary to keep them united. In order that an association amongst a\ndemocratic people should have any power, it must be a numerous body.\nThe persons of whom it is composed are therefore scattered over a wide\nextent, and each of them is detained in the place of his domicile by the\nnarrowness of his income, or by the small unremitting exertions by which\nhe earns it. Means then must be found to converse every day without\nseeing each other, and to take steps in common without having met. Thus\nhardly any democratic association can do without newspapers. There is\nconsequently a necessary connection between public associations\nand newspapers: newspapers make associations, and associations make\nnewspapers; and if it has been correctly advanced that associations will\nincrease in number as the conditions of men become more equal, it is not\nless certain that the number of newspapers increases in proportion to\nthat of associations. Thus it is in America that we find at the same\ntime the greatest number of associations and of newspapers.\n\nThis connection between the number of newspapers and that of\nassociations leads us to the discovery of a further connection between\nthe state of the periodical press and the form of the administration\nin a country; and shows that the number of newspapers must diminish\nor increase amongst a democratic people, in proportion as its\nadministration is more or less centralized. For amongst democratic\nnations the exercise of local powers cannot be intrusted to the\nprincipal members of the community as in aristocracies. Those powers\nmust either be abolished, or placed in the hands of very large\nnumbers of men, who then in fact constitute an association permanently\nestablished by law for the purpose of administering the affairs of a\ncertain extent of territory; and they require a journal, to bring\nto them every day, in the midst of their own minor concerns, some\nintelligence of the state of their public weal. The more numerous local\npowers are, the greater is the number of men in whom they are vested by\nlaw; and as this want is hourly felt, the more profusely do newspapers\nabound.\n\nThe extraordinary subdivision of administrative power has much more\nto do with the enormous number of American newspapers than the great\npolitical freedom of the country and the absolute liberty of the press.\nIf all the inhabitants of the Union had the suffrage--but a suffrage\nwhich should only extend to the choice of their legislators in\nCongress--they would require but few newspapers, because they would only\nhave to act together on a few very important but very rare occasions.\nBut within the pale of the great association of the nation, lesser\nassociations have been established by law in every country, every city,\nand indeed in every village, for the purposes of local administration.\nThe laws of the country thus compel every American to co-operate every\nday of his life with some of his fellow-citizens for a common purpose,\nand each one of them requires a newspaper to inform him what all the\nothers are doing.\n\nI am of opinion that a democratic people, *a without any national\nrepresentative assemblies, but with a great number of small local\npowers, would have in the end more newspapers than another people\ngoverned by a centralized administration and an elective legislation.\nWhat best explains to me the enormous circulation of the daily press\nin the United States, is that amongst the Americans I find the utmost\nnational freedom combined with local freedom of every kind. There is\na prevailing opinion in France and England that the circulation of\nnewspapers would be indefinitely increased by removing the taxes which\nhave been laid upon the press. This is a very exaggerated estimate\nof the effects of such a reform. Newspapers increase in numbers, not\naccording to their cheapness, but according to the more or less frequent\nwant which a great number of men may feel for intercommunication and\ncombination.\n\n[Footnote a: I say a democratic people: the administration of an\naristocratic people may be the reverse of centralized, and yet the want\nof newspapers be little felt, because local powers are then vested in\nthe hands of a very small number of men, who either act apart, or who\nknow each other and can easily meet and come to an understanding.]\n\nIn like manner I should attribute the increasing influence of the\ndaily press to causes more general than those by which it is commonly\nexplained. A newspaper can only subsist on the condition of publishing\nsentiments or principles common to a large number of men. A newspaper\ntherefore always represents an association which is composed of its\nhabitual readers. This association may be more or less defined, more or\nless restricted, more or less numerous; but the fact that the newspaper\nkeeps alive, is a proof that at least the germ of such an association\nexists in the minds of its readers.\n\nThis leads me to a last reflection, with which I shall conclude this\nchapter. The more equal the conditions of men become, and the less\nstrong men individually are, the more easily do they give way to the\ncurrent of the multitude, and the more difficult is it for them to\nadhere by themselves to an opinion which the multitude discard. A\nnewspaper represents an association; it may be said to address each of\nits readers in the name of all the others, and to exert its influence\nover them in proportion to their individual weakness. The power of the\nnewspaper press must therefore increase as the social conditions of men\nbecome more equal.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII: Connection Of Civil And Political Associations\n\nThere is only one country on the face of the earth where the citizens\nenjoy unlimited freedom of association for political purposes. This same\ncountry is the only one in the world where the continual exercise of the\nright of association has been introduced into civil life, and where all\nthe advantages which civilization can confer are procured by means of\nit. In all the countries where political associations are prohibited,\ncivil associations are rare. It is hardly probable that this is the\nresult of accident; but the inference should rather be, that there is a\nnatural, and perhaps a necessary, connection between these two kinds\nof associations. Certain men happen to have a common interest in some\nconcern--either a commercial undertaking is to be managed, or some\nspeculation in manufactures to be tried; they meet, they combine, and\nthus by degrees they become familiar with the principle of association.\nThe greater is the multiplicity of small affairs, the more do men, even\nwithout knowing it, acquire facility in prosecuting great undertakings\nin common. Civil associations, therefore, facilitate political\nassociation: but, on the other hand, political association singularly\nstrengthens and improves associations for civil purposes. In civil life\nevery man may, strictly speaking, fancy that he can provide for his own\nwants; in politics, he can fancy no such thing. When a people, then,\nhave any knowledge of public life, the notion of association, and the\nwish to coalesce, present themselves every day to the minds of the whole\ncommunity: whatever natural repugnance may restrain men from acting in\nconcert, they will always be ready to combine for the sake of a party.\nThus political life makes the love and practice of association more\ngeneral; it imparts a desire of union, and teaches the means of\ncombination to numbers of men who would have always lived apart.\n\nPolitics not only give birth to numerous associations, but to\nassociations of great extent. In civil life it seldom happens that any\none interest draws a very large number of men to act in concert; much\nskill is required to bring such an interest into existence: but in\npolitics opportunities present themselves every day. Now it is solely\nin great associations that the general value of the principle of\nassociation is displayed. Citizens who are individually powerless,\ndo not very clearly anticipate the strength which they may acquire by\nuniting together; it must be shown to them in order to be understood.\nHence it is often easier to collect a multitude for a public purpose\nthan a few persons; a thousand citizens do not see what interest they\nhave in combining together--ten thousand will be perfectly aware of it.\nIn politics men combine for great undertakings; and the use they make\nof the principle of association in important affairs practically teaches\nthem that it is their interest to help each other in those of less\nmoment. A political association draws a number of individuals at the\nsame time out of their own circle: however they may be naturally kept\nasunder by age, mind, and fortune, it places them nearer together and\nbrings them into contact. Once met, they can always meet again.\n\nMen can embark in few civil partnerships without risking a portion of\ntheir possessions; this is the case with all manufacturing and\ntrading companies. When men are as yet but little versed in the art of\nassociation, and are unacquainted with its principal rules, they\nare afraid, when first they combine in this manner, of buying their\nexperience dear. They therefore prefer depriving themselves of a\npowerful instrument of success to running the risks which attend the use\nof it. They are, however, less reluctant to join political associations,\nwhich appear to them to be without danger, because they adventure no\nmoney in them. But they cannot belong to these associations for any\nlength of time without finding out how order is maintained amongst a\nlarge number of men, and by what contrivance they are made to advance,\nharmoniously and methodically, to the same object. Thus they learn to\nsurrender their own will to that of all the rest, and to make their own\nexertions subordinate to the common impulse--things which it is not less\nnecessary to know in civil than in political associations. Political\nassociations may therefore be considered as large free schools, where\nall the members of the community go to learn the general theory of\nassociation.\n\nBut even if political association did not directly contribute to the\nprogress of civil association, to destroy the former would be to impair\nthe latter. When citizens can only meet in public for certain purposes,\nthey regard such meetings as a strange proceeding of rare occurrence,\nand they rarely think at all about it. When they are allowed to meet\nfreely for all purposes, they ultimately look upon public association\nas the universal, or in a manner the sole means, which men can employ to\naccomplish the different purposes they may have in view. Every new want\ninstantly revives the notion. The art of association then becomes, as I\nhave said before, the mother of action, studied and applied by all.\n\nWhen some kinds of associations are prohibited and others allowed, it is\ndifficult to distinguish the former from the latter, beforehand. In this\nstate of doubt men abstain from them altogether, and a sort of public\nopinion passes current which tends to cause any association whatsoever\nto be regarded as a bold and almost an illicit enterprise. *a\n\n[Footnote a: This is more especially true when the executive government\nhas a discretionary power of allowing or prohibiting associations. When\ncertain associations are simply prohibited by law, and the courts of\njustice have to punish infringements of that law, the evil is far less\nconsiderable. Then every citizen knows beforehand pretty nearly what he\nhas to expect. He judges himself before he is judged by the law, and,\nabstaining from prohibited associations, he embarks in those which are\nlegally sanctioned. It is by these restrictions that all free nations\nhave always admitted that the right of association might be limited.\nBut if the legislature should invest a man with a power of ascertaining\nbeforehand which associations are dangerous and which are useful, and\nshould authorize him to destroy all associations in the bud or allow\nthem to be formed, as nobody would be able to foresee in what cases\nassociations might be established and in what cases they would be put\ndown, the spirit of association would be entirely paralyzed. The former\nof these laws would only assail certain associations; the latter would\napply to society itself, and inflict an injury upon it. I can conceive\nthat a regular government may have recourse to the former, but I do not\nconcede that any government has the right of enacting the latter.]\n\nIt is therefore chimerical to suppose that the spirit of association,\nwhen it is repressed on some one point, will nevertheless display\nthe same vigor on all others; and that if men be allowed to prosecute\ncertain undertakings in common, that is quite enough for them eagerly\nto set about them. When the members of a community are allowed and\naccustomed to combine for all purposes, they will combine as readily for\nthe lesser as for the more important ones; but if they are only allowed\nto combine for small affairs, they will be neither inclined nor able\nto effect it. It is in vain that you will leave them entirely free to\nprosecute their business on joint-stock account: they will hardly care\nto avail themselves of the rights you have granted to them; and, after\nhaving exhausted your strength in vain efforts to put down prohibited\nassociations, you will be surprised that you cannot persuade men to form\nthe associations you encourage.\n\nI do not say that there can be no civil associations in a country where\npolitical association is prohibited; for men can never live in society\nwithout embarking in some common undertakings: but I maintain that in\nsuch a country civil associations will always be few in number, feebly\nplanned, unskillfully managed, that they will never form any vast\ndesigns, or that they will fail in the execution of them.\n\nThis naturally leads me to think that freedom of association in\npolitical matters is not so dangerous to public tranquillity as is\nsupposed; and that possibly, after having agitated society for some\ntime, it may strengthen the State in the end. In democratic countries\npolitical associations are, so to speak, the only powerful persons who\naspire to rule the State. Accordingly, the governments of our time look\nupon associations of this kind just as sovereigns in the Middle Ages\nregarded the great vassals of the Crown: they entertain a sort of\ninstinctive abhorrence of them, and they combat them on all occasions.\nThey bear, on the contrary, a natural goodwill to civil associations,\nbecause they readily discover that, instead of directing the minds of\nthe community to public affairs, these institutions serve to divert them\nfrom such reflections; and that, by engaging them more and more in the\npursuit of objects which cannot be attained without public tranquillity,\nthey deter them from revolutions. But these governments do not attend\nto the fact that political associations tend amazingly to multiply and\nfacilitate those of a civil character, and that in avoiding a dangerous\nevil they deprive themselves of an efficacious remedy.\n\nWhen you see the Americans freely and constantly forming associations\nfor the purpose of promoting some political principle, of raising one\nman to the head of affairs, or of wresting power from another, you\nhave some difficulty in understanding that men so independent do not\nconstantly fall into the abuse of freedom. If, on the other hand, you\nsurvey the infinite number of trading companies which are in operation\nin the United States, and perceive that the Americans are on every side\nunceasingly engaged in the execution of important and difficult plans,\nwhich the slightest revolution would throw into confusion, you will\nreadily comprehend why people so well employed are by no means tempted\nto perturb the State, nor to destroy that public tranquillity by which\nthey all profit.\n\nIs it enough to observe these things separately, or should we not\ndiscover the hidden tie which connects them? In their political\nassociations, the Americans of all conditions, minds, and ages, daily\nacquire a general taste for association, and grow accustomed to the use\nof it. There they meet together in large numbers, they converse, they\nlisten to each other, and they are mutually stimulated to all sorts of\nundertakings. They afterwards transfer to civil life the notions they\nhave thus acquired, and make them subservient to a thousand purposes.\nThus it is by the enjoyment of a dangerous freedom that the Americans\nlearn the art of rendering the dangers of freedom less formidable.\n\nIf a certain moment in the existence of a nation be selected, it is easy\nto prove that political associations perturb the State, and paralyze\nproductive industry; but take the whole life of a people, and it may\nperhaps be easy to demonstrate that freedom of association in political\nmatters is favorable to the prosperity and even to the tranquillity of\nthe community.\n\nI said in the former part of this work, \"The unrestrained liberty of\npolitical association cannot be entirely assimilated to the liberty of\nthe press. The one is at the same time less necessary and more dangerous\nthan the other. A nation may confine it within certain limits without\nceasing to be mistress of itself; and it may sometimes be obliged to do\nso in order to maintain its own authority.\" And further on I added:\n\"It cannot be denied that the unrestrained liberty of association for\npolitical purposes is the last degree of liberty which a people is fit\nfor. If it does not throw them into anarchy, it perpetually brings them,\nas it were, to the verge of it.\" Thus I do not think that a nation\nis always at liberty to invest its citizens with an absolute right of\nassociation for political purposes; and I doubt whether, in any country\nor in any age, it be wise to set no limits to freedom of association.\nA certain nation, it is said, could not maintain tranquillity in the\ncommunity, cause the laws to be respected, or establish a lasting\ngovernment, if the right of association were not confined within narrow\nlimits. These blessings are doubtless invaluable, and I can imagine\nthat, to acquire or to preserve them, a nation may impose upon itself\nsevere temporary restrictions: but still it is well that the nation\nshould know at what price these blessings are purchased. I can\nunderstand that it may be advisable to cut off a man's arm in order to\nsave his life; but it would be ridiculous to assert that he will be as\ndexterous as he was before he lost it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII: The Americans Combat Individualism By The Principle Of\nInterest Rightly Understood\n\nWhen the world was managed by a few rich and powerful individuals, these\npersons loved to entertain a lofty idea of the duties of man. They were\nfond of professing that it is praiseworthy to forget one's self, and\nthat good should be done without hope of reward, as it is by the Deity\nhimself. Such were the standard opinions of that time in morals. I doubt\nwhether men were more virtuous in aristocratic ages than in others; but\nthey were incessantly talking of the beauties of virtue, and its utility\nwas only studied in secret. But since the imagination takes less lofty\nflights and every man's thoughts are centred in himself, moralists are\nalarmed by this idea of self-sacrifice, and they no longer venture to\npresent it to the human mind. They therefore content themselves with\ninquiring whether the personal advantage of each member of the community\ndoes not consist in working for the good of all; and when they have hit\nupon some point on which private interest and public interest meet and\namalgamate, they are eager to bring it into notice. Observations of this\nkind are gradually multiplied: what was only a single remark becomes a\ngeneral principle; and it is held as a truth that man serves himself\nin serving his fellow-creatures, and that his private interest is to do\ngood.\n\nI have already shown, in several parts of this work, by what means the\ninhabitants of the United States almost always manage to combine their\nown advantage with that of their fellow-citizens: my present purpose is\nto point out the general rule which enables them to do so. In the United\nStates hardly anybody talks of the beauty of virtue; but they maintain\nthat virtue is useful, and prove it every day. The American moralists\ndo not profess that men ought to sacrifice themselves for their\nfellow-creatures because it is noble to make such sacrifices; but they\nboldly aver that such sacrifices are as necessary to him who imposes\nthem upon himself as to him for whose sake they are made. They have\nfound out that in their country and their age man is brought home to\nhimself by an irresistible force; and losing all hope of stopping\nthat force, they turn all their thoughts to the direction of it. They\ntherefore do not deny that every man may follow his own interest;\nbut they endeavor to prove that it is the interest of every man to be\nvirtuous. I shall not here enter into the reasons they allege, which\nwould divert me from my subject: suffice it to say that they have\nconvinced their fellow-countrymen.\n\nMontaigne said long ago: \"Were I not to follow the straight road for its\nstraightness, I should follow it for having found by experience that in\nthe end it is commonly the happiest and most useful track.\" The doctrine\nof interest rightly understood is not, then, new, but amongst the\nAmericans of our time it finds universal acceptance: it has become\npopular there; you may trace it at the bottom of all their actions, you\nwill remark it in all they say. It is as often to be met with on the\nlips of the poor man as of the rich. In Europe the principle of interest\nis much grosser than it is in America, but at the same time it is\nless common, and especially it is less avowed; amongst us, men still\nconstantly feign great abnegation which they no longer feel. The\nAmericans, on the contrary, are fond of explaining almost all the\nactions of their lives by the principle of interest rightly understood;\nthey show with complacency how an enlightened regard for themselves\nconstantly prompts them to assist each other, and inclines them\nwillingly to sacrifice a portion of their time and property to the\nwelfare of the State. In this respect I think they frequently fail to\ndo themselves justice; for in the United States, as well as elsewhere,\npeople are sometimes seen to give way to those disinterested and\nspontaneous impulses which are natural to man; but the Americans seldom\nallow that they yield to emotions of this kind; they are more anxious to\ndo honor to their philosophy than to themselves.\n\nI might here pause, without attempting to pass a judgment on what I have\ndescribed. The extreme difficulty of the subject would be my excuse,\nbut I shall not avail myself of it; and I had rather that my readers,\nclearly perceiving my object, should refuse to follow me than that\nI should leave them in suspense. The principle of interest rightly\nunderstood is not a lofty one, but it is clear and sure. It does not aim\nat mighty objects, but it attains without excessive exertion all\nthose at which it aims. As it lies within the reach of all capacities,\neveryone can without difficulty apprehend and retain it. By its\nadmirable conformity to human weaknesses, it easily obtains great\ndominion; nor is that dominion precarious, since the principle checks\none personal interest by another, and uses, to direct the passions,\nthe very same instrument which excites them. The principle of interest\nrightly understood produces no great acts of self-sacrifice, but it\nsuggests daily small acts of self-denial. By itself it cannot suffice to\nmake a man virtuous, but it disciplines a number of citizens in habits\nof regularity, temperance, moderation, foresight, self-command; and, if\nit does not lead men straight to virtue by the will, it gradually draws\nthem in that direction by their habits. If the principle of interest\nrightly understood were to sway the whole moral world, extraordinary\nvirtues would doubtless be more rare; but I think that gross depravity\nwould then also be less common. The principle of interest rightly\nunderstood perhaps prevents some men from rising far above the level of\nmankind; but a great number of other men, who were falling far below it,\nare caught and restrained by it. Observe some few individuals, they are\nlowered by it; survey mankind, it is raised. I am not afraid to say that\nthe principle of interest, rightly understood, appears to me the best\nsuited of all philosophical theories to the wants of the men of our\ntime, and that I regard it as their chief remaining security against\nthemselves. Towards it, therefore, the minds of the moralists of our\nage should turn; even should they judge it to be incomplete, it must\nnevertheless be adopted as necessary.\n\nI do not think upon the whole that there is more egotism amongst us than\nin America; the only difference is, that there it is enlightened--here\nit is not. Every American will sacrifice a portion of his private\ninterests to preserve the rest; we would fain preserve the whole, and\noftentimes the whole is lost. Everybody I see about me seems bent on\nteaching his contemporaries, by precept and example, that what is useful\nis never wrong. Will nobody undertake to make them understand how what\nis right may be useful? No power upon earth can prevent the increasing\nequality of conditions from inclining the human mind to seek out what is\nuseful, or from leading every member of the community to be wrapped up\nin himself. It must therefore be expected that personal interest will\nbecome more than ever the principal, if not the sole, spring of men's\nactions; but it remains to be seen how each man will understand his\npersonal interest. If the members of a community, as they become more\nequal, become more ignorant and coarse, it is difficult to foresee to\nwhat pitch of stupid excesses their egotism may lead them; and no one\ncan foretell into what disgrace and wretchedness they would plunge\nthemselves, lest they should have to sacrifice something of their own\nwell-being to the prosperity of their fellow-creatures. I do not think\nthat the system of interest, as it is professed in America, is, in all\nits parts, self-evident; but it contains a great number of truths so\nevident that men, if they are but educated, cannot fail to see them.\nEducate, then, at any rate; for the age of implicit self-sacrifice and\ninstinctive virtues is already flitting far away from us, and the time\nis fast approaching when freedom, public peace, and social order itself\nwill not be able to exist without education.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX: That The Americans Apply The Principle Of Interest Rightly\nUnderstood To Religious Matters\n\nIf the principle of interest rightly understood had nothing but the\npresent world in view, it would be very insufficient; for there are many\nsacrifices which can only find their recompense in another; and whatever\ningenuity may be put forth to demonstrate the utility of virtue, it will\nnever be an easy task to make that man live aright who has no thoughts\nof dying. It is therefore necessary to ascertain whether the principle\nof interest rightly understood is easily compatible with religious\nbelief. The philosophers who inculcate this system of morals tell men,\nthat to be happy in this life they must watch their own passions and\nsteadily control their excess; that lasting happiness can only be\nsecured by renouncing a thousand transient gratifications; and that a\nman must perpetually triumph over himself, in order to secure his own\nadvantage. The founders of almost all religions have held the same\nlanguage. The track they point out to man is the same, only that the\ngoal is more remote; instead of placing in this world the reward of the\nsacrifices they impose, they transport it to another. Nevertheless I\ncannot believe that all those who practise virtue from religious motives\nare only actuated by the hope of a recompense. I have known zealous\nChristians who constantly forgot themselves, to work with greater ardor\nfor the happiness of their fellow-men; and I have heard them declare\nthat all they did was only to earn the blessings of a future state. I\ncannot but think that they deceive themselves; I respect them too much\nto believe them.\n\nChristianity indeed teaches that a man must prefer his neighbor to\nhimself, in order to gain eternal life; but Christianity also teaches\nthat men ought to benefit their fellow-creatures for the love of God.\nA sublime expression! Man, searching by his intellect into the divine\nconception, and seeing that order is the purpose of God, freely combines\nto prosecute the great design; and whilst he sacrifices his personal\ninterests to this consummate order of all created things, expects no\nother recompense than the pleasure of contemplating it. I do not believe\nthat interest is the sole motive of religious men: but I believe that\ninterest is the principal means which religions themselves employ to\ngovern men, and I do not question that this way they strike into the\nmultitude and become popular. It is not easy clearly to perceive why\nthe principle of interest rightly understood should keep aloof from\nreligious opinions; and it seems to me more easy to show why it should\ndraw men to them. Let it be supposed that, in order to obtain happiness\nin this world, a man combats his instinct on all occasions and\ndeliberately calculates every action of his life; that, instead of\nyielding blindly to the impetuosity of first desires, he has learned the\nart of resisting them, and that he has accustomed himself to sacrifice\nwithout an effort the pleasure of a moment to the lasting interest\nof his whole life. If such a man believes in the religion which he\nprofesses, it will cost him but little to submit to the restrictions it\nmay impose. Reason herself counsels him to obey, and habit has prepared\nhim to endure them. If he should have conceived any doubts as to the\nobject of his hopes, still he will not easily allow himself to be\nstopped by them; and he will decide that it is wise to risk some of the\nadvantages of this world, in order to preserve his rights to the great\ninheritance promised him in another. \"To be mistaken in believing that\nthe Christian religion is true,\" says Pascal, \"is no great loss to\nanyone; but how dreadful to be mistaken in believing it to be false!\"\n\nThe Americans do not affect a brutal indifference to a future state;\nthey affect no puerile pride in despising perils which they hope to\nescape from. They therefore profess their religion without shame and\nwithout weakness; but there generally is, even in their zeal, something\nso indescribably tranquil, methodical, and deliberate, that it would\nseem as if the head, far more than the heart, brought them to the\nfoot of the altar. The Americans not only follow their religion from\ninterest, but they often place in this world the interest which makes\nthem follow it. In the Middle Ages the clergy spoke of nothing but a\nfuture state; they hardly cared to prove that a sincere Christian may\nbe a happy man here below. But the American preachers are constantly\nreferring to the earth; and it is only with great difficulty that they\ncan divert their attention from it. To touch their congregations, they\nalways show them how favorable religious opinions are to freedom and\npublic tranquillity; and it is often difficult to ascertain from their\ndiscourses whether the principal object of religion is to procure\neternal felicity in the other world, or prosperity in this.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X: Of The Taste For Physical Well-Being In America\n\nIn America the passion for physical well-being is not always exclusive,\nbut it is general; and if all do not feel it in the same manner, yet it\nis felt by all. Carefully to satisfy all, even the least wants of the\nbody, and to provide the little conveniences of life, is uppermost\nin every mind. Something of an analogous character is more and more\napparent in Europe. Amongst the causes which produce these similar\nconsequences in both hemispheres, several are so connected with my\nsubject as to deserve notice.\n\nWhen riches are hereditarily fixed in families, there are a great number\nof men who enjoy the comforts of life without feeling an exclusive\ntaste for those comforts. The heart of man is not so much caught by the\nundisturbed possession of anything valuable as by the desire, as yet\nimperfectly satisfied, of possessing it, and by the incessant dread\nof losing it. In aristocratic communities, the wealthy, never having\nexperienced a condition different from their own, entertain no fear of\nchanging it; the existence of such conditions hardly occurs to them. The\ncomforts of life are not to them the end of life, but simply a way of\nliving; they regard them as existence itself--enjoyed, but scarcely\nthought of. As the natural and instinctive taste which all men feel\nfor being well off is thus satisfied without trouble and without\napprehension, their faculties are turned elsewhere, and cling to more\narduous and more lofty undertakings, which excite and engross their\nminds. Hence it is that, in the midst of physical gratifications, the\nmembers of an aristocracy often display a haughty contempt of these very\nenjoyments, and exhibit singular powers of endurance under the privation\nof them. All the revolutions which have ever shaken or destroyed\naristocracies, have shown how easily men accustomed to superfluous\nluxuries can do without the necessaries of life; whereas men who have\ntoiled to acquire a competency can hardly live after they have lost it.\n\nIf I turn my observation from the upper to the lower classes, I find\nanalogous effects produced by opposite causes. Amongst a nation where\naristocracy predominates in society, and keeps it stationary, the\npeople in the end get as much accustomed to poverty as the rich to\ntheir opulence. The latter bestow no anxiety on their physical comforts,\nbecause they enjoy them without an effort; the former do not think\nof things which they despair of obtaining, and which they hardly know\nenough of to desire them. In communities of this kind, the imagination\nof the poor is driven to seek another world; the miseries of real life\ninclose it around, but it escapes from their control, and flies to seek\nits pleasures far beyond. When, on the contrary, the distinctions\nof ranks are confounded together and privileges are destroyed--when\nhereditary property is subdivided, and education and freedom widely\ndiffused, the desire of acquiring the comforts of the world haunts the\nimagination of the poor, and the dread of losing them that of the rich.\nMany scanty fortunes spring up; those who possess them have a sufficient\nshare of physical gratifications to conceive a taste for these\npleasures--not enough to satisfy it. They never procure them without\nexertion, and they never indulge in them without apprehension. They\nare therefore always straining to pursue or to retain gratifications so\ndelightful, so imperfect, so fugitive.\n\nIf I were to inquire what passion is most natural to men who are\nstimulated and circumscribed by the obscurity of their birth or the\nmediocrity of their fortune, I could discover none more peculiarly\nappropriate to their condition than this love of physical prosperity.\nThe passion for physical comforts is essentially a passion of the\nmiddle classes: with those classes it grows and spreads, with them it\npreponderates. From them it mounts into the higher orders of society,\nand descends into the mass of the people. I never met in America with\nany citizen so poor as not to cast a glance of hope and envy on the\nenjoyments of the rich, or whose imagination did not possess itself by\nanticipation of those good things which fate still obstinately withheld\nfrom him. On the other hand, I never perceived amongst the wealthier\ninhabitants of the United States that proud contempt of physical\ngratifications which is sometimes to be met with even in the most\nopulent and dissolute aristocracies. Most of these wealthy persons were\nonce poor; they have felt the sting of want; they were long a prey to\nadverse fortunes; and now that the victory is won, the passions which\naccompanied the contest have survived it: their minds are, as it were,\nintoxicated by the small enjoyments which they have pursued for forty\nyears. Not but that in the United States, as elsewhere, there are a\ncertain number of wealthy persons who, having come into their property\nby inheritance, possess, without exertion, an opulence they have not\nearned. But even these men are not less devotedly attached to the\npleasures of material life. The love of well-being is now become the\npredominant taste of the nation; the great current of man's passions\nruns in that channel, and sweeps everything along in its course.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI: Peculiar Effects Of The Love Of Physical Gratifications In\nDemocratic Ages\n\nIt may be supposed, from what has just been said, that the love\nof physical gratifications must constantly urge the Americans to\nirregularities in morals, disturb the peace of families, and threaten\nthe security of society at large. Such is not the case: the passion for\nphysical gratifications produces in democracies effects very different\nfrom those which it occasions in aristocratic nations. It sometimes\nhappens that, wearied with public affairs and sated with opulence,\namidst the ruin of religious belief and the decline of the State, the\nheart of an aristocracy may by degrees be seduced to the pursuit of\nsensual enjoyments only. At other times the power of the monarch or the\nweakness of the people, without stripping the nobility of their fortune,\ncompels them to stand aloof from the administration of affairs, and\nwhilst the road to mighty enterprise is closed, abandons them to the\ninquietude of their own desires; they then fall back heavily upon\nthemselves, and seek in the pleasures of the body oblivion of their\nformer greatness. When the members of an aristocratic body are thus\nexclusively devoted to the pursuit of physical gratifications, they\ncommonly concentrate in that direction all the energy which they derive\nfrom their long experience of power. Such men are not satisfied with\nthe pursuit of comfort; they require sumptuous depravity and splendid\ncorruption. The worship they pay the senses is a gorgeous one; and they\nseem to vie with each other in the art of degrading their own natures.\nThe stronger, the more famous, and the more free an aristocracy has\nbeen, the more depraved will it then become; and however brilliant\nmay have been the lustre of its virtues, I dare predict that they will\nalways be surpassed by the splendor of its vices.\n\nThe taste for physical gratifications leads a democratic people into no\nsuch excesses. The love of well-being is there displayed as a tenacious,\nexclusive, universal passion; but its range is confined. To build\nenormous palaces, to conquer or to mimic nature, to ransack the world in\norder to gratify the passions of a man, is not thought of: but to add\na few roods of land to your field, to plant an orchard, to enlarge a\ndwelling, to be always making life more comfortable and convenient,\nto avoid trouble, and to satisfy the smallest wants without effort and\nalmost without cost. These are small objects, but the soul clings to\nthem; it dwells upon them closely and day by day, till they at last shut\nout the rest of the world, and sometimes intervene between itself and\nheaven.\n\nThis, it may be said, can only be applicable to those members of the\ncommunity who are in humble circumstances; wealthier individuals will\ndisplay tastes akin to those which belonged to them in aristocratic\nages. I contest the proposition: in point of physical gratifications,\nthe most opulent members of a democracy will not display tastes very\ndifferent from those of the people; whether it be that, springing from\nthe people, they really share those tastes, or that they esteem it a\nduty to submit to them. In democratic society the sensuality of the\npublic has taken a moderate and tranquil course, to which all are bound\nto conform: it is as difficult to depart from the common rule by one's\nvices as by one's virtues. Rich men who live amidst democratic nations\nare therefore more intent on providing for their smallest wants than for\ntheir extraordinary enjoyments; they gratify a number of petty desires,\nwithout indulging in any great irregularities of passion: thus they are\nmore apt to become enervated than debauched. The especial taste which\nthe men of democratic ages entertain for physical enjoyments is not\nnaturally opposed to the principles of public order; nay, it often\nstands in need of order that it may be gratified. Nor is it adverse to\nregularity of morals, for good morals contribute to public tranquillity\nand are favorable to industry. It may even be frequently combined with a\nspecies of religious morality: men wish to be as well off as they can\nin this world, without foregoing their chance of another. Some physical\ngratifications cannot be indulged in without crime; from such they\nstrictly abstain. The enjoyment of others is sanctioned by religion\nand morality; to these the heart, the imagination, and life itself are\nunreservedly given up; till, in snatching at these lesser gifts, men\nlose sight of those more precious possessions which constitute the glory\nand the greatness of mankind. The reproach I address to the principle\nof equality, is not that it leads men away in the pursuit of forbidden\nenjoyments, but that it absorbs them wholly in quest of those which are\nallowed. By these means, a kind of virtuous materialism may ultimately\nbe established in the world, which would not corrupt, but enervate the\nsoul, and noiselessly unbend its springs of action.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII: Causes Of Fanatical Enthusiasm In Some Americans\n\nAlthough the desire of acquiring the good things of this world is the\nprevailing passion of the American people, certain momentary outbreaks\noccur, when their souls seem suddenly to burst the bonds of matter by\nwhich they are restrained, and to soar impetuously towards heaven. In\nall the States of the Union, but especially in the half-peopled country\nof the Far West, wandering preachers may be met with who hawk about the\nword of God from place to place. Whole families--old men, women, and\nchildren--cross rough passes and untrodden wilds, coming from a great\ndistance, to join a camp-meeting, where they totally forget for several\ndays and nights, in listening to these discourses, the cares of business\nand even the most urgent wants of the body. Here and there, in the midst\nof American society, you meet with men, full of a fanatical and almost\nwild enthusiasm, which hardly exists in Europe. From time to time\nstrange sects arise, which endeavor to strike out extraordinary paths\nto eternal happiness. Religious insanity is very common in the United\nStates.\n\nNor ought these facts to surprise us. It was not man who implanted in\nhimself the taste for what is infinite and the love of what is immortal:\nthose lofty instincts are not the offspring of his capricious will;\ntheir steadfast foundation is fixed in human nature, and they exist in\nspite of his efforts. He may cross and distort them--destroy them he\ncannot. The soul has wants which must be satisfied; and whatever pains\nbe taken to divert it from itself, it soon grows weary, restless, and\ndisquieted amidst the enjoyments of sense. If ever the faculties of\nthe great majority of mankind were exclusively bent upon the pursuit of\nmaterial objects, it might be anticipated that an amazing reaction would\ntake place in the souls of some men. They would drift at large in the\nworld of spirits, for fear of remaining shackled by the close bondage of\nthe body.\n\nIt is not then wonderful if, in the midst of a community whose thoughts\ntend earthward, a small number of individuals are to be found who turn\ntheir looks to heaven. I should be surprised if mysticism did not soon\nmake some advance amongst a people solely engaged in promoting its own\nworldly welfare. It is said that the deserts of the Thebaid were peopled\nby the persecutions of the emperors and the massacres of the Circus; I\nshould rather say that it was by the luxuries of Rome and the Epicurean\nphilosophy of Greece. If their social condition, their present\ncircumstances, and their laws did not confine the minds of the Americans\nso closely to the pursuit of worldly welfare, it is probable that they\nwould display more reserve and more experience whenever their attention\nis turned to things immaterial, and that they would check themselves\nwithout difficulty. But they feel imprisoned within bounds which they\nwill apparently never be allowed to pass. As soon as they have passed\nthese bounds, their minds know not where to fix themselves, and they\noften rush unrestrained beyond the range of common-sense.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII: Causes Of The Restless Spirit Of Americans In The Midst Of\nTheir Prosperity\n\nIn certain remote corners of the Old World you may still sometimes\nstumble upon a small district which seems to have been forgotten amidst\nthe general tumult, and to have remained stationary whilst everything\naround it was in motion. The inhabitants are for the most part extremely\nignorant and poor; they take no part in the business of the country, and\nthey are frequently oppressed by the government; yet their countenances\nare generally placid, and their spirits light. In America I saw the\nfreest and most enlightened men, placed in the happiest circumstances\nwhich the world affords: it seemed to me as if a cloud habitually hung\nupon their brow, and I thought them serious and almost sad even in their\npleasures. The chief reason of this contrast is that the former do not\nthink of the ills they endure--the latter are forever brooding over\nadvantages they do not possess. It is strange to see with what feverish\nardor the Americans pursue their own welfare; and to watch the vague\ndread that constantly torments them lest they should not have chosen the\nshortest path which may lead to it. A native of the United States clings\nto this world's goods as if he were certain never to die; and he is so\nhasty in grasping at all within his reach, that one would suppose he was\nconstantly afraid of not living long enough to enjoy them. He clutches\neverything, he holds nothing fast, but soon loosens his grasp to pursue\nfresh gratifications.\n\nIn the United States a man builds a house to spend his latter years in\nit, and he sells it before the roof is on: he plants a garden, and lets\nit just as the trees are coming into bearing: he brings a field into\ntillage, and leaves other men to gather the crops: he embraces a\nprofession, and gives it up: he settles in a place, which he soon\nafterwards leaves, to carry his changeable longings elsewhere. If his\nprivate affairs leave him any leisure, he instantly plunges into the\nvortex of politics; and if at the end of a year of unremitting labor he\nfinds he has a few days' vacation, his eager curiosity whirls him over\nthe vast extent of the United States, and he will travel fifteen\nhundred miles in a few days, to shake off his happiness. Death at length\novertakes him, but it is before he is weary of his bootless chase of\nthat complete felicity which is forever on the wing.\n\nAt first sight there is something surprising in this strange unrest of\nso many happy men, restless in the midst of abundance. The spectacle\nitself is however as old as the world; the novelty is to see a whole\npeople furnish an exemplification of it. Their taste for physical\ngratifications must be regarded as the original source of that secret\ninquietude which the actions of the Americans betray, and of that\ninconstancy of which they afford fresh examples every day. He who has\nset his heart exclusively upon the pursuit of worldly welfare is always\nin a hurry, for he has but a limited time at his disposal to reach it,\nto grasp it, and to enjoy it. The recollection of the brevity of life is\na constant spur to him. Besides the good things which he possesses, he\nevery instant fancies a thousand others which death will prevent him\nfrom trying if he does not try them soon. This thought fills him with\nanxiety, fear, and regret, and keeps his mind in ceaseless trepidation,\nwhich leads him perpetually to change his plans and his abode. If in\naddition to the taste for physical well-being a social condition be\nsuperadded, in which the laws and customs make no condition permanent,\nhere is a great additional stimulant to this restlessness of temper. Men\nwill then be seen continually to change their track, for fear of missing\nthe shortest cut to happiness. It may readily be conceived that if men,\npassionately bent upon physical gratifications, desire eagerly, they are\nalso easily discouraged: as their ultimate object is to enjoy, the\nmeans to reach that object must be prompt and easy, or the trouble of\nacquiring the gratification would be greater than the gratification\nitself. Their prevailing frame of mind then is at once ardent and\nrelaxed, violent and enervated. Death is often less dreaded than\nperseverance in continuous efforts to one end.\n\nThe equality of conditions leads by a still straighter road to several\nof the effects which I have here described. When all the privileges of\nbirth and fortune are abolished, when all professions are accessible\nto all, and a man's own energies may place him at the top of any one of\nthem, an easy and unbounded career seems open to his ambition, and he\nwill readily persuade himself that he is born to no vulgar destinies.\nBut this is an erroneous notion, which is corrected by daily experience.\nThe same equality which allows every citizen to conceive these\nlofty hopes, renders all the citizens less able to realize them: it\ncircumscribes their powers on every side, whilst it gives freer scope to\ntheir desires. Not only are they themselves powerless, but they are\nmet at every step by immense obstacles, which they did not at first\nperceive. They have swept away the privileges of some of their\nfellow-creatures which stood in their way, but they have opened the door\nto universal competition: the barrier has changed its shape rather than\nits position. When men are nearly alike, and all follow the same track,\nit is very difficult for any one individual to walk quick and cleave\na way through the dense throng which surrounds and presses him. This\nconstant strife between the propensities springing from the equality\nof conditions and the means it supplies to satisfy them, harasses and\nwearies the mind.\n\nIt is possible to conceive men arrived at a degree of freedom which\nshould completely content them; they would then enjoy their independence\nwithout anxiety and without impatience. But men will never establish any\nequality with which they can be contented. Whatever efforts a people may\nmake, they will never succeed in reducing all the conditions of society\nto a perfect level; and even if they unhappily attained that absolute\nand complete depression, the inequality of minds would still remain,\nwhich, coming directly from the hand of God, will forever escape the\nlaws of man. However democratic then the social state and the political\nconstitution of a people may be, it is certain that every member of the\ncommunity will always find out several points about him which command\nhis own position; and we may foresee that his looks will be doggedly\nfixed in that direction. When inequality of conditions is the common\nlaw of society, the most marked inequalities do not strike the eye: when\neverything is nearly on the same level, the slightest are marked enough\nto hurt it. Hence the desire of equality always becomes more insatiable\nin proportion as equality is more complete.\n\nAmongst democratic nations men easily attain a certain equality\nof conditions: they can never attain the equality they desire. It\nperpetually retires from before them, yet without hiding itself from\ntheir sight, and in retiring draws them on. At every moment they think\nthey are about to grasp it; it escapes at every moment from their hold.\nThey are near enough to see its charms, but too far off to enjoy them;\nand before they have fully tasted its delights they die. To these causes\nmust be attributed that strange melancholy which oftentimes will haunt\nthe inhabitants of democratic countries in the midst of their abundance,\nand that disgust at life which sometimes seizes upon them in the midst\nof calm and easy circumstances. Complaints are made in France that the\nnumber of suicides increases; in America suicide is rare, but insanity\nis said to be more common than anywhere else. These are all different\nsymptoms of the same disease. The Americans do not put an end to their\nlives, however disquieted they may be, because their religion\nforbids it; and amongst them materialism may be said hardly to exist,\nnotwithstanding the general passion for physical gratification. The will\nresists--reason frequently gives way. In democratic ages enjoyments are\nmore intense than in the ages of aristocracy, and especially the number\nof those who partake in them is larger: but, on the other hand, it must\nbe admitted that man's hopes and his desires are oftener blasted, the\nsoul is more stricken and perturbed, and care itself more keen.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV: Taste For Physical Gratifications United In America To Love\nOf Freedom And Attention To Public Affairs\n\nWhen a democratic state turns to absolute monarchy, the activity which\nwas before directed to public and to private affairs is all at once\ncentred upon the latter: the immediate consequence is, for some time,\ngreat physical prosperity; but this impulse soon slackens, and the\namount of productive industry is checked. I know not if a single trading\nor manufacturing people can be cited, from the Tyrians down to the\nFlorentines and the English, who were not a free people also. There\nis therefore a close bond and necessary relation between these two\nelements--freedom and productive industry. This proposition is generally\ntrue of all nations, but especially of democratic nations. I have\nalready shown that men who live in ages of equality continually require\nto form associations in order to procure the things they covet; and, on\nthe other hand, I have shown how great political freedom improves and\ndiffuses the art of association. Freedom, in these ages, is therefore\nespecially favorable to the production of wealth; nor is it difficult\nto perceive that despotism is especially adverse to the same result.\nThe nature of despotic power in democratic ages is not to be fierce or\ncruel, but minute and meddling. Despotism of this kind, though it does\nnot trample on humanity, is directly opposed to the genius of commerce\nand the pursuits of industry.\n\nThus the men of democratic ages require to be free in order more readily\nto procure those physical enjoyments for which they are always longing.\nIt sometimes happens, however, that the excessive taste they conceive\nfor these same enjoyments abandons them to the first master who appears.\nThe passion for worldly welfare then defeats itself, and, without\nperceiving it, throws the object of their desires to a greater distance.\n\nThere is, indeed, a most dangerous passage in the history of a\ndemocratic people. When the taste for physical gratifications amongst\nsuch a people has grown more rapidly than their education and their\nexperience of free institutions, the time will come when men are carried\naway, and lose all self-restraint, at the sight of the new possessions\nthey are about to lay hold upon. In their intense and exclusive anxiety\nto make a fortune, they lose sight of the close connection which exists\nbetween the private fortune of each of them and the prosperity of all.\nIt is not necessary to do violence to such a people in order to strip\nthem of the rights they enjoy; they themselves willingly loosen\ntheir hold. The discharge of political duties appears to them to be a\ntroublesome annoyance, which diverts them from their occupations and\nbusiness. If they be required to elect representatives, to support the\nGovernment by personal service, to meet on public business, they have no\ntime--they cannot waste their precious time in useless engagements: such\nidle amusements are unsuited to serious men who are engaged with the\nmore important interests of life. These people think they are following\nthe principle of self-interest, but the idea they entertain of that\nprinciple is a very rude one; and the better to look after what they\ncall their business, they neglect their chief business, which is to\nremain their own masters.\n\nAs the citizens who work do not care to attend to public business, and\nas the class which might devote its leisure to these duties has ceased\nto exist, the place of the Government is, as it were, unfilled. If at\nthat critical moment some able and ambitious man grasps the supreme\npower, he will find the road to every kind of usurpation open before\nhim. If he does but attend for some time to the material prosperity of\nthe country, no more will be demanded of him. Above all he must insure\npublic tranquillity: men who are possessed by the passion of physical\ngratification generally find out that the turmoil of freedom disturbs\ntheir welfare, before they discover how freedom itself serves to promote\nit. If the slightest rumor of public commotion intrudes into the petty\npleasures of private life, they are aroused and alarmed by it. The fear\nof anarchy perpetually haunts them, and they are always ready to fling\naway their freedom at the first disturbance.\n\nI readily admit that public tranquillity is a great good; but at the\nsame time I cannot forget that all nations have been enslaved by being\nkept in good order. Certainly it is not to be inferred that nations\nought to despise public tranquillity; but that state ought not to\ncontent them. A nation which asks nothing of its government but the\nmaintenance of order is already a slave at heart--the slave of its own\nwell-being, awaiting but the hand that will bind it. By such a nation\nthe despotism of faction is not less to be dreaded than the despotism\nof an individual. When the bulk of the community is engrossed by private\nconcerns, the smallest parties need not despair of getting the upper\nhand in public affairs. At such times it is not rare to see upon\nthe great stage of the world, as we see at our theatres, a multitude\nrepresented by a few players, who alone speak in the name of an\nabsent or inattentive crowd: they alone are in action whilst all are\nstationary; they regulate everything by their own caprice; they change\nthe laws, and tyrannize at will over the manners of the country; and\nthen men wonder to see into how small a number of weak and worthless\nhands a great people may fall.\n\nHitherto the Americans have fortunately escaped all the perils which I\nhave just pointed out; and in this respect they are really deserving of\nadmiration. Perhaps there is no country in the world where fewer idle\nmen are to be met with than in America, or where all who work are more\neager to promote their own welfare. But if the passion of the\nAmericans for physical gratifications is vehement, at least it is\nnot indiscriminating; and reason, though unable to restrain it, still\ndirects its course. An American attends to his private concerns as if he\nwere alone in the world, and the next minute he gives himself up to the\ncommon weal as if he had forgotten them. At one time he seems animated\nby the most selfish cupidity, at another by the most lively patriotism.\nThe human heart cannot be thus divided. The inhabitants of the United\nStates alternately display so strong and so similar a passion for their\nown welfare and for their freedom, that it may be supposed that these\npassions are united and mingled in some part of their character. And\nindeed the Americans believe their freedom to be the best instrument and\nsurest safeguard of their welfare: they are attached to the one by the\nother. They by no means think that they are not called upon to take a\npart in the public weal; they believe, on the contrary, that their chief\nbusiness is to secure for themselves a government which will allow them\nto acquire the things they covet, and which will not debar them from the\npeaceful enjoyment of those possessions which they have acquired.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV: That Religious Belief Sometimes Turns The Thoughts Of The\nAmericans To Immaterial Pleasures\n\nIn the United States, on the seventh day of every week, the trading and\nworking life of the nation seems suspended; all noises cease; a deep\ntranquillity, say rather the solemn calm of meditation, succeeds the\nturmoil of the week, and the soul resumes possession and contemplation\nof itself. Upon this day the marts of traffic are deserted; every member\nof the community, accompanied by his children, goes to church, where he\nlistens to strange language which would seem unsuited to his ear. He\nis told of the countless evils caused by pride and covetousness: he\nis reminded of the necessity of checking his desires, of the finer\npleasures which belong to virtue alone, and of the true happiness which\nattends it. On his return home, he does not turn to the ledgers of his\ncalling, but he opens the book of Holy Scripture; there he meets with\nsublime or affecting descriptions of the greatness and goodness of the\nCreator, of the infinite magnificence of the handiwork of God, of the\nlofty destinies of man, of his duties, and of his immortal privileges.\nThus it is that the American at times steals an hour from himself; and\nlaying aside for a while the petty passions which agitate his life,\nand the ephemeral interests which engross it, he strays at once into an\nideal world, where all is great, eternal, and pure.\n\nI have endeavored to point out in another part of this work the causes\nto which the maintenance of the political institutions of the Americans\nis attributable; and religion appeared to be one of the most prominent\namongst them. I am now treating of the Americans in an individual\ncapacity, and I again observe that religion is not less useful to each\ncitizen than to the whole State. The Americans show, by their practice,\nthat they feel the high necessity of imparting morality to democratic\ncommunities by means of religion. What they think of themselves in\nthis respect is a truth of which every democratic nation ought to be\nthoroughly persuaded.\n\nI do not doubt that the social and political constitution of a people\npredisposes them to adopt a certain belief and certain tastes, which\nafterwards flourish without difficulty amongst them; whilst the same\ncauses may divert a people from certain opinions and propensities,\nwithout any voluntary effort, and, as it were, without any distinct\nconsciousness, on their part. The whole art of the legislator\nis correctly to discern beforehand these natural inclinations of\ncommunities of men, in order to know whether they should be assisted, or\nwhether it may not be necessary to check them. For the duties incumbent\non the legislator differ at different times; the goal towards which the\nhuman race ought ever to be tending is alone stationary; the means of\nreaching it are perpetually to be varied.\n\nIf I had been born in an aristocratic age, in the midst of a nation\nwhere the hereditary wealth of some, and the irremediable penury of\nothers, should equally divert men from the idea of bettering their\ncondition, and hold the soul as it were in a state of torpor fixed on\nthe contemplation of another world, I should then wish that it were\npossible for me to rouse that people to a sense of their wants; I should\nseek to discover more rapid and more easy means for satisfying the fresh\ndesires which I might have awakened; and, directing the most strenuous\nefforts of the human mind to physical pursuits, I should endeavor to\nstimulate it to promote the well-being of man. If it happened that some\nmen were immoderately incited to the pursuit of riches, and displayed an\nexcessive liking for physical gratifications, I should not be alarmed;\nthese peculiar symptoms would soon be absorbed in the general aspect of\nthe people.\n\nThe attention of the legislators of democracies is called to other\ncares. Give democratic nations education and freedom, and leave them\nalone. They will soon learn to draw from this world all the benefits\nwhich it can afford; they will improve each of the useful arts, and will\nday by day render life more comfortable, more convenient, and more easy.\nTheir social condition naturally urges them in this direction; I do not\nfear that they will slacken their course.\n\nBut whilst man takes delight in this honest and lawful pursuit of his\nwellbeing, it is to be apprehended that he may in the end lose the use\nof his sublimest faculties; and that whilst he is busied in improving\nall around him, he may at length degrade himself. Here, and here only,\ndoes the peril lie. It should therefore be the unceasing object of the\nlegislators of democracies, and of all the virtuous and enlightened men\nwho live there, to raise the souls of their fellow-citizens, and keep\nthem lifted up towards heaven. It is necessary that all who feel an\ninterest in the future destinies of democratic society should unite, and\nthat all should make joint and continual efforts to diffuse the love\nof the infinite, a sense of greatness, and a love of pleasures not\nof earth. If amongst the opinions of a democratic people any of those\npernicious theories exist which tend to inculcate that all perishes with\nthe body, let men by whom such theories are professed be marked as the\nnatural foes of such a people.\n\nThe materialists are offensive to me in many respects; their doctrines\nI hold to be pernicious, and I am disgusted at their arrogance. If their\nsystem could be of any utility to man, it would seem to be by giving him\na modest opinion of himself. But these reasoners show that it is not\nso; and when they think they have said enough to establish that they are\nbrutes, they show themselves as proud as if they had demonstrated that\nthey are gods. Materialism is, amongst all nations, a dangerous disease\nof the human mind; but it is more especially to be dreaded amongst a\ndemocratic people, because it readily amalgamates with that vice which\nis most familiar to the heart under such circumstances. Democracy\nencourages a taste for physical gratification: this taste, if it become\nexcessive, soon disposes men to believe that all is matter only; and\nmaterialism, in turn, hurries them back with mad impatience to these\nsame delights: such is the fatal circle within which democratic nations\nare driven round. It were well that they should see the danger and hold\nback.\n\nMost religions are only general, simple, and practical means of teaching\nmen the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. That is the greatest\nbenefit which a democratic people derives, from its belief, and hence\nbelief is more necessary to such a people than to all others. When\ntherefore any religion has struck its roots deep into a democracy,\nbeware lest you disturb them; but rather watch it carefully, as the most\nprecious bequest of aristocratic ages. Seek not to supersede the old\nreligious opinions of men by new ones; lest in the passage from one\nfaith to another, the soul being left for a while stripped of all\nbelief, the love of physical gratifications should grow upon it and fill\nit wholly.\n\nThe doctrine of metempsychosis is assuredly not more rational than that\nof materialism; nevertheless if it were absolutely necessary that a\ndemocracy should choose one of the two, I should not hesitate to decide\nthat the community would run less risk of being brutalized by believing\nthat the soul of man will pass into the carcass of a hog, than by\nbelieving that the soul of man is nothing at all. The belief in a\nsupersensual and immortal principle, united for a time to matter, is\nso indispensable to man's greatness, that its effects are striking even\nwhen it is not united to the doctrine of future reward and punishment;\nand when it holds no more than that after death the divine principle\ncontained in man is absorbed in the Deity, or transferred to animate\nthe frame of some other creature. Men holding so imperfect a belief will\nstill consider the body as the secondary and inferior portion of\ntheir nature, and they will despise it even whilst they yield to its\ninfluence; whereas they have a natural esteem and secret admiration for\nthe immaterial part of man, even though they sometimes refuse to submit\nto its dominion. That is enough to give a lofty cast to their opinions\nand their tastes, and to bid them tend with no interested motive, and as\nit were by impulse, to pure feelings and elevated thoughts.\n\nIt is not certain that Socrates and his followers had very fixed\nopinions as to what would befall man hereafter; but the sole point\nof belief on which they were determined--that the soul has nothing in\ncommon with the body, and survives it--was enough to give the Platonic\nphilosophy that sublime aspiration by which it is distinguished. It\nis clear from the works of Plato, that many philosophical writers, his\npredecessors or contemporaries, professed materialism. These writers\nhave not reached us, or have reached us in mere fragments. The same\nthing has happened in almost all ages; the greater part of the most\nfamous minds in literature adhere to the doctrines of a supersensual\nphilosophy. The instinct and the taste of the human race maintain those\ndoctrines; they save them oftentimes in spite of men themselves, and\nraise the names of their defenders above the tide of time. It must not\nthen be supposed that at any period or under any political condition,\nthe passion for physical gratifications, and the opinions which are\nsuperinduced by that passion, can ever content a whole people. The heart\nof man is of a larger mould: it can at once comprise a taste for the\npossessions of earth and the love of those of heaven: at times it may\nseem to cling devotedly to the one, but it will never be long without\nthinking of the other.\n\nIf it be easy to see that it is more particularly important in\ndemocratic ages that spiritual opinions should prevail, it is not easy\nto say by what means those who govern democratic nations may make them\npredominate. I am no believer in the prosperity, any more than in the\ndurability, of official philosophies; and as to state religions, I\nhave always held, that if they be sometimes of momentary service to the\ninterests of political power, they always, sooner or later, become\nfatal to the Church. Nor do I think with those who assert, that to raise\nreligion in the eyes of the people, and to make them do honor to her\nspiritual doctrines, it is desirable indirectly to give her ministers a\npolitical influence which the laws deny them. I am so much alive to\nthe almost inevitable dangers which beset religious belief whenever\nthe clergy take part in public affairs, and I am so convinced that\nChristianity must be maintained at any cost in the bosom of modern\ndemocracies, that I had rather shut up the priesthood within the\nsanctuary than allow them to step beyond it.\n\nWhat means then remain in the hands of constituted authorities to bring\nmen back to spiritual opinions, or to hold them fast to the religion\nby which those opinions are suggested? My answer will do me harm in\nthe eyes of politicians. I believe that the sole effectual means which\ngovernments can employ in order to have the doctrine of the immortality\nof the soul duly respected, is ever to act as if they believed in it\nthemselves; and I think that it is only by scrupulous conformity to\nreligious morality in great affairs that they can hope to teach the\ncommunity at large to know, to love, and to observe it in the lesser\nconcerns of life.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI: That Excessive Care Of Worldly Welfare May Impair That\nWelfare\n\nThere is a closer tie than is commonly supposed between the improvement\nof the soul and the amelioration of what belongs to the body. Man may\nleave these two things apart, and consider each of them alternately; but\nhe cannot sever them entirely without at last losing sight of one and of\nthe other. The beasts have the same senses as ourselves, and very nearly\nthe same appetites. We have no sensual passions which are not common\nto our race and theirs, and which are not to be found, at least in the\ngerm, in a dog as well as in a man. Whence is it then that the animals\ncan only provide for their first and lowest wants, whereas we can\ninfinitely vary and endlessly increase our enjoyments?\n\nWe are superior to the beasts in this, that we use our souls to find out\nthose material benefits to which they are only led by instinct. In man,\nthe angel teaches the brute the art of contenting its desires. It is\nbecause man is capable of rising above the things of the body, and of\ncontemning life itself, of which the beasts have not the least notion,\nthat he can multiply these same things of the body to a degree which\ninferior races are equally unable to conceive. Whatever elevates,\nenlarges, and expands the soul, renders it more capable of succeeding\nin those very undertakings which concern it not. Whatever, on the other\nhand, enervates or lowers it, weakens it for all purposes, the chiefest,\nas well as the least, and threatens to render it almost equally impotent\nfor the one and for the other. Hence the soul must remain great and\nstrong, though it were only to devote its strength and greatness from\ntime to time to the service of the body. If men were ever to content\nthemselves with material objects, it is probable that they would lose by\ndegrees the art of producing them; and they would enjoy them in the end,\nlike the brutes, without discernment and without improvement.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII: That In Times Marked By Equality Of Conditions And\nSceptical Opinions, It Is Important To Remove To A Distance The Objects\nOf Human Actions\n\nIn the ages of faith the final end of life is placed beyond life. The\nmen of those ages therefore naturally, and in a manner involuntarily,\naccustom themselves to fix their gaze for a long course of years on some\nimmovable object, towards which they are constantly tending; and they\nlearn by insensible degrees to repress a multitude of petty passing\ndesires, in order to be the better able to content that great and\nlasting desire which possesses them. When these same men engage in the\naffairs of this world, the same habits may be traced in their conduct.\nThey are apt to set up some general and certain aim and end to their\nactions here below, towards which all their efforts are directed: they\ndo not turn from day to day to chase some novel object of desire, but\nthey have settled designs which they are never weary of pursuing. This\nexplains why religious nations have so often achieved such lasting\nresults: for whilst they were thinking only of the other world, they\nhad found out the great secret of success in this. Religions give men a\ngeneral habit of conducting themselves with a view to futurity: in\nthis respect they are not less useful to happiness in this life than\nto felicity hereafter; and this is one of their chief political\ncharacteristics.\n\nBut in proportion as the light of faith grows dim, the range of man's\nsight is circumscribed, as if the end and aim of human actions appeared\nevery day to be more within his reach. When men have once allowed\nthemselves to think no more of what is to befall them after life, they\nreadily lapse into that complete and brutal indifference to futurity,\nwhich is but too conformable to some propensities of mankind. As soon\nas they have lost the habit of placing their chief hopes upon remote\nevents, they naturally seek to gratify without delay their smallest\ndesires; and no sooner do they despair of living forever, than they\nare disposed to act as if they were to exist but for a single day.\nIn sceptical ages it is always therefore to be feared that men may\nperpetually give way to their daily casual desires; and that, wholly\nrenouncing whatever cannot be acquired without protracted effort, they\nmay establish nothing great, permanent, and calm.\n\nIf the social condition of a people, under these circumstances, becomes\ndemocratic, the danger which I here point out is thereby increased. When\neveryone is constantly striving to change his position--when an immense\nfield for competition is thrown open to all--when wealth is amassed or\ndissipated in the shortest possible space of time amidst the turmoil\nof democracy, visions of sudden and easy fortunes--of great possessions\neasily won and lost--of chance, under all its forms--haunt the mind. The\ninstability of society itself fosters the natural instability of man's\ndesires. In the midst of these perpetual fluctuations of his lot, the\npresent grows upon his mind, until it conceals futurity from his sight,\nand his looks go no further than the morrow.\n\nIn those countries in which unhappily irreligion and democracy coexist,\nthe most important duty of philosophers and of those in power is to be\nalways striving to place the objects of human actions far beyond man's\nimmediate range. Circumscribed by the character of his country and\nhis age, the moralist must learn to vindicate his principles in that\nposition. He must constantly endeavor to show his contemporaries, that,\neven in the midst of the perpetual commotion around them, it is easier\nthan they think to conceive and to execute protracted undertakings. He\nmust teach them that, although the aspect of mankind may have changed,\nthe methods by which men may provide for their prosperity in this world\nare still the same; and that amongst democratic nations, as well as\nelsewhere, it is only by resisting a thousand petty selfish passions of\nthe hour that the general and unquenchable passion for happiness can be\nsatisfied.\n\nThe task of those in power is not less clearly marked out. At all times\nit is important that those who govern nations should act with a view to\nthe future: but this is even more necessary in democratic and sceptical\nages than in any others. By acting thus, the leading men of democracies\nnot only make public affairs prosperous, but they also teach private\nindividuals, by their example, the art of managing private concerns.\nAbove all they must strive as much as possible to banish chance from the\nsphere of politics. The sudden and undeserved promotion of a courtier\nproduces only a transient impression in an aristocratic country, because\nthe aggregate institutions and opinions of the nation habitually compel\nmen to advance slowly in tracks which they cannot get out of. But\nnothing is more pernicious than similar instances of favor exhibited\nto the eyes of a democratic people: they give the last impulse to the\npublic mind in a direction where everything hurries it onwards. At times\nof scepticism and equality more especially, the favor of the people or\nof the prince, which chance may confer or chance withhold, ought never\nto stand in lieu of attainments or services. It is desirable that every\nadvancement should there appear to be the result of some effort; so that\nno greatness should be of too easy acquirement, and that ambition should\nbe obliged to fix its gaze long upon an object before it is gratified.\nGovernments must apply themselves to restore to men that love of the\nfuture with which religion and the state of society no longer inspire\nthem; and, without saying so, they must practically teach the community\nday by day that wealth, fame, and power are the rewards of labor--that\ngreat success stands at the utmost range of long desires, and that\nnothing lasting is obtained but what is obtained by toil. When men have\naccustomed themselves to foresee from afar what is likely to befall in\nthe world and to feed upon hopes, they can hardly confine their minds\nwithin the precise circumference of life, and they are ready to break\nthe boundary and cast their looks beyond. I do not doubt that, by\ntraining the members of a community to think of their future condition\nin this world, they would be gradually and unconsciously brought nearer\nto religious convictions. Thus the means which allow men, up to a\ncertain point, to go without religion, are perhaps after all the\nonly means we still possess for bringing mankind back by a long and\nroundabout path to a state of faith.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII: That Amongst The Americans All Honest Callings Are\nHonorable\n\nAmongst a democratic people, where there is no hereditary wealth, every\nman works to earn a living, or has worked, or is born of parents who\nhave worked. The notion of labor is therefore presented to the mind\non every side as the necessary, natural, and honest condition of human\nexistence. Not only is labor not dishonorable amongst such a people, but\nit is held in honor: the prejudice is not against it, but in its favor.\nIn the United States a wealthy man thinks that he owes it to public\nopinion to devote his leisure to some kind of industrial or commercial\npursuit, or to public business. He would think himself in bad repute if\nhe employed his life solely in living. It is for the purpose of escaping\nthis obligation to work, that so many rich Americans come to Europe,\nwhere they find some scattered remains of aristocratic society, amongst\nwhich idleness is still held in honor.\n\nEquality of conditions not only ennobles the notion of labor in men's\nestimation, but it raises the notion of labor as a source of profit. In\naristocracies it is not exactly labor that is despised, but labor with\na view to profit. Labor is honorific in itself, when it is undertaken at\nthe sole bidding of ambition or of virtue. Yet in aristocratic society\nit constantly happens that he who works for honor is not insensible to\nthe attractions of profit. But these two desires only intermingle in\nthe innermost depths of his soul: he carefully hides from every eye\nthe point at which they join; he would fain conceal it from himself. In\naristocratic countries there are few public officers who do not affect\nto serve their country without interested motives. Their salary is an\nincident of which they think but little, and of which they always affect\nnot to think at all. Thus the notion of profit is kept distinct from\nthat of labor; however they may be united in point of fact, they are not\nthought of together.\n\nIn democratic communities these two notions are, on the contrary, always\npalpably united. As the desire of well-being is universal--as fortunes\nare slender or fluctuating--as everyone wants either to increase his\nown resources, or to provide fresh ones for his progeny, men clearly see\nthat it is profit which, if not wholly, at least partially, leads them\nto work. Even those who are principally actuated by the love of fame are\nnecessarily made familiar with the thought that they are not exclusively\nactuated by that motive; and they discover that the desire of getting\na living is mingled in their minds with the desire of making life\nillustrious.\n\nAs soon as, on the one hand, labor is held by the whole community to be\nan honorable necessity of man's condition, and, on the other, as soon as\nlabor is always ostensibly performed, wholly or in part, for the purpose\nof earning remuneration, the immense interval which separated different\ncallings in aristocratic societies disappears. If all are not alike, all\nat least have one feature in common. No profession exists in which men\ndo not work for money; and the remuneration which is common to them\nall gives them all an air of resemblance. This serves to explain\nthe opinions which the Americans entertain with respect to different\ncallings. In America no one is degraded because he works, for everyone\nabout him works also; nor is anyone humiliated by the notion of\nreceiving pay, for the President of the United States also works for\npay. He is paid for commanding, other men for obeying orders. In the\nUnited States professions are more or less laborious, more or less\nprofitable; but they are never either high or low: every honest calling\nis honorable.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX: That Almost All The Americans Follow Industrial Callings\n\nAgriculture is, perhaps, of all the useful arts that which improves most\nslowly amongst democratic nations. Frequently, indeed, it would seem\nto be stationary, because other arts are making rapid strides towards\nperfection. On the other hand, almost all the tastes and habits which\nthe equality of condition engenders naturally lead men to commercial and\nindustrial occupations.\n\nSuppose an active, enlightened, and free man, enjoying a competency, but\nfull of desires: he is too poor to live in idleness; he is rich enough\nto feel himself protected from the immediate fear of want, and he thinks\nhow he can better his condition. This man has conceived a taste for\nphysical gratifications, which thousands of his fellow-men indulge in\naround him; he has himself begun to enjoy these pleasures, and he is\neager to increase his means of satisfying these tastes more completely.\nBut life is slipping away, time is urgent--to what is he to turn? The\ncultivation of the ground promises an almost certain result to his\nexertions, but a slow one; men are not enriched by it without patience\nand toil. Agriculture is therefore only suited to those who have already\nlarge, superfluous wealth, or to those whose penury bids them only seek\na bare subsistence. The choice of such a man as we have supposed is soon\nmade; he sells his plot of ground, leaves his dwelling, and embarks in\nsome hazardous but lucrative calling. Democratic communities abound\nin men of this kind; and in proportion as the equality of conditions\nbecomes greater, their multitude increases. Thus democracy not only\nswells the number of workingmen, but it leads men to prefer one kind\nof labor to another; and whilst it diverts them from agriculture, it\nencourages their taste for commerce and manufactures. *a\n\n[Footnote a: It has often been remarked that manufacturers and\nmercantile men are inordinately addicted to physical gratifications, and\nthis has been attributed to commerce and manufactures; but that is,\nI apprehend, to take the effect for the cause. The taste for physical\ngratifications is not imparted to men by commerce or manufactures,\nbut it is rather this taste which leads men to embark in commerce and\nmanufactures, as a means by which they hope to satisfy themselves more\npromptly and more completely. If commerce and manufactures increase the\ndesire of well-being, it is because every passion gathers strength in\nproportion as it is cultivated, and is increased by all the efforts made\nto satiate it. All the causes which make the love of worldly welfare\npredominate in the heart of man are favorable to the growth of commerce\nand manufactures. Equality of conditions is one of those causes; it\nencourages trade, not directly by giving men a taste for business, but\nindirectly by strengthening and expanding in their minds a taste for\nprosperity.]\n\nThis spirit may be observed even amongst the richest members of the\ncommunity. In democratic countries, however opulent a man is supposed to\nbe, he is almost always discontented with his fortune, because he finds\nthat he is less rich than his father was, and he fears that his sons\nwill be less rich than himself. Most rich men in democracies are\ntherefore constantly haunted by the desire of obtaining wealth, and they\nnaturally turn their attention to trade and manufactures, which appear\nto offer the readiest and most powerful means of success. In this\nrespect they share the instincts of the poor, without feeling the\nsame necessities; say rather, they feel the most imperious of all\nnecessities, that of not sinking in the world.\n\nIn aristocracies the rich are at the same time those who govern. The\nattention which they unceasingly devote to important public affairs\ndiverts them from the lesser cares which trade and manufactures\ndemand. If the will of an individual happens, nevertheless, to turn his\nattention to business, the will of the body to which he belongs will\nimmediately debar him from pursuing it; for however men may declaim\nagainst the rule of numbers, they cannot wholly escape their sway; and\neven amongst those aristocratic bodies which most obstinately refuse to\nacknowledge the rights of the majority of the nation, a private majority\nis formed which governs the rest. *b\n\n[Footnote b: Some aristocracies, however, have devoted themselves\neagerly to commerce, and have cultivated manufactures with success. The\nhistory of the world might furnish several conspicuous examples. But,\ngenerally speaking, it may be affirmed that the aristocratic principle\nis not favorable to the growth of trade and manufactures. Moneyed\naristocracies are the only exception to the rule. Amongst such\naristocracies there are hardly any desires which do not require wealth\nto satisfy them; the love of riches becomes, so to speak, the high road\nof human passions, which is crossed by or connected with all lesser\ntracks. The love of money and the thirst for that distinction which\nattaches to power, are then so closely intermixed in the same souls,\nthat it becomes difficult to discover whether men grow covetous from\nambition, or whether they are ambitious from covetousness. This is\nthe case in England, where men seek to get rich in order to arrive at\ndistinction, and seek distinctions as a manifestation of their wealth.\nThe mind is then seized by both ends, and hurried into trade and\nmanufactures, which are the shortest roads that lead to opulence.\n\nThis, however, strikes me as an exceptional and transitory circumstance.\nWhen wealth is become the only symbol of aristocracy, it is very\ndifficult for the wealthy to maintain sole possession of political\npower, to the exclusion of all other men. The aristocracy of birth and\npure democracy are at the two extremes of the social and political state\nof nations: between them moneyed aristocracy finds its place. The latter\napproximates to the aristocracy of birth by conferring great privileges\non a small number of persons; it so far belongs to the democratic\nelement, that these privileges may be successively acquired by all. It\nfrequently forms a natural transition between these two conditions\nof society, and it is difficult to say whether it closes the reign of\naristocratic institutions, or whether it already opens the new era of\ndemocracy.]\n\nIn democratic countries, where money does not lead those who possess it\nto political power, but often removes them from it, the rich do not\nknow how to spend their leisure. They are driven into active life by the\ninquietude and the greatness of their desires, by the extent of their\nresources, and by the taste for what is extraordinary, which is almost\nalways felt by those who rise, by whatsoever means, above the crowd.\nTrade is the only road open to them. In democracies nothing is more\ngreat or more brilliant than commerce: it attracts the attention of\nthe public, and fills the imagination of the multitude; all energetic\npassions are directed towards it. Neither their own prejudices, nor\nthose of anybody else, can prevent the rich from devoting themselves\nto it. The wealthy members of democracies never form a body which has\nmanners and regulations of its own; the opinions peculiar to their class\ndo not restrain them, and the common opinions of their country urge them\non. Moreover, as all the large fortunes which are to be met with in a\ndemocratic community are of commercial growth, many generations must\nsucceed each other before their possessors can have entirely laid aside\ntheir habits of business.\n\nCircumscribed within the narrow space which politics leave them, rich\nmen in democracies eagerly embark in commercial enterprise: there they\ncan extend and employ their natural advantages; and indeed it is even by\nthe boldness and the magnitude of their industrial speculations that we\nmay measure the slight esteem in which productive industry would have\nbeen held by them, if they had been born amidst an aristocracy.\n\nA similar observation is likewise applicable to all men living in\ndemocracies, whether they be poor or rich. Those who live in the midst\nof democratic fluctuations have always before their eyes the phantom of\nchance; and they end by liking all undertakings in which chance plays a\npart. They are therefore all led to engage in commerce, not only for\nthe sake of the profit it holds out to them, but for the love of the\nconstant excitement occasioned by that pursuit.\n\nThe United States of America have only been emancipated for half a\ncentury [in 1840] from the state of colonial dependence in which they\nstood to Great Britain; the number of large fortunes there is small, and\ncapital is still scarce. Yet no people in the world has made such rapid\nprogress in trade and manufactures as the Americans: they constitute at\nthe present day the second maritime nation in the world; and although\ntheir manufactures have to struggle with almost insurmountable natural\nimpediments, they are not prevented from making great and daily\nadvances. In the United States the greatest undertakings and\nspeculations are executed without difficulty, because the whole\npopulation is engaged in productive industry, and because the poorest\nas well as the most opulent members of the commonwealth are ready to\ncombine their efforts for these purposes. The consequence is, that a\nstranger is constantly amazed by the immense public works executed by a\nnation which contains, so to speak, no rich men. The Americans arrived\nbut as yesterday on the territory which they inhabit, and they have\nalready changed the whole order of nature for their own advantage. They\nhave joined the Hudson to the Mississippi, and made the Atlantic Ocean\ncommunicate with the Gulf of Mexico, across a continent of more than\nfive hundred leagues in extent which separates the two seas. The longest\nrailroads which have been constructed up to the present time are in\nAmerica. But what most astonishes me in the United States, is not so\nmuch the marvellous grandeur of some undertakings, as the innumerable\nmultitude of small ones. Almost all the farmers of the United States\ncombine some trade with agriculture; most of them make agriculture\nitself a trade. It seldom happens that an American farmer settles for\ngood upon the land which he occupies: especially in the districts of the\nFar West he brings land into tillage in order to sell it again, and not\nto farm it: he builds a farmhouse on the speculation that, as the state\nof the country will soon be changed by the increase of population, a\ngood price will be gotten for it. Every year a swarm of the inhabitants\nof the North arrive in the Southern States, and settle in the parts\nwhere the cotton plant and the sugar-cane grow. These men cultivate the\nsoil in order to make it produce in a few years enough to enrich them;\nand they already look forward to the time when they may return home\nto enjoy the competency thus acquired. Thus the Americans carry their\nbusiness-like qualities into agriculture; and their trading passions are\ndisplayed in that as in their other pursuits.\n\nThe Americans make immense progress in productive industry, because they\nall devote themselves to it at once; and for this same reason they are\nexposed to very unexpected and formidable embarrassments. As they are\nall engaged in commerce, their commercial affairs are affected by\nsuch various and complex causes that it is impossible to foresee\nwhat difficulties may arise. As they are all more or less engaged in\nproductive industry, at the least shock given to business all private\nfortunes are put in jeopardy at the same time, and the State is shaken.\nI believe that the return of these commercial panics is an endemic\ndisease of the democratic nations of our age. It may be rendered less\ndangerous, but it cannot be cured; because it does not originate in\naccidental circumstances, but in the temperament of these nations.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX: That Aristocracy May Be Engendered By Manufactures\n\nI have shown that democracy is favorable to the growth of manufactures,\nand that it increases without limit the numbers of the manufacturing\nclasses: we shall now see by what side road manufacturers may possibly\nin their turn bring men back to aristocracy. It is acknowledged that\nwhen a workman is engaged every day upon the same detail, the whole\ncommodity is produced with greater ease, promptitude, and economy. It\nis likewise acknowledged that the cost of the production of manufactured\ngoods is diminished by the extent of the establishment in which they are\nmade, and by the amount of capital employed or of credit. These truths\nhad long been imperfectly discerned, but in our time they have been\ndemonstrated. They have been already applied to many very important\nkinds of manufactures, and the humblest will gradually be governed by\nthem. I know of nothing in politics which deserves to fix the attention\nof the legislator more closely than these two new axioms of the science\nof manufactures.\n\nWhen a workman is unceasingly and exclusively engaged in the fabrication\nof one thing, he ultimately does his work with singular dexterity; but\nat the same time he loses the general faculty of applying his mind to\nthe direction of the work. He every day becomes more adroit and less\nindustrious; so that it may be said of him, that in proportion as the\nworkman improves the man is degraded. What can be expected of a man who\nhas spent twenty years of his life in making heads for pins? and to\nwhat can that mighty human intelligence, which has so often stirred the\nworld, be applied in him, except it be to investigate the best method of\nmaking pins' heads? When a workman has spent a considerable portion\nof his existence in this manner, his thoughts are forever set upon the\nobject of his daily toil; his body has contracted certain fixed habits,\nwhich it can never shake off: in a word, he no longer belongs to\nhimself, but to the calling which he has chosen. It is in vain that laws\nand manners have been at the pains to level all barriers round such\na man, and to open to him on every side a thousand different paths to\nfortune; a theory of manufactures more powerful than manners and laws\nbinds him to a craft, and frequently to a spot, which he cannot leave:\nit assigns to him a certain place in society, beyond which he cannot go:\nin the midst of universal movement it has rendered him stationary.\n\nIn proportion as the principle of the division of labor is more\nextensively applied, the workman becomes more weak, more narrow-minded,\nand more dependent. The art advances, the artisan recedes. On the other\nhand, in proportion as it becomes more manifest that the productions of\nmanufactures are by so much the cheaper and better as the manufacture is\nlarger and the amount of capital employed more considerable, wealthy\nand educated men come forward to embark in manufactures which were\nheretofore abandoned to poor or ignorant handicraftsmen. The magnitude\nof the efforts required, and the importance of the results to be\nobtained, attract them. Thus at the very time at which the science\nof manufactures lowers the class of workmen, it raises the class of\nmasters.\n\nWhereas the workman concentrates his faculties more and more upon the\nstudy of a single detail, the master surveys a more extensive whole, and\nthe mind of the latter is enlarged in proportion as that of the former\nis narrowed. In a short time the one will require nothing but physical\nstrength without intelligence; the other stands in need of science, and\nalmost of genius, to insure success. This man resembles more and more\nthe administrator of a vast empire--that man, a brute. The master and\nthe workman have then here no similarity, and their differences increase\nevery day. They are only connected as the two rings at the extremities\nof a long chain. Each of them fills the station which is made for him,\nand out of which he does not get: the one is continually, closely, and\nnecessarily dependent upon the other, and seems as much born to obey as\nthat other is to command. What is this but aristocracy?\n\nAs the conditions of men constituting the nation become more and more\nequal, the demand for manufactured commodities becomes more general and\nmore extensive; and the cheapness which places these objects within\nthe reach of slender fortunes becomes a great element of success. Hence\nthere are every day more men of great opulence and education who devote\ntheir wealth and knowledge to manufactures; and who seek, by opening\nlarge establishments, and by a strict division of labor, to meet the\nfresh demands which are made on all sides. Thus, in proportion as the\nmass of the nation turns to democracy, that particular class which is\nengaged in manufactures becomes more aristocratic. Men grow more alike\nin the one--more different in the other; and inequality increases in\nthe less numerous class in the same ratio in which it decreases in\nthe community. Hence it would appear, on searching to the bottom, that\naristocracy should naturally spring out of the bosom of democracy.\n\nBut this kind of aristocracy by no means resembles those kinds which\npreceded it. It will be observed at once, that as it applies exclusively\nto manufactures and to some manufacturing callings, it is a monstrous\nexception in the general aspect of society. The small aristocratic\nsocieties which are formed by some manufacturers in the midst of the\nimmense democracy of our age, contain, like the great aristocratic\nsocieties of former ages, some men who are very opulent, and a multitude\nwho are wretchedly poor. The poor have few means of escaping from their\ncondition and becoming rich; but the rich are constantly becoming poor,\nor they give up business when they have realized a fortune. Thus the\nelements of which the class of the poor is composed are fixed; but the\nelements of which the class of the rich is composed are not so. To say\nthe truth, though there are rich men, the class of rich men does not\nexist; for these rich individuals have no feelings or purposes in\ncommon, no mutual traditions or mutual hopes; there are therefore\nmembers, but no body.\n\nNot only are the rich not compactly united amongst themselves, but there\nis no real bond between them and the poor. Their relative position is\nnot a permanent one; they are constantly drawn together or separated by\ntheir interests. The workman is generally dependent on the master, but\nnot on any particular master; these two men meet in the factory, but\nknow not each other elsewhere; and whilst they come into contact on one\npoint, they stand very wide apart on all others. The manufacturer asks\nnothing of the workman but his labor; the workman expects nothing from\nhim but his wages. The one contracts no obligation to protect, nor the\nother to defend; and they are not permanently connected either by habit\nor by duty. The aristocracy created by business rarely settles in the\nmidst of the manufacturing population which it directs; the object\nis not to govern that population, but to use it. An aristocracy thus\nconstituted can have no great hold upon those whom it employs; and even\nif it succeed in retaining them at one moment, they escape the next; it\nknows not how to will, and it cannot act. The territorial aristocracy of\nformer ages was either bound by law, or thought itself bound by\nusage, to come to the relief of its serving-men, and to succor\ntheir distresses. But the manufacturing aristocracy of our age first\nimpoverishes and debases the men who serve it, and then abandons them to\nbe supported by the charity of the public. This is a natural consequence\nof what has been said before. Between the workmen and the master there\nare frequent relations, but no real partnership.\n\nI am of opinion, upon the whole, that the manufacturing aristocracy\nwhich is growing up under our eyes is one of the harshest which ever\nexisted in the world; but at the same time it is one of the most\nconfined and least dangerous. Nevertheless the friends of democracy\nshould keep their eyes anxiously fixed in this direction; for if ever a\npermanent inequality of conditions and aristocracy again penetrate into\nthe world, it may be predicted that this is the channel by which they\nwill enter.\n\n\n\n\nBook Three: Influence Of Democracy On Manners, Properly So Called\n\n\n\n\nChapter I: That Manners Are Softened As Social Conditions Become More\nEqual\n\nWe perceive that for several ages social conditions have tended to\nequality, and we discover that in the course of the same period the\nmanners of society have been softened. Are these two things merely\ncontemporaneous, or does any secret link exist between them, so that the\none cannot go on without making the other advance? Several causes may\nconcur to render the manners of a people less rude; but, of all\nthese causes, the most powerful appears to me to be the equality of\nconditions. Equality of conditions and growing civility in manners are,\nthen, in my eyes, not only contemporaneous occurrences, but correlative\nfacts. When the fabulists seek to interest us in the actions of beasts,\nthey invest them with human notions and passions; the poets who sing of\nspirits and angels do the same; there is no wretchedness so deep, nor\nany happiness so pure, as to fill the human mind and touch the heart,\nunless we are ourselves held up to our own eyes under other features.\n\nThis is strictly applicable to the subject upon which we are at present\nengaged. When all men are irrevocably marshalled in an aristocratic\ncommunity, according to their professions, their property, and their\nbirth, the members of each class, considering themselves as children\nof the same family, cherish a constant and lively sympathy towards each\nother, which can never be felt in an equal degree by the citizens of\na democracy. But the same feeling does not exist between the several\nclasses towards each other. Amongst an aristocratic people each caste\nhas its own opinions, feelings, rights, manners, and modes of living.\nThus the men of whom each caste is composed do not resemble the mass of\ntheir fellow-citizens; they do not think or feel in the same manner,\nand they scarcely believe that they belong to the same human race. They\ncannot, therefore, thoroughly understand what others feel, nor judge of\nothers by themselves. Yet they are sometimes eager to lend each other\nmutual aid; but this is not contrary to my previous observation. These\naristocratic institutions, which made the beings of one and the same\nrace so different, nevertheless bound them to each other by close\npolitical ties. Although the serf had no natural interest in the fate of\nnobles, he did not the less think himself obliged to devote his person\nto the service of that noble who happened to be his lord; and although\nthe noble held himself to be of a different nature from that of his\nserfs, he nevertheless held that his duty and his honor constrained\nhim to defend, at the risk of his own life, those who dwelt upon his\ndomains.\n\nIt is evident that these mutual obligations did not originate in the law\nof nature, but in the law of society; and that the claim of social duty\nwas more stringent than that of mere humanity. These services were not\nsupposed to be due from man to man, but to the vassal or to the lord.\nFeudal institutions awakened a lively sympathy for the sufferings of\ncertain men, but none at all for the miseries of mankind. They infused\ngenerosity rather than mildness into the manners of the time, and\nalthough they prompted men to great acts of self-devotion, they\nengendered no real sympathies; for real sympathies can only exist\nbetween those who are alike; and in aristocratic ages men acknowledge\nnone but the members of their own caste to be like themselves.\n\nWhen the chroniclers of the Middle Ages, who all belonged to the\naristocracy by birth or education, relate the tragical end of a noble,\ntheir grief flows apace; whereas they tell you at a breath, and without\nwincing, of massacres and tortures inflicted on the common sort of\npeople. Not that these writers felt habitual hatred or systematic\ndisdain for the people; war between the several classes of the community\nwas not yet declared. They were impelled by an instinct rather than by a\npassion; as they had formed no clear notion of a poor man's sufferings,\nthey cared but little for his fate. The same feelings animated the lower\norders whenever the feudal tie was broken. The same ages which witnessed\nso many heroic acts of self-devotion on the part of vassals for their\nlords, were stained with atrocious barbarities, exercised from time to\ntime by the lower classes on the higher. It must not be supposed that\nthis mutual insensibility arose solely from the absence of public\norder and education; for traces of it are to be found in the following\ncenturies, which became tranquil and enlightened whilst they remained\naristocratic. In 1675 the lower classes in Brittany revolted at\nthe imposition of a new tax. These disturbances were put down with\nunexampled atrocity. Observe the language in which Madame de Sevigne, a\nwitness of these horrors, relates them to her daughter:--\n\n\"Aux Rochers, 30 Octobre, 1675.\n\n\"Mon Dieu, ma fille, que votre lettre d'Aix est plaisante! Au moins\nrelisez vos lettres avant que de les envoyer; laissez-vous surpendre a\nleur agrement, et consolez-vous par ce plaisir de la peine que vous avez\nd'en tant ecrire. Vous avez donc baise toute la Provence? il n'y aurait\npas satisfaction a baiser toute la Bretagne, a moins qu'on n'aimat a\nsentir le vin. . . . Voulez-vous savoir des nouvelles de Rennes? On a\nfait une taxe de cent mille ecus sur le bourgeois; et si on ne trouve\npoint cette somme dans vingt-quatre heures, elle sera doublee et\nexigible par les soldats. On a chasse et banni toute une grand rue, et\ndefendu de les recueillir sous peine de la vie; de sorte qu'on voyait\ntous ces miserables, veillards, femmes accouchees, enfans, errer en\npleurs au sortir de cette ville sans savoir ou aller. On roua avant-hier\nun violon, qui avait commence la danse et la pillerie du papier timbre;\nil a ete ecartele apres sa mort, et ses quatre quartiers exposes aux\nquatre coins de la ville. On a pris soixante bourgeois, et on commence\ndemain les punitions. Cette province est un bel exemple pour les autres,\net surtout de respecter les gouverneurs et les gouvernantes, et de ne\npoint jeter de pierres dans leur jardin.\" *a\n\n[Footnote a: To feel the point of this joke the reader should recollect\nthat Madame de Grignan was Gouvernante de Provence.] \"Madame de Tarente\netait hier dans ces bois par un temps enchante: il n'est question ni de\nchambre ni de collation; elle entre par la barriere et s'en retourne de\nmeme. . . .\"\n\nIn another letter she adds:--\n\n\"Vous me parlez bien plaisamment de nos miseres; nous ne sommes plus si\nroues; un en huit jours, pour entretenir la justice. Il est vrai que la\npenderie me parait maintenant un refraichissement. J'ai une tout autre\nidee de la justice, depuis que je suis en ce pays. Vos galeriens me\nparaissent une societe d'honnetes gens qui se sont retires du monde pour\nmener une vie douce.\"\n\nIt would be a mistake to suppose that Madame de Sevigne, who wrote these\nlines, was a selfish or cruel person; she was passionately attached\nto her children, and very ready to sympathize in the sorrows of her\nfriends; nay, her letters show that she treated her vassals and servants\nwith kindness and indulgence. But Madame de Sevigne had no clear notion\nof suffering in anyone who was not a person of quality.\n\nIn our time the harshest man writing to the most insensible person of\nhis acquaintance would not venture wantonly to indulge in the cruel\njocularity which I have quoted; and even if his own manners allowed him\nto do so, the manners of society at large would forbid it. Whence does\nthis arise? Have we more sensibility than our forefathers? I know not\nthat we have; but I am sure that our insensibility is extended to a far\ngreater range of objects. When all the ranks of a community are nearly\nequal, as all men think and feel in nearly the same manner, each of them\nmay judge in a moment of the sensations of all the others; he casts a\nrapid glance upon himself, and that is enough. There is no wretchedness\ninto which he cannot readily enter, and a secret instinct reveals to him\nits extent. It signifies not that strangers or foes be the sufferers;\nimagination puts him in their place; something like a personal feeling\nis mingled with his pity, and makes himself suffer whilst the body\nof his fellow-creature is in torture. In democratic ages men rarely\nsacrifice themselves for one another; but they display general\ncompassion for the members of the human race. They inflict no useless\nills; and they are happy to relieve the griefs of others, when they can\ndo so without much hurting themselves; they are not disinterested, but\nthey are humane.\n\nAlthough the Americans have, in a manner, reduced egotism to a social\nand philosophical theory, they are nevertheless extremely open to\ncompassion. In no country is criminal justice administered with more\nmildness than in the United States. Whilst the English seem disposed\ncarefully to retain the bloody traces of the dark ages in their penal\nlegislation, the Americans have almost expunged capital punishment from\ntheir codes. North America is, I think, the only one country upon earth\nin which the life of no one citizen has been taken for a political\noffence in the course of the last fifty years. The circumstance which\nconclusively shows that this singular mildness of the Americans arises\nchiefly from their social condition, is the manner in which they treat\ntheir slaves. Perhaps there is not, upon the whole, a single European\ncolony in the New World in which the physical condition of the blacks\nis less severe than in the United States; yet the slaves still endure\nhorrid sufferings there, and are constantly exposed to barbarous\npunishments. It is easy to perceive that the lot of these unhappy beings\ninspires their masters with but little compassion, and that they look\nupon slavery, not only as an institution which is profitable to them,\nbut as an evil which does not affect them. Thus the same man who is full\nof humanity towards his fellow-creatures when they are at the same time\nhis equals, becomes insensible to their afflictions as soon as that\nequality ceases. His mildness should therefore be attributed to the\nequality of conditions, rather than to civilization and education.\n\nWhat I have here remarked of individuals is, to a certain extent,\napplicable to nations. When each nation has its distinct opinions,\nbelief, laws, and customs, it looks upon itself as the whole of mankind,\nand is moved by no sorrows but its own. Should war break out between\ntwo nations animated by this feeling, it is sure to be waged with great\ncruelty. At the time of their highest culture, the Romans slaughtered\nthe generals of their enemies, after having dragged them in triumph\nbehind a car; and they flung their prisoners to the beasts of the Circus\nfor the amusement of the people. Cicero, who declaimed so vehemently at\nthe notion of crucifying a Roman citizen, had not a word to say against\nthese horrible abuses of victory. It is evident that in his eyes a\nbarbarian did not belong to the same human race as a Roman. On the\ncontrary, in proportion as nations become more like each other, they\nbecome reciprocally more compassionate, and the law of nations is\nmitigated.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II: That Democracy Renders The Habitual Intercourse Of The\nAmericans Simple And Easy\n\nDemocracy does not attach men strongly to each other; but it places\ntheir habitual intercourse upon an easier footing. If two Englishmen\nchance to meet at the Antipodes, where they are surrounded by strangers\nwhose language and manners are almost unknown to them, they will first\nstare at each other with much curiosity and a kind of secret uneasiness;\nthey will then turn away, or, if one accosts the other, they will\ntake care only to converse with a constrained and absent air upon very\nunimportant subjects. Yet there is no enmity between these men; they\nhave never seen each other before, and each believes the other to be a\nrespectable person. Why then should they stand so cautiously apart? We\nmust go back to England to learn the reason.\n\nWhen it is birth alone, independent of wealth, which classes men in\nsociety, everyone knows exactly what his own position is upon the\nsocial scale; he does not seek to rise, he does not fear to sink. In\na community thus organized, men of different castes communicate very\nlittle with each other; but if accident brings them together, they are\nready to converse without hoping or fearing to lose their own position.\nTheir intercourse is not upon a footing of equality, but it is not\nconstrained. When moneyed aristocracy succeeds to aristocracy of birth,\nthe case is altered. The privileges of some are still extremely great,\nbut the possibility of acquiring those privileges is open to all: whence\nit follows that those who possess them are constantly haunted by the\napprehension of losing them, or of other men's sharing them; those who\ndo not yet enjoy them long to possess them at any cost, or, if they\nfail to appear at least to possess them--which is not impossible. As the\nsocial importance of men is no longer ostensibly and permanently fixed\nby blood, and is infinitely varied by wealth, ranks still exist, but it\nis not easy clearly to distinguish at a glance those who respectively\nbelong to them. Secret hostilities then arise in the community; one set\nof men endeavor by innumerable artifices to penetrate, or to appear to\npenetrate, amongst those who are above them; another set are constantly\nin arms against these usurpers of their rights; or rather the same\nindividual does both at once, and whilst he seeks to raise himself into\na higher circle, he is always on the defensive against the intrusion of\nthose below him.\n\nSuch is the condition of England at the present time; and I am of\nopinion that the peculiarity before adverted to is principally to be\nattributed to this cause. As aristocratic pride is still extremely great\namongst the English, and as the limits of aristocracy are ill-defined,\neverybody lives in constant dread lest advantage should be taken of his\nfamiliarity. Unable to judge at once of the social position of those\nhe meets, an Englishman prudently avoids all contact with them. Men\nare afraid lest some slight service rendered should draw them into\nan unsuitable acquaintance; they dread civilities, and they avoid the\nobtrusive gratitude of a stranger quite as much as his hatred. Many\npeople attribute these singular anti-social propensities, and the\nreserved and taciturn bearing of the English, to purely physical causes.\nI may admit that there is something of it in their race, but much more\nof it is attributable to their social condition, as is proved by the\ncontrast of the Americans.\n\nIn America, where the privileges of birth never existed, and where\nriches confer no peculiar rights on their possessors, men unacquainted\nwith each other are very ready to frequent the same places, and find\nneither peril nor advantage in the free interchange of their thoughts.\nIf they meet by accident, they neither seek nor avoid intercourse; their\nmanner is therefore natural, frank, and open: it is easy to see that\nthey hardly expect or apprehend anything from each other, and that they\ndo not care to display, any more than to conceal, their position in the\nworld. If their demeanor is often cold and serious, it is never haughty\nor constrained; and if they do not converse, it is because they are\nnot in a humor to talk, not because they think it their interest to be\nsilent. In a foreign country two Americans are at once friends, simply\nbecause they are Americans. They are repulsed by no prejudice; they are\nattracted by their common country. For two Englishmen the same blood\nis not enough; they must be brought together by the same rank. The\nAmericans remark this unsociable mood of the English as much as the\nFrench do, and they are not less astonished by it. Yet the Americans are\nconnected with England by their origin, their religion, their language,\nand partially by their manners; they only differ in their social\ncondition. It may therefore be inferred that the reserve of the English\nproceeds from the constitution of their country much more than from that\nof its inhabitants.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III: Why The Americans Show So Little Sensitiveness In Their Own\nCountry, And Are So Sensitive In Europe\n\nThe temper of the Americans is vindictive, like that of all serious and\nreflecting nations. They hardly ever forget an offence, but it is not\neasy to offend them; and their resentment is as slow to kindle as it is\nto abate. In aristocratic communities where a small number of persons\nmanage everything, the outward intercourse of men is subject to settled\nconventional rules. Everyone then thinks he knows exactly what marks of\nrespect or of condescension he ought to display, and none are presumed\nto be ignorant of the science of etiquette. These usages of the first\nclass in society afterwards serve as a model to all the others; besides\nwhich each of the latter lays down a code of its own, to which all\nits members are bound to conform. Thus the rules of politeness form a\ncomplex system of legislation, which it is difficult to be perfectly\nmaster of, but from which it is dangerous for anyone to deviate; so that\nmen are constantly exposed involuntarily to inflict or to receive\nbitter affronts. But as the distinctions of rank are obliterated, as men\ndiffering in education and in birth meet and mingle in the same places\nof resort, it is almost impossible to agree upon the rules of good\nbreeding. As its laws are uncertain, to disobey them is not a crime,\neven in the eyes of those who know what they are; men attach more\nimportance to intentions than to forms, and they grow less civil, but at\nthe same time less quarrelsome. There are many little attentions which\nan American does not care about; he thinks they are not due to him, or\nhe presumes that they are not known to be due: he therefore either\ndoes not perceive a rudeness or he forgives it; his manners become less\ncourteous, and his character more plain and masculine.\n\nThe mutual indulgence which the Americans display, and the manly\nconfidence with which they treat each other, also result from another\ndeeper and more general cause, which I have already adverted to in the\npreceding chapter. In the United States the distinctions of rank\nin civil society are slight, in political society they are null; an\nAmerican, therefore, does not think himself bound to pay particular\nattentions to any of his fellow-citizens, nor does he require such\nattentions from them towards himself. As he does not see that it is his\ninterest eagerly to seek the company of any of his countrymen, he is\nslow to fancy that his own company is declined: despising no one on\naccount of his station, he does not imagine that anyone can despise him\nfor that cause; and until he has clearly perceived an insult, he does\nnot suppose that an affront was intended. The social condition of the\nAmericans naturally accustoms them not to take offence in small\nmatters; and, on the other hand, the democratic freedom which they\nenjoy transfuses this same mildness of temper into the character of the\nnation. The political institutions of the United States constantly bring\ncitizens of all ranks into contact, and compel them to pursue great\nundertakings in concert. People thus engaged have scarcely time to\nattend to the details of etiquette, and they are besides too strongly\ninterested in living harmoniously for them to stick at such things. They\ntherefore soon acquire a habit of considering the feelings and opinions\nof those whom they meet more than their manners, and they do not allow\nthemselves to be annoyed by trifles.\n\nI have often remarked in the United States that it is not easy to make\na man understand that his presence may be dispensed with; hints will not\nalways suffice to shake him off. I contradict an American at every word\nhe says, to show him that his conversation bores me; he instantly labors\nwith fresh pertinacity to convince me; I preserve a dogged silence, and\nhe thinks I am meditating deeply on the truths which he is uttering; at\nlast I rush from his company, and he supposes that some urgent business\nhurries me elsewhere. This man will never understand that he wearies me\nto extinction unless I tell him so: and the only way to get rid of him\nis to make him my enemy for life.\n\nIt appears surprising at first sight that the same man transported to\nEurope suddenly becomes so sensitive and captious, that I often find\nit as difficult to avoid offending him here as it was to put him out\nof countenance. These two opposite effects proceed from the same cause.\nDemocratic institutions generally give men a lofty notion of their\ncountry and of themselves. An American leaves his country with a heart\nswollen with pride; on arriving in Europe he at once finds out that we\nare not so engrossed by the United States and the great people which\ninhabits them as he had supposed, and this begins to annoy him. He has\nbeen informed that the conditions of society are not equal in our part\nof the globe, and he observes that among the nations of Europe the\ntraces of rank are not wholly obliterated; that wealth and birth still\nretain some indeterminate privileges, which force themselves upon his\nnotice whilst they elude definition. He is therefore profoundly ignorant\nof the place which he ought to occupy in this half-ruined scale of\nclasses, which are sufficiently distinct to hate and despise each other,\nyet sufficiently alike for him to be always confounding them. He is\nafraid of ranging himself too high--still more is he afraid of being\nranged too low; this twofold peril keeps his mind constantly on the\nstretch, and embarrasses all he says and does. He learns from tradition\nthat in Europe ceremonial observances were infinitely varied according\nto different ranks; this recollection of former times completes his\nperplexity, and he is the more afraid of not obtaining those marks of\nrespect which are due to him, as he does not exactly know in what\nthey consist. He is like a man surrounded by traps: society is not a\nrecreation for him, but a serious toil: he weighs your least actions,\ninterrogates your looks, and scrutinizes all you say, lest there should\nbe some hidden allusion to affront him. I doubt whether there was ever\na provincial man of quality so punctilious in breeding as he is: he\nendeavors to attend to the slightest rules of etiquette, and does not\nallow one of them to be waived towards himself: he is full of scruples\nand at the same time of pretensions; he wishes to do enough, but fears\nto do too much; and as he does not very well know the limits of the one\nor of the other, he keeps up a haughty and embarrassed air of reserve.\n\nBut this is not all: here is yet another double of the human heart. An\nAmerican is forever talking of the admirable equality which prevails in\nthe United States; aloud he makes it the boast of his country, but in\nsecret he deplores it for himself; and he aspires to show that, for his\npart, he is an exception to the general state of things which he vaunts.\nThere is hardly an American to be met with who does not claim some\nremote kindred with the first founders of the colonies; and as for the\nscions of the noble families of England, America seemed to me to be\ncovered with them. When an opulent American arrives in Europe, his first\ncare is to surround himself with all the luxuries of wealth: he is so\nafraid of being taken for the plain citizen of a democracy, that he\nadopts a hundred distorted ways of bringing some new instance of his\nwealth before you every day. His house will be in the most fashionable\npart of the town: he will always be surrounded by a host of servants.\nI have heard an American complain, that in the best houses of Paris the\nsociety was rather mixed; the taste which prevails there was not pure\nenough for him; and he ventured to hint that, in his opinion, there was\na want of elegance of manner; he could not accustom himself to see wit\nconcealed under such unpretending forms.\n\nThese contrasts ought not to surprise us. If the vestiges of former\naristocratic distinctions were not so completely effaced in the United\nStates, the Americans would be less simple and less tolerant in their\nown country--they would require less, and be less fond of borrowed\nmanners in ours.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV: Consequences Of The Three Preceding Chapters\n\nWhen men feel a natural compassion for their mutual sufferings--when\nthey are brought together by easy and frequent intercourse, and no\nsensitive feelings keep them asunder--it may readily be supposed that\nthey will lend assistance to one another whenever it is needed. When an\nAmerican asks for the co-operation of his fellow-citizens it is seldom\nrefused, and I have often seen it afforded spontaneously and with great\ngoodwill. If an accident happens on the highway, everybody hastens to\nhelp the sufferer; if some great and sudden calamity befalls a family,\nthe purses of a thousand strangers are at once willingly opened, and\nsmall but numerous donations pour in to relieve their distress. It often\nhappens amongst the most civilized nations of the globe, that a poor\nwretch is as friendless in the midst of a crowd as the savage in his\nwilds: this is hardly ever the case in the United States. The Americans,\nwho are always cold and often coarse in their manners, seldom show\ninsensibility; and if they do not proffer services eagerly, yet they do\nnot refuse to render them.\n\nAll this is not in contradiction to what I have said before on the\nsubject of individualism. The two things are so far from combating each\nother, that I can see how they agree. Equality of conditions, whilst it\nmakes men feel their independence, shows them their own weakness: they\nare free, but exposed to a thousand accidents; and experience soon\nteaches them that, although they do not habitually require the\nassistance of others, a time almost always comes when they cannot do\nwithout it. We constantly see in Europe that men of the same profession\nare ever ready to assist each other; they are all exposed to the same\nills, and that is enough to teach them to seek mutual preservatives,\nhowever hard-hearted and selfish they may otherwise be. When one of\nthem falls into danger, from which the others may save him by a slight\ntransient sacrifice or a sudden effort, they do not fail to make the\nattempt. Not that they are deeply interested in his fate; for if, by\nchance, their exertions are unavailing, they immediately forget the\nobject of them, and return to their own business; but a sort of tacit\nand almost involuntary agreement has been passed between them, by which\neach one owes to the others a temporary support which he may claim for\nhimself in turn. Extend to a people the remark here applied to a class,\nand you will understand my meaning. A similar covenant exists in fact\nbetween all the citizens of a democracy: they all feel themselves\nsubject to the same weakness and the same dangers; and their interest,\nas well as their sympathy, makes it a rule with them to lend each\nother mutual assistance when required. The more equal social conditions\nbecome, the more do men display this reciprocal disposition to oblige\neach other. In democracies no great benefits are conferred, but good\noffices are constantly rendered: a man seldom displays self-devotion,\nbut all men are ready to be of service to one another.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V: How Democracy Affects the Relation Of Masters And Servants\n\nAn American who had travelled for a long time in Europe once said to me,\n\"The English treat their servants with a stiffness and imperiousness\nof manner which surprise us; but on the other hand the French sometimes\ntreat their attendants with a degree of familiarity or of politeness\nwhich we cannot conceive. It looks as if they were afraid to give\norders: the posture of the superior and the inferior is ill-maintained.\"\nThe remark was a just one, and I have often made it myself. I have\nalways considered England as the country in the world where, in our\ntime, the bond of domestic service is drawn most tightly, and France as\nthe country where it is most relaxed. Nowhere have I seen masters stand\nso high or so low as in these two countries. Between these two extremes\nthe Americans are to be placed. Such is the fact as it appears upon the\nsurface of things: to discover the causes of that fact, it is necessary\nto search the matter thoroughly.\n\nNo communities have ever yet existed in which social conditions have\nbeen so equal that there were neither rich nor poor, and consequently\nneither masters nor servants. Democracy does not prevent the existence\nof these two classes, but it changes their dispositions and modifies\ntheir mutual relations. Amongst aristocratic nations servants form a\ndistinct class, not more variously composed than that of masters. A\nsettled order is soon established; in the former as well as in the\nlatter class a scale is formed, with numerous distinctions or marked\ngradations of rank, and generations succeed each other thus without any\nchange of position. These two communities are superposed one above the\nother, always distinct, but regulated by analogous principles. This\naristocratic constitution does not exert a less powerful influence\non the notions and manners of servants than on those of masters; and,\nalthough the effects are different, the same cause may easily be traced.\nBoth classes constitute small communities in the heart of the nation,\nand certain permanent notions of right and wrong are ultimately\nengendered amongst them. The different acts of human life are viewed by\none particular and unchanging light. In the society of servants, as in\nthat of masters, men exercise a great influence over each other: they\nacknowledge settled rules, and in the absence of law they are guided by\na sort of public opinion: their habits are settled, and their conduct is\nplaced under a certain control.\n\nThese men, whose destiny is to obey, certainly do not understand fame,\nvirtue, honesty, and honor in the same manner as their masters; but they\nhave a pride, a virtue, and an honesty pertaining to their condition;\nand they have a notion, if I may use the expression, of a sort of\nservile honor. *a Because a class is mean, it must not be supposed that\nall who belong to it are mean-hearted; to think so would be a great\nmistake. However lowly it may be, he who is foremost there, and who\nhas no notion of quitting it, occupies an aristocratic position which\ninspires him with lofty feelings, pride, and self-respect, that fit\nhim for the higher virtues and actions above the common. Amongst\naristocratic nations it was by no means rare to find men of noble and\nvigorous minds in the service of the great, who felt not the servitude\nthey bore, and who submitted to the will of their masters without any\nfear of their displeasure. But this was hardly ever the case amongst\nthe inferior ranks of domestic servants. It may be imagined that he\nwho occupies the lowest stage of the order of menials stands very low\nindeed. The French created a word on purpose to designate the servants\nof the aristocracy--they called them lackeys. This word \"lackey\"\nserved as the strongest expression, when all others were exhausted, to\ndesignate human meanness. Under the old French monarchy, to denote by\na single expression a low-spirited contemptible fellow, it was usual to\nsay that he had the \"soul of a lackey\"; the term was enough to convey\nall that was intended. [Footnote a: If the principal opinions by which\nmen are guided are examined closely and in detail, the analogy appears\nstill more striking, and one is surprised to find amongst them, just as\nmuch as amongst the haughtiest scions of a feudal race, pride of birth,\nrespect for their ancestry and their descendants, disdain of their\ninferiors, a dread of contact, a taste for etiquette, precedents, and\nantiquity.]\n\nThe permanent inequality of conditions not only gives servants certain\npeculiar virtues and vices, but it places them in a peculiar relation\nwith respect to their masters. Amongst aristocratic nations the poor man\nis familiarized from his childhood with the notion of being commanded:\nto whichever side he turns his eyes the graduated structure of society\nand the aspect of obedience meet his view. Hence in those countries the\nmaster readily obtains prompt, complete, respectful, and easy obedience\nfrom his servants, because they revere in him not only their master but\nthe class of masters. He weighs down their will by the whole weight of\nthe aristocracy. He orders their actions--to a certain extent he even\ndirects their thoughts. In aristocracies the master often exercises,\neven without being aware of it, an amazing sway over the opinions, the\nhabits, and the manners of those who obey him, and his influence extends\neven further than his authority.\n\nIn aristocratic communities there are not only hereditary families of\nservants as well as of masters, but the same families of servants\nadhere for several generations to the same families of masters (like two\nparallel lines which neither meet nor separate); and this considerably\nmodifies the mutual relations of these two classes of persons. Thus,\nalthough in aristocratic society the master and servant have no natural\nresemblance--although, on the contrary, they are placed at an immense\ndistance on the scale of human beings by their fortune, education, and\nopinions--yet time ultimately binds them together. They are connected\nby a long series of common reminiscences, and however different they\nmay be, they grow alike; whilst in democracies, where they are naturally\nalmost alike, they always remain strangers to each other. Amongst an\naristocratic people the master gets to look upon his servants as an\ninferior and secondary part of himself, and he often takes an interest\nin their lot by a last stretch of egotism.\n\nServants, on their part, are not averse to regard themselves in the same\nlight; and they sometimes identify themselves with the person of the\nmaster, so that they become an appendage to him in their own eyes as\nwell as in his. In aristocracies a servant fills a subordinate position\nwhich he cannot get out of; above him is another man, holding a superior\nrank which he cannot lose. On one side are obscurity, poverty, obedience\nfor life; on the other, and also for life, fame, wealth, and command.\nThe two conditions are always distinct and always in propinquity; the\ntie that connects them is as lasting as they are themselves. In this\npredicament the servant ultimately detaches his notion of interest from\nhis own person; he deserts himself, as it were, or rather he transports\nhimself into the character of his master, and thus assumes an imaginary\npersonality. He complacently invests himself with the wealth of those\nwho command him; he shares their fame, exalts himself by their rank,\nand feeds his mind with borrowed greatness, to which he attaches\nmore importance than those who fully and really possess it. There is\nsomething touching, and at the same time ridiculous, in this strange\nconfusion of two different states of being. These passions of masters,\nwhen they pass into the souls of menials, assume the natural dimensions\nof the place they occupy--they are contracted and lowered. What was\npride in the former becomes puerile vanity and paltry ostentation in the\nlatter. The servants of a great man are commonly most punctilious as to\nthe marks of respect due to him, and they attach more importance to his\nslightest privileges than he does himself. In France a few of these old\nservants of the aristocracy are still to be met with here and there;\nthey have survived their race, which will soon disappear with them\naltogether. In the United States I never saw anyone at all like them.\nThe Americans are not only unacquainted with the kind of man, but it is\nhardly possible to make them understand that such ever existed. It is\nscarcely less difficult for them to conceive it, than for us to form a\ncorrect notion of what a slave was amongst the Romans, or a serf in the\nMiddle Ages. All these men were in fact, though in different degrees,\nresults of the same cause: they are all retiring from our sight, and\ndisappearing in the obscurity of the past, together with the social\ncondition to which they owed their origin.\n\nEquality of conditions turns servants and masters into new beings, and\nplaces them in new relative positions. When social conditions are nearly\nequal, men are constantly changing their situations in life: there is\nstill a class of menials and a class of masters, but these classes are\nnot always composed of the same individuals, still less of the same\nfamilies; and those who command are not more secure of perpetuity than\nthose who obey. As servants do not form a separate people, they have\nno habits, prejudices, or manners peculiar to themselves; they are not\nremarkable for any particular turn of mind or moods of feeling. They\nknow no vices or virtues of their condition, but they partake of the\neducation, the opinions, the feelings, the virtues, and the vices of\ntheir contemporaries; and they are honest men or scoundrels in the same\nway as their masters are. The conditions of servants are not less equal\nthan those of masters. As no marked ranks or fixed subordination are to\nbe found amongst them, they will not display either the meanness or the\ngreatness which characterizes the aristocracy of menials as well as all\nother aristocracies. I never saw a man in the United States who reminded\nme of that class of confidential servants of which we still retain a\nreminiscence in Europe, neither did I ever meet with such a thing as a\nlackey: all traces of the one and of the other have disappeared.\n\nIn democracies servants are not only equal amongst themselves, but it\nmay be said that they are in some sort the equals of their masters. This\nrequires explanation in order to be rightly understood. At any moment a\nservant may become a master, and he aspires to rise to that condition:\nthe servant is therefore not a different man from the master. Why\nthen has the former a right to command, and what compels the latter to\nobey?--the free and temporary consent of both their wills. Neither of\nthem is by nature inferior to the other; they only become so for a time\nby covenant. Within the terms of this covenant, the one is a\nservant, the other a master; beyond it they are two citizens of the\ncommonwealth--two men. I beg the reader particularly to observe that\nthis is not only the notion which servants themselves entertain of their\nown condition; domestic service is looked upon by masters in the same\nlight; and the precise limits of authority and obedience are as clearly\nsettled in the mind of the one as in that of the other.\n\nWhen the greater part of the community have long attained a condition\nnearly alike, and when equality is an old and acknowledged fact, the\npublic mind, which is never affected by exceptions, assigns certain\ngeneral limits to the value of man, above or below which no man can\nlong remain placed. It is in vain that wealth and poverty, authority\nand obedience, accidentally interpose great distances between two men;\npublic opinion, founded upon the usual order of things, draws them to a\ncommon level, and creates a species of imaginary equality between them,\nin spite of the real inequality of their conditions. This all-powerful\nopinion penetrates at length even into the hearts of those whose\ninterest might arm them to resist it; it affects their judgment whilst\nit subdues their will. In their inmost convictions the master and the\nservant no longer perceive any deep-seated difference between them, and\nthey neither hope nor fear to meet with any such at any time. They are\ntherefore neither subject to disdain nor to anger, and they discern in\neach other neither humility nor pride. The master holds the contract of\nservice to be the only source of his power, and the servant regards\nit as the only cause of his obedience. They do not quarrel about their\nreciprocal situations, but each knows his own and keeps it.\n\nIn the French army the common soldier is taken from nearly the same\nclasses as the officer, and may hold the same commissions; out of the\nranks he considers himself entirely equal to his military superiors, and\nin point of fact he is so; but when under arms he does not hesitate to\nobey, and his obedience is not the less prompt, precise, and ready,\nfor being voluntary and defined. This example may give a notion of what\ntakes place between masters and servants in democratic communities.\n\nIt would be preposterous to suppose that those warm and deep-seated\naffections, which are sometimes kindled in the domestic service of\naristocracy, will ever spring up between these two men, or that they\nwill exhibit strong instances of self-sacrifice. In aristocracies\nmasters and servants live apart, and frequently their only intercourse\nis through a third person; yet they commonly stand firmly by one\nanother. In democratic countries the master and the servant are close\ntogether; they are in daily personal contact, but their minds do not\nintermingle; they have common occupations, hardly ever common interests.\nAmongst such a people the servant always considers himself as a\nsojourner in the dwelling of his masters. He knew nothing of their\nforefathers--he will see nothing of their descendants--he has nothing\nlasting to expect from their hand. Why then should he confound his\nlife with theirs, and whence should so strange a surrender of himself\nproceed? The reciprocal position of the two men is changed--their mutual\nrelations must be so too.\n\nI would fain illustrate all these reflections by the example of the\nAmericans; but for this purpose the distinctions of persons and places\nmust be accurately traced. In the South of the Union, slavery exists;\nall that I have just said is consequently inapplicable there. In the\nNorth, the majority of servants are either freedmen or the children\nof freedmen; these persons occupy a contested position in the public\nestimation; by the laws they are brought up to the level of their\nmasters--by the manners of the country they are obstinately detruded\nfrom it. They do not themselves clearly know their proper place, and\nthey are almost always either insolent or craven. But in the Northern\nStates, especially in New England, there are a certain number of whites,\nwho agree, for wages, to yield a temporary obedience to the will of\ntheir fellow-citizens. I have heard that these servants commonly perform\nthe duties of their situation with punctuality and intelligence; and\nthat without thinking themselves naturally inferior to the person who\norders them, they submit without reluctance to obey him. They appear to\nme to carry into service some of those manly habits which independence\nand equality engender. Having once selected a hard way of life, they do\nnot seek to escape from it by indirect means; and they have sufficient\nrespect for themselves, not to refuse to their master that obedience\nwhich they have freely promised. On their part, masters require nothing\nof their servants but the faithful and rigorous performance of the\ncovenant: they do not ask for marks of respect, they do not claim their\nlove or devoted attachment; it is enough that, as servants, they\nare exact and honest. It would not then be true to assert that,\nin democratic society, the relation of servants and masters is\ndisorganized: it is organized on another footing; the rule is different,\nbut there is a rule.\n\nIt is not my purpose to inquire whether the new state of things which\nI have just described is inferior to that which preceded it, or simply\ndifferent. Enough for me that it is fixed and determined: for what is\nmost important to meet with among men is not any given ordering, but\norder. But what shall I say of those sad and troubled times at which\nequality is established in the midst of the tumult of revolution--when\ndemocracy, after having been introduced into the state of society, still\nstruggles with difficulty against the prejudices and manners of the\ncountry? The laws, and partially public opinion, already declare that\nno natural or permanent inferiority exists between the servant and\nthe master. But this new belief has not yet reached the innermost\nconvictions of the latter, or rather his heart rejects it; in the secret\npersuasion of his mind the master thinks that he belongs to a peculiar\nand superior race; he dares not say so, but he shudders whilst he allows\nhimself to be dragged to the same level. His authority over his servants\nbecomes timid and at the same time harsh: he has already ceased to\nentertain for them the feelings of patronizing kindness which long\nuncontested power always engenders, and he is surprised that, being\nchanged himself, his servant changes also. He wants his attendants to\nform regular and permanent habits, in a condition of domestic service\nwhich is only temporary: he requires that they should appear contented\nwith and proud of a servile condition, which they will one day shake\noff--that they should sacrifice themselves to a man who can neither\nprotect nor ruin them--and in short that they should contract an\nindissoluble engagement to a being like themselves, and one who will\nlast no longer than they will.\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations it often happens that the condition of\ndomestic service does not degrade the character of those who enter upon\nit, because they neither know nor imagine any other; and the amazing\ninequality which is manifest between them and their master appears to\nbe the necessary and unavoidable consequence of some hidden law of\nProvidence. In democracies the condition of domestic service does not\ndegrade the character of those who enter upon it, because it is freely\nchosen, and adopted for a time only; because it is not stigmatized by\npublic opinion, and creates no permanent inequality between the servant\nand the master. But whilst the transition from one social condition\nto another is going on, there is almost always a time when men's\nminds fluctuate between the aristocratic notion of subjection and\nthe democratic notion of obedience. Obedience then loses its moral\nimportance in the eyes of him who obeys; he no longer considers it as\na species of divine obligation, and he does not yet view it under\nits purely human aspect; it has to him no character of sanctity or\nof justice, and he submits to it as to a degrading but profitable\ncondition. At that moment a confused and imperfect phantom of equality\nhaunts the minds of servants; they do not at once perceive whether the\nequality to which they are entitled is to be found within or without\nthe pale of domestic service; and they rebel in their hearts against a\nsubordination to which they have subjected themselves, and from which\nthey derive actual profit. They consent to serve, and they blush to\nobey; they like the advantages of service, but not the master; or\nrather, they are not sure that they ought not themselves to be masters,\nand they are inclined to consider him who orders them as an unjust\nusurper of their own rights. Then it is that the dwelling of every\ncitizen offers a spectacle somewhat analogous to the gloomy aspect of\npolitical society. A secret and intestine warfare is going on there\nbetween powers, ever rivals and suspicious of one another: the master is\nill-natured and weak, the servant ill-natured and intractable; the one\nconstantly attempts to evade by unfair restrictions his obligation to\nprotect and to remunerate--the other his obligation to obey. The reins\nof domestic government dangle between them, to be snatched at by one\nor the other. The lines which divide authority from oppression, liberty\nfrom license, and right from might, are to their eyes so jumbled\ntogether and confused, that no one knows exactly what he is, or what he\nmay be, or what he ought to be. Such a condition is not democracy, but\nrevolution.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI: That Democratic Institutions And Manners Tend To Raise Rents\nAnd Shorten The Terms Of Leases\n\nWhat has been said of servants and masters is applicable, to a certain\nextent, to landowners and farming tenants; but this subject deserves\nto be considered by itself. In America there are, properly speaking, no\ntenant farmers; every man owns the ground he tills. It must be admitted\nthat democratic laws tend greatly to increase the number of landowners,\nand to diminish that of farming tenants. Yet what takes place in the\nUnited States is much less attributable to the institutions of the\ncountry than to the country itself. In America land is cheap, and anyone\nmay easily become a landowner; its returns are small, and its produce\ncannot well be divided between a landowner and a farmer. America\ntherefore stands alone in this as well as in many other respects, and it\nwould be a mistake to take it as an example.\n\nI believe that in democratic as well as in aristocratic countries there\nwill be landowners and tenants, but the connection existing between them\nwill be of a different kind. In aristocracies the hire of a farm is paid\nto the landlord, not only in rent, but in respect, regard, and duty;\nin democracies the whole is paid in cash. When estates are divided and\npassed from hand to hand, and the permanent connection which existed\nbetween families and the soil is dissolved, the landowner and the tenant\nare only casually brought into contact. They meet for a moment to settle\nthe conditions of the agreement, and then lose sight of each other; they\nare two strangers brought together by a common interest, and who keenly\ntalk over a matter of business, the sole object of which is to make\nmoney.\n\nIn proportion as property is subdivided and wealth distributed over the\ncountry, the community is filled with people whose former opulence is\ndeclining, and with others whose fortunes are of recent growth and whose\nwants increase more rapidly than their resources. For all such persons\nthe smallest pecuniary profit is a matter of importance, and none of\nthem feel disposed to waive any of their claims, or to lose any portion\nof their income. As ranks are intermingled, and as very large as well\nas very scanty fortunes become more rare, every day brings the social\ncondition of the landowner nearer to that of the farmer; the one has not\nnaturally any uncontested superiority over the other; between two men\nwho are equal, and not at ease in their circumstances, the contract of\nhire is exclusively an affair of money. A man whose estate extends over\na whole district, and who owns a hundred farms, is well aware of the\nimportance of gaining at the same time the affections of some thousands\nof men; this object appears to call for his exertions, and to attain it\nhe will readily make considerable sacrifices. But he who owns a hundred\nacres is insensible to similar considerations, and he cares but little\nto win the private regard of his tenant.\n\nAn aristocracy does not expire like a man in a single day; the\naristocratic principle is slowly undermined in men's opinion, before it\nis attacked in their laws. Long before open war is declared against it,\nthe tie which had hitherto united the higher classes to the lower may be\nseen to be gradually relaxed. Indifference and contempt are betrayed by\none class, jealousy and hatred by the others; the intercourse between\nrich and poor becomes less frequent and less kind, and rents are raised.\nThis is not the consequence of a democratic revolution, but its certain\nharbinger; for an aristocracy which has lost the affections of the\npeople, once and forever, is like a tree dead at the root, which is the\nmore easily torn up by the winds the higher its branches have spread.\n\nIn the course of the last fifty years the rents of farms have amazingly\nincreased, not only in France but throughout the greater part of Europe.\nThe remarkable improvements which have taken place in agriculture and\nmanufactures within the same period do not suffice in my opinion to\nexplain this fact; recourse must be had to another cause more powerful\nand more concealed. I believe that cause is to be found in the\ndemocratic institutions which several European nations have adopted, and\nin the democratic passions which more or less agitate all the rest. I\nhave frequently heard great English landowners congratulate themselves\nthat, at the present day, they derive a much larger income from their\nestates than their fathers did. They have perhaps good reasons to be\nglad; but most assuredly they know not what they are glad of. They think\nthey are making a clear gain, when it is in reality only an exchange;\ntheir influence is what they are parting with for cash; and what they\ngain in money will ere long be lost in power.\n\nThere is yet another sign by which it is easy to know that a great\ndemocratic revolution is going on or approaching. In the Middle Ages\nalmost all lands were leased for lives, or for very long terms; the\ndomestic economy of that period shows that leases for ninety-nine years\nwere more frequent then than leases for twelve years are now. Men then\nbelieved that families were immortal; men's conditions seemed settled\nforever, and the whole of society appeared to be so fixed, that it\nwas not supposed that anything would ever be stirred or shaken in its\nstructure. In ages of equality, the human mind takes a different bent;\nthe prevailing notion is that nothing abides, and man is haunted by\nthe thought of mutability. Under this impression the landowner and\nthe tenant himself are instinctively averse to protracted terms of\nobligation; they are afraid of being tied up to-morrow by the contract\nwhich benefits them today. They have vague anticipations of some sudden\nand unforeseen change in their conditions; they mistrust themselves;\nthey fear lest their taste should change, and lest they should lament\nthat they cannot rid themselves of what they coveted; nor are such fears\nunfounded, for in democratic ages that which is most fluctuating amidst\nthe fluctuation of all around is the heart of man.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII: Influence Of Democracy On Wages\n\nMost of the remarks which I have already made in speaking of servants\nand masters, may be applied to masters and workmen. As the gradations\nof the social scale come to be less observed, whilst the great sink the\nhumble rise, and as poverty as well as opulence ceases to be hereditary,\nthe distance both in reality and in opinion, which heretofore separated\nthe workman from the master, is lessened every day. The workman\nconceives a more lofty opinion of his rights, of his future, of himself;\nhe is filled with new ambition and with new desires, he is harassed by\nnew wants. Every instant he views with longing eyes the profits of his\nemployer; and in order to share them, he strives to dispose of his labor\nat a higher rate, and he generally succeeds at length in the attempt.\nIn democratic countries, as well as elsewhere, most of the branches\nof productive industry are carried on at a small cost, by men little\nremoved by their wealth or education above the level of those whom they\nemploy. These manufacturing speculators are extremely numerous; their\ninterests differ; they cannot therefore easily concert or combine their\nexertions. On the other hand the workmen have almost always some sure\nresources, which enable them to refuse to work when they cannot get\nwhat they conceive to be the fair price of their labor. In the constant\nstruggle for wages which is going on between these two classes, their\nstrength is divided, and success alternates from one to the other. It\nis even probable that in the end the interest of the working class must\nprevail; for the high wages which they have already obtained make\nthem every day less dependent on their masters; and as they grow more\nindependent, they have greater facilities for obtaining a further\nincrease of wages.\n\nI shall take for example that branch of productive industry which is\nstill at the present day the most generally followed in France, and in\nalmost all the countries of the world--I mean the cultivation of the\nsoil. In France most of those who labor for hire in agriculture, are\nthemselves owners of certain plots of ground, which just enable them\nto subsist without working for anyone else. When these laborers come to\noffer their services to a neighboring landowner or farmer, if he refuses\nthem a certain rate of wages, they retire to their own small property\nand await another opportunity.\n\nI think that, upon the whole, it may be asserted that a slow and gradual\nrise of wages is one of the general laws of democratic communities. In\nproportion as social conditions become more equal, wages rise; and as\nwages are higher, social conditions become more equal. But a great and\ngloomy exception occurs in our own time. I have shown in a preceding\nchapter that aristocracy, expelled from political society, has\ntaken refuge in certain departments of productive industry, and has\nestablished its sway there under another form; this powerfully affects\nthe rate of wages. As a large capital is required to embark in the great\nmanufacturing speculations to which I allude, the number of persons who\nenter upon them is exceedingly limited: as their number is small, they\ncan easily concert together, and fix the rate of wages as they please.\nTheir workmen on the contrary are exceedingly numerous, and the number\nof them is always increasing; for, from time to time, an extraordinary\nrun of business takes place, during which wages are inordinately high,\nand they attract the surrounding population to the factories. But, when\nonce men have embraced that line of life, we have already seen that they\ncannot quit it again, because they soon contract habits of body and mind\nwhich unfit them for any other sort of toil. These men have generally\nbut little education and industry, with but few resources; they stand\ntherefore almost at the mercy of the master. When competition, or other\nfortuitous circumstances, lessen his profits, he can reduce the wages of\nhis workmen almost at pleasure, and make from them what he loses by the\nchances of business. Should the workmen strike, the master, who is a\nrich man, can very well wait without being ruined until necessity brings\nthem back to him; but they must work day by day or they die, for their\nonly property is in their hands. They have long been impoverished by\noppression, and the poorer they become the more easily may they be\noppressed: they can never escape from this fatal circle of cause\nand consequence. It is not then surprising that wages, after having\nsometimes suddenly risen, are permanently lowered in this branch of\nindustry; whereas in other callings the price of labor, which generally\nincreases but little, is nevertheless constantly augmented.\n\nThis state of dependence and wretchedness, in which a part of the\nmanufacturing population of our time lives, forms an exception to the\ngeneral rule, contrary to the state of all the rest of the community;\nbut, for this very reason, no circumstance is more important or more\ndeserving of the especial consideration of the legislator; for when the\nwhole of society is in motion, it is difficult to keep any one class\nstationary; and when the greater number of men are opening new paths to\nfortune, it is no less difficult to make the few support in peace their\nwants and their desires.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII: Influence Of Democracy On Kindred\n\nI have just examined the changes which the equality of conditions\nproduces in the mutual relations of the several members of the community\namongst democratic nations, and amongst the Americans in particular.\nI would now go deeper, and inquire into the closer ties of kindred: my\nobject here is not to seek for new truths, but to show in what manner\nfacts already known are connected with my subject.\n\nIt has been universally remarked, that in our time the several members\nof a family stand upon an entirely new footing towards each other; that\nthe distance which formerly separated a father from his sons has been\nlessened; and that paternal authority, if not destroyed, is at least\nimpaired. Something analogous to this, but even more striking, may be\nobserved in the United States. In America the family, in the Roman and\naristocratic signification of the word, does not exist. All that remains\nof it are a few vestiges in the first years of childhood, when the\nfather exercises, without opposition, that absolute domestic authority,\nwhich the feebleness of his children renders necessary, and which their\ninterest, as well as his own incontestable superiority, warrants. But\nas soon as the young American approaches manhood, the ties of filial\nobedience are relaxed day by day: master of his thoughts, he is soon\nmaster of his conduct. In America there is, strictly speaking, no\nadolescence: at the close of boyhood the man appears, and begins to\ntrace out his own path. It would be an error to suppose that this is\npreceded by a domestic struggle, in which the son has obtained by a\nsort of moral violence the liberty that his father refused him. The\nsame habits, the same principles which impel the one to assert\nhis independence, predispose the other to consider the use of that\nindependence as an incontestable right. The former does not exhibit any\nof those rancorous or irregular passions which disturb men long after\nthey have shaken off an established authority; the latter feels none of\nthat bitter and angry regret which is apt to survive a bygone power. The\nfather foresees the limits of his authority long beforehand, and when\nthe time arrives he surrenders it without a struggle: the son looks\nforward to the exact period at which he will be his own master; and he\nenters upon his freedom without precipitation and without effort, as a\npossession which is his own and which no one seeks to wrest from him. *a\n\n[Footnote a: The Americans, however, have not yet thought fit to strip\nthe parent, as has been done in France, of one of the chief elements of\nparental authority, by depriving him of the power of disposing of his\nproperty at his death. In the United States there are no restrictions on\nthe powers of a testator. In this respect, as in almost all others, it\nis easy to perceive, that if the political legislation of the Americans\nis much more democratic than that of the French, the civil legislation\nof the latter is infinitely more democratic than that of the former.\nThis may easily be accounted for. The civil legislation of France\nwas the work of a man who saw that it was his interest to satisfy the\ndemocratic passions of his contemporaries in all that was not directly\nand immediately hostile to his own power. He was willing to allow some\npopular principles to regulate the distribution of property and the\ngovernment of families, provided they were not to be introduced into\nthe administration of public affairs. Whilst the torrent of democracy\noverwhelmed the civil laws of the country, he hoped to find an easy\nshelter behind its political institutions. This policy was at once both\nadroit and selfish; but a compromise of this kind could not last; for\nin the end political institutions never fail to become the image and\nexpression of civil society; and in this sense it may be said that\nnothing is more political in a nation than its civil legislation.]\n\nIt may perhaps not be without utility to show how these changes which\ntake place in family relations, are closely connected with the social\nand political revolution which is approaching its consummation under\nour own observation. There are certain great social principles, which a\npeople either introduces everywhere, or tolerates nowhere. In countries\nwhich are aristocratically constituted with all the gradations of rank,\nthe government never makes a direct appeal to the mass of the governed:\nas men are united together, it is enough to lead the foremost, the\nrest will follow. This is equally applicable to the family, as to all\naristocracies which have a head. Amongst aristocratic nations, social\ninstitutions recognize, in truth, no one in the family but the father;\nchildren are received by society at his hands; society governs him,\nhe governs them. Thus the parent has not only a natural right, but he\nacquires a political right, to command them: he is the author and\nthe support of his family; but he is also its constituted ruler. In\ndemocracies, where the government picks out every individual singly from\nthe mass, to make him subservient to the general laws of the community,\nno such intermediate person is required: a father is there, in the eye\nof the law, only a member of the community, older and richer than his\nsons.\n\nWhen most of the conditions of life are extremely unequal, and the\ninequality of these conditions is permanent, the notion of a superior\ngrows upon the imaginations of men: if the law invested him with no\nprivileges, custom and public opinion would concede them. When, on\nthe contrary, men differ but little from each other, and do not always\nremain in dissimilar conditions of life, the general notion of a\nsuperior becomes weaker and less distinct: it is vain for legislation\nto strive to place him who obeys very much beneath him who commands; the\nmanners of the time bring the two men nearer to one another, and draw\nthem daily towards the same level. Although the legislation of an\naristocratic people should grant no peculiar privileges to the heads\nof families; I shall not be the less convinced that their power is\nmore respected and more extensive than in a democracy; for I know that,\nwhatsoever the laws may be, superiors always appear higher and inferiors\nlower in aristocracies than amongst democratic nations.\n\n\nWhen men live more for the remembrance of what has been than for the\ncare of what is, and when they are more given to attend to what their\nancestors thought than to think themselves, the father is the natural\nand necessary tie between the past and the present--the link by which\nthe ends of these two chains are connected. In aristocracies, then, the\nfather is not only the civil head of the family, but the oracle of its\ntraditions, the expounder of its customs, the arbiter of its manners.\nHe is listened to with deference, he is addressed with respect, and\nthe love which is felt for him is always tempered with fear. When the\ncondition of society becomes democratic, and men adopt as their general\nprinciple that it is good and lawful to judge of all things for one's\nself, using former points of belief not as a rule of faith but simply\nas a means of information, the power which the opinions of a father\nexercise over those of his sons diminishes as well as his legal power.\n\nPerhaps the subdivision of estates which democracy brings with it\ncontributes more than anything else to change the relations existing\nbetween a father and his children. When the property of the father of a\nfamily is scanty, his son and himself constantly live in the same place,\nand share the same occupations: habit and necessity bring them\ntogether, and force them to hold constant communication: the inevitable\nconsequence is a sort of familiar intimacy, which renders authority less\nabsolute, and which can ill be reconciled with the external forms\nof respect. Now in democratic countries the class of those who are\npossessed of small fortunes is precisely that which gives strength\nto the notions, and a particular direction to the manners, of the\ncommunity. That class makes its opinions preponderate as universally as\nits will, and even those who are most inclined to resist its commands\nare carried away in the end by its example. I have known eager opponents\nof democracy who allowed their children to address them with perfect\ncolloquial equality.\n\nThus, at the same time that the power of aristocracy is declining, the\naustere, the conventional, and the legal part of parental authority\nvanishes, and a species of equality prevails around the domestic hearth.\nI know not, upon the whole, whether society loses by the change, but I\nam inclined to believe that man individually is a gainer by it. I think\nthat, in proportion as manners and laws become more democratic, the\nrelation of father and son becomes more intimate and more affectionate;\nrules and authority are less talked of; confidence and tenderness are\noftentimes increased, and it would seem that the natural bond is drawn\ncloser in proportion as the social bond is loosened. In a democratic\nfamily the father exercises no other power than that with which men\nlove to invest the affection and the experience of age; his orders would\nperhaps be disobeyed, but his advice is for the most part authoritative.\nThough he be not hedged in with ceremonial respect, his sons at least\naccost him with confidence; no settled form of speech is appropriated\nto the mode of addressing him, but they speak to him constantly, and are\nready to consult him day by day; the master and the constituted ruler\nhave vanished--the father remains. Nothing more is needed, in order\nto judge of the difference between the two states of society in this\nrespect, than to peruse the family correspondence of aristocratic ages.\nThe style is always correct, ceremonious, stiff, and so cold that the\nnatural warmth of the heart can hardly be felt in the language.\nThe language, on the contrary, addressed by a son to his father in\ndemocratic countries is always marked by mingled freedom, familiarity\nand affection, which at once show that new relations have sprung up in\nthe bosom of the family.\n\nA similar revolution takes place in the mutual relations of children. In\naristocratic families, as well as in aristocratic society, every place\nis marked out beforehand. Not only does the father occupy a separate\nrank, in which he enjoys extensive privileges, but even the children\nare not equal amongst themselves. The age and sex of each irrevocably\ndetermine his rank, and secure to him certain privileges: most of these\ndistinctions are abolished or diminished by democracy. In aristocratic\nfamilies the eldest son, inheriting the greater part of the property,\nand almost all the rights of the family, becomes the chief, and, to a\ncertain extent, the master, of his brothers. Greatness and power are for\nhim--for them, mediocrity and dependence. Nevertheless it would be wrong\nto suppose that, amongst aristocratic nations, the privileges of the\neldest son are advantageous to himself alone, or that they excite\nnothing but envy and hatred in those around him. The eldest son commonly\nendeavors to procure wealth and power for his brothers, because the\ngeneral splendor of the house is reflected back on him who represents\nit; the younger sons seek to back the elder brother in all his\nundertakings, because the greatness and power of the head of the family\nbetter enable him to provide for all its branches. The different members\nof an aristocratic family are therefore very closely bound together;\ntheir interests are connected, their minds agree, but their hearts are\nseldom in harmony.\n\nDemocracy also binds brothers to each other, but by very different\nmeans. Under democratic laws all the children are perfectly equal, and\nconsequently independent; nothing brings them forcibly together, but\nnothing keeps them apart; and as they have the same origin, as they are\ntrained under the same roof, as they are treated with the same care, and\nas no peculiar privilege distinguishes or divides them, the affectionate\nand youthful intimacy of early years easily springs up between them.\nScarcely any opportunities occur to break the tie thus formed at the\noutset of life; for their brotherhood brings them daily together,\nwithout embarrassing them. It is not, then, by interest, but by common\nassociations and by the free sympathy of opinion and of taste, that\ndemocracy unites brothers to each other. It divides their inheritance,\nbut it allows their hearts and minds to mingle together. Such is\nthe charm of these democratic manners, that even the partisans of\naristocracy are caught by it; and after having experienced it for some\ntime, they are by no means tempted to revert to the respectful and\nfrigid observance of aristocratic families. They would be glad to retain\nthe domestic habits of democracy, if they might throw off its social\nconditions and its laws; but these elements are indissolubly united, and\nit is impossible to enjoy the former without enduring the latter.\nThe remarks I have made on filial love and fraternal affection are\napplicable to all the passions which emanate spontaneously from human\nnature itself. If a certain mode of thought or feeling is the result of\nsome peculiar condition of life, when that condition is altered nothing\nwhatever remains of the thought or feeling. Thus a law may bind two\nmembers of the community very closely to one another; but that law being\nabolished, they stand asunder. Nothing was more strict than the tie\nwhich united the vassal to the lord under the feudal system; at the\npresent day the two men know not each other; the fear, the gratitude,\nand the affection which formerly connected them have vanished, and not\na vestige of the tie remains. Such, however, is not the case with those\nfeelings which are natural to mankind. Whenever a law attempts to tutor\nthese feelings in any particular manner, it seldom fails to weaken them;\nby attempting to add to their intensity, it robs them of some of their\nelements, for they are never stronger than when left to themselves.\n\nDemocracy, which destroys or obscures almost all the old conventional\nrules of society, and which prevents men from readily assenting to new\nones, entirely effaces most of the feelings to which these conventional\nrules have given rise; but it only modifies some others, and frequently\nimparts to them a degree of energy and sweetness unknown before. Perhaps\nit is not impossible to condense into a single proposition the whole\nmeaning of this chapter, and of several others that preceded it.\nDemocracy loosens social ties, but it draws the ties of nature more\ntight; it brings kindred more closely together, whilst it places the\nvarious members of the community more widely apart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX: Education Of Young Women In The United States\n\nNo free communities ever existed without morals; and, as I observed\nin the former part of this work, morals are the work of woman.\nConsequently, whatever affects the condition of women, their habits\nand their opinions, has great political importance in my eyes. Amongst\nalmost all Protestant nations young women are far more the mistresses of\ntheir own actions than they are in Catholic countries. This independence\nis still greater in Protestant countries, like England, which have\nretained or acquired the right of self-government; the spirit of freedom\nis then infused into the domestic circle by political habits and by\nreligious opinions. In the United States the doctrines of Protestantism\nare combined with great political freedom and a most democratic state\nof society; and nowhere are young women surrendered so early or so\ncompletely to their own guidance. Long before an American girl arrives\nat the age of marriage, her emancipation from maternal control begins;\nshe has scarcely ceased to be a child when she already thinks for\nherself, speaks with freedom, and acts on her own impulse. The great\nscene of the world is constantly open to her view; far from seeking\nconcealment, it is every day disclosed to her more completely, and she\nis taught to survey it with a firm and calm gaze. Thus the vices and\ndangers of society are early revealed to her; as she sees them clearly,\nshe views them without illusions, and braves them without fear; for she\nis full of reliance on her own strength, and her reliance seems to be\nshared by all who are about her. An American girl scarcely ever displays\nthat virginal bloom in the midst of young desires, or that innocent\nand ingenuous grace which usually attends the European woman in the\ntransition from girlhood to youth. It is rarely that an American woman\nat any age displays childish timidity or ignorance. Like the young women\nof Europe, she seeks to please, but she knows precisely the cost of\npleasing. If she does not abandon herself to evil, at least she knows\nthat it exists; and she is remarkable rather for purity of manners\nthan for chastity of mind. I have been frequently surprised, and almost\nfrightened, at the singular address and happy boldness with which young\nwomen in America contrive to manage their thoughts and their language\namidst all the difficulties of stimulating conversation; a philosopher\nwould have stumbled at every step along the narrow path which they trod\nwithout accidents and without effort. It is easy indeed to perceive\nthat, even amidst the independence of early youth, an American woman\nis always mistress of herself; she indulges in all permitted pleasures,\nwithout yielding herself up to any of them; and her reason never allows\nthe reins of self-guidance to drop, though it often seems to hold them\nloosely.\n\nIn France, where remnants of every age are still so strangely mingled\nin the opinions and tastes of the people, women commonly receive a\nreserved, retired, and almost cloistral education, as they did in\naristocratic times; and then they are suddenly abandoned, without a\nguide and without assistance, in the midst of all the irregularities\ninseparable from democratic society. The Americans are more consistent.\nThey have found out that in a democracy the independence of individuals\ncannot fail to be very great, youth premature, tastes ill-restrained,\ncustoms fleeting, public opinion often unsettled and powerless,\npaternal authority weak, and marital authority contested. Under these\ncircumstances, believing that they had little chance of repressing in\nwoman the most vehement passions of the human heart, they held that\nthe surer way was to teach her the art of combating those passions for\nherself. As they could not prevent her virtue from being exposed to\nfrequent danger, they determined that she should know how best to defend\nit; and more reliance was placed on the free vigor of her will than\non safeguards which have been shaken or overthrown. Instead, then, of\ninculcating mistrust of herself, they constantly seek to enhance their\nconfidence in her own strength of character. As it is neither possible\nnor desirable to keep a young woman in perpetual or complete ignorance,\nthey hasten to give her a precocious knowledge on all subjects. Far\nfrom hiding the corruptions of the world from her, they prefer that she\nshould see them at once and train herself to shun them; and they hold it\nof more importance to protect her conduct than to be over-scrupulous of\nher innocence.\n\nAlthough the Americans are a very religious people, they do not rely\non religion alone to defend the virtue of woman; they seek to arm her\nreason also. In this they have followed the same method as in several\nother respects; they first make the most vigorous efforts to bring\nindividual independence to exercise a proper control over itself, and\nthey do not call in the aid of religion until they have reached the\nutmost limits of human strength. I am aware that an education of this\nkind is not without danger; I am sensible that it tends to invigorate\nthe judgment at the expense of the imagination, and to make cold and\nvirtuous women instead of affectionate wives and agreeable companions\nto man. Society may be more tranquil and better regulated, but domestic\nlife has often fewer charms. These, however, are secondary evils, which\nmay be braved for the sake of higher interests. At the stage at which we\nare now arrived the time for choosing is no longer within our control; a\ndemocratic education is indispensable to protect women from the dangers\nwith which democratic institutions and manners surround them.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X: The Young Woman In The Character Of A Wife\n\nIn America the independence of woman is irrevocably lost in the bonds\nof matrimony: if an unmarried woman is less constrained there than\nelsewhere, a wife is subjected to stricter obligations. The former makes\nher father's house an abode of freedom and of pleasure; the latter\nlives in the home of her husband as if it were a cloister. Yet these\ntwo different conditions of life are perhaps not so contrary as may be\nsupposed, and it is natural that the American women should pass through\nthe one to arrive at the other.\n\nReligious peoples and trading nations entertain peculiarly serious\nnotions of marriage: the former consider the regularity of woman's life\nas the best pledge and most certain sign of the purity of her morals;\nthe latter regard it as the highest security for the order and\nprosperity of the household. The Americans are at the same time a\npuritanical people and a commercial nation: their religious opinions,\nas well as their trading habits, consequently lead them to require\nmuch abnegation on the part of woman, and a constant sacrifice of her\npleasures to her duties which is seldom demanded of her in Europe. Thus\nin the United States the inexorable opinion of the public carefully\ncircumscribes woman within the narrow circle of domestic interest and\nduties, and forbids her to step beyond it.\n\nUpon her entrance into the world a young American woman finds these\nnotions firmly established; she sees the rules which are derived from\nthem; she is not slow to perceive that she cannot depart for an instant\nfrom the established usages of her contemporaries, without putting in\njeopardy her peace of mind, her honor, nay even her social existence;\nand she finds the energy required for such an act of submission in\nthe firmness of her understanding and in the virile habits which her\neducation has given her. It may be said that she has learned by the use\nof her independence to surrender it without a struggle and without a\nmurmur when the time comes for making the sacrifice. But no American\nwoman falls into the toils of matrimony as into a snare held out to\nher simplicity and ignorance. She has been taught beforehand what is\nexpected of her, and voluntarily and freely does she enter upon this\nengagement. She supports her new condition with courage, because she\nchose it. As in America paternal discipline is very relaxed and the\nconjugal tie very strict, a young woman does not contract the latter\nwithout considerable circumspection and apprehension. Precocious\nmarriages are rare. Thus American women do not marry until their\nunderstandings are exercised and ripened; whereas in other countries\nmost women generally only begin to exercise and to ripen their\nunderstandings after marriage.\n\nI by no means suppose, however, that the great change which takes place\nin all the habits of women in the United States, as soon as they are\nmarried, ought solely to be attributed to the constraint of public\nopinion: it is frequently imposed upon themselves by the sole effort of\ntheir own will. When the time for choosing a husband is arrived, that\ncold and stern reasoning power which has been educated and invigorated\nby the free observation of the world, teaches an American woman that a\nspirit of levity and independence in the bonds of marriage is a constant\nsubject of annoyance, not of pleasure; it tells her that the amusements\nof the girl cannot become the recreations of the wife, and that the\nsources of a married woman's happiness are in the home of her husband.\nAs she clearly discerns beforehand the only road which can lead to\ndomestic happiness, she enters upon it at once, and follows it to the\nend without seeking to turn back.\n\nThe same strength of purpose which the young wives of America display,\nin bending themselves at once and without repining to the austere duties\nof their new condition, is no less manifest in all the great trials\nof their lives. In no country in the world are private fortunes more\nprecarious than in the United States. It is not uncommon for the same\nman, in the course of his life, to rise and sink again through all the\ngrades which lead from opulence to poverty. American women support these\nvicissitudes with calm and unquenchable energy: it would seem that their\ndesires contract, as easily as they expand, with their fortunes. *a\n\n[Footnote a: See Appendix S.]\n\nThe greater part of the adventurers who migrate every year to people the\nwestern wilds, belong, as I observed in the former part of this work, to\nthe old Anglo-American race of the Northern States. Many of these men,\nwho rush so boldly onwards in pursuit of wealth, were already in the\nenjoyment of a competency in their own part of the country. They take\ntheir wives along with them, and make them share the countless\nperils and privations which always attend the commencement of these\nexpeditions. I have often met, even on the verge of the wilderness, with\nyoung women, who after having been brought up amidst all the comforts\nof the large towns of New England, had passed, almost without any\nintermediate stage, from the wealthy abode of their parents to a\ncomfortless hovel in a forest. Fever, solitude, and a tedious life had\nnot broken the springs of their courage. Their features were impaired\nand faded, but their looks were firm: they appeared to be at once\nsad and resolute. I do not doubt that these young American women had\namassed, in the education of their early years, that inward strength\nwhich they displayed under these circumstances. The early culture of\nthe girl may still therefore be traced, in the United States, under the\naspect of marriage: her part is changed, her habits are different, but\nher character is the same.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI: That The Equality Of Conditions Contributes To The\nMaintenance Of Good Morals In America\n\nSome philosophers and historians have said, or have hinted, that the\nstrictness of female morality was increased or diminished simply by the\ndistance of a country from the equator. This solution of the difficulty\nwas an easy one; and nothing was required but a globe and a pair of\ncompasses to settle in an instant one of the most difficult problems in\nthe condition of mankind. But I am not aware that this principle of the\nmaterialists is supported by facts. The same nations have been chaste or\ndissolute at different periods of their history; the strictness or the\nlaxity of their morals depended therefore on some variable cause, not\nonly on the natural qualities of their country, which were invariable.\nI do not deny that in certain climates the passions which are occasioned\nby the mutual attraction of the sexes are peculiarly intense; but I\nam of opinion that this natural intensity may always be excited or\nrestrained by the condition of society and by political institutions.\n\nAlthough the travellers who have visited North America differ on a great\nnumber of points, they all agree in remarking that morals are far\nmore strict there than elsewhere. It is evident that on this point\nthe Americans are very superior to their progenitors the English.\nA superficial glance at the two nations will establish the fact.\nIn England, as in all other countries of Europe, public malice is\nconstantly attacking the frailties of women. Philosophers and statesmen\nare heard to deplore that morals are not sufficiently strict, and the\nliterary productions of the country constantly lead one to suppose so.\nIn America all books, novels not excepted, suppose women to be chaste,\nand no one thinks of relating affairs of gallantry. No doubt this great\nregularity of American morals originates partly in the country, in the\nrace of the people, and in their religion: but all these causes, which\noperate elsewhere, do not suffice to account for it; recourse must\nbe had to some special reason. This reason appears to me to be the\nprinciple of equality and the institutions derived from it. Equality\nof conditions does not of itself engender regularity of morals, but\nit unquestionably facilitates and increases it. *a [Footnote a: See\nAppendix T.]\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations birth and fortune frequently make two such\ndifferent beings of man and woman, that they can never be united to each\nother. Their passions draw them together, but the condition of society,\nand the notions suggested by it, prevent them from contracting a\npermanent and ostensible tie. The necessary consequence is a great\nnumber of transient and clandestine connections. Nature secretly avenges\nherself for the constraint imposed upon her by the laws of man. This is\nnot so much the case when the equality of conditions has swept away all\nthe imaginary, or the real, barriers which separated man from woman. No\ngirl then believes that she cannot become the wife of the man who loves\nher; and this renders all breaches of morality before marriage very\nuncommon: for, whatever be the credulity of the passions, a woman will\nhardly be able to persuade herself that she is beloved, when her lover\nis perfectly free to marry her and does not.\n\nThe same cause operates, though more indirectly, on married life.\nNothing better serves to justify an illicit passion, either to the minds\nof those who have conceived it or to the world which looks on, than\ncompulsory or accidental marriages. *b In a country in which a woman is\nalways free to exercise her power of choosing, and in which education\nhas prepared her to choose rightly, public opinion is inexorable to her\nfaults. The rigor of the Americans arises in part from this cause.\nThey consider marriages as a covenant which is often onerous, but every\ncondition of which the parties are strictly bound to fulfil, because\nthey knew all those conditions beforehand, and were perfectly free not\nto have contracted them.\n\n[Footnote b: The literature of Europe sufficiently corroborates this\nremark. When a European author wishes to depict in a work of imagination\nany of these great catastrophes in matrimony which so frequently occur\namongst us, he takes care to bespeak the compassion of the reader by\nbringing before him ill-assorted or compulsory marriages. Although\nhabitual tolerance has long since relaxed our morals, an author could\nhardly succeed in interesting us in the misfortunes of his characters,\nif he did not first palliate their faults. This artifice seldom fails:\nthe daily scenes we witness prepare us long beforehand to be indulgent.\nBut American writers could never render these palliations probable to\ntheir readers; their customs and laws are opposed to it; and as they\ndespair of rendering levity of conduct pleasing, they cease to depict\nit. This is one of the causes to which must be attributed the small\nnumber of novels published in the United States.]\n\nThe very circumstances which render matrimonial fidelity more obligatory\nalso render it more easy. In aristocratic countries the object of\nmarriage is rather to unite property than persons; hence the husband is\nsometimes at school and the wife at nurse when they are betrothed. It\ncannot be wondered at if the conjugal tie which holds the fortunes of\nthe pair united allows their hearts to rove; this is the natural result\nof the nature of the contract. When, on the contrary, a man always\nchooses a wife for himself, without any external coercion or even\nguidance, it is generally a conformity of tastes and opinions which\nbrings a man and a woman together, and this same conformity keeps and\nfixes them in close habits of intimacy.\n\nOur forefathers had conceived a very strange notion on the subject of\nmarriage: as they had remarked that the small number of love-matches\nwhich occurred in their time almost always turned out ill, they\nresolutely inferred that it was exceedingly dangerous to listen to the\ndictates of the heart on the subject. Accident appeared to them to be a\nbetter guide than choice. Yet it was not very difficult to perceive that\nthe examples which they witnessed did in fact prove nothing at all. For\nin the first place, if democratic nations leave a woman at liberty\nto choose her husband, they take care to give her mind sufficient\nknowledge, and her will sufficient strength, to make so important a\nchoice: whereas the young women who, amongst aristocratic nations,\nfurtively elope from the authority of their parents to throw themselves\nof their own accord into the arms of men whom they have had neither time\nto know, nor ability to judge of, are totally without those securities.\nIt is not surprising that they make a bad use of their freedom of action\nthe first time they avail themselves of it; nor that they fall into such\ncruel mistakes, when, not having received a democratic education, they\nchoose to marry in conformity to democratic customs. But this is\nnot all. When a man and woman are bent upon marriage in spite of the\ndifferences of an aristocratic state of society, the difficulties to\nbe overcome are enormous. Having broken or relaxed the bonds of filial\nobedience, they have then to emancipate themselves by a final effort\nfrom the sway of custom and the tyranny of opinion; and when at length\nthey have succeeded in this arduous task, they stand estranged from\ntheir natural friends and kinsmen: the prejudice they have crossed\nseparates them from all, and places them in a situation which soon\nbreaks their courage and sours their hearts. If, then, a couple married\nin this manner are first unhappy and afterwards criminal, it ought not\nto be attributed to the freedom of their choice, but rather to their\nliving in a community in which this freedom of choice is not admitted.\n\nMoreover it should not be forgotten that the same effort which makes a\nman violently shake off a prevailing error, commonly impels him beyond\nthe bounds of reason; that, to dare to declare war, in however just\na cause, against the opinion of one's age and country, a violent and\nadventurous spirit is required, and that men of this character seldom\narrive at happiness or virtue, whatever be the path they follow. And\nthis, it may be observed by the way, is the reason why in the most\nnecessary and righteous revolutions, it is so rare to meet with virtuous\nor moderate revolutionary characters. There is then no just ground\nfor surprise if a man, who in an age of aristocracy chooses to consult\nnothing but his own opinion and his own taste in the choice of a wife,\nsoon finds that infractions of morality and domestic wretchedness invade\nhis household: but when this same line of action is in the natural and\nordinary course of things, when it is sanctioned by parental authority\nand backed by public opinion, it cannot be doubted that the internal\npeace of families will be increased by it, and conjugal fidelity more\nrigidly observed.\n\nAlmost all men in democracies are engaged in public or professional\nlife; and on the other hand the limited extent of common incomes obliges\na wife to confine herself to the house, in order to watch in person and\nvery closely over the details of domestic economy. All these distinct\nand compulsory occupations are so many natural barriers, which, by\nkeeping the two sexes asunder, render the solicitations of the one less\nfrequent and less ardent--the resistance of the other more easy.\n\nNot indeed that the equality of conditions can ever succeed in making\nmen chaste, but it may impart a less dangerous character to their\nbreaches of morality. As no one has then either sufficient time or\nopportunity to assail a virtue armed in self-defence, there will be\nat the same time a great number of courtesans and a great number\nof virtuous women. This state of things causes lamentable cases of\nindividual hardship, but it does not prevent the body of society from\nbeing strong and alert: it does not destroy family ties, or enervate the\nmorals of the nation. Society is endangered not by the great profligacy\nof a few, but by laxity of morals amongst all. In the eyes of a\nlegislator, prostitution is less to be dreaded than intrigue.\n\nThe tumultuous and constantly harassed life which equality makes men\nlead, not only distracts them from the passion of love, by denying\nthem time to indulge in it, but it diverts them from it by another more\nsecret but more certain road. All men who live in democratic ages more\nor less contract the ways of thinking of the manufacturing and trading\nclasses; their minds take a serious, deliberate, and positive turn; they\nare apt to relinquish the ideal, in order to pursue some visible and\nproximate object, which appears to be the natural and necessary aim\nof their desires. Thus the principle of equality does not destroy the\nimagination, but lowers its flight to the level of the earth. No men are\nless addicted to reverie than the citizens of a democracy; and few of\nthem are ever known to give way to those idle and solitary meditations\nwhich commonly precede and produce the great emotions of the heart. It\nis true they attach great importance to procuring for themselves that\nsort of deep, regular, and quiet affection which constitutes the charm\nand safeguard of life, but they are not apt to run after those violent\nand capricious sources of excitement which disturb and abridge it.\n\nI am aware that all this is only applicable in its full extent to\nAmerica, and cannot at present be extended to Europe. In the course of\nthe last half-century, whilst laws and customs have impelled several\nEuropean nations with unexampled force towards democracy, we have not\nhad occasion to observe that the relations of man and woman have become\nmore orderly or more chaste. In some places the very reverse may be\ndetected: some classes are more strict--the general morality of the\npeople appears to be more lax. I do not hesitate to make the remark, for\nI am as little disposed to flatter my contemporaries as to malign them.\nThis fact must distress, but it ought not to surprise us. The propitious\ninfluence which a democratic state of society may exercise upon orderly\nhabits, is one of those tendencies which can only be discovered after\na time. If the equality of conditions is favorable to purity of morals,\nthe social commotion by which conditions are rendered equal is adverse\nto it. In the last fifty years, during which France has been undergoing\nthis transformation, that country has rarely had freedom, always\ndisturbance. Amidst this universal confusion of notions and this general\nstir of opinions--amidst this incoherent mixture of the just and unjust,\nof truth and falsehood, of right and might--public virtue has become\ndoubtful, and private morality wavering. But all revolutions, whatever\nmay have been their object or their agents, have at first produced\nsimilar consequences; even those which have in the end drawn the bonds\nof morality more tightly began by loosening them. The violations of\nmorality which the French frequently witness do not appear to me to have\na permanent character; and this is already betokened by some curious\nsigns of the times.\n\nNothing is more wretchedly corrupt than an aristocracy which retains its\nwealth when it has lost its power, and which still enjoys a vast deal\nof leisure after it is reduced to mere vulgar pastimes. The energetic\npassions and great conceptions which animated it heretofore, leave it\nthen; and nothing remains to it but a host of petty consuming vices,\nwhich cling about it like worms upon a carcass. No one denies that the\nFrench aristocracy of the last century was extremely dissolute; whereas\nestablished habits and ancient belief still preserved some respect for\nmorality amongst the other classes of society. Nor will it be contested\nthat at the present day the remnants of that same aristocracy exhibit\na certain severity of morals; whilst laxity of morals appears to have\nspread amongst the middle and lower ranks. So that the same families\nwhich were most profligate fifty years ago are nowadays the most\nexemplary, and democracy seems only to have strengthened the morality\nof the aristocratic classes. The French Revolution, by dividing the\nfortunes of the nobility, by forcing them to attend assiduously to their\naffairs and to their families, by making them live under the same roof\nwith their children, and in short by giving a more rational and serious\nturn to their minds, has imparted to them, almost without their being\naware of it, a reverence for religious belief, a love of order, of\ntranquil pleasures, of domestic endearments, and of comfort; whereas the\nrest of the nation, which had naturally these same tastes, was carried\naway into excesses by the effort which was required to overthrow the\nlaws and political habits of the country. The old French aristocracy has\nundergone the consequences of the Revolution, but it neither felt the\nrevolutionary passions nor shared in the anarchical excitement which\nproduced that crisis; it may easily be conceived that this aristocracy\nfeels the salutary influence of the Revolution in its manners, before\nthose who achieve it. It may therefore be said, though at first it seems\nparadoxical, that, at the present day, the most anti-democratic classes\nof the nation principally exhibit the kind of morality which may\nreasonably be anticipated from democracy. I cannot but think that when\nwe shall have obtained all the effects of this democratic Revolution,\nafter having got rid of the tumult it has caused, the observations which\nare now only applicable to the few will gradually become true of the\nwhole community.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII: How The Americans Understand The Equality Of The Sexes\n\nI Have shown how democracy destroys or modifies the different\ninequalities which originate in society; but is this all? or does it\nnot ultimately affect that great inequality of man and woman which has\nseemed, up to the present day, to be eternally based in human nature? I\nbelieve that the social changes which bring nearer to the same level\nthe father and son, the master and servant, and superiors and inferiors\ngenerally speaking, will raise woman and make her more and more the\nequal of man. But here, more than ever, I feel the necessity of making\nmyself clearly understood; for there is no subject on which the coarse\nand lawless fancies of our age have taken a freer range.\n\nThere are people in Europe who, confounding together the different\ncharacteristics of the sexes, would make of man and woman beings not\nonly equal but alike. They would give to both the same functions, impose\non both the same duties, and grant to both the same rights; they would\nmix them in all things--their occupations, their pleasures, their\nbusiness. It may readily be conceived, that by thus attempting to make\none sex equal to the other, both are degraded; and from so preposterous\na medley of the works of nature nothing could ever result but weak men\nand disorderly women. It is not thus that the Americans understand that\nspecies of democratic equality which may be established between the\nsexes. They admit, that as nature has appointed such wide differences\nbetween the physical and moral constitution of man and woman, her\nmanifest design was to give a distinct employment to their various\nfaculties; and they hold that improvement does not consist in making\nbeings so dissimilar do pretty nearly the same things, but in getting\neach of them to fulfil their respective tasks in the best possible\nmanner. The Americans have applied to the sexes the great principle\nof political economy which governs the manufactures of our age, by\ncarefully dividing the duties of man from those of woman, in order that\nthe great work of society may be the better carried on.\n\nIn no country has such constant care been taken as in America to trace\ntwo clearly distinct lines of action for the two sexes, and to make\nthem keep pace one with the other, but in two pathways which are always\ndifferent. American women never manage the outward concerns of the\nfamily, or conduct a business, or take a part in political life; nor are\nthey, on the other hand, ever compelled to perform the rough labor of\nthe fields, or to make any of those laborious exertions which demand\nthe exertion of physical strength. No families are so poor as to form\nan exception to this rule. If on the one hand an American woman cannot\nescape from the quiet circle of domestic employments, on the other\nhand she is never forced to go beyond it. Hence it is that the women of\nAmerica, who often exhibit a masculine strength of understanding and a\nmanly energy, generally preserve great delicacy of personal appearance\nand always retain the manners of women, although they sometimes show\nthat they have the hearts and minds of men.\n\nNor have the Americans ever supposed that one consequence of democratic\nprinciples is the subversion of marital power, of the confusion of the\nnatural authorities in families. They hold that every association must\nhave a head in order to accomplish its object, and that the natural head\nof the conjugal association is man. They do not therefore deny him the\nright of directing his partner; and they maintain, that in the smaller\nassociation of husband and wife, as well as in the great social\ncommunity, the object of democracy is to regulate and legalize the\npowers which are necessary, not to subvert all power. This opinion is\nnot peculiar to one sex, and contested by the other: I never observed\nthat the women of America consider conjugal authority as a fortunate\nusurpation of their rights, nor that they thought themselves degraded by\nsubmitting to it. It appeared to me, on the contrary, that they attach a\nsort of pride to the voluntary surrender of their own will, and make it\ntheir boast to bend themselves to the yoke, not to shake it off. Such\nat least is the feeling expressed by the most virtuous of their sex; the\nothers are silent; and in the United States it is not the practice for\na guilty wife to clamor for the rights of women, whilst she is trampling\non her holiest duties.\n\nIt has often been remarked that in Europe a certain degree of contempt\nlurks even in the flattery which men lavish upon women: although a\nEuropean frequently affects to be the slave of woman, it may be seen\nthat he never sincerely thinks her his equal. In the United States men\nseldom compliment women, but they daily show how much they esteem them.\nThey constantly display an entire confidence in the understanding of a\nwife, and a profound respect for her freedom; they have decided that her\nmind is just as fitted as that of a man to discover the plain truth, and\nher heart as firm to embrace it; and they have never sought to place her\nvirtue, any more than his, under the shelter of prejudice, ignorance,\nand fear. It would seem that in Europe, where man so easily submits to\nthe despotic sway of women, they are nevertheless curtailed of some of\nthe greatest qualities of the human species, and considered as seductive\nbut imperfect beings; and (what may well provoke astonishment) women\nultimately look upon themselves in the same light, and almost consider\nit as a privilege that they are entitled to show themselves futile,\nfeeble, and timid. The women of America claim no such privileges.\n\nAgain, it may be said that in our morals we have reserved strange\nimmunities to man; so that there is, as it were, one virtue for his use,\nand another for the guidance of his partner; and that, according to the\nopinion of the public, the very same act may be punished alternately\nas a crime or only as a fault. The Americans know not this iniquitous\ndivision of duties and rights; amongst them the seducer is as much\ndishonored as his victim. It is true that the Americans rarely lavish\nupon women those eager attentions which are commonly paid them in\nEurope; but their conduct to women always implies that they suppose them\nto be virtuous and refined; and such is the respect entertained for\nthe moral freedom of the sex, that in the presence of a woman the\nmost guarded language is used, lest her ear should be offended by an\nexpression. In America a young unmarried woman may, alone and without\nfear, undertake a long journey.\n\nThe legislators of the United States, who have mitigated almost all the\npenalties of criminal law, still make rape a capital offence, and no\ncrime is visited with more inexorable severity by public opinion.\nThis may be accounted for; as the Americans can conceive nothing more\nprecious than a woman's honor, and nothing which ought so much to be\nrespected as her independence, they hold that no punishment is too\nsevere for the man who deprives her of them against her will. In France,\nwhere the same offence is visited with far milder penalties, it is\nfrequently difficult to get a verdict from a jury against the prisoner.\nIs this a consequence of contempt of decency or contempt of women? I\ncannot but believe that it is a contempt of one and of the other.\n\nThus the Americans do not think that man and woman have either the duty\nor the right to perform the same offices, but they show an equal regard\nfor both their respective parts; and though their lot is different, they\nconsider both of them as beings of equal value. They do not give to the\ncourage of woman the same form or the same direction as to that of man;\nbut they never doubt her courage: and if they hold that man and his\npartner ought not always to exercise their intellect and understanding\nin the same manner, they at least believe the understanding of the one\nto be as sound as that of the other, and her intellect to be as clear.\nThus, then, whilst they have allowed the social inferiority of woman\nto subsist, they have done all they could to raise her morally and\nintellectually to the level of man; and in this respect they appear\nto me to have excellently understood the true principle of democratic\nimprovement. As for myself, I do not hesitate to avow that, although\nthe women of the United States are confined within the narrow circle of\ndomestic life, and their situation is in some respects one of extreme\ndependence, I have nowhere seen woman occupying a loftier position; and\nif I were asked, now that I am drawing to the close of this work, in\nwhich I have spoken of so many important things done by the Americans,\nto what the singular prosperity and growing strength of that people\nought mainly to be attributed, I should reply--to the superiority of\ntheir women.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII: That The Principle Of Equality Naturally Divides The\nAmericans Into A Number Of Small Private Circles\n\nIt may probably be supposed that the final consequence and necessary\neffect of democratic institutions is to confound together all the\nmembers of the community in private as well as in public life, and to\ncompel them all to live in common; but this would be to ascribe a\nvery coarse and oppressive form to the equality which originates in\ndemocracy. No state of society or laws can render men so much alike,\nbut that education, fortune, and tastes will interpose some differences\nbetween them; and, though different men may sometimes find it their\ninterest to combine for the same purposes, they will never make it their\npleasure. They will therefore always tend to evade the provisions of\nlegislation, whatever they may be; and departing in some one respect\nfrom the circle within which they were to be bounded, they will set up,\nclose by the great political community, small private circles, united\ntogether by the similitude of their conditions, habits, and manners.\n\nIn the United States the citizens have no sort of pre-eminence over each\nother; they owe each other no mutual obedience or respect; they all meet\nfor the administration of justice, for the government of the State, and\nin general to treat of the affairs which concern their common welfare;\nbut I never heard that attempts have been made to bring them all to\nfollow the same diversions, or to amuse themselves promiscuously in the\nsame places of recreation. The Americans, who mingle so readily in their\npolitical assemblies and courts of justice, are wont on the contrary\ncarefully to separate into small distinct circles, in order to indulge\nby themselves in the enjoyments of private life. Each of them is willing\nto acknowledge all his fellow-citizens as his equals, but he will only\nreceive a very limited number of them amongst his friends or his guests.\nThis appears to me to be very natural. In proportion as the circle of\npublic society is extended, it may be anticipated that the sphere of\nprivate intercourse will be contracted; far from supposing that the\nmembers of modern society will ultimately live in common, I am afraid\nthat they may end by forming nothing but small coteries.\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations the different classes are like vast\nchambers, out of which it is impossible to get, into which it is\nimpossible to enter. These classes have no communication with each\nother, but within their pale men necessarily live in daily contact;\neven though they would not naturally suit, the general conformity of a\nsimilar condition brings them nearer together. But when neither law nor\ncustom professes to establish frequent and habitual relations between\ncertain men, their intercourse originates in the accidental analogy\nof opinions and tastes; hence private society is infinitely varied. In\ndemocracies, where the members of the community never differ much from\neach other, and naturally stand in such propinquity that they may all\nat any time be confounded in one general mass, numerous artificial and\narbitrary distinctions spring up, by means of which every man hopes to\nkeep himself aloof, lest he should be carried away in the crowd against\nhis will. This can never fail to be the case; for human institutions\nmay be changed, but not man: whatever may be the general endeavor of a\ncommunity to render its members equal and alike, the personal pride\nof individuals will always seek to rise above the line, and to form\nsomewhere an inequality to their own advantage.\n\nIn aristocracies men are separated from each other by lofty stationary\nbarriers; in democracies they are divided by a number of small and\nalmost invisible threads, which are constantly broken or moved from\nplace to place. Thus, whatever may be the progress of equality, in\ndemocratic nations a great number of small private communities will\nalways be formed within the general pale of political society; but none\nof them will bear any resemblance in its manners to the highest class in\naristocracies.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV: Some Reflections On American Manners\n\nNothing seems at first sight less important than the outward form of\nhuman actions, yet there is nothing upon which men set more store: they\ngrow used to everything except to living in a society which has not\ntheir own manners. The influence of the social and political state of\na country upon manners is therefore deserving of serious examination.\nManners are, generally, the product of the very basis of the character\nof a people, but they are also sometimes the result of an arbitrary\nconvention between certain men; thus they are at once natural and\nacquired. When certain men perceive that they are the foremost persons\nin society, without contestation and without effort--when they are\nconstantly engaged on large objects, leaving the more minute details to\nothers--and when they live in the enjoyment of wealth which they did not\namass and which they do not fear to lose, it may be supposed that they\nfeel a kind of haughty disdain of the petty interests and practical\ncares of life, and that their thoughts assume a natural greatness, which\ntheir language and their manners denote. In democratic countries manners\nare generally devoid of dignity, because private life is there extremely\npetty in its character; and they are frequently low, because the mind\nhas few opportunities of rising above the engrossing cares of domestic\ninterests. True dignity in manners consists in always taking one's\nproper station, neither too high nor too low; and this is as much within\nthe reach of a peasant as of a prince. In democracies all stations\nappear doubtful; hence it is that the manners of democracies, though\noften full of arrogance, are commonly wanting in dignity, and, moreover,\nthey are never either well disciplined or accomplished.\n\nThe men who live in democracies are too fluctuating for a certain number\nof them ever to succeed in laying down a code of good breeding, and in\nforcing people to follow it. Every man therefore behaves after his own\nfashion, and there is always a certain incoherence in the manners of\nsuch times, because they are moulded upon the feelings and notions of\neach individual, rather than upon an ideal model proposed for general\nimitation. This, however, is much more perceptible at the time when\nan aristocracy has just been overthrown than after it has long been\ndestroyed. New political institutions and new social elements then bring\nto the same places of resort, and frequently compel to live in common,\nmen whose education and habits are still amazingly dissimilar, and\nthis renders the motley composition of society peculiarly visible. The\nexistence of a former strict code of good breeding is still remembered,\nbut what it contained or where it is to be found is already forgotten.\nMen have lost the common law of manners, and they have not yet made up\ntheir minds to do without it; but everyone endeavors to make to himself\nsome sort of arbitrary and variable rule, from the remnant of former\nusages; so that manners have neither the regularity and the dignity\nwhich they often display amongst aristocratic nations, nor the\nsimplicity and freedom which they sometimes assume in democracies; they\nare at once constrained and without constraint.\n\nThis, however, is not the normal state of things. When the equality of\nconditions is long established and complete, as all men entertain nearly\nthe same notions and do nearly the same things, they do not require to\nagree or to copy from one another in order to speak or act in the same\nmanner: their manners are constantly characterized by a number of lesser\ndiversities, but not by any great differences. They are never perfectly\nalike, because they do not copy from the same pattern; they are never\nvery unlike, because their social condition is the same. At first sight\na traveller would observe that the manners of all the Americans\nare exactly similar; it is only upon close examination that the\npeculiarities in which they differ may be detected.\n\nThe English make game of the manners of the Americans; but it is\nsingular that most of the writers who have drawn these ludicrous\ndelineations belonged themselves to the middle classes in England, to\nwhom the same delineations are exceedingly applicable: so that these\npitiless censors for the most part furnish an example of the very thing\nthey blame in the United States; they do not perceive that they are\nderiding themselves, to the great amusement of the aristocracy of their\nown country.\n\nNothing is more prejudicial to democracy than its outward forms of\nbehavior: many men would willingly endure its vices, who cannot support\nits manners. I cannot, however, admit that there is nothing commendable\nin the manners of a democratic people. Amongst aristocratic nations, all\nwho live within reach of the first class in society commonly strain to\nbe like it, which gives rise to ridiculous and insipid imitations. As a\ndemocratic people does not possess any models of high breeding, at least\nit escapes the daily necessity of seeing wretched copies of them.\nIn democracies manners are never so refined as amongst aristocratic\nnations, but on the other hand they are never so coarse. Neither the\ncoarse oaths of the populace, nor the elegant and choice expressions\nof the nobility are to be heard there: the manners of such a people\nare often vulgar, but they are neither brutal nor mean. I have already\nobserved that in democracies no such thing as a regular code of good\nbreeding can be laid down; this has some inconveniences and some\nadvantages. In aristocracies the rules of propriety impose the same\ndemeanor on everyone; they make all the members of the same class appear\nalike, in spite of their private inclinations; they adorn and they\nconceal the natural man. Amongst a democratic people manners are neither\nso tutored nor so uniform, but they are frequently more sincere. They\nform, as it were, a light and loosely woven veil, through which the real\nfeelings and private opinions of each individual are easily discernible.\nThe form and the substance of human actions often, therefore, stand\nin closer relation; and if the great picture of human life be less\nembellished, it is more true. Thus it may be said, in one sense, that\nthe effect of democracy is not exactly to give men any particular\nmanners, but to prevent them from having manners at all.\n\nThe feelings, the passions, the virtues, and the vices of an aristocracy\nmay sometimes reappear in a democracy, but not its manners; they are\nlost, and vanish forever, as soon as the democratic revolution is\ncompleted. It would seem that nothing is more lasting than the manners\nof an aristocratic class, for they are preserved by that class for some\ntime after it has lost its wealth and its power--nor so fleeting, for\nno sooner have they disappeared than not a trace of them is to be found;\nand it is scarcely possible to say what they have been as soon as they\nhave ceased to be. A change in the state of society works this\nmiracle, and a few generations suffice to consummate it. The principal\ncharacteristics of aristocracy are handed down by history after an\naristocracy is destroyed, but the light and exquisite touches of manners\nare effaced from men's memories almost immediately after its fall. Men\ncan no longer conceive what these manners were when they have ceased to\nwitness them; they are gone, and their departure was unseen, unfelt; for\nin order to feel that refined enjoyment which is derived from choice and\ndistinguished manners, habit and education must have prepared the heart,\nand the taste for them is lost almost as easily as the practice of them.\nThus not only a democratic people cannot have aristocratic manners, but\nthey neither comprehend nor desire them; and as they never have thought\nof them, it is to their minds as if such things had never been. Too\nmuch importance should not be attached to this loss, but it may well be\nregretted.\n\nI am aware that it has not unfrequently happened that the same men have\nhad very high-bred manners and very low-born feelings: the interior of\ncourts has sufficiently shown what imposing externals may conceal the\nmeanest hearts. But though the manners of aristocracy did not constitute\nvirtue, they sometimes embellish virtue itself. It was no ordinary sight\nto see a numerous and powerful class of men, whose every outward action\nseemed constantly to be dictated by a natural elevation of thought\nand feeling, by delicacy and regularity of taste, and by urbanity\nof manners. Those manners threw a pleasing illusory charm over human\nnature; and though the picture was often a false one, it could not be\nviewed without a noble satisfaction.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV: Of The Gravity Of The Americans, And Why It Does Not Prevent\nThem From Often Committing Inconsiderate Actions\n\nMen who live in democratic countries do not value the simple, turbulent,\nor coarse diversions in which the people indulge in aristocratic\ncommunities: such diversions are thought by them to be puerile or\ninsipid. Nor have they a greater inclination for the intellectual and\nrefined amusements of the aristocratic classes. They want something\nproductive and substantial in their pleasures; they want to mix actual\nfruition with their joy. In aristocratic communities the people readily\ngive themselves up to bursts of tumultuous and boisterous gayety, which\nshake off at once the recollection of their privations: the natives of\ndemocracies are not fond of being thus violently broken in upon, and\nthey never lose sight of their own selves without regret. They prefer to\nthese frivolous delights those more serious and silent amusements which\nare like business, and which do not drive business wholly from their\nminds. An American, instead of going in a leisure hour to dance merrily\nat some place of public resort, as the fellows of his calling continue\nto do throughout the greater part of Europe, shuts himself up at home\nto drink. He thus enjoys two pleasures; he can go on thinking of his\nbusiness, and he can get drunk decently by his own fireside.\n\nI thought that the English constituted the most serious nation on the\nface of the earth, but I have since seen the Americans and have changed\nmy opinion. I do not mean to say that temperament has not a great deal\nto do with the character of the inhabitants of the United States, but\nI think that their political institutions are a still more influential\ncause. I believe the seriousness of the Americans arises partly from\ntheir pride. In democratic countries even poor men entertain a lofty\nnotion of their personal importance: they look upon themselves with\ncomplacency, and are apt to suppose that others are looking at them,\ntoo. With this disposition they watch their language and their actions\nwith care, and do not lay themselves open so as to betray their\ndeficiencies; to preserve their dignity they think it necessary to\nretain their gravity.\n\nBut I detect another more deep-seated and powerful cause which\ninstinctively produces amongst the Americans this astonishing gravity.\nUnder a despotism communities give way at times to bursts of vehement\njoy; but they are generally gloomy and moody, because they are afraid.\nUnder absolute monarchies tempered by the customs and manners of the\ncountry, their spirits are often cheerful and even, because as they have\nsome freedom and a good deal of security, they are exempted from the\nmost important cares of life; but all free peoples are serious, because\ntheir minds are habitually absorbed by the contemplation of some\ndangerous or difficult purpose. This is more especially the case amongst\nthose free nations which form democratic communities. Then there are\nin all classes a very large number of men constantly occupied with the\nserious affairs of the government; and those whose thoughts are not\nengaged in the direction of the commonwealth are wholly engrossed by\nthe acquisition of a private fortune. Amongst such a people a serious\ndemeanor ceases to be peculiar to certain men, and becomes a habit of\nthe nation.\n\nWe are told of small democracies in the days of antiquity, in which the\ncitizens met upon the public places with garlands of roses, and spent\nalmost all their time in dancing and theatrical amusements. I do not\nbelieve in such republics any more than in that of Plato; or, if the\nthings we read of really happened, I do not hesitate to affirm that\nthese supposed democracies were composed of very different elements from\nours, and that they had nothing in common with the latter except their\nname. But it must not be supposed that, in the midst of all their toils,\nthe people who live in democracies think themselves to be pitied; the\ncontrary is remarked to be the case. No men are fonder of their own\ncondition. Life would have no relish for them if they were delivered\nfrom the anxieties which harass them, and they show more attachment to\ntheir cares than aristocratic nations to their pleasures.\n\nI am next led to inquire how it is that these same democratic nations,\nwhich are so serious, sometimes act in so inconsiderate a manner. The\nAmericans, who almost always preserve a staid demeanor and a frigid air,\nnevertheless frequently allow themselves to be borne away, far beyond\nthe bound of reason, by a sudden passion or a hasty opinion, and they\nsometimes gravely commit strange absurdities. This contrast ought not to\nsurprise us. There is one sort of ignorance which originates in extreme\npublicity. In despotic States men know not how to act, because they are\ntold nothing; in democratic nations they often act at random, because\nnothing is to be left untold. The former do not know--the latter\nforget; and the chief features of each picture are lost to them in a\nbewilderment of details.\n\nIt is astonishing what imprudent language a public man may sometimes use\nin free countries, and especially in democratic States, without being\ncompromised; whereas in absolute monarchies a few words dropped by\naccident are enough to unmask him forever, and ruin him without hope of\nredemption. This is explained by what goes before. When a man speaks\nin the midst of a great crowd, many of his words are not heard, or are\nforthwith obliterated from the memories of those who hear them; but\namidst the silence of a mute and motionless throng the slightest whisper\nstrikes the ear.\n\nIn democracies men are never stationary; a thousand chances waft them\nto and fro, and their life is always the sport of unforeseen or (so to\nspeak) extemporaneous circumstances. Thus they are often obliged to\ndo things which they have imperfectly learned, to say things they\nimperfectly understand, and to devote themselves to work for which they\nare unprepared by long apprenticeship. In aristocracies every man has\none sole object which he unceasingly pursues, but amongst democratic\nnations the existence of man is more complex; the same mind will almost\nalways embrace several objects at the same time, and these objects are\nfrequently wholly foreign to each other: as it cannot know them all\nwell, the mind is readily satisfied with imperfect notions of each.\n\nWhen the inhabitant of democracies is not urged by his wants, he is so\nat least by his desires; for of all the possessions which he sees around\nhim, none are wholly beyond his reach. He therefore does everything in a\nhurry, he is always satisfied with \"pretty well,\" and never pauses more\nthan an instant to consider what he has been doing. His curiosity is at\nonce insatiable and cheaply satisfied; for he cares more to know a great\ndeal quickly than to know anything well: he has no time and but little\ntaste to search things to the bottom. Thus then democratic peoples are\ngrave, because their social and political condition constantly leads\nthem to engage in serious occupations; and they act inconsiderately,\nbecause they give but little time and attention to each of these\noccupations. The habit of inattention must be considered as the greatest\nbane of the democratic character.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI: Why The National Vanity Of The Americans Is More Restless\nAnd Captious Than That Of The English\n\nAll free nations are vainglorious, but national pride is not displayed\nby all in the same manner. The Americans in their intercourse with\nstrangers appear impatient of the smallest censure and insatiable\nof praise. The most slender eulogium is acceptable to them; the most\nexalted seldom contents them; they unceasingly harass you to extort\npraise, and if you resist their entreaties they fall to praising\nthemselves. It would seem as if, doubting their own merit, they wished\nto have it constantly exhibited before their eyes. Their vanity is not\nonly greedy, but restless and jealous; it will grant nothing, whilst it\ndemands everything, but is ready to beg and to quarrel at the same time.\nIf I say to an American that the country he lives in is a fine one,\n\"Ay,\" he replies, \"there is not its fellow in the world.\" If I applaud\nthe freedom which its inhabitants enjoy, he answers, \"Freedom is a fine\nthing, but few nations are worthy to enjoy it.\" If I remark the purity\nof morals which distinguishes the United States, \"I can imagine,\" says\nhe, \"that a stranger, who has been struck by the corruption of all other\nnations, is astonished at the difference.\" At length I leave him to the\ncontemplation of himself; but he returns to the charge, and does not\ndesist till he has got me to repeat all I had just been saying. It is\nimpossible to conceive a more troublesome or more garrulous patriotism;\nit wearies even those who are disposed to respect it. *a\n\n[Footnote a: See Appendix U.]\n\nSuch is not the case with the English. An Englishman calmly enjoys the\nreal or imaginary advantages which in his opinion his country possesses.\nIf he grants nothing to other nations, neither does he solicit anything\nfor his own. The censure of foreigners does not affect him, and their\npraise hardly flatters him; his position with regard to the rest of the\nworld is one of disdainful and ignorant reserve: his pride requires no\nsustenance, it nourishes itself. It is remarkable that two nations,\nso recently sprung from the same stock, should be so opposite to one\nanother in their manner of feeling and conversing.\n\nIn aristocratic countries the great possess immense privileges, upon\nwhich their pride rests, without seeking to rely upon the lesser\nadvantages which accrue to them. As these privileges came to them by\ninheritance, they regard them in some sort as a portion of themselves,\nor at least as a natural right inherent in their own persons. They\ntherefore entertain a calm sense of their superiority; they do not dream\nof vaunting privileges which everyone perceives and no one contests,\nand these things are not sufficiently new to them to be made topics\nof conversation. They stand unmoved in their solitary greatness, well\nassured that they are seen of all the world without any effort to show\nthemselves off, and that no one will attempt to drive them from that\nposition. When an aristocracy carries on the public affairs, its\nnational pride naturally assumes this reserved, indifferent, and haughty\nform, which is imitated by all the other classes of the nation.\n\nWhen, on the contrary, social conditions differ but little, the\nslightest privileges are of some importance; as every man sees around\nhimself a million of people enjoying precisely similar or analogous\nadvantages, his pride becomes craving and jealous, he clings to mere\ntrifles, and doggedly defends them. In democracies, as the conditions of\nlife are very fluctuating, men have almost always recently acquired the\nadvantages which they possess; the consequence is that they feel extreme\npleasure in exhibiting them, to show others and convince themselves that\nthey really enjoy them. As at any instant these same advantages may be\nlost, their possessors are constantly on the alert, and make a point\nof showing that they still retain them. Men living in democracies love\ntheir country just as they love themselves, and they transfer the habits\nof their private vanity to their vanity as a nation. The restless and\ninsatiable vanity of a democratic people originates so entirely in the\nequality and precariousness of social conditions, that the members of\nthe haughtiest nobility display the very same passion in those lesser\nportions of their existence in which there is anything fluctuating or\ncontested. An aristocratic class always differs greatly from the other\nclasses of the nation, by the extent and perpetuity of its privileges;\nbut it often happens that the only differences between the members who\nbelong to it consist in small transient advantages, which may any day be\nlost or acquired. The members of a powerful aristocracy, collected in\na capital or a court, have been known to contest with virulence those\nfrivolous privileges which depend on the caprice of fashion or the\nwill of their master. These persons then displayed towards each\nother precisely the same puerile jealousies which animate the men of\ndemocracies, the same eagerness to snatch the smallest advantages which\ntheir equals contested, and the same desire to parade ostentatiously\nthose of which they were in possession. If national pride ever entered\ninto the minds of courtiers, I do not question that they would display\nit in the same manner as the members of a democratic community.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII: That The Aspect Of Society In The United States Is At Once\nExcited And Monotonous\n\nIt would seem that nothing can be more adapted to stimulate and to feed\ncuriosity than the aspect of the United States. Fortunes, opinions,\nand laws are there in ceaseless variation: it is as if immutable nature\nherself were mutable, such are the changes worked upon her by the hand\nof man. Yet in the end the sight of this excited community becomes\nmonotonous, and after having watched the moving pageant for a time the\nspectator is tired of it. Amongst aristocratic nations every man is\npretty nearly stationary in his own sphere; but men are astonishingly\nunlike each other--their passions, their notions, their habits, and\ntheir tastes are essentially different: nothing changey, but everything\ndiffers. In democracies, on the contrary, all men are alike and do\nthings pretty nearly alike. It is true that they are subject to great\nand frequent vicissitudes; but as the same events of good or adverse\nfortune are continually recurring, the name of the actors only is\nchanged, the piece is always the same. The aspect of American society\nis animated, because men and things are always changing; but it is\nmonotonous, because all these changes are alike.\n\nMen living in democratic ages have many passions, but most of their\npassions either end in the love of riches or proceed from it. The cause\nof this is, not that their souls are narrower, but that the importance\nof money is really greater at such times. When all the members of\na community are independent of or indifferent to each other, the\nco-operation of each of them can only be obtained by paying for it: this\ninfinitely multiplies the purposes to which wealth may be applied, and\nincreases its value. When the reverence which belonged to what is old\nhas vanished, birth, condition, and profession no longer distinguish\nmen, or scarcely distinguish them at all: hardly anything but money\nremains to create strongly marked differences between them, and to raise\nsome of them above the common level. The distinction originating in\nwealth is increased by the disappearance and diminution of all other\ndistinctions. Amongst aristocratic nations money only reaches to a few\npoints on the vast circle of man's desires--in democracies it seems to\nlead to all. The love of wealth is therefore to be traced, either as\na principal or an accessory motive, at the bottom of all that the\nAmericans do: this gives to all their passions a sort of family\nlikeness, and soon renders the survey of them exceedingly wearisome.\nThis perpetual recurrence of the same passion is monotonous; the\npeculiar methods by which this passion seeks its own gratification are\nno less so.\n\nIn an orderly and constituted democracy like the United States, where\nmen cannot enrich themselves by war, by public office, or by political\nconfiscation, the love of wealth mainly drives them into business and\nmanufactures. Although these pursuits often bring about great commotions\nand disasters, they cannot prosper without strictly regular habits and\na long routine of petty uniform acts. The stronger the passion is, the\nmore regular are these habits, and the more uniform are these acts. It\nmay be said that it is the vehemence of their desires which makes the\nAmericans so methodical; it perturbs their minds, but it disciplines\ntheir lives.\n\nThe remark I here apply to America may indeed be addressed to almost\nall our contemporaries. Variety is disappearing from the human race; the\nsame ways of acting, thinking, and feeling are to be met with all over\nthe world. This is not only because nations work more upon each other,\nand are more faithful in their mutual imitation; but as the men of each\ncountry relinquish more and more the peculiar opinions and feelings of\na caste, a profession, or a family, they simultaneously arrive at\nsomething nearer to the constitution of man, which is everywhere the\nsame. Thus they become more alike, even without having imitated each\nother. Like travellers scattered about some large wood, which is\nintersected by paths converging to one point, if all of them keep, their\neyes fixed upon that point and advance towards it, they insensibly draw\nnearer together--though they seek not, though they see not, though\nthey know not each other; and they will be surprised at length to find\nthemselves all collected on the same spot. All the nations which\ntake, not any particular man, but man himself, as the object of their\nresearches and their imitations, are tending in the end to a similar\nstate of society, like these travellers converging to the central plot\nof the forest.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII: Of Honor In The United States And In Democratic\nCommunities\n\nIt would seem that men employ two very distinct methods in the public\nestimation *a of the actions of their fellowmen; at one time they judge\nthem by those simple notions of right and wrong which are diffused\nall over the world; at another they refer their decision to a few very\nspecial notions which belong exclusively to some particular age and\ncountry. It often happens that these two rules differ; they sometimes\nconflict: but they are never either entirely identified or entirely\nannulled by one another. Honor, at the periods of its greatest power,\nsways the will more than the belief of men; and even whilst they yield\nwithout hesitation and without a murmur to its dictates, they feel\nnotwithstanding, by a dim but mighty instinct, the existence of a more\ngeneral, more ancient, and more holy law, which they sometimes disobey\nalthough they cease not to acknowledge it. Some actions have been held\nto be at the same time virtuous and dishonorable--a refusal to fight a\nduel is a case in point.\n\n[Footnote a: The word \"honor\" is not always used in the same sense\neither in French or English. I. It first signifies the dignity, glory,\nor reverence which a man receives from his kind; and in this sense a\nman is said to acquire honor. 2. Honor signifies the aggregate of those\nrules by the assistance of which this dignity, glory, or reverence is\nobtained. Thus we say that a man has always strictly obeyed the laws\nof honor; or a man has violated his honor. In this chapter the word is\nalways used in the latter sense.]\n\nI think these peculiarities may be otherwise explained than by the mere\ncaprices of certain individuals and nations, as has hitherto been\nthe customary mode of reasoning on the subject. Mankind is subject\nto general and lasting wants that have engendered moral laws, to the\nneglect of which men have ever and in all places attached the notion of\ncensure and shame: to infringe them was \"to do ill\"--\"to do well\" was to\nconform to them. Within the bosom of this vast association of the human\nrace, lesser associations have been formed which are called nations;\nand amidst these nations further subdivisions have assumed the names\nof classes or castes. Each of these associations forms, as it were,\na separate species of the human race; and though it has no essential\ndifference from the mass of mankind, to a certain extent it stands apart\nand has certain wants peculiar to itself. To these special wants must\nbe attributed the modifications which affect in various degrees and\nin different countries the mode of considering human actions, and\nthe estimate which ought to be formed of them. It is the general and\npermanent interest of mankind that men should not kill each other: but\nit may happen to be the peculiar and temporary interest of a people or a\nclass to justify, or even to honor, homicide.\n\nHonor is simply that peculiar rule, founded upon a peculiar state of\nsociety, by the application of which a people or a class allot praise or\nblame. Nothing is more unproductive to the mind than an abstract idea; I\ntherefore hasten to call in the aid of facts and examples to illustrate\nmy meaning.\n\nI select the most extraordinary kind of honor which was ever known\nin the world, and that which we are best acquainted with, viz.,\naristocratic honor springing out of feudal society. I shall explain it\nby means of the principle already laid down, and I shall explain the\nprinciple by means of the illustration. I am not here led to inquire\nwhen and how the aristocracy of the Middle Ages came into existence,\nwhy it was so deeply severed from the remainder of the nation, or\nwhat founded and consolidated its power. I take its existence as an\nestablished fact, and I am endeavoring to account for the peculiar view\nwhich it took of the greater part of human actions. The first thing that\nstrikes me is, that in the feudal world actions were not always praised\nor blamed with reference to their intrinsic worth, but that they were\nsometimes appreciated exclusively with reference to the person who\nwas the actor or the object of them, which is repugnant to the general\nconscience of mankind. Thus some of the actions which were indifferent\non the part of a man in humble life, dishonored a noble; others changed\ntheir whole character according as the person aggrieved by them belonged\nor did not belong to the aristocracy. When these different notions first\narose, the nobility formed a distinct body amidst the people, which\nit commanded from the inaccessible heights where it was ensconced. To\nmaintain this peculiar position, which constituted its strength, it not\nonly required political privileges, but it required a standard of right\nand wrong for its own especial use. That some particular virtue or vice\nbelonged to the nobility rather than to the humble classes--that certain\nactions were guiltless when they affected the villain, which were\ncriminal when they touched the noble--these were often arbitrary\nmatters; but that honor or shame should be attached to a man's actions\naccording to his condition, was a result of the internal constitution\nof an aristocratic community. This has been actually the case in all\nthe countries which have had an aristocracy; as long as a trace of the\nprinciple remains, these peculiarities will still exist; to debauch a\nwoman of color scarcely injures the reputation of an American--to marry\nher dishonors him.\n\nIn some cases feudal honor enjoined revenge, and stigmatized the\nforgiveness of insults; in others it imperiously commanded men to\nconquer their own passions, and imposed forgetfulness of self. It did\nnot make humanity or kindness its law, but it extolled generosity; it\nset more store on liberality than on benevolence; it allowed men to\nenrich themselves by gambling or by war, but not by labor; it preferred\ngreat crimes to small earnings; cupidity was less distasteful to it\nthan avarice; violence it often sanctioned, but cunning and treachery it\ninvariably reprobated as contemptible. These fantastical notions did not\nproceed exclusively from the caprices of those who entertained them. A\nclass which has succeeded in placing itself at the head of and above\nall others, and which makes perpetual exertions to maintain this lofty\nposition, must especially honor those virtues which are conspicuous for\ntheir dignity and splendor, and which may be easily combined with pride\nand the love of power. Such men would not hesitate to invert the natural\norder of the conscience in order to give those virtues precedence before\nall others. It may even be conceived that some of the more bold and\nbrilliant vices would readily be set above the quiet, unpretending\nvirtues. The very existence of such a class in society renders these\nthings unavoidable.\n\nThe nobles of the Middle Ages placed military courage foremost amongst\nvirtues, and in lieu of many of them. This was again a peculiar opinion\nwhich arose necessarily from the peculiarity of the state of society.\nFeudal aristocracy existed by war and for war; its power had been\nfounded by arms, and by arms that power was maintained; it therefore\nrequired nothing more than military courage, and that quality was\nnaturally exalted above all others; whatever denoted it, even at the\nexpense of reason and humanity, was therefore approved and frequently\nenjoined by the manners of the time. Such was the main principle; the\ncaprice of man was only to be traced in minuter details. That a man\nshould regard a tap on the cheek as an unbearable insult, and should be\nobliged to kill in single combat the person who struck him thus lightly,\nis an arbitrary rule; but that a noble could not tranquilly receive an\ninsult, and was dishonored if he allowed himself to take a blow without\nfighting, were direct consequences of the fundamental principles and the\nwants of military aristocracy.\n\nThus it was true to a certain extent to assert that the laws of honor\nwere capricious; but these caprices of honor were always confined within\ncertain necessary limits. The peculiar rule, which was called honor by\nour forefathers, is so far from being an arbitrary law in my eyes, that\nI would readily engage to ascribe its most incoherent and fantastical\ninjunctions to a small number of fixed and invariable wants inherent in\nfeudal society.\n\nIf I were to trace the notion of feudal honor into the domain of\npolitics, I should not find it more difficult to explain its dictates.\nThe state of society and the political institutions of the Middle Ages\nwere such, that the supreme power of the nation never governed the\ncommunity directly. That power did not exist in the eyes of the people:\nevery man looked up to a certain individual whom he was bound to obey;\nby that intermediate personage he was connected with all the others.\nThus in feudal society the whole system of the commonwealth rested upon\nthe sentiment of fidelity to the person of the lord: to destroy that\nsentiment was to open the sluices of anarchy. Fidelity to a political\nsuperior was, moreover, a sentiment of which all the members of the\naristocracy had constant opportunities of estimating the importance; for\nevery one of them was a vassal as well as a lord, and had to command as\nwell as to obey. To remain faithful to the lord, to sacrifice one's self\nfor him if called upon, to share his good or evil fortunes, to stand\nby him in his undertakings whatever they might be--such were the first\ninjunctions of feudal honor in relation to the political institutions\nof those times. The treachery of a vassal was branded with extraordinary\nseverity by public opinion, and a name of peculiar infamy was invented\nfor the offence which was called \"felony.\"\n\nOn the contrary, few traces are to be found in the Middle Ages of the\npassion which constituted the life of the nations of antiquity--I mean\npatriotism; the word itself is not of very ancient date in the language.\n*b Feudal institutions concealed the country at large from men's sight,\nand rendered the love of it less necessary. The nation was forgotten in\nthe passions which attached men to persons. Hence it was no part of\nthe strict law of feudal honor to remain faithful to one's country. Not\nindeed that the love of their country did not exist in the hearts of\nour forefathers; but it constituted a dim and feeble instinct, which has\ngrown more clear and strong in proportion as aristocratic classes have\nbeen abolished, and the supreme power of the nation centralized. This\nmay be clearly seen from the contrary judgments which European nations\nhave passed upon the various events of their histories, according to the\ngenerations by which such judgments have been formed. The circumstance\nwhich most dishonored the Constable de Bourbon in the eyes of his\ncontemporaries was that he bore arms against his king: that which most\ndishonors him in our eyes, is that he made war against his country; we\nbrand him as deeply as our forefathers did, but for different reasons.\n\n[Footnote b: Even the word \"patrie\" was not used by the French writers\nuntil the sixteenth century.]\n\nI have chosen the honor of feudal times by way of illustration of my\nmeaning, because its characteristics are more distinctly marked and more\nfamiliar to us than those of any other period; but I might have taken\nan example elsewhere, and I should have reached the same conclusion by\na different road. Although we are less perfectly acquainted with the\nRomans than with our own ancestors, yet we know that certain peculiar\nnotions of glory and disgrace obtained amongst them, which were not\nsolely derived from the general principles of right and wrong. Many\nhuman actions were judged differently, according as they affected a\nRoman citizen or a stranger, a freeman or a slave; certain vices were\nblazoned abroad, certain virtues were extolled above all others. \"In\nthat age,\" says Plutarch in the life of Coriolanus, \"martial prowess\nwas more honored and prized in Rome than all the other virtues, insomuch\nthat it was called virtus, the name of virtue itself, by applying the\nname of the kind to this particular species; so that virtue in Latin was\nas much as to say valor.\" Can anyone fail to recognize the peculiar\nwant of that singular community which was formed for the conquest of the\nworld?\n\nAny nation would furnish us with similar grounds of observation; for,\nas I have already remarked, whenever men collect together as a distinct\ncommunity, the notion of honor instantly grows up amongst them; that\nis to say, a system of opinions peculiar to themselves as to what is\nblamable or commendable; and these peculiar rules always originate\nin the special habits and special interests of the community. This is\napplicable to a certain extent to democratic communities as well as\nto others, as we shall now proceed to prove by the example of the\nAmericans. *c Some loose notions of the old aristocratic honor of Europe\nare still to be found scattered amongst the opinions of the Americans;\nbut these traditional opinions are few in number, they have but little\nroot in the country, and but little power. They are like a religion\nwhich has still some temples left standing, though men have ceased\nto believe in it. But amidst these half-obliterated notions of exotic\nhonor, some new opinions have sprung up, which constitute what may be\ntermed in our days American honor. I have shown how the Americans are\nconstantly driven to engage in commerce and industry. Their origin,\ntheir social condition, their political institutions, and even the spot\nthey inhabit, urge them irresistibly in this direction. Their present\ncondition is then that of an almost exclusively manufacturing and\ncommercial association, placed in the midst of a new and boundless\ncountry, which their principal object is to explore for purposes of\nprofit. This is the characteristic which most peculiarly distinguishes\nthe American people from all others at the present time. All those quiet\nvirtues which tend to give a regular movement to the community, and to\nencourage business, will therefore be held in peculiar honor by that\npeople, and to neglect those virtues will be to incur public contempt.\nAll the more turbulent virtues, which often dazzle, but more frequently\ndisturb society, will on the contrary occupy a subordinate rank in the\nestimation of this same people: they may be neglected without forfeiting\nthe esteem of the community--to acquire them would perhaps be to run a\nrisk of losing it.\n\n[Footnote c: I speak here of the Americans inhabiting those States where\nslavery does not exist; they alone can be said to present a complete\npicture of democratic society.]\n\nThe Americans make a no less arbitrary classification of men's vices.\nThere are certain propensities which appear censurable to the general\nreason and the universal conscience of mankind, but which happen to\nagree with the peculiar and temporary wants of the American community:\nthese propensities are lightly reproved, sometimes even encouraged; for\ninstance, the love of wealth and the secondary propensities connected\nwith it may be more particularly cited. To clear, to till, and to\ntransform the vast uninhabited continent which is his domain, the\nAmerican requires the daily support of an energetic passion; that\npassion can only be the love of wealth; the passion for wealth is\ntherefore not reprobated in America, and provided it does not go beyond\nthe bounds assigned to it for public security, it is held in honor.\nThe American lauds as a noble and praiseworthy ambition what our own\nforefathers in the Middle Ages stigmatized as servile cupidity, just\nas he treats as a blind and barbarous frenzy that ardor of conquest and\nmartial temper which bore them to battle. In the United States fortunes\nare lost and regained without difficulty; the country is boundless, and\nits resources inexhaustible. The people have all the wants and cravings\nof a growing creature; and whatever be their efforts, they are always\nsurrounded by more than they can appropriate. It is not the ruin of a\nfew individuals which may be soon repaired, but the inactivity and\nsloth of the community at large which would be fatal to such a people.\nBoldness of enterprise is the foremost cause of its rapid progress, its\nstrength, and its greatness. Commercial business is there like a vast\nlottery, by which a small number of men continually lose, but the State\nis always a gainer; such a people ought therefore to encourage and do\nhonor to boldness in commercial speculations. But any bold speculation\nrisks the fortune of the speculator and of all those who put their trust\nin him. The Americans, who make a virtue of commercial temerity, have\nno right in any case to brand with disgrace those who practise it. Hence\narises the strange indulgence which is shown to bankrupts in the United\nStates; their honor does not suffer by such an accident. In this respect\nthe Americans differ, not only from the nations of Europe, but from all\nthe commercial nations of our time, and accordingly they resemble none\nof them in their position or their wants.\n\nIn America all those vices which tend to impair the purity of morals,\nand to destroy the conjugal tie, are treated with a degree of severity\nwhich is unknown in the rest of the world. At first sight this seems\nstrangely at variance with the tolerance shown there on other subjects,\nand one is surprised to meet with a morality so relaxed and so austere\namongst the selfsame people. But these things are less incoherent\nthan they seem to be. Public opinion in the United States very gently\nrepresses that love of wealth which promotes the commercial greatness\nand the prosperity of the nation, and it especially condemns that laxity\nof morals which diverts the human mind from the pursuit of well-being,\nand disturbs the internal order of domestic life which is so necessary\nto success in business. To earn the esteem of their countrymen, the\nAmericans are therefore constrained to adapt themselves to orderly\nhabits--and it may be said in this sense that they make it a matter of\nhonor to live chastely.\n\nOn one point American honor accords with the notions of honor\nacknowledged in Europe; it places courage as the highest virtue, and\ntreats it as the greatest of the moral necessities of man; but the\nnotion of courage itself assumes a different aspect. In the United\nStates martial valor is but little prized; the courage which is best\nknown and most esteemed is that which emboldens men to brave the\ndangers of the ocean, in order to arrive earlier in port--to support the\nprivations of the wilderness without complaint, and solitude more cruel\nthan privations--the courage which renders them almost insensible to the\nloss of a fortune laboriously acquired, and instantly prompts to fresh\nexertions to make another. Courage of this kind is peculiarly necessary\nto the maintenance and prosperity of the American communities, and it is\nheld by them in peculiar honor and estimation; to betray a want of it is\nto incur certain disgrace.\n\nI have yet another characteristic point which may serve to place the\nidea of this chapter in stronger relief. In a democratic society like\nthat of the United States, where fortunes are scanty and insecure,\neverybody works, and work opens a way to everything: this has changed\nthe point of honor quite round, and has turned it against idleness.\nI have sometimes met in America with young men of wealth, personally\ndisinclined to all laborious exertion, but who had been compelled to\nembrace a profession. Their disposition and their fortune allowed them\nto remain without employment; public opinion forbade it, too imperiously\nto be disobeyed. In the European countries, on the contrary, where\naristocracy is still struggling with the flood which overwhelms it, I\nhave often seen men, constantly spurred on by their wants and desires,\nremain in idleness, in order not to lose the esteem of their equals; and\nI have known them submit to ennui and privations rather than to work.\nNo one can fail to perceive that these opposite obligations are two\ndifferent rules of conduct, both nevertheless originating in the notion\nof honor.\n\nWhat our forefathers designated as honor absolutely was in reality only\none of its forms; they gave a generic name to what was only a species.\nHonor therefore is to be found in democratic as well as in aristocratic\nages, but it will not be difficult to show that it assumes a different\naspect in the former. Not only are its injunctions different, but we\nshall shortly see that they are less numerous, less precise, and that\nits dictates are less rigorously obeyed. The position of a caste is\nalways much more peculiar than that of a people. Nothing is so much out\nof the way of the world as a small community invariably composed of the\nsame families (as was for instance the aristocracy of the Middle\nAges), whose object is to concentrate and to retain, exclusively and\nhereditarily, education, wealth, and power amongst its own members. But\nthe more out of the way the position of a community happens to be, the\nmore numerous are its special wants, and the more extensive are its\nnotions of honor corresponding to those wants. The rules of honor will\ntherefore always be less numerous amongst a people not divided into\ncastes than amongst any other. If ever any nations are constituted in\nwhich it may even be difficult to find any peculiar classes of society,\nthe notion of honor will be confined to a small number of precepts,\nwhich will be more and more in accordance with the moral laws adopted\nby the mass of mankind. Thus the laws of honor will be less peculiar and\nless multifarious amongst a democratic people than in an aristocracy.\nThey will also be more obscure; and this is a necessary consequence\nof what goes before; for as the distinguishing marks of honor are less\nnumerous and less peculiar, it must often be difficult to distinguish\nthem. To this, other reasons may be added. Amongst the aristocratic\nnations of the Middle Ages, generation succeeded generation in vain;\neach family was like a never-dying, ever-stationary man, and the state\nof opinions was hardly more changeable than that of conditions. Everyone\nthen had always the same objects before his eyes, which he contemplated\nfrom the same point; his eyes gradually detected the smallest details,\nand his discernment could not fail to become in the end clear and\naccurate. Thus not only had the men of feudal times very extraordinary\nopinions in matters of honor, but each of those opinions was present to\ntheir minds under a clear and precise form.\n\nThis can never be the case in America, where all men are in constant\nmotion; and where society, transformed daily by its own operations,\nchanges its opinions together with its wants. In such a country men\nhave glimpses of the rules of honor, but they have seldom time to fix\nattention upon them.\n\nBut even if society were motionless, it would still be difficult to\ndetermine the meaning which ought to be attached to the word \"honor.\" In\nthe Middle Ages, as each class had its own honor, the same opinion\nwas never received at the same time by a large number of men; and this\nrendered it possible to give it a determined and accurate form, which\nwas the more easy, as all those by whom it was received, having a\nperfectly identical and most peculiar position, were naturally disposed\nto agree upon the points of a law which was made for themselves alone.\nThus the code of honor became a complete and detailed system, in which\neverything was anticipated and provided for beforehand, and a fixed\nand always palpable standard was applied to human actions. Amongst a\ndemocratic nation, like the Americans, in which ranks are identified,\nand the whole of society forms one single mass, composed of elements\nwhich are all analogous though not entirely similar, it is impossible\never to agree beforehand on what shall or shall not be allowed by the\nlaws of honor. Amongst that people, indeed, some national wants do exist\nwhich give rise to opinions common to the whole nation on points of\nhonor; but these opinions never occur at the same time, in the same\nmanner, or with the same intensity to the minds of the whole community;\nthe law of honor exists, but it has no organs to promulgate it.\n\nThe confusion is far greater still in a democratic country like France,\nwhere the different classes of which the former fabric of society was\ncomposed, being brought together but not yet mingled, import day by day\ninto each other's circles various and sometimes conflicting notions\nof honor--where every man, at his own will and pleasure, forsakes one\nportion of his forefathers' creed, and retains another; so that, amidst\nso many arbitrary measures, no common rule can ever be established, and\nit is almost impossible to predict which actions will be held in honor\nand which will be thought disgraceful. Such times are wretched, but they\nare of short duration.\n\nAs honor, amongst democratic nations, is imperfectly defined, its\ninfluence is of course less powerful; for it is difficult to apply\nwith certainty and firmness a law which is not distinctly known. Public\nopinion, the natural and supreme interpreter of the laws of honor, not\nclearly discerning to which side censure or approval ought to lean,\ncan only pronounce a hesitating judgment. Sometimes the opinion of the\npublic may contradict itself; more frequently it does not act, and lets\nthings pass.\n\nThe weakness of the sense of honor in democracies also arises from\nseveral other causes. In aristocratic countries, the same notions of\nhonor are always entertained by only a few persons, always limited in\nnumber, often separated from the rest of their fellow-citizens. Honor is\neasily mingled and identified in their minds with the idea of all\nthat distinguishes their own position; it appears to them as the chief\ncharacteristic of their own rank; they apply its different rules with\nall the warmth of personal interest, and they feel (if I may use the\nexpression) a passion for complying with its dictates. This truth is\nextremely obvious in the old black-letter lawbooks on the subject of\n\"trial by battel.\" The nobles, in their disputes, were bound to use\nthe lance and sword; whereas the villains used only sticks amongst\nthemselves, \"inasmuch as,\" to use the words of the old books, \"villains\nhave no honor.\" This did not mean, as it may be imagined at the present\nday, that these people were contemptible; but simply that their actions\nwere not to be judged by the same rules which were applied to the\nactions of the aristocracy.\n\nIt is surprising, at first sight, that when the sense of honor is most\npredominant, its injunctions are usually most strange; so that the\nfurther it is removed from common reason the better it is obeyed; whence\nit has sometimes been inferred that the laws of honor were strengthened\nby their own extravagance. The two things indeed originate from the\nsame source, but the one is not derived from the other. Honor becomes\nfantastical in proportion to the peculiarity of the wants which it\ndenotes, and the paucity of the men by whom those wants are felt; and\nit is because it denotes wants of this kind that its influence is great.\nThus the notion of honor is not the stronger for being fantastical, but\nit is fantastical and strong from the selfsame cause.\n\nFurther, amongst aristocratic nations each rank is different, but all\nranks are fixed; every man occupies a place in his own sphere which he\ncannot relinquish, and he lives there amidst other men who are bound by\nthe same ties. Amongst these nations no man can either hope or fear to\nescape being seen; no man is placed so low but that he has a stage of\nhis own, and none can avoid censure or applause by his obscurity.\nIn democratic States on the contrary, where all the members of the\ncommunity are mingled in the same crowd and in constant agitation,\npublic opinion has no hold on men; they disappear at every instant, and\nelude its power. Consequently the dictates of honor will be there less\nimperious and less stringent; for honor acts solely for the public\neye--differing in this respect from mere virtue, which lives upon itself\ncontented with its own approval.\n\nIf the reader has distinctly apprehended all that goes before, he will\nunderstand that there is a close and necessary relation between the\ninequality of social conditions and what has here been styled honor--a\nrelation which, if I am not mistaken, had not before been clearly\npointed out. I shall therefore make one more attempt to illustrate it\nsatisfactorily. Suppose a nation stands apart from the rest of mankind:\nindependently of certain general wants inherent in the human race, it\nwill also have wants and interests peculiar to itself: certain opinions\nof censure or approbation forthwith arise in the community, which are\npeculiar to itself, and which are styled honor by the members of that\ncommunity. Now suppose that in this same nation a caste arises, which,\nin its turn, stands apart from all the other classes, and contracts\ncertain peculiar wants, which give rise in their turn to special\nopinions. The honor of this caste, composed of a medley of the peculiar\nnotions of the nation, and the still more peculiar notions of the caste,\nwill be as remote as it is possible to conceive from the simple and\ngeneral opinions of men.\n\nHaving reached this extreme point of the argument, I now return. When\nranks are commingled and privileges abolished, the men of whom a nation\nis composed being once more equal and alike, their interests and wants\nbecome identical, and all the peculiar notions which each caste styled\nhonor successively disappear: the notion of honor no longer proceeds\nfrom any other source than the wants peculiar to the nation at large,\nand it denotes the individual character of that nation to the world.\nLastly, if it be allowable to suppose that all the races of mankind\nshould be commingled, and that all the peoples of earth should\nultimately come to have the same interests, the same wants,\nundistinguished from each other by any characteristic peculiarities,\nno conventional value whatever would then be attached to men's actions;\nthey would all be regarded by all in the same light; the general\nnecessities of mankind, revealed by conscience to every man, would\nbecome the common standard. The simple and general notions of right and\nwrong only would then be recognized in the world, to which, by a natural\nand necessary tie, the idea of censure or approbation would be\nattached. Thus, to comprise all my meaning in a single proposition,\nthe dissimilarities and inequalities of men gave rise to the notion of\nhonor; that notion is weakened in proportion as these differences are\nobliterated, and with them it would disappear.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX: Why So Many Ambitious Men And So Little Lofty Ambition Are\nTo Be Found In The United States\n\nThe first thing which strikes a traveller in the United States is the\ninnumerable multitude of those who seek to throw off their original\ncondition; and the second is the rarity of lofty ambition to be observed\nin the midst of the universally ambitious stir of society. No Americans\nare devoid of a yearning desire to rise; but hardly any appear to\nentertain hopes of great magnitude, or to drive at very lofty aims. All\nare constantly seeking to acquire property, power, and reputation--few\ncontemplate these things upon a great scale; and this is the more\nsurprising, as nothing is to be discerned in the manners or laws of\nAmerica to limit desire, or to prevent it from spreading its impulses in\nevery direction. It seems difficult to attribute this singular state\nof things to the equality of social conditions; for at the instant when\nthat same equality was established in France, the flight of ambition\nbecame unbounded. Nevertheless, I think that the principal cause which\nmay be assigned to this fact is to be found in the social condition and\ndemocratic manners of the Americans.\n\nAll revolutions enlarge the ambition of men: this proposition is more\npeculiarly true of those revolutions which overthrow an aristocracy.\nWhen the former barriers which kept back the multitude from fame and\npower are suddenly thrown down, a violent and universal rise takes place\ntowards that eminence so long coveted and at length to be enjoyed. In\nthis first burst of triumph nothing seems impossible to anyone: not only\nare desires boundless, but the power of satisfying them seems almost\nboundless, too. Amidst the general and sudden renewal of laws and\ncustoms, in this vast confusion of all men and all ordinances, the\nvarious members of the community rise and sink again with excessive\nrapidity; and power passes so quickly from hand to hand that none need\ndespair of catching it in turn. It must be recollected, moreover, that\nthe people who destroy an aristocracy have lived under its laws; they\nhave witnessed its splendor, and they have unconsciously imbibed the\nfeelings and notions which it entertained. Thus at the moment when an\naristocracy is dissolved, its spirit still pervades the mass of the\ncommunity, and its tendencies are retained long after it has been\ndefeated. Ambition is therefore always extremely great as long as a\ndemocratic revolution lasts, and it will remain so for some time after\nthe revolution is consummated. The reminiscence of the extraordinary\nevents which men have witnessed is not obliterated from their memory in\na day. The passions which a revolution has roused do not disappear at\nits close. A sense of instability remains in the midst of re-established\norder: a notion of easy success survives the strange vicissitudes which\ngave it birth; desires still remain extremely enlarged, when the means\nof satisfying them are diminished day by day. The taste for large\nfortunes subsists, though large fortunes are rare: and on every side we\ntrace the ravages of inordinate and hapless ambition kindled in hearts\nwhich they consume in secret and in vain.\n\nAt length, however, the last vestiges of the struggle are effaced; the\nremains of aristocracy completely disappear; the great events by which\nits fall was attended are forgotten; peace succeeds to war, and the sway\nof order is restored in the new realm; desires are again adapted to the\nmeans by which they may be fulfilled; the wants, the opinions, and\nthe feelings of men cohere once more; the level of the community is\npermanently determined, and democratic society established. A democratic\nnation, arrived at this permanent and regular state of things, will\npresent a very different spectacle from that which we have just\ndescribed; and we may readily conclude that, if ambition becomes great\nwhilst the conditions of society are growing equal, it loses that\nquality when they have grown so. As wealth is subdivided and knowledge\ndiffused, no one is entirely destitute of education or of property;\nthe privileges and disqualifications of caste being abolished, and\nmen having shattered the bonds which held them fixed, the notion of\nadvancement suggests itself to every mind, the desire to rise swells in\nevery heart, and all men want to mount above their station: ambition is\nthe universal feeling.\n\nBut if the equality of conditions gives some resources to all the\nmembers of the community, it also prevents any of them from having\nresources of great extent, which necessarily circumscribes their desires\nwithin somewhat narrow limits. Thus amongst democratic nations ambition\nis ardent and continual, but its aim is not habitually lofty; and life\nis generally spent in eagerly coveting small objects which are within\nreach. What chiefly diverts the men of democracies from lofty ambition\nis not the scantiness of their fortunes, but the vehemence of the\nexertions they daily make to improve them. They strain their faculties\nto the utmost to achieve paltry results, and this cannot fail speedily\nto limit their discernment and to circumscribe their powers. They\nmight be much poorer and still be greater. The small number of opulent\ncitizens who are to be found amidst a democracy do not constitute an\nexception to this rule. A man who raises himself by degrees to wealth\nand power, contracts, in the course of this protracted labor, habits\nof prudence and restraint which he cannot afterwards shake off. A man\ncannot enlarge his mind as he would his house. The same observation is\napplicable to the sons of such a man; they are born, it is true, in a\nlofty position, but their parents were humble; they have grown up amidst\nfeelings and notions which they cannot afterwards easily get rid of;\nand it may be presumed that they will inherit the propensities of their\nfather as well as his wealth. It may happen, on the contrary, that\nthe poorest scion of a powerful aristocracy may display vast ambition,\nbecause the traditional opinions of his race and the general spirit of\nhis order still buoy him up for some time above his fortune. Another\nthing which prevents the men of democratic periods from easily indulging\nin the pursuit of lofty objects, is the lapse of time which they foresee\nmust take place before they can be ready to approach them. \"It is a\ngreat advantage,\" says Pascal, \"to be a man of quality, since it brings\none man as forward at eighteen or twenty as another man would be at\nfifty, which is a clear gain of thirty years.\" Those thirty years\nare commonly wanting to the ambitious characters of democracies. The\nprinciple of equality, which allows every man to arrive at everything,\nprevents all men from rapid advancement.\n\nIn a democratic society, as well as elsewhere, there are only a certain\nnumber of great fortunes to be made; and as the paths which lead to them\nare indiscriminately open to all, the progress of all must necessarily\nbe slackened. As the candidates appear to be nearly alike, and as it\nis difficult to make a selection without infringing the principle of\nequality, which is the supreme law of democratic societies, the first\nidea which suggests itself is to make them all advance at the same rate\nand submit to the same probation. Thus in proportion as men become\nmore alike, and the principle of equality is more peaceably and deeply\ninfused into the institutions and manners of the country, the rules\nof advancement become more inflexible, advancement itself slower, the\ndifficulty of arriving quickly at a certain height far greater. From\nhatred of privilege and from the embarrassment of choosing, all men are\nat last constrained, whatever may be their standard, to pass the same\nordeal; all are indiscriminately subjected to a multitude of petty\npreliminary exercises, in which their youth is wasted and their\nimagination quenched, so that they despair of ever fully attaining\nwhat is held out to them; and when at length they are in a condition to\nperform any extraordinary acts, the taste for such things has forsaken\nthem.\n\nIn China, where the equality of conditions is exceedingly great and\nvery ancient, no man passes from one public office to another without\nundergoing a probationary trial. This probation occurs afresh at every\nstage of his career; and the notion is now so rooted in the manners of\nthe people that I remember to have read a Chinese novel, in which the\nhero, after numberless crosses, succeeds at length in touching the\nheart of his mistress by taking honors. A lofty ambition breathes with\ndifficulty in such an atmosphere.\n\nThe remark I apply to politics extends to everything; equality\neverywhere produces the same effects; where the laws of a country do\nnot regulate and retard the advancement of men by positive enactment,\ncompetition attains the same end. In a well-established democratic\ncommunity great and rapid elevation is therefore rare; it forms\nan exception to the common rule; and it is the singularity of such\noccurrences that makes men forget how rarely they happen. Men living in\ndemocracies ultimately discover these things; they find out at last that\nthe laws of their country open a boundless field of action before them,\nbut that no one can hope to hasten across it. Between them and the final\nobject of their desires, they perceive a multitude of small intermediate\nimpediments, which must be slowly surmounted: this prospect wearies\nand discourages their ambition at once. They therefore give up hopes so\ndoubtful and remote, to search nearer to themselves for less lofty\nand more easy enjoyments. Their horizon is not bounded by the laws but\nnarrowed by themselves.\n\nI have remarked that lofty ambitions are more rare in the ages of\ndemocracy than in times of aristocracy: I may add that when, in spite of\nthese natural obstacles, they do spring into existence, their character\nis different. In aristocracies the career of ambition is often wide, but\nits boundaries are determined. In democracies ambition commonly ranges\nin a narrower field, but if once it gets beyond that, hardly any limits\ncan be assigned to it. As men are individually weak--as they live\nasunder, and in constant motion--as precedents are of little authority\nand laws but of short duration, resistance to novelty is languid,\nand the fabric of society never appears perfectly erect or firmly\nconsolidated. So that, when once an ambitious man has the power in his\ngrasp, there is nothing he may noted are; and when it is gone from him,\nhe meditates the overthrow of the State to regain it. This gives to\ngreat political ambition a character of revolutionary violence, which\nit seldom exhibits to an equal degree in aristocratic communities. The\ncommon aspect of democratic nations will present a great number of\nsmall and very rational objects of ambition, from amongst which a few\nill-controlled desires of a larger growth will at intervals break out:\nbut no such a thing as ambition conceived and contrived on a vast scale\nis to be met with there.\n\nI have shown elsewhere by what secret influence the principle of\nequality makes the passion for physical gratifications and the exclusive\nlove of the present predominate in the human heart: these different\npropensities mingle with the sentiment of ambition, and tinge it, as it\nwere, with their hues. I believe that ambitious men in democracies are\nless engrossed than any others with the interests and the judgment of\nposterity; the present moment alone engages and absorbs them. They are\nmore apt to complete a number of undertakings with rapidity than to\nraise lasting monuments of their achievements; and they care much more\nfor success than for fame. What they most ask of men is obedience--what\nthey most covet is empire. Their manners have in almost all cases\nremained below the height of their station; the consequence is that they\nfrequently carry very low tastes into their extraordinary fortunes, and\nthat they seem to have acquired the supreme power only to minister to\ntheir coarse or paltry pleasures.\n\nI think that in our time it is very necessary to cleanse, to regulate,\nand to adapt the feeling of ambition, but that it would be extremely\ndangerous to seek to impoverish and to repress it over-much. We should\nattempt to lay down certain extreme limits, which it should never be\nallowed to outstep; but its range within those established limits\nshould not be too much checked. I confess that I apprehend much less\nfor democratic society from the boldness than from the mediocrity of\ndesires. What appears to me most to be dreaded is that, in the midst of\nthe small incessant occupations of private life, ambition should lose\nits vigor and its greatness--that the passions of man should abate, but\nat the same time be lowered, so that the march of society should every\nday become more tranquil and less aspiring. I think then that the\nleaders of modern society would be wrong to seek to lull the community\nby a state of too uniform and too peaceful happiness; and that it is\nwell to expose it from time to time to matters of difficulty and danger,\nin order to raise ambition and to give it a field of action. Moralists\nare constantly complaining that the ruling vice of the present time is\npride. This is true in one sense, for indeed no one thinks that he is\nnot better than his neighbor, or consents to obey his superior: but\nit is extremely false in another; for the same man who cannot endure\nsubordination or equality, has so contemptible an opinion of himself\nthat he thinks he is only born to indulge in vulgar pleasures. He\nwillingly takes up with low desires, without daring to embark in lofty\nenterprises, of which he scarcely dreams. Thus, far from thinking\nthat humility ought to be preached to our contemporaries, I would have\nendeavors made to give them a more enlarged idea of themselves and of\ntheir kind. Humility is unwholesome to them; what they most want is,\nin my opinion, pride. I would willingly exchange several of our small\nvirtues for this one vice.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX: The Trade Of Place-Hunting In Certain Democratic Countries\n\nIn the United States as soon as a man has acquired some education and\npecuniary resources, he either endeavors to get rich by commerce or\nindustry, or he buys land in the bush and turns pioneer. All that he\nasks of the State is not to be disturbed in his toil, and to be secure\nof his earnings. Amongst the greater part of European nations, when a\nman begins to feel his strength and to extend his desires, the first\nthing that occurs to him is to get some public employment. These\nopposite effects, originating in the same cause, deserve our passing\nnotice.\n\nWhen public employments are few in number, ill-paid and precarious,\nwhilst the different lines of business are numerous and lucrative, it is\nto business, and not to official duties, that the new and eager desires\nengendered by the principle of equality turn from every side. But if,\nwhilst the ranks of society are becoming more equal, the education of\nthe people remains incomplete, or their spirit the reverse of bold--if\ncommerce and industry, checked in their growth, afford only slow and\narduous means of making a fortune--the various members of the community,\ndespairing of ameliorating their own condition, rush to the head of the\nState and demand its assistance. To relieve their own necessities at the\ncost of the public treasury, appears to them to be the easiest and most\nopen, if not the only, way they have to rise above a condition which no\nlonger contents them; place-hunting becomes the most generally followed\nof all trades. This must especially be the case, in those great\ncentralized monarchies in which the number of paid offices is immense,\nand the tenure of them tolerably secure, so that no one despairs of\nobtaining a place, and of enjoying it as undisturbedly as a hereditary\nfortune.\n\nI shall not remark that the universal and inordinate desire for place is\na great social evil; that it destroys the spirit of independence in the\ncitizen, and diffuses a venal and servile humor throughout the frame\nof society; that it stifles the manlier virtues: nor shall I be at\nthe pains to demonstrate that this kind of traffic only creates an\nunproductive activity, which agitates the country without adding to its\nresources: all these things are obvious. But I would observe, that a\ngovernment which encourages this tendency risks its own tranquillity,\nand places its very existence in great jeopardy. I am aware that at a\ntime like our own, when the love and respect which formerly clung to\nauthority are seen gradually to decline, it may appear necessary to\nthose in power to lay a closer hold on every man by his own interest,\nand it may seem convenient to use his own passions to keep him in order\nand in silence; but this cannot be so long, and what may appear to be a\nsource of strength for a certain time will assuredly become in the end a\ngreat cause of embarrassment and weakness.\n\nAmongst democratic nations, as well as elsewhere, the number of official\nappointments has in the end some limits; but amongst those nations,\nthe number of aspirants is unlimited; it perpetually increases, with a\ngradual and irresistible rise in proportion as social conditions become\nmore equal, and is only checked by the limits of the population.\nThus, when public employments afford the only outlet for ambition, the\ngovernment necessarily meets with a permanent opposition at last; for\nit is tasked to satisfy with limited means unlimited desires. It is very\ncertain that of all people in the world the most difficult to restrain\nand to manage are a people of solicitants. Whatever endeavors are made\nby rulers, such a people can never be contented; and it is always to be\napprehended that they will ultimately overturn the constitution of the\ncountry, and change the aspect of the State, for the sole purpose of\nmaking a clearance of places. The sovereigns of the present age, who\nstrive to fix upon themselves alone all those novel desires which are\naroused by equality, and to satisfy them, will repent in the end, if I\nam not mistaken, that they ever embarked in this policy: they will one\nday discover that they have hazarded their own power, by making it so\nnecessary; and that the more safe and honest course would have been to\nteach their subjects the art of providing for themselves. *a\n\n[Footnote a: As a matter of fact, more recent experience has shown that\nplace-hunting is quite as intense in the United States as in any country\nin Europe. It is regarded by the Americans themselves as one of the\ngreat evils of their social condition, and it powerfully affects their\npolitical institutions. But the American who seeks a place seeks not so\nmuch a means of subsistence as the distinction which office and public\nemployment confer. In the absence of any true aristocracy, the public\nservice creates a spurious one, which is as much an object of ambition\nas the distinctions of rank in aristocratic countries.--Translator's\nNote.]\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI: Why Great Revolutions Will Become More Rare\n\nA people which has existed for centuries under a system of castes and\nclasses can only arrive at a democratic state of society by passing\nthrough a long series of more or less critical transformations,\naccomplished by violent efforts, and after numerous vicissitudes; in the\ncourse of which, property, opinions, and power are rapidly transferred\nfrom one hand to another. Even after this great revolution is\nconsummated, the revolutionary habits engendered by it may long be\ntraced, and it will be followed by deep commotion. As all this takes\nplace at the very time at which social conditions are becoming more\nequal, it is inferred that some concealed relation and secret tie exist\nbetween the principle of equality itself and revolution, insomuch that\nthe one cannot exist without giving rise to the other.\n\nOn this point reasoning may seem to lead to the same result as\nexperience. Amongst a people whose ranks are nearly equal, no ostensible\nbond connects men together, or keeps them settled in their station.\nNone of them have either a permanent right or power to command--none\nare forced by their condition to obey; but every man, finding himself\npossessed of some education and some resources, may choose his won path\nand proceed apart from all his fellow-men. The same causes which make\nthe members of the community independent of each other, continually\nimpel them to new and restless desires, and constantly spur them\nonwards. It therefore seems natural that, in a democratic community,\nmen, things, and opinions should be forever changing their form and\nplace, and that democratic ages should be times of rapid and incessant\ntransformation.\n\nBut is this really the case? does the equality of social conditions\nhabitually and permanently lead men to revolution? does that state of\nsociety contain some perturbing principle which prevents the community\nfrom ever subsiding into calm, and disposes the citizens to alter\nincessantly their laws, their principles, and their manners? I do not\nbelieve it; and as the subject is important, I beg for the reader's\nclose attention. Almost all the revolutions which have changed the\naspect of nations have been made to consolidate or to destroy social\ninequality. Remove the secondary causes which have produced the great\nconvulsions of the world, and you will almost always find the principle\nof inequality at the bottom. Either the poor have attempted to plunder\nthe rich, or the rich to enslave the poor. If then a state of society\ncan ever be founded in which every man shall have something to keep, and\nlittle to take from others, much will have been done for the peace of\nthe world. I am aware that amongst a great democratic people there will\nalways be some members of the community in great poverty, and others in\ngreat opulence; but the poor, instead of forming the immense majority\nof the nation, as is always the case in aristocratic communities, are\ncomparatively few in number, and the laws do not bind them together by\nthe ties of irremediable and hereditary penury. The wealthy, on their\nside, are scarce and powerless; they have no privileges which attract\npublic observation; even their wealth, as it is no longer incorporated\nand bound up with the soil, is impalpable, and as it were invisible. As\nthere is no longer a race of poor men, so there is no longer a race of\nrich men; the latter spring up daily from the multitude, and relapse\ninto it again. Hence they do not form a distinct class, which may be\neasily marked out and plundered; and, moreover, as they are connected\nwith the mass of their fellow-citizens by a thousand secret ties, the\npeople cannot assail them without inflicting an injury upon itself.\nBetween these two extremes of democratic communities stand an\ninnumerable multitude of men almost alike, who, without being exactly\neither rich or poor, are possessed of sufficient property to desire the\nmaintenance of order, yet not enough to excite envy. Such men are the\nnatural enemies of violent commotions: their stillness keeps all beneath\nthem and above them still, and secures the balance of the fabric of\nsociety. Not indeed that even these men are contented with what they\nhave gotten, or that they feel a natural abhorrence for a revolution in\nwhich they might share the spoil without sharing the calamity; on the\ncontrary, they desire, with unexampled ardor, to get rich, but the\ndifficulty is to know from whom riches can be taken. The same state of\nsociety which constantly prompts desires, restrains these desires\nwithin necessary limits: it gives men more liberty of changing and less\ninterest in change.\n\nNot only are the men of democracies not naturally desirous of\nrevolutions, but they are afraid of them. All revolutions more or\nless threaten the tenure of property: but most of those who live in\ndemocratic countries are possessed of property--not only are they\npossessed of property, but they live in the condition of men who set the\ngreatest store upon their property. If we attentively consider each of\nthe classes of which society is composed, it is easy to see that the\npassions engendered by property are keenest and most tenacious amongst\nthe middle classes. The poor often care but little for what they\npossess, because they suffer much more from the want of what they have\nnot, than they enjoy the little they have. The rich have many other\npassions besides that of riches to satisfy; and, besides, the long and\narduous enjoyment of a great fortune sometimes makes them in the end\ninsensible to its charms. But the men who have a competency, alike\nremoved from opulence and from penury, attach an enormous value to their\npossessions. As they are still almost within the reach of poverty, they\nsee its privations near at hand, and dread them; between poverty and\nthemselves there is nothing but a scanty fortune, upon which they\nimmediately fix their apprehensions and their hopes. Every day increases\nthe interest they take in it, by the constant cares which it occasions;\nand they are the more attached to it by their continual exertions to\nincrease the amount. The notion of surrendering the smallest part of it\nis insupportable to them, and they consider its total loss as the worst\nof misfortunes. Now these eager and apprehensive men of small property\nconstitute the class which is constantly increased by the equality of\nconditions. Hence, in democratic communities, the majority of the people\ndo not clearly see what they have to gain by a revolution, but they\ncontinually and in a thousand ways feel that they might lose by one.\n\nI have shown in another part of this work that the equality of\nconditions naturally urges men to embark in commercial and industrial\npursuits, and that it tends to increase and to distribute real property:\nI have also pointed out the means by which it inspires every man with\nan eager and constant desire to increase his welfare. Nothing is more\nopposed to revolutionary passions than these things. It may happen\nthat the final result of a revolution is favorable to commerce and\nmanufactures; but its first consequence will almost always be the ruin\nof manufactures and mercantile men, because it must always change at\nonce the general principles of consumption, and temporarily upset the\nexisting proportion between supply and demand. I know of nothing more\nopposite to revolutionary manners than commercial manners. Commerce is\nnaturally adverse to all the violent passions; it loves to temporize,\ntakes delight in compromise, and studiously avoids irritation. It\nis patient, insinuating, flexible, and never has recourse to extreme\nmeasures until obliged by the most absolute necessity. Commerce renders\nmen independent of each other, gives them a lofty notion of their\npersonal importance, leads them to seek to conduct their own affairs,\nand teaches how to conduct them well; it therefore prepares men for\nfreedom, but preserves them from revolutions. In a revolution the owners\nof personal property have more to fear than all others; for on the one\nhand their property is often easy to seize, and on the other it may\ntotally disappear at any moment--a subject of alarm to which the owners\nof real property are less exposed, since, although they may lose the\nincome of their estates, they may hope to preserve the land itself\nthrough the greatest vicissitudes. Hence the former are much more\nalarmed at the symptoms of revolutionary commotion than the latter. Thus\nnations are less disposed to make revolutions in proportion as personal\nproperty is augmented and distributed amongst them, and as the number\nof those possessing it increases. Moreover, whatever profession men\nmay embrace, and whatever species of property they may possess, one\ncharacteristic is common to them all. No one is fully contented with\nhis present fortune--all are perpetually striving in a thousand ways to\nimprove it. Consider any one of them at any period of his life, and\nhe will be found engaged with some new project for the purpose of\nincreasing what he has; talk not to him of the interests and the rights\nof mankind: this small domestic concern absorbs for the time all his\nthoughts, and inclines him to defer political excitement to some other\nseason. This not only prevents men from making revolutions, but deters\nmen from desiring them. Violent political passions have but little hold\non those who have devoted all their faculties to the pursuit of their\nwell-being. The ardor which they display in small matters calms their\nzeal for momentous undertakings.\n\nFrom time to time indeed, enterprising and ambitious men will arise in\ndemocratic communities, whose unbounded aspirations cannot be contented\nby following the beaten track. Such men like revolutions and hail their\napproach; but they have great difficulty in bringing them about, unless\nunwonted events come to their assistance. No man can struggle with\nadvantage against the spirit of his age and country; and, however\npowerful he may be supposed to be, he will find it difficult to make his\ncontemporaries share in feelings and opinions which are repugnant to t\nall their feelings and desires.\n\nIt is a mistake to believe that, when once the equality of conditions\nhas become the old and uncontested state of society, and has imparted\nits characteristics to the manners of a nation, men will easily allow\nthemselves to be thrust into perilous risks by an imprudent leader or\na bold innovator. Not indeed that they will resist him openly, by\nwell-contrived schemes, or even by a premeditated plan of resistance.\nThey will not struggle energetically against him, sometimes they will\neven applaud him--but they do not follow him. To his vehemence they\nsecretly oppose their inertia; to his revolutionary tendencies their\nconservative interests; their homely tastes to his adventurous passions;\ntheir good sense to the flights of his genius; to his poetry their\nprose. With immense exertion he raises them for an instant, but they\nspeedily escape from him, and fall back, as it were, by their own\nweight. He strains himself to rouse the indifferent and distracted\nmultitude, and finds at last that he is reduced to impotence, not\nbecause he is conquered, but because he is alone.\n\nI do not assert that men living in democratic communities are naturally\nstationary; I think, on the contrary, that a perpetual stir prevails\nin the bosom of those societies, and that rest is unknown there; but I\nthink that men bestir themselves within certain limits beyond which\nthey hardly ever go. They are forever varying, altering, and restoring\nsecondary matters; but they carefully abstain from touching what is\nfundamental. They love change, but they dread revolutions. Although the\nAmericans are constantly modifying or abrogating some of their laws,\nthey by no means display revolutionary passions. It may be easily seen,\nfrom the promptitude with which they check and calm themselves when\npublic excitement begins to grow alarming, and at the very moment when\npassions seem most roused, that they dread a revolution as the worst\nof misfortunes, and that every one of them is inwardly resolved to make\ngreat sacrifices to avoid such a catastrophe. In no country in the world\nis the love of property more active and more anxious than in the United\nStates; nowhere does the majority display less inclination for those\nprinciples which threaten to alter, in whatever manner, the laws\nof property. I have often remarked that theories which are of a\nrevolutionary nature, since they cannot be put in practice without a\ncomplete and sometimes a sudden change in the state of property and\npersons, are much less favorably viewed in the United States than in\nthe great monarchical countries of Europe: if some men profess them,\nthe bulk of the people reject them with instinctive abhorrence. I do not\nhesitate to say that most of the maxims commonly called democratic in\nFrance would be proscribed by the democracy of the United States. This\nmay easily be understood: in America men have the opinions and passions\nof democracy, in Europe we have still the passions and opinions of\nrevolution. If ever America undergoes great revolutions, they will\nbe brought about by the presence of the black race on the soil of the\nUnited States--that is to say, they will owe their origin, not to the\nequality, but to the inequality, of conditions.\n\nWhen social conditions are equal, every man is apt to live apart,\ncentred in himself and forgetful of the public. If the rulers of\ndemocratic nations were either to neglect to correct this fatal\ntendency, or to encourage it from a notion that it weans men from\npolitical passions and thus wards off revolutions, they might eventually\nproduce the evil they seek to avoid, and a time might come when the\ninordinate passions of a few men, aided by the unintelligent selfishness\nor the pusillanimity of the greater number, would ultimately compel\nsociety to pass through strange vicissitudes. In democratic communities\nrevolutions are seldom desired except by a minority; but a minority\nmay sometimes effect them. I do not assert that democratic nations are\nsecure from revolutions; I merely say that the state of society in\nthose nations does not lead to revolutions, but rather wards them off.\nA democratic people left to itself will not easily embark in great\nhazards; it is only led to revolutions unawares; it may sometimes\nundergo them, but it does not make them; and I will add that, when\nsuch a people has been allowed to acquire sufficient knowledge and\nexperience, it will not suffer them to be made. I am well aware that\nit this respect public institutions may themselves do much; they may\nencourage or repress the tendencies which originate in the state of\nsociety. I therefore do not maintain, I repeat, that a people is secure\nfrom revolutions simply because conditions are equal in the community;\nbut I think that, whatever the institutions of such a people may be,\ngreat revolutions will always be far less violent and less frequent than\nis supposed; and I can easily discern a state of polity, which, when\ncombined with the principle of equality, would render society more\nstationary than it has ever been in our western apart of the world.\n\nThe observations I have here made on events may also be applied in\npart to opinions. Two things are surprising in the United States--the\nmutability of the greater part of human actions, and the singular\nstability of certain principles. Men are in constant motion; the mind\nof man appears almost unmoved. When once an opinion has spread over the\ncountry and struck root there, it would seem that no power on earth is\nstrong enough to eradicate it. In the United States, general principles\nin religion, philosophy, morality, and even politics, do not vary, or at\nleast are only modified by a hidden and often an imperceptible process:\neven the grossest prejudices are obliterated with incredible slowness,\namidst the continual friction of men and things. I hear it said that it\nis in the nature and the habits of democracies to be constantly changing\ntheir opinions and feelings. This may be true of small democratic\nnations, like those of the ancient world, in which the whole community\ncould be assembled in a public place and then excited at will by an\norator. But I saw nothing of the kind amongst the great democratic\npeople which dwells upon the opposite shores of the Atlantic Ocean.\nWhat struck me in the United States was the difficulty in shaking the\nmajority in an opinion once conceived, or of drawing it off from a\nleader once adopted. Neither speaking nor writing can accomplish it;\nnothing but experience will avail, and even experience must be repeated.\nThis is surprising at first sight, but a more attentive investigation\nexplains the fact. I do not think that it is as easy as is supposed to\nuproot the prejudices of a democratic people--to change its belief--to\nsupersede principles once established, by new principles in religion,\npolitics, and morals--in a word, to make great and frequent changes in\nmen's minds. Not that the human mind is there at rest--it is in constant\nagitation; but it is engaged in infinitely varying the consequences of\nknown principles, and in seeking for new consequences, rather than in\nseeking for new principles. Its motion is one of rapid circumvolution,\nrather than of straightforward impulse by rapid and direct effort; it\nextends its orbit by small continual and hasty movements, but it does\nnot suddenly alter its position.\n\nMen who are equal in rights, in education, in fortune, or, to comprise\nall in one word, in their social condition, have necessarily wants,\nhabits, and tastes which are hardly dissimilar. As they look at\nobjects under the same aspect, their minds naturally tend to\nanalogous conclusions; and, though each of them may deviate from his\ncontemporaries and from opinions of his own, they will involuntarily and\nunconsciously concur in a certain number of received opinions. The more\nattentively I consider the effects of equality upon the mind, the more\nam I persuaded that the intellectual anarchy which we witness about us\nis not, as many men suppose, the natural state of democratic nations.\nI think it is rather to be regarded as an accident peculiar to their\nyouth, and that it only breaks out at that period of transition when men\nhave already snapped the former ties which bound them together, but are\nstill amazingly different in origin, education, and manners; so that,\nhaving retained opinions, propensities and tastes of great diversity,\nnothing any longer prevents men from avowing them openly. The leading\nopinions of men become similar in proportion as their conditions\nassimilate; such appears to me to be the general and permanent law--the\nrest is casual and transient.\n\nI believe that it will rarely happen to any man amongst a democratic\ncommunity, suddenly to frame a system of notions very remote from\nthat which his contemporaries have adopted; and if some such innovator\nappeared, I apprehend that he would have great difficulty in finding\nlisteners, still more in finding believers. When the conditions of men\nare almost equal, they do not easily allow themselves to be persuaded by\neach other. As they all live in close intercourse, as they have learned\nthe same things together, and as they lead the same life, they are not\nnaturally disposed to take one of themselves for a guide, and to follow\nhim implicitly. Men seldom take the opinion of their equal, or of a\nman like themselves, upon trust. Not only is confidence in the superior\nattainments of certain individuals weakened amongst democratic nations,\nas I have elsewhere remarked, but the general notion of the intellectual\nsuperiority which any man whatsoever may acquire in relation to the rest\nof the community is soon overshadowed. As men grow more like each other,\nthe doctrine of the equality of the intellect gradually infuses itself\ninto their opinions; and it becomes more difficult for any innovator to\nacquire or to exert much influence over the minds of a people. In such\ncommunities sudden intellectual revolutions will therefore be rare; for,\nif we read aright the history of the world, we shall find that great and\nrapid changes in human opinions have been produced far less by the force\nof reasoning than by the authority of a name. Observe, too, that as the\nmen who live in democratic societies are not connected with each other\nby any tie, each of them must be convinced individually; whilst in\naristocratic society it is enough to convince a few--the rest follow.\nIf Luther had lived in an age of equality, and had not had princes\nand potentates for his audience, he would perhaps have found it more\ndifficult to change the aspect of Europe. Not indeed that the men of\ndemocracies are naturally strongly persuaded of the certainty of their\nopinions, or are unwavering in belief; they frequently entertain doubts\nwhich no one, in their eyes, can remove. It sometimes happens at such\ntimes that the human mind would willingly change its position; but as\nnothing urges or guides it forwards, it oscillates to and fro without\nprogressive motion. *a\n\n[Footnote a: If I inquire what state of society is most favorable to the\ngreat revolutions of the mind, I find that it occurs somewhere between\nthe complete equality of the whole community and the absolute separation\nof ranks. Under a system of castes generations succeed each other\nwithout altering men's positions; some have nothing more, others nothing\nbetter, to hope for. The imagination slumbers amidst this universal\nsilence and stillness, and the very idea of change fades from the human\nmind. When ranks have been abolished and social conditions are almost\nequalized, all men are in ceaseless excitement, but each of them stands\nalone, independent and weak. This latter state of things is excessively\ndifferent from the former one; yet it has one point of analogy--great\nrevolutions of the human mind seldom occur in it. But between these two\nextremes of the history of nations is an intermediate period--a period\nas glorious as it is agitated--when the conditions of men are not\nsufficiently settled for the mind to be lulled in torpor, when they are\nsufficiently unequal for men to exercise a vast power on the minds of\none another, and when some few may modify the convictions of all. It is\nat such times that great reformers start up, and new opinions suddenly\nchange the face of the world.]\n\nEven when the reliance of a democratic people has been won, it is still\nno easy matter to gain their attention. It is extremely difficult to\nobtain a hearing from men living in democracies, unless it be to speak\nto them of themselves. They do not attend to the things said to them,\nbecause they are always fully engrossed with the things they are doing.\nFor indeed few men are idle in democratic nations; life is passed in\nthe midst of noise and excitement, and men are so engaged in acting that\nlittle remains to them for thinking. I would especially remark that they\nare not only employed, but that they are passionately devoted to their\nemployments. They are always in action, and each of their actions\nabsorbs their faculties: the zeal which they display in business puts\nout the enthusiasm they might otherwise entertain for idea. I think\nthat it is extremely difficult to excite the enthusiasm of a democratic\npeople for any theory which has not a palpable, direct, and immediate\nconnection with the daily occupations of life: therefore they will not\neasily forsake their old opinions; for it is enthusiasm which flings the\nminds of men out of the beaten track, and effects the great revolutions\nof the intellect as well as the great revolutions of the political\nworld. Thus democratic nations have neither time nor taste to go in\nsearch of novel opinions. Even when those they possess become doubtful,\nthey still retain them, because it would take too much time and inquiry\nto change them--they retain them, not as certain, but as established.\n\nThere are yet other and more cogent reasons which prevent any great\nchange from being easily effected in the principles of a democratic\npeople. I have already adverted to them at the commencement of this\npart of my work. If the influence of individuals is weak and hardly\nperceptible amongst such a people, the power exercised by the mass upon\nthe mind of each individual is extremely great--I have already shown for\nwhat reasons. I would now observe that it is wrong to suppose that this\ndepends solely upon the form of government, and that the majority would\nlose its intellectual supremacy if it were to lose its political power.\nIn aristocracies men have often much greatness and strength of their\nown: when they find themselves at variance with the greater number of\ntheir fellow-countrymen, they withdraw to their own circle, where they\nsupport and console themselves. Such is not the case in a democratic\ncountry; there public favor seems as necessary as the air we breathe,\nand to live at variance with the multitude is, as it were, not to\nlive. The multitude requires no laws to coerce those who think not like\nitself: public disapprobation is enough; a sense of their loneliness and\nimpotence overtakes them and drives them to despair.\n\nWhenever social conditions are equal, public opinion presses with\nenormous weight upon the mind of each individual; it surrounds, directs,\nand oppresses him; and this arises from the very constitution of\nsociety, much more than from its political laws. As men grow more alike,\neach man feels himself weaker in regard to all the rest; as he discerns\nnothing by which he is considerably raised above them, or distinguished\nfrom them, he mistrusts himself as soon as they assail him. Not only\ndoes he mistrust his strength, but he even doubts of his right; and he\nis very near acknowledging that he is in the wrong, when the greater\nnumber of his countrymen assert that he is so. The majority do not need\nto constrain him--they convince him. In whatever way then the powers of\na democratic community may be organized and balanced, it will always be\nextremely difficult to believe what the bulk of the people reject, or to\nprofess what they condemn.\n\nThis circumstance is extraordinarily favorable to the stability of\nopinions. When an opinion has taken root amongst a democratic people,\nand established itself in the minds of the bulk of the community, it\nafterwards subsists by itself and is maintained without effort, because\nno one attacks it. Those who at first rejected it as false, ultimately\nreceive it as the general impression; and those who still dispute it in\ntheir hearts, conceal their dissent; they are careful not to engage in a\ndangerous and useless conflict. It is true, that when the majority of\na democratic people change their opinions, they may suddenly and\narbitrarily effect strange revolutions in men's minds; but their\nopinions do not change without much difficulty, and it is almost as\ndifficult to show that they are changed.\n\nTime, events, or the unaided individual action of the mind, will\nsometimes undermine or destroy an opinion, without any outward sign\nof the change. It has not been openly assailed, no conspiracy has been\nformed to make war on it, but its followers one by one noiselessly\nsecede--day by day a few of them abandon it, until last it is only\nprofessed by a minority. In this state it will still continue to\nprevail. As its enemies remain mute, or only interchange their thoughts\nby stealth, they are themselves unaware for a long period that a great\nrevolution has actually been effected; and in this state of uncertainly\nthey take no steps--they observe each other and are silent. The majority\nhave ceased to believe what they believed before; but they still affect\nto believe, and this empty phantom of public opinion in strong enough to\nchill innovators, and to keep them silent and at respectful distance. We\nlive at a time which has witnessed the most rapid changes of opinion in\nthe minds of men; nevertheless it may be that the leading opinions of\nsociety will ere long be more settled than they have been for several\ncenturies in our history: that time is not yet come, but it may\nperhaps be approaching. As I examine more closely the natural wants and\ntendencies of democratic nations, I grow persuaded that if ever social\nequality is generally and permanently established in the world, great\nintellectual and political revolutions will become more difficult and\nless frequent than is supposed. Because the men of democracies appear\nalways excited, uncertain, eager, changeable in their wills and in their\npositions, it is imagined that they are suddenly to abrogate their laws,\nto adopt new opinions, and to assume new manners. But if the principle\nof equality predisposes men to change, it also suggests to them certain\ninterests and tastes which cannot be satisfied without a settled order\nof things; equality urges them on, but at the same time it holds them\nback; it spurs them, but fastens them to earth;--it kindles their\ndesires, but limits their powers. This, however, is not perceived at\nfirst; the passions which tend to sever the citizens of a democracy are\nobvious enough; but the hidden force which restrains and unites them is\nnot discernible at a glance.\n\nAmidst the ruins which surround me, shall I dare to say that revolutions\nare not what I most fear coming generations? If men continue to shut\nthemselves more closely within the narrow circle of domestic interests\nand to live upon that kind of excitement, it is to be apprehended that\nthey may ultimately become inaccessible to those great and powerful\npublic emotions which perturb nations--but which enlarge them and\nrecruit them. When property becomes so fluctuating, and the love of\nproperty so restless and so ardent, I cannot but fear that men may\narrive at such a state as to regard every new theory as a peril,\nevery innovation as an irksome toil, every social improvement as a\nstepping-stone to revolution, and so refuse to move altogether for fear\nof being moved too far. I dread, and I confess it, lest they should at\nlast so entirely give way to a cowardly love of present enjoyment, as to\nlose sight of the interests of their future selves and of those of their\ndescendants; and to prefer to glide along the easy current of life,\nrather than to make, when it is necessary, a strong and sudden effort\nto a higher purpose. It is believed by some that modern society will be\never changing its aspect; for myself, I fear that it will ultimately be\ntoo invariably fixed in the same institutions, the same prejudices, the\nsame manners, so that mankind will be stopped and circumscribed; that\nthe mind will swing backwards and forwards forever, without begetting\nfresh ideas; that man will waste his strength in bootless and solitary\ntrifling; and, though in continual motion, that humanity will cease to\nadvance.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII: Why Democratic Nations Are Naturally Desirous Of Peace,\nAnd Democratic Armies Of War\n\nThe same interests, the same fears, the same passions which deter\ndemocratic nations from revolutions, deter them also from war; the\nspirit of military glory and the spirit of revolution are weakened at\nthe same time and by the same causes. The ever-increasing numbers of men\nof property--lovers of peace, the growth of personal wealth which war\nso rapidly consumes, the mildness of manners, the gentleness of heart,\nthose tendencies to pity which are engendered by the equality\nof conditions, that coolness of understanding which renders men\ncomparatively insensible to the violent and poetical excitement of\narms--all these causes concur to quench the military spirit. I think it\nmay be admitted as a general and constant rule, that, amongst civilized\nnations, the warlike passions will become more rare and less intense in\nproportion as social conditions shall be more equal. War is nevertheless\nan occurrence to which all nations are subject, democratic nations as\nwell as others. Whatever taste they may have for peace, they must hold\nthemselves in readiness to repel aggression, or in other words they must\nhave an army.\n\nFortune, which has conferred so many peculiar benefits upon the\ninhabitants of the United States, has placed them in the midst of a\nwilderness, where they have, so to speak, no neighbors: a few thousand\nsoldiers are sufficient for their wants; but this is peculiar to\nAmerica, not to democracy. The equality of conditions, and the\nmanners as well as the institutions resulting from it, do not exempt\na democratic people from the necessity of standing armies, and their\narmies always exercise a powerful influence over their fate. It is\ntherefore of singular importance to inquire what are the natural\npropensities of the men of whom these armies are composed.\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations, especially amongst those in which birth\nis the only source of rank, the same inequality exists in the army as\nin the nation; the officer is noble, the soldier is a serf; the one is\nnaturally called upon to command, the other to obey. In aristocratic\narmies, the private soldier's ambition is therefore circumscribed within\nvery narrow limits. Nor has the ambition of the officer an unlimited\nrange. An aristocratic body not only forms a part of the scale of ranks\nin the nation, but it contains a scale of ranks within itself: the\nmembers of whom it is composed are placed one above another, in a\nparticular and unvarying manner. Thus one man is born to the command of\na regiment, another to that of a company; when once they have reached\nthe utmost object of their hopes, they stop of their own accord, and\nremain contented with their lot. There is, besides, a strong cause,\nwhich, in aristocracies, weakens the officer's desire of promotion.\nAmongst aristocratic nations, an officer, independently of his rank\nin the army, also occupies an elevated rank in society; the former is\nalmost always in his eyes only an appendage to the latter. A nobleman\nwho embraces the profession of arms follows it less from motives of\nambition than from a sense of the duties imposed on him by his birth.\nHe enters the army in order to find an honorable employment for the idle\nyears of his youth, and to be able to bring back to his home and his\npeers some honorable recollections of military life; but his principal\nobject is not to obtain by that profession either property, distinction,\nor power, for he possesses these advantages in his own right, and enjoys\nthem without leaving his home.\n\nIn democratic armies all the soldiers may become officers, which makes\nthe desire of promotion general, and immeasurably extends the bounds\nof military ambition. The officer, on his part, sees nothing which\nnaturally and necessarily stops him at one grade more than at another;\nand each grade has immense importance in his eyes, because his rank\nin society almost always depends on his rank in the army. Amongst\ndemocratic nations it often happens that an officer has no property but\nhis pay, and no distinction but that of military honors: consequently as\noften as his duties change, his fortune changes, and he becomes, as\nit were, a new man. What was only an appendage to his position in\naristocratic armies, has thus become the main point, the basis of his\nwhole condition. Under the old French monarchy officers were always\ncalled by their titles of nobility; they are now always called by\nthe title of their military rank. This little change in the forms of\nlanguage suffices to show that a great revolution has taken place in the\nconstitution of society and in that of the army. In democratic armies\nthe desire of advancement is almost universal: it is ardent,\ntenacious, perpetual; it is strengthened by all other desires, and only\nextinguished with life itself. But it is easy to see, that of all armies\nin the world, those in which advancement must be slowest in time\nof peace are the armies of democratic countries. As the number of\ncommissions is naturally limited, whilst the number of competitors is\nalmost unlimited, and as the strict law of equality is over all alike,\nnone can make rapid progress--many can make no progress at all. Thus the\ndesire of advancement is greater, and the opportunities of advancement\nfewer, there than elsewhere. All the ambitious spirits of a democratic\narmy are consequently ardently desirous of war, because war makes\nvacancies, and warrants the violation of that law of seniority which is\nthe sole privilege natural to democracy.\n\nWe thus arrive at this singular consequence, that of all armies those\nmost ardently desirous of war are democratic armies, and of all nations\nthose most fond of peace are democratic nations: and, what makes these\nfacts still more extraordinary, is that these contrary effects are\nproduced at the same time by the principle of equality.\n\nAll the members of the community, being alike, constantly harbor the\nwish, and discover the possibility, of changing their condition and\nimproving their welfare: this makes them fond of peace, which is\nfavorable to industry, and allows every man to pursue his own little\nundertakings to their completion. On the other hand, this same equality\nmakes soldiers dream of fields of battle, by increasing the value of\nmilitary honors in the eyes of those who follow the profession of arms,\nand by rendering those honors accessible to all. In either case\nthe inquietude of the heart is the same, the taste for enjoyment as\ninsatiable, the ambition of success as great--the means of gratifying it\nare alone different.\n\nThese opposite tendencies of the nation and the army expose democratic\ncommunities to great dangers. When a military spirit forsakes a people,\nthe profession of arms immediately ceases to be held in honor, and\nmilitary men fall to the lowest rank of the public servants: they are\nlittle esteemed, and no longer understood. The reverse of what takes\nplace in aristocratic ages then occurs; the men who enter the army\nare no longer those of the highest, but of the lowest rank. Military\nambition is only indulged in when no other is possible. Hence arises a\ncircle of cause and consequence from which it is difficult to escape:\nthe best part of the nation shuns the military profession because that\nprofession is not honored, and the profession is not honored because the\nbest part of the nation has ceased to follow it. It is then no matter\nof surprise that democratic armies are often restless, ill-tempered,\nand dissatisfied with their lot, although their physical condition is\ncommonly far better, and their discipline less strict than in other\ncountries. The soldier feels that he occupies an inferior position,\nand his wounded pride either stimulates his taste for hostilities\nwhich would render his services necessary, or gives him a turn for\nrevolutions, during which he may hope to win by force of arms the\npolitical influence and personal importance now denied him. The\ncomposition of democratic armies makes this last-mentioned danger\nmuch to be feared. In democratic communities almost every man has some\nproperty to preserve; but democratic armies are generally led by men\nwithout property, most of whom have little to lose in civil broils. The\nbulk of the nation is naturally much more afraid of revolutions than in\nthe ages of aristocracy, but the leaders of the army much less so.\n\nMoreover, as amongst democratic nations (to repeat what I have just\nremarked) the wealthiest, the best educated, and the most able men\nseldom adopt the military profession, the army, taken collectively,\neventually forms a small nation by itself, where the mind is less\nenlarged, and habits are more rude than in the nation at large. Now,\nthis small uncivilized nation has arms in its possession, and alone\nknows how to use them: for, indeed, the pacific temper of the community\nincreases the danger to which a democratic people is exposed from the\nmilitary and turbulent spirit of the army. Nothing is so dangerous as\nan army amidst an unwarlike nation; the excessive love of the whole\ncommunity for quiet continually puts its constitution at the mercy of\nthe soldiery. It may therefore be asserted, generally speaking, that if\ndemocratic nations are naturally prone to peace from their interests and\ntheir propensities, they are constantly drawn to war and revolutions\nby their armies. Military revolutions, which are scarcely ever to\nbe apprehended in aristocracies, are always to be dreaded amongst\ndemocratic nations. These perils must be reckoned amongst the most\nformidable which beset their future fate, and the attention of statesmen\nshould be sedulously applied to find a remedy for the evil.\n\nWhen a nation perceives that it is inwardly affected by the restless\nambition of its army, the first thought which occurs is to give this\ninconvenient ambition an object by going to war. I speak no ill of\nwar: war almost always enlarges the mind of a people, and raises their\ncharacter. In some cases it is the only check to the excessive growth\nof certain propensities which naturally spring out of the equality\nof conditions, and it must be considered as a necessary corrective to\ncertain inveterate diseases to which democratic communities are liable.\nWar has great advantages, but we must not flatter ourselves that it\ncan diminish the danger I have just pointed out. That peril is only\nsuspended by it, to return more fiercely when the war is over; for\narmies are much more impatient of peace after having tasted military\nexploits. War could only be a remedy for a people which should always be\nathirst for military glory. I foresee that all the military rulers who\nmay rise up in great democratic nations, will find it easier to conquer\nwith their armies, than to make their armies live at peace after\nconquest. There are two things which a democratic people will always\nfind very difficult--to begin a war, and to end it.\n\nAgain, if war has some peculiar advantages for democratic nations, on\nthe other hand it exposes them to certain dangers which aristocracies\nhave no cause to dread to an equal extent. I shall only point out two\nof these. Although war gratifies the army, it embarrasses and often\nexasperates that countless multitude of men whose minor passions every\nday require peace in order to be satisfied. Thus there is some risk\nof its causing, under another form, the disturbance it is intended\nto prevent. No protracted war can fail to endanger the freedom of a\ndemocratic country. Not indeed that after every victory it is to be\napprehended that the victorious generals will possess themselves by\nforce of the supreme power, after the manner of Sylla and Caesar: the\ndanger is of another kind. War does not always give over democratic\ncommunities to military government, but it must invariably and\nimmeasurably increase the powers of civil government; it must almost\ncompulsorily concentrate the direction of all men and the management\nof all things in the hands of the administration. If it lead not to\ndespotism by sudden violence, it prepares men for it more gently\nby their habits. All those who seek to destroy the liberties of a\ndemocratic nation ought to know that war is the surest and the shortest\nmeans to accomplish it. This is the first axiom of the science.\n\nOne remedy, which appears to be obvious when the ambition of soldiers\nand officers becomes the subject of alarm, is to augment the number\nof commissions to be distributed by increasing the army. This affords\ntemporary relief, but it plunges the country into deeper difficulties at\nsome future period. To increase the army may produce a lasting effect in\nan aristocratic community, because military ambition is there confined\nto one class of men, and the ambition of each individual stops, as it\nwere, at a certain limit; so that it may be possible to satisfy all who\nfeel its influence. But nothing is gained by increasing the army amongst\na democratic people, because the number of aspirants always rises in\nexactly the same ratio as the army itself. Those whose claims have been\nsatisfied by the creation of new commissions are instantly succeeded by\na fresh multitude beyond all power of satisfaction; and even those who\nwere but now satisfied soon begin to crave more advancement; for the\nsame excitement prevails in the ranks of the army as in the civil\nclasses of democratic society, and what men want is not to reach a\ncertain grade, but to have constant promotion. Though these wants may\nnot be very vast, they are perpetually recurring. Thus a democratic\nnation, by augmenting its army, only allays for a time the ambition\nof the military profession, which soon becomes even more formidable,\nbecause the number of those who feel it is increased. I am of opinion\nthat a restless and turbulent spirit is an evil inherent in the\nvery constitution of democratic armies, and beyond hope of cure. The\nlegislators of democracies must not expect to devise any military\norganization capable by its influence of calming and restraining the\nmilitary profession: their efforts would exhaust their powers, before\nthe object is attained.\n\nThe remedy for the vices of the army is not to be found in the army\nitself, but in the country. Democratic nations are naturally afraid\nof disturbance and of despotism; the object is to turn these natural\ninstincts into well-digested, deliberate, and lasting tastes. When men\nhave at last learned to make a peaceful and profitable use of freedom,\nand have felt its blessings--when they have conceived a manly love of\norder, and have freely submitted themselves to discipline--these same\nmen, if they follow the profession of arms, bring into it, unconsciously\nand almost against their will, these same habits and manners. The\ngeneral spirit of the nation being infused into the spirit peculiar to\nthe army, tempers the opinions and desires engendered by military life,\nor represses them by the mighty force of public opinion. Teach but the\ncitizens to be educated, orderly, firm, and free, the soldiers will be\ndisciplined and obedient. Any law which, in repressing the turbulent\nspirit of the army, should tend to diminish the spirit of freedom in the\nnation, and to overshadow the notion of law and right, would defeat\nits object: it would do much more to favor, than to defeat, the\nestablishment of military tyranny.\n\nAfter all, and in spite of all precautions, a large army amidst a\ndemocratic people will always be a source of great danger; the most\neffectual means of diminishing that danger would be to reduce the army,\nbut this is a remedy which all nations have it not in their power to\nuse.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII: Which Is The Most Warlike And Most Revolutionary Class In\nDemocratic Armies?\n\nIt is a part of the essence of a democratic army to be very numerous in\nproportion to the people to which it belongs, as I shall hereafter\nshow. On the other hand, men living in democratic times seldom choose a\nmilitary life. Democratic nations are therefore soon led to give up the\nsystem of voluntary recruiting for that of compulsory enlistment. The\nnecessity of their social condition compels them to resort to the latter\nmeans, and it may easily be foreseen that they will all eventually adopt\nit. When military service is compulsory, the burden is indiscriminately\nand equally borne by the whole community. This is another necessary\nconsequence of the social condition of these nations, and of their\nnotions. The government may do almost whatever it pleases, provided it\nappeals to the whole community at once: it is the unequal distribution\nof the weight, not the weight itself, which commonly occasions\nresistance. But as military service is common to all the citizens, the\nevident consequence is that each of them remains but for a few years\non active duty. Thus it is in the nature of things that the soldier in\ndemocracies only passes through the army, whilst among most aristocratic\nnations the military profession is one which the soldier adopts, or\nwhich is imposed upon him, for life.\n\nThis has important consequences. Amongst the soldiers of a democratic\narmy, some acquire a taste for military life, but the majority, being\nenlisted against their will, and ever ready to go back to their\nhomes, do not consider themselves as seriously engaged in the military\nprofession, and are always thinking of quitting it. Such men do not\ncontract the wants, and only half partake in the passions, which that\nmode of life engenders. They adapt themselves to their military duties,\nbut their minds are still attached to the interests and the duties which\nengaged them in civil life. They do not therefore imbibe the spirit of\nthe army--or rather, they infuse the spirit of the community at large\ninto the army, and retain it there. Amongst democratic nations the\nprivate soldiers remain most like civilians: upon them the habits of the\nnation have the firmest hold, and public opinion most influence. It is\nby the instrumentality of the private soldiers especially that it may\nbe possible to infuse into a democratic army the love of freedom and\nthe respect of rights, if these principles have once been successfully\ninculcated on the people at large. The reverse happens amongst\naristocratic nations, where the soldiery have eventually nothing in\ncommon with their fellow-citizens, and where they live amongst them as\nstrangers, and often as enemies. In aristocratic armies the officers\nare the conservative element, because the officers alone have retained a\nstrict connection with civil society, and never forego their purpose\nof resuming their place in it sooner or later: in democratic armies the\nprivate soldiers stand in this position, and from the same cause.\n\nIt often happens, on the contrary, that in these same democratic armies\nthe officers contract tastes and wants wholly distinct from those of\nthe nation--a fact which may be thus accounted for. Amongst democratic\nnations, the man who becomes an officer severs all the ties which bound\nhim to civil life; he leaves it forever; he has no interest to resume\nit. His true country is the army, since he owes all he has to the rank\nhe has attained in it; he therefore follows the fortunes of the army,\nrises or sinks with it, and henceforward directs all his hopes to that\nquarter only. As the wants of an officer are distinct from those of the\ncountry, he may perhaps ardently desire war, or labor to bring about\na revolution at the very moment when the nation is most desirous of\nstability and peace. There are, nevertheless, some causes which allay\nthis restless and warlike spirit. Though ambition is universal and\ncontinual amongst democratic nations, we have seen that it is seldom\ngreat. A man who, being born in the lower classes of the community, has\nrisen from the ranks to be an officer, has already taken a prodigious\nstep. He has gained a footing in a sphere above that which he filled\nin civil life, and he has acquired rights which most democratic nations\nwill ever consider as inalienable. *a He is willing to pause after so\ngreat an effort, and to enjoy what he has won. The fear of risking what\nhe has already obtained damps the desire of acquiring what he has not\ngot. Having conquered the first and greatest impediment which opposed\nhis advancement, he resigns himself with less impatience to the slowness\nof his progress. His ambition will be more and more cooled in proportion\nas the increasing distinction of his rank teaches him that he has more\nto put in jeopardy. If I am not mistaken, the least warlike, and also\nthe least revolutionary part, of a democratic army, will always be its\nchief commanders. [Footnote a: The position of officers is indeed much\nmore secure amongst democratic nations than elsewhere; the lower the\npersonal standing of the man, the greater is the comparative importance\nof his military grade, and the more just and necessary is it that the\nenjoyment of that rank should be secured by the laws.]\n\nBut the remarks I have just made on officers and soldiers are\nnot applicable to a numerous class which in all armies fills the\nintermediate space between them--I mean the class of non-commissioned\nofficers. This class of non-commissioned officers which have never acted\na part in history until the present century, is henceforward destined,\nI think, to play one of some importance. Like the officers,\nnon-commissioned officers have broken, in their minds, all the ties\nwhich bound them to civil life; like the former, they devote themselves\npermanently to the service, and perhaps make it even more exclusively\nthe object of all their desires: but non-commissioned officers are men\nwho have not yet reached a firm and lofty post at which they may pause\nand breathe more freely, ere they can attain further promotion. By\nthe very nature of his duties, which is invariable, a non-commissioned\nofficer is doomed to lead an obscure, confined, comfortless, and\nprecarious existence; as yet he sees nothing of military life but its\ndangers; he knows nothing but its privations and its discipline--more\ndifficult to support than dangers: he suffers the more from his present\nmiseries, from knowing that the constitution of society and of the army\nallow him to rise above them; he may, indeed, at any time obtain his\ncommission, and enter at once upon command, honors, independence,\nrights, and enjoyments. Not only does this object of his hopes appear to\nhim of immense importance, but he is never sure of reaching it till it\nis actually his own; the grade he fills is by no means irrevocable; he\nis always entirely abandoned to the arbitrary pleasure of his\ncommanding officer, for this is imperiously required by the necessity of\ndiscipline: a slight fault, a whim, may always deprive him in an instant\nof the fruits of many years of toil and endeavor; until he has reached\nthe grade to which he aspires he has accomplished nothing; not till he\nreaches that grade does his career seem to begin. A desperate ambition\ncannot fail to be kindled in a man thus incessantly goaded on by his\nyouth, his wants, his passions, the spirit of his age, his hopes,\nand his age, his hopes, and his fears. Non-commissioned officers are\ntherefore bent on war--on war always, and at any cost; but if war be\ndenied them, then they desire revolutions to suspend the authority\nof established regulations, and to enable them, aided by the general\nconfusion and the political passions of the time, to get rid of their\nsuperior officers and to take their places. Nor is it impossible for\nthem to bring about such a crisis, because their common origin and\nhabits give them much influence over the soldiers, however different may\nbe their passions and their desires.\n\nIt would be an error to suppose that these various characteristics of\nofficers, non-commissioned officers, and men, belong to any particular\ntime or country; they will always occur at all times, and amongst\nall democratic nations. In every democratic army the non-commissioned\nofficers will be the worst representatives of the pacific and orderly\nspirit of the country, and the private soldiers will be the best. The\nlatter will carry with them into military life the strength or weakness\nof the manners of the nation; they will display a faithful reflection of\nthe community: if that community is ignorant and weak, they will allow\nthemselves to be drawn by their leaders into disturbances, either\nunconsciously or against their will; if it is enlightened and energetic,\nthe community will itself keep them within the bounds of order.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV: Causes Which Render Democratic Armies Weaker Than Other\nArmies At The Outset Of A Campaign, And More Formidable In Protracted\nWarfare\n\nAny army is in danger of being conquered at the outset of a campaign,\nafter a long peace; any army which has long been engaged in warfare\nhas strong chances of victory: this truth is peculiarly applicable to\ndemocratic armies. In aristocracies the military profession, being a\nprivileged career, is held in honor even in time of peace. Men of great\ntalents, great attainments, and great ambition embrace it; the army is\nin all respects on a level with the nation, and frequently above it. We\nhave seen, on the contrary, that amongst a democratic people the\nchoicer minds of the nation are gradually drawn away from the military\nprofession, to seek by other paths, distinction, power, and especially\nwealth. After a long peace--and in democratic ages the periods of peace\nare long--the army is always inferior to the country itself. In this\nstate it is called into active service; and until war has altered it,\nthere is danger for the country as well as for the army.\n\nI have shown that in democratic armies, and in time of peace, the rule\nof seniority is the supreme and inflexible law of advancement. This is\nnot only a consequence, as I have before observed, of the constitution\nof these armies, but of the constitution of the people, and it will\nalways occur. Again, as amongst these nations the officer derives his\nposition in the country solely from his position in the army, and as\nhe draws all the distinction and the competency he enjoys from the\nsame source, he does not retire from his profession, or is not\nsuper-annuated, till towards the extreme close of life. The consequence\nof these two causes is, that when a democratic people goes to war after\na long interval of peace all the leading officers of the army are old\nmen. I speak not only of the generals, but of the non-commissioned\nofficers, who have most of them been stationary, or have only advanced\nstep by step. It may be remarked with surprise, that in a democratic\narmy after a long peace all the soldiers are mere boys, and all the\nsuperior officers in declining years; so that the former are wanting in\nexperience, the latter in vigor. This is a strong element of defeat,\nfor the first condition of successful generalship is youth: I should not\nhave ventured to say so if the greatest captain of modern times had not\nmade the observation. These two causes do not act in the same manner\nupon aristocratic armies: as men are promoted in them by right of birth\nmuch more than by right of seniority, there are in all ranks a certain\nnumber of young men, who bring to their profession all the early vigor\nof body and mind. Again, as the men who seek for military honors amongst\nan aristocratic people, enjoy a settled position in civil society, they\nseldom continue in the army until old age overtakes them. After having\ndevoted the most vigorous years of youth to the career of arms, they\nvoluntarily retire, and spend at home the remainder of their maturer\nyears.\n\nA long peace not only fills democratic armies with elderly officers,\nbut it also gives to all the officers habits both of body and mind which\nrender them unfit for actual service. The man who has long lived amidst\nthe calm and lukewarm atmosphere of democratic manners can at first ill\nadapt himself to the harder toils and sterner duties of warfare; and if\nhe has not absolutely lost the taste for arms, at least he has assumed a\nmode of life which unfits him for conquest.\n\nAmongst aristocratic nations, the ease of civil life exercises less\ninfluence on the manners of the army, because amongst those nations the\naristocracy commands the army: and an aristocracy, however plunged in\nluxurious pleasures, has always many other passions besides that of\nits own well-being, and to satisfy those passions more thoroughly its\nwell-being will be readily sacrificed. *a\n\n[Footnote a: See Appendix V.]\n\nI have shown that in democratic armies, in time of peace, promotion is\nextremely slow. The officers at first support this state of things with\nimpatience, they grow excited, restless, exasperated, but in the end\nmost of them make up their minds to it. Those who have the largest\nshare of ambition and of resources quit the army; others, adapting their\ntastes and their desires to their scanty fortunes, ultimately look upon\nthe military profession in a civil point of view. The quality they value\nmost in it is the competency and security which attend it: their whole\nnotion of the future rests upon the certainty of this little provision,\nand all they require is peaceably to enjoy it. Thus not only does a long\npeace fill an army with old men, but it is frequently imparts the views\nof old men to those who are still in the prime of life.\n\nI have also shown that amongst democratic nations in time of peace the\nmilitary profession is held in little honor and indifferently followed.\nThis want of public favor is a heavy discouragement to the army; it\nweighs down the minds of the troops, and when war breaks out at last,\nthey cannot immediately resume their spring and vigor. No similar cause\nof moral weakness occurs in aristocratic armies: there the officers are\nnever lowered either in their own eyes or in those of their countrymen,\nbecause, independently of their military greatness, they are personally\ngreat. But even if the influence of peace operated on the two kinds of\narmies in the same manner, the results would still be different. When\nthe officers of an aristocratic army have lost their warlike spirit and\nthe desire of raising themselves by service, they still retain a certain\nrespect for the honor of their class, and an old habit of being foremost\nto set an example. But when the officers of a democratic army have\nno longer the love of war and the ambition of arms, nothing whatever\nremains to them.\n\nI am therefore of opinion that, when a democratic people engages in\na war after a long peace, it incurs much more risk of defeat than any\nother nation; but it ought not easily to be cast down by its reverses,\nfor the chances of success for such an army are increased by the\nduration of the war. When a war has at length, by its long continuance,\nroused the whole community from their peaceful occupations and ruined\ntheir minor undertakings, the same passions which made them attach so\nmuch importance to the maintenance of peace will be turned to arms.\nWar, after it has destroyed all modes of speculation, becomes itself\nthe great and sole speculation, to which all the ardent and ambitious\ndesires which equality engenders are exclusively directed. Hence it is\nthat the selfsame democratic nations which are so reluctant to engage\nin hostilities, sometimes perform prodigious achievements when once\nthey have taken the field. As the war attracts more and more of public\nattention, and is seen to create high reputations and great fortunes\nin a short space of time, the choicest spirits of the nation enter the\nmilitary profession: all the enterprising, proud, and martial minds, no\nlonger of the aristocracy solely, but of the whole country, are drawn\nin this direction. As the number of competitors for military honors is\nimmense, and war drives every man to his proper level, great generals\nare always sure to spring up. A long war produces upon a democratic army\nthe same effects that a revolution produces upon a people; it breaks\nthrough regulations, and allows extraordinary men to rise above the\ncommon level. Those officers whose bodies and minds have grown old in\npeace, are removed, or superannuated, or they die. In their stead a host\nof young men are pressing on, whose frames are already hardened, whose\ndesires are extended and inflamed by active service. They are bent on\nadvancement at all hazards, and perpetual advancement; they are followed\nby others with the same passions and desires, and after these are\nothers yet unlimited by aught but the size of the army. The principle of\nequality opens the door of ambition to all, and death provides chances\nfor ambition. Death is constantly thinning the ranks, making vacancies,\nclosing and opening the career of arms.\n\nThere is moreover a secret connection between the military character\nand the character of democracies, which war brings to light. The men of\ndemocracies are naturally passionately eager to acquire what they covet,\nand to enjoy it on easy conditions. They for the most part worship\nchance, and are much less afraid of death than of difficulty. This is\nthe spirit which they bring to commerce and manufactures; and this same\nspirit, carried with them to the field of battle, induces them willingly\nto expose their lives in order to secure in a moment the rewards of\nvictory. No kind of greatness is more pleasing to the imagination of\na democratic people than military greatness--a greatness of vivid and\nsudden lustre, obtained without toil, by nothing but the risk of life.\nThus, whilst the interests and the tastes of the members of a democratic\ncommunity divert them from war, their habits of mind fit them for\ncarrying on war well; they soon make good soldiers, when they are roused\nfrom their business and their enjoyments. If peace is peculiarly hurtful\nto democratic armies, war secures to them advantages which no other\narmies ever possess; and these advantages, however little felt at first,\ncannot fail in the end to give them the victory. An aristocratic nation,\nwhich in a contest with a democratic people does not succeed in ruining\nthe latter at the outset of the war, always runs a great risk of being\nconquered by it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV: Of Discipline In Democratic Armies\n\nIt is a very general opinion, especially in aristocratic countries,\nthat the great social equality which prevails in democracies ultimately\nrenders the private soldier independent of the officer, and thus\ndestroys the bond of discipline. This is a mistake, for there are two\nkinds of discipline, which it is important not to confound. When the\nofficer is noble and the soldier a serf--one rich, the other poor--the\nformer educated and strong, the latter ignorant and weak--the strictest\nbond of obedience may easily be established between the two men. The\nsoldier is broken in to military discipline, as it were, before he\nenters the army; or rather, military discipline is nothing but an\nenhancement of social servitude. In aristocratic armies the soldier\nwill soon become insensible to everything but the orders of his superior\nofficers; he acts without reflection, triumphs without enthusiasm, and\ndies without complaint: in this state he is no longer a man, but he is\nstill a most formidable animal trained for war.\n\nA democratic people must despair of ever obtaining from soldiers\nthat blind, minute, submissive, and invariable obedience which an\naristocratic people may impose on them without difficulty. The state of\nsociety does not prepare them for it, and the nation might be in danger\nof losing its natural advantages if it sought artificially to acquire\nadvantages of this particular kind. Amongst democratic communities,\nmilitary discipline ought not to attempt to annihilate the free spring\nof the faculties; all that can be done by discipline is to direct it;\nthe obedience thus inculcated is less exact, but it is more eager and\nmore intelligent. It has its root in the will of him who obeys: it rests\nnot only on his instinct, but on his reason; and consequently it will\noften spontaneously become more strict as danger requires it. The\ndiscipline of an aristocratic army is apt to be relaxed in war, because\nthat discipline is founded upon habits, and war disturbs those habits.\nThe discipline of a democratic army on the contrary is strengthened in\nsight of the enemy, because every soldier then clearly perceives that he\nmust be silent and obedient in order to conquer.\n\nThe nations which have performed the greatest warlike achievements knew\nno other discipline than that which I speak of. Amongst the ancients\nnone were admitted into the armies but freemen and citizens, who\ndiffered but little from one another, and were accustomed to treat\neach other as equals. In this respect it may be said that the armies\nof antiquity were democratic, although they came out of the bosom\nof aristocracy; the consequence was that in those armies a sort of\nfraternal familiarity prevailed between the officers and the men.\nPlutarch's lives of great commanders furnish convincing instances of the\nfact: the soldiers were in the constant habit of freely addressing their\ngeneral, and the general listened to and answered whatever the soldiers\nhad to say: they were kept in order by language and by example, far\nmore than by constraint or punishment; the general was as much their\ncompanion as their chief. I know not whether the soldiers of Greece and\nRome ever carried the minutiae of military discipline to the same\ndegree of perfection as the Russians have done; but this did not prevent\nAlexander from conquering Asia--and Rome, the world.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI: Some Considerations On War In Democratic Communities\n\nWhen the principle of equality is in growth, not only amongst a single\nnation, but amongst several neighboring nations at the same time, as is\nnow the case in Europe, the inhabitants of these different countries,\nnotwithstanding the dissimilarity of language, of customs, and of laws,\nnevertheless resemble each other in their equal dread of war and their\ncommon love of peace. *a It is in vain that ambition or anger puts arms\nin the hands of princes; they are appeased in spite of themselves by a\nspecies of general apathy and goodwill, which makes the sword drop\nfrom their grasp, and wars become more rare. As the spread of equality,\ntaking place in several countries at once, simultaneously impels their\nvarious inhabitants to follow manufactures and commerce, not only do\ntheir tastes grow alike, but their interests are so mixed and entangled\nwith one another that no nation can inflict evils on other nations\nwithout those evils falling back upon itself; and all nations ultimately\nregard war as a calamity, almost as severe to the conqueror as to\nthe conquered. Thus, on the one hand, it is extremely difficult in\ndemocratic ages to draw nations into hostilities; but on the other hand,\nit is almost impossible that any two of them should go to war without\nembroiling the rest. The interests of all are so interlaced, their\nopinions and their wants so much alike, that none can remain quiet when\nthe others stir. Wars therefore become more rare, but when they break\nout they spread over a larger field. Neighboring democratic nations not\nonly become alike in some respects, but they eventually grow to resemble\neach other in almost all. *b This similitude of nations has consequences\nof great importance in relation to war.\n\n[Footnote a: It is scarcely necessary for me to observe that the dread\nof war displayed by the nations of Europe is not solely attributable\nto the progress made by the principle of equality amongst them;\nindependently of this permanent cause several other accidental causes of\ngreat weight might be pointed out, and I may mention before all the rest\nthe extreme lassitude which the wars of the Revolution and the Empire\nhave left behind them.]\n\n[Footnote b: This is not only because these nations have the same social\ncondition, but it arises from the very nature of that social condition\nwhich leads men to imitate and identify themselves with each other. When\nthe members of a community are divided into castes and classes, they not\nonly differ from one another, but they have no taste and no desire to be\nalike; on the contrary, everyone endeavors, more and more, to keep his\nown opinions undisturbed, to retain his own peculiar habits, and to\nremain himself. The characteristics of individuals are very strongly\nmarked. When the state of society amongst a people is democratic--that\nis to say, when there are no longer any castes or classes in the\ncommunity, and all its members are nearly equal in education and in\nproperty--the human mind follows the opposite direction. Men are much\nalike, and they are annoyed, as it were, by any deviation from that\nlikeness: far from seeking to preserve their own distinguishing\nsingularities, they endeavor to shake them off, in order to identify\nthemselves with the general mass of the people, which is the sole\nrepresentative of right and of might to their eyes. The characteristics\nof individuals are nearly obliterated. In the ages of aristocracy even\nthose who are naturally alike strive to create imaginary differences\nbetween themselves: in the ages of democracy even those who are not\nalike seek only to become so, and to copy each other--so strongly is the\nmind of every man always carried away by the general impulse of mankind.\nSomething of the same kind may be observed between nations: two nations\nhaving the same aristocratic social condition, might remain thoroughly\ndistinct and extremely different, because the spirit of aristocracy\nis to retain strong individual characteristics; but if two neighboring\nnations have the same democratic social condition, they cannot fail\nto adopt similar opinions and manners, because the spirit of democracy\ntends to assimilate men to each other.]\n\nIf I inquire why it is that the Helvetic Confederacy made the greatest\nand most powerful nations of Europe tremble in the fifteenth century,\nwhilst at the present day the power of that country is exactly\nproportioned to its population, I perceive that the Swiss are become\nlike all the surrounding communities, and those surrounding communities\nlike the Swiss: so that as numerical strength now forms the only\ndifference between them, victory necessarily attends the largest army.\nThus one of the consequences of the democratic revolution which is going\non in Europe is to make numerical strength preponderate on all fields\nof battle, and to constrain all small nations to incorporate themselves\nwith large States, or at least to adopt the policy of the latter. As\nnumbers are the determining cause of victory, each people ought of\ncourse to strive by all the means in its power to bring the greatest\npossible number of men into the field. When it was possible to enlist a\nkind of troops superior to all others, such as the Swiss infantry or the\nFrench horse of the sixteenth century, it was not thought necessary to\nraise very large armies; but the case is altered when one soldier is as\nefficient as another.\n\nThe same cause which begets this new want also supplies means of\nsatisfying it; for, as I have already observed, when men are all alike,\nthey are all weak, and the supreme power of the State is naturally much\nstronger amongst democratic nations than elsewhere. Hence, whilst these\nnations are desirous of enrolling the whole male population in the\nranks of the army, they have the power of effecting this object: the\nconsequence is, that in democratic ages armies seem to grow larger\nin proportion as the love of war declines. In the same ages, too,\nthe manner of carrying on war is likewise altered by the same causes.\nMachiavelli observes in \"The Prince,\" \"that it is much more difficult to\nsubdue a people which has a prince and his barons for its leaders,\nthan a nation which is commanded by a prince and his slaves.\" To avoid\noffence, let us read public functionaries for slaves, and this important\ntruth will be strictly applicable to our own time.\n\nA great aristocratic people cannot either conquer its neighbors, or be\nconquered by them, without great difficulty. It cannot conquer them,\nbecause all its forces can never be collected and held together for a\nconsiderable period: it cannot be conquered, because an enemy meets at\nevery step small centres of resistance by which invasion is arrested.\nWar against an aristocracy may be compared to war in a mountainous\ncountry; the defeated party has constant opportunities of rallying its\nforces to make a stand in a new position. Exactly the reverse occurs\namongst democratic nations: they easily bring their whole disposable\nforce into the field, and when the nation is wealthy and populous it\nsoon becomes victorious; but if ever it is conquered, and its territory\ninvaded, it has few resources at command; and if the enemy takes the\ncapital, the nation is lost. This may very well be explained: as\neach member of the community is individually isolated and extremely\npowerless, no one of the whole body can either defend himself or present\na rallying point to others. Nothing is strong in a democratic country\nexcept the State; as the military strength of the State is destroyed\nby the destruction of the army, and its civil power paralyzed by the\ncapture of the chief city, all that remains is only a multitude without\nstrength or government, unable to resist the organized power by which it\nis assailed. I am aware that this danger may be lessened by the creation\nof provincial liberties, and consequently of provincial powers, but this\nremedy will always be insufficient. For after such a catastrophe, not\nonly is the population unable to carry on hostilities, but it may be\napprehended that they will not be inclined to attempt it. In accordance\nwith the law of nations adopted in civilized countries, the object of\nwars is not to seize the property of private individuals, but simply to\nget possession of political power. The destruction of private property\nis only occasionally resorted to for the purpose of attaining the latter\nobject. When an aristocratic country is invaded after the defeat of\nits army, the nobles, although they are at the same time the\nwealthiest members of the community, will continue to defend themselves\nindividually rather than submit; for if the conqueror remained master\nof the country, he would deprive them of their political power, to which\nthey cling even more closely than to their property. They therefore\nprefer fighting to subjection, which is to them the greatest of all\nmisfortunes; and they readily carry the people along with them because\nthe people has long been used to follow and obey them, and besides has\nbut little to risk in the war. Amongst a nation in which equality of\nconditions prevails, each citizen, on the contrary, has but slender\nshare of political power, and often has no share at all; on the other\nhand, all are independent, and all have something to lose; so that they\nare much less afraid of being conquered, and much more afraid of war,\nthan an aristocratic people. It will always be extremely difficult to\ndecide a democratic population to take up arms, when hostilities have\nreached its own territory. Hence the necessity of giving to such a\npeople the rights and the political character which may impart to every\ncitizen some of those interests that cause the nobles to act for the\npublic welfare in aristocratic countries.\n\nIt should never be forgotten by the princes and other leaders of\ndemocratic nations, that nothing but the passion and the habit of\nfreedom can maintain an advantageous contest with the passion and the\nhabit of physical well-being. I can conceive nothing better prepared\nfor subjection, in case of defeat, than a democratic people without free\ninstitutions.\n\nFormerly it was customary to take the field with a small body of troops,\nto fight in small engagements, and to make long, regular sieges: modern\ntactics consist in fighting decisive battles, and, as soon as a line\nof march is open before the army, in rushing upon the capital city, in\norder to terminate the war at a single blow. Napoleon, it is said, was\nthe inventor of this new system; but the invention of such a system did\nnot depend on any individual man, whoever he might be. The mode in which\nNapoleon carried on war was suggested to him by the state of society in\nhis time; that mode was successful, because it was eminently adapted\nto that state of society, and because he was the first to employ it.\nNapoleon was the first commander who marched at the head of an army\nfrom capital to capital, but the road was opened for him by the ruin of\nfeudal society. It may fairly be believed that, if that extraordinary\nman had been born three hundred years ago, he would not have derived the\nsame results from his method of warfare, or, rather, that he would have\nhad a different method.\n\nI shall add but a few words on civil wars, for fear of exhausting the\npatience of the reader. Most of the remarks which I have made respecting\nforeign wars are applicable a fortiori to civil wars. Men living in\ndemocracies are not naturally prone to the military character; they\nsometimes assume it, when they have been dragged by compulsion to the\nfield; but to rise in a body and voluntarily to expose themselves to the\nhorrors of war, and especially of civil war, is a course which the\nmen of democracies are not apt to adopt. None but the most adventurous\nmembers of the community consent to run into such risks; the bulk of the\npopulation remains motionless. But even if the population were inclined\nto act, considerable obstacles would stand in their way; for they can\nresort to no old and well-established influence which they are willing\nto obey--no well-known leaders to rally the discontented, as well as\nto discipline and to lead them--no political powers subordinate to the\nsupreme power of the nation, which afford an effectual support to the\nresistance directed against the government. In democratic countries the\nmoral power of the majority is immense, and the physical resources\nwhich it has at its command are out of all proportion to the physical\nresources which may be combined against it. Therefore the party which\noccupies the seat of the majority, which speaks in its name and wields\nits power, triumphs instantaneously and irresistibly over all private\nresistance; it does not even give such opposition time to exist,\nbut nips it in the bud. Those who in such nations seek to effect a\nrevolution by force of arms have no other resource than suddenly to\nseize upon the whole engine of government as it stands, which can\nbetter be done by a single blow than by a war; for as soon as there is\na regular war, the party which represents the State is always certain to\nconquer. The only case in which a civil war could arise is, if the army\nshould divide itself into two factions, the one raising the standard\nof rebellion, the other remaining true to its allegiance. An army\nconstitutes a small community, very closely united together, endowed\nwith great powers of vitality, and able to supply its own wants for some\ntime. Such a war might be bloody, but it could not be long; for either\nthe rebellious army would gain over the government by the sole display\nof its resources, or by its first victory, and then the war would be\nover; or the struggle would take place, and then that portion of the\narmy which should not be supported by the organized powers of the State\nwould speedily either disband itself or be destroyed. It may therefore\nbe admitted as a general truth, that in ages of equality civil wars will\nbecome much less frequent and less protracted. *c\n\n[Footnote c: It should be borne in mind that I speak here of sovereign\nand independent democratic nations, not of confederate democracies; in\nconfederacies, as the preponderating power always resides, in spite of\nall political fictions, in the state governments, and not in the\nfederal government, civil wars are in fact nothing but foreign wars in\ndisguise.]\n\n\n\n\nBook Four: Influence Of Democratic Opinions On Political Society\n\n\n\n\nChapter I: That Equality Naturally Gives Men A Taste For Free\nInstitutions\n\nI should imperfectly fulfil the purpose of this book, if, after having\nshown what opinions and sentiments are suggested by the principle of\nequality, I did not point out, ere I conclude, the general influence\nwhich these same opinions and sentiments may exercise upon the\ngovernment of human societies. To succeed in this object I shall\nfrequently have to retrace my steps; but I trust the reader will not\nrefuse to follow me through paths already known to him, which may lead\nto some new truth.\n\nThe principle of equality, which makes men independent of each other,\ngives them a habit and a taste for following, in their private actions,\nno other guide but their own will. This complete independence, which\nthey constantly enjoy towards their equals and in the intercourse of\nprivate life, tends to make them look upon all authority with a jealous\neye, and speedily suggests to them the notion and the love of\npolitical freedom. Men living at such times have a natural bias to free\ninstitutions. Take any one of them at a venture, and search if you can\nhis most deep-seated instincts; you will find that of all governments he\nwill soonest conceive and most highly value that government, whose head\nhe has himself elected, and whose administration he may control. Of all\nthe political effects produced by the equality of conditions, this love\nof independence is the first to strike the observing, and to alarm the\ntimid; nor can it be said that their alarm is wholly misplaced, for\nanarchy has a more formidable aspect in democratic countries than\nelsewhere. As the citizens have no direct influence on each other, as\nsoon as the supreme power of the nation fails, which kept them all in\ntheir several stations, it would seem that disorder must instantly\nreach its utmost pitch, and that, every man drawing aside in a different\ndirection, the fabric of society must at once crumble away.\n\nI am, however, persuaded that anarchy is not the principal evil which\ndemocratic ages have to fear, but the least. For the principle\nof equality begets two tendencies; the one leads men straight to\nindependence, and may suddenly drive them into anarchy; the other\nconducts them by a longer, more secret, but more certain road, to\nservitude. Nations readily discern the former tendency, and are prepared\nto resist it; they are led away by the latter, without perceiving its\ndrift; hence it is peculiarly important to point it out. For myself, I\nam so far from urging as a reproach to the principle of equality that it\nrenders men untractable, that this very circumstance principally calls\nforth my approbation. I admire to see how it deposits in the mind\nand heart of man the dim conception and instinctive love of political\nindependence, thus preparing the remedy for the evil which it engenders;\nit is on this very account that I am attached to it.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II: That The Notions Of Democratic Nations On Government Are\nNaturally Favorable To The Concentration Of Power\n\nThe notion of secondary powers, placed between the sovereign and his\nsubjects, occurred naturally to the imagination of aristocratic nations,\nbecause those communities contained individuals or families raised above\nthe common level, and apparently destined to command by their birth,\ntheir education, and their wealth. This same notion is naturally wanting\nin the minds of men in democratic ages, for converse reasons: it\ncan only be introduced artificially, it can only be kept there with\ndifficulty; whereas they conceive, as it were, without thinking upon the\nsubject, the notion of a sole and central power which governs the whole\ncommunity by its direct influence. Moreover in politics, as well as\nin philosophy and in religion, the intellect of democratic nations is\npeculiarly open to simple and general notions. Complicated systems are\nrepugnant to it, and its favorite conception is that of a great nation\ncomposed of citizens all resembling the same pattern, and all governed\nby a single power.\n\nThe very next notion to that of a sole and central power, which presents\nitself to the minds of men in the ages of equality, is the notion of\nuniformity of legislation. As every man sees that he differs but\nlittle from those about him, he cannot understand why a rule which is\napplicable to one man should not be equally applicable to all others.\nHence the slightest privileges are repugnant to his reason; the faintest\ndissimilarities in the political institutions of the same people offend\nhim, and uniformity of legislation appears to him to be the first\ncondition of good government. I find, on the contrary, that this same\nnotion of a uniform rule, equally binding on all the members of the\ncommunity, was almost unknown to the human mind in aristocratic ages;\nit was either never entertained, or it was rejected. These contrary\ntendencies of opinion ultimately turn on either side to such blind\ninstincts and such ungovernable habits that they still direct the\nactions of men, in spite of particular exceptions. Notwithstanding the\nimmense variety of conditions in the Middle Ages, a certain number of\npersons existed at that period in precisely similar circumstances; but\nthis did not prevent the laws then in force from assigning to each\nof them distinct duties and different rights. On the contrary, at the\npresent time all the powers of government are exerted to impose the\nsame customs and the same laws on populations which have as yet but few\npoints of resemblance. As the conditions of men become equal amongst\na people, individuals seem of less importance, and society of greater\ndimensions; or rather, every citizen, being assimilated to all the rest,\nis lost in the crowd, and nothing stands conspicuous but the great and\nimposing image of the people at large. This naturally gives the men of\ndemocratic periods a lofty opinion of the privileges of society, and a\nvery humble notion of the rights of individuals; they are ready to admit\nthat the interests of the former are everything, and those of the latter\nnothing. They are willing to acknowledge that the power which represents\nthe community has far more information and wisdom than any of the\nmembers of that community; and that it is the duty, as well as the\nright, of that power to guide as well as govern each private citizen.\n\nIf we closely scrutinize our contemporaries, and penetrate to the root\nof their political opinions, we shall detect some of the notions which I\nhave just pointed out, and we shall perhaps be surprised to find so much\naccordance between men who are so often at variance. The Americans hold,\nthat in every State the supreme power ought to emanate from the people;\nbut when once that power is constituted, they can conceive, as it were,\nno limits to it, and they are ready to admit that it has the right to\ndo whatever it pleases. They have not the slightest notion of peculiar\nprivileges granted to cities, families, or persons: their minds appear\nnever to have foreseen that it might be possible not to apply\nwith strict uniformity the same laws to every part, and to all the\ninhabitants. These same opinions are more and more diffused in Europe;\nthey even insinuate themselves amongst those nations which most\nvehemently reject the principle of the sovereignty of the people. Such\nnations assign a different origin to the supreme power, but they ascribe\nto that power the same characteristics. Amongst them all, the idea of\nintermediate powers is weakened and obliterated: the idea of rights\ninherent in certain individuals is rapidly disappearing from the minds\nof men; the idea of the omnipotence and sole authority of society at\nlarge rises to fill its place. These ideas take root and spread in\nproportion as social conditions become more equal, and men more alike;\nthey are engendered by equality, and in turn they hasten the progress of\nequality.\n\nIn France, where the revolution of which I am speaking has gone further\nthan in any other European country, these opinions have got complete\nhold of the public mind. If we listen attentively to the language of the\nvarious parties in France, we shall find that there is not one which\nhas not adopted them. Most of these parties censure the conduct of the\ngovernment, but they all hold that the government ought perpetually to\nact and interfere in everything that is done. Even those which are\nmost at variance are nevertheless agreed upon this head. The unity, the\nubiquity, the omnipotence of the supreme power, and the uniformity of\nits rules, constitute the principal characteristics of all the political\nsystems which have been put forward in our age. They recur even in the\nwildest visions of political regeneration: the human mind pursues them\nin its dreams. If these notions spontaneously arise in the minds of\nprivate individuals, they suggest themselves still more forcibly to\nthe minds of princes. Whilst the ancient fabric of European society\nis altered and dissolved, sovereigns acquire new conceptions of their\nopportunities and their duties; they learn for the first time that the\ncentral power which they represent may and ought to administer by\nits own agency, and on a uniform plan, all the concerns of the whole\ncommunity. This opinion, which, I will venture to say, was never\nconceived before our time by the monarchs of Europe, now sinks deeply\ninto the minds of kings, and abides there amidst all the agitation of\nmore unsettled thoughts.\n\nOur contemporaries are therefore much less divided than is commonly\nsupposed; they are constantly disputing as to the hands in which\nsupremacy is to be vested, but they readily agree upon the duties and\nthe rights of that supremacy. The notion they all form of government is\nthat of a sole, simple, providential, and creative power. All secondary\nopinions in politics are unsettled; this one remains fixed, invariable,\nand consistent. It is adopted by statesmen and political philosophers;\nit is eagerly laid hold of by the multitude; those who govern and those\nwho are governed agree to pursue it with equal ardor: it is the foremost\nnotion of their minds, it seems inborn. It originates therefore in no\ncaprice of the human intellect, but it is a necessary condition of the\npresent state of mankind.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III: That The Sentiments Of Democratic Nations Accord With Their\nOpinions In Leading Them To Concentrate Political Power\n\nIf it be true that, in ages of equality, men readily adopt the notion of\na great central power, it cannot be doubted on the other hand that their\nhabits and sentiments predispose them to recognize such a power and to\ngive it their support. This may be demonstrated in a few words, as the\ngreater part of the reasons, to which the fact may be attributed, have\nbeen previously stated. *a As the men who inhabit democratic countries\nhave no superiors, no inferiors, and no habitual or necessary partners\nin their undertakings, they readily fall back upon themselves and\nconsider themselves as beings apart. I had occasion to point this out\nat considerable length in treating of individualism. Hence such men can\nnever, without an effort, tear themselves from their private affairs to\nengage in public business; their natural bias leads them to abandon the\nlatter to the sole visible and permanent representative of the interests\nof the community, that is to say, to the State. Not only are they\nnaturally wanting in a taste for public business, but they have\nfrequently no time to attend to it. Private life is so busy in\ndemocratic periods, so excited, so full of wishes and of work, that\nhardly any energy or leisure remains to each individual for public life.\nI am the last man to contend that these propensities are unconquerable,\nsince my chief object in writing this book has been to combat them. I\nonly maintain that at the present day a secret power is fostering them\nin the human heart, and that if they are not checked they will wholly\novergrow it.\n\n[Footnote a: See Appendix W.]\n\nI have also had occasion to show how the increasing love of well-being,\nand the fluctuating character of property, cause democratic nations\nto dread all violent disturbance. The love of public tranquillity is\nfrequently the only passion which these nations retain, and it becomes\nmore active and powerful amongst them in proportion as all other\npassions droop and die. This naturally disposes the members of the\ncommunity constantly to give or to surrender additional rights to the\ncentral power, which alone seems to be interested in defending them by\nthe same means that it uses to defend itself. As in ages of equality no\nman is compelled to lend his assistance to his fellow-men, and none\nhas any right to expect much support from them, everyone is at once\nindependent and powerless. These two conditions, which must never be\neither separately considered or confounded together, inspire the\ncitizen of a democratic country with very contrary propensities. His\nindependence fills him with self-reliance and pride amongst his equals;\nhis debility makes him feel from time to time the want of some outward\nassistance, which he cannot expect from any of them, because they are\nall impotent and unsympathizing. In this predicament he naturally turns\nhis eyes to that imposing power which alone rises above the level of\nuniversal depression. Of that power his wants and especially his desires\ncontinually remind him, until he ultimately views it as the sole and\nnecessary support of his own weakness. *b This may more completely\nexplain what frequently takes place in democratic countries, where the\nvery men who are so impatient of superiors patiently submit to a master,\nexhibiting at once their pride and their servility.\n\n[Footnote b: In democratic communities nothing but the central power has\nany stability in its position or any permanence in its undertakings. All\nthe members of society are in ceaseless stir and transformation. Now it\nis in the nature of all governments to seek constantly to enlarge their\nsphere of action; hence it is almost impossible that such a government\nshould not ultimately succeed, because it acts with a fixed principle\nand a constant will, upon men, whose position, whose notions, and whose\ndesires are in continual vacillation. It frequently happens that the\nmembers of the community promote the influence of the central power\nwithout intending it. Democratic ages are periods of experiment,\ninnovation, and adventure. At such times there are always a multitude of\nmen engaged in difficult or novel undertakings, which they follow alone,\nwithout caring for their fellowmen. Such persons may be ready to admit,\nas a general principle, that the public authority ought not to interfere\nin private concerns; but, by an exception to that rule, each of them\ncraves for its assistance in the particular concern on which he is\nengaged, and seeks to draw upon the influence of the government for his\nown benefit, though he would restrict it on all other occasions. If a\nlarge number of men apply this particular exception to a great\nvariety of different purposes, the sphere of the central power extends\ninsensibly in all directions, although each of them wishes it to be\ncircumscribed. Thus a democratic government increases its power simply\nby the fact of its permanence. Time is on its side; every incident\nbefriends it; the passions of individuals unconsciously promote it; and\nit may be asserted, that the older a democratic community is, the more\ncentralized will its government become.]\n\nThe hatred which men bear to privilege increases in proportion as\nprivileges become more scarce and less considerable, so that democratic\npassions would seem to burn most fiercely at the very time when they\nhave least fuel. I have already given the reason of this phenomenon.\nWhen all conditions are unequal, no inequality is so great as to offend\nthe eye; whereas the slightest dissimilarity is odious in the midst\nof general uniformity: the more complete is this uniformity, the more\ninsupportable does the sight of such a difference become. Hence it is\nnatural that the love of equality should constantly increase together\nwith equality itself, and that it should grow by what it feeds upon.\nThis never-dying, ever-kindling hatred, which sets a democratic people\nagainst the smallest privileges, is peculiarly favorable to the gradual\nconcentration of all political rights in the hands of the representative\nof the State alone. The sovereign, being necessarily and incontestably\nabove all the citizens, excites not their envy, and each of them thinks\nthat he strips his equals of the prerogative which he concedes to the\ncrown. The man of a democratic age is extremely reluctant to obey his\nneighbor who is his equal; he refuses to acknowledge in such a person\nability superior to his own; he mistrusts his justice, and is jealous\nof his power; he fears and he contemns him; and he loves continually to\nremind him of the common dependence in which both of them stand to the\nsame master. Every central power which follows its natural tendencies\ncourts and encourages the principle of equality; for equality singularly\nfacilitates, extends, and secures the influence of a central power.\n\nIn like manner it may be said that every central government worships\nuniformity: uniformity relieves it from inquiry into an infinite number\nof small details which must be attended to if rules were to be adapted\nto men, instead of indiscriminately subjecting men to rules: thus the\ngovernment likes what the citizens like, and naturally hates what they\nhate. These common sentiments, which, in democratic nations, constantly\nunite the sovereign and every member of the community in one and the\nsame conviction, establish a secret and lasting sympathy between them.\nThe faults of the government are pardoned for the sake of its tastes;\npublic confidence is only reluctantly withdrawn in the midst even of\nits excesses and its errors, and it is restored at the first call.\nDemocratic nations often hate those in whose hands the central power is\nvested; but they always love that power itself.\n\nThus, by two separate paths, I have reached the same conclusion. I have\nshown that the principle of equality suggests to men the notion of\na sole, uniform, and strong government: I have now shown that the\nprinciple of equality imparts to them a taste for it. To governments of\nthis kind the nations of our age are therefore tending. They are drawn\nthither by the natural inclination of mind and heart; and in order to\nreach that result, it is enough that they do not check themselves in\ntheir course. I am of opinion, that, in the democratic ages which are\nopening upon us, individual independence and local liberties will ever\nbe the produce of artificial contrivance; that centralization will be\nthe natural form of government. *c\n\n[Footnote c: See Appendix X.]\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV: Of Certain Peculiar And Accidental Causes Which Either Lead\nA People To Complete Centralization Of Government, Or Which Divert Them\nFrom It\n\nIf all democratic nations are instinctively led to the centralization of\ngovernment, they tend to this result in an unequal manner. This depends\non the particular circumstances which may promote or prevent the\nnatural consequences of that state of society--circumstances which are\nexceedingly numerous; but I shall only advert to a few of them. Amongst\nmen who have lived free long before they became equal, the tendencies\nderived from free institutions combat, to a certain extent, the\npropensities superinduced by the principle of equality; and although\nthe central power may increase its privileges amongst such a people, the\nprivate members of such a community will never entirely forfeit their\nindependence. But when the equality of conditions grows up amongst a\npeople which has never known, or has long ceased to know, what freedom\nis (and such is the case upon the Continent of Europe), as the former\nhabits of the nation are suddenly combined, by some sort of natural\nattraction, with the novel habits and principles engendered by the state\nof society, all powers seem spontaneously to rush to the centre.\nThese powers accumulate there with astonishing rapidity, and the State\ninstantly attains the utmost limits of its strength, whilst private\npersons allow themselves to sink as suddenly to the lowest degree of\nweakness.\n\nThe English who emigrated three hundred years ago to found a democratic\ncommonwealth on the shores of the New World, had all learned to take\na part in public affairs in their mother-country; they were conversant\nwith trial by jury; they were accustomed to liberty of speech and of the\npress--to personal freedom, to the notion of rights and the practice\nof asserting them. They carried with them to America these free\ninstitutions and manly customs, and these institutions preserved them\nagainst the encroachments of the State. Thus amongst the Americans it\nis freedom which is old--equality is of comparatively modern date. The\nreverse is occurring in Europe, where equality, introduced by absolute\npower and under the rule of kings, was already infused into the habits\nof nations long before freedom had entered into their conceptions.\n\nI have said that amongst democratic nations the notion of government\nnaturally presents itself to the mind under the form of a sole and\ncentral power, and that the notion of intermediate powers is not\nfamiliar to them. This is peculiarly applicable to the democratic\nnations which have witnessed the triumph of the principle of equality\nby means of a violent revolution. As the classes which managed local\naffairs have been suddenly swept away by the storm, and as the confused\nmass which remains has as yet neither the organization nor the habits\nwhich fit it to assume the administration of these same affairs, the\nState alone seems capable of taking upon itself all the details of\ngovernment, and centralization becomes, as it were, the unavoidable\nstate of the country. Napoleon deserves neither praise nor censure for\nhaving centred in his own hands almost all the administrative power\nof France; for, after the abrupt disappearance of the nobility and\nthe higher rank of the middle classes, these powers devolved on him of\ncourse: it would have been almost as difficult for him to reject as to\nassume them. But no necessity of this kind has ever been felt by the\nAmericans, who, having passed through no revolution, and having governed\nthemselves from the first, never had to call upon the State to act for\na time as their guardian. Thus the progress of centralization amongst a\ndemocratic people depends not only on the progress of equality, but on\nthe manner in which this equality has been established.\n\nAt the commencement of a great democratic revolution, when hostilities\nhave but just broken out between the different classes of society, the\npeople endeavors to centralize the public administration in the hands of\nthe government, in order to wrest the management of local affairs\nfrom the aristocracy. Towards the close of such a revolution, on the\ncontrary, it is usually the conquered aristocracy that endeavors to\nmake over the management of all affairs to the State, because such an\naristocracy dreads the tyranny of a people which has become its equal,\nand not unfrequently its master. Thus it is not always the same class\nof the community which strives to increase the prerogative of the\ngovernment; but as long as the democratic revolution lasts there is\nalways one class in the nation, powerful in numbers or in wealth, which\nis induced, by peculiar passions or interests, to centralize the public\nadministration, independently of that hatred of being governed by one's\nneighbor, which is a general and permanent feeling amongst democratic\nnations. It may be remarked, that at the present day the lower orders in\nEngland are striving with all their might to destroy local independence,\nand to transfer the administration from all points of the circumference\nto the centre; whereas the higher classes are endeavoring to retain this\nadministration within its ancient boundaries. I venture to predict that\na time will come when the very reverse will happen.\n\nThese observations explain why the supreme power is always stronger, and\nprivate individuals weaker, amongst a democratic people which has passed\nthrough a long and arduous struggle to reach a state of equality than\namongst a democratic community in which the citizens have been equal\nfrom the first. The example of the Americans completely demonstrates\nthe fact. The inhabitants of the United States were never divided by\nany privileges; they have never known the mutual relation of master and\ninferior, and as they neither dread nor hate each other, they have never\nknown the necessity of calling in the supreme power to manage their\naffairs. The lot of the Americans is singular: they have derived from\nthe aristocracy of England the notion of private rights and the taste\nfor local freedom; and they have been able to retain both the one and\nthe other, because they have had no aristocracy to combat.\n\nIf at all times education enables men to defend their independence, this\nis most especially true in democratic ages. When all men are alike, it\nis easy to found a sole and all-powerful government, by the aid of\nmere instinct. But men require much intelligence, knowledge, and art to\norganize and to maintain secondary powers under similar circumstances,\nand to create amidst the independence and individual weakness of the\ncitizens such free associations as may be in a condition to struggle\nagainst tyranny without destroying public order.\n\nHence the concentration of power and the subjection of individuals will\nincrease amongst democratic nations, not only in the same proportion\nas their equality, but in the same proportion as their ignorance. It\nis true, that in ages of imperfect civilization the government is\nfrequently as wanting in the knowledge required to impose a despotism\nupon the people as the people are wanting in the knowledge required to\nshake it off; but the effect is not the same on both sides. However rude\na democratic people may be, the central power which rules it is never\ncompletely devoid of cultivation, because it readily draws to its own\nuses what little cultivation is to be found in the country, and, if\nnecessary, may seek assistance elsewhere. Hence, amongst a nation which\nis ignorant as well as democratic, an amazing difference cannot fail\nspeedily to arise between the intellectual capacity of the ruler and\nthat of each of his subjects. This completes the easy concentration\nof all power in his hands: the administrative function of the State is\nperpetually extended, because the State alone is competent to administer\nthe affairs of the country. Aristocratic nations, however unenlightened\nthey may be, never afford the same spectacle, because in them\ninstruction is nearly equally diffused between the monarch and the\nleading members of the community.\n\nThe pacha who now rules in Egypt found the population of that country\ncomposed of men exceedingly ignorant and equal, and he has borrowed the\nscience and ability of Europe to govern that people. As the personal\nattainments of the sovereign are thus combined with the ignorance and\ndemocratic weakness of his subjects, the utmost centralization has been\nestablished without impediment, and the pacha has made the country his\nmanufactory, and the inhabitants his workmen.\n\nI think that extreme centralization of government ultimately enervates\nsociety, and thus after a length of time weakens the government itself;\nbut I do not deny that a centralized social power may be able to execute\ngreat undertakings with facility in a given time and on a particular\npoint. This is more especially true of war, in which success depends\nmuch more on the means of transferring all the resources of a nation\nto one single point, than on the extent of those resources. Hence it is\nchiefly in war that nations desire and frequently require to increase\nthe powers of the central government. All men of military genius are\nfond of centralization, which increases their strength; and all men of\ncentralizing genius are fond of war, which compels nations to combine\nall their powers in the hands of the government. Thus the democratic\ntendency which leads men unceasingly to multiply the privileges of the\nState, and to circumscribe the rights of private persons, is much more\nrapid and constant amongst those democratic nations which are exposed by\ntheir position to great and frequent wars, than amongst all others.\n\nI have shown how the dread of disturbance and the love of well-being\ninsensibly lead democratic nations to increase the functions of\ncentral government, as the only power which appears to be intrinsically\nsufficiently strong, enlightened, and secure, to protect them from\nanarchy. I would now add, that all the particular circumstances\nwhich tend to make the state of a democratic community agitated and\nprecarious, enhance this general propensity, and lead private persons\nmore and more to sacrifice their rights to their tranquility. A people\nis therefore never so disposed to increase the functions of central\ngovernment as at the close of a long and bloody revolution, which, after\nhaving wrested property from the hands of its former possessors,\nhas shaken all belief, and filled the nation with fierce hatreds,\nconflicting interests, and contending factions. The love of public\ntranquillity becomes at such times an indiscriminating passion, and the\nmembers of the community are apt to conceive a most inordinate devotion\nto order.\n\nI have already examined several of the incidents which may concur to\npromote the centralization of power, but the principal cause still\nremains to be noticed. The foremost of the incidental causes which\nmay draw the management of all affairs into the hands of the ruler in\ndemocratic countries, is the origin of that ruler himself, and his own\npropensities. Men who live in the ages of equality are naturally fond\nof central power, and are willing to extend its privileges; but if it\nhappens that this same power faithfully represents their own interests,\nand exactly copies their own inclinations, the confidence they place in\nit knows no bounds, and they think that whatever they bestow upon it is\nbestowed upon themselves.\n\nThe attraction of administrative powers to the centre will always be\nless easy and less rapid under the reign of kings who are still in some\nway connected with the old aristocratic order, than under new princes,\nthe children of their own achievements, whose birth, prejudices,\npropensities, and habits appear to bind them indissolubly to the cause\nof equality. I do not mean that princes of aristocratic origin who live\nin democratic ages do not attempt to centralize; I believe they apply\nthemselves to that object as diligently as any others. For them,\nthe sole advantages of equality lie in that direction; but their\nopportunities are less great, because the community, instead of\nvolunteering compliance with their desires, frequently obeys them with\nreluctance. In democratic communities the rule is that centralization\nmust increase in proportion as the sovereign is less aristocratic. When\nan ancient race of kings stands at the head of an aristocracy, as the\nnatural prejudices of the sovereign perfectly accord with the natural\nprejudices of the nobility, the vices inherent in aristocratic\ncommunities have a free course, and meet with no corrective. The reverse\nis the case when the scion of a feudal stock is placed at the head of\na democratic people. The sovereign is constantly led, by his education,\nhis habits, and his associations, to adopt sentiments suggested by the\ninequality of conditions, and the people tend as constantly, by their\nsocial condition, to those manners which are engendered by equality.\nAt such times it often happens that the citizens seek to control the\ncentral power far less as a tyrannical than as an aristocratical power,\nand that they persist in the firm defence of their independence, not\nonly because they would remain free, but especially because they are\ndetermined to remain equal. A revolution which overthrows an ancient\nregal family, in order to place men of more recent growth at the head\nof a democratic people, may temporarily weaken the central power; but\nhowever anarchical such a revolution may appear at first, we need not\nhesitate to predict that its final and certain consequence will be to\nextend and to secure the prerogatives of that power. The foremost or\nindeed the sole condition which is required in order to succeed in\ncentralizing the supreme power in a democratic community, is to love\nequality, or to get men to believe you love it. Thus the science of\ndespotism, which was once so complex, is simplified, and reduced as it\nwere to a single principle.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V: That Amongst The European Nations Of Our Time The Power Of\nGovernments Is Increasing, Although The Persons Who Govern Are Less\nStable\n\nOn reflecting upon what has already been said, the reader will be\nstartled and alarmed to find that in Europe everything seems to conduce\nto the indefinite extension of the prerogatives of government, and to\nrender all that enjoyed the rights of private independence more weak,\nmore subordinate, and more precarious. The democratic nations of Europe\nhave all the general and permanent tendencies which urge the Americans\nto the centralization of government, and they are moreover exposed to a\nnumber of secondary and incidental causes with which the Americans are\nunacquainted. It would seem as if every step they make towards equality\nbrings them nearer to despotism. And indeed if we do but cast our\nlooks around, we shall be convinced that such is the fact. During the\naristocratic ages which preceded the present time, the sovereigns of\nEurope had been deprived of, or had relinquished, many of the rights\ninherent in their power. Not a hundred years ago, amongst the greater\npart of European nations, numerous private persons and corporations were\nsufficiently independent to administer justice, to raise and maintain\ntroops, to levy taxes, and frequently even to make or interpret the\nlaw. The State has everywhere resumed to itself alone these natural\nattributes of sovereign power; in all matters of government the State\ntolerates no intermediate agent between itself and the people, and in\ngeneral business it directs the people by its own immediate influence. I\nam far from blaming this concentration of power, I simply point it out.\n\nAt the same period a great number of secondary powers existed in Europe,\nwhich represented local interests and administered local affairs. Most\nof these local authorities have already disappeared; all are speedily\ntending to disappear, or to fall into the most complete dependence.\nFrom one end of Europe to the other the privileges of the nobility, the\nliberties of cities, and the powers of provincial bodies, are either\ndestroyed or upon the verge of destruction. Europe has endured, in\nthe course of the last half-century, many revolutions and\ncounter-revolutions which have agitated it in opposite directions: but\nall these perturbations resemble each other in one respect--they have\nall shaken or destroyed the secondary powers of government. The local\nprivileges which the French did not abolish in the countries they\nconquered, have finally succumbed to the policy of the princes who\nconquered the French. Those princes rejected all the innovations of the\nFrench Revolution except centralization: that is the only principle they\nconsented to receive from such a source. My object is to remark, that\nall these various rights, which have been successively wrested, in our\ntime, from classes, corporations, and individuals, have not served\nto raise new secondary powers on a more democratic basis, but have\nuniformly been concentrated in the hands of the sovereign. Everywhere\nthe State acquires more and more direct control over the humblest\nmembers of the community, and a more exclusive power of governing\neach of them in his smallest concerns. *a Almost all the charitable\nestablishments of Europe were formerly in the hands of private persons\nor of corporations; they are now almost all dependent on the supreme\ngovernment, and in many countries are actually administered by that\npower. The State almost exclusively undertakes to supply bread to the\nhungry, assistance and shelter to the sick, work to the idle, and to\nact as the sole reliever of all kinds of misery. Education, as well\nas charity, is become in most countries at the present day a national\nconcern. The State receives, and often takes, the child from the arms of\nthe mother, to hand it over to official agents: the State undertakes to\ntrain the heart and to instruct the mind of each generation. Uniformity\nprevails in the courses of public instruction as in everything else;\ndiversity, as well as freedom, is disappearing day by day. Nor do I\nhesitate to affirm, that amongst almost all the Christian nations of our\ndays, Catholic as well as Protestant, religion is in danger of falling\ninto the hands of the government. Not that rulers are over-jealous of\nthe right of settling points of doctrine, but they get more and more\nhold upon the will of those by whom doctrines are expounded; they\ndeprive the clergy of their property, and pay them by salaries; they\ndivert to their own use the influence of the priesthood, they make them\ntheir own ministers--often their own servants--and by this alliance with\nreligion they reach the inner depths of the soul of man. *b\n\n[Footnote a: This gradual weakening of individuals in relation to\nsociety at large may be traced in a thousand ways. I shall select\nfrom amongst these examples one derived from the law of wills. In\naristocracies it is common to profess the greatest reverence for the\nlast testamentary dispositions of a man; this feeling sometimes even\nbecame superstitious amongst the older nations of Europe: the power of\nthe State, far from interfering with the caprices of a dying man, gave\nfull force to the very least of them, and insured to him a perpetual\npower. When all living men are enfeebled, the will of the dead is less\nrespected: it is circumscribed within a narrow range, beyond which it\nis annulled or checked by the supreme power of the laws. In the Middle\nAges, testamentary power had, so to speak, no limits: amongst the French\nat the present day, a man cannot distribute his fortune amongst his\nchildren without the interference of the State; after having domineered\nover a whole life, the law insists upon regulating the very last act of\nit.]\n\n[Footnote b: In proportion as the duties of the central power are\naugmented, the number of public officers by whom that power is\nrepresented must increase also. They form a nation in each nation; and\nas they share the stability of the government, they more and more fill\nup the place of an aristocracy.\n\nIn almost every part of Europe the government rules in two ways; it\nrules one portion of the community by the fear which they entertain of\nits agents, and the other by the hope they have of becoming its agents.]\n\nBut this is as yet only one side of the picture. The authority of\ngovernment has not only spread, as we have just seen, throughout the\nsphere of all existing powers, till that sphere can no longer contain\nit, but it goes further, and invades the domain heretofore reserved\nto private independence. A multitude of actions, which were formerly\nentirely beyond the control of the public administration, have been\nsubjected to that control in our time, and the number of them is\nconstantly increasing. Amongst aristocratic nations the supreme\ngovernment usually contented itself with managing and superintending\nthe community in whatever directly and ostensibly concerned the national\nhonor; but in all other respects the people were left to work out their\nown free will. Amongst these nations the government often seemed to\nforget that there is a point at which the faults and the sufferings of\nprivate persons involve the general prosperity, and that to prevent\nthe ruin of a private individual must sometimes be a matter of public\nimportance. The democratic nations of our time lean to the opposite\nextreme. It is evident that most of our rulers will not content\nthemselves with governing the people collectively: it would seem as\nif they thought themselves responsible for the actions and private\ncondition of their subjects--as if they had undertaken to guide and to\ninstruct each of them in the various incidents of life, and to secure\ntheir happiness quite independently of their own consent. On the other\nhand private individuals grow more and more apt to look upon the\nsupreme power in the same light; they invoke its assistance in all their\nnecessities, and they fix their eyes upon the administration as their\nmentor or their guide.\n\nI assert that there is no country in Europe in which the public\nadministration has not become, not only more centralized, but more\ninquisitive and more minute it everywhere interferes in private concerns\nmore than it did; it regulates more undertakings, and undertakings of a\nlesser kind; and it gains a firmer footing every day about, above, and\naround all private persons, to assist, to advise, and to coerce them.\nFormerly a sovereign lived upon the income of his lands, or the revenue\nof his taxes; this is no longer the case now that his wants have\nincreased as well as his power. Under the same circumstances which\nformerly compelled a prince to put on a new tax, he now has recourse\nto a loan. Thus the State gradually becomes the debtor of most of the\nwealthier members of the community, and centralizes the largest amounts\nof capital in its own hands. Small capital is drawn into its keeping\nby another method. As men are intermingled and conditions become more\nequal, the poor have more resources, more education, and more desires;\nthey conceive the notion of bettering their condition, and this teaches\nthem to save. These savings are daily producing an infinite number of\nsmall capitals, the slow and gradual produce of labor, which are always\nincreasing. But the greater part of this money would be unproductive if\nit remained scattered in the hands of its owners. This circumstance has\ngiven rise to a philanthropic institution, which will soon become, if I\nam not mistaken, one of our most important political institutions. Some\ncharitable persons conceived the notion of collecting the savings of\nthe poor and placing them out at interest. In some countries these\nbenevolent associations are still completely distinct from the State;\nbut in almost all they manifestly tend to identify themselves with the\ngovernment; and in some of them the government has superseded them,\ntaking upon itself the enormous task of centralizing in one place, and\nputting out at interest on its own responsibility, the daily savings of\nmany millions of the working classes. Thus the State draws to itself the\nwealth of the rich by loans, and has the poor man's mite at its disposal\nin the savings banks. The wealth of the country is perpetually flowing\naround the government and passing through its hands; the accumulation\nincreases in the same proportion as the equality of conditions; for in\na democratic country the State alone inspires private individuals with\nconfidence, because the State alone appears to be endowed with strength\nand durability. *c Thus the sovereign does not confine himself to\nthe management of the public treasury; he interferes in private money\nmatters; he is the superior, and often the master, of all the members\nof the community; and, in addition to this, he assumes the part of their\nsteward and paymaster.\n\n[Footnote c: On the one hand the taste for worldly welfare is\nperpetually increasing, and on the other the government gets more and\nmore complete possession of the sources of that welfare. Thus men are\nfollowing two separate roads to servitude: the taste for their own\nwelfare withholds them from taking a part in the government, and their\nlove of that welfare places them in closer dependence upon those who\ngovern.]\n\nThe central power not only fulfils of itself the whole of the duties\nformerly discharged by various authorities--extending those duties, and\nsurpassing those authorities--but it performs them with more alertness,\nstrength, and independence than it displayed before. All the governments\nof Europe have in our time singularly improved the science of\nadministration: they do more things, and they do everything with more\norder, more celerity, and at less expense; they seem to be constantly\nenriched by all the experience of which they have stripped private\npersons. From day to day the princes of Europe hold their subordinate\nofficers under stricter control, and they invent new methods for guiding\nthem more closely, and inspecting them with less trouble. Not content\nwith managing everything by their agents, they undertake to manage the\nconduct of their agents in everything; so that the public administration\nnot only depends upon one and the same power, but it is more and more\nconfined to one spot and concentrated in the same hands. The government\ncentralizes its agency whilst it increases its prerogative--hence a\ntwofold increase of strength.\n\nIn examining the ancient constitution of the judicial power, amongst\nmost European nations, two things strike the mind--the independence of\nthat power, and the extent of its functions. Not only did the courts of\njustice decide almost all differences between private persons, but in\nvery many cases they acted as arbiters between private persons and the\nState. I do not here allude to the political and administrative offices\nwhich courts of judicature had in some countries usurped, but the\njudicial office common to them all. In most of the countries of Europe,\nthere were, and there still are, many private rights, connected for\nthe most part with the general right of property, which stood under\nthe protection of the courts of justice, and which the State could not\nviolate without their sanction. It was this semi-political power which\nmainly distinguished the European courts of judicature from all others;\nfor all nations have had judges, but all have not invested their judges\nwith the same privileges. Upon examining what is now occurring amongst\nthe democratic nations of Europe which are called free, as well as\namongst the others, it will be observed that new and more dependent\ncourts are everywhere springing up by the side of the old ones, for\nthe express purpose of deciding, by an extraordinary jurisdiction,\nsuch litigated matters as may arise between the government and private\npersons. The elder judicial power retains its independence, but its\njurisdiction is narrowed; and there is a growing tendency to reduce it\nto be exclusively the arbiter between private interests. The number of\nthese special courts of justice is continually increasing, and their\nfunctions increase likewise. Thus the government is more and more\nabsolved from the necessity of subjecting its policy and its rights to\nthe sanction of another power. As judges cannot be dispensed with, at\nleast the State is to select them, and always to hold them under its\ncontrol; so that, between the government and private individuals, they\nplace the effigy of justice rather than justice itself. The State is\nnot satisfied with drawing all concerns to itself, but it acquires an\never-increasing power of deciding on them all without restriction and\nwithout appeal. *d\n\n[Footnote d: A strange sophism has been made on this head in France.\nWhen a suit arises between the government and a private person, it is\nnot to be tried before an ordinary judge--in order, they say, not to\nmix the administrative and the judicial powers; as if it were not to\nmix those powers, and to mix them in the most dangerous and oppressive\nmanner, to invest the government with the office of judging and\nadministering at the same time.]\n\nThere exists amongst the modern nations of Europe one great cause,\nindependent of all those which have already been pointed out, which\nperpetually contributes to extend the agency or to strengthen the\nprerogative of the supreme power, though it has not been sufficiently\nattended to: I mean the growth of manufactures, which is fostered by the\nprogress of social equality. Manufactures generally collect a multitude\nof men of the same spot, amongst whom new and complex relations\nspring up. These men are exposed by their calling to great and sudden\nalternations of plenty and want, during which public tranquillity is\nendangered. It may also happen that these employments sacrifice the\nhealth, and even the life, of those who gain by them, or of those who\nlive by them. Thus the manufacturing classes require more regulation,\nsuperintendence, and restraint than the other classes of society, and\nit is natural that the powers of government should increase in the same\nproportion as those classes.\n\nThis is a truth of general application; what follows more especially\nconcerns the nations of Europe. In the centuries which preceded that in\nwhich we live, the aristocracy was in possession of the soil, and was\ncompetent to defend it: landed property was therefore surrounded by\nample securities, and its possessors enjoyed great independence.\nThis gave rise to laws and customs which have been perpetuated,\nnotwithstanding the subdivision of lands and the ruin of the nobility;\nand, at the present time, landowners and agriculturists are still those\namongst the community who must easily escape from the control of the\nsupreme power. In these same aristocratic ages, in which all the\nsources of our history are to be traced, personal property was of small\nimportance, and those who possessed it were despised and weak:\nthe manufacturing class formed an exception in the midst of those\naristocratic communities; as it had no certain patronage, it was not\noutwardly protected, and was often unable to protect itself.\n\nHence a habit sprung up of considering manufacturing property as\nsomething of a peculiar nature, not entitled to the same deference,\nand not worthy of the same securities as property in general; and\nmanufacturers were looked upon as a small class in the bulk of the\npeople, whose independence was of small importance, and who might with\npropriety be abandoned to the disciplinary passions of princes. On\nglancing over the codes of the middle ages, one is surprised to see,\nin those periods of personal independence, with what incessant royal\nregulations manufactures were hampered, even in their smallest details:\non this point centralization was as active and as minute as it can ever\nbe. Since that time a great revolution has taken place in the world;\nmanufacturing property, which was then only in the germ, has spread\ntill it covers Europe: the manufacturing class has been multiplied and\nenriched by the remnants of all other ranks; it has grown and is still\nperpetually growing in number, in importance, in wealth. Almost all\nthose who do not belong to it are connected with it at least on some one\npoint; after having been an exception in society, it threatens to\nbecome the chief, if not the only, class; nevertheless the notions and\npolitical precedents engendered by it of old still cling about it. These\nnotions and these precedents remain unchanged, because they are old,\nand also because they happen to be in perfect accordance with the new\nnotions and general habits of our contemporaries. Manufacturing property\nthen does not extend its rights in the same ratio as its importance. The\nmanufacturing classes do not become less dependent, whilst they become\nmore numerous; but, on the contrary, it would seem as if despotism\nlurked within them, and naturally grew with their growth. *e As a\nnation becomes more engaged in manufactures, the want of roads, canals,\nharbors, and other works of a semi-public nature, which facilitate the\nacquisition of wealth, is more strongly felt; and as a nation becomes\nmore democratic, private individuals are less able, and the State more\nable, to execute works of such magnitude. I do not hesitate to assert\nthat the manifest tendency of all governments at the present time is to\ntake upon themselves alone the execution of these undertakings; by which\nmeans they daily hold in closer dependence the population which they\ngovern.\n\n[Footnote e: I shall quote a few facts in corroboration of this remark.\nMines are the natural sources of manufacturing wealth: as manufactures\nhave grown up in Europe, as the produce of mines has become of more\ngeneral importance, and good mining more difficult from the subdivision\nof property which is a consequence of the equality of conditions, most\ngovernments have asserted a right of owning the soil in which the mines\nlie, and of inspecting the works; which has never been the case with any\nother kind of property. Thus mines, which were private property, liable\nto the same obligations and sheltered by the same guarantees as all\nother landed property, have fallen under the control of the State.\nThe State either works them or farms them; the owners of them are mere\ntenants, deriving their rights from the State; and, moreover, the State\nalmost everywhere claims the power of directing their operations: it\nlays down rules, enforces the adoption of particular methods, subjects\nthe mining adventurers to constant superintendence, and, if refractory,\nthey are ousted by a government court of justice, and the government\ntransfers their contract to other hands; so that the government not\nonly possesses the mines, but has all the adventurers in its power.\nNevertheless, as manufactures increase, the working of old mines\nincreases also; new ones are opened, the mining population extends and\ngrows up; day by day governments augment their subterranean dominions,\nand people them with their agents.]\n\nOn the other hand, in proportion as the power of a State increases, and\nits necessities are augmented, the State consumption of manufactured\nproduce is always growing larger, and these commodities are generally\nmade in the arsenals or establishments of the government. Thus, in every\nkingdom, the ruler becomes the principal manufacturer; he collects\nand retains in his service a vast number of engineers, architects,\nmechanics, and handicraftsmen. Not only is he the principal\nmanufacturer, but he tends more and more to become the chief, or rather\nthe master of all other manufacturers. As private persons become\nmore powerless by becoming more equal, they can effect nothing in\nmanufactures without combination; but the government naturally seeks to\nplace these combinations under its own control.\n\nIt must be admitted that these collective beings, which are called\ncombinations, are stronger and more formidable than a private individual\ncan ever be, and that they have less of the responsibility of their own\nactions; whence it seems reasonable that they should not be allowed to\nretain so great an independence of the supreme government as might be\nconceded to a private individual.\n\nRulers are the more apt to follow this line of policy, as their own\ninclinations invite them to it. Amongst democratic nations it is only by\nassociation that the resistance of the people to the government can ever\ndisplay itself: hence the latter always looks with ill-favor on those\nassociations which are not in its own power; and it is well worthy of\nremark, that amongst democratic nations, the people themselves often\nentertain a secret feeling of fear and jealousy against these\nvery associations, which prevents the citizens from defending the\ninstitutions of which they stand so much in need. The power and the\nduration of these small private bodies, in the midst of the weakness and\ninstability of the whole community, astonish and alarm the people;\nand the free use which each association makes of its natural powers is\nalmost regarded as a dangerous privilege. All the associations which\nspring up in our age are, moreover, new corporate powers, whose rights\nhave not been sanctioned by time; they come into existence at a\ntime when the notion of private rights is weak, and when the power of\ngovernment is unbounded; hence it is not surprising that they lose their\nfreedom at their birth. Amongst all European nations there are some\nkinds of associations which cannot be formed until the State has\nexamined their by-laws, and authorized their existence. In several\nothers, attempts are made to extend this rule to all associations; the\nconsequences of such a policy, if it were successful, may easily be\nforeseen. If once the sovereign had a general right of authorizing\nassociations of all kinds upon certain conditions, he would not be long\nwithout claiming the right of superintending and managing them, in order\nto prevent them from departing from the rules laid down by himself. In\nthis manner, the State, after having reduced all who are desirous of\nforming associations into dependence, would proceed to reduce into the\nsame condition all who belong to associations already formed--that is\nto say, almost all the men who are now in existence. Governments thus\nappropriate to themselves, and convert to their own purposes, the\ngreater part of this new power which manufacturing interests have in\nour time brought into the world. Manufacturers govern us--they govern\nmanufactures.\n\nI attach so much importance to all that I have just been saying, that\nI am tormented by the fear of having impaired my meaning in seeking\nto render it more clear. If the reader thinks that the examples I have\nadduced to support my observations are insufficient or ill-chosen--if\nhe imagines that I have anywhere exaggerated the encroachments of the\nsupreme power, and, on the other hand, that I have underrated the extent\nof the sphere which still remains open to the exertions of individual\nindependence, I entreat him to lay down the book for a moment, and to\nturn his mind to reflect for himself upon the subjects I have attempted\nto explain. Let him attentively examine what is taking place in France\nand in other countries--let him inquire of those about him--let him\nsearch himself, and I am much mistaken if he does not arrive, without\nmy guidance, and by other paths, at the point to which I have sought\nto lead him. He will perceive that for the last half-century,\ncentralization has everywhere been growing up in a thousand different\nways. Wars, revolutions, conquests, have served to promote it: all men\nhave labored to increase it. In the course of the same period, during\nwhich men have succeeded each other with singular rapidity at the head\nof affairs, their notions, interests, and passions have been infinitely\ndiversified; but all have by some means or other sought to centralize.\nThis instinctive centralization has been the only settled point amidst\nthe extreme mutability of their lives and of their thoughts.\n\nIf the reader, after having investigated these details of human affairs,\nwill seek to survey the wide prospect as a whole, he will be struck\nby the result. On the one hand the most settled dynasties shaken or\noverthrown--the people everywhere escaping by violence from the sway\nof their laws--abolishing or limiting the authority of their rulers or\ntheir princes--the nations, which are not in open revolution, restless\nat least, and excited--all of them animated by the same spirit of\nrevolt: and on the other hand, at this very period of anarchy, and\namongst these untractable nations, the incessant increase of the\nprerogative of the supreme government, becoming more centralized, more\nadventurous, more absolute, more extensive--the people perpetually\nfalling under the control of the public administration--led\ninsensibly to surrender to it some further portion of their individual\nindependence, till the very men, who from time to time upset a throne\nand trample on a race of kings, bend more and more obsequiously to the\nslightest dictate of a clerk. Thus two contrary revolutions appear\nin our days to be going on; the one continually weakening the supreme\npower, the other as continually strengthening it: at no other period\nin our history has it appeared so weak or so strong. But upon a more\nattentive examination of the state of the world, it appears that these\ntwo revolutions are intimately connected together, that they originate\nin the same source, and that after having followed a separate course,\nthey lead men at last to the same result. I may venture once more to\nrepeat what I have already said or implied in several parts of this\nbook: great care must be taken not to confound the principle of equality\nitself with the revolution which finally establishes that principle in\nthe social condition and the laws of a nation: here lies the reason of\nalmost all the phenomena which occasion our astonishment. All the old\npolitical powers of Europe, the greatest as well as the least, were\nfounded in ages of aristocracy, and they more or less represented or\ndefended the principles of inequality and of privilege. To make the\nnovel wants and interests, which the growing principle of equality\nintroduced, preponderate in government, our contemporaries had to\noverturn or to coerce the established powers. This led them to make\nrevolutions, and breathed into many of them, that fierce love of\ndisturbance and independence, which all revolutions, whatever be their\nobject, always engender. I do not believe that there is a single country\nin Europe in which the progress of equality has not been preceded or\nfollowed by some violent changes in the state of property and persons;\nand almost all these changes have been attended with much anarchy and\nlicense, because they have been made by the least civilized portion of\nthe nation against that which is most civilized. Hence proceeded the\ntwo-fold contrary tendencies which I have just pointed out. As long as\nthe democratic revolution was glowing with heat, the men who were\nbent upon the destruction of old aristocratic powers hostile to that\nrevolution, displayed a strong spirit of independence; but as the\nvictory or the principle of equality became more complete, they\ngradually surrendered themselves to the propensities natural to that\ncondition of equality, and they strengthened and centralized their\ngovernments. They had sought to be free in order to make themselves\nequal; but in proportion as equality was more established by the aid\nof freedom, freedom itself was thereby rendered of more difficult\nattainment.\n\nThese two states of a nation have sometimes been contemporaneous:\nthe last generation in France showed how a people might organize a\nstupendous tyranny in the community, at the very time when they were\nbaffling the authority of the nobility and braving the power of all\nkings--at once teaching the world the way to win freedom, and the way to\nlose it. In our days men see that constituted powers are dilapidated\non every side--they see all ancient authority gasping away, all ancient\nbarriers tottering to their fall, and the judgment of the wisest is\ntroubled at the sight: they attend only to the amazing revolution which\nis taking place before their eyes, and they imagine that mankind is\nabout to fall into perpetual anarchy: if they looked to the final\nconsequences of this revolution, their fears would perhaps assume a\ndifferent shape. For myself, I confess that I put no trust in the spirit\nof freedom which appears to animate my contemporaries. I see well\nenough that the nations of this age are turbulent, but I do not clearly\nperceive that they are liberal; and I fear lest, at the close of\nthose perturbations which rock the base of thrones, the domination of\nsovereigns may prove more powerful than it ever was before.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI: What Sort Of Despotism Democratic Nations Have To Fear\n\nI had remarked during my stay in the United States, that a democratic\nstate of society, similar to that of the Americans, might offer singular\nfacilities for the establishment of despotism; and I perceived, upon\nmy return to Europe, how much use had already been made by most of our\nrulers, of the notions, the sentiments, and the wants engendered by this\nsame social condition, for the purpose of extending the circle of\ntheir power. This led me to think that the nations of Christendom would\nperhaps eventually undergo some sort of oppression like that which\nhung over several of the nations of the ancient world. A more accurate\nexamination of the subject, and five years of further meditations, have\nnot diminished my apprehensions, but they have changed the object of\nthem. No sovereign ever lived in former ages so absolute or so powerful\nas to undertake to administer by his own agency, and without the\nassistance of intermediate powers, all the parts of a great empire: none\never attempted to subject all his subjects indiscriminately to strict\nuniformity of regulation, and personally to tutor and direct every\nmember of the community. The notion of such an undertaking never\noccurred to the human mind; and if any man had conceived it, the want\nof information, the imperfection of the administrative system, and above\nall, the natural obstacles caused by the inequality of conditions, would\nspeedily have checked the execution of so vast a design. When the Roman\nemperors were at the height of their power, the different nations of the\nempire still preserved manners and customs of great diversity; although\nthey were subject to the same monarch, most of the provinces were\nseparately administered; they abounded in powerful and active\nmunicipalities; and although the whole government of the empire was\ncentred in the hands of the emperor alone, and he always remained, upon\noccasions, the supreme arbiter in all matters, yet the details of social\nlife and private occupations lay for the most part beyond his control.\nThe emperors possessed, it is true, an immense and unchecked power,\nwhich allowed them to gratify all their whimsical tastes, and to employ\nfor that purpose the whole strength of the State. They frequently abused\nthat power arbitrarily to deprive their subjects of property or of life:\ntheir tyranny was extremely onerous to the few, but it did not reach the\ngreater number; it was fixed to some few main objects, and neglected the\nrest; it was violent, but its range was limited.\n\nBut it would seem that if despotism were to be established amongst the\ndemocratic nations of our days, it might assume a different character;\nit would be more extensive and more mild; it would degrade men without\ntormenting them. I do not question, that in an age of instruction\nand equality like our own, sovereigns might more easily succeed in\ncollecting all political power into their own hands, and might interfere\nmore habitually and decidedly within the circle of private interests,\nthan any sovereign of antiquity could ever do. But this same principle\nof equality which facilitates despotism, tempers its rigor. We have seen\nhow the manners of society become more humane and gentle in proportion\nas men become more equal and alike. When no member of the community has\nmuch power or much wealth, tyranny is, as it were, without opportunities\nand a field of action. As all fortunes are scanty, the passions of men\nare naturally circumscribed--their imagination limited, their pleasures\nsimple. This universal moderation moderates the sovereign himself, and\nchecks within certain limits the inordinate extent of his desires.\n\nIndependently of these reasons drawn from the nature of the state of\nsociety itself, I might add many others arising from causes beyond my\nsubject; but I shall keep within the limits I have laid down to myself.\nDemocratic governments may become violent and even cruel at certain\nperiods of extreme effervescence or of great danger: but these crises\nwill be rare and brief. When I consider the petty passions of our\ncontemporaries, the mildness of their manners, the extent of their\neducation, the purity of their religion, the gentleness of their\nmorality, their regular and industrious habits, and the restraint which\nthey almost all observe in their vices no less than in their virtues,\nI have no fear that they will meet with tyrants in their rulers, but\nrather guardians. *a I think then that the species of oppression by\nwhich democratic nations are menaced is unlike anything which ever\nbefore existed in the world: our contemporaries will find no prototype\nof it in their memories. I am trying myself to choose an expression\nwhich will accurately convey the whole of the idea I have formed of it,\nbut in vain; the old words \"despotism\" and \"tyranny\" are inappropriate:\nthe thing itself is new; and since I cannot name it, I must attempt to\ndefine it.\n\n[Footnote a: See Appendix Y.]\n\nI seek to trace the novel features under which despotism may appear\nin the world. The first thing that strikes the observation is\nan innumerable multitude of men all equal and alike, incessantly\nendeavoring to procure the petty and paltry pleasures with which they\nglut their lives. Each of them, living apart, is as a stranger to the\nfate of all the rest--his children and his private friends constitute to\nhim the whole of mankind; as for the rest of his fellow-citizens, he is\nclose to them, but he sees them not--he touches them, but he feels them\nnot; he exists but in himself and for himself alone; and if his kindred\nstill remain to him, he may be said at any rate to have lost his\ncountry. Above this race of men stands an immense and tutelary power,\nwhich takes upon itself alone to secure their gratifications, and\nto watch over their fate. That power is absolute, minute, regular,\nprovident, and mild. It would be like the authority of a parent, if,\nlike that authority, its object was to prepare men for manhood; but it\nseeks on the contrary to keep them in perpetual childhood: it is well\ncontent that the people should rejoice, provided they think of nothing\nbut rejoicing. For their happiness such a government willingly labors,\nbut it chooses to be the sole agent and the only arbiter of that\nhappiness: it provides for their security, foresees and supplies their\nnecessities, facilitates their pleasures, manages their principal\nconcerns, directs their industry, regulates the descent of property, and\nsubdivides their inheritances--what remains, but to spare them all\nthe care of thinking and all the trouble of living? Thus it every day\nrenders the exercise of the free agency of man less useful and less\nfrequent; it circumscribes the will within a narrower range, and\ngradually robs a man of all the uses of himself. The principle of\nequality has prepared men for these things: it has predisposed men to\nendure them, and oftentimes to look on them as benefits.\n\nAfter having thus successively taken each member of the community in\nits powerful grasp, and fashioned them at will, the supreme power then\nextends its arm over the whole community. It covers the surface of\nsociety with a net-work of small complicated rules, minute and uniform,\nthrough which the most original minds and the most energetic characters\ncannot penetrate, to rise above the crowd. The will of man is not\nshattered, but softened, bent, and guided: men are seldom forced by it\nto act, but they are constantly restrained from acting: such a power\ndoes not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, but\nit compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, till\neach nation is reduced to be nothing better than a flock of timid and\nindustrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd. I have\nalways thought that servitude of the regular, quiet, and gentle kind\nwhich I have just described, might be combined more easily than is\ncommonly believed with some of the outward forms of freedom; and that\nit might even establish itself under the wing of the sovereignty of the\npeople. Our contemporaries are constantly excited by two conflicting\npassions; they want to be led, and they wish to remain free: as they\ncannot destroy either one or the other of these contrary propensities,\nthey strive to satisfy them both at once. They devise a sole, tutelary,\nand all-powerful form of government, but elected by the people. They\ncombine the principle of centralization and that of popular sovereignty;\nthis gives them a respite; they console themselves for being in tutelage\nby the reflection that they have chosen their own guardians. Every man\nallows himself to be put in leading-strings, because he sees that it is\nnot a person or a class of persons, but the people at large that holds\nthe end of his chain. By this system the people shake off their state\nof dependence just long enough to select their master, and then relapse\ninto it again. A great many persons at the present day are quite\ncontented with this sort of compromise between administrative despotism\nand the sovereignty of the people; and they think they have done enough\nfor the protection of individual freedom when they have surrendered\nit to the power of the nation at large. This does not satisfy me:\nthe nature of him I am to obey signifies less to me than the fact of\nextorted obedience.\n\nI do not however deny that a constitution of this kind appears to me to\nbe infinitely preferable to one, which, after having concentrated\nall the powers of government, should vest them in the hands of an\nirresponsible person or body of persons. Of all the forms which\ndemocratic despotism could assume, the latter would assuredly be\nthe worst. When the sovereign is elective, or narrowly watched by a\nlegislature which is really elective and independent, the oppression\nwhich he exercises over individuals is sometimes greater, but it is\nalways less degrading; because every man, when he is oppressed and\ndisarmed, may still imagine, that whilst he yields obedience it is to\nhimself he yields it, and that it is to one of his own inclinations that\nall the rest give way. In like manner I can understand that when the\nsovereign represents the nation, and is dependent upon the people, the\nrights and the power of which every citizen is deprived, not only serve\nthe head of the State, but the State itself; and that private persons\nderive some return from the sacrifice of their independence which they\nhave made to the public. To create a representation of the people in\nevery centralized country, is therefore, to diminish the evil which\nextreme centralization may produce, but not to get rid of it. I admit\nthat by this means room is left for the intervention of individuals in\nthe more important affairs; but it is not the less suppressed in the\nsmaller and more private ones. It must not be forgotten that it is\nespecially dangerous to enslave men in the minor details of life. For my\nown part, I should be inclined to think freedom less necessary in great\nthings than in little ones, if it were possible to be secure of the one\nwithout possessing the other. Subjection in minor affairs breaks out\nevery day, and is felt by the whole community indiscriminately. It does\nnot drive men to resistance, but it crosses them at every turn, till\nthey are led to surrender the exercise of their will. Thus their\nspirit is gradually broken and their character enervated; whereas that\nobedience, which is exacted on a few important but rare occasions, only\nexhibits servitude at certain intervals, and throws the burden of it\nupon a small number of men. It is in vain to summon a people, which has\nbeen rendered so dependent on the central power, to choose from time to\ntime the representatives of that power; this rare and brief exercise of\ntheir free choice, however important it may be, will not prevent them\nfrom gradually losing the faculties of thinking, feeling, and acting for\nthemselves, and thus gradually falling below the level of humanity. *b\nI add that they will soon become incapable of exercising the great and\nonly privilege which remains to them. The democratic nations which have\nintroduced freedom into their political constitution, at the very\ntime when they were augmenting the despotism of their administrative\nconstitution, have been led into strange paradoxes. To manage those\nminor affairs in which good sense is all that is wanted--the people are\nheld to be unequal to the task, but when the government of the country\nis at stake, the people are invested with immense powers; they are\nalternately made the playthings of their ruler, and his masters--more\nthan kings, and less than men. After having exhausted all the different\nmodes of election, without finding one to suit their purpose, they are\nstill amazed, and still bent on seeking further; as if the evil they\nremark did not originate in the constitution of the country far more\nthan in that of the electoral body. It is, indeed, difficult to conceive\nhow men who have entirely given up the habit of self-government should\nsucceed in making a proper choice of those by whom they are to be\ngoverned; and no one will ever believe that a liberal, wise, and\nenergetic government can spring from the suffrages of a subservient\npeople. A constitution, which should be republican in its head and\nultra-monarchical in all its other parts, has ever appeared to me to\nbe a short-lived monster. The vices of rulers and the ineptitude of the\npeople would speedily bring about its ruin; and the nation, weary of its\nrepresentatives and of itself, would create freer institutions, or soon\nreturn to stretch itself at the feet of a single master.\n\n[Footnote b: See Appendix Z.]\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII: Continuation Of The Preceding Chapters\n\nI believe that it is easier to establish an absolute and despotic\ngovernment amongst a people in which the conditions of society are\nequal, than amongst any other; and I think that if such a government\nwere once established amongst such a people, it would not only oppress\nmen, but would eventually strip each of them of several of the highest\nqualities of humanity. Despotism therefore appears to me peculiarly to\nbe dreaded in democratic ages. I should have loved freedom, I believe,\nat all times, but in the time in which we live I am ready to worship\nit. On the other hand, I am persuaded that all who shall attempt, in\nthe ages upon which we are entering, to base freedom upon aristocratic\nprivilege, will fail--that all who shall attempt to draw and to retain\nauthority within a single class, will fail. At the present day no ruler\nis skilful or strong enough to found a despotism, by re-establishing\npermanent distinctions of rank amongst his subjects: no legislator is\nwise or powerful enough to preserve free institutions, if he does not\ntake equality for his first principle and his watchword. All those of\nour contemporaries who would establish or secure the independence and\nthe dignity of their fellow-men, must show themselves the friends of\nequality; and the only worthy means of showing themselves as such, is to\nbe so: upon this depends the success of their holy enterprise. Thus the\nquestion is not how to reconstruct aristocratic society, but how to make\nliberty proceed out of that democratic state of society in which God has\nplaced us.\n\nThese two truths appear to me simple, clear, and fertile in\nconsequences; and they naturally lead me to consider what kind of\nfree government can be established amongst a people in which social\nconditions are equal. It results from the very constitution of\ndemocratic nations and from their necessities, that the power of\ngovernment amongst them must be more uniform, more centralized, more\nextensive, more searching, and more efficient than in other countries.\nSociety at large is naturally stronger and more active, individuals more\nsubordinate and weak; the former does more, the latter less; and this is\ninevitably the case. It is not therefore to be expected that the range\nof private independence will ever be as extensive in democratic as\nin aristocratic countries--nor is this to be desired; for, amongst\naristocratic nations, the mass is often sacrificed to the individual,\nand the prosperity of the greater number to the greatness of the few.\nIt is both necessary and desirable that the government of a democratic\npeople should be active and powerful: and our object should not be to\nrender it weak or indolent, but solely to prevent it from abusing its\naptitude and its strength.\n\nThe circumstance which most contributed to secure the independence of\nprivate persons in aristocratic ages, was, that the supreme power did\nnot affect to take upon itself alone the government and administration\nof the community; those functions were necessarily partially left to\nthe members of the aristocracy: so that as the supreme power was always\ndivided, it never weighed with its whole weight and in the same manner\non each individual. Not only did the government not perform everything\nby its immediate agency; but as most of the agents who discharged its\nduties derived their power not from the State, but from the circumstance\nof their birth, they were not perpetually under its control. The\ngovernment could not make or unmake them in an instant, at pleasure,\nnor bend them in strict uniformity to its slightest caprice--this was\nan additional guarantee of private independence. I readily admit that\nrecourse cannot be had to the same means at the present time: but I\ndiscover certain democratic expedients which may be substituted for\nthem. Instead of vesting in the government alone all the administrative\npowers of which corporations and nobles have been deprived, a portion of\nthem may be entrusted to secondary public bodies, temporarily composed\nof private citizens: thus the liberty of private persons will be more\nsecure, and their equality will not be diminished.\n\nThe Americans, who care less for words than the French, still designate\nby the name of \"county\" the largest of their administrative districts:\nbut the duties of the count or lord-lieutenant are in part performed by\na provincial assembly. At a period of equality like our own it would be\nunjust and unreasonable to institute hereditary officers; but there is\nnothing to prevent us from substituting elective public officers to a\ncertain extent. Election is a democratic expedient which insures the\nindependence of the public officer in relation to the government,\nas much and even more than hereditary rank can insure it amongst\naristocratic nations. Aristocratic countries abound in wealthy and\ninfluential persons who are competent to provide for themselves, and\nwho cannot be easily or secretly oppressed: such persons restrain a\ngovernment within general habits of moderation and reserve. I am very\nwell aware that democratic countries contain no such persons naturally;\nbut something analogous to them may be created by artificial means. I\nfirmly believe that an aristocracy cannot again be founded in the world;\nbut I think that private citizens, by combining together, may constitute\nbodies of great wealth, influence, and strength, corresponding to the\npersons of an aristocracy. By this means many of the greatest political\nadvantages of aristocracy would be obtained without its injustice or\nits dangers. An association for political, commercial, or manufacturing\npurposes, or even for those of science and literature, is a powerful\nand enlightened member of the community, which cannot be disposed of at\npleasure, or oppressed without remonstrance; and which, by defending its\nown rights against the encroachments of the government, saves the common\nliberties of the country.\n\nIn periods of aristocracy every man is always bound so closely to many\nof his fellow-citizens, that he cannot be assailed without their coming\nto his assistance. In ages of equality every man naturally stands alone;\nhe has no hereditary friends whose co-operation he may demand--no class\nupon whose sympathy he may rely: he is easily got rid of, and he is\ntrampled on with impunity. At the present time, an oppressed member\nof the community has therefore only one method of self-defence--he\nmay appeal to the whole nation; and if the whole nation is deaf to his\ncomplaint, he may appeal to mankind: the only means he has of making\nthis appeal is by the press. Thus the liberty of the press is infinitely\nmore valuable amongst democratic nations than amongst all others; it is\nthe only cure for the evils which equality may produce. Equality sets\nmen apart and weakens them; but the press places a powerful weapon\nwithin every man's reach, which the weakest and loneliest of them all\nmay use. Equality deprives a man of the support of his connections; but\nthe press enables him to summon all his fellow-countrymen and all his\nfellow-men to his assistance. Printing has accelerated the progress of\nequality, and it is also one of its best correctives.\n\nI think that men living in aristocracies may, strictly speaking, do\nwithout the liberty of the press: but such is not the case with those\nwho live in democratic countries. To protect their personal independence\nI trust not to great political assemblies, to parliamentary privilege,\nor to the assertion of popular sovereignty. All these things may, to\na certain extent, be reconciled with personal servitude--but that\nservitude cannot be complete if the press is free: the press is the\nchiefest democratic instrument of freedom.\n\nSomething analogous may be said of the judicial power. It is a part of\nthe essence of judicial power to attend to private interests, and to fix\nitself with predilection on minute objects submitted to its observation;\nanother essential quality of judicial power is never to volunteer its\nassistance to the oppressed, but always to be at the disposal of the\nhumblest of those who solicit it; their complaint, however feeble they\nmay themselves be, will force itself upon the ear of justice and claim\nredress, for this is inherent in the very constitution of the courts\nof justice. A power of this kind is therefore peculiarly adapted to the\nwants of freedom, at a time when the eye and finger of the government\nare constantly intruding into the minutest details of human actions, and\nwhen private persons are at once too weak to protect themselves, and too\nmuch isolated for them to reckon upon the assistance of their fellows.\nThe strength of the courts of law has ever been the greatest security\nwhich can be offered to personal independence; but this is more\nespecially the case in democratic ages: private rights and interests are\nin constant danger, if the judicial power does not grow more extensive\nand more strong to keep pace with the growing equality of conditions.\n\nEquality awakens in men several propensities extremely dangerous to\nfreedom, to which the attention of the legislator ought constantly to be\ndirected. I shall only remind the reader of the most important amongst\nthem. Men living in democratic ages do not readily comprehend the\nutility of forms: they feel an instinctive contempt for them--I have\nelsewhere shown for what reasons. Forms excite their contempt and often\ntheir hatred; as they commonly aspire to none but easy and present\ngratifications, they rush onwards to the object of their desires, and\nthe slightest delay exasperates them. This same temper, carried\nwith them into political life, renders them hostile to forms, which\nperpetually retard or arrest them in some of their projects. Yet this\nobjection which the men of democracies make to forms is the very thing\nwhich renders forms so useful to freedom; for their chief merit is to\nserve as a barrier between the strong and the weak, the ruler and the\npeople, to retard the one, and give the other time to look about him.\nForms become more necessary in proportion as the government becomes\nmore active and more powerful, whilst private persons are becoming more\nindolent and more feeble. Thus democratic nations naturally stand more\nin need of forms than other nations, and they naturally respect them\nless. This deserves most serious attention. Nothing is more pitiful\nthan the arrogant disdain of most of our contemporaries for questions\nof form; for the smallest questions of form have acquired in our time an\nimportance which they never had before: many of the greatest interests\nof mankind depend upon them. I think that if the statesmen of\naristocratic ages could sometimes contemn forms with impunity, and\nfrequently rise above them, the statesmen to whom the government of\nnations is now confided ought to treat the very least among them\nwith respect, and not neglect them without imperious necessity. In\naristocracies the observance of forms was superstitious; amongst us they\nought to be kept with a deliberate and enlightened deference.\n\nAnother tendency, which is extremely natural to democratic nations and\nextremely dangerous, is that which leads them ta despise and undervalue\nthe rights of private persons. The attachment which men feel to a right,\nand the respect which they display for it, is generally proportioned to\nits importance, or to the length of time during which they have enjoyed\nit. The rights of private persons amongst democratic nations are\ncommonly of small importance, of recent growth, and extremely\nprecarious--the consequence is that they are often sacrificed without\nregret, and almost always violated without remorse. But it happens that\nat the same period and amongst the same nations in which men conceive\na natural contempt for the rights of private persons, the rights of\nsociety at large are naturally extended and consolidated: in other\nwords, men become less attached to private rights at the very time at\nwhich it would be most necessary to retain and to defend what little\nremains of them. It is therefore most especially in the present\ndemocratic ages, that the true friends of the liberty and the greatness\nof man ought constantly to be on the alert to prevent the power of\ngovernment from lightly sacrificing the private rights of individuals\nto the general execution of its designs. At such times no citizen is so\nobscure that it is not very dangerous to allow him to be oppressed--no\nprivate rights are so unimportant that they can be surrendered with\nimpunity to the caprices of a government. The reason is plain:--if the\nprivate right of an individual is violated at a time when the human mind\nis fully impressed with the importance and the sanctity of such rights,\nthe injury done is confined to the individual whose right is infringed;\nbut to violate such a right, at the present day, is deeply to corrupt\nthe manners of the nation and to put the whole community in jeopardy,\nbecause the very notion of this kind of right constantly tends amongst\nus to be impaired and lost.\n\nThere are certain habits, certain notions, and certain vices which are\npeculiar to a state of revolution, and which a protracted revolution\ncannot fail to engender and to propagate, whatever be, in other\nrespects, its character, its purpose, and the scene on which it takes\nplace. When any nation has, within a short space of time, repeatedly\nvaried its rulers, its opinions, and its laws, the men of whom it is\ncomposed eventually contract a taste for change, and grow accustomed\nto see all changes effected by sudden violence. Thus they naturally\nconceive a contempt for forms which daily prove ineffectual; and they do\nnot support without impatience the dominion of rules which they have so\noften seen infringed. As the ordinary notions of equity and morality no\nlonger suffice to explain and justify all the innovations daily begotten\nby a revolution, the principle of public utility is called in, the\ndoctrine of political necessity is conjured up, and men accustom\nthemselves to sacrifice private interests without scruple, and\nto trample on the rights of individuals in order more speedily to\naccomplish any public purpose.\n\nThese habits and notions, which I shall call revolutionary, because all\nrevolutions produce them, occur in aristocracies just as much as amongst\ndemocratic nations; but amongst the former they are often less powerful\nand always less lasting, because there they meet with habits, notions,\ndefects, and impediments, which counteract them: they consequently\ndisappear as soon as the revolution is terminated, and the nation\nreverts to its former political courses. This is not always the case\nin democratic countries, in which it is ever to be feared that\nrevolutionary tendencies, becoming more gentle and more regular, without\nentirely disappearing from society, will be gradually transformed into\nhabits of subjection to the administrative authority of the government.\nI know of no countries in which revolutions re more dangerous than\nin democratic countries; because, independently of the accidental and\ntransient evils which must always attend them, they may always create\nsome evils which are permanent and unending. I believe that there are\nsuch things as justifiable resistance and legitimate rebellion: I do not\ntherefore assert, as an absolute proposition, that the men of democratic\nages ought never to make revolutions; but I think that they have\nespecial reason to hesitate before they embark in them, and that it is\nfar better to endure many grievances in their present condition than to\nhave recourse to so perilous a remedy.\n\nI shall conclude by one general idea, which comprises not only all the\nparticular ideas which have been expressed in the present chapter, but\nalso most of those which it is the object of this book to treat of.\nIn the ages of aristocracy which preceded our own, there were private\npersons of great power, and a social authority of extreme weakness. The\noutline of society itself was not easily discernible, and constantly\nconfounded with the different powers by which the community was ruled.\nThe principal efforts of the men of those times were required to\nstrengthen, aggrandize, and secure the supreme power; and on the other\nhand, to circumscribe individual independence within narrower limits,\nand to subject private interests to the interests of the public. Other\nperils and other cares await the men of our age. Amongst the greater\npart of modern nations, the government, whatever may be its origin, its\nconstitution, or its name, has become almost omnipotent, and private\npersons are falling, more and more, into the lowest stage of weakness\nand dependence. In olden society everything was different; unity and\nuniformity were nowhere to be met with. In modern society everything\nthreatens to become so much alike, that the peculiar characteristics of\neach individual will soon be entirely lost in the general aspect of the\nworld. Our forefathers were ever prone to make an improper use of the\nnotion, that private rights ought to be respected; and we are naturally\nprone on the other hand to exaggerate the idea that the interest of a\nprivate individual ought always to bend to the interest of the many. The\npolitical world is metamorphosed: new remedies must henceforth be sought\nfor new disorders. To lay down extensive, but distinct and settled\nlimits, to the action of the government; to confer certain rights on\nprivate persons, and to secure to them the undisputed enjoyment of those\nrights; to enable individual man to maintain whatever independence,\nstrength, and original power he still possesses; to raise him by the\nside of society at large, and uphold him in that position--these appear\nto me the main objects of legislators in the ages upon which we are now\nentering. It would seem as if the rulers of our time sought only to use\nmen in order to make things great; I wish that they would try a little\nmore to make great men; that they would set less value on the work, and\nmore upon the workman; that they would never forget that a nation cannot\nlong remain strong when every man belonging to it is individually weak,\nand that no form or combination of social polity has yet been devised,\nto make an energetic people out of a community of pusillanimous and\nenfeebled citizens.\n\nI trace amongst our contemporaries two contrary notions which are\nequally injurious. One set of men can perceive nothing in the principle\nof equality but the anarchical tendencies which it engenders: they\ndread their own free agency--they fear themselves. Other thinkers, less\nnumerous but more enlightened, take a different view: besides that track\nwhich starts from the principle of equality to terminate in anarchy,\nthey have at last discovered the road which seems to lead men to\ninevitable servitude. They shape their souls beforehand to this\nnecessary condition; and, despairing of remaining free, they already\ndo obeisance in their hearts to the master who is soon to appear. The\nformer abandon freedom, because they think it dangerous; the latter,\nbecause they hold it to be impossible. If I had entertained the latter\nconviction, I should not have written this book, but I should have\nconfined myself to deploring in secret the destiny of mankind. I have\nsought to point out the dangers to which the principle of equality\nexposes the independence of man, because I firmly believe that these\ndangers are the most formidable, as well as the least foreseen, of all\nthose which futurity holds in store: but I do not think that they are\ninsurmountable. The men who live in the democratic ages upon which we\nare entering have naturally a taste for independence: they are naturally\nimpatient of regulation, and they are wearied by the permanence even of\nthe condition they themselves prefer. They are fond of power; but they\nare prone to despise and hate those who wield it, and they easily elude\nits grasp by their own mobility and insignificance. These propensities\nwill always manifest themselves, because they originate in the\ngroundwork of society, which will undergo no change: for a long time\nthey will prevent the establishment of any despotism, and they will\nfurnish fresh weapons to each succeeding generation which shall struggle\nin favor of the liberty of mankind. Let us then look forward to the\nfuture with that salutary fear which makes men keep watch and ward\nfor freedom, not with that faint and idle terror which depresses and\nenervates the heart.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII: General Survey Of The Subject\n\nBefore I close forever the theme that has detained me so long, I would\nfain take a parting survey of all the various characteristics of modern\nsociety, and appreciate at last the general influence to be exercised by\nthe principle of equality upon the fate of mankind; but I am stopped\nby the difficulty of the task, and in presence of so great an object my\nsight is troubled, and my reason fails. The society of the modern world\nwhich I have sought to delineate, and which I seek to judge, has but\njust come into existence. Time has not yet shaped it into perfect form:\nthe great revolution by which it has been created is not yet over: and\namidst the occurrences of our time, it is almost impossible to discern\nwhat will pass away with the revolution itself, and what will survive\nits close. The world which is rising into existence is still half\nencumbered by the remains of the world which is waning into decay; and\namidst the vast perplexity of human affairs, none can say how much of\nancient institutions and former manners will remain, or how much will\ncompletely disappear. Although the revolution which is taking place in\nthe social condition, the laws, the opinions, and the feelings of men,\nis still very far from being terminated, yet its results already admit\nof no comparison with anything that the world has ever before witnessed.\nI go back from age to age up to the remotest antiquity; but I find no\nparallel to what is occurring before my eyes: as the past has ceased to\nthrow its light upon the future, the mind of man wanders in obscurity.\nNevertheless, in the midst of a prospect so wide, so novel and so\nconfused, some of the more prominent characteristics may already be\ndiscerned and pointed out. The good things and the evils of life are\nmore equally distributed in the world: great wealth tends to disappear,\nthe number of small fortunes to increase; desires and gratifications\nare multiplied, but extraordinary prosperity and irremediable penury are\nalike unknown. The sentiment of ambition is universal, but the scope\nof ambition is seldom vast. Each individual stands apart in solitary\nweakness; but society at large is active, provident, and powerful: the\nperformances of private persons are insignificant, those of the State\nimmense. There is little energy of character; but manners are mild, and\nlaws humane. If there be few instances of exalted heroism or of virtues\nof the highest, brightest, and purest temper, men's habits are regular,\nviolence is rare, and cruelty almost unknown. Human existence becomes\nlonger, and property more secure: life is not adorned with brilliant\ntrophies, but it is extremely easy and tranquil. Few pleasures are\neither very refined or very coarse; and highly polished manners are as\nuncommon as great brutality of tastes. Neither men of great learning,\nnor extremely ignorant communities, are to be met with; genius becomes\nmore rare, information more diffused. The human mind is impelled by the\nsmall efforts of all mankind combined together, not by the strenuous\nactivity of certain men. There is less perfection, but more abundance,\nin all the productions of the arts. The ties of race, of rank, and of\ncountry are relaxed; the great bond of humanity is strengthened. If\nI endeavor to find out the most general and the most prominent of all\nthese different characteristics, I shall have occasion to perceive, that\nwhat is taking place in men's fortunes manifests itself under a thousand\nother forms. Almost all extremes are softened or blunted: all that was\nmost prominent is superseded by some mean term, at once less lofty and\nless low, less brilliant and less obscure, than what before existed in\nthe world.\n\nWhen I survey this countless multitude of beings, shaped in each other's\nlikeness, amidst whom nothing rises and nothing falls, the sight of such\nuniversal uniformity saddens and chills me, and I am tempted to regret\nthat state of society which has ceased to be. When the world was full of\nmen of great importance and extreme insignificance, of great wealth and\nextreme poverty, of great learning and extreme ignorance, I turned aside\nfrom the latter to fix my observation on the former alone, who gratified\nmy sympathies. But I admit that this gratification arose from my own\nweakness: it is because I am unable to see at once all that is around\nme, that I am allowed thus to select and separate the objects of my\npredilection from among so many others. Such is not the case with that\nalmighty and eternal Being whose gaze necessarily includes the whole of\ncreated things, and who surveys distinctly, though at once, mankind and\nman. We may naturally believe that it is not the singular prosperity of\nthe few, but the greater well-being of all, which is most pleasing in\nthe sight of the Creator and Preserver of men. What appears to me to be\nman's decline, is to His eye advancement; what afflicts me is acceptable\nto Him. A state of equality is perhaps less elevated, but it is more\njust; and its justice constitutes its greatness and its beauty. I would\nstrive then to raise myself to this point of the divine contemplation,\nand thence to view and to judge the concerns of men.\n\nNo man, upon the earth, can as yet affirm absolutely and generally,\nthat the new state of the world is better than its former one; but it\nis already easy to perceive that this state is different. Some vices\nand some virtues were so inherent in the constitution of an aristocratic\nnation, and are so opposite to the character of a modern people, that\nthey can never be infused into it; some good tendencies and some bad\npropensities which were unknown to the former, are natural to the\nlatter; some ideas suggest themselves spontaneously to the imagination\nof the one, which are utterly repugnant to the mind of the other. They\nare like two distinct orders of human beings, each of which has its\nown merits and defects, its own advantages and its own evils. Care\nmust therefore be taken not to judge the state of society, which is now\ncoming into existence, by notions derived from a state of society\nwhich no longer exists; for as these states of society are exceedingly\ndifferent in their structure, they cannot be submitted to a just or fair\ncomparison. It would be scarcely more reasonable to require of our\nown contemporaries the peculiar virtues which originated in the social\ncondition of their forefathers, since that social condition is itself\nfallen, and has drawn into one promiscuous ruin the good and evil which\nbelonged to it.\n\nBut as yet these things are imperfectly understood. I find that a great\nnumber of my contemporaries undertake to make a certain selection from\namongst the institutions, the opinions, and the ideas which originated\nin the aristocratic constitution of society as it was: a portion of\nthese elements they would willingly relinquish, but they would keep the\nremainder and transplant them into their new world. I apprehend that\nsuch men are wasting their time and their strength in virtuous\nbut unprofitable efforts. The object is not to retain the peculiar\nadvantages which the inequality of conditions bestows upon mankind, but\nto secure the new benefits which equality may supply. We have not to\nseek to make ourselves like our progenitors, but to strive to work out\nthat species of greatness and happiness which is our own. For myself,\nwho now look back from this extreme limit of my task, and discover from\nafar, but at once, the various objects which have attracted my more\nattentive investigation upon my way, I am full of apprehensions and\nof hopes. I perceive mighty dangers which it is possible to ward\noff--mighty evils which may be avoided or alleviated; and I cling with\na firmer hold to the belief, that for democratic nations to be virtuous\nand prosperous they require but to will it. I am aware that many of my\ncontemporaries maintain that nations are never their own masters\nhere below, and that they necessarily obey some insurmountable and\nunintelligent power, arising from anterior events, from their race, or\nfrom the soil and climate of their country. Such principles are false\nand cowardly; such principles can never produce aught but feeble men\nand pusillanimous nations. Providence has not created mankind entirely\nindependent or entirely free. It is true that around every man a fatal\ncircle is traced, beyond which he cannot pass; but within the wide\nverge of that circle he is powerful and free: as it is with man, so with\ncommunities. The nations of our time cannot prevent the conditions of\nmen from becoming equal; but it depends upon themselves whether the\nprinciple of equality is to lead them to servitude or freedom, to\nknowledge or barbarism, to prosperity or to wretchedness.\n\n\n\n\nPart I.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix A\n\nFor information concerning all the countries of the West which have\nnot been visited by Europeans, consult the account of two expeditions\nundertaken at the expense of Congress by Major Long. This traveller\nparticularly mentions, on the subject of the great American desert, that\na line may be drawn nearly parallel to the 20th degree of longitude *a\n(meridian of Washington), beginning from the Red River and ending at\nthe River Platte. From this imaginary line to the Rocky Mountains, which\nbound the valley of the Mississippi on the west, lie immense plains,\nwhich are almost entirely covered with sand, incapable of cultivation,\nor scattered over with masses of granite. In summer, these plains are\nquite destitute of water, and nothing is to be seen on them but herds of\nbuffaloes and wild horses. Some hordes of Indians are also found\nthere, but in no great numbers. Major Long was told that in travelling\nnorthwards from the River Platte you find the same desert lying\nconstantly on the left; but he was unable to ascertain the truth of this\nreport. However worthy of confidence may be the narrative of Major Long,\nit must be remembered that he only passed through the country of which\nhe speaks, without deviating widely from the line which he had traced\nout for his journey.\n\n[Footnote a: The 20th degree of longitude, according to the meridian of\nWashington, agrees very nearly with the 97th degree on the meridian of\nGreenwich.]\n\n\n\n\nAppendix B\n\nSouth America, in the region between the tropics, produces an incredible\nprofusion of climbing plants, of which the flora of the Antilles alone\npresents us with forty different species. Among the most graceful of\nthese shrubs is the passion-flower, which, according to Descourtiz,\ngrows with such luxuriance in the Antilles, as to climb trees by means\nof the tendrils with which it is provided, and form moving bowers of\nrich and elegant festoons, decorated with blue and purple flowers, and\nfragrant with perfume. The Mimosa scandens (Acacia a grandes gousses) is\na creeper of enormous and rapid growth, which climbs from tree to tree,\nand sometimes covers more than half a league.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix C\n\nThe languages which are spoken by the Indians of America, from the Pole\nto Cape Horn, are said to be all formed upon the same model, and subject\nto the same grammatical rules; whence it may fairly be concluded that\nall the Indian nations sprang from the same stock. Each tribe of\nthe American continent speaks a different dialect; but the number of\nlanguages, properly so called, is very small, a fact which tends to\nprove that the nations of the New World had not a very remote origin.\nMoreover, the languages of America have a great degree of regularity,\nfrom which it seems probable that the tribes which employ them had not\nundergone any great revolutions, or been incorporated voluntarily or\nby constraint, with foreign nations. For it is generally the union of\nseveral languages into one which produces grammatical irregularities. It\nis not long since the American languages, especially those of the\nNorth, first attracted the serious attention of philologists, when the\ndiscovery was made that this idiom of a barbarous people was the product\nof a complicated system of ideas and very learned combinations. These\nlanguages were found to be very rich, and great pains had been taken\nat their formation to render them agreeable to the ear. The grammatical\nsystem of the Americans differs from all others in several points, but\nespecially in the following:--Some nations of Europe, amongst\nothers the Germans, have the power of combining at pleasure different\nexpressions, and thus giving a complex sense to certain words. The\nIndians have given a most surprising extension to this power, so as to\narrive at the means of connecting a great number of ideas with a single\nterm. This will be easily understood with the help of an example quoted\nby Mr. Duponceau, in the \"Memoirs of the Philosophical Society of\nAmerica\": A Delaware woman playing with a cat or a young dog, says\nthis writer, is heard to pronounce the word kuligatschis, which is thus\ncomposed: k is the sign of the second person, and signifies \"thou\" or\n\"thy\"; uli is a part of the word wulit, which signifies \"beautiful,\"\n\"pretty\"; gat is another fragment, of the word wichgat, which means\n\"paw\"; and, lastly, schis is a diminutive giving the idea of smallness.\nThus in one word the Indian woman has expressed \"Thy pretty little paw.\"\nTake another example of the felicity with which the savages of America\nhave composed their words. A young man of Delaware is called pilape.\nThis word is formed from pilsit, \"chaste,\" \"innocent\"; and lenape,\n\"man\"; viz., \"man in his purity and innocence.\" This facility of\ncombining words is most remarkable in the strange formation of their\nverbs. The most complex action is often expressed by a single verb,\nwhich serves to convey all the shades of an idea by the modification\nof its construction. Those who may wish to examine more in detail this\nsubject, which I have only glanced at superficially, should read:--\n\n1. The correspondence of Mr. Duponceau and the Rev. Mr. Hecwelder\nrelative to the Indian languages, which is to be found in the first\nvolume of the \"Memoirs of the Philosophical Society of America,\"\npublished at Philadelphia, 1819, by Abraham Small; vol. i. p. 356-464.\n\n2. The \"Grammar of the Delaware or the Lenape Language,\" by Geiberger,\nand the preface of Mr. Duponceau. All these are in the same collection,\nvol. iii.\n\n3. An excellent account of these works, which is at the end of the sixth\nvolume of the American Encyclopaedia.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix D\n\nSee in Charlevoix, vol. i. p. 235, the history of the first war which\nthe French inhabitants of Canada carried on, in 1610, against the\nIroquois. The latter, armed with bows and arrows, offered a desperate\nresistance to the French and their allies. Charlevoix is not a great\npainter, yet he exhibits clearly enough, in this narrative, the contrast\nbetween the European manners and those of savages, as well as the\ndifferent way in which the two races of men understood the sense of\nhonor. When the French, says he, seized upon the beaver-skins which\ncovered the Indians who had fallen, the Hurons, their allies, were\ngreatly offended at this proceeding; but without hesitation they set\nto work in their usual manner, inflicting horrid cruelties upon the\nprisoners, and devouring one of those who had been killed, which\nmade the Frenchmen shudder. The barbarians prided themselves upon a\nscrupulousness which they were surprised at not finding in our nation,\nand could not understand that there was less to reprehend in the\nstripping of dead bodies than in the devouring of their flesh like wild\nbeasts. Charlevoix, in another place (vol. i. p. 230), thus describes\nthe first torture of which Champlain was an eyewitness, and the return\nof the Hurons into their own village. Having proceeded about eight\nleagues, says he, our allies halted; and having singled out one of\ntheir captives, they reproached him with all the cruelties which he\nhad practised upon the warriors of their nation who had fallen into his\nhands, and told him that he might expect to be treated in like manner;\nadding, that if he had any spirit he would prove it by singing. He\nimmediately chanted forth his death-song, and then his war-song, and all\nthe songs he knew, \"but in a very mournful strain,\" says Champlain, who\nwas not then aware that all savage music has a melancholy character. The\ntortures which succeeded, accompanied by all the horrors which we shall\nmention hereafter, terrified the French, who made every effort to put a\nstop to them, but in vain. The following night, one of the Hurons having\ndreamt that they were pursued, the retreat was changed to a real flight,\nand the savages never stopped until they were out of the reach of\ndanger. The moment they perceived the cabins of their own village, they\ncut themselves long sticks, to which they fastened the scalps which had\nfallen to their share, and carried them in triumph. At this sight, the\nwomen swam to the canoes, where they received the bloody scalps from the\nhands of their husbands, and tied them round their necks. The warriors\noffered one of these horrible trophies to Champlain; they also presented\nhim with some bows and arrows--the only spoils of the Iroquois which\nthey had ventured to seize--entreating him to show them to the King\nof France. Champlain lived a whole winter quite alone among these\nbarbarians, without being under any alarm for his person or property.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix E\n\nAlthough the Puritanical strictness which presided over the\nestablishment of the English colonies in America is now much relaxed,\nremarkable traces of it are still found in their habits and their laws.\nIn 1792, at the very time when the anti-Christian republic of France\nbegan its ephemeral existence, the legislative body of Massachusetts\npromulgated the following law, to compel the citizens to observe the\nSabbath. We give the preamble and the principal articles of this\nlaw, which is worthy of the reader's attention: \"Whereas,\" says the\nlegislator, \"the observation of the Sunday is an affair of public\ninterest; inasmuch as it produces a necessary suspension of labor, leads\nmen to reflect upon the duties of life, and the errors to which human\nnature is liable, and provides for the public and private worship of\nGod, the creator and governor of the universe, and for the performance\nof such acts of charity as are the ornament and comfort of Christian\nsocieties:--Whereas irreligious or light-minded persons, forgetting the\nduties which the Sabbath imposes, and the benefits which these duties\nconfer on society, are known to profane its sanctity, by following their\npleasures or their affairs; this way of acting being contrary to their\nown interest as Christians, and calculated to annoy those who do not\nfollow their example; being also of great injury to society at large, by\nspreading a taste for dissipation and dissolute manners; Be it enacted\nand ordained by the Governor, Council, and Representatives convened in\nGeneral Court of Assembly, that all and every person and persons shall\non that day carefully apply themselves to the duties of religion\nand piety, that no tradesman or labourer shall exercise his ordinary\ncalling, and that no game or recreation shall be used on the Lord's Day,\nupon pain of forfeiting ten shillings.\n\n\"That no one shall travel on that day, or any part thereof, under pain\nof forfeiting twenty shillings; that no vessel shall leave a harbour of\nthe colony; that no persons shall keep outside the meeting-house during\nthe time of public worship, or profane the time by playing or talking,\non penalty of five shillings.\n\n\"Public-houses shall not entertain any other than strangers or lodgers,\nunder penalty of five shillings for every person found drinking and\nabiding therein.\n\n\"Any person in health, who, without sufficient reason, shall omit to\nworship God in public during three months, shall be condemned to a fine\nof ten shillings.\n\n\"Any person guilty of misbehaviour in a place of public worship, shall\nbe fined from five to forty shillings.\n\n\"These laws are to be enforced by the tything-men of each township, who\nhave authority to visit public-houses on the Sunday. The innkeeper who\nshall refuse them admittance, shall be fined forty shillings for such\noffence.\n\n\"The tything-men are to stop travellers, and require of them their\nreason for being on the road on Sunday; anyone refusing to answer, shall\nbe sentenced to pay a fine not exceeding five pounds sterling. If\nthe reason given by the traveller be not deemed by the tything-man\nsufficient, he may bring the traveller before the justice of the peace\nof the district.\" (Law of March 8, 1792; General Laws of Massachusetts,\nvol. i. p. 410.)\n\nOn March 11, 1797, a new law increased the amount of fines, half of\nwhich was to be given to the informer. (Same collection, vol. ii. p.\n525.) On February 16, 1816, a new law confirmed these same measures.\n(Same collection, vol. ii. p. 405.) Similar enactments exist in the\nlaws of the State of New York, revised in 1827 and 1828. (See Revised\nStatutes, Part I. chapter 20, p. 675.) In these it is declared that no\none is allowed on the Sabbath to sport, to fish, to play at games, or to\nfrequent houses where liquor is sold. No one can travel, except in\ncase of necessity. And this is not the only trace which the religious\nstrictness and austere manners of the first emigrants have left behind\nthem in the American laws. In the Revised Statutes of the State of New\nYork, vol. i. p. 662, is the following clause:--\n\n\"Whoever shall win or lose in the space of twenty-four hours, by gaming\nor betting, the sum of twenty-five dollars, shall be found guilty of a\nmisdemeanour, and upon conviction shall be condemned to pay a fine equal\nto at least five times the value of the sum lost or won; which shall\nbe paid to the inspector of the poor of the township. He that loses\ntwenty-five dollars or more may bring an action to recover them; and if\nhe neglects to do so the inspector of the poor may prosecute the winner,\nand oblige him to pay into the poor's box both the sum he has gained and\nthree times as much besides.\"\n\nThe laws we quote from are of recent date; but they are unintelligible\nwithout going back to the very origin of the colonies. I have no doubt\nthat in our days the penal part of these laws is very rarely applied.\nLaws preserve their inflexibility, long after the manners of a nation\nhave yielded to the influence of time. It is still true, however, that\nnothing strikes a foreigner on his arrival in America more forcibly\nthan the regard paid to the Sabbath. There is one, in particular, of\nthe large American cities, in which all social movements begin to be\nsuspended even on Saturday evening. You traverse its streets at the hour\nat which you expect men in the middle of life to be engaged in business,\nand young people in pleasure; and you meet with solitude and silence.\nNot only have all ceased to work, but they appear to have ceased to\nexist. Neither the movements of industry are heard, nor the accents of\njoy, nor even the confused murmur which arises from the midst of a great\ncity. Chains are hung across the streets in the neighborhood of the\nchurches; the half-closed shutters of the houses scarcely admit a ray\nof sun into the dwellings of the citizens. Now and then you perceive a\nsolitary individual who glides silently along the deserted streets and\nlanes. Next day, at early dawn, the rolling of carriages, the noise of\nhammers, the cries of the population, begin to make themselves heard\nagain. The city is awake. An eager crowd hastens towards the resort of\ncommerce and industry; everything around you bespeaks motion, bustle,\nhurry. A feverish activity succeeds to the lethargic stupor of\nyesterday; you might almost suppose that they had but one day to acquire\nwealth and to enjoy it.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix F\n\nIt is unnecessary for me to say, that in the chapter which has just been\nread, I have not had the intention of giving a history of America. My\nonly object was to enable the reader to appreciate the influence which\nthe opinions and manners of the first emigrants had exercised upon the\nfate of the different colonies, and of the Union in general. I have\ntherefore confined myself to the quotation of a few detached fragments.\nI do not know whether I am deceived, but it appears to me that, by\npursuing the path which I have merely pointed out, it would be easy to\npresent such pictures of the American republics as would not be unworthy\nthe attention of the public, and could not fail to suggest to the\nstatesman matter for reflection. Not being able to devote myself to this\nlabor, I am anxious to render it easy to others; and, for this purpose,\nI subjoin a short catalogue and analysis of the works which seem to me\nthe most important to consult.\n\nAt the head of the general documents which it would be advantageous to\nexamine I place the work entitled \"An Historical Collection of State\nPapers, and other authentic Documents, intended as Materials for a\nHistory of the United States of America,\" by Ebenezer Hasard. The first\nvolume of this compilation, which was printed at Philadelphia in 1792,\ncontains a literal copy of all the charters granted by the Crown of\nEngland to the emigrants, as well as the principal acts of the colonial\ngovernments, during the commencement of their existence. Amongst other\nauthentic documents, we here find a great many relating to the affairs\nof New England and Virginia during this period. The second volume is\nalmost entirely devoted to the acts of the Confederation of 1643. This\nfederal compact, which was entered into by the colonies of New England\nwith the view of resisting the Indians, was the first instance of\nunion afforded by the Anglo-Americans. There were besides many other\nconfederations of the same nature, before the famous one of 1776, which\nbrought about the independence of the colonies.\n\nEach colony has, besides, its own historic monuments, some of which are\nextremely curious; beginning with Virginia, the State which was first\npeopled. The earliest historian of Virginia was its founder, Captain\nJohn Smith. Captain Smith has left us an octavo volume, entitled \"The\ngenerall Historie of Virginia and New England, by Captain John Smith,\nsometymes Governor in those Countryes, and Admirall of New England\";\nprinted at London in 1627. The work is adorned with curious maps and\nengravings of the time when it appeared; the narrative extends from the\nyear 1584 to 1626. Smith's work is highly and deservedly esteemed.\nThe author was one of the most celebrated adventurers of a period of\nremarkable adventure; his book breathes that ardor for discovery, that\nspirit of enterprise, which characterized the men of his time, when\nthe manners of chivalry were united to zeal for commerce, and made\nsubservient to the acquisition of wealth. But Captain Smith is\nmost remarkable for uniting to the virtues which characterized his\ncontemporaries several qualities to which they were generally strangers;\nhis style is simple and concise, his narratives bear the stamp of truth,\nand his descriptions are free from false ornament. This author throws\nmost valuable light upon the state and condition of the Indians at the\ntime when North America was first discovered.\n\nThe second historian to consult is Beverley, who commences his narrative\nwith the year 1585, and ends it with 1700. The first part of his book\ncontains historical documents, properly so called, relative to the\ninfancy of the colony. The second affords a most curious picture of the\nstate of the Indians at this remote period. The third conveys very clear\nideas concerning the manners, social conditions, laws, and political\ncustoms of the Virginians in the author's lifetime. Beverley was a\nnative of Virginia, which occasions him to say at the beginning of\nhis book, that he entreats his readers not to exercise their critical\nseverity upon it, since, having been born in the Indies, he does not\naspire to purity of language. Notwithstanding this colonial modesty, the\nauthor shows throughout his book the impatience with which he endures\nthe supremacy of the mother-country. In this work of Beverley are also\nfound numerous traces of that spirit of civil liberty which animated the\nEnglish colonies of America at the time when he wrote. He also shows the\ndissensions which existed among them, and retarded their independence.\nBeverley detests his Catholic neighbors of Maryland even more than\nhe hates the English government: his style is simple, his narrative\ninteresting, and apparently trustworthy.\n\nI saw in America another work which ought to be consulted, entitled \"The\nHistory of Virginia,\" by William Stith. This book affords some curious\ndetails, but I thought it long and diffuse. The most ancient as well as\nthe best document to be consulted on the history of Carolina, is a work\nin small quarto, entitled \"The History of Carolina,\" by John Lawson,\nprinted at London in 1718. This work contains, in the first part, a\njourney of discovery in the west of Carolina; the account of which,\ngiven in the form of a journal, is in general confused and superficial;\nbut it contains a very striking description of the mortality caused\namong the savages of that time both by the smallpox and the immoderate\nuse of brandy; with a curious picture of the corruption of manners\nprevalent amongst them, which was increased by the presence of\nEuropeans. The second part of Lawson's book is taken up with a\ndescription of the physical condition of Carolina, and its productions.\nIn the third part, the author gives an interesting account of the\nmanners, customs, and government of the Indians at that period. There is\na good deal of talent and originality in this part of the work.\nLawson concludes his history with a copy of the charter granted to the\nCarolinas in the reign of Charles II. The general tone of this work is\nlight, and often licentious, forming a perfect contrast to the solemn\nstyle of the works published at the same period in New England. Lawson's\nhistory is extremely scarce in America, and cannot be procured in\nEurope. There is, however, a copy of it in the Royal Library at Paris.\n\nFrom the southern extremity of the United States, I pass at once to the\nnorthern limit; as the intermediate space was not peopled till a later\nperiod. I must first point out a very curious compilation, entitled\n\"Collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society,\" printed for the\nfirst time at Boston in 1792, and reprinted in 1806. The collection of\nwhich I speak, and which is continued to the present day, contains a\ngreat number of very valuable documents relating to the history of the\ndifferent States in New England. Among them are letters which have never\nbeen published, and authentic pieces which had been buried in provincial\narchives. The whole work of Gookin, concerning the Indians, is inserted\nthere.\n\nI have mentioned several times in the chapter to which this note\nrelates, the work of Nathaniel Norton entitled \"New England's Memorial\";\nsufficiently, perhaps, to prove that it deserves the attention of those\nwho would be conversant with the history of New England. This book is in\noctavo, and was reprinted at Boston in 1826.\n\nThe most valuable and important authority which exists upon the\nhistory of New England, is the work of the Rev. Cotton Mather, entitled\n\"Magnalia Christi Americana, or the Ecclesiastical History of New\nEngland, 1620-1698, 2 vols. 8vo, reprinted at Hartford, United States,\nin 1820.\" *b The author divided his work into seven books. The first\npresents the history of the events which prepared and brought about the\nestablishment of New England. The second contains the lives of the first\ngovernors and chief magistrates who presided over the country. The third\nis devoted to the lives and labors of the evangelical ministers who,\nduring the same period, had the care of souls. In the fourth the author\nrelates the institution and progress of the University of Cambridge\n(Massachusetts). In the fifth he describes the principles and the\ndiscipline of the Church of New England. The sixth is taken up in\nretracing certain facts, which, in the opinion of Mather, prove the\nmerciful interposition of Providence in behalf of the inhabitants of\nNew England. Lastly, in the seventh, the author gives an account of\nthe heresies and the troubles to which the Church of New England was\nexposed. Cotton Mather was an evangelical minister who was born at\nBoston, and passed his life there. His narratives are distinguished by\nthe same ardor and religious zeal which led to the foundation of the\ncolonies of New England. Traces of bad taste sometimes occur in his\nmanner of writing; but he interests, because he is full of enthusiasm.\nHe is often intolerant, still oftener credulous, but he never betrays\nan intention to deceive. Sometimes his book contains fine passages, and\ntrue and profound reflections, such as the following:--\n\n\"Before the arrival of the Puritans,\" says he (vol. i. chap. iv.),\n\"there were more than a few attempts of the English to people and\nimprove the parts of New England which were to the northward of New\nPlymouth; but the designs of those attempts being aimed no higher\nthan the advancement of some worldly interests, a constant series of\ndisasters has confounded them, until there was a plantation erected upon\nthe nobler designs of Christianity: and that plantation though it\nhas had more adversaries than perhaps any one upon earth, yet, having\nobtained help from God, it continues to this day.\" Mather occasionally\nrelieves the austerity of his descriptions with images full of tender\nfeeling: after having spoken of an English lady whose religious ardor\nhad brought her to America with her husband, and who soon after sank\nunder the fatigues and privations of exile, he adds, \"As for her\nvirtuous husband, Isaac Johnson,\n\n     He tryed\n     To live without her, liked it not, and dyed.\"\n\n[Footnote b: A folio edition of this work was published in London in\n1702.]\n\nMather's work gives an admirable picture of the time and country which\nhe describes. In his account of the motives which led the Puritans to\nseek an asylum beyond seas, he says:--\"The God of Heaven served, as it\nwere, a summons upon the spirits of his people in the English nation,\nstirring up the spirits of thousands which never saw the faces of each\nother, with a most unanimous inclination to leave all the pleasant\naccommodations of their native country, and go over a terrible\nocean, into a more terrible desert, for the pure enjoyment of all his\nordinances. It is now reasonable that, before we pass any further,\nthe reasons of his undertaking should be more exactly made known\nunto posterity, especially unto the posterity of those that were the\nundertakers, lest they come at length to forget and neglect the true\ninterest of New England. Wherefore I shall now transcribe some of them\nfrom a manuscript, wherein they were then tendered unto consideration:\n\n\"General Considerations for the Plantation of New England\n\n\"First, It will be a service unto the Church of great consequence, to\ncarry the Gospel unto those parts of the world, and raise a bulwark\nagainst the kingdom of Antichrist, which the Jesuits labour to rear up\nin all parts of the world.\n\n\"Secondly, All other Churches of Europe have been brought under\ndesolations; and it may be feared that the like judgments are coming\nupon us; and who knows but God hath provided this place to be a refuge\nfor many whom he means to save out of the general destruction?\n\n\"Thirdly, The land grows weary of her inhabitants, insomuch that man,\nwhich is the most precious of all creatures, is here more vile and\nbase than the earth he treads upon; children, neighbours, and friends,\nespecially the poor, are counted the greatest burdens, which, if things\nwere right, would be the chiefest of earthly blessings.\n\n\"Fourthly, We are grown to that intemperance in all excess of riot, as\nno mean estate almost will suffice a man to keep sail with his equals,\nand he that fails in it must live in scorn and contempt: hence it comes\nto pass, that all arts and trades are carried in that deceitful manner\nand unrighteous course, as it is almost impossible for a good upright\nman to maintain his constant charge and live comfortably in them.\n\n\"Fifthly, The schools of learning and religion are so corrupted, as\n(besides the unsupportable charge of education) most children, even the\nbest, wittiest, and of the fairest hopes, are perverted, corrupted,\nand utterly overthrown by the multitude of evil examples and licentious\nbehaviours in these seminaries.\n\n\"Sixthly, The whole earth is the Lord's garden, and he hath given it to\nthe sons of Adam, to be tilled and improved by them: why, then, should\nwe stand starving here for places of habitation, and in the meantime\nsuffer whole countries, as profitable for the use of man, to lie waste\nwithout any improvement?\n\n\"Seventhly, What can be a better or nobler work, and more worthy of a\nChristian, than to erect and support a reformed particular Church in its\ninfancy, and unite our forces with such a company of faithful people, as\nby timely assistance may grow stronger and prosper; but for want of it,\nmay be put to great hazards, if not be wholly ruined?\n\n\"Eighthly, If any such as are known to be godly, and live in wealth\nand prosperity here, shall forsake all this to join with this reformed\nChurch, and with it run the hazard of an hard and mean condition, it\nwill be an example of great use, both for the removing of scandal and to\ngive more life unto the faith of God's people in their prayers for the\nplantation, and also to encourage others to join the more willingly in\nit.\"\n\nFurther on, when he declares the principles of the Church of New England\nwith respect to morals, Mather inveighs with violence against the\ncustom of drinking healths at table, which he denounces as a pagan and\nabominable practice. He proscribes with the same rigor all ornaments for\nthe hair used by the female sex, as well as their custom of having the\narms and neck uncovered. In another part of his work he relates several\ninstances of witchcraft which had alarmed New England. It is plain that\nthe visible action of the devil in the affairs of this world appeared to\nhim an incontestable and evident fact.\n\nThis work of Cotton Mather displays, in many places, the spirit of civil\nliberty and political independence which characterized the times in\nwhich he lived. Their principles respecting government are discoverable\nat every page. Thus, for instance, the inhabitants of Massachusetts, in\nthe year 1630, ten years after the foundation of Plymouth, are found to\nhave devoted Pound 400 sterling to the establishment of the University\nof Cambridge. In passing from the general documents relative to the\nhistory of New England to those which describe the several States\ncomprised within its limits, I ought first to notice \"The History of\nthe Colony of Massachusetts,\" by Hutchinson, Lieutenant-Governor of the\nMassachusetts Province, 2 vols. 8vo. The history of Hutchinson, which\nI have several times quoted in the chapter to which this note relates,\ncommences in the year 1628, and ends in 1750. Throughout the work there\nis a striking air of truth and the greatest simplicity of style: it\nis full of minute details. The best history to consult concerning\nConnecticut is that of Benjamin Trumbull, entitled \"A Complete History\nof Connecticut, Civil and Ecclesiastical,\" 1630-1764, 2 vols. 8vo,\nprinted in 1818 at New Haven. This history contains a clear and calm\naccount of all the events which happened in Connecticut during the\nperiod given in the title. The author drew from the best sources, and\nhis narrative bears the stamp of truth. All that he says of the\nearly days of Connecticut is extremely curious. See especially the\nConstitution of 1639, vol. i. ch. vi. p. 100; and also the Penal Laws of\nConnecticut, vol. i. ch. vii. p. 123.\n\n\"The History of New Hampshire,\" by Jeremy Belknap, is a work held in\nmerited estimation. It was printed at Boston in 1792, in 2 vols.\n8vo. The third chapter of the first volume is particularly worthy of\nattention for the valuable details it affords on the political and\nreligious principles of the Puritans, on the causes of their emigration,\nand on their laws. The following curious quotation is given from a\nsermon delivered in 1663:--\"It concerneth New England always to remember\nthat they are a plantation religious, not a plantation of trade. The\nprofession of the purity of doctrine, worship, and discipline, is\nwritten upon her forehead. Let merchants, and such as are increasing\ncent. per cent., remember this, that worldly gain was not the end and\ndesign of the people of New England, but religion. And if any man among\nus make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such an one hath\nnot the spirit of a true New Englishman.\" The reader of Belknap will\nfind in his work more general ideas, and more strength of thought, than\nare to be met with in the American historians even to the present day.\n\nAmong the Central States which deserve our attention for their remote\norigin, New York and Pennsylvania are the foremost. The best history\nwe have of the former is entitled \"A History of New York,\" by William\nSmith, printed at London in 1757. Smith gives us important details of\nthe wars between the French and English in America. His is the best\naccount of the famous confederation of the Iroquois.\n\nWith respect to Pennsylvania, I cannot do better than point out the\nwork of Proud, entitled \"The History of Pennsylvania, from the original\nInstitution and Settlement of that Province, under the first Proprietor\nand Governor, William Penn, in 1681, till after the year 1742,\" by\nRobert Proud, 2 vols. 8vo, printed at Philadelphia in 1797. This work is\ndeserving of the especial attention of the reader; it contains a mass of\ncurious documents concerning Penn, the doctrine of the Quakers, and\nthe character, manners, and customs of the first inhabitants of\nPennsylvania. I need not add that among the most important documents\nrelating to this State are the works of Penn himself, and those of\nFranklin.\n\n\n\n\nPart II.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix G\n\nWe read in Jefferson's \"Memoirs\" as follows:--\n\n\"At the time of the first settlement of the English in Virginia, when\nland was to be had for little or nothing, some provident persons having\nobtained large grants of it, and being desirous of maintaining\nthe splendor of their families, entailed their property upon their\ndescendants. The transmission of these estates from generation to\ngeneration, to men who bore the same name, had the effect of raising up\na distinct class of families, who, possessing by law the privilege of\nperpetuating their wealth, formed by these means a sort of patrician\norder, distinguished by the grandeur and luxury of their establishments.\nFrom this order it was that the King usually chose his councillors of\nstate.\" *c\n\n[Footnote c: This passage is extracted and translated from M. Conseil's\nwork upon the life of Jefferson, entitled \"Melanges Politiques et\nPhilosophiques de Jefferson.\"]\n\nIn the United States, the principal clauses of the English law\nrespecting descent have been universally rejected. The first rule that\nwe follow, says Mr. Kent, touching inheritance, is the following:--If a\nman dies intestate, his property goes to his heirs in a direct line.\nIf he has but one heir or heiress, he or she succeeds to the whole. If\nthere are several heirs of the same degree, they divide the inheritance\nequally amongst them, without distinction of sex. This rule was\nprescribed for the first time in the State of New York by a statute of\nFebruary 23, 1786. (See Revised Statutes, vol. iii. Appendix, p. 48.) It\nhas since then been adopted in the Revised Statutes of the same State.\nAt the present day this law holds good throughout the whole of the\nUnited States, with the exception of the State of Vermont, where the\nmale heir inherits a double portion. (Kent's \"Commentaries,\" vol. iv. p.\n370.) Mr. Kent, in the same work, vol. iv. p. 1-22, gives a historical\naccount of American legislation on the subject of entail: by this\nwe learn that, previous to the Revolution, the colonies followed the\nEnglish law of entail. Estates tail were abolished in Virginia in 1776,\non a motion of Mr. Jefferson. They were suppressed in New York in 1786,\nand have since been abolished in North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee,\nGeorgia, and Missouri. In Vermont, Indiana, Illinois, South Carolina,\nand Louisiana, entail was never introduced. Those States which thought\nproper to preserve the English law of entail, modified it in such a\nway as to deprive it of its most aristocratic tendencies. \"Our general\nprinciples on the subject of government,\" says Mr. Kent, \"tend to favor\nthe free circulation of property.\"\n\nIt cannot fail to strike the French reader who studies the law\nof inheritance, that on these questions the French legislation is\ninfinitely more democratic even than the American. The American law\nmakes an equal division of the father's property, but only in the case\nof his will not being known; \"for every man,\" says the law, \"in the\nState of New York (Revised Statutes, vol. iii. Appendix, p. 51), has\nentire liberty, power, and authority, to dispose of his property by\nwill, to leave it entire, or divided in favor of any persons he chooses\nas his heirs, provided he do not leave it to a political body or any\ncorporation.\" The French law obliges the testator to divide his property\nequally, or nearly so, among his heirs. Most of the American republics\nstill admit of entails, under certain restrictions; but the French law\nprohibits entail in all cases. If the social condition of the Americans\nis more democratic than that of the French, the laws of the latter are\nthe most democratic of the two. This may be explained more easily than\nat first appears to be the case. In France, democracy is still occupied\nin the work of destruction; in America, it reigns quietly over the ruins\nit has made.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix H\n\nSummary Of The Qualifications Of Voters In The United States As They\nExisted In 1832\n\nAll the States agree in granting the right of voting at the age of\ntwenty-one. In all of them it is necessary to have resided for a certain\ntime in the district where the vote is given. This period varies from\nthree months to two years.\n\nAs to the qualification: in the State of Massachusetts it is necessary\nto have an income of Pound 3 or a capital of Pound 60. In Rhode Island,\na man must possess landed property to the amount of $133.\n\nIn Connecticut, he must have a property which gives an income of $17. A\nyear of service in the militia also gives the elective privilege.\n\nIn New Jersey, an elector must have a property of Pound 50 a year.\n\nIn South Carolina and Maryland, the elector must possess fifty acres of\nland.\n\nIn Tennessee, he must possess some property.\n\nIn the States of Mississippi, Ohio, Georgia, Virginia, Pennsylvania,\nDelaware, New York, the only necessary qualification for voting is that\nof paying the taxes; and in most of the States, to serve in the militia\nis equivalent to the payment of taxes. In Maine and New Hampshire any\nman can vote who is not on the pauper list.\n\nLastly, in the States of Missouri, Alabama, Illinois, Louisiana,\nIndiana, Kentucky, and Vermont, the conditions of voting have no\nreference to the property of the elector.\n\nI believe there is no other State besides that of North Carolina in\nwhich different conditions are applied to the voting for the Senate and\nthe electing the House of Representatives. The electors of the former,\nin this case, should possess in property fifty acres of land; to vote\nfor the latter, nothing more is required than to pay taxes.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix I\n\nThe small number of custom-house officers employed in the United States,\ncompared with the extent of the coast, renders smuggling very easy;\nnotwithstanding which, it is less practised than elsewhere, because\neverybody endeavors to repress it. In America there is no police for\nthe prevention of fires, and such accidents are more frequent than in\nEurope; but in general they are more speedily extinguished, because the\nsurrounding population is prompt in lending assistance.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix K\n\nIt is incorrect to assert that centralization was produced by the French\nRevolution; the revolution brought it to perfection, but did not create\nit. The mania for centralization and government regulations dates from\nthe time when jurists began to take a share in the government, in the\ntime of Philippele-Bel; ever since which period they have been on the\nincrease. In the year 1775, M. de Malesherbes, speaking in the name of\nthe Cour des Aides, said to Louis XIV:-- *d\n\n[Footnote d: See \"Memoires pour servir a l'Histoire du Droit Public de\nla France en matiere d'impots,\" p. 654, printed at Brussels in 1779.]\n\n\". . . Every corporation and every community of citizens retained the\nright of administering its own affairs; a right which not only forms\npart of the primitive constitution of the kingdom, but has a\nstill higher origin; for it is the right of nature, and of reason.\nNevertheless, your subjects, Sire, have been deprived of it; and we\ncannot refrain from saying that in this respect your government has\nfallen into puerile extremes. From the time when powerful ministers\nmade it a political principle to prevent the convocation of a national\nassembly, one consequence has succeeded another, until the deliberations\nof the inhabitants of a village are declared null when they have not\nbeen authorized by the Intendant. Of course, if the community has an\nexpensive undertaking to carry through, it must remain under the control\nof the sub-delegate of the Intendant, and, consequently, follow the\nplan he proposes, employ his favorite workmen, pay them according to his\npleasure; and if an action at law is deemed necessary, the Intendant's\npermission must be obtained. The cause must be pleaded before this first\ntribunal, previous to its being carried into a public court; and if the\nopinion of the Intendant is opposed to that of the inhabitants, or if\ntheir adversary enjoys his favor, the community is deprived of the\npower of defending its rights. Such are the means, Sire, which have been\nexerted to extinguish the municipal spirit in France; and to stifle, if\npossible, the opinions of the citizens. The nation may be said to lie\nunder an interdict, and to be in wardship under guardians.\" What could\nbe said more to the purpose at the present day, when the Revolution has\nachieved what are called its victories in centralization?\n\nIn 1789, Jefferson wrote from Paris to one of his friends:--\"There is\nno country where the mania for over-governing has taken deeper root than\nin France, or been the source of greater mischief.\" (Letter to Madison,\nAugust 28, 1789.) The fact is, that for several centuries past the\ncentral power of France has done everything it could to extend central\nadministration; it has acknowledged no other limits than its own\nstrength. The central power to which the Revolution gave birth made more\nrapid advances than any of its predecessors, because it was stronger\nand wiser than they had been; Louis XIV committed the welfare of such\ncommunities to the caprice of an intendant; Napoleon left them to\nthat of the Minister. The same principle governed both, though its\nconsequences were more or less remote.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix L\n\nThe immutability of the constitution of France is a necessary\nconsequence of the laws of that country. To begin with the most\nimportant of all the laws, that which decides the order of succession to\nthe throne; what can be more immutable in its principle than a political\norder founded upon the natural succession of father to son? In 1814,\nLouis XVIII had established the perpetual law of hereditary succession\nin favor of his own family. The individuals who regulated the\nconsequences of the Revolution of 1830 followed his example; they merely\nestablished the perpetuity of the law in favor of another family. In\nthis respect they imitated the Chancellor Meaupou, who, when he erected\nthe new Parliament upon the ruins of the old, took care to declare in\nthe same ordinance that the rights of the new magistrates should be as\ninalienable as those of their predecessors had been. The laws of 1830,\nlike those of 1814, point out no way of changing the constitution: and\nit is evident that the ordinary means of legislation are insufficient\nfor this purpose. As the King, the Peers, and the Deputies, all derive\ntheir authority from the constitution, these three powers united cannot\nalter a law by virtue of which alone they govern. Out of the pale of the\nconstitution they are nothing: where, when, could they take their stand\nto effect a change in its provisions? The alternative is clear: either\ntheir efforts are powerless against the charter, which continues to\nexist in spite of them, in which case they only reign in the name of the\ncharter; or they succeed in changing the charter, and then, the law by\nwhich they existed being annulled, they themselves cease to exist.\nBy destroying the charter, they destroy themselves. This is much more\nevident in the laws of 1830 than in those of 1814. In 1814, the royal\nprerogative took its stand above and beyond the constitution; but in\n1830, it was avowedly created by, and dependent on, the constitution. A\npart, therefore, of the French constitution is immutable, because it is\nunited to the destiny of a family; and the body of the constitution is\nequally immutable, because there appear to be no legal means of changing\nit. These remarks are not applicable to England. That country having no\nwritten constitution, who can assert when its constitution is changed?\n\n\n\n\nAppendix M\n\nThe most esteemed authors who have written upon the English Constitution\nagree with each other in establishing the omnipotence of the Parliament.\nDelolme says: \"It is a fundamental principle with the English lawyers,\nthat Parliament can do everything except making a woman a man, or a\nman a woman.\" Blackstone expresses himself more in detail, if not more\nenergetically, than Delolme, in the following terms:--\"The power and\njurisdiction of Parliament, says Sir Edward Coke (4 Inst. 36), 'is so\ntranscendent and absolute that it cannot be confined, either for causes\nor persons, within any bounds.' And of this High Court, he adds, may be\ntruly said, 'Si antiquitatem spectes, est vetustissima; si dignitatem,\nest honoratissima; si jurisdictionem, est capacissima.' It hath\nsovereign and uncontrollable authority in the making, confirming,\nenlarging, restraining, abrogating, repealing, reviving, and\nexpounding of laws, concerning matters of all possible denominations;\necclesiastical or temporal; civil, military, maritime, or criminal; this\nbeing the place where that absolute despotic power which must, in all\ngovernments, reside somewhere, is intrusted by the constitution of these\nkingdoms. All mischiefs and grievances, operations and remedies, that\ntranscend the ordinary course of the laws, are within the reach of this\nextraordinary tribunal. It can regulate or new-model the succession to\nthe Crown; as was done in the reign of Henry VIII and William III. It\ncan alter the established religion of the land; as was done in a variety\nof instances in the reigns of King Henry VIII and his three children. It\ncan change and create afresh even the constitution of the kingdom,\nand of parliaments themselves; as was done by the Act of Union and the\nseveral statutes for triennial and septennial elections. It can, in\nshort, do everything that is not naturally impossible to be done; and,\ntherefore some have not scrupled to call its power, by a figure rather\ntoo bold, the omnipotence of Parliament.\"\n\n\n\n\nAppendix N\n\nThere is no question upon which the American constitutions agree more\nfully than upon that of political jurisdiction. All the constitutions\nwhich take cognizance of this matter, give to the House of Delegates the\nexclusive right of impeachment; excepting only the constitution of North\nCarolina, which grants the same privilege to grand juries. (Article 23.)\nAlmost all the constitutions give the exclusive right of pronouncing\nsentence to the Senate, or to the Assembly which occupies its place.\n\nThe only punishments which the political tribunals can inflict are\nremoval, or the interdiction of public functions for the future. There\nis no other constitution but that of Virginia (p. 152), which enables\nthem to inflict every kind of punishment. The crimes which are subject\nto political jurisdiction are, in the federal constitution (Section 4,\nArt. 1); in that of Indiana (Art. 3, paragraphs 23 and 24); of New York\n(Art. 5); of Delaware (Art. 5), high treason, bribery, and other high\ncrimes or offences. In the Constitution of Massachusetts (Chap. I,\nSection 2); that of North Carolina (Art. 23); of Virginia (p. 252),\nmisconduct and maladministration. In the constitution of New Hampshire\n(p. 105), corruption, intrigue, and maladministration. In Vermont (Chap.\n2, Art. 24), maladministration. In South Carolina (Art. 5); Kentucky\n(Art. 5); Tennessee (Art. 4); Ohio (Art. 1, 23, 24); Louisiana (Art.\n5); Mississippi (Art. 5); Alabama (Art. 6); Pennsylvania (Art. 4),\ncrimes committed in the non-performance of official duties. In the\nStates of Illinois, Georgia, Maine, and Connecticut, no particular\noffences are specified.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix O\n\nIt is true that the powers of Europe may carry on maritime wars with\nthe Union; but there is always greater facility and less danger in\nsupporting a maritime than a continental war. Maritime warfare only\nrequires one species of effort. A commercial people which consents to\nfurnish its government with the necessary funds, is sure to possess a\nfleet. And it is far easier to induce a nation to part with its money,\nalmost unconsciously, than to reconcile it to sacrifices of men and\npersonal efforts. Moreover, defeat by sea rarely compromises the\nexistence or independence of the people which endures it. As for\ncontinental wars, it is evident that the nations of Europe cannot be\nformidable in this way to the American Union. It would be very difficult\nto transport and maintain in America more than 25,000 soldiers; an army\nwhich may be considered to represent a nation of about 2,000,000 of men.\nThe most populous nation of Europe contending in this way against the\nUnion, is in the position of a nation of 2,000,000 of inhabitants at war\nwith one of 12,000,000. Add to this, that America has all its resources\nwithin reach, whilst the European is at 4,000 miles distance from his;\nand that the immensity of the American continent would of itself present\nan insurmountable obstacle to its conquest.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix P\n\nThe first American journal appeared in April, 1704, and was published\nat Boston. See \"Collection of the Historical Society of Massachusetts,\"\nvol. vi. p. 66. It would be a mistake to suppose that the periodical\npress has always been entirely free in the American colonies: an\nattempt was made to establish something analogous to a censorship and\npreliminary security. Consult the Legislative Documents of Massachusetts\nof January 14, 1722. The Committee appointed by the General Assembly\n(the legislative body of the province) for the purpose of examining into\ncircumstances connected with a paper entitled \"The New England Courier,\"\nexpresses its opinion that \"the tendency of the said journal is to turn\nreligion into derision and bring it into contempt; that it mentions\nthe sacred writers in a profane and irreligious manner; that it puts\nmalicious interpretations upon the conduct of the ministers of the\nGospel; and that the Government of his Majesty is insulted, and the\npeace and tranquillity of the province disturbed by the said journal.\nThe Committee is consequently of opinion that the printer and publisher,\nJames Franklin, should be forbidden to print and publish the said\njournal or any other work in future, without having previously submitted\nit to the Secretary of the province; and that the justices of the peace\nfor the county of Suffolk should be commissioned to require bail of the\nsaid James Franklin for his good conduct during the ensuing year.\" The\nsuggestion of the Committee was adopted and passed into a law, but the\neffect of it was null, for the journal eluded the prohibition by putting\nthe name of Benjamin Franklin instead of James Franklin at the bottom of\nits columns, and this manoeuvre was supported by public opinion.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix Q\n\nThe Federal Constitution has introduced the jury into the tribunals of\nthe Union in the same way as the States had introduced it into their own\nseveral courts; but as it has not established any fixed rules for the\nchoice of jurors, the federal courts select them from the ordinary jury\nlist which each State makes for itself. The laws of the States must\ntherefore be examined for the theory of the formation of juries.\nSee Story's \"Commentaries on the Constitution,\" B. iii. chap. 38, p.\n654-659; Sergeant's \"Constitutional Law,\" p. 165. See also the Federal\nLaws of the years 1789, 1800, and 1802, upon the subject. For the\npurpose of thoroughly understanding the American principles with respect\nto the formation of juries, I examined the laws of States at a distance\nfrom one another, and the following observations were the result of\nmy inquiries. In America, all the citizens who exercise the elective\nfranchise have the right of serving upon a jury. The great State of New\nYork, however, has made a slight difference between the two privileges,\nbut in a spirit quite contrary to that of the laws of France; for in the\nState of New York there are fewer persons eligible as jurymen than there\nare electors. It may be said in general that the right of forming part\nof a jury, like the right of electing representatives, is open to\nall the citizens: the exercise of this right, however, is not put\nindiscriminately into any hands. Every year a body of municipal or\ncounty magistrates--called \"selectmen\" in New England, \"supervisors\"\nin New York, \"trustees\" in Ohio, and \"sheriffs of the parish\" in\nLouisiana--choose for each county a certain number of citizens who have\nthe right of serving as jurymen, and who are supposed to be capable\nof exercising their functions. These magistrates, being themselves\nelective, excite no distrust; their powers, like those of most\nrepublican magistrates, are very extensive and very arbitrary, and they\nfrequently make use of them to remove unworthy or incompetent jurymen.\nThe names of the jurymen thus chosen are transmitted to the County\nCourt; and the jury who have to decide any affair are drawn by lot from\nthe whole list of names. The Americans have contrived in every way to\nmake the common people eligible to the jury, and to render the service\nas little onerous as possible. The sessions are held in the chief town\nof every county, and the jury are indemnified for their attendance\neither by the State or the parties concerned. They receive in general a\ndollar per day, besides their travelling expenses. In America, the being\nplaced upon the jury is looked upon as a burden, but it is a burden\nwhich is very supportable. See Brevard's \"Digest of the Public Statute\nLaw of South Carolina,\" vol. i. pp. 446 and 454, vol. ii. pp. 218\nand 338; \"The General Laws of Massachusetts, revised and published by\nauthority of the Legislature,\" vol. ii. pp. 187 and 331; \"The Revised\nStatutes of the State of New York,\" vol. ii. pp. 411, 643, 717, 720;\n\"The Statute Law of the State of Tennessee,\" vol. i. p. 209; \"Acts of\nthe State of Ohio,\" pp. 95 and 210; and \"Digeste general des Actes de la\nLegislature de la Louisiane.\"\n\n\n\n\nAppendix R\n\nIf we attentively examine the constitution of the jury as introduced\ninto civil proceedings in England, we shall readily perceive that the\njurors are under the immediate control of the judge. It is true that the\nverdict of the jury, in civil as well as in criminal cases, comprises\nthe question of fact and the question of right in the same reply;\nthus--a house is claimed by Peter as having been purchased by him: this\nis the fact to be decided. The defendant puts in a plea of incompetency\non the part of the vendor: this is the legal question to be resolved.\nBut the jury do not enjoy the same character of infallibility in civil\ncases, according to the practice of the English courts, as they do in\ncriminal cases. The judge may refuse to receive the verdict; and even\nafter the first trial has taken place, a second or new trial may be\nawarded by the Court. See Blackstone's \"Commentaries,\" book iii. ch. 24.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix S\n\nI find in my travelling journal a passage which may serve to convey a\nmore complete notion of the trials to which the women of America, who\nconsent to follow their husbands into the wilds, are often subjected.\nThis description has nothing to recommend it to the reader but its\nstrict accuracy:\n\n\". . . From time to time we come to fresh clearings; all these places\nare alike; I shall describe the one at which we have halted to-night,\nfor it will serve to remind me of all the others.\n\n\"The bell which the pioneers hang round the necks of their cattle,\nin order to find them again in the woods, announced our approach to a\nclearing, when we were yet a long way off; and we soon afterwards heard\nthe stroke of the hatchet, hewing down the trees of the forest. As we\ncame nearer, traces of destruction marked the presence of civilized\nman; the road was strewn with shattered boughs; trunks of trees, half\nconsumed by fire, or cleft by the wedge, were still standing in the\ntrack we were following. We continued to proceed till we reached a wood\nin which all the trees seemed to have been suddenly struck dead; in the\nheight of summer their boughs were as leafless as in winter; and upon\ncloser examination we found that a deep circle had been cut round the\nbark, which, by stopping the circulation of the sap, soon kills the\ntree. We were informed that this is commonly the first thing a pioneer\ndoes; as he cannot in the first year cut down all the trees which cover\nhis new parcel of land, he sows Indian corn under their branches, and\nputs the trees to death in order to prevent them from injuring his crop.\nBeyond this field, at present imperfectly traced out, we suddenly came\nupon the cabin of its owner, situated in the centre of a plot of ground\nmore carefully cultivated than the rest, but where man was still waging\nunequal warfare with the forest; there the trees were cut down, but\ntheir roots were not removed, and the trunks still encumbered the ground\nwhich they so recently shaded. Around these dry blocks, wheat, suckers\nof trees, and plants of every kind, grow and intertwine in all the\nluxuriance of wild, untutored nature. Amidst this vigorous and various\nvegetation stands the house of the pioneer, or, as they call it, the\nlog house. Like the ground about it, this rustic dwelling bore marks of\nrecent and hasty labor; its length seemed not to exceed thirty feet,\nits height fifteen; the walls as well as the roof were formed of rough\ntrunks of trees, between which a little moss and clay had been inserted\nto keep out the cold and rain.\n\n\"As night was coming on, we determined to ask the master of the log\nhouse for a lodging. At the sound of our footsteps, the children who\nwere playing amongst the scattered branches sprang up and ran towards\nthe house, as if they were frightened at the sight of man; whilst two\nlarge dogs, almost wild, with ears erect and outstretched nose, came\ngrowling out of their hut, to cover the retreat of their young masters.\nThe pioneer himself made his appearance at the door of his dwelling;\nhe looked at us with a rapid and inquisitive glance, made a sign to the\ndogs to go into the house, and set them the example, without betraying\neither curiosity or apprehension at our arrival.\n\n\"We entered the log house: the inside is quite unlike that of\nthe cottages of the peasantry of Europe: it contains more than is\nsuperfluous, less than is necessary. A single window with a muslin\nblind; on a hearth of trodden clay an immense fire, which lights the\nwhole structure; above the hearth a good rifle, a deer's skin, and\nplumes of eagles' feathers; on the right hand of the chimney a map of\nthe United States, raised and shaken by the wind through the crannies in\nthe wall; near the map, upon a shelf formed of a roughly hewn plank, a\nfew volumes of books--a Bible, the six first books of Milton, and two of\nShakespeare's plays; along the wall, trunks instead of closets; in the\ncentre of the room a rude table, with legs of green wood, and with the\nbark still upon them, looking as if they grew out of the ground on which\nthey stood; but on this table a tea-pot of British ware, silver spoons,\ncracked tea-cups, and some newspapers.\n\n\"The master of this dwelling has the strong angular features and lank\nlimbs peculiar to the native of New England. It is evident that this man\nwas not born in the solitude in which we have met with him: his physical\nconstitution suffices to show that his earlier years were spent in\nthe midst of civilized society, and that he belongs to that restless,\ncalculating, and adventurous race of men, who do with the utmost\ncoolness things only to be accounted for by the ardor of the passions,\nand who endure the life of savages for a time, in order to conquer and\ncivilize the backwoods.\n\n\"When the pioneer perceived that we were crossing his threshold, he came\nto meet us and shake hands, as is their custom; but his face was quite\nunmoved; he opened the conversation by inquiring what was going on in\nthe world; and when his curiosity was satisfied, he held his peace,\nas if he were tired by the noise and importunity of mankind. When we\nquestioned him in our turn, he gave us all the information we required;\nhe then attended sedulously, but without eagerness, to our personal\nwants. Whilst he was engaged in providing thus kindly for us, how came\nit that in spit of ourselves we felt our gratitude die upon our lips? It\nis that our host whilst he performs the duties of hospitality, seems to\nbe obeying an irksome necessity of his condition: he treats it as a duty\nimposed upon him by his situation, not as a pleasure. By the side of\nthe hearth sits a woman with a baby on her lap: she nods to us without\ndisturbing herself. Like the pioneer, this woman is in the prime of\nlife; her appearance would seem superior to her condition, and her\napparel even betrays a lingering taste for dress; but her delicate\nlimbs appear shrunken, her features are drawn in, her eye is mild and\nmelancholy; her whole physiognomy bears marks of a degree of religious\nresignation, a deep quiet of all passions, and some sort of natural and\ntranquil firmness, ready to meet all the ills of life, without fearing\nand without braving them. Her children cluster about her, full\nof health, turbulence, and energy: they are true children of the\nwilderness; their mother watches them from time to time with mingled\nmelancholy and joy: to look at their strength and her languor, one might\nimagine that the life she has given them has exhausted her own, and\nstill she regrets not what they have cost her. The house inhabited by\nthese emigrants has no internal partition or loft. In the one chamber\nof which it consists, the whole family is gathered for the night. The\ndwelling is itself a little world--an ark of civilization amidst an\nocean of foliage: a hundred steps beyond it the primeval forest spreads\nits shades, and solitude resumes its sway.\"\n\n\n\n\nAppendix T\n\nIt is not the equality of conditions which makes men immoral and\nirreligious; but when men, being equal, are at the same time immoral and\nirreligious, the effects of immorality and irreligion easily manifest\nthemselves outwardly, because men have but little influence upon each\nother, and no class exists which can undertake to keep society in order.\nEquality of conditions never engenders profligacy of morals, but it\nsometimes allows that profligacy to show itself.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix U\n\nSetting aside all those who do not think at all, and those who dare not\nsay what they think, the immense majority of the Americans will still be\nfound to appear satisfied with the political institutions by which they\nare governed; and, I believe, really to be so. I look upon this state\nof public opinion as an indication, but not as a demonstration, of\nthe absolute excellence of American laws. The pride of a nation, the\ngratification of certain ruling passions by the law, a concourse of\ncircumstances, defects which escape notice, and more than all the rest,\nthe influence of a majority which shuts the mouth of all cavillers, may\nlong perpetuate the delusions of a people as well as those of a man.\nLook at England throughout the eighteenth century. No nation was ever\nmore prodigal of self-applause, no people was ever more self-satisfied;\nthen every part of its constitution was right--everything, even to its\nmost obvious defects, was irreproachable: at the present day a vast\nnumber of Englishmen seem to have nothing better to do than to\nprove that this constitution was faulty in many respects. Which was\nright?--the English people of the last century, or the English people of\nthe present day?\n\nThe same thing has occurred in France. It is certain that during the\nreign of Louis XIV the great bulk of the nation was devotedly attached\nto the form of government which, at that time, governed the community.\nBut it is a vast error to suppose that there was anything degraded in\nthe character of the French of that age. There might be some sort of\nservitude in France at that time, but assuredly there was no servile\nspirit among the people. The writers of that age felt a species of\ngenuine enthusiasm in extolling the power of their king; and there was\nno peasant so obscure in his hovel as not to take a pride in the glory\nof his sovereign, and to die cheerfully with the cry \"Vive le Roi!\" upon\nhis lips. These very same forms of loyalty are now odious to the French\npeople. Which are wrong?--the French of the age of Louis XIV, or their\ndescendants of the present day?\n\nOur judgment of the laws of a people must not then be founded Future\nCondition Of Three Races In The United States exclusively upon its\ninclinations, since those inclinations change from age to age; but upon\nmore elevated principles and a more general experience. The love which a\npeople may show for its law proves only this:--that we should not be in\ntoo great a hurry to change them.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix V\n\nIn the chapter to which this note relates I have pointed out one source\nof danger: I am now about to point out another kind of peril, more rare\nindeed, but far more formidable if it were ever to make its appearance.\nIf the love of physical gratification and the taste for well-being,\nwhich are naturally suggested to men by a state of equality, were to\nget entire possession of the mind of a democratic people, and to fill it\ncompletely, the manners of the nation would become so totally opposed to\nmilitary tastes, that perhaps even the army would eventually acquire\na love of peace, in spite of the peculiar interest which leads it to\ndesire war. Living in the midst of a state of general relaxation, the\ntroops would ultimately think it better to rise without efforts, by\nthe slow but commodious advancement of a peace establishment, than\nto purchase more rapid promotion at the cost of all the toils and\nprivations of the field. With these feelings, they would take up arms\nwithout enthusiasm, and use them without energy; they would allow\nthemselves to be led to meet the foe, instead of marching to attack him.\nIt must not be supposed that this pacific state of the army would render\nit adverse to revolutions; for revolutions, and especially military\nrevolutions, which are generally very rapid, are attended indeed with\ngreat dangers, but not with protracted toil; they gratify ambition at\nless cost than war; life only is at stake, and the men of democracies\ncare less for their lives than for their comforts. Nothing is more\ndangerous for the freedom and the tranquillity of a people than an army\nafraid of war, because, as such an army no longer seeks to maintain its\nimportance and its influence on the field of battle, it seeks to assert\nthem elsewhere. Thus it might happen that the men of whom a democratic\narmy consists should lose the interests of citizens without acquiring\nthe virtues of soldiers; and that the army should cease to be fit for\nwar without ceasing to be turbulent. I shall here repeat what I have\nsaid in the text: the remedy for these dangers is not to be found in the\narmy, but in the country: a democratic people which has preserved the\nmanliness of its character will never be at a loss for military prowess\nin its soldiers.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix W\n\nMen connect the greatness of their idea of unity with means, God with\nends: hence this idea of greatness, as men conceive it, leads us into\ninfinite littleness. To compel all men to follow the same course towards\nthe same object is a human notion;--to introduce infinite variety of\naction, but so combined that all these acts lead by a multitude of\ndifferent courses to the accomplishment of one great design, is a\nconception of the Deity. The human idea of unity is almost always\nbarren; the divine idea pregnant with abundant results. Men think they\nmanifest their greatness by simplifying the means they use; but it is\nthe purpose of God which is simple--his means are infinitely varied.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix X\n\nA democratic people is not only led by its own tastes to centralize\nits government, but the passions of all the men by whom it is governed\nconstantly urge it in the same direction. It may easily be foreseen that\nalmost all the able and ambitious members of a democratic community will\nlabor without 2 ceasing to extend the powers of government, because they\nall hope at some time or other to wield those powers. It is a waste\nof time to attempt to prove to them that extreme centralization may\nbe injurious to the State, since they are centralizing for their own\nbenefit. Amongst the public men of democracies there are hardly any but\nmen of great disinterestedness or extreme mediocrity who seek to oppose\nthe centralization of government: the former are scarce, the latter\npowerless.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix Y\n\nI have often asked myself what would happen if, amidst the relaxation of\ndemocratic manners, and as a consequence of the restless spirit of the\narmy, a military government were ever to be founded amongst any of the\nnations of the present age. I think that even such a government would\nnot differ very much from the outline I have drawn in the chapter to\nwhich this note belongs, and that it would retain none of the fierce\ncharacteristics of a military oligarchy. I am persuaded that, in such a\ncase, a sort of fusion would take place between the habits of official\nmen and those of the military service. The administration would assume\nsomething of a military character, and the army some of the usages of\nthe civil administration. The result would be a regular, clear,\nexact, and absolute system of government; the people would become the\nreflection of the army, and the community be drilled like a garrison.\n\n\n\n\nAppendix Z\n\nIt cannot be absolutely or generally affirmed that the greatest danger\nof the present age is license or tyranny, anarchy or despotism. Both\nare equally to be feared; and the one may as easily proceed as the other\nfrom the selfsame cause, namely, that \"general apathy,\" which is the\nconsequence of what I have termed \"individualism\": it is because this\napathy exists, that the executive government, having mustered a few\ntroops, is able to commit acts of oppression one day, and the next day a\nparty, which has mustered some thirty men in its ranks, can also commit\nacts of oppression. Neither one nor the other can found anything to\nlast; and the causes which enable them to succeed easily, prevent them\nfrom succeeding long: they rise because nothing opposes them, and they\nsink because nothing supports them. The proper object therefore of our\nmost strenuous resistance, is far less either anarchy or despotism than\nthe apathy which may almost indifferently beget either the one or the\nother.\n\n\n\n\nConstitution Of The United States Of America\n\nWe The People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect\nUnion, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquillity, provide for the\ncommon defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings\nof Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this\nConstitution for the United States of America:\n\n\n\n\nArticle I\n\nSection 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a\nCongress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House\nof Representatives.\n\nSection 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members of\nchosen every second Year by the People of the several States, and the\nElectors in each States shall have the Qualifications requisite for\nElectors of the most numerous Branch of the State Legislature.\n\nNo Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the\nAge of twenty-five Years, and been seven Years a Citizen of the United\nStates, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State\nin which he shall be chosen.\n\nRepresentatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several\nStates which may be included within this Union, according to their\nrespective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole\nNumber of free Persons, including those bound to service for a Term\nof Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three-fifths of all other\nPersons. The actual Enumeration shall be made within three Years after\nthe first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and within\nevery subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Law\ndirect. The Number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every\nthirty Thousand, but each State shall have at Least one Representative;\nand until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire\nshall be entitled to choose three, Massachusetts, eight, Rhode-Island\nand Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six, New\nJersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six, Virginia\nten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.\n\nWhen vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the\nExecutive Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such\nVacancies.\n\nThe House of Representatives shall choose their Speaker and other\nOfficers; and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment. Section 3. The\nSenate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from\neach State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six Years; and each\nSenator shall have one Vote.\n\nImmediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first\nElection, they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes.\nThe Seats of the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the\nExpiration of the second Year, of the second Class at the expiration of\nthe fourth Year, and of the third Class at the expiration of the\nsixth Year, so that one-third may be chosen every second Year; and if\nVacancies happen by Resignation, or otherwise, during the Recess of\nthe Legislature of any State, the Executive thereof may make temporary\nAppointments until the next Meeting of the Legislature, which shall then\nfill such Vacancies.\n\nNo person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of\nthirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States, and\nwho shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State for which he\nshall be chosen.\n\nThe Vice-President of the United States shall be President of the\nSenate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided. The\nSenate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President pro\ntempore, in the Absence of the Vice-President, or when he shall exercise\nthe Office of President of the United States.\n\nThe Senate shall have the sole power to try all Impeachments. When\nsitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation. When\nthe President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall\npreside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence of\ntwo-thirds of the Members present. Judgment in cases of Impeachment\nshall not extend further than to removal from Office, and\ndisqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of Honor, Trust, or Profit\nunder the United States: but the Party convicted shall nevertheless\nbe liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment, and Punishment\naccording to Law.\n\nSection 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for\nSenators and Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the\nLegislature thereof; but the Congress may at any time by Law make or\nalter such Regulations, except as to the Places of choosing Senators.\n\nThe Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year, and such\nMeeting shall be on the first Monday in December, unless they shall by\nLaw appoint a different Day.\n\nSection 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returns\nand Qualifications of its own Members, and a Majority of each shall\nconstitute a Quorum to do Business; but a smaller Number may adjourn\nfrom day to day, and may be authorized to compel the Attendance of\nAbsent Members, in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House\nmay provide.\n\nEach House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish its\nMembers for disorderly Behaviour, and, with a Concurrence of two-thirds,\nexpel a Member.\n\nEach House shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings, and from time to\ntime publish the same, excepting such Parts as may in their Judgment\nrequire Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the Members of either House\non any question shall, at the Desire of one-fifth of those present, be\nentered on the Journal.\n\nNeither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the\nConsent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any other\nPlace than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.\n\nSection 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation\nfor their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the\nTreasury of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason,\nFelony, and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their\nattendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to\nand returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either\nHouse, they shall not be questioned in any other Place.\n\nNo Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was\nelected, be appointed to any civil Office under the Authority of the\nUnited States, which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereof\nshall have been increased during such time; and no Person holding any\nOffice under the United States, shall be a Member of either House during\nhis Continuance in Office.\n\nSection 7. All Bills for Raising Revenue shall originate in the House of\nRepresentatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with Amendments as\non other Bills.\n\nEvery Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and the\nSenate, shall, before it become a Law, be presented to the President of\nthe United States; if he approve he shall sign it, but if not he shall\nreturn it, with his Objections, to that House in which it shall have\noriginated, who shall enter the Objections at large on their Journal,\nand proceed to reconsider it. If after such Reconsideration two-thirds\nof that House shall agree to pass the Bill, it shall be sent, together\nwith the Objections, to the other House, by which it shall likewise\nbe reconsidered, and if approved by two-thirds of that House, it shall\nbecome a Law. But in all such Cases the Votes of both Houses shall be\ndetermined by Yeas and Nays, and the Names of the Persons voting for\nand against the Bill shall be entered on the Journal of each House\nrespectively. If any Bill shall not be returned by the President within\nten days (Sundays excepted) after it shall have been presented to him,\nthe Same shall be a Law, in like manner as if he had signed it, unless\nthe Congress by their Adjournment prevent its Return, in which Case it\nshall not be a Law.\n\nEvery Order, Resolution, or Vote to which the Concurrence of the Senate\nand House of Representatives may be necessary (except on a question of\nAdjournment) shall be presented to the President of the United States;\nand before the Same shall take Effect, shall be approved by him, or\nbeing disapproved by him, shall be repassed by two-thirds of the Senate\nand House of Representatives, according to the Rules and Limitations\nprescribed in the case of a Bill.\n\nSection 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes,\nDuties, Imposts, and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for the\ncommon Defence and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties,\nImposts and Excises shall be uniform throughout the United States;\n\nTo borrow Money on the credit of the United States;\n\nTo regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States,\nand with the Indian Tribes;\n\nTo establish an Uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws on the\nsubject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States; To coin Money,\nregulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin, and fix the Standard of\nWeights and Measures;\n\nTo provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities and\ncurrent Coin of the United States;\n\nTo establish Post Offices and Post Roads;\n\nTo promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing for\nlimited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to their\nrespective Writings and Discoveries;\n\nTo constitute Tribunals inferior to the Supreme Court; To define and\npunish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas, and Offences\nagainst the Law of Nations;\n\nTo declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rules\nconcerning Captures on Land and Water;\n\nTo raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use\nshall be for a longer Term than two years;\n\nTo provide and maintain a Navy;\n\nTo make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and naval\nForces.\n\nTo provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the\nUnion, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions.\n\nTo provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and\nfor governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the\nUnited States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment of\nthe Officers, and the Authority of training the Militia according to the\ndiscipline prescribed by Congress;\n\nTo exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever, over\nsuch District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may, by Cession of\nparticular States, and the Acceptance of Congress become the Seat of the\nGovernment of the United States, and to exercise like Authority over all\nPlaces purchased by the Consent of the Legislature of the State in\nwhich the Same shall be, for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals,\nDock-Yards, and other needful Buildings;--And To make all Laws which\nshall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoing\nPowers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in the\nGovernment of the United States, or in any Department or Officer\nthereof.\n\nSection 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any of the\nStates now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not be prohibited\nby the Congress prior to the year one thousand eight hundred and eight,\nbut a tax or duty may be imposed on such Importation, not exceeding ten\ndollars for each Person.\n\nThe Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended,\nunless when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion the public Safety may\nrequire it.\n\nNo Bill of Attainder or ex post facto Law shall be passed. No\nCapitation, or other direct Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to\nthe Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.\n\nNo Tax or Duty shall be laid on Articles exported from any State.\n\nNo preference shall be given by any Regulation of Commerce or Revenue\nto the Ports of one State over those of another: nor shall Vessels bound\nto, or from, one State, be obliged to enter, clear, or pay Duties in\nanother.\n\nNo Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence of\nAppropriations made by Law; and a regular Statement and Account of the\nReceipts and Expenditures of all public Money shall be published from\ntime to time.\n\nNo Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States: And no\nPerson holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, without\nthe Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office,\nor Title of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince, or foreign State.\n\nSection 10. No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, or\nConfederation; grant Letters of Marque or Reprisal; coin Money; emit\nBills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender in\nPayment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law, or Law\nimpairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.\n\nNo State shall, without the Consent of the Congress, lay any Imposts or\nDuties on Imports or Exports, except what may be absolutely necessary\nfor executing its inspection Laws: and the net Produce of all Duties and\nImposts, laid by any State on Imports or Exports shall be for the Use of\nthe Treasury of the United States; and all such laws shall be subject to\nthe Revision and Control of the Congress.\n\nNo State shall, without the Consent of Congress, lay any Duty of\nTonnage, keep Troops, or Ships of War in time of Peace, enter into any\nAgreement or Compact with another State, or with a foreign Power, or\nengage in War, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent Danger as\nwill not admit of delay.\n\n\n\n\nArticle II\n\nSection 1. The Executive Power shall be vested in a President of the\nUnited States of America. He shall hold his Office during the Term of\nfour Years, and, together with the Vice-President, chosen for the same\nTerm, be elected as follows:\n\nEach State shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof may\ndirect, a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and\nRepresentatives to which the State may be entitled in the Congress: but\nno Senator or Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust or\nProfit under the United States, shall be appointed an Elector.\n\n[The Electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by Ballot\nfor two persons, of whom one at least shall not be an inhabitant of\nthe same State with themselves. And they shall make a List of all the\nPersons voted for, and of the Number of Votes for each; which List\nthey shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the Seat of the\nGovernment of the United States, directed to the President of the\nSenate. The President of the Senate shall, in the Presence of the Senate\nand House of Representatives, open all the Certificates, and the Votes\nshall then be counted. The Person having the greatest Number of Votes\nshall be the President, if such Number be a Majority of the whole Number\nof Electors appointed; and if there be more than one who have such\nMajority, and have an equal number of Votes, then the House of\nRepresentatives shall immediately choose by Ballot one of them for\nPresident; and if no Person have a Majority, then from the five highest\non the List the said House shall in like Manner choose the President.\nBut in choosing the President, the Votes shall be taken by States,\nthe Representation from each State having one Vote; A quorum for this\nPurpose shall consist of a Member or Members from two-thirds of the\nStates, and a Majority of all the States shall be necessary to a Choice.\nIn every Case, after the Choice of the President, the Person having the\ngreatest number of Votes of the Electors shall be the Vice-President.\nBut if there should remain two or more who have equal Votes, the Senate\nshall choose from them by Ballot the Vice-President.]*d\n\n[Footnote *d: This clause is superseded by Article XII, Amendments. See\npage 396.]\n\nThe Congress may determine the Time of choosing the Electors, and the\nDay on which they shall give their Votes; which Day shall be the same\nthroughout the United States.\n\nNo Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United\nStates, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be\neligible to the Office of President; neither shall any person be\neligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of\nthirty-five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United\nStates.\n\nIn case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death,\nResignation or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the said\nOffice, the same shall devolve on the Vice-president, and the Congress\nmay by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation or\nInability, both of the President and Vice-President, declaring what\nOfficer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall act\naccordingly, until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be\nelected.\n\nThe President shall, at stated Times, receive for his Services, a\nCompensation, which shall neither be increased nor diminished during the\nPeriod for which he shall have been elected, and he shall not receive\nwithin that period any other Emolument from the United States, or any of\nthem.\n\nBefore he enter on the Execution of his Office, he shall take the\nfollowing Oath or Affirmation:--\"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that\nI will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,\nand will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect, and defend the\nConstitution of the United States.\"\n\nSection 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army and\nNavy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States,\nwhen called into the actual Service of the United States; he may\nrequire the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer in each of the\nexecutive Departments, upon any Subject relating to the Duties of their\nrespective Offices, and he shall have Power to grant Reprieves and\nPardons for Offences against the United States, except in Cases of\nImpeachment.\n\nHe shall have Power, by and with the Advice and Consent of the Senate,\nto make Treaties, provided two-thirds of the Senators present concur;\nand he shall nominate, and by and with the Advice and Consent of the\nSenate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls,\nJudges of the Supreme Court, and all other Officers of the United\nStates, whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for, and\nwhich shall be established by Law: but the Congress may by Law vest\nthe Appointment of such inferior Officers, as they think proper, in the\nPresident alone, in the Courts of Law, or in the Heads of Departments.\n\nThe President shall have Power to fill up all vacancies that may happen\nduring the recess of the Senate, by granting Commissions which shall\nexpire at the End of their next Session.\n\nSection 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress Information\nof the state of the Union, and recommend to their Consideration\nsuch Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient; he may, on\nextraordinary Occasions, convene both Houses, or either of them, and\nin Case of Disagreement between them, with Respect to the Time of\nAdjournment, he may adjourn them to such Time as he shall think proper;\nhe shall receive Ambassadors and other Public Ministers; he shall take\nCare that the Laws be faithfully executed, and shall Commission all the\nOfficers of the United States.\n\nSection 4. The President, Vice-President and all civil Officers of the\nUnited States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, and\nConviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other High Crimes and Misdemeanors.\n\n\n\n\nArticle III\n\nSection 1. The judicial Power of the United States shall be vested in\none supreme Court, and in such inferior Courts as the Congress may from\ntime to time ordain and establish. The Judges, both of the Supreme and\ninferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good Behaviour, and\nshall, at stated Times, receive for their Services, a Compensation,\nwhich shall not be diminished during their Continuance in Office.\n\nSection 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all cases, in Law and\nEquity, arising under this Constitution, the Laws of the United States,\nand Treaties made, or which shall be made, under their Authority;--to\nall Cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls;--to\nall cases of Admiralty and maritime Jurisdiction; to Controversies to\nwhich the United States shall be a Party;--to Controversies between two\nor more States;--between a State and Citizens of another State; between\nCitizens of different States,--between Citizens of the same State\nclaiming Lands under Grants of different States, and between a State, or\nthe Citizens thereof, and foreign States, Citizens or Subjects.\n\nIn all Cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls,\nand those in which a State shall be Party, the Supreme Court shall have\noriginal Jurisdiction. In all the other Cases before mentioned, the\nSupreme Court shall have appellate Jurisdiction, both as to Law and\nFact, with such Exceptions and under such Regulations as the Congress\nshall make.\n\nThe Trial of all Crimes, except in Cases of Impeachment, shall be by\nJury; and such Trial shall be held in the State where the said Crimes\nshall have been committed; but when not committed within any State, the\nTrial shall be at such Place or Places as the Congress may by Law have\ndirected.\n\nSection 3. Treason against the United States shall consist only in\nlevying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them\nAid and Comfort. No person shall be convicted of Treason unless on the\nTestimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession in\nopen Court.\n\nThe Congress shall have power to declare the Punishment of Treason, but\nno Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood or Forfeiture\nexcept during the life of the person attainted.\n\n\n\n\nArticle IV\n\nSection 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to the\nPublic Acts, Records, and judicial Proceedings of every other State.\nAnd the Congress may by general Laws prescribe the Manner in which such\nActs, Records and Proceedings shall be proved, and the Effect thereof.\n\nSection 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all\nPrivileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States. A person\ncharged in any State with Treason, Felony, or other Crime, who shall\nflee from Justice, and be found in another State, shall on Demand of the\nexecutive Authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered up, to\nbe removed to the State having Jurisdiction of the Crime.\n\nNo Person held to Service or Labour in one State, under the Laws\nthereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any Law or\nRegulation therein, be discharged from such Service or Labour, but shall\nbe delivered up on Claim of the Party to whom such Service or Labour may\nbe due.\n\nSection 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;\nbut no new State shall be formed or erected within the Jurisdiction of\nany other State; nor any State be formed by the Junction of two or more\nStates, or Parts of States, without the Consent of the Legislatures of\nthe States concerned as well as of the Congress.\n\nThe Congress shall have Power to dispose of and make all needful Rules\nand Regulations respecting the Territory or other Property belonging\nto the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be so\nconstrued as to Prejudice any Claims of the United States, or of any\nparticular State.\n\nSection 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in this\nUnion a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them\nagainst Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the\nExecutive (when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic\nViolence.\n\n\n\n\nArticle V\n\nThe Congress, whenever two-thirds of both Houses shall deem it\nnecessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the\nApplication of the Legislatures of two-thirds of the several States,\nshall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in either\nCase, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this\nConstitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three-fourths of the\nseveral States, or by Conventions in three-fourths thereof, as the\none or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress;\nProvided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year One\nthousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the first\nand fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article; and that\nno State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of its equal Suffrage\nin the Senate.\n\n\n\n\nArticle VI\n\nAll Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoption\nof this Constitution, shall be as valid against the United States under\nthis Constitution, as under the Confederation.\n\nThis Constitution, and the Laws of the United States which shall be made\nin Pursuance thereof; and all Treaties made, or which shall be made,\nunder the Authority of the United States, shall be the supreme Law of\nthe Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby,\nany Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the contrary\nnotwithstanding.\n\nThe Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of\nthe several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers,\nboth of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by\nOath or Affirmation to support this Constitution; but no religious test\nshall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust\nunder the United States.\n\n\n\n\nArticle VII\n\nThe Ratification of the Conventions of nine States shall be sufficient\nfor the Establishment of this Constitution between the States so\nratifying the Same.\n\nDone in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of the States present the\nSeventeenth Day of September in the Year of Our Lord One thousand seven\nhundred and eighty-seven and of the Independence of the United States of\nAmerica the Twelfth. In witness whereof We have hereunto subscribed our\nNames,\n\n     Geo. Washington\n     Presidt. and deputy from Virginia.\n\n     New Hampshire\n     John Langdon\n     Nicholas Gilman\n\n     Massachusetts\n     Nathaniel Gorham\n     Rufus King\n\n     Connecticut\n     Wm. Saml. Johnson\n     Roger Sherman\n\n     New York\n     Alexander Hamilton\n\n     New Jersey\n     Wil. Livingston.\n     David Brearley.\n     Wm. Paterson.\n     Jona. Dayton\n\n     Pennsylvania\n     B Franklin\n     Thomas Mifflin\n     Robt. Morris.\n     Geo. Clymer\n     Thos. Fitzsimons\n     Jared Ingersoll\n     James Wilson\n     Gouv. Morris\n\n     Delaware\n     Geo. Read\n     Gunning Bedford Jun\n     John Dickinson\n     Richard Bassett\n     Jaco. Broom\n\n     Maryland\n     James McHenry\n     Dan of St Thos. Jenifer\n     Danl. Carroll\n\n     Virginia\n     John Blair--\n     James Madison Jr.\n\n     North Carolina\n     Wm. Blount\n     Richd. Dobbs Spaight\n     Hu. Williamson\n\n     South Carolina\n     J. Rutledge\n     Charles Cotesworth Pinckney\n     Charles Pinckney\n     Peirce Butler.\n\n     Georgia\n     William Few\n     Abr. Baldwin\n\n     Attest. William Jackson, Secretary\n\nThe Word 'the,' being interlined between the seventh and eighth Lines of\nthe first Page, The word 'Thirty' being partly written on an Erasure\nin the fifteenth Line of the first Page, The Words 'is tried' being\ninterlined between the thirty-second and thirty-third Lines of the first\nPage, and the Word 'the' being interlined between the forty-third and\nforty-fourth Lines of the second page.\n\n[Note by the Department of State.--The foregoing explanation in the\noriginal instrument is placed on the left of the paragraph beginning\nwith the words, 'Done in Convention,' and therefore precedes the\nsignatures. The interlined and rewritten words, mentioned in it, are in\nthis edition printed in their proper places in the text.]\n\n\n\n\nBill Of Rights\n\nIn addition to, and amendment of, the Constitution of the United States\nof America, proposed by Congress and ratified by the Legislatures of\nthe several States, pursuant to the Fifth Article of the original\nConstitution\n\nArticle I\n\nCongress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,\nor prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom\nof speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to\nassemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.\n\nArticle II\n\nA well regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free\nState, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be\ninfringed.\n\nArticle III\n\nNo Soldier shall in time of peace be quartered in any house without\nthe consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be\nprescribed by law.\n\nArticle IV\n\nThe right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers,\nand effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not\nbe violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause,\nsupported by Oath or Affirmation, and particularly describing the place\nto be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.\n\nArticle V\n\nNo person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous\ncrime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in\ncases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in\nactual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person\nbe subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life\nor limb; nor shall be compelled in any Criminal Case to be a witness\nagainst himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without\ndue process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use,\nwithout just compensation.\n\nArticle VI\n\nIn all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a\nspeedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district\nwherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have\nbeen previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature\nand cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against\nhim; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favour,\nand to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.\n\nArticle VII\n\nIn suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed\ntwenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no\nfact tried by a jury shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of the\nUnited States, than according to the rules of the common law.\n\nArticle VIII\n\nExcessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor\ncruel and unusual punishments inflicted.\n\nArticle IX\n\nThe enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be\nconstrued to deny or disparage others retained by the people.\n\nArticle X\n\nThe powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor\nprohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively,\nor to the people.\n\nArticle XI\n\nThe Judicial power of the United States shall not be construed to extend\nto any suit in law or equity, commenced or prosecuted against one of the\nUnited States by Citizens of another State, or by Citizens or Subjects\nof any Foreign State.\n\nArticle XII\n\nThe electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by ballot\nfor President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an\ninhabitant of the same State with themselves; they shall name in their\nballots the person voted for as President; and in distinct ballots the\nperson voted for as Vice-President; and they shall make distinct lists\nof all persons voted for as President, and of all persons voted for as\nVice President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists\nthey shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the\ngovernment of the United States, directed to the President of the\nSenate;--The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the\nSenate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the\nvotes shall then be counted;--The person having the greatest number\nof votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a\nmajority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person\nhave such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not\nexceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of\nRepresentatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President.\nBut in choosing the President, the votes shall be taken by States,\nthe representation from each State having one vote; a quorum for this\npurpose shall consist of a member or members from two-thirds of the\nStates, and a majority of all the States shall be necessary to a\nchoice. And if the House of Representatives shall not choose a President\nwhenever the right of choice shall devolve upon them, before the fourth\nday of March next following, then the Vice-President shall act\nas President, as in the case of the death or other constitutional\ndisability of the President. The person having the greatest number of\nvotes as Vice-President, shall be the Vice-President, if such a number\nbe a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed, and if no\nperson have a majority, then from the two highest numbers on the list,\nthe Senate shall choose the Vice-President; a quorum for the purpose\nshall consist of two-thirds of the whole number of Senators, and a\nmajority of the whole number shall be necessary to a choice. But no\nperson constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be\neligible to that of Vice-President of the United States.\n\nArticle XIII\n\nSection 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a\npunishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted,\nshall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their\njurisdiction.\n\nSection 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by\nappropriate legislation.\n\nArticle XIV\n\nSection 1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and\nsubject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States\nand of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any\nlaw which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the\nUnited States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty,\nor property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within\nits jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.\n\nSection 2. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States\naccording to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of\npersons in each State, excluding Indians not taxed. But when the right\nto vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and\nVice-President of the United States, Representatives in Congress,\nthe Executive and Judicial officers of a State, or the members of the\nLegislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such\nState, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States,\nor in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other\ncrime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the\nproportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the\nwhole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such State.\n\nSection 3. No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress,\nor elector of President and Vice-President, or hold any office, civil\nor military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having\npreviously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of\nthe United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an\nexecutive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution\nof the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion\nagainst the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.\nBut Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such\ndisability.\n\nSection 4. The validity of the public debt of the United States,\nauthorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and\nbounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall\nnot be questioned. But neither the United States nor any State shall\nassume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrection\nor rebellion against the United States, or any claim for the loss or\nemancipation of any slave; but all such debts, obligations and claims\nshall be held illegal and void.\n\nSection 5. The Congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriate\nlegislation, the provisions of this article.\n\nArticle XV\n\nSection 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not\nbe denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of\nrace, colour, or previous condition of servitude.\n\nSection 2. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by\nappropriate legislation.","title":"Democracy in America \u2014 Volume 2","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":141249}