DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA

By Alexis De Tocqueville

Translated by Henry Reeve

Book Two: Influence Of Democracy On Progress Of Opinion Inthe United States. 

De Tocqueville's Preface To The Second Part

The Americans live in a democratic state of society, which has naturallysuggested to them certain laws and a certain political character. Thissame state of society has, moreover, engendered amongst them amultitude of feelings and opinions which were unknown amongst the elderaristocratic communities of Europe: it has destroyed or modified all therelations which before existed, and established others of a novel kind. The--aspect of civil society has been no less affected by these changesthan that of the political world. The former subject has been treatedof in the work on the Democracy of America, which I published five yearsago; to examine the latter is the object of the present book; but thesetwo parts complete each other, and form one and the same work. 

I must at once warn the reader against an error which would be extremelyprejudicial to me. When he finds that I attribute so many differentconsequences to the principle of equality, he may thence infer that Iconsider that principle to be the sole cause of all that takes place inthe present age: but this would be to impute to me a very narrow view. Amultitude of opinions, feelings, and propensities are now in existence, which owe their origin to circumstances unconnected with or evencontrary to the principle of equality. Thus if I were to select theUnited States as an example, I could easily prove that the nature of thecountry, the origin of its inhabitants, the religion of its founders, their acquired knowledge, and their former habits, have exercised, andstill exercise, independently of democracy, a vast influence upon thethoughts and feelings of that people. Different causes, but no lessdistinct from the circumstance of the equality of conditions, might betraced in Europe, and would explain a great portion of the occurrencestaking place amongst us. 

I acknowledge the existence of all these different causes, and theirpower, but my subject does not lead me to treat of them. I have notundertaken to unfold the reason of all our inclinations and all ournotions: my only object is to show in what respects the principle ofequality has modified both the former and the latter. 

Some readers may perhaps be astonished that--firmly persuaded as Iam that the democratic revolution which we are witnessing is anirresistible fact against which it would be neither desirable nor wiseto struggle--I should often have had occasion in this book to addresslanguage of such severity to those democratic communities which thisrevolution has brought into being. My answer is simply, that it isbecause I am not an adversary of democracy, that I have sought to speakof democracy in all sincerity. 

Men will not accept truth at the hands of their enemies, and truth isseldom offered to them by their friends: for this reason I have spokenit. I was persuaded that many would take upon themselves to announce thenew blessings which the principle of equality promises to mankind, butthat few would dare to point out from afar the dangers with whichit threatens them. To those perils therefore I have turned my chiefattention, and believing that I had discovered them clearly, I have nothad the cowardice to leave them untold. 

I trust that my readers will find in this Second Part that impartialitywhich seems to have been remarked in the former work. Placed as I am inthe midst of the conflicting opinions between which we are divided, I have endeavored to suppress within me for a time the favorablesympathies or the adverse emotions with which each of them inspiresme. If those who read this book can find a single sentence intended toflatter any of the great parties which have agitated my country, or anyof those petty factions which now harass and weaken it, let such readersraise their voices to accuse me. 

The subject I have sought to embrace is immense, for it includes thegreater part of the feelings and opinions to which the new state ofsociety has given birth. Such a subject is doubtless above my strength, and in treating it I have not succeeded in satisfying myself. But, ifI have not been able to reach the goal which I had in view, my readerswill at least do me the justice to acknowledge that I have conceived andfollowed up my undertaking in a spirit not unworthy of success. 

A. De T. 

March, 1840

Section I: Influence of Democracy on the Action of Intellect in TheUnited States. 

Chapter I: Philosophical Method Among the Americans

I think that in no country in the civilized world is less attentionpaid to philosophy than in the United States. The Americans have nophilosophical school of their own; and they care but little for allthe schools into which Europe is divided, the very names of which arescarcely known to them. Nevertheless it is easy to perceive that almostall the inhabitants of the United States conduct their understanding inthe same manner, and govern it by the same rules; that is to say, that without ever having taken the trouble to define the rules of aphilosophical method, they are in possession of one, common to the wholepeople. To evade the bondage of system and habit, of family maxims, class opinions, and, in some degree, of national prejudices; to accepttradition only as a means of information, and existing facts only as alesson used in doing otherwise, and doing better; to seek the reasonof things for one's self, and in one's self alone; to tend to resultswithout being bound to means, and to aim at the substance through theform;--such are the principal characteristics of what I shall call thephilosophical method of the Americans. But if I go further, and if Iseek amongst these characteristics that which predominates over andincludes almost all the rest, I discover that in most of the operationsof the mind, each American appeals to the individual exercise of his ownunderstanding alone. America is therefore one of the countries in theworld where philosophy is least studied, and where the precepts ofDescartes are best applied. Nor is this surprising. The Americans do notread the works of Descartes, because their social condition deters themfrom speculative studies; but they follow his maxims because this verysocial condition naturally disposes their understanding to adopt them. In the midst of the continual movement which agitates a democraticcommunity, the tie which unites one generation to another is relaxedor broken; every man readily loses the trace of the ideas of hisforefathers or takes no care about them. Nor can men living in thisstate of society derive their belief from the opinions of the class towhich they belong, for, so to speak, there are no longer any classes, orthose which still exist are composed of such mobile elements, thattheir body can never exercise a real control over its members. As to theinfluence which the intelligence of one man has on that of another, itmust necessarily be very limited in a country where the citizens, placedon the footing of a general similitude, are all closely seen by eachother; and where, as no signs of incontestable greatness or superiorityare perceived in any one of them, they are constantly brought back totheir own reason as the most obvious and proximate source of truth. Itis not only confidence in this or that man which is then destroyed, butthe taste for trusting the ipse dixit of any man whatsoever. Everyoneshuts himself up in his own breast, and affects from that point to judgethe world. 

The practice which obtains amongst the Americans of fixing the standardof their judgment in themselves alone, leads them to other habits ofmind. As they perceive that they succeed in resolving without assistanceall the little difficulties which their practical life presents, theyreadily conclude that everything in the world may be explained, and thatnothing in it transcends the limits of the understanding. Thus they fallto denying what they cannot comprehend; which leaves them but littlefaith for whatever is extraordinary, and an almost insurmountabledistaste for whatever is supernatural. As it is on their own testimonythat they are accustomed to rely, they like to discern the object whichengages their attention with extreme clearness; they therefore strip offas much as possible all that covers it, they rid themselves of whateverseparates them from it, they remove whatever conceals it from sight, in order to view it more closely and in the broad light of day. Thisdisposition of the mind soon leads them to contemn forms, which theyregard as useless and inconvenient veils placed between them and thetruth. 

The Americans then have not required to extract their philosophicalmethod from books; they have found it in themselves. The same thing maybe remarked in what has taken place in Europe. This same method hasonly been established and made popular in Europe in proportion as thecondition of society has become more equal, and men have grown more likeeach other. Let us consider for a moment the connection of the periodsin which this change may be traced. In the sixteenth century theReformers subjected some of the dogmas of the ancient faith to thescrutiny of private judgment; but they still withheld from it thejudgment of all the rest. In the seventeenth century, Bacon in thenatural sciences, and Descartes in the study of philosophy in the strictsense of the term, abolished recognized formulas, destroyed theempire of tradition, and overthrew the authority of the schools. Thephilosophers of the eighteenth century, generalizing at length the sameprinciple, undertook to submit to the private judgment of each man allthe objects of his belief. 

Who does not perceive that Luther, Descartes, and Voltaire employedthe same method, and that they differed only in the greater or less usewhich they professed should be made of it? Why did the Reformers confinethemselves so closely within the circle of religious ideas? Why didDescartes, choosing only to apply his method to certain matters, thoughhe had made it fit to be applied to all, declare that men might judgefor themselves in matters philosophical but not in matters political?How happened it that in the eighteenth century those generalapplications were all at once drawn from this same method, whichDescartes and his predecessors had either not perceived or had rejected?To what, lastly, is the fact to be attributed, that at this periodthe method we are speaking of suddenly emerged from the schools, topenetrate into society and become the common standard of intelligence;and that, after it had become popular among the French, it has beenostensibly adopted or secretly followed by all the nations of Europe?

The philosophical method here designated may have been engendered inthe sixteenth century--it may have been more accurately defined and moreextensively applied in the seventeenth; but neither in the one nor inthe other could it be commonly adopted. Political laws, the conditionof society, and the habits of mind which are derived from these causes, were as yet opposed to it. It was discovered at a time when men werebeginning to equalize and assimilate their conditions. It could only begenerally followed in ages when those conditions had at length becomenearly equal, and men nearly alike. 

The philosophical method of the eighteenth century is then not onlyFrench, but it is democratic; and this explains why it was so readilyadmitted throughout Europe, where it has contributed so powerfully tochange the face of society. It is not because the French have changedtheir former opinions, and altered their former manners, that they haveconvulsed the world; but because they were the first to generalize andbring to light a philosophical method, by the assistance of which itbecame easy to attack all that was old, and to open a path to all thatwas new. 

If it be asked why, at the present day, this same method is morerigorously followed and more frequently applied by the French than bythe Americans, although the principle of equality be no less complete, and of more ancient date, amongst the latter people, the fact may beattributed to two circumstances, which it is essential to have clearlyunderstood in the first instance. It must never be forgotten thatreligion gave birth to Anglo-American society. In the United Statesreligion is therefore commingled with all the habits of the nation andall the feelings of patriotism; whence it derives a peculiar force. To this powerful reason another of no less intensity may be added: inAmerican religion has, as it were, laid down its own limits. Religiousinstitutions have remained wholly distinct from political institutions, so that former laws have been easily changed whilst former belief hasremained unshaken. Christianity has therefore retained a strong hold onthe public mind in America; and, I would more particularly remark, thatits sway is not only that of a philosophical doctrine which has beenadopted upon inquiry, but of a religion which is believed withoutdiscussion. In the United States Christian sects are infinitelydiversified and perpetually modified; but Christianity itself is a factso irresistibly established, that no one undertakes either to attack orto defend it. The Americans, having admitted the principal doctrines ofthe Christian religion without inquiry, are obliged to accept in likemanner a great number of moral truths originating in it and connectedwith it. Hence the activity of individual analysis is restrained withinnarrow limits, and many of the most important of human opinions areremoved from the range of its influence. 

The second circumstance to which I have alluded is the following: thesocial condition and the constitution of the Americans are democratic, but they have not had a democratic revolution. They arrived upon thesoil they occupy in nearly the condition in which we see them at thepresent day; and this is of very considerable importance. 

There are no revolutions which do not shake existing belief, enervateauthority, and throw doubts over commonly received ideas. The effect ofall revolutions is therefore, more or less, to surrender men to theirown guidance, and to open to the mind of every man a void and almostunlimited range of speculation. When equality of conditions succeedsa protracted conflict between the different classes of which the eldersociety was composed, envy, hatred, and uncharitableness, pride, andexaggerated self-confidence are apt to seize upon the human heart, and plant their sway there for a time. This, independently of equalityitself, tends powerfully to divide men--to lead them to mistrust thejudgment of others, and to seek the light of truth nowhere but in theirown understandings. Everyone then attempts to be his own sufficientguide, and makes it his boast to form his own opinions on all subjects. Men are no longer bound together by ideas, but by interests; and itwould seem as if human opinions were reduced to a sort of intellectualdust, scattered on every side, unable to collect, unable to cohere. 

Thus, that independence of mind which equality supposes to exist, isnever so great, nor ever appears so excessive, as at the time whenequality is beginning to establish itself, and in the course of thatpainful labor by which it is established. That sort of intellectualfreedom which equality may give ought, therefore, to be very carefullydistinguished from the anarchy which revolution brings. Each of thesetwo things must be severally considered, in order not to conceiveexaggerated hopes or fears of the future. 

I believe that the men who will live under the new forms of society willmake frequent use of their private judgment; but I am far from thinkingthat they will often abuse it. This is attributable to a cause of moregeneral application to all democratic countries, and which, in thelong run, must needs restrain in them the independence of individualspeculation within fixed, and sometimes narrow, limits. I shall proceedto point out this cause in the next chapter. 

Chapter II: Of The Principal Source Of Belief Among Democratic Nations

At different periods dogmatical belief is more or less abundant. Itarises in different ways, and it may change its object or its form; butunder no circumstances will dogmatical belief cease to exist, or, inother words, men will never cease to entertain some implicit opinionswithout trying them by actual discussion. If everyone undertook to formhis own opinions and to seek for truth by isolated paths struck out byhimself alone, it is not to be supposed that any considerable number ofmen would ever unite in any common belief. But obviously without suchcommon belief no society can prosper--say rather no society can subsist;for without ideas held in common, there is no common action, and withoutcommon action, there may still be men, but there is no social body. Inorder that society should exist, and, a fortiori, that a society shouldprosper, it is required that all the minds of the citizens should berallied and held together by certain predominant ideas; and this cannotbe the case, unless each of them sometimes draws his opinions from thecommon source, and consents to accept certain matters of belief at thehands of the community. 

If I now consider man in his isolated capacity, I find that dogmaticalbelief is not less indispensable to him in order to live alone, than itis to enable him to co-operate with his fellow-creatures. If man wereforced to demonstrate to himself all the truths of which he makesdaily use, his task would never end. He would exhaust his strengthin preparatory exercises, without advancing beyond them. As, from theshortness of his life, he has not the time, nor, from the limits of hisintelligence, the capacity, to accomplish this, he is reduced to takeupon trust a number of facts and opinions which he has not had eitherthe time or the power to verify himself, but which men of greaterability have sought out, or which the world adopts. On this groundworkhe raises for himself the structure of his own thoughts; nor is he ledto proceed in this manner by choice so much as he is constrained by theinflexible law of his condition. There is no philosopher of such greatparts in the world, but that he believes a million of things on thefaith of other people, and supposes a great many more truths than hedemonstrates. This is not only necessary but desirable. A man who shouldundertake to inquire into everything for himself, could devote to eachthing but little time and attention. His task would keep his mind inperpetual unrest, which would prevent him from penetrating to the depthof any truth, or of grappling his mind indissolubly to any conviction. His intellect would be at once independent and powerless. He musttherefore make his choice from amongst the various objects of humanbelief, and he must adopt many opinions without discussion, in orderto search the better into that smaller number which he sets apart forinvestigation. It is true that whoever receives an opinion on the wordof another, does so far enslave his mind; but it is a salutary servitudewhich allows him to make a good use of freedom. 

A principle of authority must then always occur, under allcircumstances, in some part or other of the moral and intellectualworld. Its place is variable, but a place it necessarily has. Theindependence of individual minds may be greater, or it may be less:unbounded it cannot be. Thus the question is, not to know whether anyintellectual authority exists in the ages of democracy, but simply whereit resides and by what standard it is to be measured. 

I have shown in the preceding chapter how the equality of conditionsleads men to entertain a sort of instinctive incredulity of thesupernatural, and a very lofty and often exaggerated opinion of thehuman understanding. The men who live at a period of social equality arenot therefore easily led to place that intellectual authority to whichthey bow either beyond or above humanity. They commonly seek for thesources of truth in themselves, or in those who are like themselves. This would be enough to prove that at such periods no new religion couldbe established, and that all schemes for such a purpose would be notonly impious but absurd and irrational. It may be foreseen that ademocratic people will not easily give credence to divine missions; thatthey will turn modern prophets to a ready jest; and they that will seekto discover the chief arbiter of their belief within, and not beyond, the limits of their kind. 

When the ranks of society are unequal, and men unlike each other incondition, there are some individuals invested with all the power ofsuperior intelligence, learning, and enlightenment, whilst the multitudeis sunk in ignorance and prejudice. Men living at these aristocraticperiods are therefore naturally induced to shape their opinions by thesuperior standard of a person or a class of persons, whilst they areaverse to recognize the infallibility of the mass of the people. 

The contrary takes place in ages of equality. The nearer the citizensare drawn to the common level of an equal and similar condition, theless prone does each man become to place implicit faith in a certain manor a certain class of men. But his readiness to believe the multitudeincreases, and opinion is more than ever mistress of the world. Not onlyis common opinion the only guide which private judgment retains amongsta democratic people, but amongst such a people it possesses a powerinfinitely beyond what it has elsewhere. At periods of equality men haveno faith in one another, by reason of their common resemblance; but thisvery resemblance gives them almost unbounded confidence in the judgmentof the public; for it would not seem probable, as they are all endowedwith equal means of judging, but that the greater truth should go withthe greater number. 

When the inhabitant of a democratic country compares himselfindividually with all those about him, he feels with pride that he isthe equal of any one of them; but when he comes to survey the totalityof his fellows, and to place himself in contrast to so huge a body, he is instantly overwhelmed by the sense of his own insignificance andweakness. The same equality which renders him independent of each of hisfellow-citizens taken severally, exposes him alone and unprotected tothe influence of the greater number. The public has therefore among ademocratic people a singular power, of which aristocratic nations couldnever so much as conceive an idea; for it does not persuade to certainopinions, but it enforces them, and infuses them into the faculties by asort of enormous pressure of the minds of all upon the reason of each. 

In the United States the majority undertakes to supply a multitude ofready-made opinions for the use of individuals, who are thus relievedfrom the necessity of forming opinions of their own. Everybody thereadopts great numbers of theories, on philosophy, morals, and politics, without inquiry, upon public trust; and if we look to it very narrowly, it will be perceived that religion herself holds her sway there, muchless as a doctrine of revelation than as a commonly received opinion. The fact that the political laws of the Americans are such that themajority rules the community with sovereign sway, materially increasesthe power which that majority naturally exercises over the mind. Fornothing is more customary in man than to recognize superior wisdom inthe person of his oppressor. This political omnipotence of the majorityin the United States doubtless augments the influence which publicopinion would obtain without it over the mind of each member of thecommunity; but the foundations of that influence do not rest upon it. They must be sought for in the principle of equality itself, not in themore or less popular institutions which men living under that conditionmay give themselves. The intellectual dominion of the greater numberwould probably be less absolute amongst a democratic people governedby a king than in the sphere of a pure democracy, but it will always beextremely absolute; and by whatever political laws men are governed inthe ages of equality, it may be foreseen that faith in publicopinion will become a species of religion there, and the majority itsministering prophet. 

Thus intellectual authority will be different, but it will not bediminished; and far from thinking that it will disappear, I augur thatit may readily acquire too much preponderance, and confine the actionof private judgment within narrower limits than are suited either tothe greatness or the happiness of the human race. In the principle ofequality I very clearly discern two tendencies; the one leading the mindof every man to untried thoughts, the other inclined to prohibit himfrom thinking at all. And I perceive how, under the dominion of certainlaws, democracy would extinguish that liberty of the mind to which ademocratic social condition is favorable; so that, after having brokenall the bondage once imposed on it by ranks or by men, the human mindwould be closely fettered to the general will of the greatest number. 

If the absolute power of the majority were to be substituted bydemocratic nations, for all the different powers which checked orretarded overmuch the energy of individual minds, the evil wouldonly have changed its symptoms. Men would not have found the means ofindependent life; they would simply have invented (no easy task) a newdress for servitude. There is--and I cannot repeat it too often--thereis in this matter for profound reflection for those who look on freedomas a holy thing, and who hate not only the despot, but despotism. Formyself, when I feel the hand of power lie heavy on my brow, I care butlittle to know who oppresses me; and I am not the more disposed to passbeneath the yoke, because it is held out to me by the arms of a millionof men. 

Chapter III: Why The Americans Display More Readiness And More Taste ForGeneral Ideas Than Their Forefathers, The English. 

The Deity does not regard the human race collectively. He surveys at oneglance and severally all the beings of whom mankind is composed, and hediscerns in each man the resemblances which assimilate him to all hisfellows, and the differences which distinguish him from them. God, therefore, stands in no need of general ideas; that is to say, he isnever sensible of the necessity of collecting a considerable numberof analogous objects under the same form for greater convenience inthinking. Such is, however, not the case with man. If the human mindwere to attempt to examine and pass a judgment on all the individualcases before it, the immensity of detail would soon lead it astrayand bewilder its discernment: in this strait, man has recourse toan imperfect but necessary expedient, which at once assists anddemonstrates his weakness. Having superficially considered a certainnumber of objects, and remarked their resemblance, he assigns to them acommon name, sets them apart, and proceeds onwards. 

General ideas are no proof of the strength, but rather of theinsufficiency of the human intellect; for there are in nature nobeings exactly alike, no things precisely identical, nor any rulesindiscriminately and alike applicable to several objects at once. Thechief merit of general ideas is, that they enable the human mind topass a rapid judgment on a great many objects at once; but, on the otherhand, the notions they convey are never otherwise than incomplete, andthey always cause the mind to lose as much in accuracy as it gainsin comprehensiveness. As social bodies advance in civilization, theyacquire the knowledge of new facts, and they daily lay hold almostunconsciously of some particular truths. The more truths of this kind aman apprehends, the more general ideas is he naturally led to conceive. A multitude of particular facts cannot be seen separately, without atlast discovering the common tie which connects them. Several individualslead to the perception of the species; several species to that of thegenus. Hence the habit and the taste for general ideas will alwaysbe greatest amongst a people of ancient cultivation and extensiveknowledge. 

But there are other reasons which impel men to generalize their ideas, or which restrain them from it. 

The Americans are much more addicted to the use of general ideas thanthe English, and entertain a much greater relish for them: this appearsvery singular at first sight, when it is remembered that the two nationshave the same origin, that they lived for centuries under the same laws, and that they still incessantly interchange their opinions and theirmanners. This contrast becomes much more striking still, if we fix oureyes on our own part of the world, and compare together the two mostenlightened nations which inhabit it. It would seem as if the mind ofthe English could only tear itself reluctantly and painfully away fromthe observation of particular facts, to rise from them to their causes;and that it only generalizes in spite of itself. Amongst the French, onthe contrary, the taste for general ideas would seem to have grown toso ardent a passion, that it must be satisfied on every occasion. I aminformed, every morning when I wake, that some general and eternal lawhas just been discovered, which I never heard mentioned before. There isnot a mediocre scribbler who does not try his hand at discovering truthsapplicable to a great kingdom, and who is very ill pleased with himselfif he does not succeed in compressing the human race into the compassof an article. So great a dissimilarity between two very enlightenednations surprises me. If I again turn my attention to England, andobserve the events which have occurred there in the last half-century, I think I may affirm that a taste for general ideas increases in thatcountry in proportion as its ancient constitution is weakened. 

The state of civilization is therefore insufficient by itself to explainwhat suggests to the human mind the love of general ideas, or diverts itfrom them. When the conditions of men are very unequal, and inequalityitself is the permanent state of society, individual men graduallybecome so dissimilar that each class assumes the aspect of a distinctrace: only one of these classes is ever in view at the same instant; andlosing sight of that general tie which binds them all within the vastbosom of mankind, the observation invariably rests not on man, but oncertain men. Those who live in this aristocratic state of society never, therefore, conceive very general ideas respecting themselves, and thatis enough to imbue them with an habitual distrust of such ideas, andan instinctive aversion of them. He, on the contrary, who inhabits ademocratic country, sees around him, one very hand, men differing butlittle from each other; he cannot turn his mind to any one portion ofmankind, without expanding and dilating his thought till it embrace thewhole. All the truths which are applicable to himself, appear to himequally and similarly applicable to each of his fellow-citizens andfellow-men. Having contracted the habit of generalizing his ideas inthe study which engages him most, and interests him more than others, he transfers the same habit to all his pursuits; and thus it is thatthe craving to discover general laws in everything, to include a greatnumber of objects under the same formula, and to explain a mass of factsby a single cause, becomes an ardent, and sometimes an undiscerning, passion in the human mind. 

Nothing shows the truth of this proposition more clearly than theopinions of the ancients respecting their slaves. The most profound andcapacious minds of Rome and Greece were never able to reach the idea, atonce so general and so simple, of the common likeness of men, and of thecommon birthright of each to freedom: they strove to prove that slaverywas in the order of nature, and that it would always exist. Nay, more, everything shows that those of the ancients who had passed from theservile to the free condition, many of whom have left us excellentwritings, did themselves regard servitude in no other light. 

All the great writers of antiquity belonged to the aristocracyof masters, or at least they saw that aristocracy established anduncontested before their eyes. Their mind, after it had expanded itselfin several directions, was barred from further progress in this one; andthe advent of Jesus Christ upon earth was required to teach that all themembers of the human race are by nature equal and alike. 

In the ages of equality all men are independent of each other, isolatedand weak. The movements of the multitude are not permanently guidedby the will of any individuals; at such times humanity seems always toadvance of itself. In order, therefore, to explain what is passing inthe world, man is driven to seek for some great causes, which, actingin the same manner on all our fellow-creatures, thus impel them allinvoluntarily to pursue the same track. This again naturally leads thehuman mind to conceive general ideas, and superinduces a taste for them. 

I have already shown in what way the equality of conditions leads everyman to investigate truths for himself. It may readily be perceived thata method of this kind must insensibly beget a tendency to general ideasin the human mind. When I repudiate the traditions of rank, profession, and birth; when I escape from the authority of example, to seek out, bythe single effort of my reason, the path to be followed, I am inclinedto derive the motives of my opinions from human nature itself; whichleads me necessarily, and almost unconsciously, to adopt a great numberof very general notions. 

All that I have here said explains the reasons for which the Englishdisplay much less readiness and taste or the generalization of ideasthan their American progeny, and still less again than their Frenchneighbors; and likewise the reason for which the English of the presentday display more of these qualities than their forefathers did. TheEnglish have long been a very enlightened and a very aristocraticnation; their enlightened condition urged them constantly to generalize, and their aristocratic habits confined them to particularize. Hencearose that philosophy, at once bold and timid, broad and narrow, which has hitherto prevailed in England, and which still obstructs andstagnates in so many minds in that country. 

Independently of the causes I have pointed out in what goes before, others may be discerned less apparent, but no less efficacious, whichengender amongst almost every democratic people a taste, and frequentlya passion, for general ideas. An accurate distinction must be takenbetween ideas of this kind. Some are the result of slow, minute, andconscientious labor of the mind, and these extend the sphere of humanknowledge; others spring up at once from the first rapid exercise of thewits, and beget none but very superficial and very uncertain notions. Men who live in ages of equality have a great deal of curiosity and verylittle leisure; their life is so practical, so confused, so excited, soactive, that but little time remains to them for thought. Such men areprone to general ideas because they spare them the trouble of studyingparticulars; they contain, if I may so speak, a great deal in a littlecompass, and give, in a little time, a great return. If then, upon abrief and inattentive investigation, a common relation is thought to bedetected between certain obtects, inquiry is not pushed any further; andwithout examining in detail how far these different objects differ oragree, they are hastily arranged under one formulary, in order to passto another subject. 

One of the distinguishing characteristics of a democratic period is thetaste all men have at such ties for easy success and present enjoyment. This occurs in the pursuits of the intellect as well as in all others. Most of those who live at a time of equality are full of an ambition atonce aspiring and relaxed: they would fain succeed brilliantly and atonce, but they would be dispensed from great efforts to obtain success. These conflicting tendencies lead straight to the research of generalideas, by aid of which they flatter themselves that they can figure veryimportantly at a small expense, and draw the attention of the publicwith very little trouble. And I know not whether they be wrong inthinking thus. For their readers are as much averse to investigatinganything to the bottom as they can be themselves; and what is generallysought in the productions of the mind is easy pleasure and informationwithout labor. 

If aristocratic nations do not make sufficient use of general ideas, and frequently treat them with inconsiderate disdain, it is true, onthe other hand, that a democratic people is ever ready to carry ideas ofthis kind to excess, and to espouse the with injudicious warmth. 

Chapter IV: Why The Americans Have Never Been So Eager As The French ForGeneral Ideas In Political Matters

I observed in the last chapter, that the Americans show a less decidedtaste for general ideas than the French; this is more especially true inpolitical matters. Although the Americans infuse into their legislationinfinitely more general ideas than the English, and although they paymuch more attention than the latter people to the adjustment of thepractice of affairs to theory, no political bodies in the UnitedStates have ever shown so warm an attachment to general ideas as theConstituent Assembly and the Convention in France. At no time has theAmerican people laid hold on ideas of this kind with the passionateenergy of the French people in the eighteenth century, or displayed thesame blind confidence in the value and absolute truth of any theory. This difference between the Americans and the French originates inseveral causes, but principally in the following one. The Americans forma democratic people, which has always itself directed public affairs. The French are a democratic people, who, for a long time, could onlyspeculate on the best manner of conducting them. The social condition ofFrance led that people to conceive very general ideas on the subjectof government, whilst its political constitution prevented it fromcorrecting those ideas by experiment, and from gradually detecting theirinsufficiency; whereas in America the two things constantly balance andcorrect each other. 

It may seem, at first sight, that this is very much opposed to what Ihave said before, that democratic nations derive their love of theoryfrom the excitement of their active life. A more attentive examinationwill show that there is nothing contradictory in the proposition. Menliving in democratic countries eagerly lay hold of general ideas becausethey have but little leisure, and because these ideas spare them thetrouble of studying particulars. This is true; but it is only to beunderstood to apply to those matters which are not the necessary andhabitual subjects of their thoughts. Mercantile men will take up veryeagerly, and without any very close scrutiny, all the general ideas onphilosophy, politics, science, or the arts, which may be presented tothem; but for such as relate to commerce, they will not receive themwithout inquiry, or adopt them without reserve. The same thing appliesto statesmen with regard to general ideas in politics. If, then, therebe a subject upon which a democratic people is peculiarly liable toabandon itself, blindly and extravagantly, to general ideas, the bestcorrective that can be used will be to make that subject a part ofthe daily practical occupation of that people. The people will then becompelled to enter upon its details, and the details will teach them theweak points of the theory. This remedy may frequently be a painful one, but its effect is certain. 

Thus it happens, that the democratic institutions which compel everycitizen to take a practical part in the government, moderate thatexcessive taste for general theories in politics which the principle ofequality suggests. 

Chapter V: Of The Manner In Which Religion In The United States AvailsItself Of Democratic Tendencies

I have laid it down in a preceding chapter that men cannot do withoutdogmatical belief; and even that it is very much to be desired that suchbelief should exist amongst them. I now add, that of all the kinds ofdogmatical belief the most desirable appears to me to be dogmaticalbelief in matters of religion; and this is a very clear inference, evenfrom no higher consideration than the interests of this world. There ishardly any human action, however particular a character be assignedto it, which does not originate in some very general idea men haveconceived of the Deity, of his relation to mankind, of the nature oftheir own souls, and of their duties to their fellow-creatures. Nor cananything prevent these ideas from being the common spring from whicheverything else emanates. Men are therefore immeasurably interested inacquiring fixed ideas of God, of the soul, and of their common dutiesto their Creator and to their fellow-men; for doubt on these firstprinciples would abandon all their actions to the impulse of chance, and would condemn them to live, to a certain extent, powerless andundisciplined. 

This is then the subject on which it is most important for each of us toentertain fixed ideas; and unhappily it is also the subject on whichit is most difficult for each of us, left to himself, to settle hisopinions by the sole force of his reason. None but minds singularly freefrom the ordinary anxieties of life--minds at once penetrating, subtle, and trained by thinking--can even with the assistance of much time andcare, sound the depth of these most necessary truths. And, indeed, wesee that these philosophers are themselves almost always enshrouded inuncertainties; that at every step the natural light which illuminatestheir path grows dimmer and less secure; and that, in spite of all theirefforts, they have as yet only discovered a small number of conflictingnotions, on which the mind of man has been tossed about for thousands ofyears, without either laying a firmer grasp on truth, or finding noveltyeven in its errors. Studies of this nature are far above the averagecapacity of men; and even if the majority of mankind were capable ofsuch pursuits, it is evident that leisure to cultivate them would stillbe wanting. Fixed ideas of God and human nature are indispensable to thedaily practice of men's lives; but the practice of their lives preventsthem from acquiring such ideas. 

The difficulty appears to me to be without a parallel. Amongst thesciences there are some which are useful to the mass of mankind, andwhich are within its reach; others can only be approached by the few, and are not cultivated by the many, who require nothing beyond theirmore remote applications: but the daily practice of the science I speakof is indispensable to all, although the study of it is inaccessible tothe far greater number. 

General ideas respecting God and human nature are therefore the ideasabove all others which it is most suitable to withdraw from the habitualaction of private judgment, and in which there is most to gain and leastto lose by recognizing a principle of authority. The first object andone of the principal advantages of religions, is to furnish to each ofthese fundamental questions a solution which is at once clear, precise, intelligible to the mass of mankind, and lasting. There are religionswhich are very false and very absurd; but it may be affirmed, that anyreligion which remains within the circle I have just traced, withoutaspiring to go beyond it (as many religions have attempted to do, forthe purpose of enclosing on every side the free progress of the humanmind), imposes a salutary restraint on the intellect; and it must beadmitted that, if it do not save men in another world, such religion isat least very conducive to their happiness and their greatness in this. This is more especially true of men living in free countries. Whenthe religion of a people is destroyed, doubt gets hold of the highestportions of the intellect, and half paralyzes all the rest of itspowers. Every man accustoms himself to entertain none but confusedand changing notions on the subjects most interesting to hisfellow-creatures and himself. His opinions are ill-defended and easilyabandoned: and, despairing of ever resolving by himself the hardestproblems of the destiny of man, he ignobly submits to think no moreabout them. Such a condition cannot but enervate the soul, relax thesprings of the will, and prepare a people for servitude. Nor does itonly happen, in such a case, that they allow their freedom to be wrestedfrom them; they frequently themselves surrender it. When there is nolonger any principle of authority in religion any more than inpolitics, men are speedily frightened at the aspect of this unboundedindependence. The constant agitation of all surrounding things alarmsand exhausts them. As everything is at sea in the sphere of theintellect, they determine at least that the mechanism of society shouldbe firm and fixed; and as they cannot resume their ancient belief, theyassume a master. 

For my own part, I doubt whether man can ever support at the same timecomplete religious independence and entire public freedom. And I aminclined to think, that if faith be wanting in him, he must serve; andif he be free, he must believe. 

Perhaps, however, this great utility of religions is still more obviousamongst nations where equality of conditions prevails than amongstothers. It must be acknowledged that equality, which brings greatbenefits into the world, nevertheless suggests to men (as will be shownhereafter) some very dangerous propensities. It tends to isolate themfrom each other, to concentrate every man's attention upon himself; andit lays open the soul to an inordinate love of material gratification. The greatest advantage of religion is to inspire diametrically contraryprinciples. There is no religion which does not place the object ofman's desires above and beyond the treasures of earth, and which doesnot naturally raise his soul to regions far above those of the senses. Nor is there any which does not impose on man some sort of duties tohis kind, and thus draws him at times from the contemplation of himself. This occurs in religions the most false and dangerous. Religious nationsare therefore naturally strong on the very point on which democraticnations are weak; which shows of what importance it is for men topreserve their religion as their conditions become more equal. 

I have neither the right nor the intention of examining the supernaturalmeans which God employs to infuse religious belief into the heart ofman. I am at this moment considering religions in a purely human pointof view: my object is to inquire by what means they may most easilyretain their sway in the democratic ages upon which we are entering. Ithas been shown that, at times of general cultivation and equality, the human mind does not consent to adopt dogmatical opinions withoutreluctance, and feels their necessity acutely in spiritual matters only. This proves, in the first place, that at such times religions ought, more cautiously than at any other, to confine themselves within theirown precincts; for in seeking to extend their power beyond religiousmatters, they incur a risk of not being believed at all. The circlewithin which they seek to bound the human intellect ought therefore tobe carefully traced, and beyond its verge the mind should be left inentire freedom to its own guidance. Mahommed professed to derive fromHeaven, and he has inserted in the Koran, not only a body of religiousdoctrines, but political maxims, civil and criminal laws, and theoriesof science. The gospel, on the contrary, only speaks of the generalrelations of men to God and to each other--beyond which it inculcatesand imposes no point of faith. This alone, besides a thousand otherreasons, would suffice to prove that the former of these religions willnever long predominate in a cultivated and democratic age, whilst thelatter is destined to retain its sway at these as at all other periods. 

But in continuation of this branch of the subject, I find that inorder for religions to maintain their authority, humanly speaking, indemocratic ages, they must not only confine themselves strictly withinthe circle of spiritual matters: their power also depends very muchon the nature of the belief they inculcate, on the external forms theyassume, and on the obligations they impose. The preceding observation, that equality leads men to very general and very extensive notions, isprincipally to be understood as applied to the question of religion. Menliving in a similar and equal condition in the world readily conceivethe idea of the one God, governing every man by the same laws, andgranting to every man future happiness on the same conditions. The ideaof the unity of mankind constantly leads them back to the idea of theunity of the Creator; whilst, on the contrary, in a state of societywhere men are broken up into very unequal ranks, they are apt to deviseas many deities as there are nations, castes, classes, or families, andto trace a thousand private roads to heaven. 

It cannot be denied that Christianity itself has felt, to a certainextent, the influence which social and political conditions exerciseon religious opinions. At the epoch at which the Christian religionappeared upon earth, Providence, by whom the world was doubtlessprepared for its coming, had gathered a large portion of the human race, like an immense flock, under the sceptre of the Caesars. The men of whomthis multitude was composed were distinguished by numerous differences;but they had thus much in common, that they all obeyed the same laws, and that every subject was so weak and insignificant in relation to theimperial potentate, that all appeared equal when their conditionwas contrasted with his. This novel and peculiar state of mankindnecessarily predisposed men to listen to the general truths whichChristianity teaches, and may serve to explain the facility and rapiditywith which they then penetrated into the human mind. The counterpart ofthis state of things was exhibited after the destruction of theempire. The Roman world being then as it were shattered into a thousandfragments, each nation resumed its pristine individuality. An infinitescale of ranks very soon grew up in the bosom of these nations; thedifferent races were more sharply defined, and each nation was dividedby castes into several peoples. In the midst of this common effort, which seemed to be urging human society to the greatest conceivableamount of voluntary subdivision, Christianity did not lose sight ofthe leading general ideas which it had brought into the world. But itappeared, nevertheless, to lend itself, as much as was possible, tothose new tendencies to which the fractional distribution of mankindhad given birth. Men continued to worship an only God, the Creator andPreserver of all things; but every people, every city, and, so to speak, every man, thought to obtain some distinct privilege, and win the favorof an especial patron at the foot of the Throne of Grace. Unableto subdivide the Deity, they multiplied and improperly enhanced theimportance of the divine agents. The homage due to saints and angelsbecame an almost idolatrous worship amongst the majority of theChristian world; and apprehensions might be entertained for a momentlest the religion of Christ should retrograde towards the superstitionswhich it had subdued. It seems evident, that the more the barriers areremoved which separate nation from nation amongst mankind, and citizenfrom citizen amongst a people, the stronger is the bent of the humanmind, as if by its own impulse, towards the idea of an only andall-powerful Being, dispensing equal laws in the same manner to everyman. In democratic ages, then, it is more particularly important notto allow the homage paid to secondary agents to be confounded with theworship due to the Creator alone. 

Another truth is no less clear--that religions ought to assume fewerexternal observances in democratic periods than at any others. Inspeaking of philosophical method among the Americans, I have shown thatnothing is more repugnant to the human mind in an age of equality thanthe idea of subjection to forms. Men living at such times are impatientof figures; to their eyes symbols appear to be the puerile artificewhich is used to conceal or to set off truths, which should morenaturally be bared to the light of open day: they are unmoved byceremonial observances, and they are predisposed to attach a secondaryimportance to the details of public worship. Those whose care it is toregulate the external forms of religion in a democratic age should paya close attention to these natural propensities of the human mind, inorder not unnecessarily to run counter to them. I firmly believe in thenecessity of forms, which fix the human mind in the contemplation ofabstract truths, and stimulate its ardor in the pursuit of them, whilstthey invigorate its powers of retaining them steadfastly. Nor do Isuppose that it is possible to maintain a religion without externalobservances; but, on the other hand, I am persuaded that, in the agesupon which we are entering, it would be peculiarly dangerous to multiplythem beyond measure; and that they ought rather to be limited to as muchas is absolutely necessary to perpetuate the doctrine itself, which isthe substance of religions of which the ritual is only the form. *aA religion which should become more minute, more peremptory, and moresurcharged with small observances at a time in which men are becomingmore equal, would soon find itself reduced to a band of fanaticalzealots in the midst of an infidel people. 

[Footnote a: In all religions there are some ceremonies which areinherent in the substance of the faith itself, and in these nothingshould, on any account, be changed. This is especially the case withRoman Catholicism, in which the doctrine and the form are frequently soclosely united as to form one point of belief. ]

I anticipate the objection, that as all religions have general andeternal truths for their object, they cannot thus shape themselvesto the shifting spirit of every age without forfeiting their claimto certainty in the eyes of mankind. To this I reply again, that theprincipal opinions which constitute belief, and which theologianscall articles of faith, must be very carefully distinguished from theaccessories connected with them. Religions are obliged to hold fast tothe former, whatever be the peculiar spirit of the age; but they shouldtake good care not to bind themselves in the same manner to thelatter at a time when everything is in transition, and when the mind, accustomed to the moving pageant of human affairs, reluctantly enduresthe attempt to fix it to any given point. The fixity of external andsecondary things can only afford a chance of duration when civil societyis itself fixed; under any other circumstances I hold it to be perilous. 

We shall have occasion to see that, of all the passions which originatein, or are fostered by, equality, there is one which it renderspeculiarly intense, and which it infuses at the same time into the heartof every man: I mean the love of well-being. The taste for well-beingis the prominent and indelible feature of democratic ages. It may bebelieved that a religion which should undertake to destroy so deepseated a passion, would meet its own destruction thence in the end; andif it attempted to wean men entirely from the contemplation of the goodthings of this world, in order to devote their faculties exclusively tothe thought of another, it may be foreseen that the soul would at lengthescape from its grasp, to plunge into the exclusive enjoyment of presentand material pleasures. The chief concern of religions is to purify, to regulate, and to restrain the excessive and exclusive taste forwell-being which men feel at periods of equality; but they would err inattempting to control it completely or to eradicate it. They will notsucceed in curing men of the love of riches: but they may still persuademen to enrich themselves by none but honest means. 

This brings me to a final consideration, which comprises, as it were, all the others. The more the conditions of men are equalized andassimilated to each other, the more important is it for religions, whilst they carefully abstain from the daily turmoil of secular affairs, not needlessly to run counter to the ideas which generally prevail, andthe permanent interests which exist in the mass of the people. For aspublic opinion grows to be more and more evidently the first and mostirresistible of existing powers, the religious principle has no externalsupport strong enough to enable it long to resist its attacks. Thisis not less true of a democratic people, ruled by a despot, than in arepublic. In ages of equality, kings may often command obedience, but the majority always commands belief: to the majority, therefore, deference is to be paid in whatsoever is not contrary to the faith. 

I showed in my former volumes how the American clergy stand aloof fromsecular affairs. This is the most obvious, but it is not the only, example of their self-restraint. In America religion is a distinctsphere, in which the priest is sovereign, but out of which he takescare never to go. Within its limits he is the master of the mind;beyond them, he leaves men to themselves, and surrenders them to theindependence and instability which belong to their nature and theirage. I have seen no country in which Christianity is clothed with fewerforms, figures, and observances than in the United States; or whereit presents more distinct, more simple, or more general notions to themind. Although the Christians of America are divided into a multitude ofsects, they all look upon their religion in the same light. This appliesto Roman Catholicism as well as to the other forms of belief. Thereare no Romish priests who show less taste for the minute individualobservances for extraordinary or peculiar means of salvation, or whocling more to the spirit, and less to the letter of the law, than theRoman Catholic priests of the United States. Nowhere is that doctrine ofthe Church, which prohibits the worship reserved to God alone frombeing offered to the saints, more clearly inculcated or more generallyfollowed. Yet the Roman Catholics of America are very submissive andvery sincere. 

Another remark is applicable to the clergy of every communion. TheAmerican ministers of the gospel do not attempt to draw or to fix allthe thoughts of man upon the life to come; they are willing to surrendera portion of his heart to the cares of the present; seeming to considerthe goods of this world as important, although as secondary, objects. If they take no part themselves in productive labor, they are at leastinterested in its progression, and ready to applaud its results; andwhilst they never cease to point to the other world as the great objectof the hopes and fears of the believer, they do not forbid him honestlyto court prosperity in this. Far from attempting to show that thesethings are distinct and contrary to one another, they study rather tofind out on what point they are most nearly and closely connected. 

All the American clergy know and respect the intellectual supremacyexercised by the majority; they never sustain any but necessaryconflicts with it. They take no share in the altercations of parties, but they readily adopt the general opinions of their country and theirage; and they allow themselves to be borne away without opposition inthe current of feeling and opinion by which everything around them iscarried along. They endeavor to amend their contemporaries, but they donot quit fellowship with them. Public opinion is therefore never hostileto them; it rather supports and protects them; and their belief owes itsauthority at the same time to the strength which is its own, and to thatwhich they borrow from the opinions of the majority. Thus it is that, byrespecting all democratic tendencies not absolutely contrary to herself, and by making use of several of them for her own purposes, religionsustains an advantageous struggle with that spirit of individualindependence which is her most dangerous antagonist. 

Chapter VI: Of The Progress Of Roman Catholicism In The United States

America is the most democratic country in the world, and it is at thesame time (according to reports worthy of belief) the country in whichthe Roman Catholic religion makes most progress. At first sight this issurprising. Two things must here be accurately distinguished: equalityinclines men to wish to form their own opinions; but, on the other hand, it imbues them with the taste and the idea of unity, simplicity, and impartiality in the power which governs society. Men living indemocratic ages are therefore very prone to shake off all religiousauthority; but if they consent to subject themselves to any authorityof this kind, they choose at least that it should be single and uniform. Religious powers not radiating from a common centre are naturallyrepugnant to their minds; and they almost as readily conceive that thereshould be no religion, as that there should be several. At the presenttime, more than in any preceding one, Roman Catholics are seen to lapseinto infidelity, and Protestants to be converted to Roman Catholicism. If the Roman Catholic faith be considered within the pale of the church, it would seem to be losing ground; without that pale, to be gaining it. Nor is this circumstance difficult of explanation. The men of ourdays are naturally disposed to believe; but, as soon as they have anyreligion, they immediately find in themselves a latent propensity whichurges them unconsciously towards Catholicism. Many of the doctrines andthe practices of the Romish Church astonish them; but they feel a secretadmiration for its discipline, and its great unity attracts them. If Catholicism could at length withdraw itself from the politicalanimosities to which it has given rise, I have hardly any doubt but thatthe same spirit of the age, which appears to be so opposed to it, wouldbecome so favorable as to admit of its great and sudden advancement. One of the most ordinary weaknesses of the human intellect is to seek toreconcile contrary principles, and to purchase peace at the expenseof logic. Thus there have ever been, and will ever be, men who, afterhaving submitted some portion of their religious belief to the principleof authority, will seek to exempt several other parts of their faithfrom its influence, and to keep their minds floating at random betweenliberty and obedience. But I am inclined to believe that the number ofthese thinkers will be less in democratic than in other ages; and thatour posterity will tend more and more to a single division into twoparts--some relinquishing Christianity entirely, and others returning tothe bosom of the Church of Rome. 

Chapter VII: Of The Cause Of A Leaning To Pantheism Amongst DemocraticNations

I shall take occasion hereafter to show under what form thepreponderating taste of a democratic people for very general ideasmanifests itself in politics; but I would point out, at the presentstage of my work, its principal effect on philosophy. It cannot bedenied that pantheism has made great progress in our age. The writingsof a part of Europe bear visible marks of it: the Germans introduce itinto philosophy, and the French into literature. Most of the works ofimagination published in France contain some opinions or some tingecaught from pantheistical doctrines, or they disclose some tendency tosuch doctrines in their authors. This appears to me not only to proceedfrom an accidental, but from a permanent cause. 

When the conditions of society are becoming more equal, and eachindividual man becomes more like all the rest, more weak and moreinsignificant, a habit grows up of ceasing to notice the citizens toconsider only the people, and of overlooking individuals to think onlyof their kind. At such times the human mind seeks to embrace a multitudeof different objects at once; and it constantly strives to succeed inconnecting a variety of consequences with a single cause. The ideaof unity so possesses itself of man, and is sought for by him souniversally, that if he thinks he has found it, he readily yieldshimself up to repose in that belief. Nor does he content himself withthe discovery that nothing is in the world but a creation and a Creator;still embarrassed by this primary division of things, he seeks to expandand to simplify his conception by including God and the universe in onegreat whole. If there be a philosophical system which teaches that allthings material and immaterial, visible and invisible, which the worldcontains, are only to be considered as the several parts of an immenseBeing, which alone remains unchanged amidst the continual change andceaseless transformation of all that constitutes it, we may readilyinfer that such a system, although it destroy the individuality ofman--nay, rather because it destroys that individuality--will havesecret charms for men living in democracies. All their habits ofthought prepare them to conceive it, and predispose them to adopt it. It naturally attracts and fixes their imagination; it fosters the pride, whilst it soothes the indolence, of their minds. Amongst the differentsystems by whose aid philosophy endeavors to explain the universe, Ibelieve pantheism to be one of those most fitted to seduce the humanmind in democratic ages. Against it all who abide in their attachment tothe true greatness of man should struggle and combine. 

Chapter VIII: The Principle Of Equality Suggests To The Americans TheIdea Of The Indefinite Perfectibility Of Man

Equality suggests to the human mind several ideas which would not haveoriginated from any other source, and it modifies almost all thosepreviously entertained. I take as an example the idea of humanperfectibility, because it is one of the principal notions that theintellect can conceive, and because it constitutes of itself a greatphilosophical theory, which is every instant to be traced by itsconsequences in the practice of human affairs. Although man has manypoints of resemblance with the brute creation, one characteristic ispeculiar to himself--he improves: they are incapable of improvement. Mankind could not fail to discover this difference from its earliestperiod. The idea of perfectibility is therefore as old as the world;equality did not give birth to it, although it has imparted to it anovel character. 

When the citizens of a community are classed according to their rank, their profession, or their birth, and when all men are constrained tofollow the career which happens to open before them, everyone thinksthat the utmost limits of human power are to be discerned in proximityto himself, and none seeks any longer to resist the inevitable law ofhis destiny. Not indeed that an aristocratic people absolutely contestsman's faculty of self-improvement, but they do not hold it to beindefinite; amelioration they conceive, but not change: they imaginethat the future condition of society may be better, but not essentiallydifferent; and whilst they admit that mankind has made vast stridesin improvement, and may still have some to make, they assign to itbeforehand certain impassable limits. Thus they do not presume that theyhave arrived at the supreme good or at absolute truth (what peopleor what man was ever wild enough to imagine it?) but they cherish apersuasion that they have pretty nearly reached that degree of greatnessand knowledge which our imperfect nature admits of; and as nothingmoves about them they are willing to fancy that everything is in its fitplace. Then it is that the legislator affects to lay down eternal laws;that kings and nations will raise none but imperishable monuments; andthat the present generation undertakes to spare generations to come thecare of regulating their destinies. 

In proportion as castes disappear and the classes of societyapproximate--as manners, customs, and laws vary, from the tumultuousintercourse of men--as new facts arise--as new truths are broughtto light--as ancient opinions are dissipated, and others take theirplace--the image of an ideal perfection, forever on the wing, presentsitself to the human mind. Continual changes are then every instantoccurring under the observation of every man: the position of someis rendered worse; and he learns but too well, that no people andno individual, how enlightened soever they may be, can lay claim toinfallibility;--the condition of others is improved; whence he infersthat man is endowed with an indefinite faculty of improvement. Hisreverses teach him that none may hope to have discovered absolutegood--his success stimulates him to the never-ending pursuit ofit. Thus, forever seeking--forever falling, to rise again--oftendisappointed, but not discouraged--he tends unceasingly towards thatunmeasured greatness so indistinctly visible at the end of the longtrack which humanity has yet to tread. It can hardly be believedhow many facts naturally flow from the philosophical theory of theindefinite perfectibility of man, or how strong an influence itexercises even on men who, living entirely for the purposes of actionand not of thought, seem to conform their actions to it, without knowinganything about it. I accost an American sailor, and I inquire why theships of his country are built so as to last but for a short time;he answers without hesitation that the art of navigation is every daymaking such rapid progress, that the finest vessel would become almostuseless if it lasted beyond a certain number of years. In these words, which fell accidentally and on a particular subject from a man of rudeattainments, I recognize the general and systematic idea upon which agreat people directs all its concerns. 

Aristocratic nations are naturally too apt to narrow the scope of humanperfectibility; democratic nations to expand it beyond compass. 

Chapter IX: The Example Of The Americans Does Not Prove That ADemocratic People Can Have No Aptitude And No Taste For Science, Literature, Or Art

It must be acknowledged that amongst few of the civilized nations ofour time have the higher sciences made less progress than in the UnitedStates; and in few have great artists, fine poets, or celebrated writersbeen more rare. Many Europeans, struck by this fact, have looked upon itas a natural and inevitable result of equality; and they have supposedthat if a democratic state of society and democratic institutions wereever to prevail over the whole earth, the human mind would graduallyfind its beacon-lights grow dim, and men would relapse into a period ofdarkness. To reason thus is, I think, to confound several ideas whichit is important to divide and to examine separately: it is to mingle, unintentionally, what is democratic with what is only American. 

The religion professed by the first emigrants, and bequeathed by themto their descendants, simple in its form of worship, austere andalmost harsh in its principles, and hostile to external symbols and toceremonial pomp, is naturally unfavorable to the fine arts, and onlyyields a reluctant sufferance to the pleasures of literature. TheAmericans are a very old and a very enlightened people, who have fallenupon a new and unbounded country, where they may extend themselves atpleasure, and which they may fertilize without difficulty. This stateof things is without a parallel in the history of the world. In America, then, every one finds facilities, unknown elsewhere, for making orincreasing his fortune. The spirit of gain is always on the stretch, andthe human mind, constantly diverted from the pleasures of imaginationand the labors of the intellect, is there swayed by no impulse but thepursuit of wealth. Not only are manufacturing and commercial classes tobe found in the United States, as they are in all other countries; butwhat never occurred elsewhere, the whole community is simultaneouslyengaged in productive industry and commerce. I am convinced that, ifthe Americans had been alone in the world, with the freedom and theknowledge acquired by their forefathers, and the passions which aretheir own, they would not have been slow to discover that progresscannot long be made in the application of the sciences withoutcultivating the theory of them; that all the arts are perfected by oneanother: and, however absorbed they might have been by the pursuitof the principal object of their desires, they would speedily haveadmitted, that it is necessary to turn aside from it occasionally, inorder the better to attain it in the end. 

The taste for the pleasures of the mind is moreover so natural to theheart of civilized man, that amongst the polite nations, which are leastdisposed to give themselves up to these pursuits, a certain number ofcitizens are always to be found who take part in them. This intellectualcraving, when once felt, would very soon have been satisfied. But at thevery time when the Americans were naturally inclined to require nothingof science but its special applications to the useful arts and the meansof rendering life comfortable, learned and literary Europe was engagedin exploring the common sources of truth, and in improving at the sametime all that can minister to the pleasures or satisfy the wants of man. At the head of the enlightened nations of the Old World the inhabitantsof the United States more particularly distinguished one, to which theywere closely united by a common origin and by kindred habits. Amongstthis people they found distinguished men of science, artists of skill, writers of eminence, and they were enabled to enjoy the treasures of theintellect without requiring to labor in amassing them. I cannot consentto separate America from Europe, in spite of the ocean which intervenes. I consider the people of the United States as that portion of theEnglish people which is commissioned to explore the wilds of the NewWorld; whilst the rest of the nation, enjoying more leisure and lessharassed by the drudgery of life, may devote its energies to thought, and enlarge in all directions the empire of the mind. The position ofthe Americans is therefore quite exceptional, and it may be believedthat no democratic people will ever be placed in a similar one. Theirstrictly Puritanical origin--their exclusively commercial habits--eventhe country they inhabit, which seems to divert their minds from thepursuit of science, literature, and the arts--the proximity of Europe, which allows them to neglect these pursuits without relapsing intobarbarism--a thousand special causes, of which I have only been able topoint out the most important--have singularly concurred to fix the mindof the American upon purely practical objects. His passions, his wants, his education, and everything about him seem to unite in drawing thenative of the United States earthward: his religion alone bids him turn, from time to time, a transient and distracted glance to heaven. Let uscease then to view all democratic nations under the mask of the Americanpeople, and let us attempt to survey them at length with their ownproper features. 

It is possible to conceive a people not subdivided into any castes orscale of ranks; in which the law, recognizing no privileges, shoulddivide inherited property into equal shares; but which, at the sametime, should be without knowledge and without freedom. Nor is this anempty hypothesis: a despot may find that it is his interest to renderhis subjects equal and to leave them ignorant, in order more easily tokeep them slaves. Not only would a democratic people of this kind showneither aptitude nor taste for science, literature, or art, but it wouldprobably never arrive at the possession of them. The law of descentwould of itself provide for the destruction of fortunes at eachsucceeding generation; and new fortunes would be acquired by none. Thepoor man, without either knowledge or freedom, would not so much asconceive the idea of raising himself to wealth; and the rich manwould allow himself to be degraded to poverty, without a notion ofself-defence. Between these two members of the community complete andinvincible equality would soon be established. 

No one would then have time or taste to devote himself to the pursuitsor pleasures of the intellect; but all men would remain paralyzed bya state of common ignorance and equal servitude. When I conceive ademocratic society of this kind, I fancy myself in one of those low, close, and gloomy abodes, where the light which breaks in from withoutsoon faints and fades away. A sudden heaviness overpowers me, and Igrope through the surrounding darkness, to find the aperture which willrestore me to daylight and the air. 

But all this is not applicable to men already enlightened who retaintheir freedom, after having abolished from amongst them those peculiarand hereditary rights which perpetuated the tenure of property in thehands of certain individuals or certain bodies. When men living in ademocratic state of society are enlightened, they readily discover thatthey are confined and fixed within no limits which constrain them totake up with their present fortune. They all therefore conceive the ideaof increasing it; if they are free, they all attempt it, but all donot succeed in the same manner. The legislature, it is true, nolonger grants privileges, but they are bestowed by nature. As naturalinequality is very great, fortunes become unequal as soon as every manexerts all his faculties to get rich. The law of descent prevents theestablishment of wealthy families; but it does not prevent the existenceof wealthy individuals. It constantly brings back the members of thecommunity to a common level, from which they as constantly escape:and the inequality of fortunes augments in proportion as knowledge isdiffused and liberty increased. 

A sect which arose in our time, and was celebrated for its talents andits extravagance, proposed to concentrate all property into the hands ofa central power, whose function it should afterwards be to parcel itout to individuals, according to their capacity. This would have been amethod of escaping from that complete and eternal equality which seemsto threaten democratic society. But it would be a simpler and lessdangerous remedy to grant no privilege to any, giving to all equalcultivation and equal independence, and leaving everyone to determinehis own position. Natural inequality will very soon make way for itself, and wealth will spontaneously pass into the hands of the most capable. 

Free and democratic communities, then, will always contain aconsiderable number of people enjoying opulence or competency. Thewealthy will not be so closely linked to each other as the members ofthe former aristocratic class of society: their propensities will bedifferent, and they will scarcely ever enjoy leisure as secure or ascomplete: but they will be far more numerous than those who belonged tothat class of society could ever be. These persons will not be strictlyconfined to the cares of practical life, and they will still be able, though in different degrees, to indulge in the pursuits and pleasures ofthe intellect. In those pleasures they will indulge; for if it be truethat the human mind leans on one side to the narrow, the practical, and the useful, it naturally rises on the other to the infinite, thespiritual, and the beautiful. Physical wants confine it to the earth;but, as soon as the tie is loosened, it will unbend itself again. 

Not only will the number of those who can take an interest in theproductions of the mind be enlarged, but the taste for intellectualenjoyment will descend, step by step, even to those who, in aristocraticsocieties, seem to have neither time nor ability to in indulge in them. When hereditary wealth, the privileges of rank, and the prerogatives ofbirth have ceased to be, and when every man derives his strength fromhimself alone, it becomes evident that the chief cause of disparitybetween the fortunes of men is the mind. Whatever tends to invigorate, to extend, or to adorn the mind, instantly rises to great value. Theutility of knowledge becomes singularly conspicuous even to the eyes ofthe multitude: those who have no taste for its charms set store upon itsresults, and make some efforts to acquire it. In free and enlighteneddemocratic ages, there is nothing to separate men from each other orto retain them in their peculiar sphere; they rise or sink with extremerapidity. All classes live in perpetual intercourse from their greatproximity to each other. They communicate and intermingle everyday--they imitate and envy one other: this suggests to the people manyideas, notions, and desires which it would never have entertained if thedistinctions of rank had been fixed and society at rest. In suchnations the servant never considers himself as an entire stranger tothe pleasures and toils of his master, nor the poor man to those of therich; the rural population assimilates itself to that of the towns, andthe provinces to the capital. No one easily allows himself to be reducedto the mere material cares of life; and the humblest artisan castsat times an eager and a furtive glance into the higher regions of theintellect. People do not read with the same notions or in the samemanner as they do in an aristocratic community; but the circle ofreaders is unceasingly expanded, till it includes all the citizens. 

As soon as the multitude begins to take an interest in the labors of themind, it finds out that to excel in some of them is a powerful method ofacquiring fame, power, or wealth. The restless ambition which equalitybegets instantly takes this direction as it does all others. The numberof those who cultivate science, letters, and the arts, becomes immense. The intellectual world starts into prodigious activity: everyoneendeavors to open for himself a path there, and to draw the eyes of thepublic after him. Something analogous occurs to what happens in societyin the United States, politically considered. What is done is oftenimperfect, but the attempts are innumerable; and, although the resultsof individual effort are commonly very small, the total amount is alwaysvery large. 

It is therefore not true to assert that men living in democratic agesare naturally indifferent to science, literature, and the arts: only itmust be acknowledged that they cultivate them after their ownfashion, and bring to the task their own peculiar qualifications anddeficiencies. 

Chapter X: Why The Americans Are More Addicted To Practical Than ToTheoretical Science

If a democratic state of society and democratic institutions do notstop the career of the human mind, they incontestably guide it in onedirection in preference to another. Their effects, thus circumscribed, are still exceedingly great; and I trust I may be pardoned if I pausefor a moment to survey them. We had occasion, in speaking of thephilosophical method of the American people, to make several remarkswhich must here be turned to account. 

Equality begets in man the desire of judging of everything for himself:it gives him, in all things, a taste for the tangible and the real, a contempt for tradition and for forms. These general tendencies areprincipally discernible in the peculiar subject of this chapter. Thosewho cultivate the sciences amongst a democratic people are always afraidof losing their way in visionary speculation. They mistrust systems;they adhere closely to facts and the study of facts with their ownsenses. As they do not easily defer to the mere name of any fellow-man, they are never inclined to rest upon any man's authority; but, on thecontrary, they are unremitting in their efforts to point out the weakerpoints of their neighbors' opinions. Scientific precedents have verylittle weight with them; they are never long detained by the subtiltyof the schools, nor ready to accept big words for sterling coin; theypenetrate, as far as they can, into the principal parts of the subjectwhich engages them, and they expound them in the vernacular tongue. Scientific pursuits then follow a freer and a safer course, but a lesslofty one. 

The mind may, as it appears to me, divide science into three parts. Thefirst comprises the most theoretical principles, and those more abstractnotions whose application is either unknown or very remote. The secondis composed of those general truths which still belong to pure theory, but lead, nevertheless, by a straight and short road to practicalresults. Methods of application and means of execution make up thethird. Each of these different portions of science may be separatelycultivated, although reason and experience show that none of them canprosper long, if it be absolutely cut off from the two others. 

In America the purely practical part of science is admirably understood, and careful attention is paid to the theoretical portion which isimmediately requisite to application. On this head the Americans alwaysdisplay a clear, free, original, and inventive power of mind. Buthardly anyone in the United States devotes himself to the essentiallytheoretical and abstract portion of human knowledge. In this respectthe Americans carry to excess a tendency which is, I think, discernible, though in a less degree, amongst all democratic nations. 

Nothing is more necessary to the culture of the higher sciences, or ofthe more elevated departments of science, than meditation; and nothingis less suited to meditation than the structure of democratic society. We do not find there, as amongst an aristocratic people, one class whichclings to a state of repose because it is well off; and another whichdoes not venture to stir because it despairs of improving its condition. Everyone is actively in motion: some in quest of power, others ofgain. In the midst of this universal tumult--this incessant conflict ofjarring interests--this continual stride of men after fortune--where isthat calm to be found which is necessary for the deeper combinationsof the intellect? How can the mind dwell upon any single point, wheneverything whirls around it, and man himself is swept and beaten onwardsby the heady current which rolls all things in its course? But thepermanent agitation which subsists in the bosom of a peaceable andestablished democracy, must be distinguished from the tumultuous andrevolutionary movements which almost always attend the birth and growthof democratic society. When a violent revolution occurs amongst a highlycivilized people, it cannot fail to give a sudden impulse to theirfeelings and their opinions. This is more particularly true ofdemocratic revolutions, which stir up all the classes of which a peopleis composed, and beget, at the same time, inordinate ambition in thebreast of every member of the community. The French made most surprisingadvances in the exact sciences at the very time at which they werefinishing the destruction of the remains of their former feudal society;yet this sudden fecundity is not to be attributed to democracy, but tothe unexampled revolution which attended its growth. What happened atthat period was a special incident, and it would be unwise to regardit as the test of a general principle. Great revolutions are notmore common amongst democratic nations than amongst others: I am eveninclined to believe that they are less so. But there prevails amongstthose populations a small distressing motion--a sort of incessantjostling of men--which annoys and disturbs the mind, without excitingor elevating it. Men who live in democratic communities not only seldomindulge in meditation, but they naturally entertain very little esteemfor it. A democratic state of society and democratic institutions plungethe greater part of men in constant active life; and the habits ofmind which are suited to an active life, are not always suited to acontemplative one. The man of action is frequently obliged to contenthimself with the best he can get, because he would never accomplishhis purpose if he chose to carry every detail to perfection. He hasperpetually occasion to rely on ideas which he has not had leisureto search to the bottom; for he is much more frequently aided by theopportunity of an idea than by its strict accuracy; and, in the longrun, he risks less in making use of some false principles, than inspending his time in establishing all his principles on the basis oftruth. The world is not led by long or learned demonstrations; a rapidglance at particular incidents, the daily study of the fleeting passionsof the multitude, the accidents of the time, and the art of turning themto account, decide all its affairs. 

In the ages in which active life is the condition of almost everyone, men are therefore generally led to attach an excessive value to therapid bursts and superficial conceptions of the intellect; and, onthe other hand, to depreciate below their true standard its slower anddeeper labors. This opinion of the public influences the judgment of themen who cultivate the sciences; they are persuaded that they may succeedin those pursuits without meditation, or deterred from such pursuits asdemand it. 

There are several methods of studying the sciences. Amongst a multitudeof men you will find a selfish, mercantile, and trading taste forthe discoveries of the mind, which must not be confounded with thatdisinterested passion which is kindled in the heart of the few. A desireto utilize knowledge is one thing; the pure desire to know is another. I do not doubt that in a few minds and far between, an ardent, inexhaustible love of truth springs up, self-supported, and living inceaseless fruition without ever attaining the satisfaction which itseeks. This ardent love it is--this proud, disinterested love of what istrue--which raises men to the abstract sources of truth, to draw theirmother-knowledge thence. If Pascal had had nothing in view but somelarge gain, or even if he had been stimulated by the love of fame alone, I cannot conceive that he would ever have been able to rally all thepowers of his mind, as he did, for the better discovery of the mosthidden things of the Creator. When I see him, as it were, tear his soulfrom the midst of all the cares of life to devote it wholly to theseresearches, and, prematurely snapping the links which bind the frame tolife, die of old age before forty, I stand amazed, and I perceive thatno ordinary cause is at work to produce efforts so extra-ordinary. 

The future will prove whether these passions, at once so rare and soproductive, come into being and into growth as easily in the midst ofdemocratic as in aristocratic communities. For myself, I confess thatI am slow to believe it. In aristocratic society, the class which givesthe tone to opinion, and has the supreme guidance of affairs, beingpermanently and hereditarily placed above the multitude, naturallyconceives a lofty idea of itself and of man. It loves to invent forhim noble pleasures, to carve out splendid objects for his ambition. Aristocracies often commit very tyrannical and very inhuman actions;but they rarely entertain grovelling thoughts; and they show a kind ofhaughty contempt of little pleasures, even whilst they indulge inthem. The effect is greatly to raise the general pitch of society. Inaristocratic ages vast ideas are commonly entertained of the dignity, the power, and the greatness of man. These opinions exert theirinfluence on those who cultivate the sciences, as well as on the restof the community. They facilitate the natural impulse of the mind to thehighest regions of thought, and they naturally prepare it to conceivea sublime--nay, almost a divine--love of truth. Men of science at suchperiods are consequently carried away by theory; and it even happensthat they frequently conceive an inconsiderate contempt for thepractical part of learning. "Archimedes, " says Plutarch, "was of solofty a spirit, that he never condescended to write any treatise on themanner of constructing all these engines of offence and defence. And ashe held this science of inventing and putting together engines, and allarts generally speaking which tended to any useful end in practice, tobe vile, low, and mercenary, he spent his talents and his studious hoursin writing of those things only whose beauty and subtilty had in themno admixture of necessity. " Such is the aristocratic aim of science; indemocratic nations it cannot be the same. 

The greater part of the men who constitute these nations are extremelyeager in the pursuit of actual and physical gratification. As they arealways dissatisfied with the position which they occupy, and are alwaysfree to leave it, they think of nothing but the means of changing theirfortune, or of increasing it. To minds thus predisposed, every newmethod which leads by a shorter road to wealth, every machine whichspares labor, every instrument which diminishes the cost of production, every discovery which facilitates pleasures or augments them, seems tobe the grandest effort of the human intellect. It is chiefly fromthese motives that a democratic people addicts itself to scientificpursuits--that it understands, and that it respects them. Inaristocratic ages, science is more particularly called upon to furnishgratification to the mind; in democracies, to the body. You may be surethat the more a nation is democratic, enlightened, and free, the greaterwill be the number of these interested promoters of scientific genius, and the more will discoveries immediately applicable to productiveindustry confer gain, fame, and even power on their authors. For indemocracies the working class takes a part in public affairs; and publichonors, as well as pecuniary remuneration, may be awarded to those whodeserve them. In a community thus organized it may easily be conceivedthat the human mind may be led insensibly to the neglect of theory; andthat it is urged, on the contrary, with unparalleled vehemence to theapplications of science, or at least to that portion of theoreticalscience which is necessary to those who make such applications. In vainwill some innate propensity raise the mind towards the loftier spheresof the intellect; interest draws it down to the middle zone. There itmay develop all its energy and restless activity, there it may engenderall its wonders. These very Americans, who have not discovered one ofthe general laws of mechanics, have introduced into navigation an enginewhich changes the aspect of the world. 

Assuredly I do not content that the democratic nations of our time aredestined to witness the extinction of the transcendent luminaries ofman's intelligence, nor even that no new lights will ever start intoexistence. At the age at which the world has now arrived, and amongst somany cultivated nations, perpetually excited by the fever of productiveindustry, the bonds which connect the different parts of sciencetogether cannot fail to strike the observation; and the taste forpractical science itself, if it be enlightened, ought to lead men not toneglect theory. In the midst of such numberless attempted applicationsof so many experiments, repeated every day, it is almost impossible thatgeneral laws should not frequently be brought to light; so that greatdiscoveries would be frequent, though great inventors be rare. Ibelieve, moreover, in the high calling of scientific minds. If thedemocratic principle does not, on the one hand, induce men to cultivatescience for its own sake, on the other it enormously increases thenumber of those who do cultivate it. Nor is it credible that, fromamongst so great a multitude no speculative genius should from time totime arise, inflamed by the love of truth alone. Such a one, we may besure, would dive into the deepest mysteries of nature, whatever bethe spirit of his country or his age. He requires no assistance in hiscourse--enough that he be not checked in it. 

All that I mean to say is this:--permanent inequality of conditionsleads men to confine themselves to the arrogant and sterile researchof abstract truths; whilst the social condition and the institutionsof democracy prepare them to seek the immediate and useful practicalresults of the sciences. This tendency is natural and inevitable: it iscurious to be acquainted with it, and it may be necessary to pointit out. If those who are called upon to guide the nations of our timeclearly discerned from afar off these new tendencies, which will soonbe irresistible, they would understand that, possessing educationand freedom, men living in democratic ages cannot fail to improve theindustrial part of science; and that henceforward all the efforts ofthe constituted authorities ought to be directed to support the highestbranches of learning, and to foster the nobler passion for scienceitself. In the present age the human mind must be coerced intotheoretical studies; it runs of its own accord to practicalapplications; and, instead of perpetually referring it to the minuteexamination of secondary effects, it is well to divert it from themsometimes, in order to raise it up to the contemplation of primarycauses. Because the civilization of ancient Rome perished in consequenceof the invasion of the barbarians, we are perhaps too apt to think thatcivilization cannot perish in any other manner. If the light by which weare guided is ever extinguished, it will dwindle by degrees, and expireof itself. By dint of close adherence to mere applications, principleswould be lost sight of; and when the principles were wholly forgotten, the methods derived from them would be ill-pursued. New methods couldno longer be invented, and men would continue to apply, withoutintelligence, and without art, scientific processes no longerunderstood. 

When Europeans first arrived in China, three hundred years ago, they found that almost all the arts had reached a certain degree ofperfection there; and they were surprised that a people which hadattained this point should not have gone beyond it. At a later periodthey discovered some traces of the higher branches of science which werelost. The nation was absorbed in productive industry: the greater partof its scientific processes had been preserved, but science itself nolonger existed there. This served to explain the strangely motionlessstate in which they found the minds of this people. The Chinese, infollowing the track of their forefathers, had forgotten the reasons bywhich the latter had been guided. They still used the formula, withoutasking for its meaning: they retained the instrument, but they no longerpossessed the art of altering or renewing it. The Chinese, then, hadlost the power of change; for them to improve was impossible. Theywere compelled, at all times and in all points, to imitate theirpredecessors, lest they should stray into utter darkness, by deviatingfor an instant from the path already laid down for them. The source ofhuman knowledge was all but dry; and though the stream still ran on, itcould neither swell its waters nor alter its channel. Notwithstandingthis, China had subsisted peaceably for centuries. The invaders who hadconquered the country assumed the manners of the inhabitants, andorder prevailed there. A sort of physical prosperity was everywherediscernible: revolutions were rare, and war was, so to speak, unknown. 

It is then a fallacy to flatter ourselves with the reflection that thebarbarians are still far from us; for if there be some nations whichallow civilization to be torn from their grasp, there are others whotrample it themselves under their feet. 

Chapter XI: Of The Spirit In Which The Americans Cultivate The Arts

It would be to waste the time of my readers and my own if I stroveto demonstrate how the general mediocrity of fortunes, the absence ofsuperfluous wealth, the universal desire of comfort, and the constantefforts by which everyone attempts to procure it, make the taste for theuseful predominate over the love of the beautiful in the heart of man. Democratic nations, amongst which all these things exist, will thereforecultivate the arts which serve to render life easy, in preference tothose whose object is to adorn it. They will habitually prefer theuseful to the beautiful, and they will require that the beautiful shouldbe useful. But I propose to go further; and after having pointed outthis first feature, to sketch several others. 

It commonly happens that in the ages of privilege the practice ofalmost all the arts becomes a privilege; and that every profession isa separate walk, upon which it is not allowable for everyone to enter. Even when productive industry is free, the fixed character whichbelongs to aristocratic nations gradually segregates all the persons whopractise the same art, till they form a distinct class, always composedof the same families, whose members are all known to each other, andamongst whom a public opinion of their own and a species of corporatepride soon spring up. In a class or guild of this kind, each artisan hasnot only his fortune to make, but his reputation to preserve. He is notexclusively swayed by his own interest, or even by that of his customer, but by that of the body to which he belongs; and the interest of thatbody is, that each artisan should produce the best possible workmanship. In aristocratic ages, the object of the arts is therefore to manufactureas well as possible--not with the greatest despatch, or at the lowestrate. 

When, on the contrary, every profession is open to all--when a multitudeof persons are constantly embracing and abandoning it--and when itsseveral members are strangers to each other, indifferent, and from theirnumbers hardly seen amongst themselves; the social tie is destroyed, and each workman, standing alone, endeavors simply to gain the greatestpossible quantity of money at the least possible cost. The will of thecustomer is then his only limit. But at the same time a correspondingrevolution takes place in the customer also. In countries in whichriches as well as power are concentrated and retained in the hands ofthe few, the use of the greater part of this world's goods belongs to asmall number of individuals, who are always the same. Necessity, publicopinion, or moderate desires exclude all others from the enjoymentof them. As this aristocratic class remains fixed at the pinnacle ofgreatness on which it stands, without diminution or increase, it isalways acted upon by the same wants and affected by them in the samemanner. The men of whom it is composed naturally derive from theirsuperior and hereditary position a taste for what is extremely well madeand lasting. This affects the general way of thinking of the nation inrelation to the arts. It often occurs, among such a people, that eventhe peasant will rather go without the object he covets, than procure itin a state of imperfection. In aristocracies, then, the handicraftsmenwork for only a limited number of very fastidious customers: theprofit they hope to make depends principally on the perfection of theirworkmanship. 

Such is no longer the case when, all privileges being abolished, ranksare intermingled, and men are forever rising or sinking upon the ladderof society. Amongst a democratic people a number of citizens alwaysexist whose patrimony is divided and decreasing. They have contracted, under more prosperous circumstances, certain wants, which remain afterthe means of satisfying such wants are gone; and they are anxiouslylooking out for some surreptitious method of providing for them. On theother hand, there are always in democracies a large number of men whosefortune is upon the increase, but whose desires grow much faster thantheir fortunes: and who gloat upon the gifts of wealth in anticipation, long before they have means to command them. Such men eager to find someshort cut to these gratifications, already almost within their reach. From the combination of these causes the result is, that in democraciesthere are always a multitude of individuals whose wants are above theirmeans, and who are very willing to take up with imperfect satisfactionrather than abandon the object of their desires. 

The artisan readily understands these passions, for he himself partakesin them: in an aristocracy he would seek to sell his workmanship at ahigh price to the few; he now conceives that the more expeditious way ofgetting rich is to sell them at a low price to all. But there are onlytwo ways of lowering the price of commodities. The first is to discoversome better, shorter, and more ingenious method of producing them: thesecond is to manufacture a larger quantity of goods, nearly similar, but of less value. Amongst a democratic population, all the intellectualfaculties of the workman are directed to these two objects: he strivesto invent methods which may enable him not only to work better, butquicker and cheaper; or, if he cannot succeed in that, to diminish theintrinsic qualities of the thing he makes, without rendering it whollyunfit for the use for which it is intended. When none but the wealthyhad watches, they were almost all very good ones: few are now made whichare worth much, but everybody has one in his pocket. Thus the democraticprinciple not only tends to direct the human mind to the useful arts, but it induces the artisan to produce with greater rapidity a quantityof imperfect commodities, and the consumer to content himself with thesecommodities. 

Not that in democracies the arts are incapable of producing verycommendable works, if such be required. This may occasionally be thecase, if customers appear who are ready to pay for time and trouble. In this rivalry of every kind of industry--in the midst of this immensecompetition and these countless experiments, some excellent workmen areformed who reach the utmost limits of their craft. But they have rarelyan opportunity of displaying what they can do; they are scrupulouslysparing of their powers; they remain in a state of accomplishedmediocrity, which condemns itself, and, though it be very well ableto shoot beyond the mark before it, aims only at what it hits. Inaristocracies, on the contrary, workmen always do all they can; andwhen they stop, it is because they have reached the limit of theirattainments. 

When I arrive in a country where I find some of the finest productionsof the arts, I learn from this fact nothing of the social condition orof the political constitution of the country. But if I perceive thatthe productions of the arts are generally of an inferior quality, veryabundant and very cheap, I am convinced that, amongst the people wherethis occurs, privilege is on the decline, and that ranks are beginningto intermingle, and will soon be confounded together. 

The handicraftsmen of democratic ages endeavor not only to bring theiruseful productions within the reach of the whole community, but theystrive to give to all their commodities attractive qualities which theydo not in reality possess. In the confusion of all ranks everyone hopesto appear what he is not, and makes great exertions to succeed in thisobject. This sentiment indeed, which is but too natural to the heart ofman, does not originate in the democratic principle; but that principleapplies it to material objects. To mimic virtue is of every age; but thehypocrisy of luxury belongs more particularly to the ages of democracy. 

To satisfy these new cravings of human vanity the arts have recourse toevery species of imposture: and these devices sometimes go so far as todefeat their own purpose. Imitation diamonds are now made which may beeasily mistaken for real ones; as soon as the art of fabricating falsediamonds shall have reached so high a degree of perfection that theycannot be distinguished from real ones, it is probable that both one andthe other will be abandoned, and become mere pebbles again. 

This leads me to speak of those arts which are called the fine arts, byway of distinction. I do not believe that it is a necessary effect of ademocratic social condition and of democratic institutions to diminishthe number of men who cultivate the fine arts; but these causes exerta very powerful influence on the manner in which these arts arecultivated. Many of those who had already contracted a taste for thefine arts are impoverished: on the other hand, many of those who are notyet rich begin to conceive that taste, at least by imitation; and thenumber of consumers increases, but opulent and fastidious consumersbecome more scarce. Something analogous to what I have alreadypointed out in the useful arts then takes place in the fine arts;the productions of artists are more numerous, but the merit of eachproduction is diminished. No longer able to soar to what is great, theycultivate what is pretty and elegant; and appearance is more attendedto than reality. In aristocracies a few great pictures are produced;in democratic countries, a vast number of insignificant ones. In theformer, statues are raised of bronze; in the latter, they are modelledin plaster. 

When I arrived for the first time at New York, by that part of theAtlantic Ocean which is called the Narrows, I was surprised to perceivealong the shore, at some distance from the city, a considerable numberof little palaces of white marble, several of which were built after themodels of ancient architecture. When I went the next day to inspect moreclosely the building which had particularly attracted my notice, I foundthat its walls were of whitewashed brick, and its columns of paintedwood. All the edifices which I had admired the night before were of thesame kind. 

The social condition and the institutions of democracy impart, moreover, certain peculiar tendencies to all the imitative arts, which it is easyto point out. They frequently withdraw them from the delineation of thesoul to fix them exclusively on that of the body: and they substitutethe representation of motion and sensation for that of sentiment andthought: in a word, they put the real in the place of the ideal. I doubtwhether Raphael studied the minutest intricacies of the mechanism of thehuman body as thoroughly as the draughtsmen of our own time. He did notattach the same importance to rigorous accuracy on this point as theydo, because he aspired to surpass nature. He sought to make of mansomething which should be superior to man, and to embellish beauty'sself. David and his scholars were, on the contrary, as good anatomistsas they were good painters. They wonderfully depicted the models whichthey had before their eyes, but they rarely imagined anything beyondthem: they followed nature with fidelity: whilst Raphael sought forsomething better than nature. They have left us an exact portraitureof man; but he discloses in his works a glimpse of the Divinity. Thisremark as to the manner of treating a subject is no less applicable tothe choice of it. The painters of the Middle Ages generally sought farabove themselves, and away from their own time, for mighty subjects, which left to their imagination an unbounded range. Our paintersfrequently employ their talents in the exact imitation of the detailsof private life, which they have always before their eyes; and they areforever copying trivial objects, the originals of which are only tooabundant in nature. 

Chapter XII: Why The Americans Raise Some Monuments So Insignificant, And Others So Important

I have just observed, that in democratic ages monuments of the arts tendto become more numerous and less important. I now hasten to point outthe exception to this rule. In a democratic community individuals arevery powerless; but the State which represents them all, and containsthem all in its grasp, is very powerful. Nowhere do citizens appear soinsignificant as in a democratic nation; nowhere does the nation itselfappear greater, or does the mind more easily take in a wide generalsurvey of it. In democratic communities the imagination is compressedwhen men consider themselves; it expands indefinitely when they thinkof the State. Hence it is that the same men who live on a small scale innarrow dwellings, frequently aspire to gigantic splendor in the erectionof their public monuments. 

The Americans traced out the circuit of an immense city on the sitewhich they intended to make their capital, but which, up to the presenttime, is hardly more densely peopled than Pontoise, though, accordingto them, it will one day contain a million of inhabitants. They havealready rooted up trees for ten miles round, lest they should interferewith the future citizens of this imaginary metropolis. They have erecteda magnificent palace for Congress in the centre of the city, and havegiven it the pompous name of the Capitol. The several States of theUnion are every day planning and erecting for themselves prodigiousundertakings, which would astonish the engineers of the great Europeannations. Thus democracy not only leads men to a vast number ofinconsiderable productions; it also leads them to raise some monumentson the largest scale: but between these two extremes there is a blank. A few scattered remains of enormous buildings can therefore teach usnothing of the social condition and the institutions of the people bywhom they were raised. I may add, though the remark leads me to stepout of my subject, that they do not make us better acquainted with itsgreatness, its civilization, and its real prosperity. Whensoever a powerof any kind shall be able to make a whole people co-operate in a singleundertaking, that power, with a little knowledge and a great deal oftime, will succeed in obtaining something enormous from the co-operationof efforts so multiplied. But this does not lead to the conclusion thatthe people was very happy, very enlightened, or even very strong. 

The Spaniards found the City of Mexico full of magnificent templesand vast palaces; but that did not prevent Cortes from conquering theMexican Empire with 600 foot soldiers and sixteen horses. If the Romanshad been better acquainted with the laws of hydraulics, they would nothave constructed all the aqueducts which surround the ruins of theircities--they would have made a better use of their power and theirwealth. If they had invented the steam-engine, perhaps they would nothave extended to the extremities of their empire those long artificialroads which are called Roman roads. These things are at once thesplendid memorials of their ignorance and of their greatness. A peoplewhich should leave no other vestige of its track than a few leaden pipesin the earth and a few iron rods upon its surface, might have been morethe master of nature than the Romans. 

Chapter XIII: Literary Characteristics Of Democratic Ages

When a traveller goes into a bookseller's shop in the United States, and examines the American books upon the shelves, the number of worksappears extremely great; whilst that of known authors appears, on thecontrary, to be extremely small. He will first meet with a numberof elementary treatises, destined to teach the rudiments of humanknowledge. Most of these books are written in Europe; the Americansreprint them, adapting them to their own country. Next comes an enormousquantity of religious works, Bibles, sermons, edifying anecdotes, controversial divinity, and reports of charitable societies; lastly, appears the long catalogue of political pamphlets. In America, partiesdo not write books to combat each others' opinions, but pamphlets whichare circulated for a day with incredible rapidity, and then expire. Inthe midst of all these obscure productions of the human brain are to befound the more remarkable works of that small number of authors, whosenames are, or ought to be, known to Europeans. 

Although America is perhaps in our days the civilized country inwhich literature is least attended to, a large number of persons arenevertheless to be found there who take an interest in the productionsof the mind, and who make them, if not the study of their lives, atleast the charm of their leisure hours. But England supplies thesereaders with the larger portion of the books which they require. Almostall important English books are republished in the United States. Theliterary genius of Great Britain still darts its rays into the recessesof the forests of the New World. There is hardly a pioneer's hut whichdoes not contain a few odd volumes of Shakespeare. I remember that Iread the feudal play of Henry V for the first time in a loghouse. 

Not only do the Americans constantly draw upon the treasures of Englishliterature, but it may be said with truth that they find the literatureof England growing on their own soil. The larger part of that smallnumber of men in the United States who are engaged in the composition ofliterary works are English in substance, and still more so in form. Thus they transport into the midst of democracy the ideas and literaryfashions which are current amongst the aristocratic nation they havetaken for their model. They paint with colors borrowed from foreignmanners; and as they hardly ever represent the country they were bornin as it really is, they are seldom popular there. The citizens of theUnited States are themselves so convinced that it is not for them thatbooks are published, that before they can make up their minds upon themerit of one of their authors, they generally wait till his fame hasbeen ratified in England, just as in pictures the author of an originalis held to be entitled to judge of the merit of a copy. The inhabitantsof the United States have then at present, properly speaking, noliterature. The only authors whom I acknowledge as American are thejournalists. They indeed are not great writers, but they speak thelanguage of their countrymen, and make themselves heard by them. Otherauthors are aliens; they are to the Americans what the imitators of theGreeks and Romans were to us at the revival of learning--an object ofcuriosity, not of general sympathy. They amuse the mind, but they do notact upon the manners of the people. 

I have already said that this state of things is very far fromoriginating in democracy alone, and that the causes of it must be soughtfor in several peculiar circumstances independent of the democraticprinciple. If the Americans, retaining the same laws and socialcondition, had had a different origin, and had been transportedinto another country, I do not question that they would have hada literature. Even as they now are, I am convinced that they willultimately have one; but its character will be different from that whichmarks the American literary productions of our time, and that characterwill be peculiarly its own. Nor is it impossible to trace this characterbeforehand. 

I suppose an aristocratic people amongst whom letters are cultivated;the labors of the mind, as well as the affairs of state, are conductedby a ruling class in society. The literary as well as the politicalcareer is almost entirely confined to this class, or to those nearestto it in rank. These premises suffice to give me a key to all the rest. When a small number of the same men are engaged at the same time uponthe same objects, they easily concert with one another, and agree uponcertain leading rules which are to govern them each and all. If theobject which attracts the attention of these men is literature, theproductions of the mind will soon be subjected by them to precisecanons, from which it will no longer be allowable to depart. If thesemen occupy a hereditary position in the country, they will be naturallyinclined, not only to adopt a certain number of fixed rules forthemselves, but to follow those which their forefathers laid down fortheir own guidance; their code will be at once strict and traditional. As they are not necessarily engrossed by the cares of daily life--asthey have never been so, any more than their fathers were beforethem--they have learned to take an interest, for several generationsback, in the labors of the mind. They have learned to understandliterature as an art, to love it in the end for its own sake, and tofeel a scholar-like satisfaction in seeing men conform to its rules. Noris this all: the men of whom I speak began and will end their lives ineasy or in affluent circumstances; hence they have naturally conceiveda taste for choice gratifications, and a love of refined and delicatepleasures. Nay more, a kind of indolence of mind and heart, which theyfrequently contract in the midst of this long and peaceful enjoymentof so much welfare, leads them to put aside, even from their pleasures, whatever might be too startling or too acute. They had rather be amusedthan intensely excited; they wish to be interested, but not to becarried away. 

Now let us fancy a great number of literary performances executed by themen, or for the men, whom I have just described, and we shall readilyconceive a style of literature in which everything will be regular andprearranged. The slightest work will be carefully touched in its leastdetails; art and labor will be conspicuous in everything; each kind ofwriting will have rules of its own, from which it will not be allowed toswerve, and which distinguish it from all others. Style will be thoughtof almost as much importance as thought; and the form will be no lessconsidered than the matter: the diction will be polished, measured, and uniform. The tone of the mind will be always dignified, seldom veryanimated; and writers will care more to perfect what they produce thanto multiply their productions. It will sometimes happen that the membersof the literary class, always living amongst themselves and writing forthemselves alone, will lose sight of the rest of the world, which willinfect them with a false and labored style; they will lay down minuteliterary rules for their exclusive use, which will insensibly lead themto deviate from common-sense, and finally to transgress the bounds ofnature. By dint of striving after a mode of parlance different fromthe vulgar, they will arrive at a sort of aristocratic jargon, which ishardly less remote from pure language than is the coarse dialect of thepeople. Such are the natural perils of literature amongst aristocracies. Every aristocracy which keeps itself entirely aloof from the peoplebecomes impotent--a fact which is as true in literature as it is inpolitics. *a

[Footnote a: All this is especially true of the aristocratic countrieswhich have been long and peacefully subject to a monarchical government. When liberty prevails in an aristocracy, the higher ranks are constantlyobliged to make use of the lower classes; and when they use, theyapproach them. This frequently introduces something of a democraticspirit into an aristocratic community. There springs up, moreover, in aprivileged body, governing with energy and an habitually bold policy, ataste for stir and excitement which must infallibly affect all literaryperformances. ]

Let us now turn the picture and consider the other side of it; let ustransport ourselves into the midst of a democracy, not unprepared byancient traditions and present culture to partake in the pleasures ofthe mind. Ranks are there intermingled and confounded; knowledge andpower are both infinitely subdivided, and, if I may use the expression, scattered on every side. Here then is a motley multitude, whoseintellectual wants are to be supplied. These new votaries of thepleasures of the mind have not all received the same education; theydo not possess the same degree of culture as their fathers, nor anyresemblance to them--nay, they perpetually differ from themselves, for they live in a state of incessant change of place, feelings, and fortunes. The mind of each member of the community is thereforeunattached to that of his fellow-citizens by tradition or by commonhabits; and they have never had the power, the inclination, nor thetime to concert together. It is, however, from the bosom of thisheterogeneous and agitated mass that authors spring; and from the samesource their profits and their fame are distributed. I can withoutdifficulty understand that, under these circumstances, I must expectto meet in the literature of such a people with but few of those strictconventional rules which are admitted by readers and by writers inaristocratic ages. If it should happen that the men of some one periodwere agreed upon any such rules, that would prove nothing for thefollowing period; for amongst democratic nations each new generation isa new people. Amongst such nations, then, literature will not easilybe subjected to strict rules, and it is impossible that any such rulesshould ever be permanent. 

In democracies it is by no means the case that all the men who cultivateliterature have received a literary education; and most of those whohave some tinge of belles-lettres are either engaged in politics, or ina profession which only allows them to taste occasionally and by stealththe pleasures of the mind. These pleasures, therefore, do not constitutethe principal charm of their lives; but they are considered as atransient and necessary recreation amidst the serious labors of life. Such man can never acquire a sufficiently intimate knowledge of the artof literature to appreciate its more delicate beauties; and the minorshades of expression must escape them. As the time they can devote toletters is very short, they seek to make the best use of the whole ofit. They prefer books which may be easily procured, quickly read, andwhich require no learned researches to be understood. They ask forbeauties, self-proffered and easily enjoyed; above all, they must havewhat is unexpected and new. Accustomed to the struggle, the crosses, andthe monotony of practical life, they require rapid emotions, startlingpassages--truths or errors brilliant enough to rouse them up, and toplunge them at once, as if by violence, into the midst of a subject. 

Why should I say more? or who does not understand what is about tofollow, before I have expressed it? Taken as a whole, literaturein democratic ages can never present, as it does in the periods ofaristocracy, an aspect of order, regularity, science, and art; its formwill, on the contrary, ordinarily be slighted, sometimes despised. Stylewill frequently be fantastic, incorrect, overburdened, and loose--almostalways vehement and bold. Authors will aim at rapidity of execution, more than at perfection of detail. Small productions will be morecommon than bulky books; there will be more wit than erudition, moreimagination than profundity; and literary performances will bear marksof an untutored and rude vigor of thought--frequently of great varietyand singular fecundity. The object of authors will be to astonish ratherthan to please, and to stir the passions more than to charm the taste. Here and there, indeed, writers will doubtless occur who will choosea different track, and who will, if they are gifted with superiorabilities, succeed in finding readers, in spite of their defects ortheir better qualities; but these exceptions will be rare, and eventhe authors who shall so depart from the received practice in the mainsubject of their works, will always relapse into it in some lesserdetails. 

I have just depicted two extreme conditions: the transition by which anation passes from the former to the latter is not sudden but gradual, and marked with shades of very various intensity. In the passage whichconducts a lettered people from the one to the other, there is almostalways a moment at which the literary genius of democratic nations hasits confluence with that of aristocracies, and both seek to establishtheir joint sway over the human mind. Such epochs are transient, butvery brilliant: they are fertile without exuberance, and animatedwithout confusion. The French literature of the eighteenth century mayserve as an example. 

I should say more than I mean if I were to assert that the literature ofa nation is always subordinate to its social condition and its politicalconstitution. I am aware that, independently of these causes, thereare several others which confer certain characteristics on literaryproductions; but these appear to me to be the chief. The relations whichexist between the social and political condition of a people and thegenius of its authors are always very numerous: whoever knows the one isnever completely ignorant of the other. 

Chapter XIV: The Trade Of Literature

Democracy not only infuses a taste for letters among the tradingclasses, but introduces a trading spirit into literature. Inaristocracies, readers are fastidious and few in number; in democracies, they are far more numerous and far less difficult to please. Theconsequence is, that among aristocratic nations, no one can hope tosucceed without immense exertions, and that these exertions may bestowa great deal of fame, but can never earn much money; whilst amongdemocratic nations, a writer may flatter himself that he will obtain ata cheap rate a meagre reputation and a large fortune. For thispurpose he need not be admired; it is enough that he is liked. Theever-increasing crowd of readers, and their continual craving forsomething new, insure the sale of books which nobody much esteems. 

In democratic periods the public frequently treat authors as kings dotheir courtiers; they enrich, and they despise them. What more is neededby the venal souls which are born in courts, or which are worthy to livethere? Democratic literature is always infested with a tribe of writerswho look upon letters as a mere trade: and for some few great authorswho adorn it you may reckon thousands of idea-mongers. 

Chapter XV: The Study Of Greek And Latin Literature Peculiarly Useful InDemocratic Communities

What was called the People in the most democratic republics ofantiquity, was very unlike what we designate by that term. In Athens, all the citizens took part in public affairs; but there were only 20, 000citizens to more than 350, 000 inhabitants. All the rest were slaves, anddischarged the greater part of those duties which belong at the presentday to the lower or even to the middle classes. Athens, then, with heruniversal suffrage, was after all merely an aristocratic republic inwhich all the nobles had an equal right to the government. The strugglebetween the patricians and plebeians of Rome must be considered inthe same light: it was simply an intestine feud between the elder andyounger branches of the same family. All the citizens belonged, in fact, to the aristocracy, and partook of its character. 

It is moreover to be remarked, that amongst the ancients books werealways scarce and dear; and that very great difficulties impeded theirpublication and circulation. These circumstances concentrated literarytastes and habits amongst a small number of men, who formed a smallliterary aristocracy out of the choicer spirits of the great politicalaristocracy. Accordingly nothing goes to prove that literature was evertreated as a trade amongst the Greeks and Romans. 

These peoples, which not only constituted aristocracies, but verypolished and free nations, of course imparted to their literaryproductions the defects and the merits which characterize the literatureof aristocratic ages. And indeed a very superficial survey of theliterary remains of the ancients will suffice to convince us, that ifthose writers were sometimes deficient in variety, or fertility in theirsubjects, or in boldness, vivacity, or power of generalization intheir thoughts, they always displayed exquisite care and skill in theirdetails. Nothing in their works seems to be done hastily or at random:every line is written for the eye of the connoisseur, and is shapedafter some conception of ideal beauty. No literature places those finequalities, in which the writers of democracies are naturally deficient, in bolder relief than that of the ancients; no literature, therefore, ought to be more studied in democratic ages. This study is better suitedthan any other to combat the literary defects inherent in those ages; asfor their more praiseworthy literary qualities, they will spring up oftheir own accord, without its being necessary to learn to acquire them. 

It is important that this point should be clearly understood. Aparticular study may be useful to the literature of a people, withoutbeing appropriate to its social and political wants. If men were topersist in teaching nothing but the literature of the dead languages ina community where everyone is habitually led to make vehement exertionsto augment or to maintain his fortune, the result would be a verypolished, but a very dangerous, race of citizens. For as their socialand political condition would give them every day a sense of wants whichtheir education would never teach them to supply, they would perturb theState, in the name of the Greeks and Romans, instead of enriching it bytheir productive industry. 

It is evident that in democratic communities the interest ofindividuals, as well as the security of the commonwealth, demands thatthe education of the greater number should be scientific, commercial, and industrial, rather than literary. Greek and Latin should not betaught in all schools; but it is important that those who by theirnatural disposition or their fortune are destined to cultivate lettersor prepared to relish them, should find schools where a completeknowledge of ancient literature may be acquired, and where the truescholar may be formed. A few excellent universities would do moretowards the attainment of this object than a vast number of bad grammarschools, where superfluous matters, badly learned, stand in the way ofsound instruction in necessary studies. 

All who aspire to literary excellence in democratic nations, oughtfrequently to refresh themselves at the springs of ancient literature:there is no more wholesome course for the mind. Not that I hold theliterary productions of the ancients to be irreproachable; but Ithink that they have some especial merits, admirably calculated tocounterbalance our peculiar defects. They are a prop on the side onwhich we are in most danger of falling. 

Chapter XVI: The Effect Of Democracy On Language

If the reader has rightly understood what I have already said onthe subject of literature in general, he will have no difficulty incomprehending that species of influence which a democratic socialcondition and democratic institutions may exercise over language itself, which is the chief instrument of thought. 

American authors may truly be said to live more in England than in theirown country; since they constantly study the English writers, and takethem every day for their models. But such is not the case with the bulkof the population, which is more immediately subjected to the peculiarcauses acting upon the United States. It is not then to the written, butto the spoken language that attention must be paid, if we would detectthe modifications which the idiom of an aristocratic people may undergowhen it becomes the language of a democracy. 

Englishmen of education, and more competent judges than I can be myselfof the nicer shades of expression, have frequently assured me thatthe language of the educated classes in the United States is notablydifferent from that of the educated classes in Great Britain. Theycomplain not only that the Americans have brought into use a number ofnew words--the difference and the distance between the two countriesmight suffice to explain that much--but that these new words are moreespecially taken from the jargon of parties, the mechanical arts, or thelanguage of trade. They assert, in addition to this, that old Englishwords are often used by the Americans in new acceptations; and lastly, that the inhabitants of the United States frequently intermingle theirphraseology in the strangest manner, and sometimes place words togetherwhich are always kept apart in the language of the mother-country. Theseremarks, which were made to me at various times by persons who appearedto be worthy of credit, led me to reflect upon the subject; and myreflections brought me, by theoretical reasoning, to the same point atwhich my informants had arrived by practical observation. 

In aristocracies, language must naturally partake of that state ofrepose in which everything remains. Few new words are coined, becausefew new things are made; and even if new things were made, they wouldbe designated by known words, whose meaning has been determined bytradition. If it happens that the human mind bestirs itself at length, or is roused by light breaking in from without, the novel expressionswhich are introduced are characterized by a degree of learning, intelligence, and philosophy, which shows that they do not originatein a democracy. After the fall of Constantinople had turned the tide ofscience and literature towards the west, the French language was almostimmediately invaded by a multitude of new words, which had all Greekor Latin roots. An erudite neologism then sprang up in France which wasconfined to the educated classes, and which produced no sensible effect, or at least a very gradual one, upon the people. All the nations ofEurope successively exhibited the same change. Milton alone introducedmore than six hundred words into the English language, almost allderived from the Latin, the Greek, or the Hebrew. The constant agitationwhich prevails in a democratic community tends unceasingly, on thecontrary, to change the character of the language, as it does the aspectof affairs. In the midst of this general stir and competition of minds, a great number of new ideas are formed, old ideas are lost, or reappear, or are subdivided into an infinite variety of minor shades. Theconsequence is, that many words must fall into desuetude, and othersmust be brought into use. 

Democratic nations love change for its own sake; and this is seen intheir language as much as in their politics. Even when they do notneed to change words, they sometimes feel a wish to transform them. Thegenius of a democratic people is not only shown by the great number ofwords they bring into use, but also by the nature of the ideas these newwords represent. Amongst such a people the majority lays down the lawin language as well as in everything else; its prevailing spirit is asmanifest in that as in other respects. But the majority is more engagedin business than in study--in political and commercial interests than inphilosophical speculation or literary pursuits. Most of the words coinedor adopted for its use will therefore bear the mark of these habits;they will mainly serve to express the wants of business, the passions ofparty, or the details of the public administration. In these departmentsthe language will constantly spread, whilst on the other hand it willgradually lose ground in metaphysics and theology. 

As to the source from which democratic nations are wont to derive theirnew expressions, and the manner in which they go to work to coin them, both may easily be described. Men living in democratic countries knowbut little of the language which was spoken at Athens and at Rome, and they do not care to dive into the lore of antiquity to find theexpression they happen to want. If they have sometimes recourse tolearned etymologies, vanity will induce them to search at the roots ofthe dead languages; but erudition does not naturally furnish them withits resources. The most ignorant, it sometimes happens, will use themmost. The eminently democratic desire to get above their own sphere willoften lead them to seek to dignify a vulgar profession by a Greek orLatin name. The lower the calling is, and the more remote from learning, the more pompous and erudite is its appellation. Thus the Frenchrope-dancers have transformed themselves into acrobates and funambules. 

In the absence of knowledge of the dead languages, democraticnations are apt to borrow words from living tongues; for their mutualintercourse becomes perpetual, and the inhabitants of differentcountries imitate each other the more readily as they grow more likeeach other every day. 

But it is principally upon their own languages that democratic nationsattempt to perpetrate innovations. From time to time they resumeforgotten expressions in their vocabulary, which they restore to use; orthey borrow from some particular class of the community a term peculiarto it, which they introduce with a figurative meaning into the languageof daily life. Many expressions which originally belonged to thetechnical language of a profession or a party, are thus drawn intogeneral circulation. 

The most common expedient employed by democratic nations to make aninnovation in language consists in giving some unwonted meaning toan expression already in use. This method is very simple, prompt, andconvenient; no learning is required to use it aright, and ignoranceitself rather facilitates the practice; but that practice is mostdangerous to the language. When a democratic people doubles the meaningof a word in this way, they sometimes render the signification which itretains as ambiguous as that which it acquires. An author begins by aslight deflection of a known expression from its primitive meaning, andhe adapts it, thus modified, as well as he can to his subject. A secondwriter twists the sense of the expression in another way; a third takespossession of it for another purpose; and as there is no common appealto the sentence of a permanent tribunal which may definitely settle thesignification of the word, it remains in an ambiguous condition. Theconsequence is that writers hardly ever appear to dwell upon a singlethought, but they always seem to point their aim at a knot of ideas, leaving the reader to judge which of them has been hit. This is adeplorable consequence of democracy. I had rather that the languageshould be made hideous with words imported from the Chinese, theTartars, or the Hurons, than that the meaning of a word in our ownlanguage should become indeterminate. Harmony and uniformity areonly secondary beauties in composition; many of these things areconventional, and, strictly speaking, it is possible to forego them; butwithout clear phraseology there is no good language. 

The principle of equality necessarily introduces several other changesinto language. In aristocratic ages, when each nation tends to standaloof from all others and likes to have distinct characteristics of itsown, it often happens that several peoples which have a common originbecome nevertheless estranged from each other, so that, without ceasingto understand the same language, they no longer all speak it in the samemanner. In these ages each nation is divided into a certain number ofclasses, which see but little of each other, and do not intermingle. Each of these classes contracts, and invariably retains, habits ofmind peculiar to itself, and adopts by choice certain words and certainterms, which afterwards pass from generation to generation, like theirestates. The same idiom then comprises a language of the poor and alanguage of the rich--a language of the citizen and a language of thenobility--a learned language and a vulgar one. The deeper the divisions, and the more impassable the barriers of society become, the more mustthis be the case. I would lay a wager, that amongst the castes of Indiathere are amazing variations of language, and that there is almostas much difference between the language of the pariah and that of theBrahmin as there is in their dress. When, on the contrary, men, being nolonger restrained by ranks, meet on terms of constant intercourse--whencastes are destroyed, and the classes of society are recruited andintermixed with each other, all the words of a language are mingled. Those which are unsuitable to the greater number perish; the remainderform a common store, whence everyone chooses pretty nearly at random. Almost all the different dialects which divided the idioms of Europeannations are manifestly declining; there is no patois in the New World, and it is disappearing every day from the old countries. 

The influence of this revolution in social conditions is as much feltin style as it is in phraseology. Not only does everyone use the samewords, but a habit springs up of using them without discrimination. Therules which style had set up are almost abolished: the line ceases tobe drawn between expressions which seem by their very nature vulgar, andother which appear to be refined. Persons springing from different ranksof society carry the terms and expressions they are accustomed to usewith them, into whatever circumstances they may pass; thus the originof words is lost like the origin of individuals, and there is as muchconfusion in language as there is in society. 

I am aware that in the classification of words there are rules which donot belong to one form of society any more than to another, but whichare derived from the nature of things. Some expressions and phrasesare vulgar, because the ideas they are meant to express are low inthemselves; others are of a higher character, because the objects theyare intended to designate are naturally elevated. No intermixture ofranks will ever efface these differences. But the principle of equalitycannot fail to root out whatever is merely conventional and arbitraryin the forms of thought. Perhaps the necessary classification whichI pointed out in the last sentence will always be less respected by ademocratic people than by any other, because amongst such a peoplethere are no men who are permanently disposed by education, culture, andleisure to study the natural laws of language, and who cause those lawsto be respected by their own observance of them. 

I shall not quit this topic without touching on a feature of democraticlanguages, which is perhaps more characteristic of them than any other. It has already been shown that democratic nations have a taste, andsometimes a passion, for general ideas, and that this arises from theirpeculiar merits and defects. This liking for general ideas is displayedin democratic languages by the continual use of generic terms orabstract expressions, and by the manner in which they are employed. This is the great merit and the great imperfection of these languages. Democratic nations are passionately addicted to generic terms orabstract expressions, because these modes of speech enlarge thought, and assist the operations of the mind by enabling it to include severalobjects in a small compass. A French democratic writer will be aptto say capacites in the abstract for men of capacity, and withoutparticularizing the objects to which their capacity is applied: he willtalk about actualities to designate in one word the things passingbefore his eyes at the instant; and he will comprehend under the termeventualities whatever may happen in the universe, dating from the momentat which he speaks. Democratic writers are perpetually coining words ofthis kind, in which they sublimate into further abstraction the abstractterms of the language. Nay, more, to render their mode of speech moresuccinct, they personify the subject of these abstract terms, and makeit act like a real entity. Thus they would say in French, "La force deschoses veut que les capacites gouvernent. "

I cannot better illustrate what I mean than by my own example. I havefrequently used the word "equality" in an absolute sense--nay, I havepersonified equality in several places; thus I have said that equalitydoes such and such things, or refrains from doing others. It may beaffirmed that the writers of the age of Louis XIV would not have usedthese expressions: they would never have thought of using the word"equality" without applying it to some particular object; and they wouldrather have renounced the term altogether than have consented to make aliving personage of it. 

These abstract terms which abound in democratic languages, and which areused on every occasion without attaching them to any particular fact, enlarge and obscure the thoughts they are intended to convey; theyrender the mode of speech more succinct, and the idea contained init less clear. But with regard to language, democratic nations preferobscurity to labor. I know not indeed whether this loose style has notsome secret charm for those who speak and write amongst these nations. As the men who live there are frequently left to the efforts of theirindividual powers of mind, they are almost always a prey to doubt; andas their situation in life is forever changing, they are never held fastto any of their opinions by the certain tenure of their fortunes. Menliving in democratic countries are, then, apt to entertain unsettledideas, and they require loose expressions to convey them. As they neverknow whether the idea they express to-day will be appropriate to the newposition they may occupy to-morrow, they naturally acquire a liking forabstract terms. An abstract term is like a box with a false bottom: youmay put in it what ideas you please, and take them out again withoutbeing observed. 

Amongst all nations, generic and abstract terms form the basis oflanguage. I do not, therefore, affect to expel these terms fromdemocratic languages; I simply remark that men have an especialtendency, in the ages of democracy, to multiply words of this kind--totake them always by themselves in their most abstract acceptation, andto use them on all occasions, even when the nature of the discourse doesnot require them. 

Chapter XVII: Of Some Of The Sources Of Poetry Amongst DemocraticNations

Various different significations have been given to the word "poetry. "It would weary my readers if I were to lead them into a discussion as towhich of these definitions ought to be selected: I prefer telling themat once that which I have chosen. In my opinion, poetry is the searchand the delineation of the ideal. The poet is he who, by suppressing apart of what exists, by adding some imaginary touches to the picture, and by combining certain real circumstances, but which do not in factconcurrently happen, completes and extends the work of nature. Thus theobject of poetry is not to represent what is true, but to adorn it, and to present to the mind some loftier imagery. Verse, regarded as theideal beauty of language, may be eminently poetical; but verse does not, of itself, constitute poetry. 

I now proceed to inquire whether, amongst the actions, the sentiments, and the opinions of democratic nations, there are any which lead to aconception of ideal beauty, and which may for this reason beconsidered as natural sources of poetry. It must in the first place, beacknowledged that the taste for ideal beauty, and the pleasure derivedfrom the expression of it, are never so intense or so diffused amongst ademocratic as amongst an aristocratic people. In aristocratic nations itsometimes happens that the body goes on to act as it were spontaneously, whilst the higher faculties are bound and burdened by repose. Amongstthese nations the people will very often display poetic tastes, andsometimes allow their fancy to range beyond and above what surroundsthem. But in democracies the love of physical gratification, the notionof bettering one's condition, the excitement of competition, the charmof anticipated success, are so many spurs to urge men onwards in theactive professions they have embraced, without allowing them to deviatefor an instant from the track. The main stress of the faculties is tothis point. The imagination is not extinct; but its chief function is todevise what may be useful, and to represent what is real. 

The principle of equality not only diverts men from the description ofideal beauty--it also diminishes the number of objects to be described. Aristocracy, by maintaining society in a fixed position, is favorableto the solidity and duration of positive religions, as well as to thestability of political institutions. It not only keeps the human mindwithin a certain sphere of belief, but it predisposes the mind to adoptone faith rather than another. An aristocratic people will always beprone to place intermediate powers between God and man. In this respectit may be said that the aristocratic element is favorable to poetry. When the universe is peopled with supernatural creatures, not palpableto the senses but discovered by the mind, the imagination rangesfreely, and poets, finding a thousand subjects to delineate, also finda countless audience to take an interest in their productions. Indemocratic ages it sometimes happens, on the contrary, that men are asmuch afloat in matters of belief as they are in their laws. Scepticismthen draws the imagination of poets back to earth, and confines them tothe real and visible world. Even when the principle of equality doesnot disturb religious belief, it tends to simplify it, and to divertattention from secondary agents, to fix it principally on the SupremePower. Aristocracy naturally leads the human mind to the contemplationof the past, and fixes it there. Democracy, on the contrary, gives mena sort of instinctive distaste for what is ancient. In this respectaristocracy is far more favorable to poetry; for things commonly growlarger and more obscure as they are more remote; and for this twofoldreason they are better suited to the delineation of the ideal. 

After having deprived poetry of the past, the principle of equalityrobs it in part of the present. Amongst aristocratic nations there are acertain number of privileged personages, whose situation is, as it were, without and above the condition of man; to these, power, wealth, fame, wit, refinement, and distinction in all things appear peculiarly tobelong. The crowd never sees them very closely, or does not watch themin minute details; and little is needed to make the description of suchmen poetical. On the other hand, amongst the same people, you will meetwith classes so ignorant, low, and enslaved, that they are no less fitobjects for poetry from the excess of their rudeness and wretchedness, than the former are from their greatness and refinement. Besides, asthe different classes of which an aristocratic community is composedare widely separated, and imperfectly acquainted with each other, theimagination may always represent them with some addition to, or somesubtraction from, what they really are. In democratic communities, wheremen are all insignificant and very much alike, each man instantly seesall his fellows when he surveys himself. The poets of democratic agescan never, therefore, take any man in particular as the subject of apiece; for an object of slender importance, which is distinctly seenon all sides, will never lend itself to an ideal conception. Thus theprinciple of equality; in proportion as it has established itself inthe world, has dried up most of the old springs of poetry. Let us nowattempt to show what new ones it may disclose. 

When scepticism had depopulated heaven, and the progress of equalityhad reduced each individual to smaller and better known proportions, thepoets, not yet aware of what they could substitute for the great themeswhich were departing together with the aristocracy, turned their eyesto inanimate nature. As they lost sight of gods and heroes, they setthemselves to describe streams and mountains. Thence originated inthe last century, that kind of poetry which has been called, by wayof distinction, the descriptive. Some have thought that this sort ofdelineation, embellished with all the physical and inanimate objectswhich cover the earth, was the kind of poetry peculiar to democraticages; but I believe this to be an error, and that it only belongs to aperiod of transition. 

I am persuaded that in the end democracy diverts the imagination fromall that is external to man, and fixes it on man alone. Democraticnations may amuse themselves for a while with considering theproductions of nature; but they are only excited in reality by a surveyof themselves. Here, and here alone, the true sources of poetry amongstsuch nations are to be found; and it may be believed that the poets whoshall neglect to draw their inspirations hence, will lose all sway overthe minds which they would enchant, and will be left in the end withnone but unimpassioned spectators of their transports. I have shown howthe ideas of progression and of the indefinite perfectibility of thehuman race belong to democratic ages. Democratic nations care but littlefor what has been, but they are haunted by visions of what will be; inthis direction their unbounded imagination grows and dilates beyond allmeasure. Here then is the wildest range open to the genius of poets, which allows them to remove their performances to a sufficient distancefrom the eye. Democracy shuts the past against the poet, but opensthe future before him. As all the citizens who compose a democraticcommunity are nearly equal and alike, the poet cannot dwell upon any oneof them; but the nation itself invites the exercise of his powers. Thegeneral similitude of individuals, which renders any one of them takenseparately an improper subject of poetry, allows poets to include themall in the same imagery, and to take a general survey of the peopleitself. Democractic nations have a clearer perception than any others oftheir own aspect; and an aspect so imposing is admirably fitted to thedelineation of the ideal. 

I readily admit that the Americans have no poets; I cannot allow thatthey have no poetic ideas. In Europe people talk a great deal of thewilds of America, but the Americans themselves never think about them:they are insensible to the wonders of inanimate nature, and they may besaid not to perceive the mighty forests which surround them till theyfall beneath the hatchet. Their eyes are fixed upon another sight: theAmerican people views its own march across these wilds--drying swamps, turning the course of rivers, peopling solitudes, and subduing nature. This magnificent image of themselves does not meet the gaze of theAmericans at intervals only; it may be said to haunt every one of themin his least as well as in his most important actions, and to be alwaysflitting before his mind. Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid, so crowded with paltry interests, in one word so anti-poetic, as thelife of a man in the United States. But amongst the thoughts which itsuggests there is always one which is full of poetry, and that is thehidden nerve which gives vigor to the frame. 

In aristocratic ages each people, as well as each individual, is proneto stand separate and aloof from all others. In democratic ages, theextreme fluctuations of men and the impatience of their desires keepthem perpetually on the move; so that the inhabitants of differentcountries intermingle, see, listen to, and borrow from each other'sstores. It is not only then the members of the same community who growmore alike; communities are themselves assimilated to one another, and the whole assemblage presents to the eye of the spectator one vastdemocracy, each citizen of which is a people. This displays the aspectof mankind for the first time in the broadest light. All that belongsto the existence of the human race taken as a whole, to its vicissitudesand to its future, becomes an abundant mine of poetry. The poets wholived in aristocratic ages have been eminently successful in theirdelineations of certain incidents in the life of a people or a man;but none of them ever ventured to include within his performances thedestinies of mankind--a task which poets writing in democratic ages mayattempt. At that same time at which every man, raising his eyes abovehis country, begins at length to discern mankind at large, the Divinityis more and more manifest to the human mind in full and entire majesty. If in democratic ages faith in positive religions be often shaken, andthe belief in intermediate agents, by whatever name they are called, beovercast; on the other hand men are disposed to conceive a far broaderidea of Providence itself, and its interference in human affairs assumesa new and more imposing appearance to their eyes. Looking at the humanrace as one great whole, they easily conceive that its destinies areregulated by the same design; and in the actions of every individualthey are led to acknowledge a trace of that universal and eternal planon which God rules our race. This consideration may be taken as anotherprolific source of poetry which is opened in democratic ages. Democraticpoets will always appear trivial and frigid if they seek to invest gods, demons, or angels, with corporeal forms, and if they attempt to drawthem down from heaven to dispute the supremacy of earth. But if theystrive to connect the great events they commemorate with the generalprovidential designs which govern the universe, and, without showing thefinger of the Supreme Governor, reveal the thoughts of the Supreme Mind, their works will be admired and understood, for the imagination of theircontemporaries takes this direction of its own accord. 

It may be foreseen in the like manner that poets living in democraticages will prefer the delineation of passions and ideas to that ofpersons and achievements. The language, the dress, and the daily actionsof men in democracies are repugnant to ideal conceptions. These thingsare not poetical in themselves; and, if it were otherwise, they wouldcease to be so, because they are too familiar to all those to whom thepoet would speak of them. This forces the poet constantly to searchbelow the external surface which is palpable to the senses, in order toread the inner soul: and nothing lends itself more to the delineationof the ideal than the scrutiny of the hidden depths in the immaterialnature of man. I need not to ramble over earth and sky to discovera wondrous object woven of contrasts, of greatness and littlenessinfinite, of intense gloom and of amazing brightness--capable at onceof exciting pity, admiration, terror, contempt. I find that object inmyself. Man springs out of nothing, crosses time, and disappears foreverin the bosom of God; he is seen but for a moment, staggering on theverge of the two abysses, and there he is lost. If man were whollyignorant of himself, he would have no poetry in him; for it isimpossible to describe what the mind does not conceive. If man clearlydiscerned his own nature, his imagination would remain idle, andwould have nothing to add to the picture. But the nature of man issufficiently disclosed for him to apprehend something of himself; andsufficiently obscure for all the rest to be plunged in thick darkness, in which he gropes forever--and forever in vain--to lay hold on somecompleter notion of his being. 

Amongst a democratic people poetry will not be fed with legendary laysor the memorials of old traditions. The poet will not attempt to peoplethe universe with supernatural beings in whom his readers and his ownfancy have ceased to believe; nor will he present virtues and vicesin the mask of frigid personification, which are better received undertheir own features. All these resources fail him; but Man remains, andthe poet needs no more. The destinies of mankind--man himself, takenaloof from his age and his country, and standing in the presence ofNature and of God, with his passions, his doubts, his rare prosperities, and inconceivable wretchedness--will become the chief, if not the soletheme of poetry amongst these nations. Experience may confirm thisassertion, if we consider the productions of the greatest poets who haveappeared since the world has been turned to democracy. The authors ofour age who have so admirably delineated the features of Faust, ChildeHarold, Rene, and Jocelyn, did not seek to record the actions of anindividual, but to enlarge and to throw light on some of the obscurerrecesses of the human heart. Such are the poems of democracy. Theprinciple of equality does not then destroy all the subjects of poetry:it renders them less numerous, but more vast. 

Chapter XVIII: Of The Inflated Style Of American Writers And Orators

I have frequently remarked that the Americans, who generally treatof business in clear, plain language, devoid of all ornament, and soextremely simple as to be often coarse, are apt to become inflatedas soon as they attempt a more poetical diction. They then vent theirpomposity from one end of a harangue to the other; and to hear themlavish imagery on every occasion, one might fancy that they never spokeof anything with simplicity. The English are more rarely given to asimilar failing. The cause of this may be pointed out without muchdifficulty. In democratic communities each citizen is habitually engagedin the contemplation of a very puny object, namely himself. If he everraises his looks higher, he then perceives nothing but the immense formof society at large, or the still more imposing aspect of mankind. Hisideas are all either extremely minute and clear, or extremely generaland vague: what lies between is an open void. When he has been drawn outof his own sphere, therefore, he always expects that some amazing objectwill be offered to his attention; and it is on these terms alone that heconsents to tear himself for an instant from the petty complicated careswhich form the charm and the excitement of his life. This appears to mesufficiently to explain why men in democracies, whose concerns are ingeneral so paltry, call upon their poets for conceptions so vast anddescriptions so unlimited. 

The authors, on their part, do not fail to obey a propensity of whichthey themselves partake; they perpetually inflate their imaginations, and expanding them beyond all bounds, they not unfrequently abandonthe great in order to reach the gigantic. By these means they hope toattract the observation of the multitude, and to fix it easily uponthemselves: nor are their hopes disappointed; for as the multitudeseeks for nothing in poetry but subjects of very vast dimensions, ithas neither the time to measure with accuracy the proportions of all thesubjects set before it, nor a taste sufficiently correct to perceiveat once in what respect they are out of proportion. The author and thepublic at once vitiate one another. 

We have just seen that amongst democratic nations, the sources of poetryare grand, but not abundant. They are soon exhausted: and poets, notfinding the elements of the ideal in what is real and true, abandonthem entirely and create monsters. I do not fear that the poetry ofdemocratic nations will prove too insipid, or that it will fly too nearthe ground; I rather apprehend that it will be forever losing itself inthe clouds, and that it will range at last to purely imaginary regions. I fear that the productions of democratic poets may often be surchargedwith immense and incoherent imagery, with exaggerated descriptions andstrange creations; and that the fantastic beings of their brain maysometimes make us regret the world of reality. 

Chapter XIX: Some Observations On The Drama Amongst Democratic Nations

When the revolution which subverts the social and political state of anaristocratic people begins to penetrate into literature, it generallyfirst manifests itself in the drama, and it always remains conspicuousthere. The spectator of a dramatic piece is, to a certain extent, takenby surprise by the impression it conveys. He has no time to refer to hismemory, or to consult those more able to judge than himself. It doesnot occur to him to resist the new literary tendencies which begin tobe felt by him; he yields to them before he knows what they are. Authorsare very prompt in discovering which way the taste of the public is thussecretly inclined. They shape their productions accordingly; and theliterature of the stage, after having served to indicate the approachingliterary revolution, speedily completes its accomplishment. If you wouldjudge beforehand of the literature of a people which is lapsing intodemocracy, study its dramatic productions. 

The literature of the stage, moreover, even amongst aristocraticnations, constitutes the most democratic part of their literature. No kind of literary gratification is so much within the reach of themultitude as that which is derived from theatrical representations. Neither preparation nor study is required to enjoy them: they lay holdon you in the midst of your prejudices and your ignorance. When the yetuntutored love of the pleasures of the mind begins to affect a classof the community, it instantly draws them to the stage. The theatresof aristocratic nations have always been filled with spectators notbelonging to the aristocracy. At the theatre alone the higher ranks mixwith the middle and the lower classes; there alone do the former consentto listen to the opinion of the latter, or at least to allow themto give an opinion at all. At the theatre, men of cultivation and ofliterary attainments have always had more difficulty than elsewhere inmaking their taste prevail over that of the people, and in preventingthemselves from being carried away by the latter. The pit has frequentlymade laws for the boxes. 

If it be difficult for an aristocracy to prevent the people from gettingthe upper hand in the theatre, it will readily be understood that thepeople will be supreme there when democratic principles have crept intothe laws and manners--when ranks are intermixed--when minds, as well asfortunes, are brought more nearly together--and when the upper classhas lost, with its hereditary wealth, its power, its precedents, and itsleisure. The tastes and propensities natural to democratic nations, inrespect to literature, will therefore first be discernible in the drama, and it may be foreseen that they will break out there with vehemence. Inwritten productions, the literary canons of aristocracy will be gently, gradually, and, so to speak, legally modified; at the theatre theywill be riotously overthrown. The drama brings out most of thegood qualities, and almost all the defects, inherent in democraticliterature. Democratic peoples hold erudition very cheap, and care butlittle for what occurred at Rome and Athens; they want to hear somethingwhich concerns themselves, and the delineation of the present age iswhat they demand. 

When the heroes and the manners of antiquity are frequently broughtupon the stage, and dramatic authors faithfully observe the rules ofantiquated precedent, that is enough to warrant a conclusion that thedemocratic classes have not yet got the upper hand of the theatres. Racine makes a very humble apology in the preface to the "Britannicus"for having disposed of Junia amongst the Vestals, who, according toAulus Gellius, he says, "admitted no one below six years of age norabove ten. " We may be sure that he would neither have accused himselfof the offence, nor defended himself from censure, if he had written forour contemporaries. A fact of this kind not only illustrates the stateof literature at the time when it occurred, but also that of societyitself. A democratic stage does not prove that the nation is in a stateof democracy, for, as we have just seen, even in aristocracies it mayhappen that democratic tastes affect the drama; but when the spiritof aristocracy reigns exclusively on the stage, the fact irrefragablydemonstrates that the whole of society is aristocratic; and it may beboldly inferred that the same lettered and learned class which sways thedramatic writers commands the people and governs the country. 

The refined tastes and the arrogant bearing of an aristocracy willrarely fail to lead it, when it manages the stage, to make a kind ofselection in human nature. Some of the conditions of society claimits chief interest; and the scenes which delineate their manners arepreferred upon the stage. Certain virtues, and even certain vices, are thought more particularly to deserve to figure there; and they areapplauded whilst all others are excluded. Upon the stage, as wellas elsewhere, an aristocratic audience will only meet personages ofquality, and share the emotions of kings. The same thing applies tostyle: an aristocracy is apt to impose upon dramatic authors certainmodes of expression which give the key in which everything is to bedelivered. By these means the stage frequently comes to delineate onlyone side of man, or sometimes even to represent what is not to be metwith in human nature at all--to rise above nature and to go beyond it. 

In democratic communities the spectators have no such partialities, and they rarely display any such antipathies: they like to see upon thestage that medley of conditions, of feelings, and of opinions, whichoccurs before their eyes. The drama becomes more striking, more common, and more true. Sometimes, however, those who write for the stage indemocracies also transgress the bounds of human nature--but it is ona different side from their predecessors. By seeking to represent inminute detail the little singularities of the moment and the peculiarcharacteristics of certain personages, they forget to portray thegeneral features of the race. 

When the democratic classes rule the stage, they introduce as muchlicense in the manner of treating subjects as in the choice of them. As the love of the drama is, of all literary tastes, that which is mostnatural to democratic nations, the number of authors and of spectators, as well as of theatrical representations, is constantly increasingamongst these communities. A multitude composed of elements sodifferent, and scattered in so many different places, cannot acknowledgethe same rules or submit to the same laws. No concurrence is possibleamongst judges so numerous, who know not when they may meet again; andtherefore each pronounces his own sentence on the piece. If the effectof democracy is generally to question the authority of all literaryrules and conventions, on the stage it abolishes them altogether, andputs in their place nothing but the whim of each author and of eachpublic. 

The drama also displays in an especial manner the truth of what I havesaid before in speaking more generally of style and art in democraticliterature. In reading the criticisms which were occasioned by thedramatic productions of the age of Louis XIV, one is surprised to remarkthe great stress which the public laid on the probability of the plot, and the importance which was attached to the perfect consistency ofthe characters, and to their doing nothing which could not be easilyexplained and understood. The value which was set upon the forms oflanguage at that period, and the paltry strife about words with whichdramatic authors were assailed, are no less surprising. It wouldseem that the men of the age of Louis XIV attached very exaggeratedimportance to those details, which may be perceived in the study, butwhich escape attention on the stage. For, after all, the principalobject of a dramatic piece is to be performed, and its chief merit is toaffect the audience. But the audience and the readers in that age werethe same: on quitting the theatre they called up the author for judgmentto their own firesides. In democracies, dramatic pieces are listened to, but not read. Most of those who frequent the amusements of the stage donot go there to seek the pleasures of the mind, but the keen emotions ofthe heart. They do not expect to hear a fine literary work, but to seea play; and provided the author writes the language of his countrycorrectly enough to be understood, and that his characters excitecuriosity and awaken sympathy, the audience are satisfied. They ask nomore of fiction, and immediately return to real life. Accuracy of styleis therefore less required, because the attentive observance of itsrules is less perceptible on the stage. As for the probability of theplot, it is incompatible with perpetual novelty, surprise, and rapidityof invention. It is therefore neglected, and the public excuses theneglect. You may be sure that if you succeed in bringing your audienceinto the presence of something that affects them, they will not care bywhat road you brought them there; and they will never reproach you forhaving excited their emotions in spite of dramatic rules. 

The Americans very broadly display all the different propensities whichI have here described when they go to the theatres; but it must beacknowledged that as yet a very small number of them go to theatres atall. Although playgoers and plays have prodigiously increased in theUnited States in the last forty years, the population indulges in thiskind of amusement with the greatest reserve. This is attributable topeculiar causes, which the reader is already acquainted with, and ofwhich a few words will suffice to remind him. The Puritans who foundedthe American republics were not only enemies to amusements, but theyprofessed an especial abhorrence for the stage. They considered it asan abominable pastime; and as long as their principles prevailed withundivided sway, scenic performances were wholly unknown amongst them. These opinions of the first fathers of the colony have left very deepmarks on the minds of their descendants. The extreme regularity ofhabits and the great strictness of manners which are observable in theUnited States, have as yet opposed additional obstacles to the growthof dramatic art. There are no dramatic subjects in a country which haswitnessed no great political catastrophes, and in which love invariablyleads by a straight and easy road to matrimony. People who spend everyday in the week in making money, and the Sunday in going to church, havenothing to invite the muse of Comedy. 

A single fact suffices to show that the stage is not very popular in theUnited States. The Americans, whose laws allow of the utmost freedomand even license of language in all other respects, have neverthelesssubjected their dramatic authors to a sort of censorship. Theatricalperformances can only take place by permission of the municipalauthorities. This may serve to show how much communities are likeindividuals; they surrender themselves unscrupulously to their rulingpassions, and afterwards take the greatest care not to yield too much tothe vehemence of tastes which they do not possess. 

No portion of literature is connected by closer or more numerous tieswith the present condition of society than the drama. The drama of oneperiod can never be suited to the following age, if in the interval animportant revolution has changed the manners and the laws of the nation. The great authors of a preceding age may be read; but pieces writtenfor a different public will not be followed. The dramatic authors of thepast live only in books. The traditional taste of certain individuals, vanity, fashion, or the genius of an actor may sustain or resuscitatefor a time the aristocratic drama amongst a democracy; but it willspeedily fall away of itself--not overthrown, but abandoned. 

Chapter XX: Characteristics Of Historians In Democratic Ages

Historians who write in aristocratic ages are wont to refer alloccurrences to the particular will or temper of certain individuals; andthey are apt to attribute the most important revolutions to veryslight accidents. They trace out the smallest causes with sagacity, and frequently leave the greatest unperceived. Historians who live indemocratic ages exhibit precisely opposite characteristics. Most of themattribute hardly any influence to the individual over the destiny of therace, nor to citizens over the fate of a people; but, on the other hand, they assign great general causes to all petty incidents. These contrarytendencies explain each other. 

When the historian of aristocratic ages surveys the theatre of theworld, he at once perceives a very small number of prominent actors, whomanage the whole piece. These great personages, who occupy the front ofthe stage, arrest the observation, and fix it on themselves; and whilstthe historian is bent on penetrating the secret motives which make themspeak and act, the rest escape his memory. The importance of the thingswhich some men are seen to do, gives him an exaggerated estimate of theinfluence which one man may possess; and naturally leads him to think, that in order to explain the impulses of the multitude, it is necessaryto refer them to the particular influence of some one individual. 

When, on the contrary, all the citizens are independent of one another, and each of them is individually weak, no one is seen to exert a great, or still less a lasting power, over the community. At first sight, individuals appear to be absolutely devoid of any influence over it;and society would seem to advance alone by the free and voluntaryconcurrence of all the men who compose it. This naturally prompts themind to search for that general reason which operates upon so many men'sfaculties at the same time, and turns them simultaneously in the samedirection. 

I am very well convinced that even amongst democratic nations, thegenius, the vices, or the virtues of certain individuals retard oraccelerate the natural current of a people's history: but causes ofthis secondary and fortuitous nature are infinitely more various, moreconcealed, more complex, less powerful, and consequently less easy totrace in periods of equality than in ages of aristocracy, when the taskof the historian is simply to detach from the mass of general events theparticular influences of one man or of a few men. In the former casethe historian is soon wearied by the toil; his mind loses itself in thislabyrinth; and, in his inability clearly to discern or conspicuously topoint out the influence of individuals, he denies their existence. He prefers talking about the characteristics of race, the physicalconformation of the country, or the genius of civilization, whichabridges his own labors, and satisfies his reader far better at lesscost. 

M. De Lafayette says somewhere in his "Memoirs" that the exaggeratedsystem of general causes affords surprising consolations to second-ratestatesmen. I will add, that its effects are not less consolatory tosecond-rate historians; it can always furnish a few mighty reasonsto extricate them from the most difficult part of their work, and itindulges the indolence or incapacity of their minds, whilst it confersupon them the honors of deep thinking. 

For myself, I am of opinion that at all times one great portion of theevents of this world are attributable to general facts, and another tospecial influences. These two kinds of cause are always in operation:their proportion only varies. General facts serve to explain more thingsin democratic than in aristocratic ages, and fewer things are thenassignable to special influences. At periods of aristocracy thereverse takes place: special influences are stronger, general causesweaker--unless indeed we consider as a general cause the fact itself ofthe inequality of conditions, which allows some individuals to bafflethe natural tendencies of all the rest. The historians who seek todescribe what occurs in democratic societies are right, therefore, inassigning much to general causes, and in devoting their chief attentionto discover them; but they are wrong in wholly denying the specialinfluence of individuals, because they cannot easily trace or follow it. 

The historians who live in democratic ages are not only prone to assigna great cause to every incident, but they are also given to connectincidents together, so as to deduce a system from them. In aristocraticages, as the attention of historians is constantly drawn to individuals, the connection of events escapes them; or rather, they do not believein any such connection. To them the clew of history seems every instantcrossed and broken by the step of man. In democratic ages, on thecontrary, as the historian sees much more of actions than of actors, hemay easily establish some kind of sequency and methodical order amongstthe former. Ancient literature, which is so rich in fine historicalcompositions, does not contain a single great historical system, whilstthe poorest of modern literatures abound with them. It would appearthat the ancient historians did not make sufficient use of those generaltheories which our historical writers are ever ready to carry to excess. 

Those who write in democratic ages have another more dangerous tendency. When the traces of individual action upon nations are lost, it oftenhappens that the world goes on to move, though the moving agent is nolonger discoverable. As it becomes extremely difficult to discern andto analyze the reasons which, acting separately on the volition of eachmember of the community, concur in the end to produce movement in theold mass, men are led to believe that this movement is involuntary, andthat societies unconsciously obey some superior force ruling over them. But even when the general fact which governs the private volition of allindividuals is supposed to be discovered upon the earth, the principleof human free-will is not secure. A cause sufficiently extensive toaffect millions of men at once, and sufficiently strong to bend them alltogether in the same direction, may well seem irresistible: having seenthat mankind do yield to it, the mind is close upon the inference thatmankind cannot resist it. 

Historians who live in democratic ages, then, not only deny that the fewhave any power of acting upon the destiny of a people, but they deprivethe people themselves of the power of modifying their own condition, andthey subject them either to an inflexible Providence, or to some blindnecessity. According to them, each nation is indissolubly bound by itsposition, its origin, its precedents, and its character, to a certainlot which no efforts can ever change. They involve generation ingeneration, and thus, going back from age to age, and from necessityto necessity, up to the origin of the world, they forge a close andenormous chain, which girds and binds the human race. To their minds itis not enough to show what events have occurred: they would fain showthat events could not have occurred otherwise. They take a nationarrived at a certain stage of its history, and they affirm that it couldnot but follow the track which brought it thither. It is easier tomake such an assertion than to show by what means the nation might haveadopted a better course. 

In reading the historians of aristocratic ages, and especially those ofantiquity, it would seem that, to be master of his lot, and to governhis fellow-creatures, man requires only to be master of himself. Inperusing the historical volumes which our age has produced, it wouldseem that man is utterly powerless over himself and over all around him. The historians of antiquity taught how to command: those of our timeteach only how to obey; in their writings the author often appearsgreat, but humanity is always diminutive. If this doctrine of necessity, which is so attractive to those who write history in democratic ages, passes from authors to their readers, till it infects the whole massof the community and gets possession of the public mind, it will soonparalyze the activity of modern society, and reduce Christians to thelevel of the Turks. I would moreover observe, that such principlesare peculiarly dangerous at the period at which we are arrived. Ourcontemporaries are but too prone to doubt of the human free-will, because each of them feels himself confined on every side by his ownweakness; but they are still willing to acknowledge the strength andindependence of men united in society. Let not this principle be lostsight of; for the great object in our time is to raise the faculties ofmen, not to complete their prostration. 

Chapter XXI: Of Parliamentary Eloquence In The United States

Amongst aristocratic nations all the members of the community areconnected with and dependent upon each other; the graduated scale ofdifferent ranks acts as a tie, which keeps everyone in his proper placeand the whole body in subordination. Something of the same kind alwaysoccurs in the political assemblies of these nations. Parties naturallyrange themselves under certain leaders, whom they obey by a sort ofinstinct, which is only the result of habits contracted elsewhere. Theycarry the manners of general society into the lesser assemblage. 

In democratic countries it often happens that a great number of citizensare tending to the same point; but each one only moves thither, or atleast flatters himself that he moves, of his own accord. Accustomed toregulate his doings by personal impulse alone, he does not willinglysubmit to dictation from without. This taste and habit of independenceaccompany him into the councils of the nation. If he consents to connecthimself with other men in the prosecution of the same purpose, at leasthe chooses to remain free to contribute to the common success after hisown fashion. Hence it is that in democratic countries parties are soimpatient of control, and are never manageable except in moments ofgreat public danger. Even then, the authority of leaders, which undersuch circumstances may be able to make men act or speak, hardly everreaches the extent of making them keep silence. 

Amongst aristocratic nations the members of political assemblies areat the same time members of the aristocracy. Each of them enjoys highestablished rank in his own right, and the position which he occupiesin the assembly is often less important in his eyes than that whichhe fills in the country. This consoles him for playing no part inthe discussion of public affairs, and restrains him from too eagerlyattempting to play an insignificant one. 

In America, it generally happens that a Representative only becomessomebody from his position in the Assembly. He is therefore perpetuallyhaunted by a craving to acquire importance there, and he feels apetulant desire to be constantly obtruding his opinions upon the House. His own vanity is not the only stimulant which urges him on in thiscourse, but that of his constituents, and the continual necessityof propitiating them. Amongst aristocratic nations a member of thelegislature is rarely in strict dependence upon his constituents: he isfrequently to them a sort of unavoidable representative; sometimes theyare themselves strictly dependent upon him; and if at length they rejecthim, he may easily get elected elsewhere, or, retiring from public life, he may still enjoy the pleasures of splendid idleness. In a democraticcountry like the United States a Representative has hardly evera lasting hold on the minds of his constituents. However small anelectoral body may be, the fluctuations of democracy are constantlychanging its aspect; it must, therefore, be courted unceasingly. Heis never sure of his supporters, and, if they forsake him, he isleft without a resource; for his natural position is not sufficientlyelevated for him to be easily known to those not close to him; and, with the complete state of independence prevailing among the people, hecannot hope that his friends or the government will send him down to bereturned by an electoral body unacquainted with him. The seeds of hisfortune are, therefore, sown in his own neighborhood; from that nook ofearth he must start, to raise himself to the command of a people andto influence the destinies of the world. Thus it is natural that indemocratic countries the members of political assemblies think more oftheir constituents than of their party, whilst in aristocracies theythink more of their party than of their constituents. 

But what ought to be said to gratify constituents is not always whatought to be said in order to serve the party to which Representativesprofess to belong. The general interest of a party frequently demandsthat members belonging to it should not speak on great questions whichthey understand imperfectly; that they should speak but little on thoseminor questions which impede the great ones; lastly, and for the mostpart, that they should not speak at all. To keep silence is themost useful service that an indifferent spokesman can render to thecommonwealth. Constituents, however, do not think so. The population ofa district sends a representative to take a part in the government ofa country, because they entertain a very lofty notion of his merits. As men appear greater in proportion to the littleness of the objectsby which they are surrounded, it may be assumed that the opinionentertained of the delegate will be so much the higher as talents aremore rare among his constituents. It will therefore frequently happenthat the less constituents have to expect from their representative, themore they will anticipate from him; and, however incompetent he may be, they will not fail to call upon him for signal exertions, correspondingto the rank they have conferred upon him. 

Independently of his position as a legislator of the State, electorsalso regard their Representative as the natural patron of theconstituency in the Legislature; they almost consider him as the proxyof each of his supporters, and they flatter themselves that he will notbe less zealous in defense of their private interests than of thoseof the country. Thus electors are well assured beforehand that theRepresentative of their choice will be an orator; that he will speakoften if he can, and that in case he is forced to refrain, he willstrive at any rate to compress into his less frequent orations aninquiry into all the great questions of state, combined with a statementof all the petty grievances they have themselves to complain to; sothat, though he be not able to come forward frequently, he should oneach occasion prove what he is capable of doing; and that, instead ofperpetually lavishing his powers, he should occasionally condense themin a small compass, so as to furnish a sort of complete and brilliantepitome of his constituents and of himself. On these terms they willvote for him at the next election. These conditions drive worthy men ofhumble abilities to despair, who, knowing their own powers, would nevervoluntarily have come forward. But thus urged on, the Representativebegins to speak, to the great alarm of his friends; and rushingimprudently into the midst of the most celebrated orators, he perplexesthe debate and wearies the House. 

All laws which tend to make the Representative more dependent on theelector, not only affect the conduct of the legislators, as Ihave remarked elsewhere, but also their language. They exercise asimultaneous influence on affairs themselves, and on the manner in whichaffairs are discussed. 

There is hardly a member of Congress who can make up his mind to go homewithout having despatched at least one speech to his constituents;nor who will endure any interruption until he has introduced intohis harangue whatever useful suggestions may be made touching thefour-and-twenty States of which the Union is composed, and especiallythe district which he represents. He therefore presents to the mind ofhis auditors a succession of great general truths (which he himself onlycomprehends, and expresses, confusedly), and of petty minutia, which heis but too able to discover and to point out. The consequence is thatthe debates of that great assembly are frequently vague and perplexed, and that they seem rather to drag their slow length along than toadvance towards a distinct object. Some such state of things will, Ibelieve, always arise in the public assemblies of democracies. 

Propitious circumstances and good laws might succeed in drawing to thelegislature of a democratic people men very superior to those who arereturned by the Americans to Congress; but nothing will ever prevent themen of slender abilities who sit there from obtruding themselves withcomplacency, and in all ways, upon the public. The evil does not appearto me to be susceptible of entire cure, because it not only originatesin the tactics of that assembly, but in its constitution and in thatof the country. The inhabitants of the United States seem themselves toconsider the matter in this light; and they show their long experienceof parliamentary life not by abstaining from making bad speeches, but bycourageously submitting to hear them made. They are resigned to it, asto an evil which they know to be inevitable. 

We have shown the petty side of political debates in democraticassemblies--let us now exhibit the more imposing one. The proceedingswithin the Parliament of England for the last one hundred and fiftyyears have never occasioned any great sensation out of that country; theopinions and feelings expressed by the speakers have never awakened muchsympathy, even amongst the nations placed nearest to the great arena ofBritish liberty; whereas Europe was excited by the very first debateswhich took place in the small colonial assemblies of America at thetime of the Revolution. This was attributable not only to particularand fortuitous circumstances, but to general and lasting causes. I canconceive nothing more admirable or more powerful than a great oratordebating on great questions of state in a democratic assembly. As noparticular class is ever represented there by men commissioned to defendits own interests, it is always to the whole nation, and in the name ofthe whole nation, that the orator speaks. This expands his thoughts, and heightens his power of language. As precedents have there butlittle weight-as there are no longer any privileges attached to certainproperty, nor any rights inherent in certain bodies or in certainindividuals, the mind must have recourse to general truths derived fromhuman nature to resolve the particular question under discussion. Hencethe political debates of a democratic people, however small it may be, have a degree of breadth which frequently renders them attractive tomankind. All men are interested by them, because they treat of man, whois everywhere the same. Amongst the greatest aristocratic nations, onthe contrary, the most general questions are almost always argued onsome special grounds derived from the practice of a particular time, orthe rights of a particular class; which interest that class alone, or atmost the people amongst whom that class happens to exist. It is owingto this, as much as to the greatness of the French people, and thefavorable disposition of the nations who listen to them, that the greateffect which the French political debates sometimes produce in theworld, must be attributed. The orators of France frequently speak tomankind, even when they are addressing their countrymen only. 

Section 2: Influence of Democracy on the Feelings of Americans

Chapter I: Why Democratic Nations Show A More Ardent And Enduring LoveOf Equality Than Of Liberty

The first and most intense passion which is engendered by the equalityof conditions is, I need hardly say, the love of that same equality. Myreaders will therefore not be surprised that I speak of its beforeall others. Everybody has remarked that in our time, and especially inFrance, this passion for equality is every day gaining ground in thehuman heart. It has been said a hundred times that our contemporariesare far more ardently and tenaciously attached to equality than tofreedom; but as I do not find that the causes of the fact have beensufficiently analyzed, I shall endeavor to point them out. 

It is possible to imagine an extreme point at which freedom and equalitywould meet and be confounded together. Let us suppose that all themembers of the community take a part in the government, and that each ofthem has an equal right to take a part in it. As none is different fromhis fellows, none can exercise a tyrannical power: men will be perfectlyfree, because they will all be entirely equal; and they will all beperfectly equal, because they will be entirely free. To this ideal statedemocratic nations tend. Such is the completest form that equality canassume upon earth; but there are a thousand others which, without beingequally perfect, are not less cherished by those nations. 

The principle of equality may be established in civil society, withoutprevailing in the political world. Equal rights may exist of indulgingin the same pleasures, of entering the same professions, of frequentingthe same places--in a word, of living in the same manner and seekingwealth by the same means, although all men do not take an equal sharein the government. A kind of equality may even be established in thepolitical world, though there should be no political freedom there. Aman may be the equal of all his countrymen save one, who is the masterof all without distinction, and who selects equally from among themall the agents of his power. Several other combinations might be easilyimagined, by which very great equality would be united to institutionsmore or less free, or even to institutions wholly without freedom. Although men cannot become absolutely equal unless they be entirelyfree, and consequently equality, pushed to its furthest extent, may beconfounded with freedom, yet there is good reason for distinguishing theone from the other. The taste which men have for liberty, and that whichthey feel for equality, are, in fact, two different things; and I amnot afraid to add that, amongst democratic nations, they are two unequalthings. 

Upon close inspection, it will be seen that there is in every age somepeculiar and preponderating fact with which all others are connected;this fact almost always gives birth to some pregnant idea or some rulingpassion, which attracts to itself, and bears away in its course, all thefeelings and opinions of the time: it is like a great stream, towardswhich each of the surrounding rivulets seems to flow. Freedom hasappeared in the world at different times and under various forms; ithas not been exclusively bound to any social condition, and it isnot confined to democracies. Freedom cannot, therefore, form thedistinguishing characteristic of democratic ages. The peculiar andpreponderating fact which marks those ages as its own is the equalityof conditions; the ruling passion of men in those periods is the loveof this equality. Ask not what singular charm the men of democratic agesfind in being equal, or what special reasons they may have for clingingso tenaciously to equality rather than to the other advantages whichsociety holds out to them: equality is the distinguishing characteristicof the age they live in; that, of itself, is enough to explain that theyprefer it to all the rest. 

But independently of this reason there are several others, which will atall times habitually lead men to prefer equality to freedom. If a peoplecould ever succeed in destroying, or even in diminishing, the equalitywhich prevails in its own body, this could only be accomplished by longand laborious efforts. Its social condition must be modified, its lawsabolished, its opinions superseded, its habits changed, its mannerscorrupted. But political liberty is more easily lost; to neglect tohold it fast is to allow it to escape. Men therefore not only cling toequality because it is dear to them; they also adhere to it because theythink it will last forever. 

That political freedom may compromise in its excesses the tranquillity, the property, the lives of individuals, is obvious to the narrowestand most unthinking minds. But, on the contrary, none but attentive andclear-sighted men perceive the perils with which equality threatens us, and they commonly avoid pointing them out. They know that the calamitiesthey apprehend are remote, and flatter themselves that they will onlyfall upon future generations, for which the present generation takesbut little thought. The evils which freedom sometimes brings with it areimmediate; they are apparent to all, and all are more or less affectedby them. The evils which extreme equality may produce are slowlydisclosed; they creep gradually into the social frame; they are onlyseen at intervals, and at the moment at which they become most violenthabit already causes them to be no longer felt. The advantages whichfreedom brings are only shown by length of time; and it is always easyto mistake the cause in which they originate. The advantages of equalityare instantaneous, and they may constantly be traced from their source. Political liberty bestows exalted pleasures, from time to time, upon acertain number of citizens. Equality every day confers a number of smallenjoyments on every man. The charms of equality are every instant felt, and are within the reach of all; the noblest hearts are not insensibleto them, and the most vulgar souls exult in them. The passion whichequality engenders must therefore be at once strong and general. Mencannot enjoy political liberty unpurchased by some sacrifices, and theynever obtain it without great exertions. But the pleasures of equalityare self-proffered: each of the petty incidents of life seems tooccasion them, and in order to taste them nothing is required but tolive. 

Democratic nations are at all times fond of equality, but there arecertain epochs at which the passion they entertain for it swells to theheight of fury. This occurs at the moment when the old social system, long menaced, completes its own destruction after a last intestinestruggle, and when the barriers of rank are at length thrown down. Atsuch times men pounce upon equality as their booty, and they cling toit as to some precious treasure which they fear to lose. The passion forequality penetrates on every side into men's hearts, expands there, and fills them entirely. Tell them not that by this blind surrender ofthemselves to an exclusive passion they risk their dearest interests:they are deaf. Show them not freedom escaping from their grasp, whilstthey are looking another way: they are blind--or rather, they candiscern but one sole object to be desired in the universe. 

What I have said is applicable to all democratic nations: what I amabout to say concerns the French alone. Amongst most modern nations, andespecially amongst all those of the Continent of Europe, the taste andthe idea of freedom only began to exist and to extend themselves atthe time when social conditions were tending to equality, and asa consequence of that very equality. Absolute kings were the mostefficient levellers of ranks amongst their subjects. Amongst thesenations equality preceded freedom: equality was therefore a fact of somestanding when freedom was still a novelty: the one had already createdcustoms, opinions, and laws belonging to it, when the other, alone andfor the first time, came into actual existence. Thus the latter wasstill only an affair of opinion and of taste, whilst the former hadalready crept into the habits of the people, possessed itself of theirmanners, and given a particular turn to the smallest actions of theirlives. Can it be wondered that the men of our own time prefer the one tothe other?

I think that democratic communities have a natural taste for freedom:left to themselves, they will seek it, cherish it, and view anyprivation of it with regret. But for equality, their passion is ardent, insatiable, incessant, invincible: they call for equality in freedom;and if they cannot obtain that, they still call for equality in slavery. They will endure poverty, servitude, barbarism--but they will not endurearistocracy. This is true at all times, and especially true in our own. All men and all powers seeking to cope with this irresistible passion, will be overthrown and destroyed by it. In our age, freedom cannot beestablished without it, and despotism itself cannot reign without itssupport. 

Chapter II: Of Individualism In Democratic Countries

I have shown how it is that in ages of equality every man seeks for hisopinions within himself: I am now about to show how it is that, inthe same ages, all his feelings are turned towards himself alone. Individualism *a is a novel expression, to which a novel idea has givenbirth. Our fathers were only acquainted with egotism. Egotism is apassionate and exaggerated love of self, which leads a man to connecteverything with his own person, and to prefer himself to everything inthe world. Individualism is a mature and calm feeling, which disposeseach member of the community to sever himself from the mass of hisfellow-creatures; and to draw apart with his family and his friends; sothat, after he has thus formed a little circle of his own, he willinglyleaves society at large to itself. Egotism originates in blind instinct:individualism proceeds from erroneous judgment more than from depravedfeelings; it originates as much in the deficiencies of the mind as inthe perversity of the heart. Egotism blights the germ of all virtue;individualism, at first, only saps the virtues of public life; but, in the long run, it attacks and destroys all others, and is at lengthabsorbed in downright egotism. Egotism is a vice as old as the world, which does not belong to one form of society more than to another:individualism is of democratic origin, and it threatens to spread in thesame ratio as the equality of conditions. 

[Footnote a: [I adopt the expression of the original, however strange itmay seem to the English ear, partly because it illustrates the remarkon the introduction of general terms into democratic language which wasmade in a preceding chapter, and partly because I know of no Englishword exactly equivalent to the expression. The chapter itself definesthe meaning attached to it by the author. --Translator's Note. ]]

Amongst aristocratic nations, as families remain for centuries in thesame condition, often on the same spot, all generations become as itwere contemporaneous. A man almost always knows his forefathers, andrespects them: he thinks he already sees his remote descendants, and heloves them. He willingly imposes duties on himself towards theformer and the latter; and he will frequently sacrifice his personalgratifications to those who went before and to those who will come afterhim. Aristocratic institutions have, moreover, the effect of closelybinding every man to several of his fellow-citizens. As the classes ofan aristocratic people are strongly marked and permanent, each ofthem is regarded by its own members as a sort of lesser country, more tangible and more cherished than the country at large. As inaristocratic communities all the citizens occupy fixed positions, oneabove the other, the result is that each of them always sees a man abovehimself whose patronage is necessary to him, and below himself anotherman whose co-operation he may claim. Men living in aristocratic agesare therefore almost always closely attached to something placed out oftheir own sphere, and they are often disposed to forget themselves. Itis true that in those ages the notion of human fellowship is faint, andthat men seldom think of sacrificing themselves for mankind; but theyoften sacrifice themselves for other men. In democratic ages, on thecontrary, when the duties of each individual to the race are much moreclear, devoted service to any one man becomes more rare; the bond ofhuman affection is extended, but it is relaxed. 

Amongst democratic nations new families are constantly springing up, others are constantly falling away, and all that remain change theircondition; the woof of time is every instant broken, and the track ofgenerations effaced. Those who went before are soon forgotten; of thosewho will come after no one has any idea: the interest of man is confinedto those in close propinquity to himself. As each class approximatesto other classes, and intermingles with them, its members becomeindifferent and as strangers to one another. Aristocracy had made achain of all the members of the community, from the peasant to the king:democracy breaks that chain, and severs every link of it. As socialconditions become more equal, the number of persons increases who, although they are neither rich enough nor powerful enough to exerciseany great influence over their fellow-creatures, have neverthelessacquired or retained sufficient education and fortune to satisfy theirown wants. They owe nothing to any man, they expect nothing from anyman; they acquire the habit of always considering themselves as standingalone, and they are apt to imagine that their whole destiny is intheir own hands. Thus not only does democracy make every man forgethis ancestors, but it hides his descendants, and separates hiscontemporaries from him; it throws him back forever upon himself alone, and threatens in the end to confine him entirely within the solitude ofhis own heart. 

Chapter III: Individualism Stronger At The Close Of A DemocraticRevolution Than At Other Periods

The period when the construction of democratic society upon the ruins ofan aristocracy has just been completed, is especially that at which thisseparation of men from one another, and the egotism resulting from it, most forcibly strike the observation. Democratic communities not onlycontain a large number of independent citizens, but they are constantlyfilled with men who, having entered but yesterday upon their independentcondition, are intoxicated with their new power. They entertain apresumptuous confidence in their strength, and as they do not supposethat they can henceforward ever have occasion to claim the assistance oftheir fellow-creatures, they do not scruple to show that they care fornobody but themselves. 

An aristocracy seldom yields without a protracted struggle, in thecourse of which implacable animosities are kindled between the differentclasses of society. These passions survive the victory, and traces ofthem may be observed in the midst of the democratic confusion whichensues. Those members of the community who were at the top of the lategradations of rank cannot immediately forget their former greatness;they will long regard themselves as aliens in the midst of the newlycomposed society. They look upon all those whom this state of societyhas made their equals as oppressors, whose destiny can excite nosympathy; they have lost sight of their former equals, and feel nolonger bound by a common interest to their fate: each of them, standingaloof, thinks that he is reduced to care for himself alone. Those, onthe contrary, who were formerly at the foot of the social scale, and whohave been brought up to the common level by a sudden revolution, cannotenjoy their newly acquired independence without secret uneasiness; andif they meet with some of their former superiors on the same footing asthemselves, they stand aloof from them with an expression of triumph andof fear. It is, then, commonly at the outset of democratic society thatcitizens are most disposed to live apart. Democracy leads men not todraw near to their fellow-creatures; but democratic revolutions leadthem to shun each other, and perpetuate in a state of equality theanimosities which the state of inequality engendered. The greatadvantage of the Americans is that they have arrived at a state ofdemocracy without having to endure a democratic revolution; and thatthey are born equal, instead of becoming so. 

Chapter IV: That The Americans Combat The Effects Of Individualism ByFree Institutions

Despotism, which is of a very timorous nature, is never more secure ofcontinuance than when it can keep men asunder; and all is influenceis commonly exerted for that purpose. No vice of the human heart is soacceptable to it as egotism: a despot easily forgives his subjects fornot loving him, provided they do not love each other. He does not askthem to assist him in governing the State; it is enough that they do notaspire to govern it themselves. He stigmatizes as turbulent andunruly spirits those who would combine their exertions to promote theprosperity of the community, and, perverting the natural meaning ofwords, he applauds as good citizens those who have no sympathy for anybut themselves. Thus the vices which despotism engenders are preciselythose which equality fosters. These two things mutually and perniciouslycomplete and assist each other. Equality places men side by side, unconnected by any common tie; despotism raises barriers to keepthem asunder; the former predisposes them not to consider theirfellow-creatures, the latter makes general indifference a sort of publicvirtue. 

Despotism then, which is at all times dangerous, is more particularly tobe feared in democratic ages. It is easy to see that in those same agesmen stand most in need of freedom. When the members of a community areforced to attend to public affairs, they are necessarily drawn fromthe circle of their own interests, and snatched at times fromself-observation. As soon as a man begins to treat of public affairsin public, he begins to perceive that he is not so independent of hisfellow-men as he had at first imagined, and that, in order to obtaintheir support, he must often lend them his co-operation. 

When the public is supreme, there is no man who does not feel the valueof public goodwill, or who does not endeavor to court it by drawing tohimself the esteem and affection of those amongst whom he is to live. Many of the passions which congeal and keep asunder human hearts, are then obliged to retire and hide below the surface. Pride must bedissembled; disdain dares not break out; egotism fears its own self. Under a free government, as most public offices are elective, the menwhose elevated minds or aspiring hopes are too closely circumscribed inprivate life, constantly feel that they cannot do without the populationwhich surrounds them. Men learn at such times to think of theirfellow-men from ambitious motives; and they frequently find it, in amanner, their interest to forget themselves. 

I may here be met by an objection derived from electioneering intrigues, the meannesses of candidates, and the calumnies of their opponents. These are opportunities for animosity which occur the oftener the morefrequent elections become. Such evils are doubtless great, but they aretransient; whereas the benefits which attend them remain. The desireof being elected may lead some men for a time to violent hostility; butthis same desire leads all men in the long run mutually to supporteach other; and if it happens that an election accidentally severs twofriends, the electoral system brings a multitude of citizens permanentlytogether, who would always have remained unknown to each other. Freedomengenders private animosities, but despotism gives birth to generalindifference. 

The Americans have combated by free institutions the tendency ofequality to keep men asunder, and they have subdued it. The legislatorsof America did not suppose that a general representation of the wholenation would suffice to ward off a disorder at once so natural to theframe of democratic society, and so fatal: they also thought thatit would be well to infuse political life into each portion of theterritory, in order to multiply to an infinite extent opportunities ofacting in concert for all the members of the community, and to make themconstantly feel their mutual dependence on each other. The plan was awise one. The general affairs of a country only engage the attention ofleading politicians, who assemble from time to time in the same places;and as they often lose sight of each other afterwards, no lasting tiesare established between them. But if the object be to have the localaffairs of a district conducted by the men who reside there, the samepersons are always in contact, and they are, in a manner, forced to beacquainted, and to adapt themselves to one another. 

It is difficult to draw a man out of his own circle to interest him inthe destiny of the State, because he does not clearly understand whatinfluence the destiny of the State can have upon his own lot. But if itbe proposed to make a road cross the end of his estate, he will see ata glance that there is a connection between this small public affair andhis greatest private affairs; and he will discover, without its beingshown to him, the close tie which unites private to general interest. Thus, far more may be done by intrusting to the citizens theadministration of minor affairs than by surrendering to them the controlof important ones, towards interesting them in the public welfare, andconvincing them that they constantly stand in need one of the other inorder to provide for it. A brilliant achievement may win for you thefavor of a people at one stroke; but to earn the love and respect ofthe population which surrounds you, a long succession of little servicesrendered and of obscure good deeds--a constant habit of kindness, andan established reputation for disinterestedness--will be required. Local freedom, then, which leads a great number of citizens to value theaffection of their neighbors and of their kindred, perpetually bringsmen together, and forces them to help one another, in spite of thepropensities which sever them. 

In the United States the more opulent citizens take great care not tostand aloof from the people; on the contrary, they constantly keep oneasy terms with the lower classes: they listen to them, they speak tothem every day. They know that the rich in democracies always stand inneed of the poor; and that in democratic ages you attach a poor man toyou more by your manner than by benefits conferred. The magnitude ofsuch benefits, which sets off the difference of conditions, causes asecret irritation to those who reap advantage from them; but the charmof simplicity of manners is almost irresistible: their affabilitycarries men away, and even their want of polish is not alwaysdispleasing. This truth does not take root at once in the minds of therich. They generally resist it as long as the democratic revolutionlasts, and they do not acknowledge it immediately after that revolutionis accomplished. They are very ready to do good to the people, butthey still choose to keep them at arm's length; they think that issufficient, but they are mistaken. They might spend fortunes thuswithout warming the hearts of the population around them;--thatpopulation does not ask them for the sacrifice of their money, but oftheir pride. 

It would seem as if every imagination in the United States were uponthe stretch to invent means of increasing the wealth and satisfyingthe wants of the public. The best-informed inhabitants of each districtconstantly use their information to discover new truths which mayaugment the general prosperity; and if they have made any suchdiscoveries, they eagerly surrender them to the mass of the people. 

When the vices and weaknesses, frequently exhibited by those whogovern in America, are closely examined, the prosperity of the peopleoccasions--but improperly occasions--surprise. Elected magistrates donot make the American democracy flourish; it flourishes because themagistrates are elective. 

It would be unjust to suppose that the patriotism and the zeal whichevery American displays for the welfare of his fellow-citizens arewholly insincere. Although private interest directs the greater partof human actions in the United States as well as elsewhere, it doesnot regulate them all. I must say that I have often seen Americans makegreat and real sacrifices to the public welfare; and I have remarkeda hundred instances in which they hardly ever failed to lend faithfulsupport to each other. The free institutions which the inhabitants ofthe United States possess, and the political rights of which they makeso much use, remind every citizen, and in a thousand ways, that he livesin society. They every instant impress upon his mind the notion that itis the duty, as well as the interest of men, to make themselves usefulto their fellow-creatures; and as he sees no particular ground ofanimosity to them, since he is never either their master or their slave, his heart readily leans to the side of kindness. Men attend to theinterests of the public, first by necessity, afterwards by choice: whatwas intentional becomes an instinct; and by dint of working for the goodof one's fellow citizens, the habit and the taste for serving them is atlength acquired. 

Many people in France consider equality of conditions as one evil, andpolitical freedom as a second. When they are obliged to yield to theformer, they strive at least to escape from the latter. But I contendthat in order to combat the evils which equality may produce, there isonly one effectual remedy--namely, political freedom. 

Chapter V: Of The Use Which The Americans Make Of Public Associations InCivil Life

I do not propose to speak of those political associations--by the aid ofwhich men endeavor to defend themselves against the despotic influenceof a majority--or against the aggressions of regal power. That subject Ihave already treated. If each citizen did not learn, in proportion ashe individually becomes more feeble, and consequently more incapableof preserving his freedom single-handed, to combine with hisfellow-citizens for the purpose of defending it, it is clear thattyranny would unavoidably increase together with equality. 

Those associations only which are formed in civil life, withoutreference to political objects, are here adverted to. The politicalassociations which exist in the United States are only a single featurein the midst of the immense assemblage of associations in that country. Americans of all ages, all conditions, and all dispositions, constantlyform associations. They have not only commercial and manufacturingcompanies, in which all take part, but associations of a thousand otherkinds--religious, moral, serious, futile, extensive, or restricted, enormous or diminutive. The Americans make associations to giveentertainments, to found establishments for education, to build inns, to construct churches, to diffuse books, to send missionaries tothe antipodes; and in this manner they found hospitals, prisons, andschools. If it be proposed to advance some truth, or to foster somefeeling by the encouragement of a great example, they form a society. Wherever, at the head of some new undertaking, you see the governmentin France, or a man of rank in England, in the United States you will besure to find an association. I met with several kinds of associations inAmerica, of which I confess I had no previous notion; and I have oftenadmired the extreme skill with which the inhabitants of the UnitedStates succeed in proposing a common object to the exertions of a greatmany men, and in getting them voluntarily to pursue it. I have sincetravelled over England, whence the Americans have taken some of theirlaws and many of their customs; and it seemed to me that the principleof association was by no means so constantly or so adroitly used inthat country. The English often perform great things singly; whereas theAmericans form associations for the smallest undertakings. It is evidentthat the former people consider association as a powerful means ofaction, but the latter seem to regard it as the only means they have ofacting. 

Thus the most democratic country on the face of the earth is that inwhich men have in our time carried to the highest perfection the art ofpursuing in common the object of their common desires, and have appliedthis new science to the greatest number of purposes. Is this the resultof accident? or is there in reality any necessary connection between theprinciple of association and that of equality? Aristocratic communitiesalways contain, amongst a multitude of persons who by themselves arepowerless, a small number of powerful and wealthy citizens, each of whomcan achieve great undertakings single-handed. In aristocratic societiesmen do not need to combine in order to act, because they are stronglyheld together. Every wealthy and powerful citizen constitutes the headof a permanent and compulsory association, composed of all those who aredependent upon him, or whom he makes subservient to the execution of hisdesigns. Amongst democratic nations, on the contrary, all the citizensare independent and feeble; they can do hardly anything by themselves, and none of them can oblige his fellow-men to lend him their assistance. They all, therefore, fall into a state of incapacity, if they do notlearn voluntarily to help each other. If men living in democraticcountries had no right and no inclination to associate for politicalpurposes, their independence would be in great jeopardy; but they mightlong preserve their wealth and their cultivation: whereas if theynever acquired the habit of forming associations in ordinary life, civilization itself would be endangered. A people amongst whichindividuals should lose the power of achieving great thingssingle-handed, without acquiring the means of producing them by unitedexertions, would soon relapse into barbarism. 

Unhappily, the same social condition which renders associations sonecessary to democratic nations, renders their formation more difficultamongst those nations than amongst all others. When several members ofan aristocracy agree to combine, they easily succeed in doing so; aseach of them brings great strength to the partnership, the number of itsmembers may be very limited; and when the members of an associationare limited in number, they may easily become mutually acquainted, understand each other, and establish fixed regulations. The sameopportunities do not occur amongst democratic nations, where theassociated members must always be very numerous for their association tohave any power. 

I am aware that many of my countrymen are not in the least embarrassedby this difficulty. They contend that the more enfeebled and incompetentthe citizens become, the more able and active the government ought tobe rendered, in order that society at large may execute what individualscan no longer accomplish. They believe this answers the wholedifficulty, but I think they are mistaken. A government might performthe part of some of the largest American companies; and several States, members of the Union, have already attempted it; but what politicalpower could ever carry on the vast multitude of lesser undertakingswhich the American citizens perform every day, with the assistance ofthe principle of association? It is easy to foresee that the time isdrawing near when man will be less and less able to produce, of himselfalone, the commonest necessaries of life. The task of the governingpower will therefore perpetually increase, and its very efforts willextend it every day. The more it stands in the place of associations, the more will individuals, losing the notion of combining together, require its assistance: these are causes and effects which unceasinglyengender each other. Will the administration of the country ultimatelyassume the management of all the manufacturers, which no singlecitizen is able to carry on? And if a time at length arrives, when, inconsequence of the extreme subdivision of landed property, the soilis split into an infinite number of parcels, so that it can only becultivated by companies of husbandmen, will it be necessary that thehead of the government should leave the helm of state to follow theplough? The morals and the intelligence of a democratic people would beas much endangered as its business and manufactures, if the governmentever wholly usurped the place of private companies. 

Feelings and opinions are recruited, the heart is enlarged, and thehuman mind is developed by no other means than by the reciprocalinfluence of men upon each other. I have shown that these influences arealmost null in democratic countries; they must therefore be artificiallycreated, and this can only be accomplished by associations. 

When the members of an aristocratic community adopt a new opinion, orconceive a new sentiment, they give it a station, as it were, besidethemselves, upon the lofty platform where they stand; and opinionsor sentiments so conspicuous to the eyes of the multitude are easilyintroduced into the minds or hearts of all around. In democraticcountries the governing power alone is naturally in a condition toact in this manner; but it is easy to see that its action is alwaysinadequate, and often dangerous. A government can no more be competentto keep alive and to renew the circulation of opinions and feelingsamongst a great people, than to manage all the speculations ofproductive industry. No sooner does a government attempt to gobeyond its political sphere and to enter upon this new track, thanit exercises, even unintentionally, an insupportable tyranny; for agovernment can only dictate strict rules, the opinions which it favorsare rigidly enforced, and it is never easy to discriminate between itsadvice and its commands. Worse still will be the case if the governmentreally believes itself interested in preventing all circulation ofideas; it will then stand motionless, and oppressed by the heaviness ofvoluntary torpor. Governments therefore should not be the only activepowers: associations ought, in democratic nations, to stand in lieu ofthose powerful private individuals whom the equality of conditions hasswept away. 

As soon as several of the inhabitants of the United States have takenup an opinion or a feeling which they wish to promote in the world, they look out for mutual assistance; and as soon as they have found eachother out, they combine. From that moment they are no longer isolatedmen, but a power seen from afar, whose actions serve for an example, and whose language is listened to. The first time I heard in the UnitedStates that 100, 000 men had bound themselves publicly to abstain fromspirituous liquors, it appeared to me more like a joke than a seriousengagement; and I did not at once perceive why these temperate citizenscould not content themselves with drinking water by their own firesides. I at last understood that 300, 000 Americans, alarmed by the progressof drunkenness around them, had made up their minds to patronizetemperance. They acted just in the same way as a man of high rank whoshould dress very plainly, in order to inspire the humbler orders witha contempt of luxury. It is probable that if these 100, 000 men had livedin France, each of them would singly have memorialized the government towatch the public-houses all over the kingdom. 

Nothing, in my opinion, is more deserving of our attention than theintellectual and moral associations of America. The political andindustrial associations of that country strike us forcibly; but theothers elude our observation, or if we discover them, we understand themimperfectly, because we have hardly ever seen anything of the kind. It must, however, be acknowledged that they are as necessary to theAmerican people as the former, and perhaps more so. In democraticcountries the science of association is the mother of science; theprogress of all the rest depends upon the progress it has made. Amongstthe laws which rule human societies there is one which seems to be moreprecise and clear than all others. If men are to remain civilized, or tobecome so, the art of associating together must grow and improve in thesame ratio in which the equality of conditions is increased. 

Chapter VI: Of The Relation Between Public Associations And Newspapers

When men are no longer united amongst themselves by firm and lastingties, it is impossible to obtain the cooperation of any great number ofthem, unless you can persuade every man whose concurrence you requirethat this private interest obliges him voluntarily to unite hisexertions to the exertions of all the rest. This can only be habituallyand conveniently effected by means of a newspaper; nothing but anewspaper can drop the same thought into a thousand minds at the samemoment. A newspaper is an adviser who does not require to be sought, butwho comes of his own accord, and talks to you briefly every day of thecommon weal, without distracting you from your private affairs. 

Newspapers therefore become more necessary in proportion as men becomemore equal, and individualism more to be feared. To suppose that theyonly serve to protect freedom would be to diminish their importance:they maintain civilization. I shall not deny that in democraticcountries newspapers frequently lead the citizens to launch together invery ill-digested schemes; but if there were no newspapers there wouldbe no common activity. The evil which they produce is therefore muchless than that which they cure. 

The effect of a newspaper is not only to suggest the same purpose toa great number of persons, but also to furnish means for executing incommon the designs which they may have singly conceived. The principalcitizens who inhabit an aristocratic country discern each other fromafar; and if they wish to unite their forces, they move towards eachother, drawing a multitude of men after them. It frequently happens, onthe contrary, in democratic countries, that a great number of men whowish or who want to combine cannot accomplish it, because as they arevery insignificant and lost amidst the crowd, they cannot see, and knownot where to find, one another. A newspaper then takes up the notion orthe feeling which had occurred simultaneously, but singly, to each ofthem. All are then immediately guided towards this beacon; and thesewandering minds, which had long sought each other in darkness, at lengthmeet and unite. 

The newspaper brought them together, and the newspaper is stillnecessary to keep them united. In order that an association amongst ademocratic people should have any power, it must be a numerous body. The persons of whom it is composed are therefore scattered over a wideextent, and each of them is detained in the place of his domicile by thenarrowness of his income, or by the small unremitting exertions by whichhe earns it. Means then must be found to converse every day withoutseeing each other, and to take steps in common without having met. Thushardly any democratic association can do without newspapers. There isconsequently a necessary connection between public associationsand newspapers: newspapers make associations, and associations makenewspapers; and if it has been correctly advanced that associations willincrease in number as the conditions of men become more equal, it is notless certain that the number of newspapers increases in proportion tothat of associations. Thus it is in America that we find at the sametime the greatest number of associations and of newspapers. 

This connection between the number of newspapers and that ofassociations leads us to the discovery of a further connection betweenthe state of the periodical press and the form of the administrationin a country; and shows that the number of newspapers must diminishor increase amongst a democratic people, in proportion as itsadministration is more or less centralized. For amongst democraticnations the exercise of local powers cannot be intrusted to theprincipal members of the community as in aristocracies. Those powersmust either be abolished, or placed in the hands of very largenumbers of men, who then in fact constitute an association permanentlyestablished by law for the purpose of administering the affairs of acertain extent of territory; and they require a journal, to bringto them every day, in the midst of their own minor concerns, someintelligence of the state of their public weal. The more numerous localpowers are, the greater is the number of men in whom they are vested bylaw; and as this want is hourly felt, the more profusely do newspapersabound. 

The extraordinary subdivision of administrative power has much moreto do with the enormous number of American newspapers than the greatpolitical freedom of the country and the absolute liberty of the press. If all the inhabitants of the Union had the suffrage--but a suffragewhich should only extend to the choice of their legislators inCongress--they would require but few newspapers, because they would onlyhave to act together on a few very important but very rare occasions. But within the pale of the great association of the nation, lesserassociations have been established by law in every country, every city, and indeed in every village, for the purposes of local administration. The laws of the country thus compel every American to co-operate everyday of his life with some of his fellow-citizens for a common purpose, and each one of them requires a newspaper to inform him what all theothers are doing. 

I am of opinion that a democratic people, *a without any nationalrepresentative assemblies, but with a great number of small localpowers, would have in the end more newspapers than another peoplegoverned by a centralized administration and an elective legislation. What best explains to me the enormous circulation of the daily pressin the United States, is that amongst the Americans I find the utmostnational freedom combined with local freedom of every kind. There isa prevailing opinion in France and England that the circulation ofnewspapers would be indefinitely increased by removing the taxes whichhave been laid upon the press. This is a very exaggerated estimateof the effects of such a reform. Newspapers increase in numbers, notaccording to their cheapness, but according to the more or less frequentwant which a great number of men may feel for intercommunication andcombination. 

[Footnote a: I say a democratic people: the administration of anaristocratic people may be the reverse of centralized, and yet the wantof newspapers be little felt, because local powers are then vested inthe hands of a very small number of men, who either act apart, or whoknow each other and can easily meet and come to an understanding. ]

In like manner I should attribute the increasing influence of thedaily press to causes more general than those by which it is commonlyexplained. A newspaper can only subsist on the condition of publishingsentiments or principles common to a large number of men. A newspapertherefore always represents an association which is composed of itshabitual readers. This association may be more or less defined, more orless restricted, more or less numerous; but the fact that the newspaperkeeps alive, is a proof that at least the germ of such an associationexists in the minds of its readers. 

This leads me to a last reflection, with which I shall conclude thischapter. The more equal the conditions of men become, and the lessstrong men individually are, the more easily do they give way to thecurrent of the multitude, and the more difficult is it for them toadhere by themselves to an opinion which the multitude discard. Anewspaper represents an association; it may be said to address each ofits readers in the name of all the others, and to exert its influenceover them in proportion to their individual weakness. The power of thenewspaper press must therefore increase as the social conditions of menbecome more equal. 

Chapter VII: Connection Of Civil And Political Associations

There is only one country on the face of the earth where the citizensenjoy unlimited freedom of association for political purposes. This samecountry is the only one in the world where the continual exercise of theright of association has been introduced into civil life, and where allthe advantages which civilization can confer are procured by means ofit. In all the countries where political associations are prohibited, civil associations are rare. It is hardly probable that this is theresult of accident; but the inference should rather be, that there is anatural, and perhaps a necessary, connection between these two kindsof associations. Certain men happen to have a common interest in someconcern--either a commercial undertaking is to be managed, or somespeculation in manufactures to be tried; they meet, they combine, andthus by degrees they become familiar with the principle of association. The greater is the multiplicity of small affairs, the more do men, evenwithout knowing it, acquire facility in prosecuting great undertakingsin common. Civil associations, therefore, facilitate politicalassociation: but, on the other hand, political association singularlystrengthens and improves associations for civil purposes. In civil lifeevery man may, strictly speaking, fancy that he can provide for his ownwants; in politics, he can fancy no such thing. When a people, then, have any knowledge of public life, the notion of association, and thewish to coalesce, present themselves every day to the minds of the wholecommunity: whatever natural repugnance may restrain men from acting inconcert, they will always be ready to combine for the sake of a party. Thus political life makes the love and practice of association moregeneral; it imparts a desire of union, and teaches the means ofcombination to numbers of men who would have always lived apart. 

Politics not only give birth to numerous associations, but toassociations of great extent. In civil life it seldom happens that anyone interest draws a very large number of men to act in concert; muchskill is required to bring such an interest into existence: but inpolitics opportunities present themselves every day. Now it is solelyin great associations that the general value of the principle ofassociation is displayed. Citizens who are individually powerless, do not very clearly anticipate the strength which they may acquire byuniting together; it must be shown to them in order to be understood. Hence it is often easier to collect a multitude for a public purposethan a few persons; a thousand citizens do not see what interest theyhave in combining together--ten thousand will be perfectly aware of it. In politics men combine for great undertakings; and the use they makeof the principle of association in important affairs practically teachesthem that it is their interest to help each other in those of lessmoment. A political association draws a number of individuals at thesame time out of their own circle: however they may be naturally keptasunder by age, mind, and fortune, it places them nearer together andbrings them into contact. Once met, they can always meet again. 

Men can embark in few civil partnerships without risking a portion oftheir possessions; this is the case with all manufacturing andtrading companies. When men are as yet but little versed in the art ofassociation, and are unacquainted with its principal rules, theyare afraid, when first they combine in this manner, of buying theirexperience dear. They therefore prefer depriving themselves of apowerful instrument of success to running the risks which attend the useof it. They are, however, less reluctant to join political associations, which appear to them to be without danger, because they adventure nomoney in them. But they cannot belong to these associations for anylength of time without finding out how order is maintained amongst alarge number of men, and by what contrivance they are made to advance, harmoniously and methodically, to the same object. Thus they learn tosurrender their own will to that of all the rest, and to make their ownexertions subordinate to the common impulse--things which it is not lessnecessary to know in civil than in political associations. Politicalassociations may therefore be considered as large free schools, whereall the members of the community go to learn the general theory ofassociation. 

But even if political association did not directly contribute to theprogress of civil association, to destroy the former would be to impairthe latter. When citizens can only meet in public for certain purposes, they regard such meetings as a strange proceeding of rare occurrence, and they rarely think at all about it. When they are allowed to meetfreely for all purposes, they ultimately look upon public associationas the universal, or in a manner the sole means, which men can employ toaccomplish the different purposes they may have in view. Every new wantinstantly revives the notion. The art of association then becomes, as Ihave said before, the mother of action, studied and applied by all. 

When some kinds of associations are prohibited and others allowed, it isdifficult to distinguish the former from the latter, beforehand. In thisstate of doubt men abstain from them altogether, and a sort of publicopinion passes current which tends to cause any association whatsoeverto be regarded as a bold and almost an illicit enterprise. *a

[Footnote a: This is more especially true when the executive governmenthas a discretionary power of allowing or prohibiting associations. Whencertain associations are simply prohibited by law, and the courts ofjustice have to punish infringements of that law, the evil is far lessconsiderable. Then every citizen knows beforehand pretty nearly what hehas to expect. He judges himself before he is judged by the law, and, abstaining from prohibited associations, he embarks in those which arelegally sanctioned. It is by these restrictions that all free nationshave always admitted that the right of association might be limited. But if the legislature should invest a man with a power of ascertainingbeforehand which associations are dangerous and which are useful, andshould authorize him to destroy all associations in the bud or allowthem to be formed, as nobody would be able to foresee in what casesassociations might be established and in what cases they would be putdown, the spirit of association would be entirely paralyzed. The formerof these laws would only assail certain associations; the latter wouldapply to society itself, and inflict an injury upon it. I can conceivethat a regular government may have recourse to the former, but I do notconcede that any government has the right of enacting the latter. ]

It is therefore chimerical to suppose that the spirit of association, when it is repressed on some one point, will nevertheless displaythe same vigor on all others; and that if men be allowed to prosecutecertain undertakings in common, that is quite enough for them eagerlyto set about them. When the members of a community are allowed andaccustomed to combine for all purposes, they will combine as readily forthe lesser as for the more important ones; but if they are only allowedto combine for small affairs, they will be neither inclined nor ableto effect it. It is in vain that you will leave them entirely free toprosecute their business on joint-stock account: they will hardly careto avail themselves of the rights you have granted to them; and, afterhaving exhausted your strength in vain efforts to put down prohibitedassociations, you will be surprised that you cannot persuade men to formthe associations you encourage. 

I do not say that there can be no civil associations in a country wherepolitical association is prohibited; for men can never live in societywithout embarking in some common undertakings: but I maintain that insuch a country civil associations will always be few in number, feeblyplanned, unskillfully managed, that they will never form any vastdesigns, or that they will fail in the execution of them. 

This naturally leads me to think that freedom of association inpolitical matters is not so dangerous to public tranquillity as issupposed; and that possibly, after having agitated society for sometime, it may strengthen the State in the end. In democratic countriespolitical associations are, so to speak, the only powerful persons whoaspire to rule the State. Accordingly, the governments of our time lookupon associations of this kind just as sovereigns in the Middle Agesregarded the great vassals of the Crown: they entertain a sort ofinstinctive abhorrence of them, and they combat them on all occasions. They bear, on the contrary, a natural goodwill to civil associations, because they readily discover that, instead of directing the minds ofthe community to public affairs, these institutions serve to divert themfrom such reflections; and that, by engaging them more and more in thepursuit of objects which cannot be attained without public tranquillity, they deter them from revolutions. But these governments do not attendto the fact that political associations tend amazingly to multiply andfacilitate those of a civil character, and that in avoiding a dangerousevil they deprive themselves of an efficacious remedy. 

When you see the Americans freely and constantly forming associationsfor the purpose of promoting some political principle, of raising oneman to the head of affairs, or of wresting power from another, youhave some difficulty in understanding that men so independent do notconstantly fall into the abuse of freedom. If, on the other hand, yousurvey the infinite number of trading companies which are in operationin the United States, and perceive that the Americans are on every sideunceasingly engaged in the execution of important and difficult plans, which the slightest revolution would throw into confusion, you willreadily comprehend why people so well employed are by no means temptedto perturb the State, nor to destroy that public tranquillity by whichthey all profit. 

Is it enough to observe these things separately, or should we notdiscover the hidden tie which connects them? In their politicalassociations, the Americans of all conditions, minds, and ages, dailyacquire a general taste for association, and grow accustomed to the useof it. There they meet together in large numbers, they converse, theylisten to each other, and they are mutually stimulated to all sorts ofundertakings. They afterwards transfer to civil life the notions theyhave thus acquired, and make them subservient to a thousand purposes. Thus it is by the enjoyment of a dangerous freedom that the Americanslearn the art of rendering the dangers of freedom less formidable. 

If a certain moment in the existence of a nation be selected, it is easyto prove that political associations perturb the State, and paralyzeproductive industry; but take the whole life of a people, and it mayperhaps be easy to demonstrate that freedom of association in politicalmatters is favorable to the prosperity and even to the tranquillity ofthe community. 

I said in the former part of this work, "The unrestrained liberty ofpolitical association cannot be entirely assimilated to the liberty ofthe press. The one is at the same time less necessary and more dangerousthan the other. A nation may confine it within certain limits withoutceasing to be mistress of itself; and it may sometimes be obliged to doso in order to maintain its own authority. " And further on I added:"It cannot be denied that the unrestrained liberty of association forpolitical purposes is the last degree of liberty which a people is fitfor. If it does not throw them into anarchy, it perpetually brings them, as it were, to the verge of it. " Thus I do not think that a nationis always at liberty to invest its citizens with an absolute right ofassociation for political purposes; and I doubt whether, in any countryor in any age, it be wise to set no limits to freedom of association. A certain nation, it is said, could not maintain tranquillity in thecommunity, cause the laws to be respected, or establish a lastinggovernment, if the right of association were not confined within narrowlimits. These blessings are doubtless invaluable, and I can imaginethat, to acquire or to preserve them, a nation may impose upon itselfsevere temporary restrictions: but still it is well that the nationshould know at what price these blessings are purchased. I canunderstand that it may be advisable to cut off a man's arm in order tosave his life; but it would be ridiculous to assert that he will be asdexterous as he was before he lost it. 

Chapter VIII: The Americans Combat Individualism By The Principle OfInterest Rightly Understood

When the world was managed by a few rich and powerful individuals, thesepersons loved to entertain a lofty idea of the duties of man. They werefond of professing that it is praiseworthy to forget one's self, andthat good should be done without hope of reward, as it is by the Deityhimself. Such were the standard opinions of that time in morals. I doubtwhether men were more virtuous in aristocratic ages than in others; butthey were incessantly talking of the beauties of virtue, and its utilitywas only studied in secret. But since the imagination takes less loftyflights and every man's thoughts are centred in himself, moralists arealarmed by this idea of self-sacrifice, and they no longer venture topresent it to the human mind. They therefore content themselves withinquiring whether the personal advantage of each member of the communitydoes not consist in working for the good of all; and when they have hitupon some point on which private interest and public interest meet andamalgamate, they are eager to bring it into notice. Observations of thiskind are gradually multiplied: what was only a single remark becomes ageneral principle; and it is held as a truth that man serves himselfin serving his fellow-creatures, and that his private interest is to dogood. 

I have already shown, in several parts of this work, by what means theinhabitants of the United States almost always manage to combine theirown advantage with that of their fellow-citizens: my present purpose isto point out the general rule which enables them to do so. In the UnitedStates hardly anybody talks of the beauty of virtue; but they maintainthat virtue is useful, and prove it every day. The American moralistsdo not profess that men ought to sacrifice themselves for theirfellow-creatures because it is noble to make such sacrifices; but theyboldly aver that such sacrifices are as necessary to him who imposesthem upon himself as to him for whose sake they are made. They havefound out that in their country and their age man is brought home tohimself by an irresistible force; and losing all hope of stoppingthat force, they turn all their thoughts to the direction of it. Theytherefore do not deny that every man may follow his own interest;but they endeavor to prove that it is the interest of every man to bevirtuous. I shall not here enter into the reasons they allege, whichwould divert me from my subject: suffice it to say that they haveconvinced their fellow-countrymen. 

Montaigne said long ago: "Were I not to follow the straight road for itsstraightness, I should follow it for having found by experience that inthe end it is commonly the happiest and most useful track. " The doctrineof interest rightly understood is not, then, new, but amongst theAmericans of our time it finds universal acceptance: it has becomepopular there; you may trace it at the bottom of all their actions, youwill remark it in all they say. It is as often to be met with on thelips of the poor man as of the rich. In Europe the principle of interestis much grosser than it is in America, but at the same time it isless common, and especially it is less avowed; amongst us, men stillconstantly feign great abnegation which they no longer feel. TheAmericans, on the contrary, are fond of explaining almost all theactions of their lives by the principle of interest rightly understood;they show with complacency how an enlightened regard for themselvesconstantly prompts them to assist each other, and inclines themwillingly to sacrifice a portion of their time and property to thewelfare of the State. In this respect I think they frequently fail todo themselves justice; for in the United States, as well as elsewhere, people are sometimes seen to give way to those disinterested andspontaneous impulses which are natural to man; but the Americans seldomallow that they yield to emotions of this kind; they are more anxious todo honor to their philosophy than to themselves. 

I might here pause, without attempting to pass a judgment on what I havedescribed. The extreme difficulty of the subject would be my excuse, but I shall not avail myself of it; and I had rather that my readers, clearly perceiving my object, should refuse to follow me than thatI should leave them in suspense. The principle of interest rightlyunderstood is not a lofty one, but it is clear and sure. It does not aimat mighty objects, but it attains without excessive exertion allthose at which it aims. As it lies within the reach of all capacities, everyone can without difficulty apprehend and retain it. By itsadmirable conformity to human weaknesses, it easily obtains greatdominion; nor is that dominion precarious, since the principle checksone personal interest by another, and uses, to direct the passions, the very same instrument which excites them. The principle of interestrightly understood produces no great acts of self-sacrifice, but itsuggests daily small acts of self-denial. By itself it cannot suffice tomake a man virtuous, but it disciplines a number of citizens in habitsof regularity, temperance, moderation, foresight, self-command; and, ifit does not lead men straight to virtue by the will, it gradually drawsthem in that direction by their habits. If the principle of interestrightly understood were to sway the whole moral world, extraordinaryvirtues would doubtless be more rare; but I think that gross depravitywould then also be less common. The principle of interest rightlyunderstood perhaps prevents some men from rising far above the level ofmankind; but a great number of other men, who were falling far below it, are caught and restrained by it. Observe some few individuals, they arelowered by it; survey mankind, it is raised. I am not afraid to say thatthe principle of interest, rightly understood, appears to me the bestsuited of all philosophical theories to the wants of the men of ourtime, and that I regard it as their chief remaining security againstthemselves. Towards it, therefore, the minds of the moralists of ourage should turn; even should they judge it to be incomplete, it mustnevertheless be adopted as necessary. 

I do not think upon the whole that there is more egotism amongst us thanin America; the only difference is, that there it is enlightened--hereit is not. Every American will sacrifice a portion of his privateinterests to preserve the rest; we would fain preserve the whole, andoftentimes the whole is lost. Everybody I see about me seems bent onteaching his contemporaries, by precept and example, that what is usefulis never wrong. Will nobody undertake to make them understand how whatis right may be useful? No power upon earth can prevent the increasingequality of conditions from inclining the human mind to seek out what isuseful, or from leading every member of the community to be wrapped upin himself. It must therefore be expected that personal interest willbecome more than ever the principal, if not the sole, spring of men'sactions; but it remains to be seen how each man will understand hispersonal interest. If the members of a community, as they become moreequal, become more ignorant and coarse, it is difficult to foresee towhat pitch of stupid excesses their egotism may lead them; and no onecan foretell into what disgrace and wretchedness they would plungethemselves, lest they should have to sacrifice something of their ownwell-being to the prosperity of their fellow-creatures. I do not thinkthat the system of interest, as it is professed in America, is, in allits parts, self-evident; but it contains a great number of truths soevident that men, if they are but educated, cannot fail to see them. Educate, then, at any rate; for the age of implicit self-sacrifice andinstinctive virtues is already flitting far away from us, and the timeis fast approaching when freedom, public peace, and social order itselfwill not be able to exist without education. 

Chapter IX: That The Americans Apply The Principle Of Interest RightlyUnderstood To Religious Matters

If the principle of interest rightly understood had nothing but thepresent world in view, it would be very insufficient; for there are manysacrifices which can only find their recompense in another; and whateveringenuity may be put forth to demonstrate the utility of virtue, it willnever be an easy task to make that man live aright who has no thoughtsof dying. It is therefore necessary to ascertain whether the principleof interest rightly understood is easily compatible with religiousbelief. The philosophers who inculcate this system of morals tell men, that to be happy in this life they must watch their own passions andsteadily control their excess; that lasting happiness can only besecured by renouncing a thousand transient gratifications; and that aman must perpetually triumph over himself, in order to secure his ownadvantage. The founders of almost all religions have held the samelanguage. The track they point out to man is the same, only that thegoal is more remote; instead of placing in this world the reward of thesacrifices they impose, they transport it to another. Nevertheless Icannot believe that all those who practise virtue from religious motivesare only actuated by the hope of a recompense. I have known zealousChristians who constantly forgot themselves, to work with greater ardorfor the happiness of their fellow-men; and I have heard them declarethat all they did was only to earn the blessings of a future state. Icannot but think that they deceive themselves; I respect them too muchto believe them. 

Christianity indeed teaches that a man must prefer his neighbor tohimself, in order to gain eternal life; but Christianity also teachesthat men ought to benefit their fellow-creatures for the love of God. A sublime expression! Man, searching by his intellect into the divineconception, and seeing that order is the purpose of God, freely combinesto prosecute the great design; and whilst he sacrifices his personalinterests to this consummate order of all created things, expects noother recompense than the pleasure of contemplating it. I do not believethat interest is the sole motive of religious men: but I believe thatinterest is the principal means which religions themselves employ togovern men, and I do not question that this way they strike into themultitude and become popular. It is not easy clearly to perceive whythe principle of interest rightly understood should keep aloof fromreligious opinions; and it seems to me more easy to show why it shoulddraw men to them. Let it be supposed that, in order to obtain happinessin this world, a man combats his instinct on all occasions anddeliberately calculates every action of his life; that, instead ofyielding blindly to the impetuosity of first desires, he has learned theart of resisting them, and that he has accustomed himself to sacrificewithout an effort the pleasure of a moment to the lasting interestof his whole life. If such a man believes in the religion which heprofesses, it will cost him but little to submit to the restrictions itmay impose. Reason herself counsels him to obey, and habit has preparedhim to endure them. If he should have conceived any doubts as to theobject of his hopes, still he will not easily allow himself to bestopped by them; and he will decide that it is wise to risk some of theadvantages of this world, in order to preserve his rights to the greatinheritance promised him in another. "To be mistaken in believing thatthe Christian religion is true, " says Pascal, "is no great loss toanyone; but how dreadful to be mistaken in believing it to be false!"

The Americans do not affect a brutal indifference to a future state;they affect no puerile pride in despising perils which they hope toescape from. They therefore profess their religion without shame andwithout weakness; but there generally is, even in their zeal, somethingso indescribably tranquil, methodical, and deliberate, that it wouldseem as if the head, far more than the heart, brought them to thefoot of the altar. The Americans not only follow their religion frominterest, but they often place in this world the interest which makesthem follow it. In the Middle Ages the clergy spoke of nothing but afuture state; they hardly cared to prove that a sincere Christian maybe a happy man here below. But the American preachers are constantlyreferring to the earth; and it is only with great difficulty that theycan divert their attention from it. To touch their congregations, theyalways show them how favorable religious opinions are to freedom andpublic tranquillity; and it is often difficult to ascertain from theirdiscourses whether the principal object of religion is to procureeternal felicity in the other world, or prosperity in this. 

Chapter X: Of The Taste For Physical Well-Being In America

In America the passion for physical well-being is not always exclusive, but it is general; and if all do not feel it in the same manner, yet itis felt by all. Carefully to satisfy all, even the least wants of thebody, and to provide the little conveniences of life, is uppermostin every mind. Something of an analogous character is more and moreapparent in Europe. Amongst the causes which produce these similarconsequences in both hemispheres, several are so connected with mysubject as to deserve notice. 

When riches are hereditarily fixed in families, there are a great numberof men who enjoy the comforts of life without feeling an exclusivetaste for those comforts. The heart of man is not so much caught by theundisturbed possession of anything valuable as by the desire, as yetimperfectly satisfied, of possessing it, and by the incessant dreadof losing it. In aristocratic communities, the wealthy, never havingexperienced a condition different from their own, entertain no fear ofchanging it; the existence of such conditions hardly occurs to them. Thecomforts of life are not to them the end of life, but simply a way ofliving; they regard them as existence itself--enjoyed, but scarcelythought of. As the natural and instinctive taste which all men feelfor being well off is thus satisfied without trouble and withoutapprehension, their faculties are turned elsewhere, and cling to morearduous and more lofty undertakings, which excite and engross theirminds. Hence it is that, in the midst of physical gratifications, themembers of an aristocracy often display a haughty contempt of these veryenjoyments, and exhibit singular powers of endurance under the privationof them. All the revolutions which have ever shaken or destroyedaristocracies, have shown how easily men accustomed to superfluousluxuries can do without the necessaries of life; whereas men who havetoiled to acquire a competency can hardly live after they have lost it. 

If I turn my observation from the upper to the lower classes, I findanalogous effects produced by opposite causes. Amongst a nation wherearistocracy predominates in society, and keeps it stationary, thepeople in the end get as much accustomed to poverty as the rich totheir opulence. The latter bestow no anxiety on their physical comforts, because they enjoy them without an effort; the former do not thinkof things which they despair of obtaining, and which they hardly knowenough of to desire them. In communities of this kind, the imaginationof the poor is driven to seek another world; the miseries of real lifeinclose it around, but it escapes from their control, and flies to seekits pleasures far beyond. When, on the contrary, the distinctionsof ranks are confounded together and privileges are destroyed--whenhereditary property is subdivided, and education and freedom widelydiffused, the desire of acquiring the comforts of the world haunts theimagination of the poor, and the dread of losing them that of the rich. Many scanty fortunes spring up; those who possess them have a sufficientshare of physical gratifications to conceive a taste for thesepleasures--not enough to satisfy it. They never procure them withoutexertion, and they never indulge in them without apprehension. Theyare therefore always straining to pursue or to retain gratifications sodelightful, so imperfect, so fugitive. 

If I were to inquire what passion is most natural to men who arestimulated and circumscribed by the obscurity of their birth or themediocrity of their fortune, I could discover none more peculiarlyappropriate to their condition than this love of physical prosperity. The passion for physical comforts is essentially a passion of themiddle classes: with those classes it grows and spreads, with them itpreponderates. From them it mounts into the higher orders of society, and descends into the mass of the people. I never met in America withany citizen so poor as not to cast a glance of hope and envy on theenjoyments of the rich, or whose imagination did not possess itself byanticipation of those good things which fate still obstinately withheldfrom him. On the other hand, I never perceived amongst the wealthierinhabitants of the United States that proud contempt of physicalgratifications which is sometimes to be met with even in the mostopulent and dissolute aristocracies. Most of these wealthy persons wereonce poor; they have felt the sting of want; they were long a prey toadverse fortunes; and now that the victory is won, the passions whichaccompanied the contest have survived it: their minds are, as it were, intoxicated by the small enjoyments which they have pursued for fortyyears. Not but that in the United States, as elsewhere, there are acertain number of wealthy persons who, having come into their propertyby inheritance, possess, without exertion, an opulence they have notearned. But even these men are not less devotedly attached to thepleasures of material life. The love of well-being is now become thepredominant taste of the nation; the great current of man's passionsruns in that channel, and sweeps everything along in its course. 

Chapter XI: Peculiar Effects Of The Love Of Physical Gratifications InDemocratic Ages

It may be supposed, from what has just been said, that the loveof physical gratifications must constantly urge the Americans toirregularities in morals, disturb the peace of families, and threatenthe security of society at large. Such is not the case: the passion forphysical gratifications produces in democracies effects very differentfrom those which it occasions in aristocratic nations. It sometimeshappens that, wearied with public affairs and sated with opulence, amidst the ruin of religious belief and the decline of the State, theheart of an aristocracy may by degrees be seduced to the pursuit ofsensual enjoyments only. At other times the power of the monarch or theweakness of the people, without stripping the nobility of their fortune, compels them to stand aloof from the administration of affairs, andwhilst the road to mighty enterprise is closed, abandons them to theinquietude of their own desires; they then fall back heavily uponthemselves, and seek in the pleasures of the body oblivion of theirformer greatness. When the members of an aristocratic body are thusexclusively devoted to the pursuit of physical gratifications, theycommonly concentrate in that direction all the energy which they derivefrom their long experience of power. Such men are not satisfied withthe pursuit of comfort; they require sumptuous depravity and splendidcorruption. The worship they pay the senses is a gorgeous one; and theyseem to vie with each other in the art of degrading their own natures. The stronger, the more famous, and the more free an aristocracy hasbeen, the more depraved will it then become; and however brilliantmay have been the lustre of its virtues, I dare predict that they willalways be surpassed by the splendor of its vices. 

The taste for physical gratifications leads a democratic people into nosuch excesses. The love of well-being is there displayed as a tenacious, exclusive, universal passion; but its range is confined. To buildenormous palaces, to conquer or to mimic nature, to ransack the world inorder to gratify the passions of a man, is not thought of: but to adda few roods of land to your field, to plant an orchard, to enlarge adwelling, to be always making life more comfortable and convenient, to avoid trouble, and to satisfy the smallest wants without effort andalmost without cost. These are small objects, but the soul clings tothem; it dwells upon them closely and day by day, till they at last shutout the rest of the world, and sometimes intervene between itself andheaven. 

This, it may be said, can only be applicable to those members of thecommunity who are in humble circumstances; wealthier individuals willdisplay tastes akin to those which belonged to them in aristocraticages. I contest the proposition: in point of physical gratifications, the most opulent members of a democracy will not display tastes verydifferent from those of the people; whether it be that, springing fromthe people, they really share those tastes, or that they esteem it aduty to submit to them. In democratic society the sensuality of thepublic has taken a moderate and tranquil course, to which all are boundto conform: it is as difficult to depart from the common rule by one'svices as by one's virtues. Rich men who live amidst democratic nationsare therefore more intent on providing for their smallest wants than fortheir extraordinary enjoyments; they gratify a number of petty desires, without indulging in any great irregularities of passion: thus they aremore apt to become enervated than debauched. The especial taste whichthe men of democratic ages entertain for physical enjoyments is notnaturally opposed to the principles of public order; nay, it oftenstands in need of order that it may be gratified. Nor is it adverse toregularity of morals, for good morals contribute to public tranquillityand are favorable to industry. It may even be frequently combined with aspecies of religious morality: men wish to be as well off as they canin this world, without foregoing their chance of another. Some physicalgratifications cannot be indulged in without crime; from such theystrictly abstain. The enjoyment of others is sanctioned by religionand morality; to these the heart, the imagination, and life itself areunreservedly given up; till, in snatching at these lesser gifts, menlose sight of those more precious possessions which constitute the gloryand the greatness of mankind. The reproach I address to the principleof equality, is not that it leads men away in the pursuit of forbiddenenjoyments, but that it absorbs them wholly in quest of those which areallowed. By these means, a kind of virtuous materialism may ultimatelybe established in the world, which would not corrupt, but enervate thesoul, and noiselessly unbend its springs of action. 

Chapter XII: Causes Of Fanatical Enthusiasm In Some Americans

Although the desire of acquiring the good things of this world is theprevailing passion of the American people, certain momentary outbreaksoccur, when their souls seem suddenly to burst the bonds of matter bywhich they are restrained, and to soar impetuously towards heaven. Inall the States of the Union, but especially in the half-peopled countryof the Far West, wandering preachers may be met with who hawk about theword of God from place to place. Whole families--old men, women, andchildren--cross rough passes and untrodden wilds, coming from a greatdistance, to join a camp-meeting, where they totally forget for severaldays and nights, in listening to these discourses, the cares of businessand even the most urgent wants of the body. Here and there, in the midstof American society, you meet with men, full of a fanatical and almostwild enthusiasm, which hardly exists in Europe. From time to timestrange sects arise, which endeavor to strike out extraordinary pathsto eternal happiness. Religious insanity is very common in the UnitedStates. 

Nor ought these facts to surprise us. It was not man who implanted inhimself the taste for what is infinite and the love of what is immortal:those lofty instincts are not the offspring of his capricious will;their steadfast foundation is fixed in human nature, and they exist inspite of his efforts. He may cross and distort them--destroy them hecannot. The soul has wants which must be satisfied; and whatever painsbe taken to divert it from itself, it soon grows weary, restless, anddisquieted amidst the enjoyments of sense. If ever the faculties ofthe great majority of mankind were exclusively bent upon the pursuit ofmaterial objects, it might be anticipated that an amazing reaction wouldtake place in the souls of some men. They would drift at large in theworld of spirits, for fear of remaining shackled by the close bondage ofthe body. 

It is not then wonderful if, in the midst of a community whose thoughtstend earthward, a small number of individuals are to be found who turntheir looks to heaven. I should be surprised if mysticism did not soonmake some advance amongst a people solely engaged in promoting its ownworldly welfare. It is said that the deserts of the Thebaid were peopledby the persecutions of the emperors and the massacres of the Circus; Ishould rather say that it was by the luxuries of Rome and the Epicureanphilosophy of Greece. If their social condition, their presentcircumstances, and their laws did not confine the minds of the Americansso closely to the pursuit of worldly welfare, it is probable that theywould display more reserve and more experience whenever their attentionis turned to things immaterial, and that they would check themselveswithout difficulty. But they feel imprisoned within bounds which theywill apparently never be allowed to pass. As soon as they have passedthese bounds, their minds know not where to fix themselves, and theyoften rush unrestrained beyond the range of common-sense. 

Chapter XIII: Causes Of The Restless Spirit Of Americans In The Midst OfTheir Prosperity

In certain remote corners of the Old World you may still sometimesstumble upon a small district which seems to have been forgotten amidstthe general tumult, and to have remained stationary whilst everythingaround it was in motion. The inhabitants are for the most part extremelyignorant and poor; they take no part in the business of the country, andthey are frequently oppressed by the government; yet their countenancesare generally placid, and their spirits light. In America I saw thefreest and most enlightened men, placed in the happiest circumstanceswhich the world affords: it seemed to me as if a cloud habitually hungupon their brow, and I thought them serious and almost sad even in theirpleasures. The chief reason of this contrast is that the former do notthink of the ills they endure--the latter are forever brooding overadvantages they do not possess. It is strange to see with what feverishardor the Americans pursue their own welfare; and to watch the vaguedread that constantly torments them lest they should not have chosen theshortest path which may lead to it. A native of the United States clingsto this world's goods as if he were certain never to die; and he is sohasty in grasping at all within his reach, that one would suppose he wasconstantly afraid of not living long enough to enjoy them. He clutcheseverything, he holds nothing fast, but soon loosens his grasp to pursuefresh gratifications. 

In the United States a man builds a house to spend his latter years init, and he sells it before the roof is on: he plants a garden, and letsit just as the trees are coming into bearing: he brings a field intotillage, and leaves other men to gather the crops: he embraces aprofession, and gives it up: he settles in a place, which he soonafterwards leaves, to carry his changeable longings elsewhere. If hisprivate affairs leave him any leisure, he instantly plunges into thevortex of politics; and if at the end of a year of unremitting labor hefinds he has a few days' vacation, his eager curiosity whirls him overthe vast extent of the United States, and he will travel fifteenhundred miles in a few days, to shake off his happiness. Death at lengthovertakes him, but it is before he is weary of his bootless chase ofthat complete felicity which is forever on the wing. 

At first sight there is something surprising in this strange unrest ofso many happy men, restless in the midst of abundance. The spectacleitself is however as old as the world; the novelty is to see a wholepeople furnish an exemplification of it. Their taste for physicalgratifications must be regarded as the original source of that secretinquietude which the actions of the Americans betray, and of thatinconstancy of which they afford fresh examples every day. He who hasset his heart exclusively upon the pursuit of worldly welfare is alwaysin a hurry, for he has but a limited time at his disposal to reach it, to grasp it, and to enjoy it. The recollection of the brevity of life isa constant spur to him. Besides the good things which he possesses, heevery instant fancies a thousand others which death will prevent himfrom trying if he does not try them soon. This thought fills him withanxiety, fear, and regret, and keeps his mind in ceaseless trepidation, which leads him perpetually to change his plans and his abode. If inaddition to the taste for physical well-being a social condition besuperadded, in which the laws and customs make no condition permanent, here is a great additional stimulant to this restlessness of temper. Menwill then be seen continually to change their track, for fear of missingthe shortest cut to happiness. It may readily be conceived that if men, passionately bent upon physical gratifications, desire eagerly, they arealso easily discouraged: as their ultimate object is to enjoy, themeans to reach that object must be prompt and easy, or the trouble ofacquiring the gratification would be greater than the gratificationitself. Their prevailing frame of mind then is at once ardent andrelaxed, violent and enervated. Death is often less dreaded thanperseverance in continuous efforts to one end. 

The equality of conditions leads by a still straighter road to severalof the effects which I have here described. When all the privileges ofbirth and fortune are abolished, when all professions are accessibleto all, and a man's own energies may place him at the top of any one ofthem, an easy and unbounded career seems open to his ambition, and hewill readily persuade himself that he is born to no vulgar destinies. But this is an erroneous notion, which is corrected by daily experience. The same equality which allows every citizen to conceive theselofty hopes, renders all the citizens less able to realize them: itcircumscribes their powers on every side, whilst it gives freer scope totheir desires. Not only are they themselves powerless, but they aremet at every step by immense obstacles, which they did not at firstperceive. They have swept away the privileges of some of theirfellow-creatures which stood in their way, but they have opened the doorto universal competition: the barrier has changed its shape rather thanits position. When men are nearly alike, and all follow the same track, it is very difficult for any one individual to walk quick and cleavea way through the dense throng which surrounds and presses him. Thisconstant strife between the propensities springing from the equalityof conditions and the means it supplies to satisfy them, harasses andwearies the mind. 

It is possible to conceive men arrived at a degree of freedom whichshould completely content them; they would then enjoy their independencewithout anxiety and without impatience. But men will never establish anyequality with which they can be contented. Whatever efforts a people maymake, they will never succeed in reducing all the conditions of societyto a perfect level; and even if they unhappily attained that absoluteand complete depression, the inequality of minds would still remain, which, coming directly from the hand of God, will forever escape thelaws of man. However democratic then the social state and the politicalconstitution of a people may be, it is certain that every member of thecommunity will always find out several points about him which commandhis own position; and we may foresee that his looks will be doggedlyfixed in that direction. When inequality of conditions is the commonlaw of society, the most marked inequalities do not strike the eye: wheneverything is nearly on the same level, the slightest are marked enoughto hurt it. Hence the desire of equality always becomes more insatiablein proportion as equality is more complete. 

Amongst democratic nations men easily attain a certain equalityof conditions: they can never attain the equality they desire. Itperpetually retires from before them, yet without hiding itself fromtheir sight, and in retiring draws them on. At every moment they thinkthey are about to grasp it; it escapes at every moment from their hold. They are near enough to see its charms, but too far off to enjoy them;and before they have fully tasted its delights they die. To these causesmust be attributed that strange melancholy which oftentimes will hauntthe inhabitants of democratic countries in the midst of their abundance, and that disgust at life which sometimes seizes upon them in the midstof calm and easy circumstances. Complaints are made in France that thenumber of suicides increases; in America suicide is rare, but insanityis said to be more common than anywhere else. These are all differentsymptoms of the same disease. The Americans do not put an end to theirlives, however disquieted they may be, because their religionforbids it; and amongst them materialism may be said hardly to exist, notwithstanding the general passion for physical gratification. The willresists--reason frequently gives way. In democratic ages enjoyments aremore intense than in the ages of aristocracy, and especially the numberof those who partake in them is larger: but, on the other hand, it mustbe admitted that man's hopes and his desires are oftener blasted, thesoul is more stricken and perturbed, and care itself more keen. 

Chapter XIV: Taste For Physical Gratifications United In America To LoveOf Freedom And Attention To Public Affairs

When a democratic state turns to absolute monarchy, the activity whichwas before directed to public and to private affairs is all at oncecentred upon the latter: the immediate consequence is, for some time, great physical prosperity; but this impulse soon slackens, and theamount of productive industry is checked. I know not if a single tradingor manufacturing people can be cited, from the Tyrians down to theFlorentines and the English, who were not a free people also. Thereis therefore a close bond and necessary relation between these twoelements--freedom and productive industry. This proposition is generallytrue of all nations, but especially of democratic nations. I havealready shown that men who live in ages of equality continually requireto form associations in order to procure the things they covet; and, onthe other hand, I have shown how great political freedom improves anddiffuses the art of association. Freedom, in these ages, is thereforeespecially favorable to the production of wealth; nor is it difficultto perceive that despotism is especially adverse to the same result. The nature of despotic power in democratic ages is not to be fierce orcruel, but minute and meddling. Despotism of this kind, though it doesnot trample on humanity, is directly opposed to the genius of commerceand the pursuits of industry. 

Thus the men of democratic ages require to be free in order more readilyto procure those physical enjoyments for which they are always longing. It sometimes happens, however, that the excessive taste they conceivefor these same enjoyments abandons them to the first master who appears. The passion for worldly welfare then defeats itself, and, withoutperceiving it, throws the object of their desires to a greater distance. 

There is, indeed, a most dangerous passage in the history of ademocratic people. When the taste for physical gratifications amongstsuch a people has grown more rapidly than their education and theirexperience of free institutions, the time will come when men are carriedaway, and lose all self-restraint, at the sight of the new possessionsthey are about to lay hold upon. In their intense and exclusive anxietyto make a fortune, they lose sight of the close connection which existsbetween the private fortune of each of them and the prosperity of all. It is not necessary to do violence to such a people in order to stripthem of the rights they enjoy; they themselves willingly loosentheir hold. The discharge of political duties appears to them to be atroublesome annoyance, which diverts them from their occupations andbusiness. If they be required to elect representatives, to support theGovernment by personal service, to meet on public business, they have notime--they cannot waste their precious time in useless engagements: suchidle amusements are unsuited to serious men who are engaged with themore important interests of life. These people think they are followingthe principle of self-interest, but the idea they entertain of thatprinciple is a very rude one; and the better to look after what theycall their business, they neglect their chief business, which is toremain their own masters. 

As the citizens who work do not care to attend to public business, andas the class which might devote its leisure to these duties has ceasedto exist, the place of the Government is, as it were, unfilled. If atthat critical moment some able and ambitious man grasps the supremepower, he will find the road to every kind of usurpation open beforehim. If he does but attend for some time to the material prosperity ofthe country, no more will be demanded of him. Above all he must insurepublic tranquillity: men who are possessed by the passion of physicalgratification generally find out that the turmoil of freedom disturbstheir welfare, before they discover how freedom itself serves to promoteit. If the slightest rumor of public commotion intrudes into the pettypleasures of private life, they are aroused and alarmed by it. The fearof anarchy perpetually haunts them, and they are always ready to flingaway their freedom at the first disturbance. 

I readily admit that public tranquillity is a great good; but at thesame time I cannot forget that all nations have been enslaved by beingkept in good order. Certainly it is not to be inferred that nationsought to despise public tranquillity; but that state ought not tocontent them. A nation which asks nothing of its government but themaintenance of order is already a slave at heart--the slave of its ownwell-being, awaiting but the hand that will bind it. By such a nationthe despotism of faction is not less to be dreaded than the despotismof an individual. When the bulk of the community is engrossed by privateconcerns, the smallest parties need not despair of getting the upperhand in public affairs. At such times it is not rare to see uponthe great stage of the world, as we see at our theatres, a multituderepresented by a few players, who alone speak in the name of anabsent or inattentive crowd: they alone are in action whilst all arestationary; they regulate everything by their own caprice; they changethe laws, and tyrannize at will over the manners of the country; andthen men wonder to see into how small a number of weak and worthlesshands a great people may fall. 

Hitherto the Americans have fortunately escaped all the perils which Ihave just pointed out; and in this respect they are really deserving ofadmiration. Perhaps there is no country in the world where fewer idlemen are to be met with than in America, or where all who work are moreeager to promote their own welfare. But if the passion of theAmericans for physical gratifications is vehement, at least it isnot indiscriminating; and reason, though unable to restrain it, stilldirects its course. An American attends to his private concerns as if hewere alone in the world, and the next minute he gives himself up to thecommon weal as if he had forgotten them. At one time he seems animatedby the most selfish cupidity, at another by the most lively patriotism. The human heart cannot be thus divided. The inhabitants of the UnitedStates alternately display so strong and so similar a passion for theirown welfare and for their freedom, that it may be supposed that thesepassions are united and mingled in some part of their character. Andindeed the Americans believe their freedom to be the best instrument andsurest safeguard of their welfare: they are attached to the one by theother. They by no means think that they are not called upon to take apart in the public weal; they believe, on the contrary, that their chiefbusiness is to secure for themselves a government which will allow themto acquire the things they covet, and which will not debar them from thepeaceful enjoyment of those possessions which they have acquired. 

Chapter XV: That Religious Belief Sometimes Turns The Thoughts Of TheAmericans To Immaterial Pleasures

In the United States, on the seventh day of every week, the trading andworking life of the nation seems suspended; all noises cease; a deeptranquillity, say rather the solemn calm of meditation, succeeds theturmoil of the week, and the soul resumes possession and contemplationof itself. Upon this day the marts of traffic are deserted; every memberof the community, accompanied by his children, goes to church, where helistens to strange language which would seem unsuited to his ear. Heis told of the countless evils caused by pride and covetousness: heis reminded of the necessity of checking his desires, of the finerpleasures which belong to virtue alone, and of the true happiness whichattends it. On his return home, he does not turn to the ledgers of hiscalling, but he opens the book of Holy Scripture; there he meets withsublime or affecting descriptions of the greatness and goodness of theCreator, of the infinite magnificence of the handiwork of God, of thelofty destinies of man, of his duties, and of his immortal privileges. Thus it is that the American at times steals an hour from himself; andlaying aside for a while the petty passions which agitate his life, and the ephemeral interests which engross it, he strays at once into anideal world, where all is great, eternal, and pure. 

I have endeavored to point out in another part of this work the causesto which the maintenance of the political institutions of the Americansis attributable; and religion appeared to be one of the most prominentamongst them. I am now treating of the Americans in an individualcapacity, and I again observe that religion is not less useful to eachcitizen than to the whole State. The Americans show, by their practice, that they feel the high necessity of imparting morality to democraticcommunities by means of religion. What they think of themselves inthis respect is a truth of which every democratic nation ought to bethoroughly persuaded. 

I do not doubt that the social and political constitution of a peoplepredisposes them to adopt a certain belief and certain tastes, whichafterwards flourish without difficulty amongst them; whilst the samecauses may divert a people from certain opinions and propensities, without any voluntary effort, and, as it were, without any distinctconsciousness, on their part. The whole art of the legislatoris correctly to discern beforehand these natural inclinations ofcommunities of men, in order to know whether they should be assisted, orwhether it may not be necessary to check them. For the duties incumbenton the legislator differ at different times; the goal towards which thehuman race ought ever to be tending is alone stationary; the means ofreaching it are perpetually to be varied. 

If I had been born in an aristocratic age, in the midst of a nationwhere the hereditary wealth of some, and the irremediable penury ofothers, should equally divert men from the idea of bettering theircondition, and hold the soul as it were in a state of torpor fixed onthe contemplation of another world, I should then wish that it werepossible for me to rouse that people to a sense of their wants; I shouldseek to discover more rapid and more easy means for satisfying the freshdesires which I might have awakened; and, directing the most strenuousefforts of the human mind to physical pursuits, I should endeavor tostimulate it to promote the well-being of man. If it happened that somemen were immoderately incited to the pursuit of riches, and displayed anexcessive liking for physical gratifications, I should not be alarmed;these peculiar symptoms would soon be absorbed in the general aspect ofthe people. 

The attention of the legislators of democracies is called to othercares. Give democratic nations education and freedom, and leave themalone. They will soon learn to draw from this world all the benefitswhich it can afford; they will improve each of the useful arts, and willday by day render life more comfortable, more convenient, and more easy. Their social condition naturally urges them in this direction; I do notfear that they will slacken their course. 

But whilst man takes delight in this honest and lawful pursuit of hiswellbeing, it is to be apprehended that he may in the end lose the useof his sublimest faculties; and that whilst he is busied in improvingall around him, he may at length degrade himself. Here, and here only, does the peril lie. It should therefore be the unceasing object of thelegislators of democracies, and of all the virtuous and enlightened menwho live there, to raise the souls of their fellow-citizens, and keepthem lifted up towards heaven. It is necessary that all who feel aninterest in the future destinies of democratic society should unite, andthat all should make joint and continual efforts to diffuse the loveof the infinite, a sense of greatness, and a love of pleasures notof earth. If amongst the opinions of a democratic people any of thosepernicious theories exist which tend to inculcate that all perishes withthe body, let men by whom such theories are professed be marked as thenatural foes of such a people. 

The materialists are offensive to me in many respects; their doctrinesI hold to be pernicious, and I am disgusted at their arrogance. If theirsystem could be of any utility to man, it would seem to be by giving hima modest opinion of himself. But these reasoners show that it is notso; and when they think they have said enough to establish that they arebrutes, they show themselves as proud as if they had demonstrated thatthey are gods. Materialism is, amongst all nations, a dangerous diseaseof the human mind; but it is more especially to be dreaded amongst ademocratic people, because it readily amalgamates with that vice whichis most familiar to the heart under such circumstances. Democracyencourages a taste for physical gratification: this taste, if it becomeexcessive, soon disposes men to believe that all is matter only; andmaterialism, in turn, hurries them back with mad impatience to thesesame delights: such is the fatal circle within which democratic nationsare driven round. It were well that they should see the danger and holdback. 

Most religions are only general, simple, and practical means of teachingmen the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. That is the greatestbenefit which a democratic people derives, from its belief, and hencebelief is more necessary to such a people than to all others. Whentherefore any religion has struck its roots deep into a democracy, beware lest you disturb them; but rather watch it carefully, as the mostprecious bequest of aristocratic ages. Seek not to supersede the oldreligious opinions of men by new ones; lest in the passage from onefaith to another, the soul being left for a while stripped of allbelief, the love of physical gratifications should grow upon it and fillit wholly. 

The doctrine of metempsychosis is assuredly not more rational than thatof materialism; nevertheless if it were absolutely necessary that ademocracy should choose one of the two, I should not hesitate to decidethat the community would run less risk of being brutalized by believingthat the soul of man will pass into the carcass of a hog, than bybelieving that the soul of man is nothing at all. The belief in asupersensual and immortal principle, united for a time to matter, isso indispensable to man's greatness, that its effects are striking evenwhen it is not united to the doctrine of future reward and punishment;and when it holds no more than that after death the divine principlecontained in man is absorbed in the Deity, or transferred to animatethe frame of some other creature. Men holding so imperfect a belief willstill consider the body as the secondary and inferior portion oftheir nature, and they will despise it even whilst they yield to itsinfluence; whereas they have a natural esteem and secret admiration forthe immaterial part of man, even though they sometimes refuse to submitto its dominion. That is enough to give a lofty cast to their opinionsand their tastes, and to bid them tend with no interested motive, and asit were by impulse, to pure feelings and elevated thoughts. 

It is not certain that Socrates and his followers had very fixedopinions as to what would befall man hereafter; but the sole pointof belief on which they were determined--that the soul has nothing incommon with the body, and survives it--was enough to give the Platonicphilosophy that sublime aspiration by which it is distinguished. Itis clear from the works of Plato, that many philosophical writers, hispredecessors or contemporaries, professed materialism. These writershave not reached us, or have reached us in mere fragments. The samething has happened in almost all ages; the greater part of the mostfamous minds in literature adhere to the doctrines of a supersensualphilosophy. The instinct and the taste of the human race maintain thosedoctrines; they save them oftentimes in spite of men themselves, andraise the names of their defenders above the tide of time. It must notthen be supposed that at any period or under any political condition, the passion for physical gratifications, and the opinions which aresuperinduced by that passion, can ever content a whole people. The heartof man is of a larger mould: it can at once comprise a taste for thepossessions of earth and the love of those of heaven: at times it mayseem to cling devotedly to the one, but it will never be long withoutthinking of the other. 

If it be easy to see that it is more particularly important indemocratic ages that spiritual opinions should prevail, it is not easyto say by what means those who govern democratic nations may make thempredominate. I am no believer in the prosperity, any more than in thedurability, of official philosophies; and as to state religions, Ihave always held, that if they be sometimes of momentary service to theinterests of political power, they always, sooner or later, becomefatal to the Church. Nor do I think with those who assert, that to raisereligion in the eyes of the people, and to make them do honor to herspiritual doctrines, it is desirable indirectly to give her ministers apolitical influence which the laws deny them. I am so much alive tothe almost inevitable dangers which beset religious belief wheneverthe clergy take part in public affairs, and I am so convinced thatChristianity must be maintained at any cost in the bosom of moderndemocracies, that I had rather shut up the priesthood within thesanctuary than allow them to step beyond it. 

What means then remain in the hands of constituted authorities to bringmen back to spiritual opinions, or to hold them fast to the religionby which those opinions are suggested? My answer will do me harm inthe eyes of politicians. I believe that the sole effectual means whichgovernments can employ in order to have the doctrine of the immortalityof the soul duly respected, is ever to act as if they believed in itthemselves; and I think that it is only by scrupulous conformity toreligious morality in great affairs that they can hope to teach thecommunity at large to know, to love, and to observe it in the lesserconcerns of life. 

Chapter XVI: That Excessive Care Of Worldly Welfare May Impair ThatWelfare

There is a closer tie than is commonly supposed between the improvementof the soul and the amelioration of what belongs to the body. Man mayleave these two things apart, and consider each of them alternately; buthe cannot sever them entirely without at last losing sight of one and ofthe other. The beasts have the same senses as ourselves, and very nearlythe same appetites. We have no sensual passions which are not commonto our race and theirs, and which are not to be found, at least in thegerm, in a dog as well as in a man. Whence is it then that the animalscan only provide for their first and lowest wants, whereas we caninfinitely vary and endlessly increase our enjoyments?

We are superior to the beasts in this, that we use our souls to find outthose material benefits to which they are only led by instinct. In man, the angel teaches the brute the art of contenting its desires. It isbecause man is capable of rising above the things of the body, and ofcontemning life itself, of which the beasts have not the least notion, that he can multiply these same things of the body to a degree whichinferior races are equally unable to conceive. Whatever elevates, enlarges, and expands the soul, renders it more capable of succeedingin those very undertakings which concern it not. Whatever, on the otherhand, enervates or lowers it, weakens it for all purposes, the chiefest, as well as the least, and threatens to render it almost equally impotentfor the one and for the other. Hence the soul must remain great andstrong, though it were only to devote its strength and greatness fromtime to time to the service of the body. If men were ever to contentthemselves with material objects, it is probable that they would lose bydegrees the art of producing them; and they would enjoy them in the end, like the brutes, without discernment and without improvement. 

Chapter XVII: That In Times Marked By Equality Of Conditions AndSceptical Opinions, It Is Important To Remove To A Distance The ObjectsOf Human Actions

In the ages of faith the final end of life is placed beyond life. Themen of those ages therefore naturally, and in a manner involuntarily, accustom themselves to fix their gaze for a long course of years on someimmovable object, towards which they are constantly tending; and theylearn by insensible degrees to repress a multitude of petty passingdesires, in order to be the better able to content that great andlasting desire which possesses them. When these same men engage in theaffairs of this world, the same habits may be traced in their conduct. They are apt to set up some general and certain aim and end to theiractions here below, towards which all their efforts are directed: theydo not turn from day to day to chase some novel object of desire, butthey have settled designs which they are never weary of pursuing. Thisexplains why religious nations have so often achieved such lastingresults: for whilst they were thinking only of the other world, theyhad found out the great secret of success in this. Religions give men ageneral habit of conducting themselves with a view to futurity: inthis respect they are not less useful to happiness in this life thanto felicity hereafter; and this is one of their chief politicalcharacteristics. 

But in proportion as the light of faith grows dim, the range of man'ssight is circumscribed, as if the end and aim of human actions appearedevery day to be more within his reach. When men have once allowedthemselves to think no more of what is to befall them after life, theyreadily lapse into that complete and brutal indifference to futurity, which is but too conformable to some propensities of mankind. As soonas they have lost the habit of placing their chief hopes upon remoteevents, they naturally seek to gratify without delay their smallestdesires; and no sooner do they despair of living forever, than theyare disposed to act as if they were to exist but for a single day. In sceptical ages it is always therefore to be feared that men mayperpetually give way to their daily casual desires; and that, whollyrenouncing whatever cannot be acquired without protracted effort, theymay establish nothing great, permanent, and calm. 

If the social condition of a people, under these circumstances, becomesdemocratic, the danger which I here point out is thereby increased. Wheneveryone is constantly striving to change his position--when an immensefield for competition is thrown open to all--when wealth is amassed ordissipated in the shortest possible space of time amidst the turmoilof democracy, visions of sudden and easy fortunes--of great possessionseasily won and lost--of chance, under all its forms--haunt the mind. Theinstability of society itself fosters the natural instability of man'sdesires. In the midst of these perpetual fluctuations of his lot, thepresent grows upon his mind, until it conceals futurity from his sight, and his looks go no further than the morrow. 

In those countries in which unhappily irreligion and democracy coexist, the most important duty of philosophers and of those in power is to bealways striving to place the objects of human actions far beyond man'simmediate range. Circumscribed by the character of his country andhis age, the moralist must learn to vindicate his principles in thatposition. He must constantly endeavor to show his contemporaries, that, even in the midst of the perpetual commotion around them, it is easierthan they think to conceive and to execute protracted undertakings. Hemust teach them that, although the aspect of mankind may have changed, the methods by which men may provide for their prosperity in this worldare still the same; and that amongst democratic nations, as well aselsewhere, it is only by resisting a thousand petty selfish passions ofthe hour that the general and unquenchable passion for happiness can besatisfied. 

The task of those in power is not less clearly marked out. At all timesit is important that those who govern nations should act with a view tothe future: but this is even more necessary in democratic and scepticalages than in any others. By acting thus, the leading men of democraciesnot only make public affairs prosperous, but they also teach privateindividuals, by their example, the art of managing private concerns. Above all they must strive as much as possible to banish chance from thesphere of politics. The sudden and undeserved promotion of a courtierproduces only a transient impression in an aristocratic country, becausethe aggregate institutions and opinions of the nation habitually compelmen to advance slowly in tracks which they cannot get out of. Butnothing is more pernicious than similar instances of favor exhibitedto the eyes of a democratic people: they give the last impulse to thepublic mind in a direction where everything hurries it onwards. At timesof scepticism and equality more especially, the favor of the people orof the prince, which chance may confer or chance withhold, ought neverto stand in lieu of attainments or services. It is desirable that everyadvancement should there appear to be the result of some effort; so thatno greatness should be of too easy acquirement, and that ambition shouldbe obliged to fix its gaze long upon an object before it is gratified. Governments must apply themselves to restore to men that love of thefuture with which religion and the state of society no longer inspirethem; and, without saying so, they must practically teach the communityday by day that wealth, fame, and power are the rewards of labor--thatgreat success stands at the utmost range of long desires, and thatnothing lasting is obtained but what is obtained by toil. When men haveaccustomed themselves to foresee from afar what is likely to befall inthe world and to feed upon hopes, they can hardly confine their mindswithin the precise circumference of life, and they are ready to breakthe boundary and cast their looks beyond. I do not doubt that, bytraining the members of a community to think of their future conditionin this world, they would be gradually and unconsciously brought nearerto religious convictions. Thus the means which allow men, up to acertain point, to go without religion, are perhaps after all theonly means we still possess for bringing mankind back by a long androundabout path to a state of faith. 

Chapter XVIII: That Amongst The Americans All Honest Callings AreHonorable

Amongst a democratic people, where there is no hereditary wealth, everyman works to earn a living, or has worked, or is born of parents whohave worked. The notion of labor is therefore presented to the mindon every side as the necessary, natural, and honest condition of humanexistence. Not only is labor not dishonorable amongst such a people, butit is held in honor: the prejudice is not against it, but in its favor. In the United States a wealthy man thinks that he owes it to publicopinion to devote his leisure to some kind of industrial or commercialpursuit, or to public business. He would think himself in bad repute ifhe employed his life solely in living. It is for the purpose of escapingthis obligation to work, that so many rich Americans come to Europe, where they find some scattered remains of aristocratic society, amongstwhich idleness is still held in honor. 

Equality of conditions not only ennobles the notion of labor in men'sestimation, but it raises the notion of labor as a source of profit. Inaristocracies it is not exactly labor that is despised, but labor witha view to profit. Labor is honorific in itself, when it is undertaken atthe sole bidding of ambition or of virtue. Yet in aristocratic societyit constantly happens that he who works for honor is not insensible tothe attractions of profit. But these two desires only intermingle inthe innermost depths of his soul: he carefully hides from every eyethe point at which they join; he would fain conceal it from himself. Inaristocratic countries there are few public officers who do not affectto serve their country without interested motives. Their salary is anincident of which they think but little, and of which they always affectnot to think at all. Thus the notion of profit is kept distinct fromthat of labor; however they may be united in point of fact, they are notthought of together. 

In democratic communities these two notions are, on the contrary, alwayspalpably united. As the desire of well-being is universal--as fortunesare slender or fluctuating--as everyone wants either to increase hisown resources, or to provide fresh ones for his progeny, men clearly seethat it is profit which, if not wholly, at least partially, leads themto work. Even those who are principally actuated by the love of fame arenecessarily made familiar with the thought that they are not exclusivelyactuated by that motive; and they discover that the desire of gettinga living is mingled in their minds with the desire of making lifeillustrious. 

As soon as, on the one hand, labor is held by the whole community to bean honorable necessity of man's condition, and, on the other, as soon aslabor is always ostensibly performed, wholly or in part, for the purposeof earning remuneration, the immense interval which separated differentcallings in aristocratic societies disappears. If all are not alike, allat least have one feature in common. No profession exists in which mendo not work for money; and the remuneration which is common to themall gives them all an air of resemblance. This serves to explainthe opinions which the Americans entertain with respect to differentcallings. In America no one is degraded because he works, for everyoneabout him works also; nor is anyone humiliated by the notion ofreceiving pay, for the President of the United States also works forpay. He is paid for commanding, other men for obeying orders. In theUnited States professions are more or less laborious, more or lessprofitable; but they are never either high or low: every honest callingis honorable. 

Chapter XIX: That Almost All The Americans Follow Industrial Callings

Agriculture is, perhaps, of all the useful arts that which improves mostslowly amongst democratic nations. Frequently, indeed, it would seemto be stationary, because other arts are making rapid strides towardsperfection. On the other hand, almost all the tastes and habits whichthe equality of condition engenders naturally lead men to commercial andindustrial occupations. 

Suppose an active, enlightened, and free man, enjoying a competency, butfull of desires: he is too poor to live in idleness; he is rich enoughto feel himself protected from the immediate fear of want, and he thinkshow he can better his condition. This man has conceived a taste forphysical gratifications, which thousands of his fellow-men indulge inaround him; he has himself begun to enjoy these pleasures, and he iseager to increase his means of satisfying these tastes more completely. But life is slipping away, time is urgent--to what is he to turn? Thecultivation of the ground promises an almost certain result to hisexertions, but a slow one; men are not enriched by it without patienceand toil. Agriculture is therefore only suited to those who have alreadylarge, superfluous wealth, or to those whose penury bids them only seeka bare subsistence. The choice of such a man as we have supposed is soonmade; he sells his plot of ground, leaves his dwelling, and embarks insome hazardous but lucrative calling. Democratic communities aboundin men of this kind; and in proportion as the equality of conditionsbecomes greater, their multitude increases. Thus democracy not onlyswells the number of workingmen, but it leads men to prefer one kindof labor to another; and whilst it diverts them from agriculture, itencourages their taste for commerce and manufactures. *a

[Footnote a: It has often been remarked that manufacturers andmercantile men are inordinately addicted to physical gratifications, andthis has been attributed to commerce and manufactures; but that is, I apprehend, to take the effect for the cause. The taste for physicalgratifications is not imparted to men by commerce or manufactures, but it is rather this taste which leads men to embark in commerce andmanufactures, as a means by which they hope to satisfy themselves morepromptly and more completely. If commerce and manufactures increase thedesire of well-being, it is because every passion gathers strength inproportion as it is cultivated, and is increased by all the efforts madeto satiate it. All the causes which make the love of worldly welfarepredominate in the heart of man are favorable to the growth of commerceand manufactures. Equality of conditions is one of those causes; itencourages trade, not directly by giving men a taste for business, butindirectly by strengthening and expanding in their minds a taste forprosperity. ]

This spirit may be observed even amongst the richest members of thecommunity. In democratic countries, however opulent a man is supposed tobe, he is almost always discontented with his fortune, because he findsthat he is less rich than his father was, and he fears that his sonswill be less rich than himself. Most rich men in democracies aretherefore constantly haunted by the desire of obtaining wealth, and theynaturally turn their attention to trade and manufactures, which appearto offer the readiest and most powerful means of success. In thisrespect they share the instincts of the poor, without feeling thesame necessities; say rather, they feel the most imperious of allnecessities, that of not sinking in the world. 

In aristocracies the rich are at the same time those who govern. Theattention which they unceasingly devote to important public affairsdiverts them from the lesser cares which trade and manufacturesdemand. If the will of an individual happens, nevertheless, to turn hisattention to business, the will of the body to which he belongs willimmediately debar him from pursuing it; for however men may declaimagainst the rule of numbers, they cannot wholly escape their sway; andeven amongst those aristocratic bodies which most obstinately refuse toacknowledge the rights of the majority of the nation, a private majorityis formed which governs the rest. *b

[Footnote b: Some aristocracies, however, have devoted themselveseagerly to commerce, and have cultivated manufactures with success. Thehistory of the world might furnish several conspicuous examples. But, generally speaking, it may be affirmed that the aristocratic principleis not favorable to the growth of trade and manufactures. Moneyedaristocracies are the only exception to the rule. Amongst sucharistocracies there are hardly any desires which do not require wealthto satisfy them; the love of riches becomes, so to speak, the high roadof human passions, which is crossed by or connected with all lessertracks. The love of money and the thirst for that distinction whichattaches to power, are then so closely intermixed in the same souls, that it becomes difficult to discover whether men grow covetous fromambition, or whether they are ambitious from covetousness. This isthe case in England, where men seek to get rich in order to arrive atdistinction, and seek distinctions as a manifestation of their wealth. The mind is then seized by both ends, and hurried into trade andmanufactures, which are the shortest roads that lead to opulence. 

This, however, strikes me as an exceptional and transitory circumstance. When wealth is become the only symbol of aristocracy, it is verydifficult for the wealthy to maintain sole possession of politicalpower, to the exclusion of all other men. The aristocracy of birth andpure democracy are at the two extremes of the social and political stateof nations: between them moneyed aristocracy finds its place. The latterapproximates to the aristocracy of birth by conferring great privilegeson a small number of persons; it so far belongs to the democraticelement, that these privileges may be successively acquired by all. Itfrequently forms a natural transition between these two conditionsof society, and it is difficult to say whether it closes the reign ofaristocratic institutions, or whether it already opens the new era ofdemocracy. ]

In democratic countries, where money does not lead those who possess itto political power, but often removes them from it, the rich do notknow how to spend their leisure. They are driven into active life by theinquietude and the greatness of their desires, by the extent of theirresources, and by the taste for what is extraordinary, which is almostalways felt by those who rise, by whatsoever means, above the crowd. Trade is the only road open to them. In democracies nothing is moregreat or more brilliant than commerce: it attracts the attention ofthe public, and fills the imagination of the multitude; all energeticpassions are directed towards it. Neither their own prejudices, northose of anybody else, can prevent the rich from devoting themselvesto it. The wealthy members of democracies never form a body which hasmanners and regulations of its own; the opinions peculiar to their classdo not restrain them, and the common opinions of their country urge themon. Moreover, as all the large fortunes which are to be met with in ademocratic community are of commercial growth, many generations mustsucceed each other before their possessors can have entirely laid asidetheir habits of business. 

Circumscribed within the narrow space which politics leave them, richmen in democracies eagerly embark in commercial enterprise: there theycan extend and employ their natural advantages; and indeed it is even bythe boldness and the magnitude of their industrial speculations that wemay measure the slight esteem in which productive industry would havebeen held by them, if they had been born amidst an aristocracy. 

A similar observation is likewise applicable to all men living indemocracies, whether they be poor or rich. Those who live in the midstof democratic fluctuations have always before their eyes the phantom ofchance; and they end by liking all undertakings in which chance plays apart. They are therefore all led to engage in commerce, not only forthe sake of the profit it holds out to them, but for the love of theconstant excitement occasioned by that pursuit. 

The United States of America have only been emancipated for half acentury [in 1840] from the state of colonial dependence in which theystood to Great Britain; the number of large fortunes there is small, andcapital is still scarce. Yet no people in the world has made such rapidprogress in trade and manufactures as the Americans: they constitute atthe present day the second maritime nation in the world; and althoughtheir manufactures have to struggle with almost insurmountable naturalimpediments, they are not prevented from making great and dailyadvances. In the United States the greatest undertakings andspeculations are executed without difficulty, because the wholepopulation is engaged in productive industry, and because the poorestas well as the most opulent members of the commonwealth are ready tocombine their efforts for these purposes. The consequence is, that astranger is constantly amazed by the immense public works executed by anation which contains, so to speak, no rich men. The Americans arrivedbut as yesterday on the territory which they inhabit, and they havealready changed the whole order of nature for their own advantage. Theyhave joined the Hudson to the Mississippi, and made the Atlantic Oceancommunicate with the Gulf of Mexico, across a continent of more thanfive hundred leagues in extent which separates the two seas. The longestrailroads which have been constructed up to the present time are inAmerica. But what most astonishes me in the United States, is not somuch the marvellous grandeur of some undertakings, as the innumerablemultitude of small ones. Almost all the farmers of the United Statescombine some trade with agriculture; most of them make agricultureitself a trade. It seldom happens that an American farmer settles forgood upon the land which he occupies: especially in the districts of theFar West he brings land into tillage in order to sell it again, and notto farm it: he builds a farmhouse on the speculation that, as the stateof the country will soon be changed by the increase of population, agood price will be gotten for it. Every year a swarm of the inhabitantsof the North arrive in the Southern States, and settle in the partswhere the cotton plant and the sugar-cane grow. These men cultivate thesoil in order to make it produce in a few years enough to enrich them;and they already look forward to the time when they may return hometo enjoy the competency thus acquired. Thus the Americans carry theirbusiness-like qualities into agriculture; and their trading passions aredisplayed in that as in their other pursuits. 

The Americans make immense progress in productive industry, because theyall devote themselves to it at once; and for this same reason they areexposed to very unexpected and formidable embarrassments. As they areall engaged in commerce, their commercial affairs are affected bysuch various and complex causes that it is impossible to foreseewhat difficulties may arise. As they are all more or less engaged inproductive industry, at the least shock given to business all privatefortunes are put in jeopardy at the same time, and the State is shaken. I believe that the return of these commercial panics is an endemicdisease of the democratic nations of our age. It may be rendered lessdangerous, but it cannot be cured; because it does not originate inaccidental circumstances, but in the temperament of these nations. 

Chapter XX: That Aristocracy May Be Engendered By Manufactures

I have shown that democracy is favorable to the growth of manufactures, and that it increases without limit the numbers of the manufacturingclasses: we shall now see by what side road manufacturers may possiblyin their turn bring men back to aristocracy. It is acknowledged thatwhen a workman is engaged every day upon the same detail, the wholecommodity is produced with greater ease, promptitude, and economy. Itis likewise acknowledged that the cost of the production of manufacturedgoods is diminished by the extent of the establishment in which they aremade, and by the amount of capital employed or of credit. These truthshad long been imperfectly discerned, but in our time they have beendemonstrated. They have been already applied to many very importantkinds of manufactures, and the humblest will gradually be governed bythem. I know of nothing in politics which deserves to fix the attentionof the legislator more closely than these two new axioms of the scienceof manufactures. 

When a workman is unceasingly and exclusively engaged in the fabricationof one thing, he ultimately does his work with singular dexterity; butat the same time he loses the general faculty of applying his mind tothe direction of the work. He every day becomes more adroit and lessindustrious; so that it may be said of him, that in proportion as theworkman improves the man is degraded. What can be expected of a man whohas spent twenty years of his life in making heads for pins? and towhat can that mighty human intelligence, which has so often stirred theworld, be applied in him, except it be to investigate the best method ofmaking pins' heads? When a workman has spent a considerable portionof his existence in this manner, his thoughts are forever set upon theobject of his daily toil; his body has contracted certain fixed habits, which it can never shake off: in a word, he no longer belongs tohimself, but to the calling which he has chosen. It is in vain that lawsand manners have been at the pains to level all barriers round sucha man, and to open to him on every side a thousand different paths tofortune; a theory of manufactures more powerful than manners and lawsbinds him to a craft, and frequently to a spot, which he cannot leave:it assigns to him a certain place in society, beyond which he cannot go:in the midst of universal movement it has rendered him stationary. 

In proportion as the principle of the division of labor is moreextensively applied, the workman becomes more weak, more narrow-minded, and more dependent. The art advances, the artisan recedes. On the otherhand, in proportion as it becomes more manifest that the productions ofmanufactures are by so much the cheaper and better as the manufacture islarger and the amount of capital employed more considerable, wealthyand educated men come forward to embark in manufactures which wereheretofore abandoned to poor or ignorant handicraftsmen. The magnitudeof the efforts required, and the importance of the results to beobtained, attract them. Thus at the very time at which the scienceof manufactures lowers the class of workmen, it raises the class ofmasters. 

Whereas the workman concentrates his faculties more and more upon thestudy of a single detail, the master surveys a more extensive whole, andthe mind of the latter is enlarged in proportion as that of the formeris narrowed. In a short time the one will require nothing but physicalstrength without intelligence; the other stands in need of science, andalmost of genius, to insure success. This man resembles more and morethe administrator of a vast empire--that man, a brute. The master andthe workman have then here no similarity, and their differences increaseevery day. They are only connected as the two rings at the extremitiesof a long chain. Each of them fills the station which is made for him, and out of which he does not get: the one is continually, closely, andnecessarily dependent upon the other, and seems as much born to obey asthat other is to command. What is this but aristocracy?

As the conditions of men constituting the nation become more and moreequal, the demand for manufactured commodities becomes more general andmore extensive; and the cheapness which places these objects withinthe reach of slender fortunes becomes a great element of success. Hencethere are every day more men of great opulence and education who devotetheir wealth and knowledge to manufactures; and who seek, by openinglarge establishments, and by a strict division of labor, to meet thefresh demands which are made on all sides. Thus, in proportion as themass of the nation turns to democracy, that particular class which isengaged in manufactures becomes more aristocratic. Men grow more alikein the one--more different in the other; and inequality increases inthe less numerous class in the same ratio in which it decreases inthe community. Hence it would appear, on searching to the bottom, thataristocracy should naturally spring out of the bosom of democracy. 

But this kind of aristocracy by no means resembles those kinds whichpreceded it. It will be observed at once, that as it applies exclusivelyto manufactures and to some manufacturing callings, it is a monstrousexception in the general aspect of society. The small aristocraticsocieties which are formed by some manufacturers in the midst of theimmense democracy of our age, contain, like the great aristocraticsocieties of former ages, some men who are very opulent, and a multitudewho are wretchedly poor. The poor have few means of escaping from theircondition and becoming rich; but the rich are constantly becoming poor, or they give up business when they have realized a fortune. Thus theelements of which the class of the poor is composed are fixed; but theelements of which the class of the rich is composed are not so. To saythe truth, though there are rich men, the class of rich men does notexist; for these rich individuals have no feelings or purposes incommon, no mutual traditions or mutual hopes; there are thereforemembers, but no body. 

Not only are the rich not compactly united amongst themselves, but thereis no real bond between them and the poor. Their relative position isnot a permanent one; they are constantly drawn together or separated bytheir interests. The workman is generally dependent on the master, butnot on any particular master; these two men meet in the factory, butknow not each other elsewhere; and whilst they come into contact on onepoint, they stand very wide apart on all others. The manufacturer asksnothing of the workman but his labor; the workman expects nothing fromhim but his wages. The one contracts no obligation to protect, nor theother to defend; and they are not permanently connected either by habitor by duty. The aristocracy created by business rarely settles in themidst of the manufacturing population which it directs; the objectis not to govern that population, but to use it. An aristocracy thusconstituted can have no great hold upon those whom it employs; and evenif it succeed in retaining them at one moment, they escape the next; itknows not how to will, and it cannot act. The territorial aristocracy offormer ages was either bound by law, or thought itself bound byusage, to come to the relief of its serving-men, and to succortheir distresses. But the manufacturing aristocracy of our age firstimpoverishes and debases the men who serve it, and then abandons them tobe supported by the charity of the public. This is a natural consequenceof what has been said before. Between the workmen and the master thereare frequent relations, but no real partnership. 

I am of opinion, upon the whole, that the manufacturing aristocracywhich is growing up under our eyes is one of the harshest which everexisted in the world; but at the same time it is one of the mostconfined and least dangerous. Nevertheless the friends of democracyshould keep their eyes anxiously fixed in this direction; for if ever apermanent inequality of conditions and aristocracy again penetrate intothe world, it may be predicted that this is the channel by which theywill enter. 

Book Three: Influence Of Democracy On Manners, Properly So Called

Chapter I: That Manners Are Softened As Social Conditions Become MoreEqual

We perceive that for several ages social conditions have tended toequality, and we discover that in the course of the same period themanners of society have been softened. Are these two things merelycontemporaneous, or does any secret link exist between them, so that theone cannot go on without making the other advance? Several causes mayconcur to render the manners of a people less rude; but, of allthese causes, the most powerful appears to me to be the equality ofconditions. Equality of conditions and growing civility in manners are, then, in my eyes, not only contemporaneous occurrences, but correlativefacts. When the fabulists seek to interest us in the actions of beasts, they invest them with human notions and passions; the poets who sing ofspirits and angels do the same; there is no wretchedness so deep, norany happiness so pure, as to fill the human mind and touch the heart, unless we are ourselves held up to our own eyes under other features. 

This is strictly applicable to the subject upon which we are at presentengaged. When all men are irrevocably marshalled in an aristocraticcommunity, according to their professions, their property, and theirbirth, the members of each class, considering themselves as childrenof the same family, cherish a constant and lively sympathy towards eachother, which can never be felt in an equal degree by the citizens ofa democracy. But the same feeling does not exist between the severalclasses towards each other. Amongst an aristocratic people each castehas its own opinions, feelings, rights, manners, and modes of living. Thus the men of whom each caste is composed do not resemble the mass oftheir fellow-citizens; they do not think or feel in the same manner, and they scarcely believe that they belong to the same human race. Theycannot, therefore, thoroughly understand what others feel, nor judge ofothers by themselves. Yet they are sometimes eager to lend each othermutual aid; but this is not contrary to my previous observation. Thesearistocratic institutions, which made the beings of one and the samerace so different, nevertheless bound them to each other by closepolitical ties. Although the serf had no natural interest in the fate ofnobles, he did not the less think himself obliged to devote his personto the service of that noble who happened to be his lord; and althoughthe noble held himself to be of a different nature from that of hisserfs, he nevertheless held that his duty and his honor constrainedhim to defend, at the risk of his own life, those who dwelt upon hisdomains. 

It is evident that these mutual obligations did not originate in the lawof nature, but in the law of society; and that the claim of social dutywas more stringent than that of mere humanity. These services were notsupposed to be due from man to man, but to the vassal or to the lord. Feudal institutions awakened a lively sympathy for the sufferings ofcertain men, but none at all for the miseries of mankind. They infusedgenerosity rather than mildness into the manners of the time, andalthough they prompted men to great acts of self-devotion, theyengendered no real sympathies; for real sympathies can only existbetween those who are alike; and in aristocratic ages men acknowledgenone but the members of their own caste to be like themselves. 

When the chroniclers of the Middle Ages, who all belonged to thearistocracy by birth or education, relate the tragical end of a noble, their grief flows apace; whereas they tell you at a breath, and withoutwincing, of massacres and tortures inflicted on the common sort ofpeople. Not that these writers felt habitual hatred or systematicdisdain for the people; war between the several classes of the communitywas not yet declared. They were impelled by an instinct rather than by apassion; as they had formed no clear notion of a poor man's sufferings, they cared but little for his fate. The same feelings animated the lowerorders whenever the feudal tie was broken. The same ages which witnessedso many heroic acts of self-devotion on the part of vassals for theirlords, were stained with atrocious barbarities, exercised from time totime by the lower classes on the higher. It must not be supposed thatthis mutual insensibility arose solely from the absence of publicorder and education; for traces of it are to be found in the followingcenturies, which became tranquil and enlightened whilst they remainedaristocratic. In 1675 the lower classes in Brittany revolted atthe imposition of a new tax. These disturbances were put down withunexampled atrocity. Observe the language in which Madame de Sevigne, awitness of these horrors, relates them to her daughter:--

"Aux Rochers, 30 Octobre, 1675. 

"Mon Dieu, ma fille, que votre lettre d'Aix est plaisante! Au moinsrelisez vos lettres avant que de les envoyer; laissez-vous surpendre aleur agrement, et consolez-vous par ce plaisir de la peine que vous avezd'en tant ecrire. Vous avez donc baise toute la Provence? il n'y auraitpas satisfaction a baiser toute la Bretagne, a moins qu'on n'aimat asentir le vin. . . . Voulez-vous savoir des nouvelles de Rennes? On afait une taxe de cent mille ecus sur le bourgeois; et si on ne trouvepoint cette somme dans vingt-quatre heures, elle sera doublee etexigible par les soldats. On a chasse et banni toute une grand rue, etdefendu de les recueillir sous peine de la vie; de sorte qu'on voyaittous ces miserables, veillards, femmes accouchees, enfans, errer enpleurs au sortir de cette ville sans savoir ou aller. On roua avant-hierun violon, qui avait commence la danse et la pillerie du papier timbre;il a ete ecartele apres sa mort, et ses quatre quartiers exposes auxquatre coins de la ville. On a pris soixante bourgeois, et on commencedemain les punitions. Cette province est un bel exemple pour les autres, et surtout de respecter les gouverneurs et les gouvernantes, et de nepoint jeter de pierres dans leur jardin. " *a

[Footnote a: To feel the point of this joke the reader should recollectthat Madame de Grignan was Gouvernante de Provence. ] "Madame de Tarenteetait hier dans ces bois par un temps enchante: il n'est question ni dechambre ni de collation; elle entre par la barriere et s'en retourne dememe. . . . "

In another letter she adds:--

"Vous me parlez bien plaisamment de nos miseres; nous ne sommes plus siroues; un en huit jours, pour entretenir la justice. Il est vrai que lapenderie me parait maintenant un refraichissement. J'ai une tout autreidee de la justice, depuis que je suis en ce pays. Vos galeriens meparaissent une societe d'honnetes gens qui se sont retires du monde pourmener une vie douce. "

It would be a mistake to suppose that Madame de Sevigne, who wrote theselines, was a selfish or cruel person; she was passionately attachedto her children, and very ready to sympathize in the sorrows of herfriends; nay, her letters show that she treated her vassals and servantswith kindness and indulgence. But Madame de Sevigne had no clear notionof suffering in anyone who was not a person of quality. 

In our time the harshest man writing to the most insensible person ofhis acquaintance would not venture wantonly to indulge in the crueljocularity which I have quoted; and even if his own manners allowed himto do so, the manners of society at large would forbid it. Whence doesthis arise? Have we more sensibility than our forefathers? I know notthat we have; but I am sure that our insensibility is extended to a fargreater range of objects. When all the ranks of a community are nearlyequal, as all men think and feel in nearly the same manner, each of themmay judge in a moment of the sensations of all the others; he casts arapid glance upon himself, and that is enough. There is no wretchednessinto which he cannot readily enter, and a secret instinct reveals to himits extent. It signifies not that strangers or foes be the sufferers;imagination puts him in their place; something like a personal feelingis mingled with his pity, and makes himself suffer whilst the bodyof his fellow-creature is in torture. In democratic ages men rarelysacrifice themselves for one another; but they display generalcompassion for the members of the human race. They inflict no uselessills; and they are happy to relieve the griefs of others, when they cando so without much hurting themselves; they are not disinterested, butthey are humane. 

Although the Americans have, in a manner, reduced egotism to a socialand philosophical theory, they are nevertheless extremely open tocompassion. In no country is criminal justice administered with moremildness than in the United States. Whilst the English seem disposedcarefully to retain the bloody traces of the dark ages in their penallegislation, the Americans have almost expunged capital punishment fromtheir codes. North America is, I think, the only one country upon earthin which the life of no one citizen has been taken for a politicaloffence in the course of the last fifty years. The circumstance whichconclusively shows that this singular mildness of the Americans ariseschiefly from their social condition, is the manner in which they treattheir slaves. Perhaps there is not, upon the whole, a single Europeancolony in the New World in which the physical condition of the blacksis less severe than in the United States; yet the slaves still endurehorrid sufferings there, and are constantly exposed to barbarouspunishments. It is easy to perceive that the lot of these unhappy beingsinspires their masters with but little compassion, and that they lookupon slavery, not only as an institution which is profitable to them, but as an evil which does not affect them. Thus the same man who is fullof humanity towards his fellow-creatures when they are at the same timehis equals, becomes insensible to their afflictions as soon as thatequality ceases. His mildness should therefore be attributed to theequality of conditions, rather than to civilization and education. 

What I have here remarked of individuals is, to a certain extent, applicable to nations. When each nation has its distinct opinions, belief, laws, and customs, it looks upon itself as the whole of mankind, and is moved by no sorrows but its own. Should war break out betweentwo nations animated by this feeling, it is sure to be waged with greatcruelty. At the time of their highest culture, the Romans slaughteredthe generals of their enemies, after having dragged them in triumphbehind a car; and they flung their prisoners to the beasts of the Circusfor the amusement of the people. Cicero, who declaimed so vehemently atthe notion of crucifying a Roman citizen, had not a word to say againstthese horrible abuses of victory. It is evident that in his eyes abarbarian did not belong to the same human race as a Roman. On thecontrary, in proportion as nations become more like each other, theybecome reciprocally more compassionate, and the law of nations ismitigated. 

Chapter II: That Democracy Renders The Habitual Intercourse Of TheAmericans Simple And Easy

Democracy does not attach men strongly to each other; but it placestheir habitual intercourse upon an easier footing. If two Englishmenchance to meet at the Antipodes, where they are surrounded by strangerswhose language and manners are almost unknown to them, they will firststare at each other with much curiosity and a kind of secret uneasiness;they will then turn away, or, if one accosts the other, they willtake care only to converse with a constrained and absent air upon veryunimportant subjects. Yet there is no enmity between these men; theyhave never seen each other before, and each believes the other to be arespectable person. Why then should they stand so cautiously apart? Wemust go back to England to learn the reason. 

When it is birth alone, independent of wealth, which classes men insociety, everyone knows exactly what his own position is upon thesocial scale; he does not seek to rise, he does not fear to sink. Ina community thus organized, men of different castes communicate verylittle with each other; but if accident brings them together, they areready to converse without hoping or fearing to lose their own position. Their intercourse is not upon a footing of equality, but it is notconstrained. When moneyed aristocracy succeeds to aristocracy of birth, the case is altered. The privileges of some are still extremely great, but the possibility of acquiring those privileges is open to all: whenceit follows that those who possess them are constantly haunted by theapprehension of losing them, or of other men's sharing them; those whodo not yet enjoy them long to possess them at any cost, or, if theyfail to appear at least to possess them--which is not impossible. As thesocial importance of men is no longer ostensibly and permanently fixedby blood, and is infinitely varied by wealth, ranks still exist, but itis not easy clearly to distinguish at a glance those who respectivelybelong to them. Secret hostilities then arise in the community; one setof men endeavor by innumerable artifices to penetrate, or to appear topenetrate, amongst those who are above them; another set are constantlyin arms against these usurpers of their rights; or rather the sameindividual does both at once, and whilst he seeks to raise himself intoa higher circle, he is always on the defensive against the intrusion ofthose below him. 

Such is the condition of England at the present time; and I am ofopinion that the peculiarity before adverted to is principally to beattributed to this cause. As aristocratic pride is still extremely greatamongst the English, and as the limits of aristocracy are ill-defined, everybody lives in constant dread lest advantage should be taken of hisfamiliarity. Unable to judge at once of the social position of thosehe meets, an Englishman prudently avoids all contact with them. Menare afraid lest some slight service rendered should draw them intoan unsuitable acquaintance; they dread civilities, and they avoid theobtrusive gratitude of a stranger quite as much as his hatred. Manypeople attribute these singular anti-social propensities, and thereserved and taciturn bearing of the English, to purely physical causes. I may admit that there is something of it in their race, but much moreof it is attributable to their social condition, as is proved by thecontrast of the Americans. 

In America, where the privileges of birth never existed, and whereriches confer no peculiar rights on their possessors, men unacquaintedwith each other are very ready to frequent the same places, and findneither peril nor advantage in the free interchange of their thoughts. If they meet by accident, they neither seek nor avoid intercourse; theirmanner is therefore natural, frank, and open: it is easy to see thatthey hardly expect or apprehend anything from each other, and that theydo not care to display, any more than to conceal, their position in theworld. If their demeanor is often cold and serious, it is never haughtyor constrained; and if they do not converse, it is because they arenot in a humor to talk, not because they think it their interest to besilent. In a foreign country two Americans are at once friends, simplybecause they are Americans. They are repulsed by no prejudice; they areattracted by their common country. For two Englishmen the same bloodis not enough; they must be brought together by the same rank. TheAmericans remark this unsociable mood of the English as much as theFrench do, and they are not less astonished by it. Yet the Americans areconnected with England by their origin, their religion, their language, and partially by their manners; they only differ in their socialcondition. It may therefore be inferred that the reserve of the Englishproceeds from the constitution of their country much more than from thatof its inhabitants. 

Chapter III: Why The Americans Show So Little Sensitiveness In Their OwnCountry, And Are So Sensitive In Europe

The temper of the Americans is vindictive, like that of all serious andreflecting nations. They hardly ever forget an offence, but it is noteasy to offend them; and their resentment is as slow to kindle as it isto abate. In aristocratic communities where a small number of personsmanage everything, the outward intercourse of men is subject to settledconventional rules. Everyone then thinks he knows exactly what marks ofrespect or of condescension he ought to display, and none are presumedto be ignorant of the science of etiquette. These usages of the firstclass in society afterwards serve as a model to all the others; besideswhich each of the latter lays down a code of its own, to which allits members are bound to conform. Thus the rules of politeness form acomplex system of legislation, which it is difficult to be perfectlymaster of, but from which it is dangerous for anyone to deviate; so thatmen are constantly exposed involuntarily to inflict or to receivebitter affronts. But as the distinctions of rank are obliterated, as mendiffering in education and in birth meet and mingle in the same placesof resort, it is almost impossible to agree upon the rules of goodbreeding. As its laws are uncertain, to disobey them is not a crime, even in the eyes of those who know what they are; men attach moreimportance to intentions than to forms, and they grow less civil, but atthe same time less quarrelsome. There are many little attentions whichan American does not care about; he thinks they are not due to him, orhe presumes that they are not known to be due: he therefore eitherdoes not perceive a rudeness or he forgives it; his manners become lesscourteous, and his character more plain and masculine. 

The mutual indulgence which the Americans display, and the manlyconfidence with which they treat each other, also result from anotherdeeper and more general cause, which I have already adverted to in thepreceding chapter. In the United States the distinctions of rankin civil society are slight, in political society they are null; anAmerican, therefore, does not think himself bound to pay particularattentions to any of his fellow-citizens, nor does he require suchattentions from them towards himself. As he does not see that it is hisinterest eagerly to seek the company of any of his countrymen, he isslow to fancy that his own company is declined: despising no one onaccount of his station, he does not imagine that anyone can despise himfor that cause; and until he has clearly perceived an insult, he doesnot suppose that an affront was intended. The social condition of theAmericans naturally accustoms them not to take offence in smallmatters; and, on the other hand, the democratic freedom which theyenjoy transfuses this same mildness of temper into the character of thenation. The political institutions of the United States constantly bringcitizens of all ranks into contact, and compel them to pursue greatundertakings in concert. People thus engaged have scarcely time toattend to the details of etiquette, and they are besides too stronglyinterested in living harmoniously for them to stick at such things. Theytherefore soon acquire a habit of considering the feelings and opinionsof those whom they meet more than their manners, and they do not allowthemselves to be annoyed by trifles. 

I have often remarked in the United States that it is not easy to makea man understand that his presence may be dispensed with; hints will notalways suffice to shake him off. I contradict an American at every wordhe says, to show him that his conversation bores me; he instantly laborswith fresh pertinacity to convince me; I preserve a dogged silence, andhe thinks I am meditating deeply on the truths which he is uttering; atlast I rush from his company, and he supposes that some urgent businesshurries me elsewhere. This man will never understand that he wearies meto extinction unless I tell him so: and the only way to get rid of himis to make him my enemy for life. 

It appears surprising at first sight that the same man transported toEurope suddenly becomes so sensitive and captious, that I often findit as difficult to avoid offending him here as it was to put him outof countenance. These two opposite effects proceed from the same cause. Democratic institutions generally give men a lofty notion of theircountry and of themselves. An American leaves his country with a heartswollen with pride; on arriving in Europe he at once finds out that weare not so engrossed by the United States and the great people whichinhabits them as he had supposed, and this begins to annoy him. He hasbeen informed that the conditions of society are not equal in our partof the globe, and he observes that among the nations of Europe thetraces of rank are not wholly obliterated; that wealth and birth stillretain some indeterminate privileges, which force themselves upon hisnotice whilst they elude definition. He is therefore profoundly ignorantof the place which he ought to occupy in this half-ruined scale ofclasses, which are sufficiently distinct to hate and despise each other, yet sufficiently alike for him to be always confounding them. He isafraid of ranging himself too high--still more is he afraid of beingranged too low; this twofold peril keeps his mind constantly on thestretch, and embarrasses all he says and does. He learns from traditionthat in Europe ceremonial observances were infinitely varied accordingto different ranks; this recollection of former times completes hisperplexity, and he is the more afraid of not obtaining those marks ofrespect which are due to him, as he does not exactly know in whatthey consist. He is like a man surrounded by traps: society is not arecreation for him, but a serious toil: he weighs your least actions, interrogates your looks, and scrutinizes all you say, lest there shouldbe some hidden allusion to affront him. I doubt whether there was evera provincial man of quality so punctilious in breeding as he is: heendeavors to attend to the slightest rules of etiquette, and does notallow one of them to be waived towards himself: he is full of scruplesand at the same time of pretensions; he wishes to do enough, but fearsto do too much; and as he does not very well know the limits of the oneor of the other, he keeps up a haughty and embarrassed air of reserve. 

But this is not all: here is yet another double of the human heart. AnAmerican is forever talking of the admirable equality which prevails inthe United States; aloud he makes it the boast of his country, but insecret he deplores it for himself; and he aspires to show that, for hispart, he is an exception to the general state of things which he vaunts. There is hardly an American to be met with who does not claim someremote kindred with the first founders of the colonies; and as for thescions of the noble families of England, America seemed to me to becovered with them. When an opulent American arrives in Europe, his firstcare is to surround himself with all the luxuries of wealth: he is soafraid of being taken for the plain citizen of a democracy, that headopts a hundred distorted ways of bringing some new instance of hiswealth before you every day. His house will be in the most fashionablepart of the town: he will always be surrounded by a host of servants. I have heard an American complain, that in the best houses of Paris thesociety was rather mixed; the taste which prevails there was not pureenough for him; and he ventured to hint that, in his opinion, there wasa want of elegance of manner; he could not accustom himself to see witconcealed under such unpretending forms. 

These contrasts ought not to surprise us. If the vestiges of formeraristocratic distinctions were not so completely effaced in the UnitedStates, the Americans would be less simple and less tolerant in theirown country--they would require less, and be less fond of borrowedmanners in ours. 

Chapter IV: Consequences Of The Three Preceding Chapters

When men feel a natural compassion for their mutual sufferings--whenthey are brought together by easy and frequent intercourse, and nosensitive feelings keep them asunder--it may readily be supposed thatthey will lend assistance to one another whenever it is needed. When anAmerican asks for the co-operation of his fellow-citizens it is seldomrefused, and I have often seen it afforded spontaneously and with greatgoodwill. If an accident happens on the highway, everybody hastens tohelp the sufferer; if some great and sudden calamity befalls a family, the purses of a thousand strangers are at once willingly opened, andsmall but numerous donations pour in to relieve their distress. It oftenhappens amongst the most civilized nations of the globe, that a poorwretch is as friendless in the midst of a crowd as the savage in hiswilds: this is hardly ever the case in the United States. The Americans, who are always cold and often coarse in their manners, seldom showinsensibility; and if they do not proffer services eagerly, yet they donot refuse to render them. 

All this is not in contradiction to what I have said before on thesubject of individualism. The two things are so far from combating eachother, that I can see how they agree. Equality of conditions, whilst itmakes men feel their independence, shows them their own weakness: theyare free, but exposed to a thousand accidents; and experience soonteaches them that, although they do not habitually require theassistance of others, a time almost always comes when they cannot dowithout it. We constantly see in Europe that men of the same professionare ever ready to assist each other; they are all exposed to the sameills, and that is enough to teach them to seek mutual preservatives, however hard-hearted and selfish they may otherwise be. When one ofthem falls into danger, from which the others may save him by a slighttransient sacrifice or a sudden effort, they do not fail to make theattempt. Not that they are deeply interested in his fate; for if, bychance, their exertions are unavailing, they immediately forget theobject of them, and return to their own business; but a sort of tacitand almost involuntary agreement has been passed between them, by whicheach one owes to the others a temporary support which he may claim forhimself in turn. Extend to a people the remark here applied to a class, and you will understand my meaning. A similar covenant exists in factbetween all the citizens of a democracy: they all feel themselvessubject to the same weakness and the same dangers; and their interest, as well as their sympathy, makes it a rule with them to lend eachother mutual assistance when required. The more equal social conditionsbecome, the more do men display this reciprocal disposition to obligeeach other. In democracies no great benefits are conferred, but goodoffices are constantly rendered: a man seldom displays self-devotion, but all men are ready to be of service to one another. 

Chapter V: How Democracy Affects the Relation Of Masters And Servants

An American who had travelled for a long time in Europe once said to me, "The English treat their servants with a stiffness and imperiousnessof manner which surprise us; but on the other hand the French sometimestreat their attendants with a degree of familiarity or of politenesswhich we cannot conceive. It looks as if they were afraid to giveorders: the posture of the superior and the inferior is ill-maintained. "The remark was a just one, and I have often made it myself. I havealways considered England as the country in the world where, in ourtime, the bond of domestic service is drawn most tightly, and France asthe country where it is most relaxed. Nowhere have I seen masters standso high or so low as in these two countries. Between these two extremesthe Americans are to be placed. Such is the fact as it appears upon thesurface of things: to discover the causes of that fact, it is necessaryto search the matter thoroughly. 

No communities have ever yet existed in which social conditions havebeen so equal that there were neither rich nor poor, and consequentlyneither masters nor servants. Democracy does not prevent the existenceof these two classes, but it changes their dispositions and modifiestheir mutual relations. Amongst aristocratic nations servants form adistinct class, not more variously composed than that of masters. Asettled order is soon established; in the former as well as in thelatter class a scale is formed, with numerous distinctions or markedgradations of rank, and generations succeed each other thus without anychange of position. These two communities are superposed one above theother, always distinct, but regulated by analogous principles. Thisaristocratic constitution does not exert a less powerful influenceon the notions and manners of servants than on those of masters; and, although the effects are different, the same cause may easily be traced. Both classes constitute small communities in the heart of the nation, and certain permanent notions of right and wrong are ultimatelyengendered amongst them. The different acts of human life are viewed byone particular and unchanging light. In the society of servants, as inthat of masters, men exercise a great influence over each other: theyacknowledge settled rules, and in the absence of law they are guided bya sort of public opinion: their habits are settled, and their conduct isplaced under a certain control. 

These men, whose destiny is to obey, certainly do not understand fame, virtue, honesty, and honor in the same manner as their masters; but theyhave a pride, a virtue, and an honesty pertaining to their condition;and they have a notion, if I may use the expression, of a sort ofservile honor. *a Because a class is mean, it must not be supposed thatall who belong to it are mean-hearted; to think so would be a greatmistake. However lowly it may be, he who is foremost there, and whohas no notion of quitting it, occupies an aristocratic position whichinspires him with lofty feelings, pride, and self-respect, that fithim for the higher virtues and actions above the common. Amongstaristocratic nations it was by no means rare to find men of noble andvigorous minds in the service of the great, who felt not the servitudethey bore, and who submitted to the will of their masters without anyfear of their displeasure. But this was hardly ever the case amongstthe inferior ranks of domestic servants. It may be imagined that hewho occupies the lowest stage of the order of menials stands very lowindeed. The French created a word on purpose to designate the servantsof the aristocracy--they called them lackeys. This word "lackey"served as the strongest expression, when all others were exhausted, todesignate human meanness. Under the old French monarchy, to denote bya single expression a low-spirited contemptible fellow, it was usual tosay that he had the "soul of a lackey"; the term was enough to conveyall that was intended. [Footnote a: If the principal opinions by whichmen are guided are examined closely and in detail, the analogy appearsstill more striking, and one is surprised to find amongst them, just asmuch as amongst the haughtiest scions of a feudal race, pride of birth, respect for their ancestry and their descendants, disdain of theirinferiors, a dread of contact, a taste for etiquette, precedents, andantiquity. ]

The permanent inequality of conditions not only gives servants certainpeculiar virtues and vices, but it places them in a peculiar relationwith respect to their masters. Amongst aristocratic nations the poor manis familiarized from his childhood with the notion of being commanded:to whichever side he turns his eyes the graduated structure of societyand the aspect of obedience meet his view. Hence in those countries themaster readily obtains prompt, complete, respectful, and easy obediencefrom his servants, because they revere in him not only their master butthe class of masters. He weighs down their will by the whole weight ofthe aristocracy. He orders their actions--to a certain extent he evendirects their thoughts. In aristocracies the master often exercises, even without being aware of it, an amazing sway over the opinions, thehabits, and the manners of those who obey him, and his influence extendseven further than his authority. 

In aristocratic communities there are not only hereditary families ofservants as well as of masters, but the same families of servantsadhere for several generations to the same families of masters (like twoparallel lines which neither meet nor separate); and this considerablymodifies the mutual relations of these two classes of persons. Thus, although in aristocratic society the master and servant have no naturalresemblance--although, on the contrary, they are placed at an immensedistance on the scale of human beings by their fortune, education, andopinions--yet time ultimately binds them together. They are connectedby a long series of common reminiscences, and however different theymay be, they grow alike; whilst in democracies, where they are naturallyalmost alike, they always remain strangers to each other. Amongst anaristocratic people the master gets to look upon his servants as aninferior and secondary part of himself, and he often takes an interestin their lot by a last stretch of egotism. 

Servants, on their part, are not averse to regard themselves in the samelight; and they sometimes identify themselves with the person of themaster, so that they become an appendage to him in their own eyes aswell as in his. In aristocracies a servant fills a subordinate positionwhich he cannot get out of; above him is another man, holding a superiorrank which he cannot lose. On one side are obscurity, poverty, obediencefor life; on the other, and also for life, fame, wealth, and command. The two conditions are always distinct and always in propinquity; thetie that connects them is as lasting as they are themselves. In thispredicament the servant ultimately detaches his notion of interest fromhis own person; he deserts himself, as it were, or rather he transportshimself into the character of his master, and thus assumes an imaginarypersonality. He complacently invests himself with the wealth of thosewho command him; he shares their fame, exalts himself by their rank, and feeds his mind with borrowed greatness, to which he attachesmore importance than those who fully and really possess it. There issomething touching, and at the same time ridiculous, in this strangeconfusion of two different states of being. These passions of masters, when they pass into the souls of menials, assume the natural dimensionsof the place they occupy--they are contracted and lowered. What waspride in the former becomes puerile vanity and paltry ostentation in thelatter. The servants of a great man are commonly most punctilious as tothe marks of respect due to him, and they attach more importance to hisslightest privileges than he does himself. In France a few of these oldservants of the aristocracy are still to be met with here and there;they have survived their race, which will soon disappear with themaltogether. In the United States I never saw anyone at all like them. The Americans are not only unacquainted with the kind of man, but it ishardly possible to make them understand that such ever existed. It isscarcely less difficult for them to conceive it, than for us to form acorrect notion of what a slave was amongst the Romans, or a serf in theMiddle Ages. All these men were in fact, though in different degrees, results of the same cause: they are all retiring from our sight, anddisappearing in the obscurity of the past, together with the socialcondition to which they owed their origin. 

Equality of conditions turns servants and masters into new beings, andplaces them in new relative positions. When social conditions are nearlyequal, men are constantly changing their situations in life: there isstill a class of menials and a class of masters, but these classes arenot always composed of the same individuals, still less of the samefamilies; and those who command are not more secure of perpetuity thanthose who obey. As servants do not form a separate people, they haveno habits, prejudices, or manners peculiar to themselves; they are notremarkable for any particular turn of mind or moods of feeling. Theyknow no vices or virtues of their condition, but they partake of theeducation, the opinions, the feelings, the virtues, and the vices oftheir contemporaries; and they are honest men or scoundrels in the sameway as their masters are. The conditions of servants are not less equalthan those of masters. As no marked ranks or fixed subordination are tobe found amongst them, they will not display either the meanness or thegreatness which characterizes the aristocracy of menials as well as allother aristocracies. I never saw a man in the United States who remindedme of that class of confidential servants of which we still retain areminiscence in Europe, neither did I ever meet with such a thing as alackey: all traces of the one and of the other have disappeared. 

In democracies servants are not only equal amongst themselves, but itmay be said that they are in some sort the equals of their masters. Thisrequires explanation in order to be rightly understood. At any moment aservant may become a master, and he aspires to rise to that condition:the servant is therefore not a different man from the master. Whythen has the former a right to command, and what compels the latter toobey?--the free and temporary consent of both their wills. Neither ofthem is by nature inferior to the other; they only become so for a timeby covenant. Within the terms of this covenant, the one is aservant, the other a master; beyond it they are two citizens of thecommonwealth--two men. I beg the reader particularly to observe thatthis is not only the notion which servants themselves entertain of theirown condition; domestic service is looked upon by masters in the samelight; and the precise limits of authority and obedience are as clearlysettled in the mind of the one as in that of the other. 

When the greater part of the community have long attained a conditionnearly alike, and when equality is an old and acknowledged fact, thepublic mind, which is never affected by exceptions, assigns certaingeneral limits to the value of man, above or below which no man canlong remain placed. It is in vain that wealth and poverty, authorityand obedience, accidentally interpose great distances between two men;public opinion, founded upon the usual order of things, draws them to acommon level, and creates a species of imaginary equality between them, in spite of the real inequality of their conditions. This all-powerfulopinion penetrates at length even into the hearts of those whoseinterest might arm them to resist it; it affects their judgment whilstit subdues their will. In their inmost convictions the master and theservant no longer perceive any deep-seated difference between them, andthey neither hope nor fear to meet with any such at any time. They aretherefore neither subject to disdain nor to anger, and they discern ineach other neither humility nor pride. The master holds the contract ofservice to be the only source of his power, and the servant regardsit as the only cause of his obedience. They do not quarrel about theirreciprocal situations, but each knows his own and keeps it. 

In the French army the common soldier is taken from nearly the sameclasses as the officer, and may hold the same commissions; out of theranks he considers himself entirely equal to his military superiors, andin point of fact he is so; but when under arms he does not hesitate toobey, and his obedience is not the less prompt, precise, and ready, for being voluntary and defined. This example may give a notion of whattakes place between masters and servants in democratic communities. 

It would be preposterous to suppose that those warm and deep-seatedaffections, which are sometimes kindled in the domestic service ofaristocracy, will ever spring up between these two men, or that theywill exhibit strong instances of self-sacrifice. In aristocraciesmasters and servants live apart, and frequently their only intercourseis through a third person; yet they commonly stand firmly by oneanother. In democratic countries the master and the servant are closetogether; they are in daily personal contact, but their minds do notintermingle; they have common occupations, hardly ever common interests. Amongst such a people the servant always considers himself as asojourner in the dwelling of his masters. He knew nothing of theirforefathers--he will see nothing of their descendants--he has nothinglasting to expect from their hand. Why then should he confound hislife with theirs, and whence should so strange a surrender of himselfproceed? The reciprocal position of the two men is changed--their mutualrelations must be so too. 

I would fain illustrate all these reflections by the example of theAmericans; but for this purpose the distinctions of persons and placesmust be accurately traced. In the South of the Union, slavery exists;all that I have just said is consequently inapplicable there. In theNorth, the majority of servants are either freedmen or the childrenof freedmen; these persons occupy a contested position in the publicestimation; by the laws they are brought up to the level of theirmasters--by the manners of the country they are obstinately detrudedfrom it. They do not themselves clearly know their proper place, andthey are almost always either insolent or craven. But in the NorthernStates, especially in New England, there are a certain number of whites, who agree, for wages, to yield a temporary obedience to the will oftheir fellow-citizens. I have heard that these servants commonly performthe duties of their situation with punctuality and intelligence; andthat without thinking themselves naturally inferior to the person whoorders them, they submit without reluctance to obey him. They appear tome to carry into service some of those manly habits which independenceand equality engender. Having once selected a hard way of life, they donot seek to escape from it by indirect means; and they have sufficientrespect for themselves, not to refuse to their master that obediencewhich they have freely promised. On their part, masters require nothingof their servants but the faithful and rigorous performance of thecovenant: they do not ask for marks of respect, they do not claim theirlove or devoted attachment; it is enough that, as servants, theyare exact and honest. It would not then be true to assert that, in democratic society, the relation of servants and masters isdisorganized: it is organized on another footing; the rule is different, but there is a rule. 

It is not my purpose to inquire whether the new state of things whichI have just described is inferior to that which preceded it, or simplydifferent. Enough for me that it is fixed and determined: for what ismost important to meet with among men is not any given ordering, butorder. But what shall I say of those sad and troubled times at whichequality is established in the midst of the tumult of revolution--whendemocracy, after having been introduced into the state of society, stillstruggles with difficulty against the prejudices and manners of thecountry? The laws, and partially public opinion, already declare thatno natural or permanent inferiority exists between the servant andthe master. But this new belief has not yet reached the innermostconvictions of the latter, or rather his heart rejects it; in the secretpersuasion of his mind the master thinks that he belongs to a peculiarand superior race; he dares not say so, but he shudders whilst he allowshimself to be dragged to the same level. His authority over his servantsbecomes timid and at the same time harsh: he has already ceased toentertain for them the feelings of patronizing kindness which longuncontested power always engenders, and he is surprised that, beingchanged himself, his servant changes also. He wants his attendants toform regular and permanent habits, in a condition of domestic servicewhich is only temporary: he requires that they should appear contentedwith and proud of a servile condition, which they will one day shakeoff--that they should sacrifice themselves to a man who can neitherprotect nor ruin them--and in short that they should contract anindissoluble engagement to a being like themselves, and one who willlast no longer than they will. 

Amongst aristocratic nations it often happens that the condition ofdomestic service does not degrade the character of those who enter uponit, because they neither know nor imagine any other; and the amazinginequality which is manifest between them and their master appears tobe the necessary and unavoidable consequence of some hidden law ofProvidence. In democracies the condition of domestic service does notdegrade the character of those who enter upon it, because it is freelychosen, and adopted for a time only; because it is not stigmatized bypublic opinion, and creates no permanent inequality between the servantand the master. But whilst the transition from one social conditionto another is going on, there is almost always a time when men'sminds fluctuate between the aristocratic notion of subjection andthe democratic notion of obedience. Obedience then loses its moralimportance in the eyes of him who obeys; he no longer considers it asa species of divine obligation, and he does not yet view it underits purely human aspect; it has to him no character of sanctity orof justice, and he submits to it as to a degrading but profitablecondition. At that moment a confused and imperfect phantom of equalityhaunts the minds of servants; they do not at once perceive whether theequality to which they are entitled is to be found within or withoutthe pale of domestic service; and they rebel in their hearts against asubordination to which they have subjected themselves, and from whichthey derive actual profit. They consent to serve, and they blush toobey; they like the advantages of service, but not the master; orrather, they are not sure that they ought not themselves to be masters, and they are inclined to consider him who orders them as an unjustusurper of their own rights. Then it is that the dwelling of everycitizen offers a spectacle somewhat analogous to the gloomy aspect ofpolitical society. A secret and intestine warfare is going on therebetween powers, ever rivals and suspicious of one another: the master isill-natured and weak, the servant ill-natured and intractable; the oneconstantly attempts to evade by unfair restrictions his obligation toprotect and to remunerate--the other his obligation to obey. The reinsof domestic government dangle between them, to be snatched at by oneor the other. The lines which divide authority from oppression, libertyfrom license, and right from might, are to their eyes so jumbledtogether and confused, that no one knows exactly what he is, or what hemay be, or what he ought to be. Such a condition is not democracy, butrevolution. 

Chapter VI: That Democratic Institutions And Manners Tend To Raise RentsAnd Shorten The Terms Of Leases

What has been said of servants and masters is applicable, to a certainextent, to landowners and farming tenants; but this subject deservesto be considered by itself. In America there are, properly speaking, notenant farmers; every man owns the ground he tills. It must be admittedthat democratic laws tend greatly to increase the number of landowners, and to diminish that of farming tenants. Yet what takes place in theUnited States is much less attributable to the institutions of thecountry than to the country itself. In America land is cheap, and anyonemay easily become a landowner; its returns are small, and its producecannot well be divided between a landowner and a farmer. Americatherefore stands alone in this as well as in many other respects, and itwould be a mistake to take it as an example. 

I believe that in democratic as well as in aristocratic countries therewill be landowners and tenants, but the connection existing between themwill be of a different kind. In aristocracies the hire of a farm is paidto the landlord, not only in rent, but in respect, regard, and duty;in democracies the whole is paid in cash. When estates are divided andpassed from hand to hand, and the permanent connection which existedbetween families and the soil is dissolved, the landowner and the tenantare only casually brought into contact. They meet for a moment to settlethe conditions of the agreement, and then lose sight of each other; theyare two strangers brought together by a common interest, and who keenlytalk over a matter of business, the sole object of which is to makemoney. 

In proportion as property is subdivided and wealth distributed over thecountry, the community is filled with people whose former opulence isdeclining, and with others whose fortunes are of recent growth and whosewants increase more rapidly than their resources. For all such personsthe smallest pecuniary profit is a matter of importance, and none ofthem feel disposed to waive any of their claims, or to lose any portionof their income. As ranks are intermingled, and as very large as wellas very scanty fortunes become more rare, every day brings the socialcondition of the landowner nearer to that of the farmer; the one has notnaturally any uncontested superiority over the other; between two menwho are equal, and not at ease in their circumstances, the contract ofhire is exclusively an affair of money. A man whose estate extends overa whole district, and who owns a hundred farms, is well aware of theimportance of gaining at the same time the affections of some thousandsof men; this object appears to call for his exertions, and to attain ithe will readily make considerable sacrifices. But he who owns a hundredacres is insensible to similar considerations, and he cares but littleto win the private regard of his tenant. 

An aristocracy does not expire like a man in a single day; thearistocratic principle is slowly undermined in men's opinion, before itis attacked in their laws. Long before open war is declared against it, the tie which had hitherto united the higher classes to the lower may beseen to be gradually relaxed. Indifference and contempt are betrayed byone class, jealousy and hatred by the others; the intercourse betweenrich and poor becomes less frequent and less kind, and rents are raised. This is not the consequence of a democratic revolution, but its certainharbinger; for an aristocracy which has lost the affections of thepeople, once and forever, is like a tree dead at the root, which is themore easily torn up by the winds the higher its branches have spread. 

In the course of the last fifty years the rents of farms have amazinglyincreased, not only in France but throughout the greater part of Europe. The remarkable improvements which have taken place in agriculture andmanufactures within the same period do not suffice in my opinion toexplain this fact; recourse must be had to another cause more powerfuland more concealed. I believe that cause is to be found in thedemocratic institutions which several European nations have adopted, andin the democratic passions which more or less agitate all the rest. Ihave frequently heard great English landowners congratulate themselvesthat, at the present day, they derive a much larger income from theirestates than their fathers did. They have perhaps good reasons to beglad; but most assuredly they know not what they are glad of. They thinkthey are making a clear gain, when it is in reality only an exchange;their influence is what they are parting with for cash; and what theygain in money will ere long be lost in power. 

There is yet another sign by which it is easy to know that a greatdemocratic revolution is going on or approaching. In the Middle Agesalmost all lands were leased for lives, or for very long terms; thedomestic economy of that period shows that leases for ninety-nine yearswere more frequent then than leases for twelve years are now. Men thenbelieved that families were immortal; men's conditions seemed settledforever, and the whole of society appeared to be so fixed, that itwas not supposed that anything would ever be stirred or shaken in itsstructure. In ages of equality, the human mind takes a different bent;the prevailing notion is that nothing abides, and man is haunted bythe thought of mutability. Under this impression the landowner andthe tenant himself are instinctively averse to protracted terms ofobligation; they are afraid of being tied up to-morrow by the contractwhich benefits them today. They have vague anticipations of some suddenand unforeseen change in their conditions; they mistrust themselves;they fear lest their taste should change, and lest they should lamentthat they cannot rid themselves of what they coveted; nor are such fearsunfounded, for in democratic ages that which is most fluctuating amidstthe fluctuation of all around is the heart of man. 

Chapter VII: Influence Of Democracy On Wages

Most of the remarks which I have already made in speaking of servantsand masters, may be applied to masters and workmen. As the gradationsof the social scale come to be less observed, whilst the great sink thehumble rise, and as poverty as well as opulence ceases to be hereditary, the distance both in reality and in opinion, which heretofore separatedthe workman from the master, is lessened every day. The workmanconceives a more lofty opinion of his rights, of his future, of himself;he is filled with new ambition and with new desires, he is harassed bynew wants. Every instant he views with longing eyes the profits of hisemployer; and in order to share them, he strives to dispose of his laborat a higher rate, and he generally succeeds at length in the attempt. In democratic countries, as well as elsewhere, most of the branchesof productive industry are carried on at a small cost, by men littleremoved by their wealth or education above the level of those whom theyemploy. These manufacturing speculators are extremely numerous; theirinterests differ; they cannot therefore easily concert or combine theirexertions. On the other hand the workmen have almost always some sureresources, which enable them to refuse to work when they cannot getwhat they conceive to be the fair price of their labor. In the constantstruggle for wages which is going on between these two classes, theirstrength is divided, and success alternates from one to the other. Itis even probable that in the end the interest of the working class mustprevail; for the high wages which they have already obtained makethem every day less dependent on their masters; and as they grow moreindependent, they have greater facilities for obtaining a furtherincrease of wages. 

I shall take for example that branch of productive industry which isstill at the present day the most generally followed in France, and inalmost all the countries of the world--I mean the cultivation of thesoil. In France most of those who labor for hire in agriculture, arethemselves owners of certain plots of ground, which just enable themto subsist without working for anyone else. When these laborers come tooffer their services to a neighboring landowner or farmer, if he refusesthem a certain rate of wages, they retire to their own small propertyand await another opportunity. 

I think that, upon the whole, it may be asserted that a slow and gradualrise of wages is one of the general laws of democratic communities. Inproportion as social conditions become more equal, wages rise; and aswages are higher, social conditions become more equal. But a great andgloomy exception occurs in our own time. I have shown in a precedingchapter that aristocracy, expelled from political society, hastaken refuge in certain departments of productive industry, and hasestablished its sway there under another form; this powerfully affectsthe rate of wages. As a large capital is required to embark in the greatmanufacturing speculations to which I allude, the number of persons whoenter upon them is exceedingly limited: as their number is small, theycan easily concert together, and fix the rate of wages as they please. Their workmen on the contrary are exceedingly numerous, and the numberof them is always increasing; for, from time to time, an extraordinaryrun of business takes place, during which wages are inordinately high, and they attract the surrounding population to the factories. But, whenonce men have embraced that line of life, we have already seen that theycannot quit it again, because they soon contract habits of body and mindwhich unfit them for any other sort of toil. These men have generallybut little education and industry, with but few resources; they standtherefore almost at the mercy of the master. When competition, or otherfortuitous circumstances, lessen his profits, he can reduce the wages ofhis workmen almost at pleasure, and make from them what he loses by thechances of business. Should the workmen strike, the master, who is arich man, can very well wait without being ruined until necessity bringsthem back to him; but they must work day by day or they die, for theironly property is in their hands. They have long been impoverished byoppression, and the poorer they become the more easily may they beoppressed: they can never escape from this fatal circle of causeand consequence. It is not then surprising that wages, after havingsometimes suddenly risen, are permanently lowered in this branch ofindustry; whereas in other callings the price of labor, which generallyincreases but little, is nevertheless constantly augmented. 

This state of dependence and wretchedness, in which a part of themanufacturing population of our time lives, forms an exception to thegeneral rule, contrary to the state of all the rest of the community;but, for this very reason, no circumstance is more important or moredeserving of the especial consideration of the legislator; for when thewhole of society is in motion, it is difficult to keep any one classstationary; and when the greater number of men are opening new paths tofortune, it is no less difficult to make the few support in peace theirwants and their desires. 

Chapter VIII: Influence Of Democracy On Kindred

I have just examined the changes which the equality of conditionsproduces in the mutual relations of the several members of the communityamongst democratic nations, and amongst the Americans in particular. I would now go deeper, and inquire into the closer ties of kindred: myobject here is not to seek for new truths, but to show in what mannerfacts already known are connected with my subject. 

It has been universally remarked, that in our time the several membersof a family stand upon an entirely new footing towards each other; thatthe distance which formerly separated a father from his sons has beenlessened; and that paternal authority, if not destroyed, is at leastimpaired. Something analogous to this, but even more striking, may beobserved in the United States. In America the family, in the Roman andaristocratic signification of the word, does not exist. All that remainsof it are a few vestiges in the first years of childhood, when thefather exercises, without opposition, that absolute domestic authority, which the feebleness of his children renders necessary, and which theirinterest, as well as his own incontestable superiority, warrants. Butas soon as the young American approaches manhood, the ties of filialobedience are relaxed day by day: master of his thoughts, he is soonmaster of his conduct. In America there is, strictly speaking, noadolescence: at the close of boyhood the man appears, and begins totrace out his own path. It would be an error to suppose that this ispreceded by a domestic struggle, in which the son has obtained by asort of moral violence the liberty that his father refused him. Thesame habits, the same principles which impel the one to asserthis independence, predispose the other to consider the use of thatindependence as an incontestable right. The former does not exhibit anyof those rancorous or irregular passions which disturb men long afterthey have shaken off an established authority; the latter feels none ofthat bitter and angry regret which is apt to survive a bygone power. Thefather foresees the limits of his authority long beforehand, and whenthe time arrives he surrenders it without a struggle: the son looksforward to the exact period at which he will be his own master; and heenters upon his freedom without precipitation and without effort, as apossession which is his own and which no one seeks to wrest from him. *a

[Footnote a: The Americans, however, have not yet thought fit to stripthe parent, as has been done in France, of one of the chief elements ofparental authority, by depriving him of the power of disposing of hisproperty at his death. In the United States there are no restrictions onthe powers of a testator. In this respect, as in almost all others, itis easy to perceive, that if the political legislation of the Americansis much more democratic than that of the French, the civil legislationof the latter is infinitely more democratic than that of the former. This may easily be accounted for. The civil legislation of Francewas the work of a man who saw that it was his interest to satisfy thedemocratic passions of his contemporaries in all that was not directlyand immediately hostile to his own power. He was willing to allow somepopular principles to regulate the distribution of property and thegovernment of families, provided they were not to be introduced intothe administration of public affairs. Whilst the torrent of democracyoverwhelmed the civil laws of the country, he hoped to find an easyshelter behind its political institutions. This policy was at once bothadroit and selfish; but a compromise of this kind could not last; forin the end political institutions never fail to become the image andexpression of civil society; and in this sense it may be said thatnothing is more political in a nation than its civil legislation. ]

It may perhaps not be without utility to show how these changes whichtake place in family relations, are closely connected with the socialand political revolution which is approaching its consummation underour own observation. There are certain great social principles, which apeople either introduces everywhere, or tolerates nowhere. In countrieswhich are aristocratically constituted with all the gradations of rank, the government never makes a direct appeal to the mass of the governed:as men are united together, it is enough to lead the foremost, therest will follow. This is equally applicable to the family, as to allaristocracies which have a head. Amongst aristocratic nations, socialinstitutions recognize, in truth, no one in the family but the father;children are received by society at his hands; society governs him, he governs them. Thus the parent has not only a natural right, but heacquires a political right, to command them: he is the author andthe support of his family; but he is also its constituted ruler. Indemocracies, where the government picks out every individual singly fromthe mass, to make him subservient to the general laws of the community, no such intermediate person is required: a father is there, in the eyeof the law, only a member of the community, older and richer than hissons. 

When most of the conditions of life are extremely unequal, and theinequality of these conditions is permanent, the notion of a superiorgrows upon the imaginations of men: if the law invested him with noprivileges, custom and public opinion would concede them. When, onthe contrary, men differ but little from each other, and do not alwaysremain in dissimilar conditions of life, the general notion of asuperior becomes weaker and less distinct: it is vain for legislationto strive to place him who obeys very much beneath him who commands; themanners of the time bring the two men nearer to one another, and drawthem daily towards the same level. Although the legislation of anaristocratic people should grant no peculiar privileges to the headsof families; I shall not be the less convinced that their power ismore respected and more extensive than in a democracy; for I know that, whatsoever the laws may be, superiors always appear higher and inferiorslower in aristocracies than amongst democratic nations. 

When men live more for the remembrance of what has been than for thecare of what is, and when they are more given to attend to what theirancestors thought than to think themselves, the father is the naturaland necessary tie between the past and the present--the link by whichthe ends of these two chains are connected. In aristocracies, then, thefather is not only the civil head of the family, but the oracle of itstraditions, the expounder of its customs, the arbiter of its manners. He is listened to with deference, he is addressed with respect, andthe love which is felt for him is always tempered with fear. When thecondition of society becomes democratic, and men adopt as their generalprinciple that it is good and lawful to judge of all things for one'sself, using former points of belief not as a rule of faith but simplyas a means of information, the power which the opinions of a fatherexercise over those of his sons diminishes as well as his legal power. 

Perhaps the subdivision of estates which democracy brings with itcontributes more than anything else to change the relations existingbetween a father and his children. When the property of the father of afamily is scanty, his son and himself constantly live in the same place, and share the same occupations: habit and necessity bring themtogether, and force them to hold constant communication: the inevitableconsequence is a sort of familiar intimacy, which renders authority lessabsolute, and which can ill be reconciled with the external formsof respect. Now in democratic countries the class of those who arepossessed of small fortunes is precisely that which gives strengthto the notions, and a particular direction to the manners, of thecommunity. That class makes its opinions preponderate as universally asits will, and even those who are most inclined to resist its commandsare carried away in the end by its example. I have known eager opponentsof democracy who allowed their children to address them with perfectcolloquial equality. 

Thus, at the same time that the power of aristocracy is declining, theaustere, the conventional, and the legal part of parental authorityvanishes, and a species of equality prevails around the domestic hearth. I know not, upon the whole, whether society loses by the change, but Iam inclined to believe that man individually is a gainer by it. I thinkthat, in proportion as manners and laws become more democratic, therelation of father and son becomes more intimate and more affectionate;rules and authority are less talked of; confidence and tenderness areoftentimes increased, and it would seem that the natural bond is drawncloser in proportion as the social bond is loosened. In a democraticfamily the father exercises no other power than that with which menlove to invest the affection and the experience of age; his orders wouldperhaps be disobeyed, but his advice is for the most part authoritative. Though he be not hedged in with ceremonial respect, his sons at leastaccost him with confidence; no settled form of speech is appropriatedto the mode of addressing him, but they speak to him constantly, and areready to consult him day by day; the master and the constituted rulerhave vanished--the father remains. Nothing more is needed, in orderto judge of the difference between the two states of society in thisrespect, than to peruse the family correspondence of aristocratic ages. The style is always correct, ceremonious, stiff, and so cold that thenatural warmth of the heart can hardly be felt in the language. The language, on the contrary, addressed by a son to his father indemocratic countries is always marked by mingled freedom, familiarityand affection, which at once show that new relations have sprung up inthe bosom of the family. 

A similar revolution takes place in the mutual relations of children. Inaristocratic families, as well as in aristocratic society, every placeis marked out beforehand. Not only does the father occupy a separaterank, in which he enjoys extensive privileges, but even the childrenare not equal amongst themselves. The age and sex of each irrevocablydetermine his rank, and secure to him certain privileges: most of thesedistinctions are abolished or diminished by democracy. In aristocraticfamilies the eldest son, inheriting the greater part of the property, and almost all the rights of the family, becomes the chief, and, to acertain extent, the master, of his brothers. Greatness and power are forhim--for them, mediocrity and dependence. Nevertheless it would be wrongto suppose that, amongst aristocratic nations, the privileges of theeldest son are advantageous to himself alone, or that they excitenothing but envy and hatred in those around him. The eldest son commonlyendeavors to procure wealth and power for his brothers, because thegeneral splendor of the house is reflected back on him who representsit; the younger sons seek to back the elder brother in all hisundertakings, because the greatness and power of the head of the familybetter enable him to provide for all its branches. The different membersof an aristocratic family are therefore very closely bound together;their interests are connected, their minds agree, but their hearts areseldom in harmony. 

Democracy also binds brothers to each other, but by very differentmeans. Under democratic laws all the children are perfectly equal, andconsequently independent; nothing brings them forcibly together, butnothing keeps them apart; and as they have the same origin, as they aretrained under the same roof, as they are treated with the same care, andas no peculiar privilege distinguishes or divides them, the affectionateand youthful intimacy of early years easily springs up between them. Scarcely any opportunities occur to break the tie thus formed at theoutset of life; for their brotherhood brings them daily together, without embarrassing them. It is not, then, by interest, but by commonassociations and by the free sympathy of opinion and of taste, thatdemocracy unites brothers to each other. It divides their inheritance, but it allows their hearts and minds to mingle together. Such isthe charm of these democratic manners, that even the partisans ofaristocracy are caught by it; and after having experienced it for sometime, they are by no means tempted to revert to the respectful andfrigid observance of aristocratic families. They would be glad to retainthe domestic habits of democracy, if they might throw off its socialconditions and its laws; but these elements are indissolubly united, andit is impossible to enjoy the former without enduring the latter. The remarks I have made on filial love and fraternal affection areapplicable to all the passions which emanate spontaneously from humannature itself. If a certain mode of thought or feeling is the result ofsome peculiar condition of life, when that condition is altered nothingwhatever remains of the thought or feeling. Thus a law may bind twomembers of the community very closely to one another; but that law beingabolished, they stand asunder. Nothing was more strict than the tiewhich united the vassal to the lord under the feudal system; at thepresent day the two men know not each other; the fear, the gratitude, and the affection which formerly connected them have vanished, and nota vestige of the tie remains. Such, however, is not the case with thosefeelings which are natural to mankind. Whenever a law attempts to tutorthese feelings in any particular manner, it seldom fails to weaken them;by attempting to add to their intensity, it robs them of some of theirelements, for they are never stronger than when left to themselves. 

Democracy, which destroys or obscures almost all the old conventionalrules of society, and which prevents men from readily assenting to newones, entirely effaces most of the feelings to which these conventionalrules have given rise; but it only modifies some others, and frequentlyimparts to them a degree of energy and sweetness unknown before. Perhapsit is not impossible to condense into a single proposition the wholemeaning of this chapter, and of several others that preceded it. Democracy loosens social ties, but it draws the ties of nature moretight; it brings kindred more closely together, whilst it places thevarious members of the community more widely apart. 

Chapter IX: Education Of Young Women In The United States

No free communities ever existed without morals; and, as I observedin the former part of this work, morals are the work of woman. Consequently, whatever affects the condition of women, their habitsand their opinions, has great political importance in my eyes. Amongstalmost all Protestant nations young women are far more the mistresses oftheir own actions than they are in Catholic countries. This independenceis still greater in Protestant countries, like England, which haveretained or acquired the right of self-government; the spirit of freedomis then infused into the domestic circle by political habits and byreligious opinions. In the United States the doctrines of Protestantismare combined with great political freedom and a most democratic stateof society; and nowhere are young women surrendered so early or socompletely to their own guidance. Long before an American girl arrivesat the age of marriage, her emancipation from maternal control begins;she has scarcely ceased to be a child when she already thinks forherself, speaks with freedom, and acts on her own impulse. The greatscene of the world is constantly open to her view; far from seekingconcealment, it is every day disclosed to her more completely, and sheis taught to survey it with a firm and calm gaze. Thus the vices anddangers of society are early revealed to her; as she sees them clearly, she views them without illusions, and braves them without fear; for sheis full of reliance on her own strength, and her reliance seems to beshared by all who are about her. An American girl scarcely ever displaysthat virginal bloom in the midst of young desires, or that innocentand ingenuous grace which usually attends the European woman in thetransition from girlhood to youth. It is rarely that an American womanat any age displays childish timidity or ignorance. Like the young womenof Europe, she seeks to please, but she knows precisely the cost ofpleasing. If she does not abandon herself to evil, at least she knowsthat it exists; and she is remarkable rather for purity of mannersthan for chastity of mind. I have been frequently surprised, and almostfrightened, at the singular address and happy boldness with which youngwomen in America contrive to manage their thoughts and their languageamidst all the difficulties of stimulating conversation; a philosopherwould have stumbled at every step along the narrow path which they trodwithout accidents and without effort. It is easy indeed to perceivethat, even amidst the independence of early youth, an American womanis always mistress of herself; she indulges in all permitted pleasures, without yielding herself up to any of them; and her reason never allowsthe reins of self-guidance to drop, though it often seems to hold themloosely. 

In France, where remnants of every age are still so strangely mingledin the opinions and tastes of the people, women commonly receive areserved, retired, and almost cloistral education, as they did inaristocratic times; and then they are suddenly abandoned, without aguide and without assistance, in the midst of all the irregularitiesinseparable from democratic society. The Americans are more consistent. They have found out that in a democracy the independence of individualscannot fail to be very great, youth premature, tastes ill-restrained, customs fleeting, public opinion often unsettled and powerless, paternal authority weak, and marital authority contested. Under thesecircumstances, believing that they had little chance of repressing inwoman the most vehement passions of the human heart, they held thatthe surer way was to teach her the art of combating those passions forherself. As they could not prevent her virtue from being exposed tofrequent danger, they determined that she should know how best to defendit; and more reliance was placed on the free vigor of her will thanon safeguards which have been shaken or overthrown. Instead, then, ofinculcating mistrust of herself, they constantly seek to enhance theirconfidence in her own strength of character. As it is neither possiblenor desirable to keep a young woman in perpetual or complete ignorance, they hasten to give her a precocious knowledge on all subjects. Farfrom hiding the corruptions of the world from her, they prefer that sheshould see them at once and train herself to shun them; and they hold itof more importance to protect her conduct than to be over-scrupulous ofher innocence. 

Although the Americans are a very religious people, they do not relyon religion alone to defend the virtue of woman; they seek to arm herreason also. In this they have followed the same method as in severalother respects; they first make the most vigorous efforts to bringindividual independence to exercise a proper control over itself, andthey do not call in the aid of religion until they have reached theutmost limits of human strength. I am aware that an education of thiskind is not without danger; I am sensible that it tends to invigoratethe judgment at the expense of the imagination, and to make cold andvirtuous women instead of affectionate wives and agreeable companionsto man. Society may be more tranquil and better regulated, but domesticlife has often fewer charms. These, however, are secondary evils, whichmay be braved for the sake of higher interests. At the stage at which weare now arrived the time for choosing is no longer within our control; ademocratic education is indispensable to protect women from the dangerswith which democratic institutions and manners surround them. 

Chapter X: The Young Woman In The Character Of A Wife

In America the independence of woman is irrevocably lost in the bondsof matrimony: if an unmarried woman is less constrained there thanelsewhere, a wife is subjected to stricter obligations. The former makesher father's house an abode of freedom and of pleasure; the latterlives in the home of her husband as if it were a cloister. Yet thesetwo different conditions of life are perhaps not so contrary as may besupposed, and it is natural that the American women should pass throughthe one to arrive at the other. 

Religious peoples and trading nations entertain peculiarly seriousnotions of marriage: the former consider the regularity of woman's lifeas the best pledge and most certain sign of the purity of her morals;the latter regard it as the highest security for the order andprosperity of the household. The Americans are at the same time apuritanical people and a commercial nation: their religious opinions, as well as their trading habits, consequently lead them to requiremuch abnegation on the part of woman, and a constant sacrifice of herpleasures to her duties which is seldom demanded of her in Europe. Thusin the United States the inexorable opinion of the public carefullycircumscribes woman within the narrow circle of domestic interest andduties, and forbids her to step beyond it. 

Upon her entrance into the world a young American woman finds thesenotions firmly established; she sees the rules which are derived fromthem; she is not slow to perceive that she cannot depart for an instantfrom the established usages of her contemporaries, without putting injeopardy her peace of mind, her honor, nay even her social existence;and she finds the energy required for such an act of submission inthe firmness of her understanding and in the virile habits which hereducation has given her. It may be said that she has learned by the useof her independence to surrender it without a struggle and without amurmur when the time comes for making the sacrifice. But no Americanwoman falls into the toils of matrimony as into a snare held out toher simplicity and ignorance. She has been taught beforehand what isexpected of her, and voluntarily and freely does she enter upon thisengagement. She supports her new condition with courage, because shechose it. As in America paternal discipline is very relaxed and theconjugal tie very strict, a young woman does not contract the latterwithout considerable circumspection and apprehension. Precociousmarriages are rare. Thus American women do not marry until theirunderstandings are exercised and ripened; whereas in other countriesmost women generally only begin to exercise and to ripen theirunderstandings after marriage. 

I by no means suppose, however, that the great change which takes placein all the habits of women in the United States, as soon as they aremarried, ought solely to be attributed to the constraint of publicopinion: it is frequently imposed upon themselves by the sole effort oftheir own will. When the time for choosing a husband is arrived, thatcold and stern reasoning power which has been educated and invigoratedby the free observation of the world, teaches an American woman that aspirit of levity and independence in the bonds of marriage is a constantsubject of annoyance, not of pleasure; it tells her that the amusementsof the girl cannot become the recreations of the wife, and that thesources of a married woman's happiness are in the home of her husband. As she clearly discerns beforehand the only road which can lead todomestic happiness, she enters upon it at once, and follows it to theend without seeking to turn back. 

The same strength of purpose which the young wives of America display, in bending themselves at once and without repining to the austere dutiesof their new condition, is no less manifest in all the great trialsof their lives. In no country in the world are private fortunes moreprecarious than in the United States. It is not uncommon for the sameman, in the course of his life, to rise and sink again through all thegrades which lead from opulence to poverty. American women support thesevicissitudes with calm and unquenchable energy: it would seem that theirdesires contract, as easily as they expand, with their fortunes. *a

[Footnote a: See Appendix S. ]

The greater part of the adventurers who migrate every year to people thewestern wilds, belong, as I observed in the former part of this work, tothe old Anglo-American race of the Northern States. Many of these men, who rush so boldly onwards in pursuit of wealth, were already in theenjoyment of a competency in their own part of the country. They taketheir wives along with them, and make them share the countlessperils and privations which always attend the commencement of theseexpeditions. I have often met, even on the verge of the wilderness, withyoung women, who after having been brought up amidst all the comfortsof the large towns of New England, had passed, almost without anyintermediate stage, from the wealthy abode of their parents to acomfortless hovel in a forest. Fever, solitude, and a tedious life hadnot broken the springs of their courage. Their features were impairedand faded, but their looks were firm: they appeared to be at oncesad and resolute. I do not doubt that these young American women hadamassed, in the education of their early years, that inward strengthwhich they displayed under these circumstances. The early culture ofthe girl may still therefore be traced, in the United States, under theaspect of marriage: her part is changed, her habits are different, buther character is the same. 

Chapter XI: That The Equality Of Conditions Contributes To TheMaintenance Of Good Morals In America

Some philosophers and historians have said, or have hinted, that thestrictness of female morality was increased or diminished simply by thedistance of a country from the equator. This solution of the difficultywas an easy one; and nothing was required but a globe and a pair ofcompasses to settle in an instant one of the most difficult problems inthe condition of mankind. But I am not aware that this principle of thematerialists is supported by facts. The same nations have been chaste ordissolute at different periods of their history; the strictness or thelaxity of their morals depended therefore on some variable cause, notonly on the natural qualities of their country, which were invariable. I do not deny that in certain climates the passions which are occasionedby the mutual attraction of the sexes are peculiarly intense; but Iam of opinion that this natural intensity may always be excited orrestrained by the condition of society and by political institutions. 

Although the travellers who have visited North America differ on a greatnumber of points, they all agree in remarking that morals are farmore strict there than elsewhere. It is evident that on this pointthe Americans are very superior to their progenitors the English. A superficial glance at the two nations will establish the fact. In England, as in all other countries of Europe, public malice isconstantly attacking the frailties of women. Philosophers and statesmenare heard to deplore that morals are not sufficiently strict, and theliterary productions of the country constantly lead one to suppose so. In America all books, novels not excepted, suppose women to be chaste, and no one thinks of relating affairs of gallantry. No doubt this greatregularity of American morals originates partly in the country, in therace of the people, and in their religion: but all these causes, whichoperate elsewhere, do not suffice to account for it; recourse mustbe had to some special reason. This reason appears to me to be theprinciple of equality and the institutions derived from it. Equalityof conditions does not of itself engender regularity of morals, butit unquestionably facilitates and increases it. *a [Footnote a: SeeAppendix T. ]

Amongst aristocratic nations birth and fortune frequently make two suchdifferent beings of man and woman, that they can never be united to eachother. Their passions draw them together, but the condition of society, and the notions suggested by it, prevent them from contracting apermanent and ostensible tie. The necessary consequence is a greatnumber of transient and clandestine connections. Nature secretly avengesherself for the constraint imposed upon her by the laws of man. This isnot so much the case when the equality of conditions has swept away allthe imaginary, or the real, barriers which separated man from woman. Nogirl then believes that she cannot become the wife of the man who lovesher; and this renders all breaches of morality before marriage veryuncommon: for, whatever be the credulity of the passions, a woman willhardly be able to persuade herself that she is beloved, when her loveris perfectly free to marry her and does not. 

The same cause operates, though more indirectly, on married life. Nothing better serves to justify an illicit passion, either to the mindsof those who have conceived it or to the world which looks on, thancompulsory or accidental marriages. *b In a country in which a woman isalways free to exercise her power of choosing, and in which educationhas prepared her to choose rightly, public opinion is inexorable to herfaults. The rigor of the Americans arises in part from this cause. They consider marriages as a covenant which is often onerous, but everycondition of which the parties are strictly bound to fulfil, becausethey knew all those conditions beforehand, and were perfectly free notto have contracted them. 

[Footnote b: The literature of Europe sufficiently corroborates thisremark. When a European author wishes to depict in a work of imaginationany of these great catastrophes in matrimony which so frequently occuramongst us, he takes care to bespeak the compassion of the reader bybringing before him ill-assorted or compulsory marriages. Althoughhabitual tolerance has long since relaxed our morals, an author couldhardly succeed in interesting us in the misfortunes of his characters, if he did not first palliate their faults. This artifice seldom fails:the daily scenes we witness prepare us long beforehand to be indulgent. But American writers could never render these palliations probable totheir readers; their customs and laws are opposed to it; and as theydespair of rendering levity of conduct pleasing, they cease to depictit. This is one of the causes to which must be attributed the smallnumber of novels published in the United States. ]

The very circumstances which render matrimonial fidelity more obligatoryalso render it more easy. In aristocratic countries the object ofmarriage is rather to unite property than persons; hence the husband issometimes at school and the wife at nurse when they are betrothed. Itcannot be wondered at if the conjugal tie which holds the fortunes ofthe pair united allows their hearts to rove; this is the natural resultof the nature of the contract. When, on the contrary, a man alwayschooses a wife for himself, without any external coercion or evenguidance, it is generally a conformity of tastes and opinions whichbrings a man and a woman together, and this same conformity keeps andfixes them in close habits of intimacy. 

Our forefathers had conceived a very strange notion on the subject ofmarriage: as they had remarked that the small number of love-matcheswhich occurred in their time almost always turned out ill, theyresolutely inferred that it was exceedingly dangerous to listen to thedictates of the heart on the subject. Accident appeared to them to be abetter guide than choice. Yet it was not very difficult to perceive thatthe examples which they witnessed did in fact prove nothing at all. Forin the first place, if democratic nations leave a woman at libertyto choose her husband, they take care to give her mind sufficientknowledge, and her will sufficient strength, to make so important achoice: whereas the young women who, amongst aristocratic nations, furtively elope from the authority of their parents to throw themselvesof their own accord into the arms of men whom they have had neither timeto know, nor ability to judge of, are totally without those securities. It is not surprising that they make a bad use of their freedom of actionthe first time they avail themselves of it; nor that they fall into suchcruel mistakes, when, not having received a democratic education, theychoose to marry in conformity to democratic customs. But this isnot all. When a man and woman are bent upon marriage in spite of thedifferences of an aristocratic state of society, the difficulties tobe overcome are enormous. Having broken or relaxed the bonds of filialobedience, they have then to emancipate themselves by a final effortfrom the sway of custom and the tyranny of opinion; and when at lengththey have succeeded in this arduous task, they stand estranged fromtheir natural friends and kinsmen: the prejudice they have crossedseparates them from all, and places them in a situation which soonbreaks their courage and sours their hearts. If, then, a couple marriedin this manner are first unhappy and afterwards criminal, it ought notto be attributed to the freedom of their choice, but rather to theirliving in a community in which this freedom of choice is not admitted. 

Moreover it should not be forgotten that the same effort which makes aman violently shake off a prevailing error, commonly impels him beyondthe bounds of reason; that, to dare to declare war, in however justa cause, against the opinion of one's age and country, a violent andadventurous spirit is required, and that men of this character seldomarrive at happiness or virtue, whatever be the path they follow. Andthis, it may be observed by the way, is the reason why in the mostnecessary and righteous revolutions, it is so rare to meet with virtuousor moderate revolutionary characters. There is then no just groundfor surprise if a man, who in an age of aristocracy chooses to consultnothing but his own opinion and his own taste in the choice of a wife, soon finds that infractions of morality and domestic wretchedness invadehis household: but when this same line of action is in the natural andordinary course of things, when it is sanctioned by parental authorityand backed by public opinion, it cannot be doubted that the internalpeace of families will be increased by it, and conjugal fidelity morerigidly observed. 

Almost all men in democracies are engaged in public or professionallife; and on the other hand the limited extent of common incomes obligesa wife to confine herself to the house, in order to watch in person andvery closely over the details of domestic economy. All these distinctand compulsory occupations are so many natural barriers, which, bykeeping the two sexes asunder, render the solicitations of the one lessfrequent and less ardent--the resistance of the other more easy. 

Not indeed that the equality of conditions can ever succeed in makingmen chaste, but it may impart a less dangerous character to theirbreaches of morality. As no one has then either sufficient time oropportunity to assail a virtue armed in self-defence, there will beat the same time a great number of courtesans and a great numberof virtuous women. This state of things causes lamentable cases ofindividual hardship, but it does not prevent the body of society frombeing strong and alert: it does not destroy family ties, or enervate themorals of the nation. Society is endangered not by the great profligacyof a few, but by laxity of morals amongst all. In the eyes of alegislator, prostitution is less to be dreaded than intrigue. 

The tumultuous and constantly harassed life which equality makes menlead, not only distracts them from the passion of love, by denyingthem time to indulge in it, but it diverts them from it by another moresecret but more certain road. All men who live in democratic ages moreor less contract the ways of thinking of the manufacturing and tradingclasses; their minds take a serious, deliberate, and positive turn; theyare apt to relinquish the ideal, in order to pursue some visible andproximate object, which appears to be the natural and necessary aimof their desires. Thus the principle of equality does not destroy theimagination, but lowers its flight to the level of the earth. No men areless addicted to reverie than the citizens of a democracy; and few ofthem are ever known to give way to those idle and solitary meditationswhich commonly precede and produce the great emotions of the heart. Itis true they attach great importance to procuring for themselves thatsort of deep, regular, and quiet affection which constitutes the charmand safeguard of life, but they are not apt to run after those violentand capricious sources of excitement which disturb and abridge it. 

I am aware that all this is only applicable in its full extent toAmerica, and cannot at present be extended to Europe. In the course ofthe last half-century, whilst laws and customs have impelled severalEuropean nations with unexampled force towards democracy, we have nothad occasion to observe that the relations of man and woman have becomemore orderly or more chaste. In some places the very reverse may bedetected: some classes are more strict--the general morality of thepeople appears to be more lax. I do not hesitate to make the remark, forI am as little disposed to flatter my contemporaries as to malign them. This fact must distress, but it ought not to surprise us. The propitiousinfluence which a democratic state of society may exercise upon orderlyhabits, is one of those tendencies which can only be discovered aftera time. If the equality of conditions is favorable to purity of morals, the social commotion by which conditions are rendered equal is adverseto it. In the last fifty years, during which France has been undergoingthis transformation, that country has rarely had freedom, alwaysdisturbance. Amidst this universal confusion of notions and this generalstir of opinions--amidst this incoherent mixture of the just and unjust, of truth and falsehood, of right and might--public virtue has becomedoubtful, and private morality wavering. But all revolutions, whatevermay have been their object or their agents, have at first producedsimilar consequences; even those which have in the end drawn the bondsof morality more tightly began by loosening them. The violations ofmorality which the French frequently witness do not appear to me to havea permanent character; and this is already betokened by some curioussigns of the times. 

Nothing is more wretchedly corrupt than an aristocracy which retains itswealth when it has lost its power, and which still enjoys a vast dealof leisure after it is reduced to mere vulgar pastimes. The energeticpassions and great conceptions which animated it heretofore, leave itthen; and nothing remains to it but a host of petty consuming vices, which cling about it like worms upon a carcass. No one denies that theFrench aristocracy of the last century was extremely dissolute; whereasestablished habits and ancient belief still preserved some respect formorality amongst the other classes of society. Nor will it be contestedthat at the present day the remnants of that same aristocracy exhibita certain severity of morals; whilst laxity of morals appears to havespread amongst the middle and lower ranks. So that the same familieswhich were most profligate fifty years ago are nowadays the mostexemplary, and democracy seems only to have strengthened the moralityof the aristocratic classes. The French Revolution, by dividing thefortunes of the nobility, by forcing them to attend assiduously to theiraffairs and to their families, by making them live under the same roofwith their children, and in short by giving a more rational and seriousturn to their minds, has imparted to them, almost without their beingaware of it, a reverence for religious belief, a love of order, oftranquil pleasures, of domestic endearments, and of comfort; whereas therest of the nation, which had naturally these same tastes, was carriedaway into excesses by the effort which was required to overthrow thelaws and political habits of the country. The old French aristocracy hasundergone the consequences of the Revolution, but it neither felt therevolutionary passions nor shared in the anarchical excitement whichproduced that crisis; it may easily be conceived that this aristocracyfeels the salutary influence of the Revolution in its manners, beforethose who achieve it. It may therefore be said, though at first it seemsparadoxical, that, at the present day, the most anti-democratic classesof the nation principally exhibit the kind of morality which mayreasonably be anticipated from democracy. I cannot but think that whenwe shall have obtained all the effects of this democratic Revolution, after having got rid of the tumult it has caused, the observations whichare now only applicable to the few will gradually become true of thewhole community. 

Chapter XII: How The Americans Understand The Equality Of The Sexes

I Have shown how democracy destroys or modifies the differentinequalities which originate in society; but is this all? or does itnot ultimately affect that great inequality of man and woman which hasseemed, up to the present day, to be eternally based in human nature? Ibelieve that the social changes which bring nearer to the same levelthe father and son, the master and servant, and superiors and inferiorsgenerally speaking, will raise woman and make her more and more theequal of man. But here, more than ever, I feel the necessity of makingmyself clearly understood; for there is no subject on which the coarseand lawless fancies of our age have taken a freer range. 

There are people in Europe who, confounding together the differentcharacteristics of the sexes, would make of man and woman beings notonly equal but alike. They would give to both the same functions, imposeon both the same duties, and grant to both the same rights; they wouldmix them in all things--their occupations, their pleasures, theirbusiness. It may readily be conceived, that by thus attempting to makeone sex equal to the other, both are degraded; and from so preposterousa medley of the works of nature nothing could ever result but weak menand disorderly women. It is not thus that the Americans understand thatspecies of democratic equality which may be established between thesexes. They admit, that as nature has appointed such wide differencesbetween the physical and moral constitution of man and woman, hermanifest design was to give a distinct employment to their variousfaculties; and they hold that improvement does not consist in makingbeings so dissimilar do pretty nearly the same things, but in gettingeach of them to fulfil their respective tasks in the best possiblemanner. The Americans have applied to the sexes the great principleof political economy which governs the manufactures of our age, bycarefully dividing the duties of man from those of woman, in order thatthe great work of society may be the better carried on. 

In no country has such constant care been taken as in America to tracetwo clearly distinct lines of action for the two sexes, and to makethem keep pace one with the other, but in two pathways which are alwaysdifferent. American women never manage the outward concerns of thefamily, or conduct a business, or take a part in political life; nor arethey, on the other hand, ever compelled to perform the rough labor ofthe fields, or to make any of those laborious exertions which demandthe exertion of physical strength. No families are so poor as to forman exception to this rule. If on the one hand an American woman cannotescape from the quiet circle of domestic employments, on the otherhand she is never forced to go beyond it. Hence it is that the women ofAmerica, who often exhibit a masculine strength of understanding and amanly energy, generally preserve great delicacy of personal appearanceand always retain the manners of women, although they sometimes showthat they have the hearts and minds of men. 

Nor have the Americans ever supposed that one consequence of democraticprinciples is the subversion of marital power, of the confusion of thenatural authorities in families. They hold that every association musthave a head in order to accomplish its object, and that the natural headof the conjugal association is man. They do not therefore deny him theright of directing his partner; and they maintain, that in the smallerassociation of husband and wife, as well as in the great socialcommunity, the object of democracy is to regulate and legalize thepowers which are necessary, not to subvert all power. This opinion isnot peculiar to one sex, and contested by the other: I never observedthat the women of America consider conjugal authority as a fortunateusurpation of their rights, nor that they thought themselves degraded bysubmitting to it. It appeared to me, on the contrary, that they attach asort of pride to the voluntary surrender of their own will, and make ittheir boast to bend themselves to the yoke, not to shake it off. Suchat least is the feeling expressed by the most virtuous of their sex; theothers are silent; and in the United States it is not the practice fora guilty wife to clamor for the rights of women, whilst she is tramplingon her holiest duties. 

It has often been remarked that in Europe a certain degree of contemptlurks even in the flattery which men lavish upon women: although aEuropean frequently affects to be the slave of woman, it may be seenthat he never sincerely thinks her his equal. In the United States menseldom compliment women, but they daily show how much they esteem them. They constantly display an entire confidence in the understanding of awife, and a profound respect for her freedom; they have decided that hermind is just as fitted as that of a man to discover the plain truth, andher heart as firm to embrace it; and they have never sought to place hervirtue, any more than his, under the shelter of prejudice, ignorance, and fear. It would seem that in Europe, where man so easily submits tothe despotic sway of women, they are nevertheless curtailed of some ofthe greatest qualities of the human species, and considered as seductivebut imperfect beings; and (what may well provoke astonishment) womenultimately look upon themselves in the same light, and almost considerit as a privilege that they are entitled to show themselves futile, feeble, and timid. The women of America claim no such privileges. 

Again, it may be said that in our morals we have reserved strangeimmunities to man; so that there is, as it were, one virtue for his use, and another for the guidance of his partner; and that, according to theopinion of the public, the very same act may be punished alternatelyas a crime or only as a fault. The Americans know not this iniquitousdivision of duties and rights; amongst them the seducer is as muchdishonored as his victim. It is true that the Americans rarely lavishupon women those eager attentions which are commonly paid them inEurope; but their conduct to women always implies that they suppose themto be virtuous and refined; and such is the respect entertained forthe moral freedom of the sex, that in the presence of a woman themost guarded language is used, lest her ear should be offended by anexpression. In America a young unmarried woman may, alone and withoutfear, undertake a long journey. 

The legislators of the United States, who have mitigated almost all thepenalties of criminal law, still make rape a capital offence, and nocrime is visited with more inexorable severity by public opinion. This may be accounted for; as the Americans can conceive nothing moreprecious than a woman's honor, and nothing which ought so much to berespected as her independence, they hold that no punishment is toosevere for the man who deprives her of them against her will. In France, where the same offence is visited with far milder penalties, it isfrequently difficult to get a verdict from a jury against the prisoner. Is this a consequence of contempt of decency or contempt of women? Icannot but believe that it is a contempt of one and of the other. 

Thus the Americans do not think that man and woman have either the dutyor the right to perform the same offices, but they show an equal regardfor both their respective parts; and though their lot is different, theyconsider both of them as beings of equal value. They do not give to thecourage of woman the same form or the same direction as to that of man;but they never doubt her courage: and if they hold that man and hispartner ought not always to exercise their intellect and understandingin the same manner, they at least believe the understanding of the oneto be as sound as that of the other, and her intellect to be as clear. Thus, then, whilst they have allowed the social inferiority of womanto subsist, they have done all they could to raise her morally andintellectually to the level of man; and in this respect they appearto me to have excellently understood the true principle of democraticimprovement. As for myself, I do not hesitate to avow that, althoughthe women of the United States are confined within the narrow circle ofdomestic life, and their situation is in some respects one of extremedependence, I have nowhere seen woman occupying a loftier position; andif I were asked, now that I am drawing to the close of this work, inwhich I have spoken of so many important things done by the Americans, to what the singular prosperity and growing strength of that peopleought mainly to be attributed, I should reply--to the superiority oftheir women. 

Chapter XIII: That The Principle Of Equality Naturally Divides TheAmericans Into A Number Of Small Private Circles

It may probably be supposed that the final consequence and necessaryeffect of democratic institutions is to confound together all themembers of the community in private as well as in public life, and tocompel them all to live in common; but this would be to ascribe avery coarse and oppressive form to the equality which originates indemocracy. No state of society or laws can render men so much alike, but that education, fortune, and tastes will interpose some differencesbetween them; and, though different men may sometimes find it theirinterest to combine for the same purposes, they will never make it theirpleasure. They will therefore always tend to evade the provisions oflegislation, whatever they may be; and departing in some one respectfrom the circle within which they were to be bounded, they will set up, close by the great political community, small private circles, unitedtogether by the similitude of their conditions, habits, and manners. 

In the United States the citizens have no sort of pre-eminence over eachother; they owe each other no mutual obedience or respect; they all meetfor the administration of justice, for the government of the State, andin general to treat of the affairs which concern their common welfare;but I never heard that attempts have been made to bring them all tofollow the same diversions, or to amuse themselves promiscuously in thesame places of recreation. The Americans, who mingle so readily in theirpolitical assemblies and courts of justice, are wont on the contrarycarefully to separate into small distinct circles, in order to indulgeby themselves in the enjoyments of private life. Each of them is willingto acknowledge all his fellow-citizens as his equals, but he will onlyreceive a very limited number of them amongst his friends or his guests. This appears to me to be very natural. In proportion as the circle ofpublic society is extended, it may be anticipated that the sphere ofprivate intercourse will be contracted; far from supposing that themembers of modern society will ultimately live in common, I am afraidthat they may end by forming nothing but small coteries. 

Amongst aristocratic nations the different classes are like vastchambers, out of which it is impossible to get, into which it isimpossible to enter. These classes have no communication with eachother, but within their pale men necessarily live in daily contact;even though they would not naturally suit, the general conformity of asimilar condition brings them nearer together. But when neither law norcustom professes to establish frequent and habitual relations betweencertain men, their intercourse originates in the accidental analogyof opinions and tastes; hence private society is infinitely varied. Indemocracies, where the members of the community never differ much fromeach other, and naturally stand in such propinquity that they may allat any time be confounded in one general mass, numerous artificial andarbitrary distinctions spring up, by means of which every man hopes tokeep himself aloof, lest he should be carried away in the crowd againsthis will. This can never fail to be the case; for human institutionsmay be changed, but not man: whatever may be the general endeavor of acommunity to render its members equal and alike, the personal prideof individuals will always seek to rise above the line, and to formsomewhere an inequality to their own advantage. 

In aristocracies men are separated from each other by lofty stationarybarriers; in democracies they are divided by a number of small andalmost invisible threads, which are constantly broken or moved fromplace to place. Thus, whatever may be the progress of equality, indemocratic nations a great number of small private communities willalways be formed within the general pale of political society; but noneof them will bear any resemblance in its manners to the highest class inaristocracies. 

Chapter XIV: Some Reflections On American Manners

Nothing seems at first sight less important than the outward form ofhuman actions, yet there is nothing upon which men set more store: theygrow used to everything except to living in a society which has nottheir own manners. The influence of the social and political state ofa country upon manners is therefore deserving of serious examination. Manners are, generally, the product of the very basis of the characterof a people, but they are also sometimes the result of an arbitraryconvention between certain men; thus they are at once natural andacquired. When certain men perceive that they are the foremost personsin society, without contestation and without effort--when they areconstantly engaged on large objects, leaving the more minute details toothers--and when they live in the enjoyment of wealth which they did notamass and which they do not fear to lose, it may be supposed that theyfeel a kind of haughty disdain of the petty interests and practicalcares of life, and that their thoughts assume a natural greatness, whichtheir language and their manners denote. In democratic countries mannersare generally devoid of dignity, because private life is there extremelypetty in its character; and they are frequently low, because the mindhas few opportunities of rising above the engrossing cares of domesticinterests. True dignity in manners consists in always taking one'sproper station, neither too high nor too low; and this is as much withinthe reach of a peasant as of a prince. In democracies all stationsappear doubtful; hence it is that the manners of democracies, thoughoften full of arrogance, are commonly wanting in dignity, and, moreover, they are never either well disciplined or accomplished. 

The men who live in democracies are too fluctuating for a certain numberof them ever to succeed in laying down a code of good breeding, and inforcing people to follow it. Every man therefore behaves after his ownfashion, and there is always a certain incoherence in the manners ofsuch times, because they are moulded upon the feelings and notions ofeach individual, rather than upon an ideal model proposed for generalimitation. This, however, is much more perceptible at the time whenan aristocracy has just been overthrown than after it has long beendestroyed. New political institutions and new social elements then bringto the same places of resort, and frequently compel to live in common, men whose education and habits are still amazingly dissimilar, andthis renders the motley composition of society peculiarly visible. Theexistence of a former strict code of good breeding is still remembered, but what it contained or where it is to be found is already forgotten. Men have lost the common law of manners, and they have not yet made uptheir minds to do without it; but everyone endeavors to make to himselfsome sort of arbitrary and variable rule, from the remnant of formerusages; so that manners have neither the regularity and the dignitywhich they often display amongst aristocratic nations, nor thesimplicity and freedom which they sometimes assume in democracies; theyare at once constrained and without constraint. 

This, however, is not the normal state of things. When the equality ofconditions is long established and complete, as all men entertain nearlythe same notions and do nearly the same things, they do not require toagree or to copy from one another in order to speak or act in the samemanner: their manners are constantly characterized by a number of lesserdiversities, but not by any great differences. They are never perfectlyalike, because they do not copy from the same pattern; they are neververy unlike, because their social condition is the same. At first sighta traveller would observe that the manners of all the Americansare exactly similar; it is only upon close examination that thepeculiarities in which they differ may be detected. 

The English make game of the manners of the Americans; but it issingular that most of the writers who have drawn these ludicrousdelineations belonged themselves to the middle classes in England, towhom the same delineations are exceedingly applicable: so that thesepitiless censors for the most part furnish an example of the very thingthey blame in the United States; they do not perceive that they arederiding themselves, to the great amusement of the aristocracy of theirown country. 

Nothing is more prejudicial to democracy than its outward forms ofbehavior: many men would willingly endure its vices, who cannot supportits manners. I cannot, however, admit that there is nothing commendablein the manners of a democratic people. Amongst aristocratic nations, allwho live within reach of the first class in society commonly strain tobe like it, which gives rise to ridiculous and insipid imitations. As ademocratic people does not possess any models of high breeding, at leastit escapes the daily necessity of seeing wretched copies of them. In democracies manners are never so refined as amongst aristocraticnations, but on the other hand they are never so coarse. Neither thecoarse oaths of the populace, nor the elegant and choice expressionsof the nobility are to be heard there: the manners of such a peopleare often vulgar, but they are neither brutal nor mean. I have alreadyobserved that in democracies no such thing as a regular code of goodbreeding can be laid down; this has some inconveniences and someadvantages. In aristocracies the rules of propriety impose the samedemeanor on everyone; they make all the members of the same class appearalike, in spite of their private inclinations; they adorn and theyconceal the natural man. Amongst a democratic people manners are neitherso tutored nor so uniform, but they are frequently more sincere. Theyform, as it were, a light and loosely woven veil, through which the realfeelings and private opinions of each individual are easily discernible. The form and the substance of human actions often, therefore, standin closer relation; and if the great picture of human life be lessembellished, it is more true. Thus it may be said, in one sense, thatthe effect of democracy is not exactly to give men any particularmanners, but to prevent them from having manners at all. 

The feelings, the passions, the virtues, and the vices of an aristocracymay sometimes reappear in a democracy, but not its manners; they arelost, and vanish forever, as soon as the democratic revolution iscompleted. It would seem that nothing is more lasting than the mannersof an aristocratic class, for they are preserved by that class for sometime after it has lost its wealth and its power--nor so fleeting, forno sooner have they disappeared than not a trace of them is to be found;and it is scarcely possible to say what they have been as soon as theyhave ceased to be. A change in the state of society works thismiracle, and a few generations suffice to consummate it. The principalcharacteristics of aristocracy are handed down by history after anaristocracy is destroyed, but the light and exquisite touches of mannersare effaced from men's memories almost immediately after its fall. Mencan no longer conceive what these manners were when they have ceased towitness them; they are gone, and their departure was unseen, unfelt; forin order to feel that refined enjoyment which is derived from choice anddistinguished manners, habit and education must have prepared the heart, and the taste for them is lost almost as easily as the practice of them. Thus not only a democratic people cannot have aristocratic manners, butthey neither comprehend nor desire them; and as they never have thoughtof them, it is to their minds as if such things had never been. Toomuch importance should not be attached to this loss, but it may well beregretted. 

I am aware that it has not unfrequently happened that the same men havehad very high-bred manners and very low-born feelings: the interior ofcourts has sufficiently shown what imposing externals may conceal themeanest hearts. But though the manners of aristocracy did not constitutevirtue, they sometimes embellish virtue itself. It was no ordinary sightto see a numerous and powerful class of men, whose every outward actionseemed constantly to be dictated by a natural elevation of thoughtand feeling, by delicacy and regularity of taste, and by urbanityof manners. Those manners threw a pleasing illusory charm over humannature; and though the picture was often a false one, it could not beviewed without a noble satisfaction. 

Chapter XV: Of The Gravity Of The Americans, And Why It Does Not PreventThem From Often Committing Inconsiderate Actions

Men who live in democratic countries do not value the simple, turbulent, or coarse diversions in which the people indulge in aristocraticcommunities: such diversions are thought by them to be puerile orinsipid. Nor have they a greater inclination for the intellectual andrefined amusements of the aristocratic classes. They want somethingproductive and substantial in their pleasures; they want to mix actualfruition with their joy. In aristocratic communities the people readilygive themselves up to bursts of tumultuous and boisterous gayety, whichshake off at once the recollection of their privations: the natives ofdemocracies are not fond of being thus violently broken in upon, andthey never lose sight of their own selves without regret. They prefer tothese frivolous delights those more serious and silent amusements whichare like business, and which do not drive business wholly from theirminds. An American, instead of going in a leisure hour to dance merrilyat some place of public resort, as the fellows of his calling continueto do throughout the greater part of Europe, shuts himself up at hometo drink. He thus enjoys two pleasures; he can go on thinking of hisbusiness, and he can get drunk decently by his own fireside. 

I thought that the English constituted the most serious nation on theface of the earth, but I have since seen the Americans and have changedmy opinion. I do not mean to say that temperament has not a great dealto do with the character of the inhabitants of the United States, butI think that their political institutions are a still more influentialcause. I believe the seriousness of the Americans arises partly fromtheir pride. In democratic countries even poor men entertain a loftynotion of their personal importance: they look upon themselves withcomplacency, and are apt to suppose that others are looking at them, too. With this disposition they watch their language and their actionswith care, and do not lay themselves open so as to betray theirdeficiencies; to preserve their dignity they think it necessary toretain their gravity. 

But I detect another more deep-seated and powerful cause whichinstinctively produces amongst the Americans this astonishing gravity. Under a despotism communities give way at times to bursts of vehementjoy; but they are generally gloomy and moody, because they are afraid. Under absolute monarchies tempered by the customs and manners of thecountry, their spirits are often cheerful and even, because as they havesome freedom and a good deal of security, they are exempted from themost important cares of life; but all free peoples are serious, becausetheir minds are habitually absorbed by the contemplation of somedangerous or difficult purpose. This is more especially the case amongstthose free nations which form democratic communities. Then there arein all classes a very large number of men constantly occupied with theserious affairs of the government; and those whose thoughts are notengaged in the direction of the commonwealth are wholly engrossed bythe acquisition of a private fortune. Amongst such a people a seriousdemeanor ceases to be peculiar to certain men, and becomes a habit ofthe nation. 

We are told of small democracies in the days of antiquity, in which thecitizens met upon the public places with garlands of roses, and spentalmost all their time in dancing and theatrical amusements. I do notbelieve in such republics any more than in that of Plato; or, if thethings we read of really happened, I do not hesitate to affirm thatthese supposed democracies were composed of very different elements fromours, and that they had nothing in common with the latter except theirname. But it must not be supposed that, in the midst of all their toils, the people who live in democracies think themselves to be pitied; thecontrary is remarked to be the case. No men are fonder of their owncondition. Life would have no relish for them if they were deliveredfrom the anxieties which harass them, and they show more attachment totheir cares than aristocratic nations to their pleasures. 

I am next led to inquire how it is that these same democratic nations, which are so serious, sometimes act in so inconsiderate a manner. TheAmericans, who almost always preserve a staid demeanor and a frigid air, nevertheless frequently allow themselves to be borne away, far beyondthe bound of reason, by a sudden passion or a hasty opinion, and theysometimes gravely commit strange absurdities. This contrast ought not tosurprise us. There is one sort of ignorance which originates in extremepublicity. In despotic States men know not how to act, because they aretold nothing; in democratic nations they often act at random, becausenothing is to be left untold. The former do not know--the latterforget; and the chief features of each picture are lost to them in abewilderment of details. 

It is astonishing what imprudent language a public man may sometimes usein free countries, and especially in democratic States, without beingcompromised; whereas in absolute monarchies a few words dropped byaccident are enough to unmask him forever, and ruin him without hope ofredemption. This is explained by what goes before. When a man speaksin the midst of a great crowd, many of his words are not heard, or areforthwith obliterated from the memories of those who hear them; butamidst the silence of a mute and motionless throng the slightest whisperstrikes the ear. 

In democracies men are never stationary; a thousand chances waft themto and fro, and their life is always the sport of unforeseen or (so tospeak) extemporaneous circumstances. Thus they are often obliged todo things which they have imperfectly learned, to say things theyimperfectly understand, and to devote themselves to work for which theyare unprepared by long apprenticeship. In aristocracies every man hasone sole object which he unceasingly pursues, but amongst democraticnations the existence of man is more complex; the same mind will almostalways embrace several objects at the same time, and these objects arefrequently wholly foreign to each other: as it cannot know them allwell, the mind is readily satisfied with imperfect notions of each. 

When the inhabitant of democracies is not urged by his wants, he is soat least by his desires; for of all the possessions which he sees aroundhim, none are wholly beyond his reach. He therefore does everything in ahurry, he is always satisfied with "pretty well, " and never pauses morethan an instant to consider what he has been doing. His curiosity is atonce insatiable and cheaply satisfied; for he cares more to know a greatdeal quickly than to know anything well: he has no time and but littletaste to search things to the bottom. Thus then democratic peoples aregrave, because their social and political condition constantly leadsthem to engage in serious occupations; and they act inconsiderately, because they give but little time and attention to each of theseoccupations. The habit of inattention must be considered as the greatestbane of the democratic character. 

Chapter XVI: Why The National Vanity Of The Americans Is More RestlessAnd Captious Than That Of The English

All free nations are vainglorious, but national pride is not displayedby all in the same manner. The Americans in their intercourse withstrangers appear impatient of the smallest censure and insatiableof praise. The most slender eulogium is acceptable to them; the mostexalted seldom contents them; they unceasingly harass you to extortpraise, and if you resist their entreaties they fall to praisingthemselves. It would seem as if, doubting their own merit, they wishedto have it constantly exhibited before their eyes. Their vanity is notonly greedy, but restless and jealous; it will grant nothing, whilst itdemands everything, but is ready to beg and to quarrel at the same time. If I say to an American that the country he lives in is a fine one, "Ay, " he replies, "there is not its fellow in the world. " If I applaudthe freedom which its inhabitants enjoy, he answers, "Freedom is a finething, but few nations are worthy to enjoy it. " If I remark the purityof morals which distinguishes the United States, "I can imagine, " sayshe, "that a stranger, who has been struck by the corruption of all othernations, is astonished at the difference. " At length I leave him to thecontemplation of himself; but he returns to the charge, and does notdesist till he has got me to repeat all I had just been saying. It isimpossible to conceive a more troublesome or more garrulous patriotism;it wearies even those who are disposed to respect it. *a

[Footnote a: See Appendix U. ]

Such is not the case with the English. An Englishman calmly enjoys thereal or imaginary advantages which in his opinion his country possesses. If he grants nothing to other nations, neither does he solicit anythingfor his own. The censure of foreigners does not affect him, and theirpraise hardly flatters him; his position with regard to the rest of theworld is one of disdainful and ignorant reserve: his pride requires nosustenance, it nourishes itself. It is remarkable that two nations, so recently sprung from the same stock, should be so opposite to oneanother in their manner of feeling and conversing. 

In aristocratic countries the great possess immense privileges, uponwhich their pride rests, without seeking to rely upon the lesseradvantages which accrue to them. As these privileges came to them byinheritance, they regard them in some sort as a portion of themselves, or at least as a natural right inherent in their own persons. Theytherefore entertain a calm sense of their superiority; they do not dreamof vaunting privileges which everyone perceives and no one contests, and these things are not sufficiently new to them to be made topicsof conversation. They stand unmoved in their solitary greatness, wellassured that they are seen of all the world without any effort to showthemselves off, and that no one will attempt to drive them from thatposition. When an aristocracy carries on the public affairs, itsnational pride naturally assumes this reserved, indifferent, and haughtyform, which is imitated by all the other classes of the nation. 

When, on the contrary, social conditions differ but little, theslightest privileges are of some importance; as every man sees aroundhimself a million of people enjoying precisely similar or analogousadvantages, his pride becomes craving and jealous, he clings to meretrifles, and doggedly defends them. In democracies, as the conditions oflife are very fluctuating, men have almost always recently acquired theadvantages which they possess; the consequence is that they feel extremepleasure in exhibiting them, to show others and convince themselves thatthey really enjoy them. As at any instant these same advantages may belost, their possessors are constantly on the alert, and make a pointof showing that they still retain them. Men living in democracies lovetheir country just as they love themselves, and they transfer the habitsof their private vanity to their vanity as a nation. The restless andinsatiable vanity of a democratic people originates so entirely in theequality and precariousness of social conditions, that the members ofthe haughtiest nobility display the very same passion in those lesserportions of their existence in which there is anything fluctuating orcontested. An aristocratic class always differs greatly from the otherclasses of the nation, by the extent and perpetuity of its privileges;but it often happens that the only differences between the members whobelong to it consist in small transient advantages, which may any day belost or acquired. The members of a powerful aristocracy, collected ina capital or a court, have been known to contest with virulence thosefrivolous privileges which depend on the caprice of fashion or thewill of their master. These persons then displayed towards eachother precisely the same puerile jealousies which animate the men ofdemocracies, the same eagerness to snatch the smallest advantages whichtheir equals contested, and the same desire to parade ostentatiouslythose of which they were in possession. If national pride ever enteredinto the minds of courtiers, I do not question that they would displayit in the same manner as the members of a democratic community. 

Chapter XVII: That The Aspect Of Society In The United States Is At OnceExcited And Monotonous

It would seem that nothing can be more adapted to stimulate and to feedcuriosity than the aspect of the United States. Fortunes, opinions, and laws are there in ceaseless variation: it is as if immutable natureherself were mutable, such are the changes worked upon her by the handof man. Yet in the end the sight of this excited community becomesmonotonous, and after having watched the moving pageant for a time thespectator is tired of it. Amongst aristocratic nations every man ispretty nearly stationary in his own sphere; but men are astonishinglyunlike each other--their passions, their notions, their habits, andtheir tastes are essentially different: nothing changey, but everythingdiffers. In democracies, on the contrary, all men are alike and dothings pretty nearly alike. It is true that they are subject to greatand frequent vicissitudes; but as the same events of good or adversefortune are continually recurring, the name of the actors only ischanged, the piece is always the same. The aspect of American societyis animated, because men and things are always changing; but it ismonotonous, because all these changes are alike. 

Men living in democratic ages have many passions, but most of theirpassions either end in the love of riches or proceed from it. The causeof this is, not that their souls are narrower, but that the importanceof money is really greater at such times. When all the members ofa community are independent of or indifferent to each other, theco-operation of each of them can only be obtained by paying for it: thisinfinitely multiplies the purposes to which wealth may be applied, andincreases its value. When the reverence which belonged to what is oldhas vanished, birth, condition, and profession no longer distinguishmen, or scarcely distinguish them at all: hardly anything but moneyremains to create strongly marked differences between them, and to raisesome of them above the common level. The distinction originating inwealth is increased by the disappearance and diminution of all otherdistinctions. Amongst aristocratic nations money only reaches to a fewpoints on the vast circle of man's desires--in democracies it seems tolead to all. The love of wealth is therefore to be traced, either asa principal or an accessory motive, at the bottom of all that theAmericans do: this gives to all their passions a sort of familylikeness, and soon renders the survey of them exceedingly wearisome. This perpetual recurrence of the same passion is monotonous; thepeculiar methods by which this passion seeks its own gratification areno less so. 

In an orderly and constituted democracy like the United States, wheremen cannot enrich themselves by war, by public office, or by politicalconfiscation, the love of wealth mainly drives them into business andmanufactures. Although these pursuits often bring about great commotionsand disasters, they cannot prosper without strictly regular habits anda long routine of petty uniform acts. The stronger the passion is, themore regular are these habits, and the more uniform are these acts. Itmay be said that it is the vehemence of their desires which makes theAmericans so methodical; it perturbs their minds, but it disciplinestheir lives. 

The remark I here apply to America may indeed be addressed to almostall our contemporaries. Variety is disappearing from the human race; thesame ways of acting, thinking, and feeling are to be met with all overthe world. This is not only because nations work more upon each other, and are more faithful in their mutual imitation; but as the men of eachcountry relinquish more and more the peculiar opinions and feelings ofa caste, a profession, or a family, they simultaneously arrive atsomething nearer to the constitution of man, which is everywhere thesame. Thus they become more alike, even without having imitated eachother. Like travellers scattered about some large wood, which isintersected by paths converging to one point, if all of them keep, theireyes fixed upon that point and advance towards it, they insensibly drawnearer together--though they seek not, though they see not, thoughthey know not each other; and they will be surprised at length to findthemselves all collected on the same spot. All the nations whichtake, not any particular man, but man himself, as the object of theirresearches and their imitations, are tending in the end to a similarstate of society, like these travellers converging to the central plotof the forest. 

Chapter XVIII: Of Honor In The United States And In DemocraticCommunities

It would seem that men employ two very distinct methods in the publicestimation *a of the actions of their fellowmen; at one time they judgethem by those simple notions of right and wrong which are diffusedall over the world; at another they refer their decision to a few veryspecial notions which belong exclusively to some particular age andcountry. It often happens that these two rules differ; they sometimesconflict: but they are never either entirely identified or entirelyannulled by one another. Honor, at the periods of its greatest power, sways the will more than the belief of men; and even whilst they yieldwithout hesitation and without a murmur to its dictates, they feelnotwithstanding, by a dim but mighty instinct, the existence of a moregeneral, more ancient, and more holy law, which they sometimes disobeyalthough they cease not to acknowledge it. Some actions have been heldto be at the same time virtuous and dishonorable--a refusal to fight aduel is a case in point. 

[Footnote a: The word "honor" is not always used in the same senseeither in French or English. I. It first signifies the dignity, glory, or reverence which a man receives from his kind; and in this sense aman is said to acquire honor. 2. Honor signifies the aggregate of thoserules by the assistance of which this dignity, glory, or reverence isobtained. Thus we say that a man has always strictly obeyed the lawsof honor; or a man has violated his honor. In this chapter the word isalways used in the latter sense. ]

I think these peculiarities may be otherwise explained than by the merecaprices of certain individuals and nations, as has hitherto beenthe customary mode of reasoning on the subject. Mankind is subjectto general and lasting wants that have engendered moral laws, to theneglect of which men have ever and in all places attached the notion ofcensure and shame: to infringe them was "to do ill"--"to do well" was toconform to them. Within the bosom of this vast association of the humanrace, lesser associations have been formed which are called nations;and amidst these nations further subdivisions have assumed the namesof classes or castes. Each of these associations forms, as it were, a separate species of the human race; and though it has no essentialdifference from the mass of mankind, to a certain extent it stands apartand has certain wants peculiar to itself. To these special wants mustbe attributed the modifications which affect in various degrees andin different countries the mode of considering human actions, andthe estimate which ought to be formed of them. It is the general andpermanent interest of mankind that men should not kill each other: butit may happen to be the peculiar and temporary interest of a people or aclass to justify, or even to honor, homicide. 

Honor is simply that peculiar rule, founded upon a peculiar state ofsociety, by the application of which a people or a class allot praise orblame. Nothing is more unproductive to the mind than an abstract idea; Itherefore hasten to call in the aid of facts and examples to illustratemy meaning. 

I select the most extraordinary kind of honor which was ever knownin the world, and that which we are best acquainted with, viz. , aristocratic honor springing out of feudal society. I shall explain itby means of the principle already laid down, and I shall explain theprinciple by means of the illustration. I am not here led to inquirewhen and how the aristocracy of the Middle Ages came into existence, why it was so deeply severed from the remainder of the nation, orwhat founded and consolidated its power. I take its existence as anestablished fact, and I am endeavoring to account for the peculiar viewwhich it took of the greater part of human actions. The first thing thatstrikes me is, that in the feudal world actions were not always praisedor blamed with reference to their intrinsic worth, but that they weresometimes appreciated exclusively with reference to the person whowas the actor or the object of them, which is repugnant to the generalconscience of mankind. Thus some of the actions which were indifferenton the part of a man in humble life, dishonored a noble; others changedtheir whole character according as the person aggrieved by them belongedor did not belong to the aristocracy. When these different notions firstarose, the nobility formed a distinct body amidst the people, whichit commanded from the inaccessible heights where it was ensconced. Tomaintain this peculiar position, which constituted its strength, it notonly required political privileges, but it required a standard of rightand wrong for its own especial use. That some particular virtue or vicebelonged to the nobility rather than to the humble classes--that certainactions were guiltless when they affected the villain, which werecriminal when they touched the noble--these were often arbitrarymatters; but that honor or shame should be attached to a man's actionsaccording to his condition, was a result of the internal constitutionof an aristocratic community. This has been actually the case in allthe countries which have had an aristocracy; as long as a trace of theprinciple remains, these peculiarities will still exist; to debauch awoman of color scarcely injures the reputation of an American--to marryher dishonors him. 

In some cases feudal honor enjoined revenge, and stigmatized theforgiveness of insults; in others it imperiously commanded men toconquer their own passions, and imposed forgetfulness of self. It didnot make humanity or kindness its law, but it extolled generosity; itset more store on liberality than on benevolence; it allowed men toenrich themselves by gambling or by war, but not by labor; it preferredgreat crimes to small earnings; cupidity was less distasteful to itthan avarice; violence it often sanctioned, but cunning and treachery itinvariably reprobated as contemptible. These fantastical notions did notproceed exclusively from the caprices of those who entertained them. Aclass which has succeeded in placing itself at the head of and aboveall others, and which makes perpetual exertions to maintain this loftyposition, must especially honor those virtues which are conspicuous fortheir dignity and splendor, and which may be easily combined with prideand the love of power. Such men would not hesitate to invert the naturalorder of the conscience in order to give those virtues precedence beforeall others. It may even be conceived that some of the more bold andbrilliant vices would readily be set above the quiet, unpretendingvirtues. The very existence of such a class in society renders thesethings unavoidable. 

The nobles of the Middle Ages placed military courage foremost amongstvirtues, and in lieu of many of them. This was again a peculiar opinionwhich arose necessarily from the peculiarity of the state of society. Feudal aristocracy existed by war and for war; its power had beenfounded by arms, and by arms that power was maintained; it thereforerequired nothing more than military courage, and that quality wasnaturally exalted above all others; whatever denoted it, even at theexpense of reason and humanity, was therefore approved and frequentlyenjoined by the manners of the time. Such was the main principle; thecaprice of man was only to be traced in minuter details. That a manshould regard a tap on the cheek as an unbearable insult, and should beobliged to kill in single combat the person who struck him thus lightly, is an arbitrary rule; but that a noble could not tranquilly receive aninsult, and was dishonored if he allowed himself to take a blow withoutfighting, were direct consequences of the fundamental principles and thewants of military aristocracy. 

Thus it was true to a certain extent to assert that the laws of honorwere capricious; but these caprices of honor were always confined withincertain necessary limits. The peculiar rule, which was called honor byour forefathers, is so far from being an arbitrary law in my eyes, thatI would readily engage to ascribe its most incoherent and fantasticalinjunctions to a small number of fixed and invariable wants inherent infeudal society. 

If I were to trace the notion of feudal honor into the domain ofpolitics, I should not find it more difficult to explain its dictates. The state of society and the political institutions of the Middle Ageswere such, that the supreme power of the nation never governed thecommunity directly. That power did not exist in the eyes of the people:every man looked up to a certain individual whom he was bound to obey;by that intermediate personage he was connected with all the others. Thus in feudal society the whole system of the commonwealth rested uponthe sentiment of fidelity to the person of the lord: to destroy thatsentiment was to open the sluices of anarchy. Fidelity to a politicalsuperior was, moreover, a sentiment of which all the members of thearistocracy had constant opportunities of estimating the importance; forevery one of them was a vassal as well as a lord, and had to command aswell as to obey. To remain faithful to the lord, to sacrifice one's selffor him if called upon, to share his good or evil fortunes, to standby him in his undertakings whatever they might be--such were the firstinjunctions of feudal honor in relation to the political institutionsof those times. The treachery of a vassal was branded with extraordinaryseverity by public opinion, and a name of peculiar infamy was inventedfor the offence which was called "felony. "

On the contrary, few traces are to be found in the Middle Ages of thepassion which constituted the life of the nations of antiquity--I meanpatriotism; the word itself is not of very ancient date in the language. *b Feudal institutions concealed the country at large from men's sight, and rendered the love of it less necessary. The nation was forgotten inthe passions which attached men to persons. Hence it was no part ofthe strict law of feudal honor to remain faithful to one's country. Notindeed that the love of their country did not exist in the hearts ofour forefathers; but it constituted a dim and feeble instinct, which hasgrown more clear and strong in proportion as aristocratic classes havebeen abolished, and the supreme power of the nation centralized. Thismay be clearly seen from the contrary judgments which European nationshave passed upon the various events of their histories, according to thegenerations by which such judgments have been formed. The circumstancewhich most dishonored the Constable de Bourbon in the eyes of hiscontemporaries was that he bore arms against his king: that which mostdishonors him in our eyes, is that he made war against his country; webrand him as deeply as our forefathers did, but for different reasons. 

[Footnote b: Even the word "patrie" was not used by the French writersuntil the sixteenth century. ]

I have chosen the honor of feudal times by way of illustration of mymeaning, because its characteristics are more distinctly marked and morefamiliar to us than those of any other period; but I might have takenan example elsewhere, and I should have reached the same conclusion bya different road. Although we are less perfectly acquainted with theRomans than with our own ancestors, yet we know that certain peculiarnotions of glory and disgrace obtained amongst them, which were notsolely derived from the general principles of right and wrong. Manyhuman actions were judged differently, according as they affected aRoman citizen or a stranger, a freeman or a slave; certain vices wereblazoned abroad, certain virtues were extolled above all others. "Inthat age, " says Plutarch in the life of Coriolanus, "martial prowesswas more honored and prized in Rome than all the other virtues, insomuchthat it was called virtus, the name of virtue itself, by applying thename of the kind to this particular species; so that virtue in Latin wasas much as to say valor. " Can anyone fail to recognize the peculiarwant of that singular community which was formed for the conquest of theworld?

Any nation would furnish us with similar grounds of observation; for, as I have already remarked, whenever men collect together as a distinctcommunity, the notion of honor instantly grows up amongst them; thatis to say, a system of opinions peculiar to themselves as to what isblamable or commendable; and these peculiar rules always originatein the special habits and special interests of the community. This isapplicable to a certain extent to democratic communities as well asto others, as we shall now proceed to prove by the example of theAmericans. *c Some loose notions of the old aristocratic honor of Europeare still to be found scattered amongst the opinions of the Americans;but these traditional opinions are few in number, they have but littleroot in the country, and but little power. They are like a religionwhich has still some temples left standing, though men have ceasedto believe in it. But amidst these half-obliterated notions of exotichonor, some new opinions have sprung up, which constitute what may betermed in our days American honor. I have shown how the Americans areconstantly driven to engage in commerce and industry. Their origin, their social condition, their political institutions, and even the spotthey inhabit, urge them irresistibly in this direction. Their presentcondition is then that of an almost exclusively manufacturing andcommercial association, placed in the midst of a new and boundlesscountry, which their principal object is to explore for purposes ofprofit. This is the characteristic which most peculiarly distinguishesthe American people from all others at the present time. All those quietvirtues which tend to give a regular movement to the community, and toencourage business, will therefore be held in peculiar honor by thatpeople, and to neglect those virtues will be to incur public contempt. All the more turbulent virtues, which often dazzle, but more frequentlydisturb society, will on the contrary occupy a subordinate rank in theestimation of this same people: they may be neglected without forfeitingthe esteem of the community--to acquire them would perhaps be to run arisk of losing it. 

[Footnote c: I speak here of the Americans inhabiting those States whereslavery does not exist; they alone can be said to present a completepicture of democratic society. ]

The Americans make a no less arbitrary classification of men's vices. There are certain propensities which appear censurable to the generalreason and the universal conscience of mankind, but which happen toagree with the peculiar and temporary wants of the American community:these propensities are lightly reproved, sometimes even encouraged; forinstance, the love of wealth and the secondary propensities connectedwith it may be more particularly cited. To clear, to till, and totransform the vast uninhabited continent which is his domain, theAmerican requires the daily support of an energetic passion; thatpassion can only be the love of wealth; the passion for wealth istherefore not reprobated in America, and provided it does not go beyondthe bounds assigned to it for public security, it is held in honor. The American lauds as a noble and praiseworthy ambition what our ownforefathers in the Middle Ages stigmatized as servile cupidity, justas he treats as a blind and barbarous frenzy that ardor of conquest andmartial temper which bore them to battle. In the United States fortunesare lost and regained without difficulty; the country is boundless, andits resources inexhaustible. The people have all the wants and cravingsof a growing creature; and whatever be their efforts, they are alwayssurrounded by more than they can appropriate. It is not the ruin of afew individuals which may be soon repaired, but the inactivity andsloth of the community at large which would be fatal to such a people. Boldness of enterprise is the foremost cause of its rapid progress, itsstrength, and its greatness. Commercial business is there like a vastlottery, by which a small number of men continually lose, but the Stateis always a gainer; such a people ought therefore to encourage and dohonor to boldness in commercial speculations. But any bold speculationrisks the fortune of the speculator and of all those who put their trustin him. The Americans, who make a virtue of commercial temerity, haveno right in any case to brand with disgrace those who practise it. Hencearises the strange indulgence which is shown to bankrupts in the UnitedStates; their honor does not suffer by such an accident. In this respectthe Americans differ, not only from the nations of Europe, but from allthe commercial nations of our time, and accordingly they resemble noneof them in their position or their wants. 

In America all those vices which tend to impair the purity of morals, and to destroy the conjugal tie, are treated with a degree of severitywhich is unknown in the rest of the world. At first sight this seemsstrangely at variance with the tolerance shown there on other subjects, and one is surprised to meet with a morality so relaxed and so austereamongst the selfsame people. But these things are less incoherentthan they seem to be. Public opinion in the United States very gentlyrepresses that love of wealth which promotes the commercial greatnessand the prosperity of the nation, and it especially condemns that laxityof morals which diverts the human mind from the pursuit of well-being, and disturbs the internal order of domestic life which is so necessaryto success in business. To earn the esteem of their countrymen, theAmericans are therefore constrained to adapt themselves to orderlyhabits--and it may be said in this sense that they make it a matter ofhonor to live chastely. 

On one point American honor accords with the notions of honoracknowledged in Europe; it places courage as the highest virtue, andtreats it as the greatest of the moral necessities of man; but thenotion of courage itself assumes a different aspect. In the UnitedStates martial valor is but little prized; the courage which is bestknown and most esteemed is that which emboldens men to brave thedangers of the ocean, in order to arrive earlier in port--to support theprivations of the wilderness without complaint, and solitude more cruelthan privations--the courage which renders them almost insensible to theloss of a fortune laboriously acquired, and instantly prompts to freshexertions to make another. Courage of this kind is peculiarly necessaryto the maintenance and prosperity of the American communities, and it isheld by them in peculiar honor and estimation; to betray a want of it isto incur certain disgrace. 

I have yet another characteristic point which may serve to place theidea of this chapter in stronger relief. In a democratic society likethat of the United States, where fortunes are scanty and insecure, everybody works, and work opens a way to everything: this has changedthe point of honor quite round, and has turned it against idleness. I have sometimes met in America with young men of wealth, personallydisinclined to all laborious exertion, but who had been compelled toembrace a profession. Their disposition and their fortune allowed themto remain without employment; public opinion forbade it, too imperiouslyto be disobeyed. In the European countries, on the contrary, wherearistocracy is still struggling with the flood which overwhelms it, Ihave often seen men, constantly spurred on by their wants and desires, remain in idleness, in order not to lose the esteem of their equals; andI have known them submit to ennui and privations rather than to work. No one can fail to perceive that these opposite obligations are twodifferent rules of conduct, both nevertheless originating in the notionof honor. 

What our forefathers designated as honor absolutely was in reality onlyone of its forms; they gave a generic name to what was only a species. Honor therefore is to be found in democratic as well as in aristocraticages, but it will not be difficult to show that it assumes a differentaspect in the former. Not only are its injunctions different, but weshall shortly see that they are less numerous, less precise, and thatits dictates are less rigorously obeyed. The position of a caste isalways much more peculiar than that of a people. Nothing is so much outof the way of the world as a small community invariably composed of thesame families (as was for instance the aristocracy of the MiddleAges), whose object is to concentrate and to retain, exclusively andhereditarily, education, wealth, and power amongst its own members. Butthe more out of the way the position of a community happens to be, themore numerous are its special wants, and the more extensive are itsnotions of honor corresponding to those wants. The rules of honor willtherefore always be less numerous amongst a people not divided intocastes than amongst any other. If ever any nations are constituted inwhich it may even be difficult to find any peculiar classes of society, the notion of honor will be confined to a small number of precepts, which will be more and more in accordance with the moral laws adoptedby the mass of mankind. Thus the laws of honor will be less peculiar andless multifarious amongst a democratic people than in an aristocracy. They will also be more obscure; and this is a necessary consequenceof what goes before; for as the distinguishing marks of honor are lessnumerous and less peculiar, it must often be difficult to distinguishthem. To this, other reasons may be added. Amongst the aristocraticnations of the Middle Ages, generation succeeded generation in vain;each family was like a never-dying, ever-stationary man, and the stateof opinions was hardly more changeable than that of conditions. Everyonethen had always the same objects before his eyes, which he contemplatedfrom the same point; his eyes gradually detected the smallest details, and his discernment could not fail to become in the end clear andaccurate. Thus not only had the men of feudal times very extraordinaryopinions in matters of honor, but each of those opinions was present totheir minds under a clear and precise form. 

This can never be the case in America, where all men are in constantmotion; and where society, transformed daily by its own operations, changes its opinions together with its wants. In such a country menhave glimpses of the rules of honor, but they have seldom time to fixattention upon them. 

But even if society were motionless, it would still be difficult todetermine the meaning which ought to be attached to the word "honor. " Inthe Middle Ages, as each class had its own honor, the same opinionwas never received at the same time by a large number of men; and thisrendered it possible to give it a determined and accurate form, whichwas the more easy, as all those by whom it was received, having aperfectly identical and most peculiar position, were naturally disposedto agree upon the points of a law which was made for themselves alone. Thus the code of honor became a complete and detailed system, in whicheverything was anticipated and provided for beforehand, and a fixedand always palpable standard was applied to human actions. Amongst ademocratic nation, like the Americans, in which ranks are identified, and the whole of society forms one single mass, composed of elementswhich are all analogous though not entirely similar, it is impossibleever to agree beforehand on what shall or shall not be allowed by thelaws of honor. Amongst that people, indeed, some national wants do existwhich give rise to opinions common to the whole nation on points ofhonor; but these opinions never occur at the same time, in the samemanner, or with the same intensity to the minds of the whole community;the law of honor exists, but it has no organs to promulgate it. 

The confusion is far greater still in a democratic country like France, where the different classes of which the former fabric of society wascomposed, being brought together but not yet mingled, import day by dayinto each other's circles various and sometimes conflicting notionsof honor--where every man, at his own will and pleasure, forsakes oneportion of his forefathers' creed, and retains another; so that, amidstso many arbitrary measures, no common rule can ever be established, andit is almost impossible to predict which actions will be held in honorand which will be thought disgraceful. Such times are wretched, but theyare of short duration. 

As honor, amongst democratic nations, is imperfectly defined, itsinfluence is of course less powerful; for it is difficult to applywith certainty and firmness a law which is not distinctly known. Publicopinion, the natural and supreme interpreter of the laws of honor, notclearly discerning to which side censure or approval ought to lean, can only pronounce a hesitating judgment. Sometimes the opinion of thepublic may contradict itself; more frequently it does not act, and letsthings pass. 

The weakness of the sense of honor in democracies also arises fromseveral other causes. In aristocratic countries, the same notions ofhonor are always entertained by only a few persons, always limited innumber, often separated from the rest of their fellow-citizens. Honor iseasily mingled and identified in their minds with the idea of allthat distinguishes their own position; it appears to them as the chiefcharacteristic of their own rank; they apply its different rules withall the warmth of personal interest, and they feel (if I may use theexpression) a passion for complying with its dictates. This truth isextremely obvious in the old black-letter lawbooks on the subject of"trial by battel. " The nobles, in their disputes, were bound to usethe lance and sword; whereas the villains used only sticks amongstthemselves, "inasmuch as, " to use the words of the old books, "villainshave no honor. " This did not mean, as it may be imagined at the presentday, that these people were contemptible; but simply that their actionswere not to be judged by the same rules which were applied to theactions of the aristocracy. 

It is surprising, at first sight, that when the sense of honor is mostpredominant, its injunctions are usually most strange; so that thefurther it is removed from common reason the better it is obeyed; whenceit has sometimes been inferred that the laws of honor were strengthenedby their own extravagance. The two things indeed originate from thesame source, but the one is not derived from the other. Honor becomesfantastical in proportion to the peculiarity of the wants which itdenotes, and the paucity of the men by whom those wants are felt; andit is because it denotes wants of this kind that its influence is great. Thus the notion of honor is not the stronger for being fantastical, butit is fantastical and strong from the selfsame cause. 

Further, amongst aristocratic nations each rank is different, but allranks are fixed; every man occupies a place in his own sphere which hecannot relinquish, and he lives there amidst other men who are bound bythe same ties. Amongst these nations no man can either hope or fear toescape being seen; no man is placed so low but that he has a stage ofhis own, and none can avoid censure or applause by his obscurity. In democratic States on the contrary, where all the members of thecommunity are mingled in the same crowd and in constant agitation, public opinion has no hold on men; they disappear at every instant, andelude its power. Consequently the dictates of honor will be there lessimperious and less stringent; for honor acts solely for the publiceye--differing in this respect from mere virtue, which lives upon itselfcontented with its own approval. 

If the reader has distinctly apprehended all that goes before, he willunderstand that there is a close and necessary relation between theinequality of social conditions and what has here been styled honor--arelation which, if I am not mistaken, had not before been clearlypointed out. I shall therefore make one more attempt to illustrate itsatisfactorily. Suppose a nation stands apart from the rest of mankind:independently of certain general wants inherent in the human race, itwill also have wants and interests peculiar to itself: certain opinionsof censure or approbation forthwith arise in the community, which arepeculiar to itself, and which are styled honor by the members of thatcommunity. Now suppose that in this same nation a caste arises, which, in its turn, stands apart from all the other classes, and contractscertain peculiar wants, which give rise in their turn to specialopinions. The honor of this caste, composed of a medley of the peculiarnotions of the nation, and the still more peculiar notions of the caste, will be as remote as it is possible to conceive from the simple andgeneral opinions of men. 

Having reached this extreme point of the argument, I now return. Whenranks are commingled and privileges abolished, the men of whom a nationis composed being once more equal and alike, their interests and wantsbecome identical, and all the peculiar notions which each caste styledhonor successively disappear: the notion of honor no longer proceedsfrom any other source than the wants peculiar to the nation at large, and it denotes the individual character of that nation to the world. Lastly, if it be allowable to suppose that all the races of mankindshould be commingled, and that all the peoples of earth shouldultimately come to have the same interests, the same wants, undistinguished from each other by any characteristic peculiarities, no conventional value whatever would then be attached to men's actions;they would all be regarded by all in the same light; the generalnecessities of mankind, revealed by conscience to every man, wouldbecome the common standard. The simple and general notions of right andwrong only would then be recognized in the world, to which, by a naturaland necessary tie, the idea of censure or approbation would beattached. Thus, to comprise all my meaning in a single proposition, the dissimilarities and inequalities of men gave rise to the notion ofhonor; that notion is weakened in proportion as these differences areobliterated, and with them it would disappear. 

Chapter XIX: Why So Many Ambitious Men And So Little Lofty Ambition AreTo Be Found In The United States

The first thing which strikes a traveller in the United States is theinnumerable multitude of those who seek to throw off their originalcondition; and the second is the rarity of lofty ambition to be observedin the midst of the universally ambitious stir of society. No Americansare devoid of a yearning desire to rise; but hardly any appear toentertain hopes of great magnitude, or to drive at very lofty aims. Allare constantly seeking to acquire property, power, and reputation--fewcontemplate these things upon a great scale; and this is the moresurprising, as nothing is to be discerned in the manners or laws ofAmerica to limit desire, or to prevent it from spreading its impulses inevery direction. It seems difficult to attribute this singular stateof things to the equality of social conditions; for at the instant whenthat same equality was established in France, the flight of ambitionbecame unbounded. Nevertheless, I think that the principal cause whichmay be assigned to this fact is to be found in the social condition anddemocratic manners of the Americans. 

All revolutions enlarge the ambition of men: this proposition is morepeculiarly true of those revolutions which overthrow an aristocracy. When the former barriers which kept back the multitude from fame andpower are suddenly thrown down, a violent and universal rise takes placetowards that eminence so long coveted and at length to be enjoyed. Inthis first burst of triumph nothing seems impossible to anyone: not onlyare desires boundless, but the power of satisfying them seems almostboundless, too. Amidst the general and sudden renewal of laws andcustoms, in this vast confusion of all men and all ordinances, thevarious members of the community rise and sink again with excessiverapidity; and power passes so quickly from hand to hand that none needdespair of catching it in turn. It must be recollected, moreover, thatthe people who destroy an aristocracy have lived under its laws; theyhave witnessed its splendor, and they have unconsciously imbibed thefeelings and notions which it entertained. Thus at the moment when anaristocracy is dissolved, its spirit still pervades the mass of thecommunity, and its tendencies are retained long after it has beendefeated. Ambition is therefore always extremely great as long as ademocratic revolution lasts, and it will remain so for some time afterthe revolution is consummated. The reminiscence of the extraordinaryevents which men have witnessed is not obliterated from their memory ina day. The passions which a revolution has roused do not disappear atits close. A sense of instability remains in the midst of re-establishedorder: a notion of easy success survives the strange vicissitudes whichgave it birth; desires still remain extremely enlarged, when the meansof satisfying them are diminished day by day. The taste for largefortunes subsists, though large fortunes are rare: and on every side wetrace the ravages of inordinate and hapless ambition kindled in heartswhich they consume in secret and in vain. 

At length, however, the last vestiges of the struggle are effaced; theremains of aristocracy completely disappear; the great events by whichits fall was attended are forgotten; peace succeeds to war, and the swayof order is restored in the new realm; desires are again adapted to themeans by which they may be fulfilled; the wants, the opinions, andthe feelings of men cohere once more; the level of the community ispermanently determined, and democratic society established. A democraticnation, arrived at this permanent and regular state of things, willpresent a very different spectacle from that which we have justdescribed; and we may readily conclude that, if ambition becomes greatwhilst the conditions of society are growing equal, it loses thatquality when they have grown so. As wealth is subdivided and knowledgediffused, no one is entirely destitute of education or of property;the privileges and disqualifications of caste being abolished, andmen having shattered the bonds which held them fixed, the notion ofadvancement suggests itself to every mind, the desire to rise swells inevery heart, and all men want to mount above their station: ambition isthe universal feeling. 

But if the equality of conditions gives some resources to all themembers of the community, it also prevents any of them from havingresources of great extent, which necessarily circumscribes their desireswithin somewhat narrow limits. Thus amongst democratic nations ambitionis ardent and continual, but its aim is not habitually lofty; and lifeis generally spent in eagerly coveting small objects which are withinreach. What chiefly diverts the men of democracies from lofty ambitionis not the scantiness of their fortunes, but the vehemence of theexertions they daily make to improve them. They strain their facultiesto the utmost to achieve paltry results, and this cannot fail speedilyto limit their discernment and to circumscribe their powers. Theymight be much poorer and still be greater. The small number of opulentcitizens who are to be found amidst a democracy do not constitute anexception to this rule. A man who raises himself by degrees to wealthand power, contracts, in the course of this protracted labor, habitsof prudence and restraint which he cannot afterwards shake off. A mancannot enlarge his mind as he would his house. The same observation isapplicable to the sons of such a man; they are born, it is true, in alofty position, but their parents were humble; they have grown up amidstfeelings and notions which they cannot afterwards easily get rid of;and it may be presumed that they will inherit the propensities of theirfather as well as his wealth. It may happen, on the contrary, thatthe poorest scion of a powerful aristocracy may display vast ambition, because the traditional opinions of his race and the general spirit ofhis order still buoy him up for some time above his fortune. Anotherthing which prevents the men of democratic periods from easily indulgingin the pursuit of lofty objects, is the lapse of time which they foreseemust take place before they can be ready to approach them. "It is agreat advantage, " says Pascal, "to be a man of quality, since it bringsone man as forward at eighteen or twenty as another man would be atfifty, which is a clear gain of thirty years. " Those thirty yearsare commonly wanting to the ambitious characters of democracies. Theprinciple of equality, which allows every man to arrive at everything, prevents all men from rapid advancement. 

In a democratic society, as well as elsewhere, there are only a certainnumber of great fortunes to be made; and as the paths which lead to themare indiscriminately open to all, the progress of all must necessarilybe slackened. As the candidates appear to be nearly alike, and as itis difficult to make a selection without infringing the principle ofequality, which is the supreme law of democratic societies, the firstidea which suggests itself is to make them all advance at the same rateand submit to the same probation. Thus in proportion as men becomemore alike, and the principle of equality is more peaceably and deeplyinfused into the institutions and manners of the country, the rulesof advancement become more inflexible, advancement itself slower, thedifficulty of arriving quickly at a certain height far greater. Fromhatred of privilege and from the embarrassment of choosing, all men areat last constrained, whatever may be their standard, to pass the sameordeal; all are indiscriminately subjected to a multitude of pettypreliminary exercises, in which their youth is wasted and theirimagination quenched, so that they despair of ever fully attainingwhat is held out to them; and when at length they are in a condition toperform any extraordinary acts, the taste for such things has forsakenthem. 

In China, where the equality of conditions is exceedingly great andvery ancient, no man passes from one public office to another withoutundergoing a probationary trial. This probation occurs afresh at everystage of his career; and the notion is now so rooted in the manners ofthe people that I remember to have read a Chinese novel, in which thehero, after numberless crosses, succeeds at length in touching theheart of his mistress by taking honors. A lofty ambition breathes withdifficulty in such an atmosphere. 

The remark I apply to politics extends to everything; equalityeverywhere produces the same effects; where the laws of a country donot regulate and retard the advancement of men by positive enactment, competition attains the same end. In a well-established democraticcommunity great and rapid elevation is therefore rare; it formsan exception to the common rule; and it is the singularity of suchoccurrences that makes men forget how rarely they happen. Men living indemocracies ultimately discover these things; they find out at last thatthe laws of their country open a boundless field of action before them, but that no one can hope to hasten across it. Between them and the finalobject of their desires, they perceive a multitude of small intermediateimpediments, which must be slowly surmounted: this prospect weariesand discourages their ambition at once. They therefore give up hopes sodoubtful and remote, to search nearer to themselves for less loftyand more easy enjoyments. Their horizon is not bounded by the laws butnarrowed by themselves. 

I have remarked that lofty ambitions are more rare in the ages ofdemocracy than in times of aristocracy: I may add that when, in spite ofthese natural obstacles, they do spring into existence, their characteris different. In aristocracies the career of ambition is often wide, butits boundaries are determined. In democracies ambition commonly rangesin a narrower field, but if once it gets beyond that, hardly any limitscan be assigned to it. As men are individually weak--as they liveasunder, and in constant motion--as precedents are of little authorityand laws but of short duration, resistance to novelty is languid, and the fabric of society never appears perfectly erect or firmlyconsolidated. So that, when once an ambitious man has the power in hisgrasp, there is nothing he may noted are; and when it is gone from him, he meditates the overthrow of the State to regain it. This gives togreat political ambition a character of revolutionary violence, whichit seldom exhibits to an equal degree in aristocratic communities. Thecommon aspect of democratic nations will present a great number ofsmall and very rational objects of ambition, from amongst which a fewill-controlled desires of a larger growth will at intervals break out:but no such a thing as ambition conceived and contrived on a vast scaleis to be met with there. 

I have shown elsewhere by what secret influence the principle ofequality makes the passion for physical gratifications and the exclusivelove of the present predominate in the human heart: these differentpropensities mingle with the sentiment of ambition, and tinge it, as itwere, with their hues. I believe that ambitious men in democracies areless engrossed than any others with the interests and the judgment ofposterity; the present moment alone engages and absorbs them. They aremore apt to complete a number of undertakings with rapidity than toraise lasting monuments of their achievements; and they care much morefor success than for fame. What they most ask of men is obedience--whatthey most covet is empire. Their manners have in almost all casesremained below the height of their station; the consequence is that theyfrequently carry very low tastes into their extraordinary fortunes, andthat they seem to have acquired the supreme power only to minister totheir coarse or paltry pleasures. 

I think that in our time it is very necessary to cleanse, to regulate, and to adapt the feeling of ambition, but that it would be extremelydangerous to seek to impoverish and to repress it over-much. We shouldattempt to lay down certain extreme limits, which it should never beallowed to outstep; but its range within those established limitsshould not be too much checked. I confess that I apprehend much lessfor democratic society from the boldness than from the mediocrity ofdesires. What appears to me most to be dreaded is that, in the midst ofthe small incessant occupations of private life, ambition should loseits vigor and its greatness--that the passions of man should abate, butat the same time be lowered, so that the march of society should everyday become more tranquil and less aspiring. I think then that theleaders of modern society would be wrong to seek to lull the communityby a state of too uniform and too peaceful happiness; and that it iswell to expose it from time to time to matters of difficulty and danger, in order to raise ambition and to give it a field of action. Moralistsare constantly complaining that the ruling vice of the present time ispride. This is true in one sense, for indeed no one thinks that he isnot better than his neighbor, or consents to obey his superior: butit is extremely false in another; for the same man who cannot enduresubordination or equality, has so contemptible an opinion of himselfthat he thinks he is only born to indulge in vulgar pleasures. Hewillingly takes up with low desires, without daring to embark in loftyenterprises, of which he scarcely dreams. Thus, far from thinkingthat humility ought to be preached to our contemporaries, I would haveendeavors made to give them a more enlarged idea of themselves and oftheir kind. Humility is unwholesome to them; what they most want is, in my opinion, pride. I would willingly exchange several of our smallvirtues for this one vice. 

Chapter XX: The Trade Of Place-Hunting In Certain Democratic Countries

In the United States as soon as a man has acquired some education andpecuniary resources, he either endeavors to get rich by commerce orindustry, or he buys land in the bush and turns pioneer. All that heasks of the State is not to be disturbed in his toil, and to be secureof his earnings. Amongst the greater part of European nations, when aman begins to feel his strength and to extend his desires, the firstthing that occurs to him is to get some public employment. Theseopposite effects, originating in the same cause, deserve our passingnotice. 

When public employments are few in number, ill-paid and precarious, whilst the different lines of business are numerous and lucrative, it isto business, and not to official duties, that the new and eager desiresengendered by the principle of equality turn from every side. But if, whilst the ranks of society are becoming more equal, the education ofthe people remains incomplete, or their spirit the reverse of bold--ifcommerce and industry, checked in their growth, afford only slow andarduous means of making a fortune--the various members of the community, despairing of ameliorating their own condition, rush to the head of theState and demand its assistance. To relieve their own necessities at thecost of the public treasury, appears to them to be the easiest and mostopen, if not the only, way they have to rise above a condition which nolonger contents them; place-hunting becomes the most generally followedof all trades. This must especially be the case, in those greatcentralized monarchies in which the number of paid offices is immense, and the tenure of them tolerably secure, so that no one despairs ofobtaining a place, and of enjoying it as undisturbedly as a hereditaryfortune. 

I shall not remark that the universal and inordinate desire for place isa great social evil; that it destroys the spirit of independence in thecitizen, and diffuses a venal and servile humor throughout the frameof society; that it stifles the manlier virtues: nor shall I be atthe pains to demonstrate that this kind of traffic only creates anunproductive activity, which agitates the country without adding to itsresources: all these things are obvious. But I would observe, that agovernment which encourages this tendency risks its own tranquillity, and places its very existence in great jeopardy. I am aware that at atime like our own, when the love and respect which formerly clung toauthority are seen gradually to decline, it may appear necessary tothose in power to lay a closer hold on every man by his own interest, and it may seem convenient to use his own passions to keep him in orderand in silence; but this cannot be so long, and what may appear to be asource of strength for a certain time will assuredly become in the end agreat cause of embarrassment and weakness. 

Amongst democratic nations, as well as elsewhere, the number of officialappointments has in the end some limits; but amongst those nations, the number of aspirants is unlimited; it perpetually increases, with agradual and irresistible rise in proportion as social conditions becomemore equal, and is only checked by the limits of the population. Thus, when public employments afford the only outlet for ambition, thegovernment necessarily meets with a permanent opposition at last; forit is tasked to satisfy with limited means unlimited desires. It is verycertain that of all people in the world the most difficult to restrainand to manage are a people of solicitants. Whatever endeavors are madeby rulers, such a people can never be contented; and it is always to beapprehended that they will ultimately overturn the constitution of thecountry, and change the aspect of the State, for the sole purpose ofmaking a clearance of places. The sovereigns of the present age, whostrive to fix upon themselves alone all those novel desires which arearoused by equality, and to satisfy them, will repent in the end, if Iam not mistaken, that they ever embarked in this policy: they will oneday discover that they have hazarded their own power, by making it sonecessary; and that the more safe and honest course would have been toteach their subjects the art of providing for themselves. *a

[Footnote a: As a matter of fact, more recent experience has shown thatplace-hunting is quite as intense in the United States as in any countryin Europe. It is regarded by the Americans themselves as one of thegreat evils of their social condition, and it powerfully affects theirpolitical institutions. But the American who seeks a place seeks not somuch a means of subsistence as the distinction which office and publicemployment confer. In the absence of any true aristocracy, the publicservice creates a spurious one, which is as much an object of ambitionas the distinctions of rank in aristocratic countries. --Translator'sNote. ]

Chapter XXI: Why Great Revolutions Will Become More Rare

A people which has existed for centuries under a system of castes andclasses can only arrive at a democratic state of society by passingthrough a long series of more or less critical transformations, accomplished by violent efforts, and after numerous vicissitudes; in thecourse of which, property, opinions, and power are rapidly transferredfrom one hand to another. Even after this great revolution isconsummated, the revolutionary habits engendered by it may long betraced, and it will be followed by deep commotion. As all this takesplace at the very time at which social conditions are becoming moreequal, it is inferred that some concealed relation and secret tie existbetween the principle of equality itself and revolution, insomuch thatthe one cannot exist without giving rise to the other. 

On this point reasoning may seem to lead to the same result asexperience. Amongst a people whose ranks are nearly equal, no ostensiblebond connects men together, or keeps them settled in their station. None of them have either a permanent right or power to command--noneare forced by their condition to obey; but every man, finding himselfpossessed of some education and some resources, may choose his won pathand proceed apart from all his fellow-men. The same causes which makethe members of the community independent of each other, continuallyimpel them to new and restless desires, and constantly spur themonwards. It therefore seems natural that, in a democratic community, men, things, and opinions should be forever changing their form andplace, and that democratic ages should be times of rapid and incessanttransformation. 

But is this really the case? does the equality of social conditionshabitually and permanently lead men to revolution? does that state ofsociety contain some perturbing principle which prevents the communityfrom ever subsiding into calm, and disposes the citizens to alterincessantly their laws, their principles, and their manners? I do notbelieve it; and as the subject is important, I beg for the reader'sclose attention. Almost all the revolutions which have changed theaspect of nations have been made to consolidate or to destroy socialinequality. Remove the secondary causes which have produced the greatconvulsions of the world, and you will almost always find the principleof inequality at the bottom. Either the poor have attempted to plunderthe rich, or the rich to enslave the poor. If then a state of societycan ever be founded in which every man shall have something to keep, andlittle to take from others, much will have been done for the peace ofthe world. I am aware that amongst a great democratic people there willalways be some members of the community in great poverty, and others ingreat opulence; but the poor, instead of forming the immense majorityof the nation, as is always the case in aristocratic communities, arecomparatively few in number, and the laws do not bind them together bythe ties of irremediable and hereditary penury. The wealthy, on theirside, are scarce and powerless; they have no privileges which attractpublic observation; even their wealth, as it is no longer incorporatedand bound up with the soil, is impalpable, and as it were invisible. Asthere is no longer a race of poor men, so there is no longer a race ofrich men; the latter spring up daily from the multitude, and relapseinto it again. Hence they do not form a distinct class, which may beeasily marked out and plundered; and, moreover, as they are connectedwith the mass of their fellow-citizens by a thousand secret ties, thepeople cannot assail them without inflicting an injury upon itself. Between these two extremes of democratic communities stand aninnumerable multitude of men almost alike, who, without being exactlyeither rich or poor, are possessed of sufficient property to desire themaintenance of order, yet not enough to excite envy. Such men are thenatural enemies of violent commotions: their stillness keeps all beneaththem and above them still, and secures the balance of the fabric ofsociety. Not indeed that even these men are contented with what theyhave gotten, or that they feel a natural abhorrence for a revolution inwhich they might share the spoil without sharing the calamity; on thecontrary, they desire, with unexampled ardor, to get rich, but thedifficulty is to know from whom riches can be taken. The same state ofsociety which constantly prompts desires, restrains these desireswithin necessary limits: it gives men more liberty of changing and lessinterest in change. 

Not only are the men of democracies not naturally desirous ofrevolutions, but they are afraid of them. All revolutions more orless threaten the tenure of property: but most of those who live indemocratic countries are possessed of property--not only are theypossessed of property, but they live in the condition of men who set thegreatest store upon their property. If we attentively consider each ofthe classes of which society is composed, it is easy to see that thepassions engendered by property are keenest and most tenacious amongstthe middle classes. The poor often care but little for what theypossess, because they suffer much more from the want of what they havenot, than they enjoy the little they have. The rich have many otherpassions besides that of riches to satisfy; and, besides, the long andarduous enjoyment of a great fortune sometimes makes them in the endinsensible to its charms. But the men who have a competency, alikeremoved from opulence and from penury, attach an enormous value to theirpossessions. As they are still almost within the reach of poverty, theysee its privations near at hand, and dread them; between poverty andthemselves there is nothing but a scanty fortune, upon which theyimmediately fix their apprehensions and their hopes. Every day increasesthe interest they take in it, by the constant cares which it occasions;and they are the more attached to it by their continual exertions toincrease the amount. The notion of surrendering the smallest part of itis insupportable to them, and they consider its total loss as the worstof misfortunes. Now these eager and apprehensive men of small propertyconstitute the class which is constantly increased by the equality ofconditions. Hence, in democratic communities, the majority of the peopledo not clearly see what they have to gain by a revolution, but theycontinually and in a thousand ways feel that they might lose by one. 

I have shown in another part of this work that the equality ofconditions naturally urges men to embark in commercial and industrialpursuits, and that it tends to increase and to distribute real property:I have also pointed out the means by which it inspires every man withan eager and constant desire to increase his welfare. Nothing is moreopposed to revolutionary passions than these things. It may happenthat the final result of a revolution is favorable to commerce andmanufactures; but its first consequence will almost always be the ruinof manufactures and mercantile men, because it must always change atonce the general principles of consumption, and temporarily upset theexisting proportion between supply and demand. I know of nothing moreopposite to revolutionary manners than commercial manners. Commerce isnaturally adverse to all the violent passions; it loves to temporize, takes delight in compromise, and studiously avoids irritation. Itis patient, insinuating, flexible, and never has recourse to extrememeasures until obliged by the most absolute necessity. Commerce rendersmen independent of each other, gives them a lofty notion of theirpersonal importance, leads them to seek to conduct their own affairs, and teaches how to conduct them well; it therefore prepares men forfreedom, but preserves them from revolutions. In a revolution the ownersof personal property have more to fear than all others; for on the onehand their property is often easy to seize, and on the other it maytotally disappear at any moment--a subject of alarm to which the ownersof real property are less exposed, since, although they may lose theincome of their estates, they may hope to preserve the land itselfthrough the greatest vicissitudes. Hence the former are much morealarmed at the symptoms of revolutionary commotion than the latter. Thusnations are less disposed to make revolutions in proportion as personalproperty is augmented and distributed amongst them, and as the numberof those possessing it increases. Moreover, whatever profession menmay embrace, and whatever species of property they may possess, onecharacteristic is common to them all. No one is fully contented withhis present fortune--all are perpetually striving in a thousand ways toimprove it. Consider any one of them at any period of his life, andhe will be found engaged with some new project for the purpose ofincreasing what he has; talk not to him of the interests and the rightsof mankind: this small domestic concern absorbs for the time all histhoughts, and inclines him to defer political excitement to some otherseason. This not only prevents men from making revolutions, but detersmen from desiring them. Violent political passions have but little holdon those who have devoted all their faculties to the pursuit of theirwell-being. The ardor which they display in small matters calms theirzeal for momentous undertakings. 

From time to time indeed, enterprising and ambitious men will arise indemocratic communities, whose unbounded aspirations cannot be contentedby following the beaten track. Such men like revolutions and hail theirapproach; but they have great difficulty in bringing them about, unlessunwonted events come to their assistance. No man can struggle withadvantage against the spirit of his age and country; and, howeverpowerful he may be supposed to be, he will find it difficult to make hiscontemporaries share in feelings and opinions which are repugnant to tall their feelings and desires. 

It is a mistake to believe that, when once the equality of conditionshas become the old and uncontested state of society, and has impartedits characteristics to the manners of a nation, men will easily allowthemselves to be thrust into perilous risks by an imprudent leader ora bold innovator. Not indeed that they will resist him openly, bywell-contrived schemes, or even by a premeditated plan of resistance. They will not struggle energetically against him, sometimes they willeven applaud him--but they do not follow him. To his vehemence theysecretly oppose their inertia; to his revolutionary tendencies theirconservative interests; their homely tastes to his adventurous passions;their good sense to the flights of his genius; to his poetry theirprose. With immense exertion he raises them for an instant, but theyspeedily escape from him, and fall back, as it were, by their ownweight. He strains himself to rouse the indifferent and distractedmultitude, and finds at last that he is reduced to impotence, notbecause he is conquered, but because he is alone. 

I do not assert that men living in democratic communities are naturallystationary; I think, on the contrary, that a perpetual stir prevailsin the bosom of those societies, and that rest is unknown there; but Ithink that men bestir themselves within certain limits beyond whichthey hardly ever go. They are forever varying, altering, and restoringsecondary matters; but they carefully abstain from touching what isfundamental. They love change, but they dread revolutions. Although theAmericans are constantly modifying or abrogating some of their laws, they by no means display revolutionary passions. It may be easily seen, from the promptitude with which they check and calm themselves whenpublic excitement begins to grow alarming, and at the very moment whenpassions seem most roused, that they dread a revolution as the worstof misfortunes, and that every one of them is inwardly resolved to makegreat sacrifices to avoid such a catastrophe. In no country in the worldis the love of property more active and more anxious than in the UnitedStates; nowhere does the majority display less inclination for thoseprinciples which threaten to alter, in whatever manner, the lawsof property. I have often remarked that theories which are of arevolutionary nature, since they cannot be put in practice without acomplete and sometimes a sudden change in the state of property andpersons, are much less favorably viewed in the United States than inthe great monarchical countries of Europe: if some men profess them, the bulk of the people reject them with instinctive abhorrence. I do nothesitate to say that most of the maxims commonly called democratic inFrance would be proscribed by the democracy of the United States. Thismay easily be understood: in America men have the opinions and passionsof democracy, in Europe we have still the passions and opinions ofrevolution. If ever America undergoes great revolutions, they willbe brought about by the presence of the black race on the soil of theUnited States--that is to say, they will owe their origin, not to theequality, but to the inequality, of conditions. 

When social conditions are equal, every man is apt to live apart, centred in himself and forgetful of the public. If the rulers ofdemocratic nations were either to neglect to correct this fataltendency, or to encourage it from a notion that it weans men frompolitical passions and thus wards off revolutions, they might eventuallyproduce the evil they seek to avoid, and a time might come when theinordinate passions of a few men, aided by the unintelligent selfishnessor the pusillanimity of the greater number, would ultimately compelsociety to pass through strange vicissitudes. In democratic communitiesrevolutions are seldom desired except by a minority; but a minoritymay sometimes effect them. I do not assert that democratic nations aresecure from revolutions; I merely say that the state of society inthose nations does not lead to revolutions, but rather wards them off. A democratic people left to itself will not easily embark in greathazards; it is only led to revolutions unawares; it may sometimesundergo them, but it does not make them; and I will add that, whensuch a people has been allowed to acquire sufficient knowledge andexperience, it will not suffer them to be made. I am well aware thatit this respect public institutions may themselves do much; they mayencourage or repress the tendencies which originate in the state ofsociety. I therefore do not maintain, I repeat, that a people is securefrom revolutions simply because conditions are equal in the community;but I think that, whatever the institutions of such a people may be, great revolutions will always be far less violent and less frequent thanis supposed; and I can easily discern a state of polity, which, whencombined with the principle of equality, would render society morestationary than it has ever been in our western apart of the world. 

The observations I have here made on events may also be applied inpart to opinions. Two things are surprising in the United States--themutability of the greater part of human actions, and the singularstability of certain principles. Men are in constant motion; the mindof man appears almost unmoved. When once an opinion has spread over thecountry and struck root there, it would seem that no power on earth isstrong enough to eradicate it. In the United States, general principlesin religion, philosophy, morality, and even politics, do not vary, or atleast are only modified by a hidden and often an imperceptible process:even the grossest prejudices are obliterated with incredible slowness, amidst the continual friction of men and things. I hear it said that itis in the nature and the habits of democracies to be constantly changingtheir opinions and feelings. This may be true of small democraticnations, like those of the ancient world, in which the whole communitycould be assembled in a public place and then excited at will by anorator. But I saw nothing of the kind amongst the great democraticpeople which dwells upon the opposite shores of the Atlantic Ocean. What struck me in the United States was the difficulty in shaking themajority in an opinion once conceived, or of drawing it off from aleader once adopted. Neither speaking nor writing can accomplish it;nothing but experience will avail, and even experience must be repeated. This is surprising at first sight, but a more attentive investigationexplains the fact. I do not think that it is as easy as is supposed touproot the prejudices of a democratic people--to change its belief--tosupersede principles once established, by new principles in religion, politics, and morals--in a word, to make great and frequent changes inmen's minds. Not that the human mind is there at rest--it is in constantagitation; but it is engaged in infinitely varying the consequences ofknown principles, and in seeking for new consequences, rather than inseeking for new principles. Its motion is one of rapid circumvolution, rather than of straightforward impulse by rapid and direct effort; itextends its orbit by small continual and hasty movements, but it doesnot suddenly alter its position. 

Men who are equal in rights, in education, in fortune, or, to compriseall in one word, in their social condition, have necessarily wants, habits, and tastes which are hardly dissimilar. As they look atobjects under the same aspect, their minds naturally tend toanalogous conclusions; and, though each of them may deviate from hiscontemporaries and from opinions of his own, they will involuntarily andunconsciously concur in a certain number of received opinions. The moreattentively I consider the effects of equality upon the mind, the moream I persuaded that the intellectual anarchy which we witness about usis not, as many men suppose, the natural state of democratic nations. I think it is rather to be regarded as an accident peculiar to theiryouth, and that it only breaks out at that period of transition when menhave already snapped the former ties which bound them together, but arestill amazingly different in origin, education, and manners; so that, having retained opinions, propensities and tastes of great diversity, nothing any longer prevents men from avowing them openly. The leadingopinions of men become similar in proportion as their conditionsassimilate; such appears to me to be the general and permanent law--therest is casual and transient. 

I believe that it will rarely happen to any man amongst a democraticcommunity, suddenly to frame a system of notions very remote fromthat which his contemporaries have adopted; and if some such innovatorappeared, I apprehend that he would have great difficulty in findinglisteners, still more in finding believers. When the conditions of menare almost equal, they do not easily allow themselves to be persuaded byeach other. As they all live in close intercourse, as they have learnedthe same things together, and as they lead the same life, they are notnaturally disposed to take one of themselves for a guide, and to followhim implicitly. Men seldom take the opinion of their equal, or of aman like themselves, upon trust. Not only is confidence in the superiorattainments of certain individuals weakened amongst democratic nations, as I have elsewhere remarked, but the general notion of the intellectualsuperiority which any man whatsoever may acquire in relation to the restof the community is soon overshadowed. As men grow more like each other, the doctrine of the equality of the intellect gradually infuses itselfinto their opinions; and it becomes more difficult for any innovator toacquire or to exert much influence over the minds of a people. In suchcommunities sudden intellectual revolutions will therefore be rare; for, if we read aright the history of the world, we shall find that great andrapid changes in human opinions have been produced far less by the forceof reasoning than by the authority of a name. Observe, too, that as themen who live in democratic societies are not connected with each otherby any tie, each of them must be convinced individually; whilst inaristocratic society it is enough to convince a few--the rest follow. If Luther had lived in an age of equality, and had not had princesand potentates for his audience, he would perhaps have found it moredifficult to change the aspect of Europe. Not indeed that the men ofdemocracies are naturally strongly persuaded of the certainty of theiropinions, or are unwavering in belief; they frequently entertain doubtswhich no one, in their eyes, can remove. It sometimes happens at suchtimes that the human mind would willingly change its position; but asnothing urges or guides it forwards, it oscillates to and fro withoutprogressive motion. *a

[Footnote a: If I inquire what state of society is most favorable to thegreat revolutions of the mind, I find that it occurs somewhere betweenthe complete equality of the whole community and the absolute separationof ranks. Under a system of castes generations succeed each otherwithout altering men's positions; some have nothing more, others nothingbetter, to hope for. The imagination slumbers amidst this universalsilence and stillness, and the very idea of change fades from the humanmind. When ranks have been abolished and social conditions are almostequalized, all men are in ceaseless excitement, but each of them standsalone, independent and weak. This latter state of things is excessivelydifferent from the former one; yet it has one point of analogy--greatrevolutions of the human mind seldom occur in it. But between these twoextremes of the history of nations is an intermediate period--a periodas glorious as it is agitated--when the conditions of men are notsufficiently settled for the mind to be lulled in torpor, when they aresufficiently unequal for men to exercise a vast power on the minds ofone another, and when some few may modify the convictions of all. It isat such times that great reformers start up, and new opinions suddenlychange the face of the world. ]

Even when the reliance of a democratic people has been won, it is stillno easy matter to gain their attention. It is extremely difficult toobtain a hearing from men living in democracies, unless it be to speakto them of themselves. They do not attend to the things said to them, because they are always fully engrossed with the things they are doing. For indeed few men are idle in democratic nations; life is passed inthe midst of noise and excitement, and men are so engaged in acting thatlittle remains to them for thinking. I would especially remark that theyare not only employed, but that they are passionately devoted to theiremployments. They are always in action, and each of their actionsabsorbs their faculties: the zeal which they display in business putsout the enthusiasm they might otherwise entertain for idea. I thinkthat it is extremely difficult to excite the enthusiasm of a democraticpeople for any theory which has not a palpable, direct, and immediateconnection with the daily occupations of life: therefore they will noteasily forsake their old opinions; for it is enthusiasm which flings theminds of men out of the beaten track, and effects the great revolutionsof the intellect as well as the great revolutions of the politicalworld. Thus democratic nations have neither time nor taste to go insearch of novel opinions. Even when those they possess become doubtful, they still retain them, because it would take too much time and inquiryto change them--they retain them, not as certain, but as established. 

There are yet other and more cogent reasons which prevent any greatchange from being easily effected in the principles of a democraticpeople. I have already adverted to them at the commencement of thispart of my work. If the influence of individuals is weak and hardlyperceptible amongst such a people, the power exercised by the mass uponthe mind of each individual is extremely great--I have already shown forwhat reasons. I would now observe that it is wrong to suppose that thisdepends solely upon the form of government, and that the majority wouldlose its intellectual supremacy if it were to lose its political power. In aristocracies men have often much greatness and strength of theirown: when they find themselves at variance with the greater number oftheir fellow-countrymen, they withdraw to their own circle, where theysupport and console themselves. Such is not the case in a democraticcountry; there public favor seems as necessary as the air we breathe, and to live at variance with the multitude is, as it were, not tolive. The multitude requires no laws to coerce those who think not likeitself: public disapprobation is enough; a sense of their loneliness andimpotence overtakes them and drives them to despair. 

Whenever social conditions are equal, public opinion presses withenormous weight upon the mind of each individual; it surrounds, directs, and oppresses him; and this arises from the very constitution ofsociety, much more than from its political laws. As men grow more alike, each man feels himself weaker in regard to all the rest; as he discernsnothing by which he is considerably raised above them, or distinguishedfrom them, he mistrusts himself as soon as they assail him. Not onlydoes he mistrust his strength, but he even doubts of his right; and heis very near acknowledging that he is in the wrong, when the greaternumber of his countrymen assert that he is so. The majority do not needto constrain him--they convince him. In whatever way then the powers ofa democratic community may be organized and balanced, it will always beextremely difficult to believe what the bulk of the people reject, or toprofess what they condemn. 

This circumstance is extraordinarily favorable to the stability ofopinions. When an opinion has taken root amongst a democratic people, and established itself in the minds of the bulk of the community, itafterwards subsists by itself and is maintained without effort, becauseno one attacks it. Those who at first rejected it as false, ultimatelyreceive it as the general impression; and those who still dispute it intheir hearts, conceal their dissent; they are careful not to engage in adangerous and useless conflict. It is true, that when the majority ofa democratic people change their opinions, they may suddenly andarbitrarily effect strange revolutions in men's minds; but theiropinions do not change without much difficulty, and it is almost asdifficult to show that they are changed. 

Time, events, or the unaided individual action of the mind, willsometimes undermine or destroy an opinion, without any outward signof the change. It has not been openly assailed, no conspiracy has beenformed to make war on it, but its followers one by one noiselesslysecede--day by day a few of them abandon it, until last it is onlyprofessed by a minority. In this state it will still continue toprevail. As its enemies remain mute, or only interchange their thoughtsby stealth, they are themselves unaware for a long period that a greatrevolution has actually been effected; and in this state of uncertainlythey take no steps--they observe each other and are silent. The majorityhave ceased to believe what they believed before; but they still affectto believe, and this empty phantom of public opinion in strong enough tochill innovators, and to keep them silent and at respectful distance. Welive at a time which has witnessed the most rapid changes of opinion inthe minds of men; nevertheless it may be that the leading opinions ofsociety will ere long be more settled than they have been for severalcenturies in our history: that time is not yet come, but it mayperhaps be approaching. As I examine more closely the natural wants andtendencies of democratic nations, I grow persuaded that if ever socialequality is generally and permanently established in the world, greatintellectual and political revolutions will become more difficult andless frequent than is supposed. Because the men of democracies appearalways excited, uncertain, eager, changeable in their wills and in theirpositions, it is imagined that they are suddenly to abrogate their laws, to adopt new opinions, and to assume new manners. But if the principleof equality predisposes men to change, it also suggests to them certaininterests and tastes which cannot be satisfied without a settled orderof things; equality urges them on, but at the same time it holds themback; it spurs them, but fastens them to earth;--it kindles theirdesires, but limits their powers. This, however, is not perceived atfirst; the passions which tend to sever the citizens of a democracy areobvious enough; but the hidden force which restrains and unites them isnot discernible at a glance. 

Amidst the ruins which surround me, shall I dare to say that revolutionsare not what I most fear coming generations? If men continue to shutthemselves more closely within the narrow circle of domestic interestsand to live upon that kind of excitement, it is to be apprehended thatthey may ultimately become inaccessible to those great and powerfulpublic emotions which perturb nations--but which enlarge them andrecruit them. When property becomes so fluctuating, and the love ofproperty so restless and so ardent, I cannot but fear that men mayarrive at such a state as to regard every new theory as a peril, every innovation as an irksome toil, every social improvement as astepping-stone to revolution, and so refuse to move altogether for fearof being moved too far. I dread, and I confess it, lest they should atlast so entirely give way to a cowardly love of present enjoyment, as tolose sight of the interests of their future selves and of those of theirdescendants; and to prefer to glide along the easy current of life, rather than to make, when it is necessary, a strong and sudden effortto a higher purpose. It is believed by some that modern society will beever changing its aspect; for myself, I fear that it will ultimately betoo invariably fixed in the same institutions, the same prejudices, thesame manners, so that mankind will be stopped and circumscribed; thatthe mind will swing backwards and forwards forever, without begettingfresh ideas; that man will waste his strength in bootless and solitarytrifling; and, though in continual motion, that humanity will cease toadvance. 

Chapter XXII: Why Democratic Nations Are Naturally Desirous Of Peace, And Democratic Armies Of War

The same interests, the same fears, the same passions which deterdemocratic nations from revolutions, deter them also from war; thespirit of military glory and the spirit of revolution are weakened atthe same time and by the same causes. The ever-increasing numbers of menof property--lovers of peace, the growth of personal wealth which warso rapidly consumes, the mildness of manners, the gentleness of heart, those tendencies to pity which are engendered by the equalityof conditions, that coolness of understanding which renders mencomparatively insensible to the violent and poetical excitement ofarms--all these causes concur to quench the military spirit. I think itmay be admitted as a general and constant rule, that, amongst civilizednations, the warlike passions will become more rare and less intense inproportion as social conditions shall be more equal. War is neverthelessan occurrence to which all nations are subject, democratic nations aswell as others. Whatever taste they may have for peace, they must holdthemselves in readiness to repel aggression, or in other words they musthave an army. 

Fortune, which has conferred so many peculiar benefits upon theinhabitants of the United States, has placed them in the midst of awilderness, where they have, so to speak, no neighbors: a few thousandsoldiers are sufficient for their wants; but this is peculiar toAmerica, not to democracy. The equality of conditions, and themanners as well as the institutions resulting from it, do not exempta democratic people from the necessity of standing armies, and theirarmies always exercise a powerful influence over their fate. It istherefore of singular importance to inquire what are the naturalpropensities of the men of whom these armies are composed. 

Amongst aristocratic nations, especially amongst those in which birthis the only source of rank, the same inequality exists in the army asin the nation; the officer is noble, the soldier is a serf; the one isnaturally called upon to command, the other to obey. In aristocraticarmies, the private soldier's ambition is therefore circumscribed withinvery narrow limits. Nor has the ambition of the officer an unlimitedrange. An aristocratic body not only forms a part of the scale of ranksin the nation, but it contains a scale of ranks within itself: themembers of whom it is composed are placed one above another, in aparticular and unvarying manner. Thus one man is born to the command ofa regiment, another to that of a company; when once they have reachedthe utmost object of their hopes, they stop of their own accord, andremain contented with their lot. There is, besides, a strong cause, which, in aristocracies, weakens the officer's desire of promotion. Amongst aristocratic nations, an officer, independently of his rankin the army, also occupies an elevated rank in society; the former isalmost always in his eyes only an appendage to the latter. A noblemanwho embraces the profession of arms follows it less from motives ofambition than from a sense of the duties imposed on him by his birth. He enters the army in order to find an honorable employment for the idleyears of his youth, and to be able to bring back to his home and hispeers some honorable recollections of military life; but his principalobject is not to obtain by that profession either property, distinction, or power, for he possesses these advantages in his own right, and enjoysthem without leaving his home. 

In democratic armies all the soldiers may become officers, which makesthe desire of promotion general, and immeasurably extends the boundsof military ambition. The officer, on his part, sees nothing whichnaturally and necessarily stops him at one grade more than at another;and each grade has immense importance in his eyes, because his rankin society almost always depends on his rank in the army. Amongstdemocratic nations it often happens that an officer has no property buthis pay, and no distinction but that of military honors: consequently asoften as his duties change, his fortune changes, and he becomes, asit were, a new man. What was only an appendage to his position inaristocratic armies, has thus become the main point, the basis of hiswhole condition. Under the old French monarchy officers were alwayscalled by their titles of nobility; they are now always called bythe title of their military rank. This little change in the forms oflanguage suffices to show that a great revolution has taken place in theconstitution of society and in that of the army. In democratic armiesthe desire of advancement is almost universal: it is ardent, tenacious, perpetual; it is strengthened by all other desires, and onlyextinguished with life itself. But it is easy to see, that of all armiesin the world, those in which advancement must be slowest in timeof peace are the armies of democratic countries. As the number ofcommissions is naturally limited, whilst the number of competitors isalmost unlimited, and as the strict law of equality is over all alike, none can make rapid progress--many can make no progress at all. Thus thedesire of advancement is greater, and the opportunities of advancementfewer, there than elsewhere. All the ambitious spirits of a democraticarmy are consequently ardently desirous of war, because war makesvacancies, and warrants the violation of that law of seniority which isthe sole privilege natural to democracy. 

We thus arrive at this singular consequence, that of all armies thosemost ardently desirous of war are democratic armies, and of all nationsthose most fond of peace are democratic nations: and, what makes thesefacts still more extraordinary, is that these contrary effects areproduced at the same time by the principle of equality. 

All the members of the community, being alike, constantly harbor thewish, and discover the possibility, of changing their condition andimproving their welfare: this makes them fond of peace, which isfavorable to industry, and allows every man to pursue his own littleundertakings to their completion. On the other hand, this same equalitymakes soldiers dream of fields of battle, by increasing the value ofmilitary honors in the eyes of those who follow the profession of arms, and by rendering those honors accessible to all. In either casethe inquietude of the heart is the same, the taste for enjoyment asinsatiable, the ambition of success as great--the means of gratifying itare alone different. 

These opposite tendencies of the nation and the army expose democraticcommunities to great dangers. When a military spirit forsakes a people, the profession of arms immediately ceases to be held in honor, andmilitary men fall to the lowest rank of the public servants: they arelittle esteemed, and no longer understood. The reverse of what takesplace in aristocratic ages then occurs; the men who enter the armyare no longer those of the highest, but of the lowest rank. Militaryambition is only indulged in when no other is possible. Hence arises acircle of cause and consequence from which it is difficult to escape:the best part of the nation shuns the military profession because thatprofession is not honored, and the profession is not honored because thebest part of the nation has ceased to follow it. It is then no matterof surprise that democratic armies are often restless, ill-tempered, and dissatisfied with their lot, although their physical condition iscommonly far better, and their discipline less strict than in othercountries. The soldier feels that he occupies an inferior position, and his wounded pride either stimulates his taste for hostilitieswhich would render his services necessary, or gives him a turn forrevolutions, during which he may hope to win by force of arms thepolitical influence and personal importance now denied him. Thecomposition of democratic armies makes this last-mentioned dangermuch to be feared. In democratic communities almost every man has someproperty to preserve; but democratic armies are generally led by menwithout property, most of whom have little to lose in civil broils. Thebulk of the nation is naturally much more afraid of revolutions than inthe ages of aristocracy, but the leaders of the army much less so. 

Moreover, as amongst democratic nations (to repeat what I have justremarked) the wealthiest, the best educated, and the most able menseldom adopt the military profession, the army, taken collectively, eventually forms a small nation by itself, where the mind is lessenlarged, and habits are more rude than in the nation at large. Now, this small uncivilized nation has arms in its possession, and aloneknows how to use them: for, indeed, the pacific temper of the communityincreases the danger to which a democratic people is exposed from themilitary and turbulent spirit of the army. Nothing is so dangerous asan army amidst an unwarlike nation; the excessive love of the wholecommunity for quiet continually puts its constitution at the mercy ofthe soldiery. It may therefore be asserted, generally speaking, that ifdemocratic nations are naturally prone to peace from their interests andtheir propensities, they are constantly drawn to war and revolutionsby their armies. Military revolutions, which are scarcely ever tobe apprehended in aristocracies, are always to be dreaded amongstdemocratic nations. These perils must be reckoned amongst the mostformidable which beset their future fate, and the attention of statesmenshould be sedulously applied to find a remedy for the evil. 

When a nation perceives that it is inwardly affected by the restlessambition of its army, the first thought which occurs is to give thisinconvenient ambition an object by going to war. I speak no ill ofwar: war almost always enlarges the mind of a people, and raises theircharacter. In some cases it is the only check to the excessive growthof certain propensities which naturally spring out of the equalityof conditions, and it must be considered as a necessary corrective tocertain inveterate diseases to which democratic communities are liable. War has great advantages, but we must not flatter ourselves that itcan diminish the danger I have just pointed out. That peril is onlysuspended by it, to return more fiercely when the war is over; forarmies are much more impatient of peace after having tasted militaryexploits. War could only be a remedy for a people which should always beathirst for military glory. I foresee that all the military rulers whomay rise up in great democratic nations, will find it easier to conquerwith their armies, than to make their armies live at peace afterconquest. There are two things which a democratic people will alwaysfind very difficult--to begin a war, and to end it. 

Again, if war has some peculiar advantages for democratic nations, onthe other hand it exposes them to certain dangers which aristocracieshave no cause to dread to an equal extent. I shall only point out twoof these. Although war gratifies the army, it embarrasses and oftenexasperates that countless multitude of men whose minor passions everyday require peace in order to be satisfied. Thus there is some riskof its causing, under another form, the disturbance it is intendedto prevent. No protracted war can fail to endanger the freedom of ademocratic country. Not indeed that after every victory it is to beapprehended that the victorious generals will possess themselves byforce of the supreme power, after the manner of Sylla and Caesar: thedanger is of another kind. War does not always give over democraticcommunities to military government, but it must invariably andimmeasurably increase the powers of civil government; it must almostcompulsorily concentrate the direction of all men and the managementof all things in the hands of the administration. If it lead not todespotism by sudden violence, it prepares men for it more gentlyby their habits. All those who seek to destroy the liberties of ademocratic nation ought to know that war is the surest and the shortestmeans to accomplish it. This is the first axiom of the science. 

One remedy, which appears to be obvious when the ambition of soldiersand officers becomes the subject of alarm, is to augment the numberof commissions to be distributed by increasing the army. This affordstemporary relief, but it plunges the country into deeper difficulties atsome future period. To increase the army may produce a lasting effect inan aristocratic community, because military ambition is there confinedto one class of men, and the ambition of each individual stops, as itwere, at a certain limit; so that it may be possible to satisfy all whofeel its influence. But nothing is gained by increasing the army amongsta democratic people, because the number of aspirants always rises inexactly the same ratio as the army itself. Those whose claims have beensatisfied by the creation of new commissions are instantly succeeded bya fresh multitude beyond all power of satisfaction; and even those whowere but now satisfied soon begin to crave more advancement; for thesame excitement prevails in the ranks of the army as in the civilclasses of democratic society, and what men want is not to reach acertain grade, but to have constant promotion. Though these wants maynot be very vast, they are perpetually recurring. Thus a democraticnation, by augmenting its army, only allays for a time the ambitionof the military profession, which soon becomes even more formidable, because the number of those who feel it is increased. I am of opinionthat a restless and turbulent spirit is an evil inherent in thevery constitution of democratic armies, and beyond hope of cure. Thelegislators of democracies must not expect to devise any militaryorganization capable by its influence of calming and restraining themilitary profession: their efforts would exhaust their powers, beforethe object is attained. 

The remedy for the vices of the army is not to be found in the armyitself, but in the country. Democratic nations are naturally afraidof disturbance and of despotism; the object is to turn these naturalinstincts into well-digested, deliberate, and lasting tastes. When menhave at last learned to make a peaceful and profitable use of freedom, and have felt its blessings--when they have conceived a manly love oforder, and have freely submitted themselves to discipline--these samemen, if they follow the profession of arms, bring into it, unconsciouslyand almost against their will, these same habits and manners. Thegeneral spirit of the nation being infused into the spirit peculiar tothe army, tempers the opinions and desires engendered by military life, or represses them by the mighty force of public opinion. Teach but thecitizens to be educated, orderly, firm, and free, the soldiers will bedisciplined and obedient. Any law which, in repressing the turbulentspirit of the army, should tend to diminish the spirit of freedom in thenation, and to overshadow the notion of law and right, would defeatits object: it would do much more to favor, than to defeat, theestablishment of military tyranny. 

After all, and in spite of all precautions, a large army amidst ademocratic people will always be a source of great danger; the mosteffectual means of diminishing that danger would be to reduce the army, but this is a remedy which all nations have it not in their power touse. 

Chapter XXIII: Which Is The Most Warlike And Most Revolutionary Class InDemocratic Armies?

It is a part of the essence of a democratic army to be very numerous inproportion to the people to which it belongs, as I shall hereaftershow. On the other hand, men living in democratic times seldom choose amilitary life. Democratic nations are therefore soon led to give up thesystem of voluntary recruiting for that of compulsory enlistment. Thenecessity of their social condition compels them to resort to the lattermeans, and it may easily be foreseen that they will all eventually adoptit. When military service is compulsory, the burden is indiscriminatelyand equally borne by the whole community. This is another necessaryconsequence of the social condition of these nations, and of theirnotions. The government may do almost whatever it pleases, provided itappeals to the whole community at once: it is the unequal distributionof the weight, not the weight itself, which commonly occasionsresistance. But as military service is common to all the citizens, theevident consequence is that each of them remains but for a few yearson active duty. Thus it is in the nature of things that the soldier indemocracies only passes through the army, whilst among most aristocraticnations the military profession is one which the soldier adopts, orwhich is imposed upon him, for life. 

This has important consequences. Amongst the soldiers of a democraticarmy, some acquire a taste for military life, but the majority, beingenlisted against their will, and ever ready to go back to theirhomes, do not consider themselves as seriously engaged in the militaryprofession, and are always thinking of quitting it. Such men do notcontract the wants, and only half partake in the passions, which thatmode of life engenders. They adapt themselves to their military duties, but their minds are still attached to the interests and the duties whichengaged them in civil life. They do not therefore imbibe the spirit ofthe army--or rather, they infuse the spirit of the community at largeinto the army, and retain it there. Amongst democratic nations theprivate soldiers remain most like civilians: upon them the habits of thenation have the firmest hold, and public opinion most influence. It isby the instrumentality of the private soldiers especially that it maybe possible to infuse into a democratic army the love of freedom andthe respect of rights, if these principles have once been successfullyinculcated on the people at large. The reverse happens amongstaristocratic nations, where the soldiery have eventually nothing incommon with their fellow-citizens, and where they live amongst them asstrangers, and often as enemies. In aristocratic armies the officersare the conservative element, because the officers alone have retained astrict connection with civil society, and never forego their purposeof resuming their place in it sooner or later: in democratic armies theprivate soldiers stand in this position, and from the same cause. 

It often happens, on the contrary, that in these same democratic armiesthe officers contract tastes and wants wholly distinct from those ofthe nation--a fact which may be thus accounted for. Amongst democraticnations, the man who becomes an officer severs all the ties which boundhim to civil life; he leaves it forever; he has no interest to resumeit. His true country is the army, since he owes all he has to the rankhe has attained in it; he therefore follows the fortunes of the army, rises or sinks with it, and henceforward directs all his hopes to thatquarter only. As the wants of an officer are distinct from those of thecountry, he may perhaps ardently desire war, or labor to bring abouta revolution at the very moment when the nation is most desirous ofstability and peace. There are, nevertheless, some causes which allaythis restless and warlike spirit. Though ambition is universal andcontinual amongst democratic nations, we have seen that it is seldomgreat. A man who, being born in the lower classes of the community, hasrisen from the ranks to be an officer, has already taken a prodigiousstep. He has gained a footing in a sphere above that which he filledin civil life, and he has acquired rights which most democratic nationswill ever consider as inalienable. *a He is willing to pause after sogreat an effort, and to enjoy what he has won. The fear of risking whathe has already obtained damps the desire of acquiring what he has notgot. Having conquered the first and greatest impediment which opposedhis advancement, he resigns himself with less impatience to the slownessof his progress. His ambition will be more and more cooled in proportionas the increasing distinction of his rank teaches him that he has moreto put in jeopardy. If I am not mistaken, the least warlike, and alsothe least revolutionary part, of a democratic army, will always be itschief commanders. [Footnote a: The position of officers is indeed muchmore secure amongst democratic nations than elsewhere; the lower thepersonal standing of the man, the greater is the comparative importanceof his military grade, and the more just and necessary is it that theenjoyment of that rank should be secured by the laws. ]

But the remarks I have just made on officers and soldiers arenot applicable to a numerous class which in all armies fills theintermediate space between them--I mean the class of non-commissionedofficers. This class of non-commissioned officers which have never acteda part in history until the present century, is henceforward destined, I think, to play one of some importance. Like the officers, non-commissioned officers have broken, in their minds, all the tieswhich bound them to civil life; like the former, they devote themselvespermanently to the service, and perhaps make it even more exclusivelythe object of all their desires: but non-commissioned officers are menwho have not yet reached a firm and lofty post at which they may pauseand breathe more freely, ere they can attain further promotion. Bythe very nature of his duties, which is invariable, a non-commissionedofficer is doomed to lead an obscure, confined, comfortless, andprecarious existence; as yet he sees nothing of military life but itsdangers; he knows nothing but its privations and its discipline--moredifficult to support than dangers: he suffers the more from his presentmiseries, from knowing that the constitution of society and of the armyallow him to rise above them; he may, indeed, at any time obtain hiscommission, and enter at once upon command, honors, independence, rights, and enjoyments. Not only does this object of his hopes appear tohim of immense importance, but he is never sure of reaching it till itis actually his own; the grade he fills is by no means irrevocable; heis always entirely abandoned to the arbitrary pleasure of hiscommanding officer, for this is imperiously required by the necessity ofdiscipline: a slight fault, a whim, may always deprive him in an instantof the fruits of many years of toil and endeavor; until he has reachedthe grade to which he aspires he has accomplished nothing; not till hereaches that grade does his career seem to begin. A desperate ambitioncannot fail to be kindled in a man thus incessantly goaded on by hisyouth, his wants, his passions, the spirit of his age, his hopes, and his age, his hopes, and his fears. Non-commissioned officers aretherefore bent on war--on war always, and at any cost; but if war bedenied them, then they desire revolutions to suspend the authorityof established regulations, and to enable them, aided by the generalconfusion and the political passions of the time, to get rid of theirsuperior officers and to take their places. Nor is it impossible forthem to bring about such a crisis, because their common origin andhabits give them much influence over the soldiers, however different maybe their passions and their desires. 

It would be an error to suppose that these various characteristics ofofficers, non-commissioned officers, and men, belong to any particulartime or country; they will always occur at all times, and amongstall democratic nations. In every democratic army the non-commissionedofficers will be the worst representatives of the pacific and orderlyspirit of the country, and the private soldiers will be the best. Thelatter will carry with them into military life the strength or weaknessof the manners of the nation; they will display a faithful reflection ofthe community: if that community is ignorant and weak, they will allowthemselves to be drawn by their leaders into disturbances, eitherunconsciously or against their will; if it is enlightened and energetic, the community will itself keep them within the bounds of order. 

Chapter XXIV: Causes Which Render Democratic Armies Weaker Than OtherArmies At The Outset Of A Campaign, And More Formidable In ProtractedWarfare

Any army is in danger of being conquered at the outset of a campaign, after a long peace; any army which has long been engaged in warfarehas strong chances of victory: this truth is peculiarly applicable todemocratic armies. In aristocracies the military profession, being aprivileged career, is held in honor even in time of peace. Men of greattalents, great attainments, and great ambition embrace it; the army isin all respects on a level with the nation, and frequently above it. Wehave seen, on the contrary, that amongst a democratic people thechoicer minds of the nation are gradually drawn away from the militaryprofession, to seek by other paths, distinction, power, and especiallywealth. After a long peace--and in democratic ages the periods of peaceare long--the army is always inferior to the country itself. In thisstate it is called into active service; and until war has altered it, there is danger for the country as well as for the army. 

I have shown that in democratic armies, and in time of peace, the ruleof seniority is the supreme and inflexible law of advancement. This isnot only a consequence, as I have before observed, of the constitutionof these armies, but of the constitution of the people, and it willalways occur. Again, as amongst these nations the officer derives hisposition in the country solely from his position in the army, and ashe draws all the distinction and the competency he enjoys from thesame source, he does not retire from his profession, or is notsuper-annuated, till towards the extreme close of life. The consequenceof these two causes is, that when a democratic people goes to war aftera long interval of peace all the leading officers of the army are oldmen. I speak not only of the generals, but of the non-commissionedofficers, who have most of them been stationary, or have only advancedstep by step. It may be remarked with surprise, that in a democraticarmy after a long peace all the soldiers are mere boys, and all thesuperior officers in declining years; so that the former are wanting inexperience, the latter in vigor. This is a strong element of defeat, for the first condition of successful generalship is youth: I should nothave ventured to say so if the greatest captain of modern times had notmade the observation. These two causes do not act in the same mannerupon aristocratic armies: as men are promoted in them by right of birthmuch more than by right of seniority, there are in all ranks a certainnumber of young men, who bring to their profession all the early vigorof body and mind. Again, as the men who seek for military honors amongstan aristocratic people, enjoy a settled position in civil society, theyseldom continue in the army until old age overtakes them. After havingdevoted the most vigorous years of youth to the career of arms, theyvoluntarily retire, and spend at home the remainder of their matureryears. 

A long peace not only fills democratic armies with elderly officers, but it also gives to all the officers habits both of body and mind whichrender them unfit for actual service. The man who has long lived amidstthe calm and lukewarm atmosphere of democratic manners can at first illadapt himself to the harder toils and sterner duties of warfare; and ifhe has not absolutely lost the taste for arms, at least he has assumed amode of life which unfits him for conquest. 

Amongst aristocratic nations, the ease of civil life exercises lessinfluence on the manners of the army, because amongst those nations thearistocracy commands the army: and an aristocracy, however plunged inluxurious pleasures, has always many other passions besides that ofits own well-being, and to satisfy those passions more thoroughly itswell-being will be readily sacrificed. *a

[Footnote a: See Appendix V. ]

I have shown that in democratic armies, in time of peace, promotion isextremely slow. The officers at first support this state of things withimpatience, they grow excited, restless, exasperated, but in the endmost of them make up their minds to it. Those who have the largestshare of ambition and of resources quit the army; others, adapting theirtastes and their desires to their scanty fortunes, ultimately look uponthe military profession in a civil point of view. The quality they valuemost in it is the competency and security which attend it: their wholenotion of the future rests upon the certainty of this little provision, and all they require is peaceably to enjoy it. Thus not only does a longpeace fill an army with old men, but it is frequently imparts the viewsof old men to those who are still in the prime of life. 

I have also shown that amongst democratic nations in time of peace themilitary profession is held in little honor and indifferently followed. This want of public favor is a heavy discouragement to the army; itweighs down the minds of the troops, and when war breaks out at last, they cannot immediately resume their spring and vigor. No similar causeof moral weakness occurs in aristocratic armies: there the officers arenever lowered either in their own eyes or in those of their countrymen, because, independently of their military greatness, they are personallygreat. But even if the influence of peace operated on the two kinds ofarmies in the same manner, the results would still be different. Whenthe officers of an aristocratic army have lost their warlike spirit andthe desire of raising themselves by service, they still retain a certainrespect for the honor of their class, and an old habit of being foremostto set an example. But when the officers of a democratic army haveno longer the love of war and the ambition of arms, nothing whateverremains to them. 

I am therefore of opinion that, when a democratic people engages ina war after a long peace, it incurs much more risk of defeat than anyother nation; but it ought not easily to be cast down by its reverses, for the chances of success for such an army are increased by theduration of the war. When a war has at length, by its long continuance, roused the whole community from their peaceful occupations and ruinedtheir minor undertakings, the same passions which made them attach somuch importance to the maintenance of peace will be turned to arms. War, after it has destroyed all modes of speculation, becomes itselfthe great and sole speculation, to which all the ardent and ambitiousdesires which equality engenders are exclusively directed. Hence it isthat the selfsame democratic nations which are so reluctant to engagein hostilities, sometimes perform prodigious achievements when oncethey have taken the field. As the war attracts more and more of publicattention, and is seen to create high reputations and great fortunesin a short space of time, the choicest spirits of the nation enter themilitary profession: all the enterprising, proud, and martial minds, nolonger of the aristocracy solely, but of the whole country, are drawnin this direction. As the number of competitors for military honors isimmense, and war drives every man to his proper level, great generalsare always sure to spring up. A long war produces upon a democratic armythe same effects that a revolution produces upon a people; it breaksthrough regulations, and allows extraordinary men to rise above thecommon level. Those officers whose bodies and minds have grown old inpeace, are removed, or superannuated, or they die. In their stead a hostof young men are pressing on, whose frames are already hardened, whosedesires are extended and inflamed by active service. They are bent onadvancement at all hazards, and perpetual advancement; they are followedby others with the same passions and desires, and after these areothers yet unlimited by aught but the size of the army. The principle ofequality opens the door of ambition to all, and death provides chancesfor ambition. Death is constantly thinning the ranks, making vacancies, closing and opening the career of arms. 

There is moreover a secret connection between the military characterand the character of democracies, which war brings to light. The men ofdemocracies are naturally passionately eager to acquire what they covet, and to enjoy it on easy conditions. They for the most part worshipchance, and are much less afraid of death than of difficulty. This isthe spirit which they bring to commerce and manufactures; and this samespirit, carried with them to the field of battle, induces them willinglyto expose their lives in order to secure in a moment the rewards ofvictory. No kind of greatness is more pleasing to the imagination ofa democratic people than military greatness--a greatness of vivid andsudden lustre, obtained without toil, by nothing but the risk of life. Thus, whilst the interests and the tastes of the members of a democraticcommunity divert them from war, their habits of mind fit them forcarrying on war well; they soon make good soldiers, when they are rousedfrom their business and their enjoyments. If peace is peculiarly hurtfulto democratic armies, war secures to them advantages which no otherarmies ever possess; and these advantages, however little felt at first, cannot fail in the end to give them the victory. An aristocratic nation, which in a contest with a democratic people does not succeed in ruiningthe latter at the outset of the war, always runs a great risk of beingconquered by it. 

Chapter XXV: Of Discipline In Democratic Armies

It is a very general opinion, especially in aristocratic countries, that the great social equality which prevails in democracies ultimatelyrenders the private soldier independent of the officer, and thusdestroys the bond of discipline. This is a mistake, for there are twokinds of discipline, which it is important not to confound. When theofficer is noble and the soldier a serf--one rich, the other poor--theformer educated and strong, the latter ignorant and weak--the strictestbond of obedience may easily be established between the two men. Thesoldier is broken in to military discipline, as it were, before heenters the army; or rather, military discipline is nothing but anenhancement of social servitude. In aristocratic armies the soldierwill soon become insensible to everything but the orders of his superiorofficers; he acts without reflection, triumphs without enthusiasm, anddies without complaint: in this state he is no longer a man, but he isstill a most formidable animal trained for war. 

A democratic people must despair of ever obtaining from soldiersthat blind, minute, submissive, and invariable obedience which anaristocratic people may impose on them without difficulty. The state ofsociety does not prepare them for it, and the nation might be in dangerof losing its natural advantages if it sought artificially to acquireadvantages of this particular kind. Amongst democratic communities, military discipline ought not to attempt to annihilate the free springof the faculties; all that can be done by discipline is to direct it;the obedience thus inculcated is less exact, but it is more eager andmore intelligent. It has its root in the will of him who obeys: it restsnot only on his instinct, but on his reason; and consequently it willoften spontaneously become more strict as danger requires it. Thediscipline of an aristocratic army is apt to be relaxed in war, becausethat discipline is founded upon habits, and war disturbs those habits. The discipline of a democratic army on the contrary is strengthened insight of the enemy, because every soldier then clearly perceives that hemust be silent and obedient in order to conquer. 

The nations which have performed the greatest warlike achievements knewno other discipline than that which I speak of. Amongst the ancientsnone were admitted into the armies but freemen and citizens, whodiffered but little from one another, and were accustomed to treateach other as equals. In this respect it may be said that the armiesof antiquity were democratic, although they came out of the bosomof aristocracy; the consequence was that in those armies a sort offraternal familiarity prevailed between the officers and the men. Plutarch's lives of great commanders furnish convincing instances of thefact: the soldiers were in the constant habit of freely addressing theirgeneral, and the general listened to and answered whatever the soldiershad to say: they were kept in order by language and by example, farmore than by constraint or punishment; the general was as much theircompanion as their chief. I know not whether the soldiers of Greece andRome ever carried the minutiae of military discipline to the samedegree of perfection as the Russians have done; but this did not preventAlexander from conquering Asia--and Rome, the world. 

Chapter XXVI: Some Considerations On War In Democratic Communities

When the principle of equality is in growth, not only amongst a singlenation, but amongst several neighboring nations at the same time, as isnow the case in Europe, the inhabitants of these different countries, notwithstanding the dissimilarity of language, of customs, and of laws, nevertheless resemble each other in their equal dread of war and theircommon love of peace. *a It is in vain that ambition or anger puts armsin the hands of princes; they are appeased in spite of themselves by aspecies of general apathy and goodwill, which makes the sword dropfrom their grasp, and wars become more rare. As the spread of equality, taking place in several countries at once, simultaneously impels theirvarious inhabitants to follow manufactures and commerce, not only dotheir tastes grow alike, but their interests are so mixed and entangledwith one another that no nation can inflict evils on other nationswithout those evils falling back upon itself; and all nations ultimatelyregard war as a calamity, almost as severe to the conqueror as tothe conquered. Thus, on the one hand, it is extremely difficult indemocratic ages to draw nations into hostilities; but on the other hand, it is almost impossible that any two of them should go to war withoutembroiling the rest. The interests of all are so interlaced, theiropinions and their wants so much alike, that none can remain quiet whenthe others stir. Wars therefore become more rare, but when they breakout they spread over a larger field. Neighboring democratic nations notonly become alike in some respects, but they eventually grow to resembleeach other in almost all. *b This similitude of nations has consequencesof great importance in relation to war. 

[Footnote a: It is scarcely necessary for me to observe that the dreadof war displayed by the nations of Europe is not solely attributableto the progress made by the principle of equality amongst them;independently of this permanent cause several other accidental causes ofgreat weight might be pointed out, and I may mention before all the restthe extreme lassitude which the wars of the Revolution and the Empirehave left behind them. ]

[Footnote b: This is not only because these nations have the same socialcondition, but it arises from the very nature of that social conditionwhich leads men to imitate and identify themselves with each other. Whenthe members of a community are divided into castes and classes, they notonly differ from one another, but they have no taste and no desire to bealike; on the contrary, everyone endeavors, more and more, to keep hisown opinions undisturbed, to retain his own peculiar habits, and toremain himself. The characteristics of individuals are very stronglymarked. When the state of society amongst a people is democratic--thatis to say, when there are no longer any castes or classes in thecommunity, and all its members are nearly equal in education and inproperty--the human mind follows the opposite direction. Men are muchalike, and they are annoyed, as it were, by any deviation from thatlikeness: far from seeking to preserve their own distinguishingsingularities, they endeavor to shake them off, in order to identifythemselves with the general mass of the people, which is the solerepresentative of right and of might to their eyes. The characteristicsof individuals are nearly obliterated. In the ages of aristocracy eventhose who are naturally alike strive to create imaginary differencesbetween themselves: in the ages of democracy even those who are notalike seek only to become so, and to copy each other--so strongly is themind of every man always carried away by the general impulse of mankind. Something of the same kind may be observed between nations: two nationshaving the same aristocratic social condition, might remain thoroughlydistinct and extremely different, because the spirit of aristocracyis to retain strong individual characteristics; but if two neighboringnations have the same democratic social condition, they cannot failto adopt similar opinions and manners, because the spirit of democracytends to assimilate men to each other. ]

If I inquire why it is that the Helvetic Confederacy made the greatestand most powerful nations of Europe tremble in the fifteenth century, whilst at the present day the power of that country is exactlyproportioned to its population, I perceive that the Swiss are becomelike all the surrounding communities, and those surrounding communitieslike the Swiss: so that as numerical strength now forms the onlydifference between them, victory necessarily attends the largest army. Thus one of the consequences of the democratic revolution which is goingon in Europe is to make numerical strength preponderate on all fieldsof battle, and to constrain all small nations to incorporate themselveswith large States, or at least to adopt the policy of the latter. Asnumbers are the determining cause of victory, each people ought ofcourse to strive by all the means in its power to bring the greatestpossible number of men into the field. When it was possible to enlist akind of troops superior to all others, such as the Swiss infantry or theFrench horse of the sixteenth century, it was not thought necessary toraise very large armies; but the case is altered when one soldier is asefficient as another. 

The same cause which begets this new want also supplies means ofsatisfying it; for, as I have already observed, when men are all alike, they are all weak, and the supreme power of the State is naturally muchstronger amongst democratic nations than elsewhere. Hence, whilst thesenations are desirous of enrolling the whole male population in theranks of the army, they have the power of effecting this object: theconsequence is, that in democratic ages armies seem to grow largerin proportion as the love of war declines. In the same ages, too, the manner of carrying on war is likewise altered by the same causes. Machiavelli observes in "The Prince, " "that it is much more difficult tosubdue a people which has a prince and his barons for its leaders, than a nation which is commanded by a prince and his slaves. " To avoidoffence, let us read public functionaries for slaves, and this importanttruth will be strictly applicable to our own time. 

A great aristocratic people cannot either conquer its neighbors, or beconquered by them, without great difficulty. It cannot conquer them, because all its forces can never be collected and held together for aconsiderable period: it cannot be conquered, because an enemy meets atevery step small centres of resistance by which invasion is arrested. War against an aristocracy may be compared to war in a mountainouscountry; the defeated party has constant opportunities of rallying itsforces to make a stand in a new position. Exactly the reverse occursamongst democratic nations: they easily bring their whole disposableforce into the field, and when the nation is wealthy and populous itsoon becomes victorious; but if ever it is conquered, and its territoryinvaded, it has few resources at command; and if the enemy takes thecapital, the nation is lost. This may very well be explained: aseach member of the community is individually isolated and extremelypowerless, no one of the whole body can either defend himself or presenta rallying point to others. Nothing is strong in a democratic countryexcept the State; as the military strength of the State is destroyedby the destruction of the army, and its civil power paralyzed by thecapture of the chief city, all that remains is only a multitude withoutstrength or government, unable to resist the organized power by which itis assailed. I am aware that this danger may be lessened by the creationof provincial liberties, and consequently of provincial powers, but thisremedy will always be insufficient. For after such a catastrophe, notonly is the population unable to carry on hostilities, but it may beapprehended that they will not be inclined to attempt it. In accordancewith the law of nations adopted in civilized countries, the object ofwars is not to seize the property of private individuals, but simply toget possession of political power. The destruction of private propertyis only occasionally resorted to for the purpose of attaining the latterobject. When an aristocratic country is invaded after the defeat ofits army, the nobles, although they are at the same time thewealthiest members of the community, will continue to defend themselvesindividually rather than submit; for if the conqueror remained masterof the country, he would deprive them of their political power, to whichthey cling even more closely than to their property. They thereforeprefer fighting to subjection, which is to them the greatest of allmisfortunes; and they readily carry the people along with them becausethe people has long been used to follow and obey them, and besides hasbut little to risk in the war. Amongst a nation in which equality ofconditions prevails, each citizen, on the contrary, has but slendershare of political power, and often has no share at all; on the otherhand, all are independent, and all have something to lose; so that theyare much less afraid of being conquered, and much more afraid of war, than an aristocratic people. It will always be extremely difficult todecide a democratic population to take up arms, when hostilities havereached its own territory. Hence the necessity of giving to such apeople the rights and the political character which may impart to everycitizen some of those interests that cause the nobles to act for thepublic welfare in aristocratic countries. 

It should never be forgotten by the princes and other leaders ofdemocratic nations, that nothing but the passion and the habit offreedom can maintain an advantageous contest with the passion and thehabit of physical well-being. I can conceive nothing better preparedfor subjection, in case of defeat, than a democratic people without freeinstitutions. 

Formerly it was customary to take the field with a small body of troops, to fight in small engagements, and to make long, regular sieges: moderntactics consist in fighting decisive battles, and, as soon as a lineof march is open before the army, in rushing upon the capital city, inorder to terminate the war at a single blow. Napoleon, it is said, wasthe inventor of this new system; but the invention of such a system didnot depend on any individual man, whoever he might be. The mode in whichNapoleon carried on war was suggested to him by the state of society inhis time; that mode was successful, because it was eminently adaptedto that state of society, and because he was the first to employ it. Napoleon was the first commander who marched at the head of an armyfrom capital to capital, but the road was opened for him by the ruin offeudal society. It may fairly be believed that, if that extraordinaryman had been born three hundred years ago, he would not have derived thesame results from his method of warfare, or, rather, that he would havehad a different method. 

I shall add but a few words on civil wars, for fear of exhausting thepatience of the reader. Most of the remarks which I have made respectingforeign wars are applicable a fortiori to civil wars. Men living indemocracies are not naturally prone to the military character; theysometimes assume it, when they have been dragged by compulsion to thefield; but to rise in a body and voluntarily to expose themselves to thehorrors of war, and especially of civil war, is a course which themen of democracies are not apt to adopt. None but the most adventurousmembers of the community consent to run into such risks; the bulk of thepopulation remains motionless. But even if the population were inclinedto act, considerable obstacles would stand in their way; for they canresort to no old and well-established influence which they are willingto obey--no well-known leaders to rally the discontented, as well asto discipline and to lead them--no political powers subordinate to thesupreme power of the nation, which afford an effectual support to theresistance directed against the government. In democratic countries themoral power of the majority is immense, and the physical resourceswhich it has at its command are out of all proportion to the physicalresources which may be combined against it. Therefore the party whichoccupies the seat of the majority, which speaks in its name and wieldsits power, triumphs instantaneously and irresistibly over all privateresistance; it does not even give such opposition time to exist, but nips it in the bud. Those who in such nations seek to effect arevolution by force of arms have no other resource than suddenly toseize upon the whole engine of government as it stands, which canbetter be done by a single blow than by a war; for as soon as there isa regular war, the party which represents the State is always certain toconquer. The only case in which a civil war could arise is, if the armyshould divide itself into two factions, the one raising the standardof rebellion, the other remaining true to its allegiance. An armyconstitutes a small community, very closely united together, endowedwith great powers of vitality, and able to supply its own wants for sometime. Such a war might be bloody, but it could not be long; for eitherthe rebellious army would gain over the government by the sole displayof its resources, or by its first victory, and then the war would beover; or the struggle would take place, and then that portion of thearmy which should not be supported by the organized powers of the Statewould speedily either disband itself or be destroyed. It may thereforebe admitted as a general truth, that in ages of equality civil wars willbecome much less frequent and less protracted. *c

[Footnote c: It should be borne in mind that I speak here of sovereignand independent democratic nations, not of confederate democracies; inconfederacies, as the preponderating power always resides, in spite ofall political fictions, in the state governments, and not in thefederal government, civil wars are in fact nothing but foreign wars indisguise. ]

Book Four: Influence Of Democratic Opinions On Political Society

Chapter I: That Equality Naturally Gives Men A Taste For FreeInstitutions

I should imperfectly fulfil the purpose of this book, if, after havingshown what opinions and sentiments are suggested by the principle ofequality, I did not point out, ere I conclude, the general influencewhich these same opinions and sentiments may exercise upon thegovernment of human societies. To succeed in this object I shallfrequently have to retrace my steps; but I trust the reader will notrefuse to follow me through paths already known to him, which may leadto some new truth. 

The principle of equality, which makes men independent of each other, gives them a habit and a taste for following, in their private actions, no other guide but their own will. This complete independence, whichthey constantly enjoy towards their equals and in the intercourse ofprivate life, tends to make them look upon all authority with a jealouseye, and speedily suggests to them the notion and the love ofpolitical freedom. Men living at such times have a natural bias to freeinstitutions. Take any one of them at a venture, and search if you canhis most deep-seated instincts; you will find that of all governments hewill soonest conceive and most highly value that government, whose headhe has himself elected, and whose administration he may control. Of allthe political effects produced by the equality of conditions, this loveof independence is the first to strike the observing, and to alarm thetimid; nor can it be said that their alarm is wholly misplaced, foranarchy has a more formidable aspect in democratic countries thanelsewhere. As the citizens have no direct influence on each other, assoon as the supreme power of the nation fails, which kept them all intheir several stations, it would seem that disorder must instantlyreach its utmost pitch, and that, every man drawing aside in a differentdirection, the fabric of society must at once crumble away. 

I am, however, persuaded that anarchy is not the principal evil whichdemocratic ages have to fear, but the least. For the principleof equality begets two tendencies; the one leads men straight toindependence, and may suddenly drive them into anarchy; the otherconducts them by a longer, more secret, but more certain road, toservitude. Nations readily discern the former tendency, and are preparedto resist it; they are led away by the latter, without perceiving itsdrift; hence it is peculiarly important to point it out. For myself, Iam so far from urging as a reproach to the principle of equality that itrenders men untractable, that this very circumstance principally callsforth my approbation. I admire to see how it deposits in the mindand heart of man the dim conception and instinctive love of politicalindependence, thus preparing the remedy for the evil which it engenders;it is on this very account that I am attached to it. 

Chapter II: That The Notions Of Democratic Nations On Government AreNaturally Favorable To The Concentration Of Power

The notion of secondary powers, placed between the sovereign and hissubjects, occurred naturally to the imagination of aristocratic nations, because those communities contained individuals or families raised abovethe common level, and apparently destined to command by their birth, their education, and their wealth. This same notion is naturally wantingin the minds of men in democratic ages, for converse reasons: itcan only be introduced artificially, it can only be kept there withdifficulty; whereas they conceive, as it were, without thinking upon thesubject, the notion of a sole and central power which governs the wholecommunity by its direct influence. Moreover in politics, as well asin philosophy and in religion, the intellect of democratic nations ispeculiarly open to simple and general notions. Complicated systems arerepugnant to it, and its favorite conception is that of a great nationcomposed of citizens all resembling the same pattern, and all governedby a single power. 

The very next notion to that of a sole and central power, which presentsitself to the minds of men in the ages of equality, is the notion ofuniformity of legislation. As every man sees that he differs butlittle from those about him, he cannot understand why a rule which isapplicable to one man should not be equally applicable to all others. Hence the slightest privileges are repugnant to his reason; the faintestdissimilarities in the political institutions of the same people offendhim, and uniformity of legislation appears to him to be the firstcondition of good government. I find, on the contrary, that this samenotion of a uniform rule, equally binding on all the members of thecommunity, was almost unknown to the human mind in aristocratic ages;it was either never entertained, or it was rejected. These contrarytendencies of opinion ultimately turn on either side to such blindinstincts and such ungovernable habits that they still direct theactions of men, in spite of particular exceptions. Notwithstanding theimmense variety of conditions in the Middle Ages, a certain number ofpersons existed at that period in precisely similar circumstances; butthis did not prevent the laws then in force from assigning to eachof them distinct duties and different rights. On the contrary, at thepresent time all the powers of government are exerted to impose thesame customs and the same laws on populations which have as yet but fewpoints of resemblance. As the conditions of men become equal amongsta people, individuals seem of less importance, and society of greaterdimensions; or rather, every citizen, being assimilated to all the rest, is lost in the crowd, and nothing stands conspicuous but the great andimposing image of the people at large. This naturally gives the men ofdemocratic periods a lofty opinion of the privileges of society, and avery humble notion of the rights of individuals; they are ready to admitthat the interests of the former are everything, and those of the latternothing. They are willing to acknowledge that the power which representsthe community has far more information and wisdom than any of themembers of that community; and that it is the duty, as well as theright, of that power to guide as well as govern each private citizen. 

If we closely scrutinize our contemporaries, and penetrate to the rootof their political opinions, we shall detect some of the notions which Ihave just pointed out, and we shall perhaps be surprised to find so muchaccordance between men who are so often at variance. The Americans hold, that in every State the supreme power ought to emanate from the people;but when once that power is constituted, they can conceive, as it were, no limits to it, and they are ready to admit that it has the right todo whatever it pleases. They have not the slightest notion of peculiarprivileges granted to cities, families, or persons: their minds appearnever to have foreseen that it might be possible not to applywith strict uniformity the same laws to every part, and to all theinhabitants. These same opinions are more and more diffused in Europe;they even insinuate themselves amongst those nations which mostvehemently reject the principle of the sovereignty of the people. Suchnations assign a different origin to the supreme power, but they ascribeto that power the same characteristics. Amongst them all, the idea ofintermediate powers is weakened and obliterated: the idea of rightsinherent in certain individuals is rapidly disappearing from the mindsof men; the idea of the omnipotence and sole authority of society atlarge rises to fill its place. These ideas take root and spread inproportion as social conditions become more equal, and men more alike;they are engendered by equality, and in turn they hasten the progress ofequality. 

In France, where the revolution of which I am speaking has gone furtherthan in any other European country, these opinions have got completehold of the public mind. If we listen attentively to the language of thevarious parties in France, we shall find that there is not one whichhas not adopted them. Most of these parties censure the conduct of thegovernment, but they all hold that the government ought perpetually toact and interfere in everything that is done. Even those which aremost at variance are nevertheless agreed upon this head. The unity, theubiquity, the omnipotence of the supreme power, and the uniformity ofits rules, constitute the principal characteristics of all the politicalsystems which have been put forward in our age. They recur even in thewildest visions of political regeneration: the human mind pursues themin its dreams. If these notions spontaneously arise in the minds ofprivate individuals, they suggest themselves still more forcibly tothe minds of princes. Whilst the ancient fabric of European societyis altered and dissolved, sovereigns acquire new conceptions of theiropportunities and their duties; they learn for the first time that thecentral power which they represent may and ought to administer byits own agency, and on a uniform plan, all the concerns of the wholecommunity. This opinion, which, I will venture to say, was neverconceived before our time by the monarchs of Europe, now sinks deeplyinto the minds of kings, and abides there amidst all the agitation ofmore unsettled thoughts. 

Our contemporaries are therefore much less divided than is commonlysupposed; they are constantly disputing as to the hands in whichsupremacy is to be vested, but they readily agree upon the duties andthe rights of that supremacy. The notion they all form of government isthat of a sole, simple, providential, and creative power. All secondaryopinions in politics are unsettled; this one remains fixed, invariable, and consistent. It is adopted by statesmen and political philosophers;it is eagerly laid hold of by the multitude; those who govern and thosewho are governed agree to pursue it with equal ardor: it is the foremostnotion of their minds, it seems inborn. It originates therefore in nocaprice of the human intellect, but it is a necessary condition of thepresent state of mankind. 

Chapter III: That The Sentiments Of Democratic Nations Accord With TheirOpinions In Leading Them To Concentrate Political Power

If it be true that, in ages of equality, men readily adopt the notion ofa great central power, it cannot be doubted on the other hand that theirhabits and sentiments predispose them to recognize such a power and togive it their support. This may be demonstrated in a few words, as thegreater part of the reasons, to which the fact may be attributed, havebeen previously stated. *a As the men who inhabit democratic countrieshave no superiors, no inferiors, and no habitual or necessary partnersin their undertakings, they readily fall back upon themselves andconsider themselves as beings apart. I had occasion to point this outat considerable length in treating of individualism. Hence such men cannever, without an effort, tear themselves from their private affairs toengage in public business; their natural bias leads them to abandon thelatter to the sole visible and permanent representative of the interestsof the community, that is to say, to the State. Not only are theynaturally wanting in a taste for public business, but they havefrequently no time to attend to it. Private life is so busy indemocratic periods, so excited, so full of wishes and of work, thathardly any energy or leisure remains to each individual for public life. I am the last man to contend that these propensities are unconquerable, since my chief object in writing this book has been to combat them. Ionly maintain that at the present day a secret power is fostering themin the human heart, and that if they are not checked they will whollyovergrow it. 

[Footnote a: See Appendix W. ]

I have also had occasion to show how the increasing love of well-being, and the fluctuating character of property, cause democratic nationsto dread all violent disturbance. The love of public tranquillity isfrequently the only passion which these nations retain, and it becomesmore active and powerful amongst them in proportion as all otherpassions droop and die. This naturally disposes the members of thecommunity constantly to give or to surrender additional rights to thecentral power, which alone seems to be interested in defending them bythe same means that it uses to defend itself. As in ages of equality noman is compelled to lend his assistance to his fellow-men, and nonehas any right to expect much support from them, everyone is at onceindependent and powerless. These two conditions, which must never beeither separately considered or confounded together, inspire thecitizen of a democratic country with very contrary propensities. Hisindependence fills him with self-reliance and pride amongst his equals;his debility makes him feel from time to time the want of some outwardassistance, which he cannot expect from any of them, because they areall impotent and unsympathizing. In this predicament he naturally turnshis eyes to that imposing power which alone rises above the level ofuniversal depression. Of that power his wants and especially his desirescontinually remind him, until he ultimately views it as the sole andnecessary support of his own weakness. *b This may more completelyexplain what frequently takes place in democratic countries, where thevery men who are so impatient of superiors patiently submit to a master, exhibiting at once their pride and their servility. 

[Footnote b: In democratic communities nothing but the central power hasany stability in its position or any permanence in its undertakings. Allthe members of society are in ceaseless stir and transformation. Now itis in the nature of all governments to seek constantly to enlarge theirsphere of action; hence it is almost impossible that such a governmentshould not ultimately succeed, because it acts with a fixed principleand a constant will, upon men, whose position, whose notions, and whosedesires are in continual vacillation. It frequently happens that themembers of the community promote the influence of the central powerwithout intending it. Democratic ages are periods of experiment, innovation, and adventure. At such times there are always a multitude ofmen engaged in difficult or novel undertakings, which they follow alone, without caring for their fellowmen. Such persons may be ready to admit, as a general principle, that the public authority ought not to interferein private concerns; but, by an exception to that rule, each of themcraves for its assistance in the particular concern on which he isengaged, and seeks to draw upon the influence of the government for hisown benefit, though he would restrict it on all other occasions. If alarge number of men apply this particular exception to a greatvariety of different purposes, the sphere of the central power extendsinsensibly in all directions, although each of them wishes it to becircumscribed. Thus a democratic government increases its power simplyby the fact of its permanence. Time is on its side; every incidentbefriends it; the passions of individuals unconsciously promote it; andit may be asserted, that the older a democratic community is, the morecentralized will its government become. ]

The hatred which men bear to privilege increases in proportion asprivileges become more scarce and less considerable, so that democraticpassions would seem to burn most fiercely at the very time when theyhave least fuel. I have already given the reason of this phenomenon. When all conditions are unequal, no inequality is so great as to offendthe eye; whereas the slightest dissimilarity is odious in the midstof general uniformity: the more complete is this uniformity, the moreinsupportable does the sight of such a difference become. Hence it isnatural that the love of equality should constantly increase togetherwith equality itself, and that it should grow by what it feeds upon. This never-dying, ever-kindling hatred, which sets a democratic peopleagainst the smallest privileges, is peculiarly favorable to the gradualconcentration of all political rights in the hands of the representativeof the State alone. The sovereign, being necessarily and incontestablyabove all the citizens, excites not their envy, and each of them thinksthat he strips his equals of the prerogative which he concedes to thecrown. The man of a democratic age is extremely reluctant to obey hisneighbor who is his equal; he refuses to acknowledge in such a personability superior to his own; he mistrusts his justice, and is jealousof his power; he fears and he contemns him; and he loves continually toremind him of the common dependence in which both of them stand to thesame master. Every central power which follows its natural tendenciescourts and encourages the principle of equality; for equality singularlyfacilitates, extends, and secures the influence of a central power. 

In like manner it may be said that every central government worshipsuniformity: uniformity relieves it from inquiry into an infinite numberof small details which must be attended to if rules were to be adaptedto men, instead of indiscriminately subjecting men to rules: thus thegovernment likes what the citizens like, and naturally hates what theyhate. These common sentiments, which, in democratic nations, constantlyunite the sovereign and every member of the community in one and thesame conviction, establish a secret and lasting sympathy between them. The faults of the government are pardoned for the sake of its tastes;public confidence is only reluctantly withdrawn in the midst even ofits excesses and its errors, and it is restored at the first call. Democratic nations often hate those in whose hands the central power isvested; but they always love that power itself. 

Thus, by two separate paths, I have reached the same conclusion. I haveshown that the principle of equality suggests to men the notion ofa sole, uniform, and strong government: I have now shown that theprinciple of equality imparts to them a taste for it. To governments ofthis kind the nations of our age are therefore tending. They are drawnthither by the natural inclination of mind and heart; and in order toreach that result, it is enough that they do not check themselves intheir course. I am of opinion, that, in the democratic ages which areopening upon us, individual independence and local liberties will everbe the produce of artificial contrivance; that centralization will bethe natural form of government. *c

[Footnote c: See Appendix X. ]

Chapter IV: Of Certain Peculiar And Accidental Causes Which Either LeadA People To Complete Centralization Of Government, Or Which Divert ThemFrom It

If all democratic nations are instinctively led to the centralization ofgovernment, they tend to this result in an unequal manner. This dependson the particular circumstances which may promote or prevent thenatural consequences of that state of society--circumstances which areexceedingly numerous; but I shall only advert to a few of them. Amongstmen who have lived free long before they became equal, the tendenciesderived from free institutions combat, to a certain extent, thepropensities superinduced by the principle of equality; and althoughthe central power may increase its privileges amongst such a people, theprivate members of such a community will never entirely forfeit theirindependence. But when the equality of conditions grows up amongst apeople which has never known, or has long ceased to know, what freedomis (and such is the case upon the Continent of Europe), as the formerhabits of the nation are suddenly combined, by some sort of naturalattraction, with the novel habits and principles engendered by the stateof society, all powers seem spontaneously to rush to the centre. These powers accumulate there with astonishing rapidity, and the Stateinstantly attains the utmost limits of its strength, whilst privatepersons allow themselves to sink as suddenly to the lowest degree ofweakness. 

The English who emigrated three hundred years ago to found a democraticcommonwealth on the shores of the New World, had all learned to takea part in public affairs in their mother-country; they were conversantwith trial by jury; they were accustomed to liberty of speech and of thepress--to personal freedom, to the notion of rights and the practiceof asserting them. They carried with them to America these freeinstitutions and manly customs, and these institutions preserved themagainst the encroachments of the State. Thus amongst the Americans itis freedom which is old--equality is of comparatively modern date. Thereverse is occurring in Europe, where equality, introduced by absolutepower and under the rule of kings, was already infused into the habitsof nations long before freedom had entered into their conceptions. 

I have said that amongst democratic nations the notion of governmentnaturally presents itself to the mind under the form of a sole andcentral power, and that the notion of intermediate powers is notfamiliar to them. This is peculiarly applicable to the democraticnations which have witnessed the triumph of the principle of equalityby means of a violent revolution. As the classes which managed localaffairs have been suddenly swept away by the storm, and as the confusedmass which remains has as yet neither the organization nor the habitswhich fit it to assume the administration of these same affairs, theState alone seems capable of taking upon itself all the details ofgovernment, and centralization becomes, as it were, the unavoidablestate of the country. Napoleon deserves neither praise nor censure forhaving centred in his own hands almost all the administrative powerof France; for, after the abrupt disappearance of the nobility andthe higher rank of the middle classes, these powers devolved on him ofcourse: it would have been almost as difficult for him to reject as toassume them. But no necessity of this kind has ever been felt by theAmericans, who, having passed through no revolution, and having governedthemselves from the first, never had to call upon the State to act fora time as their guardian. Thus the progress of centralization amongst ademocratic people depends not only on the progress of equality, but onthe manner in which this equality has been established. 

At the commencement of a great democratic revolution, when hostilitieshave but just broken out between the different classes of society, thepeople endeavors to centralize the public administration in the hands ofthe government, in order to wrest the management of local affairsfrom the aristocracy. Towards the close of such a revolution, on thecontrary, it is usually the conquered aristocracy that endeavors tomake over the management of all affairs to the State, because such anaristocracy dreads the tyranny of a people which has become its equal, and not unfrequently its master. Thus it is not always the same classof the community which strives to increase the prerogative of thegovernment; but as long as the democratic revolution lasts there isalways one class in the nation, powerful in numbers or in wealth, whichis induced, by peculiar passions or interests, to centralize the publicadministration, independently of that hatred of being governed by one'sneighbor, which is a general and permanent feeling amongst democraticnations. It may be remarked, that at the present day the lower orders inEngland are striving with all their might to destroy local independence, and to transfer the administration from all points of the circumferenceto the centre; whereas the higher classes are endeavoring to retain thisadministration within its ancient boundaries. I venture to predict thata time will come when the very reverse will happen. 

These observations explain why the supreme power is always stronger, andprivate individuals weaker, amongst a democratic people which has passedthrough a long and arduous struggle to reach a state of equality thanamongst a democratic community in which the citizens have been equalfrom the first. The example of the Americans completely demonstratesthe fact. The inhabitants of the United States were never divided byany privileges; they have never known the mutual relation of master andinferior, and as they neither dread nor hate each other, they have neverknown the necessity of calling in the supreme power to manage theiraffairs. The lot of the Americans is singular: they have derived fromthe aristocracy of England the notion of private rights and the tastefor local freedom; and they have been able to retain both the one andthe other, because they have had no aristocracy to combat. 

If at all times education enables men to defend their independence, thisis most especially true in democratic ages. When all men are alike, itis easy to found a sole and all-powerful government, by the aid ofmere instinct. But men require much intelligence, knowledge, and art toorganize and to maintain secondary powers under similar circumstances, and to create amidst the independence and individual weakness of thecitizens such free associations as may be in a condition to struggleagainst tyranny without destroying public order. 

Hence the concentration of power and the subjection of individuals willincrease amongst democratic nations, not only in the same proportionas their equality, but in the same proportion as their ignorance. Itis true, that in ages of imperfect civilization the government isfrequently as wanting in the knowledge required to impose a despotismupon the people as the people are wanting in the knowledge required toshake it off; but the effect is not the same on both sides. However rudea democratic people may be, the central power which rules it is nevercompletely devoid of cultivation, because it readily draws to its ownuses what little cultivation is to be found in the country, and, ifnecessary, may seek assistance elsewhere. Hence, amongst a nation whichis ignorant as well as democratic, an amazing difference cannot failspeedily to arise between the intellectual capacity of the ruler andthat of each of his subjects. This completes the easy concentrationof all power in his hands: the administrative function of the State isperpetually extended, because the State alone is competent to administerthe affairs of the country. Aristocratic nations, however unenlightenedthey may be, never afford the same spectacle, because in theminstruction is nearly equally diffused between the monarch and theleading members of the community. 

The pacha who now rules in Egypt found the population of that countrycomposed of men exceedingly ignorant and equal, and he has borrowed thescience and ability of Europe to govern that people. As the personalattainments of the sovereign are thus combined with the ignorance anddemocratic weakness of his subjects, the utmost centralization has beenestablished without impediment, and the pacha has made the country hismanufactory, and the inhabitants his workmen. 

I think that extreme centralization of government ultimately enervatessociety, and thus after a length of time weakens the government itself;but I do not deny that a centralized social power may be able to executegreat undertakings with facility in a given time and on a particularpoint. This is more especially true of war, in which success dependsmuch more on the means of transferring all the resources of a nationto one single point, than on the extent of those resources. Hence it ischiefly in war that nations desire and frequently require to increasethe powers of the central government. All men of military genius arefond of centralization, which increases their strength; and all men ofcentralizing genius are fond of war, which compels nations to combineall their powers in the hands of the government. Thus the democratictendency which leads men unceasingly to multiply the privileges of theState, and to circumscribe the rights of private persons, is much morerapid and constant amongst those democratic nations which are exposed bytheir position to great and frequent wars, than amongst all others. 

I have shown how the dread of disturbance and the love of well-beinginsensibly lead democratic nations to increase the functions ofcentral government, as the only power which appears to be intrinsicallysufficiently strong, enlightened, and secure, to protect them fromanarchy. I would now add, that all the particular circumstanceswhich tend to make the state of a democratic community agitated andprecarious, enhance this general propensity, and lead private personsmore and more to sacrifice their rights to their tranquility. A peopleis therefore never so disposed to increase the functions of centralgovernment as at the close of a long and bloody revolution, which, afterhaving wrested property from the hands of its former possessors, has shaken all belief, and filled the nation with fierce hatreds, conflicting interests, and contending factions. The love of publictranquillity becomes at such times an indiscriminating passion, and themembers of the community are apt to conceive a most inordinate devotionto order. 

I have already examined several of the incidents which may concur topromote the centralization of power, but the principal cause stillremains to be noticed. The foremost of the incidental causes whichmay draw the management of all affairs into the hands of the ruler indemocratic countries, is the origin of that ruler himself, and his ownpropensities. Men who live in the ages of equality are naturally fondof central power, and are willing to extend its privileges; but if ithappens that this same power faithfully represents their own interests, and exactly copies their own inclinations, the confidence they place init knows no bounds, and they think that whatever they bestow upon it isbestowed upon themselves. 

The attraction of administrative powers to the centre will always beless easy and less rapid under the reign of kings who are still in someway connected with the old aristocratic order, than under new princes, the children of their own achievements, whose birth, prejudices, propensities, and habits appear to bind them indissolubly to the causeof equality. I do not mean that princes of aristocratic origin who livein democratic ages do not attempt to centralize; I believe they applythemselves to that object as diligently as any others. For them, the sole advantages of equality lie in that direction; but theiropportunities are less great, because the community, instead ofvolunteering compliance with their desires, frequently obeys them withreluctance. In democratic communities the rule is that centralizationmust increase in proportion as the sovereign is less aristocratic. Whenan ancient race of kings stands at the head of an aristocracy, as thenatural prejudices of the sovereign perfectly accord with the naturalprejudices of the nobility, the vices inherent in aristocraticcommunities have a free course, and meet with no corrective. The reverseis the case when the scion of a feudal stock is placed at the head ofa democratic people. The sovereign is constantly led, by his education, his habits, and his associations, to adopt sentiments suggested by theinequality of conditions, and the people tend as constantly, by theirsocial condition, to those manners which are engendered by equality. At such times it often happens that the citizens seek to control thecentral power far less as a tyrannical than as an aristocratical power, and that they persist in the firm defence of their independence, notonly because they would remain free, but especially because they aredetermined to remain equal. A revolution which overthrows an ancientregal family, in order to place men of more recent growth at the headof a democratic people, may temporarily weaken the central power; buthowever anarchical such a revolution may appear at first, we need nothesitate to predict that its final and certain consequence will be toextend and to secure the prerogatives of that power. The foremost orindeed the sole condition which is required in order to succeed incentralizing the supreme power in a democratic community, is to loveequality, or to get men to believe you love it. Thus the science ofdespotism, which was once so complex, is simplified, and reduced as itwere to a single principle. 

Chapter V: That Amongst The European Nations Of Our Time The Power OfGovernments Is Increasing, Although The Persons Who Govern Are LessStable

On reflecting upon what has already been said, the reader will bestartled and alarmed to find that in Europe everything seems to conduceto the indefinite extension of the prerogatives of government, and torender all that enjoyed the rights of private independence more weak, more subordinate, and more precarious. The democratic nations of Europehave all the general and permanent tendencies which urge the Americansto the centralization of government, and they are moreover exposed to anumber of secondary and incidental causes with which the Americans areunacquainted. It would seem as if every step they make towards equalitybrings them nearer to despotism. And indeed if we do but cast ourlooks around, we shall be convinced that such is the fact. During thearistocratic ages which preceded the present time, the sovereigns ofEurope had been deprived of, or had relinquished, many of the rightsinherent in their power. Not a hundred years ago, amongst the greaterpart of European nations, numerous private persons and corporations weresufficiently independent to administer justice, to raise and maintaintroops, to levy taxes, and frequently even to make or interpret thelaw. The State has everywhere resumed to itself alone these naturalattributes of sovereign power; in all matters of government the Statetolerates no intermediate agent between itself and the people, and ingeneral business it directs the people by its own immediate influence. Iam far from blaming this concentration of power, I simply point it out. 

At the same period a great number of secondary powers existed in Europe, which represented local interests and administered local affairs. Mostof these local authorities have already disappeared; all are speedilytending to disappear, or to fall into the most complete dependence. From one end of Europe to the other the privileges of the nobility, theliberties of cities, and the powers of provincial bodies, are eitherdestroyed or upon the verge of destruction. Europe has endured, inthe course of the last half-century, many revolutions andcounter-revolutions which have agitated it in opposite directions: butall these perturbations resemble each other in one respect--they haveall shaken or destroyed the secondary powers of government. The localprivileges which the French did not abolish in the countries theyconquered, have finally succumbed to the policy of the princes whoconquered the French. Those princes rejected all the innovations of theFrench Revolution except centralization: that is the only principle theyconsented to receive from such a source. My object is to remark, thatall these various rights, which have been successively wrested, in ourtime, from classes, corporations, and individuals, have not servedto raise new secondary powers on a more democratic basis, but haveuniformly been concentrated in the hands of the sovereign. Everywherethe State acquires more and more direct control over the humblestmembers of the community, and a more exclusive power of governingeach of them in his smallest concerns. *a Almost all the charitableestablishments of Europe were formerly in the hands of private personsor of corporations; they are now almost all dependent on the supremegovernment, and in many countries are actually administered by thatpower. The State almost exclusively undertakes to supply bread to thehungry, assistance and shelter to the sick, work to the idle, and toact as the sole reliever of all kinds of misery. Education, as wellas charity, is become in most countries at the present day a nationalconcern. The State receives, and often takes, the child from the arms ofthe mother, to hand it over to official agents: the State undertakes totrain the heart and to instruct the mind of each generation. Uniformityprevails in the courses of public instruction as in everything else;diversity, as well as freedom, is disappearing day by day. Nor do Ihesitate to affirm, that amongst almost all the Christian nations of ourdays, Catholic as well as Protestant, religion is in danger of fallinginto the hands of the government. Not that rulers are over-jealous ofthe right of settling points of doctrine, but they get more and morehold upon the will of those by whom doctrines are expounded; theydeprive the clergy of their property, and pay them by salaries; theydivert to their own use the influence of the priesthood, they make themtheir own ministers--often their own servants--and by this alliance withreligion they reach the inner depths of the soul of man. *b

[Footnote a: This gradual weakening of individuals in relation tosociety at large may be traced in a thousand ways. I shall selectfrom amongst these examples one derived from the law of wills. Inaristocracies it is common to profess the greatest reverence for thelast testamentary dispositions of a man; this feeling sometimes evenbecame superstitious amongst the older nations of Europe: the power ofthe State, far from interfering with the caprices of a dying man, gavefull force to the very least of them, and insured to him a perpetualpower. When all living men are enfeebled, the will of the dead is lessrespected: it is circumscribed within a narrow range, beyond which itis annulled or checked by the supreme power of the laws. In the MiddleAges, testamentary power had, so to speak, no limits: amongst the Frenchat the present day, a man cannot distribute his fortune amongst hischildren without the interference of the State; after having domineeredover a whole life, the law insists upon regulating the very last act ofit. ]

[Footnote b: In proportion as the duties of the central power areaugmented, the number of public officers by whom that power isrepresented must increase also. They form a nation in each nation; andas they share the stability of the government, they more and more fillup the place of an aristocracy. 

In almost every part of Europe the government rules in two ways; itrules one portion of the community by the fear which they entertain ofits agents, and the other by the hope they have of becoming its agents. ]

But this is as yet only one side of the picture. The authority ofgovernment has not only spread, as we have just seen, throughout thesphere of all existing powers, till that sphere can no longer containit, but it goes further, and invades the domain heretofore reservedto private independence. A multitude of actions, which were formerlyentirely beyond the control of the public administration, have beensubjected to that control in our time, and the number of them isconstantly increasing. Amongst aristocratic nations the supremegovernment usually contented itself with managing and superintendingthe community in whatever directly and ostensibly concerned the nationalhonor; but in all other respects the people were left to work out theirown free will. Amongst these nations the government often seemed toforget that there is a point at which the faults and the sufferings ofprivate persons involve the general prosperity, and that to preventthe ruin of a private individual must sometimes be a matter of publicimportance. The democratic nations of our time lean to the oppositeextreme. It is evident that most of our rulers will not contentthemselves with governing the people collectively: it would seem asif they thought themselves responsible for the actions and privatecondition of their subjects--as if they had undertaken to guide and toinstruct each of them in the various incidents of life, and to securetheir happiness quite independently of their own consent. On the otherhand private individuals grow more and more apt to look upon thesupreme power in the same light; they invoke its assistance in all theirnecessities, and they fix their eyes upon the administration as theirmentor or their guide. 

I assert that there is no country in Europe in which the publicadministration has not become, not only more centralized, but moreinquisitive and more minute it everywhere interferes in private concernsmore than it did; it regulates more undertakings, and undertakings of alesser kind; and it gains a firmer footing every day about, above, andaround all private persons, to assist, to advise, and to coerce them. Formerly a sovereign lived upon the income of his lands, or the revenueof his taxes; this is no longer the case now that his wants haveincreased as well as his power. Under the same circumstances whichformerly compelled a prince to put on a new tax, he now has recourseto a loan. Thus the State gradually becomes the debtor of most of thewealthier members of the community, and centralizes the largest amountsof capital in its own hands. Small capital is drawn into its keepingby another method. As men are intermingled and conditions become moreequal, the poor have more resources, more education, and more desires;they conceive the notion of bettering their condition, and this teachesthem to save. These savings are daily producing an infinite number ofsmall capitals, the slow and gradual produce of labor, which are alwaysincreasing. But the greater part of this money would be unproductive ifit remained scattered in the hands of its owners. This circumstance hasgiven rise to a philanthropic institution, which will soon become, if Iam not mistaken, one of our most important political institutions. Somecharitable persons conceived the notion of collecting the savings ofthe poor and placing them out at interest. In some countries thesebenevolent associations are still completely distinct from the State;but in almost all they manifestly tend to identify themselves with thegovernment; and in some of them the government has superseded them, taking upon itself the enormous task of centralizing in one place, andputting out at interest on its own responsibility, the daily savings ofmany millions of the working classes. Thus the State draws to itself thewealth of the rich by loans, and has the poor man's mite at its disposalin the savings banks. The wealth of the country is perpetually flowingaround the government and passing through its hands; the accumulationincreases in the same proportion as the equality of conditions; for ina democratic country the State alone inspires private individuals withconfidence, because the State alone appears to be endowed with strengthand durability. *c Thus the sovereign does not confine himself tothe management of the public treasury; he interferes in private moneymatters; he is the superior, and often the master, of all the membersof the community; and, in addition to this, he assumes the part of theirsteward and paymaster. 

[Footnote c: On the one hand the taste for worldly welfare isperpetually increasing, and on the other the government gets more andmore complete possession of the sources of that welfare. Thus men arefollowing two separate roads to servitude: the taste for their ownwelfare withholds them from taking a part in the government, and theirlove of that welfare places them in closer dependence upon those whogovern. ]

The central power not only fulfils of itself the whole of the dutiesformerly discharged by various authorities--extending those duties, andsurpassing those authorities--but it performs them with more alertness, strength, and independence than it displayed before. All the governmentsof Europe have in our time singularly improved the science ofadministration: they do more things, and they do everything with moreorder, more celerity, and at less expense; they seem to be constantlyenriched by all the experience of which they have stripped privatepersons. From day to day the princes of Europe hold their subordinateofficers under stricter control, and they invent new methods for guidingthem more closely, and inspecting them with less trouble. Not contentwith managing everything by their agents, they undertake to manage theconduct of their agents in everything; so that the public administrationnot only depends upon one and the same power, but it is more and moreconfined to one spot and concentrated in the same hands. The governmentcentralizes its agency whilst it increases its prerogative--hence atwofold increase of strength. 

In examining the ancient constitution of the judicial power, amongstmost European nations, two things strike the mind--the independence ofthat power, and the extent of its functions. Not only did the courts ofjustice decide almost all differences between private persons, but invery many cases they acted as arbiters between private persons and theState. I do not here allude to the political and administrative officeswhich courts of judicature had in some countries usurped, but thejudicial office common to them all. In most of the countries of Europe, there were, and there still are, many private rights, connected forthe most part with the general right of property, which stood underthe protection of the courts of justice, and which the State could notviolate without their sanction. It was this semi-political power whichmainly distinguished the European courts of judicature from all others;for all nations have had judges, but all have not invested their judgeswith the same privileges. Upon examining what is now occurring amongstthe democratic nations of Europe which are called free, as well asamongst the others, it will be observed that new and more dependentcourts are everywhere springing up by the side of the old ones, forthe express purpose of deciding, by an extraordinary jurisdiction, such litigated matters as may arise between the government and privatepersons. The elder judicial power retains its independence, but itsjurisdiction is narrowed; and there is a growing tendency to reduce itto be exclusively the arbiter between private interests. The number ofthese special courts of justice is continually increasing, and theirfunctions increase likewise. Thus the government is more and moreabsolved from the necessity of subjecting its policy and its rights tothe sanction of another power. As judges cannot be dispensed with, atleast the State is to select them, and always to hold them under itscontrol; so that, between the government and private individuals, theyplace the effigy of justice rather than justice itself. The State isnot satisfied with drawing all concerns to itself, but it acquires anever-increasing power of deciding on them all without restriction andwithout appeal. *d

[Footnote d: A strange sophism has been made on this head in France. When a suit arises between the government and a private person, it isnot to be tried before an ordinary judge--in order, they say, not tomix the administrative and the judicial powers; as if it were not tomix those powers, and to mix them in the most dangerous and oppressivemanner, to invest the government with the office of judging andadministering at the same time. ]

There exists amongst the modern nations of Europe one great cause, independent of all those which have already been pointed out, whichperpetually contributes to extend the agency or to strengthen theprerogative of the supreme power, though it has not been sufficientlyattended to: I mean the growth of manufactures, which is fostered by theprogress of social equality. Manufactures generally collect a multitudeof men of the same spot, amongst whom new and complex relationsspring up. These men are exposed by their calling to great and suddenalternations of plenty and want, during which public tranquillity isendangered. It may also happen that these employments sacrifice thehealth, and even the life, of those who gain by them, or of those wholive by them. Thus the manufacturing classes require more regulation, superintendence, and restraint than the other classes of society, andit is natural that the powers of government should increase in the sameproportion as those classes. 

This is a truth of general application; what follows more especiallyconcerns the nations of Europe. In the centuries which preceded that inwhich we live, the aristocracy was in possession of the soil, and wascompetent to defend it: landed property was therefore surrounded byample securities, and its possessors enjoyed great independence. This gave rise to laws and customs which have been perpetuated, notwithstanding the subdivision of lands and the ruin of the nobility;and, at the present time, landowners and agriculturists are still thoseamongst the community who must easily escape from the control of thesupreme power. In these same aristocratic ages, in which all thesources of our history are to be traced, personal property was of smallimportance, and those who possessed it were despised and weak:the manufacturing class formed an exception in the midst of thosearistocratic communities; as it had no certain patronage, it was notoutwardly protected, and was often unable to protect itself. 

Hence a habit sprung up of considering manufacturing property assomething of a peculiar nature, not entitled to the same deference, and not worthy of the same securities as property in general; andmanufacturers were looked upon as a small class in the bulk of thepeople, whose independence was of small importance, and who might withpropriety be abandoned to the disciplinary passions of princes. Onglancing over the codes of the middle ages, one is surprised to see, in those periods of personal independence, with what incessant royalregulations manufactures were hampered, even in their smallest details:on this point centralization was as active and as minute as it can everbe. Since that time a great revolution has taken place in the world;manufacturing property, which was then only in the germ, has spreadtill it covers Europe: the manufacturing class has been multiplied andenriched by the remnants of all other ranks; it has grown and is stillperpetually growing in number, in importance, in wealth. Almost allthose who do not belong to it are connected with it at least on some onepoint; after having been an exception in society, it threatens tobecome the chief, if not the only, class; nevertheless the notions andpolitical precedents engendered by it of old still cling about it. Thesenotions and these precedents remain unchanged, because they are old, and also because they happen to be in perfect accordance with the newnotions and general habits of our contemporaries. Manufacturing propertythen does not extend its rights in the same ratio as its importance. Themanufacturing classes do not become less dependent, whilst they becomemore numerous; but, on the contrary, it would seem as if despotismlurked within them, and naturally grew with their growth. *e As anation becomes more engaged in manufactures, the want of roads, canals, harbors, and other works of a semi-public nature, which facilitate theacquisition of wealth, is more strongly felt; and as a nation becomesmore democratic, private individuals are less able, and the State moreable, to execute works of such magnitude. I do not hesitate to assertthat the manifest tendency of all governments at the present time is totake upon themselves alone the execution of these undertakings; by whichmeans they daily hold in closer dependence the population which theygovern. 

[Footnote e: I shall quote a few facts in corroboration of this remark. Mines are the natural sources of manufacturing wealth: as manufactureshave grown up in Europe, as the produce of mines has become of moregeneral importance, and good mining more difficult from the subdivisionof property which is a consequence of the equality of conditions, mostgovernments have asserted a right of owning the soil in which the mineslie, and of inspecting the works; which has never been the case with anyother kind of property. Thus mines, which were private property, liableto the same obligations and sheltered by the same guarantees as allother landed property, have fallen under the control of the State. The State either works them or farms them; the owners of them are meretenants, deriving their rights from the State; and, moreover, the Statealmost everywhere claims the power of directing their operations: itlays down rules, enforces the adoption of particular methods, subjectsthe mining adventurers to constant superintendence, and, if refractory, they are ousted by a government court of justice, and the governmenttransfers their contract to other hands; so that the government notonly possesses the mines, but has all the adventurers in its power. Nevertheless, as manufactures increase, the working of old minesincreases also; new ones are opened, the mining population extends andgrows up; day by day governments augment their subterranean dominions, and people them with their agents. ]

On the other hand, in proportion as the power of a State increases, andits necessities are augmented, the State consumption of manufacturedproduce is always growing larger, and these commodities are generallymade in the arsenals or establishments of the government. Thus, in everykingdom, the ruler becomes the principal manufacturer; he collectsand retains in his service a vast number of engineers, architects, mechanics, and handicraftsmen. Not only is he the principalmanufacturer, but he tends more and more to become the chief, or ratherthe master of all other manufacturers. As private persons becomemore powerless by becoming more equal, they can effect nothing inmanufactures without combination; but the government naturally seeks toplace these combinations under its own control. 

It must be admitted that these collective beings, which are calledcombinations, are stronger and more formidable than a private individualcan ever be, and that they have less of the responsibility of their ownactions; whence it seems reasonable that they should not be allowed toretain so great an independence of the supreme government as might beconceded to a private individual. 

Rulers are the more apt to follow this line of policy, as their owninclinations invite them to it. Amongst democratic nations it is only byassociation that the resistance of the people to the government can everdisplay itself: hence the latter always looks with ill-favor on thoseassociations which are not in its own power; and it is well worthy ofremark, that amongst democratic nations, the people themselves oftenentertain a secret feeling of fear and jealousy against thesevery associations, which prevents the citizens from defending theinstitutions of which they stand so much in need. The power and theduration of these small private bodies, in the midst of the weakness andinstability of the whole community, astonish and alarm the people;and the free use which each association makes of its natural powers isalmost regarded as a dangerous privilege. All the associations whichspring up in our age are, moreover, new corporate powers, whose rightshave not been sanctioned by time; they come into existence at atime when the notion of private rights is weak, and when the power ofgovernment is unbounded; hence it is not surprising that they lose theirfreedom at their birth. Amongst all European nations there are somekinds of associations which cannot be formed until the State hasexamined their by-laws, and authorized their existence. In severalothers, attempts are made to extend this rule to all associations; theconsequences of such a policy, if it were successful, may easily beforeseen. If once the sovereign had a general right of authorizingassociations of all kinds upon certain conditions, he would not be longwithout claiming the right of superintending and managing them, in orderto prevent them from departing from the rules laid down by himself. Inthis manner, the State, after having reduced all who are desirous offorming associations into dependence, would proceed to reduce into thesame condition all who belong to associations already formed--that isto say, almost all the men who are now in existence. Governments thusappropriate to themselves, and convert to their own purposes, thegreater part of this new power which manufacturing interests have inour time brought into the world. Manufacturers govern us--they governmanufactures. 

I attach so much importance to all that I have just been saying, thatI am tormented by the fear of having impaired my meaning in seekingto render it more clear. If the reader thinks that the examples I haveadduced to support my observations are insufficient or ill-chosen--ifhe imagines that I have anywhere exaggerated the encroachments of thesupreme power, and, on the other hand, that I have underrated the extentof the sphere which still remains open to the exertions of individualindependence, I entreat him to lay down the book for a moment, and toturn his mind to reflect for himself upon the subjects I have attemptedto explain. Let him attentively examine what is taking place in Franceand in other countries--let him inquire of those about him--let himsearch himself, and I am much mistaken if he does not arrive, withoutmy guidance, and by other paths, at the point to which I have soughtto lead him. He will perceive that for the last half-century, centralization has everywhere been growing up in a thousand differentways. Wars, revolutions, conquests, have served to promote it: all menhave labored to increase it. In the course of the same period, duringwhich men have succeeded each other with singular rapidity at the headof affairs, their notions, interests, and passions have been infinitelydiversified; but all have by some means or other sought to centralize. This instinctive centralization has been the only settled point amidstthe extreme mutability of their lives and of their thoughts. 

If the reader, after having investigated these details of human affairs, will seek to survey the wide prospect as a whole, he will be struckby the result. On the one hand the most settled dynasties shaken oroverthrown--the people everywhere escaping by violence from the swayof their laws--abolishing or limiting the authority of their rulers ortheir princes--the nations, which are not in open revolution, restlessat least, and excited--all of them animated by the same spirit ofrevolt: and on the other hand, at this very period of anarchy, andamongst these untractable nations, the incessant increase of theprerogative of the supreme government, becoming more centralized, moreadventurous, more absolute, more extensive--the people perpetuallyfalling under the control of the public administration--ledinsensibly to surrender to it some further portion of their individualindependence, till the very men, who from time to time upset a throneand trample on a race of kings, bend more and more obsequiously to theslightest dictate of a clerk. Thus two contrary revolutions appearin our days to be going on; the one continually weakening the supremepower, the other as continually strengthening it: at no other periodin our history has it appeared so weak or so strong. But upon a moreattentive examination of the state of the world, it appears that thesetwo revolutions are intimately connected together, that they originatein the same source, and that after having followed a separate course, they lead men at last to the same result. I may venture once more torepeat what I have already said or implied in several parts of thisbook: great care must be taken not to confound the principle of equalityitself with the revolution which finally establishes that principle inthe social condition and the laws of a nation: here lies the reason ofalmost all the phenomena which occasion our astonishment. All the oldpolitical powers of Europe, the greatest as well as the least, werefounded in ages of aristocracy, and they more or less represented ordefended the principles of inequality and of privilege. To make thenovel wants and interests, which the growing principle of equalityintroduced, preponderate in government, our contemporaries had tooverturn or to coerce the established powers. This led them to makerevolutions, and breathed into many of them, that fierce love ofdisturbance and independence, which all revolutions, whatever be theirobject, always engender. I do not believe that there is a single countryin Europe in which the progress of equality has not been preceded orfollowed by some violent changes in the state of property and persons;and almost all these changes have been attended with much anarchy andlicense, because they have been made by the least civilized portion ofthe nation against that which is most civilized. Hence proceeded thetwo-fold contrary tendencies which I have just pointed out. As long asthe democratic revolution was glowing with heat, the men who werebent upon the destruction of old aristocratic powers hostile to thatrevolution, displayed a strong spirit of independence; but as thevictory or the principle of equality became more complete, theygradually surrendered themselves to the propensities natural to thatcondition of equality, and they strengthened and centralized theirgovernments. They had sought to be free in order to make themselvesequal; but in proportion as equality was more established by the aidof freedom, freedom itself was thereby rendered of more difficultattainment. 

These two states of a nation have sometimes been contemporaneous:the last generation in France showed how a people might organize astupendous tyranny in the community, at the very time when they werebaffling the authority of the nobility and braving the power of allkings--at once teaching the world the way to win freedom, and the way tolose it. In our days men see that constituted powers are dilapidatedon every side--they see all ancient authority gasping away, all ancientbarriers tottering to their fall, and the judgment of the wisest istroubled at the sight: they attend only to the amazing revolution whichis taking place before their eyes, and they imagine that mankind isabout to fall into perpetual anarchy: if they looked to the finalconsequences of this revolution, their fears would perhaps assume adifferent shape. For myself, I confess that I put no trust in the spiritof freedom which appears to animate my contemporaries. I see wellenough that the nations of this age are turbulent, but I do not clearlyperceive that they are liberal; and I fear lest, at the close ofthose perturbations which rock the base of thrones, the domination ofsovereigns may prove more powerful than it ever was before. 

Chapter VI: What Sort Of Despotism Democratic Nations Have To Fear

I had remarked during my stay in the United States, that a democraticstate of society, similar to that of the Americans, might offer singularfacilities for the establishment of despotism; and I perceived, uponmy return to Europe, how much use had already been made by most of ourrulers, of the notions, the sentiments, and the wants engendered by thissame social condition, for the purpose of extending the circle oftheir power. This led me to think that the nations of Christendom wouldperhaps eventually undergo some sort of oppression like that whichhung over several of the nations of the ancient world. A more accurateexamination of the subject, and five years of further meditations, havenot diminished my apprehensions, but they have changed the object ofthem. No sovereign ever lived in former ages so absolute or so powerfulas to undertake to administer by his own agency, and without theassistance of intermediate powers, all the parts of a great empire: noneever attempted to subject all his subjects indiscriminately to strictuniformity of regulation, and personally to tutor and direct everymember of the community. The notion of such an undertaking neveroccurred to the human mind; and if any man had conceived it, the wantof information, the imperfection of the administrative system, and aboveall, the natural obstacles caused by the inequality of conditions, wouldspeedily have checked the execution of so vast a design. When the Romanemperors were at the height of their power, the different nations of theempire still preserved manners and customs of great diversity; althoughthey were subject to the same monarch, most of the provinces wereseparately administered; they abounded in powerful and activemunicipalities; and although the whole government of the empire wascentred in the hands of the emperor alone, and he always remained, uponoccasions, the supreme arbiter in all matters, yet the details of sociallife and private occupations lay for the most part beyond his control. The emperors possessed, it is true, an immense and unchecked power, which allowed them to gratify all their whimsical tastes, and to employfor that purpose the whole strength of the State. They frequently abusedthat power arbitrarily to deprive their subjects of property or of life:their tyranny was extremely onerous to the few, but it did not reach thegreater number; it was fixed to some few main objects, and neglected therest; it was violent, but its range was limited. 

But it would seem that if despotism were to be established amongst thedemocratic nations of our days, it might assume a different character;it would be more extensive and more mild; it would degrade men withouttormenting them. I do not question, that in an age of instructionand equality like our own, sovereigns might more easily succeed incollecting all political power into their own hands, and might interferemore habitually and decidedly within the circle of private interests, than any sovereign of antiquity could ever do. But this same principleof equality which facilitates despotism, tempers its rigor. We have seenhow the manners of society become more humane and gentle in proportionas men become more equal and alike. When no member of the community hasmuch power or much wealth, tyranny is, as it were, without opportunitiesand a field of action. As all fortunes are scanty, the passions of menare naturally circumscribed--their imagination limited, their pleasuressimple. This universal moderation moderates the sovereign himself, andchecks within certain limits the inordinate extent of his desires. 

Independently of these reasons drawn from the nature of the state ofsociety itself, I might add many others arising from causes beyond mysubject; but I shall keep within the limits I have laid down to myself. Democratic governments may become violent and even cruel at certainperiods of extreme effervescence or of great danger: but these criseswill be rare and brief. When I consider the petty passions of ourcontemporaries, the mildness of their manners, the extent of theireducation, the purity of their religion, the gentleness of theirmorality, their regular and industrious habits, and the restraint whichthey almost all observe in their vices no less than in their virtues, I have no fear that they will meet with tyrants in their rulers, butrather guardians. *a I think then that the species of oppression bywhich democratic nations are menaced is unlike anything which everbefore existed in the world: our contemporaries will find no prototypeof it in their memories. I am trying myself to choose an expressionwhich will accurately convey the whole of the idea I have formed of it, but in vain; the old words "despotism" and "tyranny" are inappropriate:the thing itself is new; and since I cannot name it, I must attempt todefine it. 

[Footnote a: See Appendix Y. ]

I seek to trace the novel features under which despotism may appearin the world. The first thing that strikes the observation isan innumerable multitude of men all equal and alike, incessantlyendeavoring to procure the petty and paltry pleasures with which theyglut their lives. Each of them, living apart, is as a stranger to thefate of all the rest--his children and his private friends constitute tohim the whole of mankind; as for the rest of his fellow-citizens, he isclose to them, but he sees them not--he touches them, but he feels themnot; he exists but in himself and for himself alone; and if his kindredstill remain to him, he may be said at any rate to have lost hiscountry. Above this race of men stands an immense and tutelary power, which takes upon itself alone to secure their gratifications, andto watch over their fate. That power is absolute, minute, regular, provident, and mild. It would be like the authority of a parent, if, like that authority, its object was to prepare men for manhood; but itseeks on the contrary to keep them in perpetual childhood: it is wellcontent that the people should rejoice, provided they think of nothingbut rejoicing. For their happiness such a government willingly labors, but it chooses to be the sole agent and the only arbiter of thathappiness: it provides for their security, foresees and supplies theirnecessities, facilitates their pleasures, manages their principalconcerns, directs their industry, regulates the descent of property, andsubdivides their inheritances--what remains, but to spare them allthe care of thinking and all the trouble of living? Thus it every dayrenders the exercise of the free agency of man less useful and lessfrequent; it circumscribes the will within a narrower range, andgradually robs a man of all the uses of himself. The principle ofequality has prepared men for these things: it has predisposed men toendure them, and oftentimes to look on them as benefits. 

After having thus successively taken each member of the community inits powerful grasp, and fashioned them at will, the supreme power thenextends its arm over the whole community. It covers the surface ofsociety with a net-work of small complicated rules, minute and uniform, through which the most original minds and the most energetic characterscannot penetrate, to rise above the crowd. The will of man is notshattered, but softened, bent, and guided: men are seldom forced by itto act, but they are constantly restrained from acting: such a powerdoes not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, butit compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, tilleach nation is reduced to be nothing better than a flock of timid andindustrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd. I havealways thought that servitude of the regular, quiet, and gentle kindwhich I have just described, might be combined more easily than iscommonly believed with some of the outward forms of freedom; and thatit might even establish itself under the wing of the sovereignty of thepeople. Our contemporaries are constantly excited by two conflictingpassions; they want to be led, and they wish to remain free: as theycannot destroy either one or the other of these contrary propensities, they strive to satisfy them both at once. They devise a sole, tutelary, and all-powerful form of government, but elected by the people. Theycombine the principle of centralization and that of popular sovereignty;this gives them a respite; they console themselves for being in tutelageby the reflection that they have chosen their own guardians. Every manallows himself to be put in leading-strings, because he sees that it isnot a person or a class of persons, but the people at large that holdsthe end of his chain. By this system the people shake off their stateof dependence just long enough to select their master, and then relapseinto it again. A great many persons at the present day are quitecontented with this sort of compromise between administrative despotismand the sovereignty of the people; and they think they have done enoughfor the protection of individual freedom when they have surrenderedit to the power of the nation at large. This does not satisfy me:the nature of him I am to obey signifies less to me than the fact ofextorted obedience. 

I do not however deny that a constitution of this kind appears to me tobe infinitely preferable to one, which, after having concentratedall the powers of government, should vest them in the hands of anirresponsible person or body of persons. Of all the forms whichdemocratic despotism could assume, the latter would assuredly bethe worst. When the sovereign is elective, or narrowly watched by alegislature which is really elective and independent, the oppressionwhich he exercises over individuals is sometimes greater, but it isalways less degrading; because every man, when he is oppressed anddisarmed, may still imagine, that whilst he yields obedience it is tohimself he yields it, and that it is to one of his own inclinations thatall the rest give way. In like manner I can understand that when thesovereign represents the nation, and is dependent upon the people, therights and the power of which every citizen is deprived, not only servethe head of the State, but the State itself; and that private personsderive some return from the sacrifice of their independence which theyhave made to the public. To create a representation of the people inevery centralized country, is therefore, to diminish the evil whichextreme centralization may produce, but not to get rid of it. I admitthat by this means room is left for the intervention of individuals inthe more important affairs; but it is not the less suppressed in thesmaller and more private ones. It must not be forgotten that it isespecially dangerous to enslave men in the minor details of life. For myown part, I should be inclined to think freedom less necessary in greatthings than in little ones, if it were possible to be secure of the onewithout possessing the other. Subjection in minor affairs breaks outevery day, and is felt by the whole community indiscriminately. It doesnot drive men to resistance, but it crosses them at every turn, tillthey are led to surrender the exercise of their will. Thus theirspirit is gradually broken and their character enervated; whereas thatobedience, which is exacted on a few important but rare occasions, onlyexhibits servitude at certain intervals, and throws the burden of itupon a small number of men. It is in vain to summon a people, which hasbeen rendered so dependent on the central power, to choose from time totime the representatives of that power; this rare and brief exercise oftheir free choice, however important it may be, will not prevent themfrom gradually losing the faculties of thinking, feeling, and acting forthemselves, and thus gradually falling below the level of humanity. *bI add that they will soon become incapable of exercising the great andonly privilege which remains to them. The democratic nations which haveintroduced freedom into their political constitution, at the verytime when they were augmenting the despotism of their administrativeconstitution, have been led into strange paradoxes. To manage thoseminor affairs in which good sense is all that is wanted--the people areheld to be unequal to the task, but when the government of the countryis at stake, the people are invested with immense powers; they arealternately made the playthings of their ruler, and his masters--morethan kings, and less than men. After having exhausted all the differentmodes of election, without finding one to suit their purpose, they arestill amazed, and still bent on seeking further; as if the evil theyremark did not originate in the constitution of the country far morethan in that of the electoral body. It is, indeed, difficult to conceivehow men who have entirely given up the habit of self-government shouldsucceed in making a proper choice of those by whom they are to begoverned; and no one will ever believe that a liberal, wise, andenergetic government can spring from the suffrages of a subservientpeople. A constitution, which should be republican in its head andultra-monarchical in all its other parts, has ever appeared to me tobe a short-lived monster. The vices of rulers and the ineptitude of thepeople would speedily bring about its ruin; and the nation, weary of itsrepresentatives and of itself, would create freer institutions, or soonreturn to stretch itself at the feet of a single master. 

[Footnote b: See Appendix Z. ]

Chapter VII: Continuation Of The Preceding Chapters

I believe that it is easier to establish an absolute and despoticgovernment amongst a people in which the conditions of society areequal, than amongst any other; and I think that if such a governmentwere once established amongst such a people, it would not only oppressmen, but would eventually strip each of them of several of the highestqualities of humanity. Despotism therefore appears to me peculiarly tobe dreaded in democratic ages. I should have loved freedom, I believe, at all times, but in the time in which we live I am ready to worshipit. On the other hand, I am persuaded that all who shall attempt, inthe ages upon which we are entering, to base freedom upon aristocraticprivilege, will fail--that all who shall attempt to draw and to retainauthority within a single class, will fail. At the present day no ruleris skilful or strong enough to found a despotism, by re-establishingpermanent distinctions of rank amongst his subjects: no legislator iswise or powerful enough to preserve free institutions, if he does nottake equality for his first principle and his watchword. All those ofour contemporaries who would establish or secure the independence andthe dignity of their fellow-men, must show themselves the friends ofequality; and the only worthy means of showing themselves as such, is tobe so: upon this depends the success of their holy enterprise. Thus thequestion is not how to reconstruct aristocratic society, but how to makeliberty proceed out of that democratic state of society in which God hasplaced us. 

These two truths appear to me simple, clear, and fertile inconsequences; and they naturally lead me to consider what kind offree government can be established amongst a people in which socialconditions are equal. It results from the very constitution ofdemocratic nations and from their necessities, that the power ofgovernment amongst them must be more uniform, more centralized, moreextensive, more searching, and more efficient than in other countries. Society at large is naturally stronger and more active, individuals moresubordinate and weak; the former does more, the latter less; and this isinevitably the case. It is not therefore to be expected that the rangeof private independence will ever be as extensive in democratic asin aristocratic countries--nor is this to be desired; for, amongstaristocratic nations, the mass is often sacrificed to the individual, and the prosperity of the greater number to the greatness of the few. It is both necessary and desirable that the government of a democraticpeople should be active and powerful: and our object should not be torender it weak or indolent, but solely to prevent it from abusing itsaptitude and its strength. 

The circumstance which most contributed to secure the independence ofprivate persons in aristocratic ages, was, that the supreme power didnot affect to take upon itself alone the government and administrationof the community; those functions were necessarily partially left tothe members of the aristocracy: so that as the supreme power was alwaysdivided, it never weighed with its whole weight and in the same manneron each individual. Not only did the government not perform everythingby its immediate agency; but as most of the agents who discharged itsduties derived their power not from the State, but from the circumstanceof their birth, they were not perpetually under its control. Thegovernment could not make or unmake them in an instant, at pleasure, nor bend them in strict uniformity to its slightest caprice--this wasan additional guarantee of private independence. I readily admit thatrecourse cannot be had to the same means at the present time: but Idiscover certain democratic expedients which may be substituted forthem. Instead of vesting in the government alone all the administrativepowers of which corporations and nobles have been deprived, a portion ofthem may be entrusted to secondary public bodies, temporarily composedof private citizens: thus the liberty of private persons will be moresecure, and their equality will not be diminished. 

The Americans, who care less for words than the French, still designateby the name of "county" the largest of their administrative districts:but the duties of the count or lord-lieutenant are in part performed bya provincial assembly. At a period of equality like our own it would beunjust and unreasonable to institute hereditary officers; but there isnothing to prevent us from substituting elective public officers to acertain extent. Election is a democratic expedient which insures theindependence of the public officer in relation to the government, as much and even more than hereditary rank can insure it amongstaristocratic nations. Aristocratic countries abound in wealthy andinfluential persons who are competent to provide for themselves, andwho cannot be easily or secretly oppressed: such persons restrain agovernment within general habits of moderation and reserve. I am verywell aware that democratic countries contain no such persons naturally;but something analogous to them may be created by artificial means. Ifirmly believe that an aristocracy cannot again be founded in the world;but I think that private citizens, by combining together, may constitutebodies of great wealth, influence, and strength, corresponding to thepersons of an aristocracy. By this means many of the greatest politicaladvantages of aristocracy would be obtained without its injustice orits dangers. An association for political, commercial, or manufacturingpurposes, or even for those of science and literature, is a powerfuland enlightened member of the community, which cannot be disposed of atpleasure, or oppressed without remonstrance; and which, by defending itsown rights against the encroachments of the government, saves the commonliberties of the country. 

In periods of aristocracy every man is always bound so closely to manyof his fellow-citizens, that he cannot be assailed without their comingto his assistance. In ages of equality every man naturally stands alone;he has no hereditary friends whose co-operation he may demand--no classupon whose sympathy he may rely: he is easily got rid of, and he istrampled on with impunity. At the present time, an oppressed memberof the community has therefore only one method of self-defence--hemay appeal to the whole nation; and if the whole nation is deaf to hiscomplaint, he may appeal to mankind: the only means he has of makingthis appeal is by the press. Thus the liberty of the press is infinitelymore valuable amongst democratic nations than amongst all others; it isthe only cure for the evils which equality may produce. Equality setsmen apart and weakens them; but the press places a powerful weaponwithin every man's reach, which the weakest and loneliest of them allmay use. Equality deprives a man of the support of his connections; butthe press enables him to summon all his fellow-countrymen and all hisfellow-men to his assistance. Printing has accelerated the progress ofequality, and it is also one of its best correctives. 

I think that men living in aristocracies may, strictly speaking, dowithout the liberty of the press: but such is not the case with thosewho live in democratic countries. To protect their personal independenceI trust not to great political assemblies, to parliamentary privilege, or to the assertion of popular sovereignty. All these things may, toa certain extent, be reconciled with personal servitude--but thatservitude cannot be complete if the press is free: the press is thechiefest democratic instrument of freedom. 

Something analogous may be said of the judicial power. It is a part ofthe essence of judicial power to attend to private interests, and to fixitself with predilection on minute objects submitted to its observation;another essential quality of judicial power is never to volunteer itsassistance to the oppressed, but always to be at the disposal of thehumblest of those who solicit it; their complaint, however feeble theymay themselves be, will force itself upon the ear of justice and claimredress, for this is inherent in the very constitution of the courtsof justice. A power of this kind is therefore peculiarly adapted to thewants of freedom, at a time when the eye and finger of the governmentare constantly intruding into the minutest details of human actions, andwhen private persons are at once too weak to protect themselves, and toomuch isolated for them to reckon upon the assistance of their fellows. The strength of the courts of law has ever been the greatest securitywhich can be offered to personal independence; but this is moreespecially the case in democratic ages: private rights and interests arein constant danger, if the judicial power does not grow more extensiveand more strong to keep pace with the growing equality of conditions. 

Equality awakens in men several propensities extremely dangerous tofreedom, to which the attention of the legislator ought constantly to bedirected. I shall only remind the reader of the most important amongstthem. Men living in democratic ages do not readily comprehend theutility of forms: they feel an instinctive contempt for them--I haveelsewhere shown for what reasons. Forms excite their contempt and oftentheir hatred; as they commonly aspire to none but easy and presentgratifications, they rush onwards to the object of their desires, andthe slightest delay exasperates them. This same temper, carriedwith them into political life, renders them hostile to forms, whichperpetually retard or arrest them in some of their projects. Yet thisobjection which the men of democracies make to forms is the very thingwhich renders forms so useful to freedom; for their chief merit is toserve as a barrier between the strong and the weak, the ruler and thepeople, to retard the one, and give the other time to look about him. Forms become more necessary in proportion as the government becomesmore active and more powerful, whilst private persons are becoming moreindolent and more feeble. Thus democratic nations naturally stand morein need of forms than other nations, and they naturally respect themless. This deserves most serious attention. Nothing is more pitifulthan the arrogant disdain of most of our contemporaries for questionsof form; for the smallest questions of form have acquired in our time animportance which they never had before: many of the greatest interestsof mankind depend upon them. I think that if the statesmen ofaristocratic ages could sometimes contemn forms with impunity, andfrequently rise above them, the statesmen to whom the government ofnations is now confided ought to treat the very least among themwith respect, and not neglect them without imperious necessity. Inaristocracies the observance of forms was superstitious; amongst us theyought to be kept with a deliberate and enlightened deference. 

Another tendency, which is extremely natural to democratic nations andextremely dangerous, is that which leads them ta despise and undervaluethe rights of private persons. The attachment which men feel to a right, and the respect which they display for it, is generally proportioned toits importance, or to the length of time during which they have enjoyedit. The rights of private persons amongst democratic nations arecommonly of small importance, of recent growth, and extremelyprecarious--the consequence is that they are often sacrificed withoutregret, and almost always violated without remorse. But it happens thatat the same period and amongst the same nations in which men conceivea natural contempt for the rights of private persons, the rights ofsociety at large are naturally extended and consolidated: in otherwords, men become less attached to private rights at the very time atwhich it would be most necessary to retain and to defend what littleremains of them. It is therefore most especially in the presentdemocratic ages, that the true friends of the liberty and the greatnessof man ought constantly to be on the alert to prevent the power ofgovernment from lightly sacrificing the private rights of individualsto the general execution of its designs. At such times no citizen is soobscure that it is not very dangerous to allow him to be oppressed--noprivate rights are so unimportant that they can be surrendered withimpunity to the caprices of a government. The reason is plain:--if theprivate right of an individual is violated at a time when the human mindis fully impressed with the importance and the sanctity of such rights, the injury done is confined to the individual whose right is infringed;but to violate such a right, at the present day, is deeply to corruptthe manners of the nation and to put the whole community in jeopardy, because the very notion of this kind of right constantly tends amongstus to be impaired and lost. 

There are certain habits, certain notions, and certain vices which arepeculiar to a state of revolution, and which a protracted revolutioncannot fail to engender and to propagate, whatever be, in otherrespects, its character, its purpose, and the scene on which it takesplace. When any nation has, within a short space of time, repeatedlyvaried its rulers, its opinions, and its laws, the men of whom it iscomposed eventually contract a taste for change, and grow accustomedto see all changes effected by sudden violence. Thus they naturallyconceive a contempt for forms which daily prove ineffectual; and they donot support without impatience the dominion of rules which they have sooften seen infringed. As the ordinary notions of equity and morality nolonger suffice to explain and justify all the innovations daily begottenby a revolution, the principle of public utility is called in, thedoctrine of political necessity is conjured up, and men accustomthemselves to sacrifice private interests without scruple, andto trample on the rights of individuals in order more speedily toaccomplish any public purpose. 

These habits and notions, which I shall call revolutionary, because allrevolutions produce them, occur in aristocracies just as much as amongstdemocratic nations; but amongst the former they are often less powerfuland always less lasting, because there they meet with habits, notions, defects, and impediments, which counteract them: they consequentlydisappear as soon as the revolution is terminated, and the nationreverts to its former political courses. This is not always the casein democratic countries, in which it is ever to be feared thatrevolutionary tendencies, becoming more gentle and more regular, withoutentirely disappearing from society, will be gradually transformed intohabits of subjection to the administrative authority of the government. I know of no countries in which revolutions re more dangerous thanin democratic countries; because, independently of the accidental andtransient evils which must always attend them, they may always createsome evils which are permanent and unending. I believe that there aresuch things as justifiable resistance and legitimate rebellion: I do nottherefore assert, as an absolute proposition, that the men of democraticages ought never to make revolutions; but I think that they haveespecial reason to hesitate before they embark in them, and that it isfar better to endure many grievances in their present condition than tohave recourse to so perilous a remedy. 

I shall conclude by one general idea, which comprises not only all theparticular ideas which have been expressed in the present chapter, butalso most of those which it is the object of this book to treat of. In the ages of aristocracy which preceded our own, there were privatepersons of great power, and a social authority of extreme weakness. Theoutline of society itself was not easily discernible, and constantlyconfounded with the different powers by which the community was ruled. The principal efforts of the men of those times were required tostrengthen, aggrandize, and secure the supreme power; and on the otherhand, to circumscribe individual independence within narrower limits, and to subject private interests to the interests of the public. Otherperils and other cares await the men of our age. Amongst the greaterpart of modern nations, the government, whatever may be its origin, itsconstitution, or its name, has become almost omnipotent, and privatepersons are falling, more and more, into the lowest stage of weaknessand dependence. In olden society everything was different; unity anduniformity were nowhere to be met with. In modern society everythingthreatens to become so much alike, that the peculiar characteristics ofeach individual will soon be entirely lost in the general aspect of theworld. Our forefathers were ever prone to make an improper use of thenotion, that private rights ought to be respected; and we are naturallyprone on the other hand to exaggerate the idea that the interest of aprivate individual ought always to bend to the interest of the many. Thepolitical world is metamorphosed: new remedies must henceforth be soughtfor new disorders. To lay down extensive, but distinct and settledlimits, to the action of the government; to confer certain rights onprivate persons, and to secure to them the undisputed enjoyment of thoserights; to enable individual man to maintain whatever independence, strength, and original power he still possesses; to raise him by theside of society at large, and uphold him in that position--these appearto me the main objects of legislators in the ages upon which we are nowentering. It would seem as if the rulers of our time sought only to usemen in order to make things great; I wish that they would try a littlemore to make great men; that they would set less value on the work, andmore upon the workman; that they would never forget that a nation cannotlong remain strong when every man belonging to it is individually weak, and that no form or combination of social polity has yet been devised, to make an energetic people out of a community of pusillanimous andenfeebled citizens. 

I trace amongst our contemporaries two contrary notions which areequally injurious. One set of men can perceive nothing in the principleof equality but the anarchical tendencies which it engenders: theydread their own free agency--they fear themselves. Other thinkers, lessnumerous but more enlightened, take a different view: besides that trackwhich starts from the principle of equality to terminate in anarchy, they have at last discovered the road which seems to lead men toinevitable servitude. They shape their souls beforehand to thisnecessary condition; and, despairing of remaining free, they alreadydo obeisance in their hearts to the master who is soon to appear. Theformer abandon freedom, because they think it dangerous; the latter, because they hold it to be impossible. If I had entertained the latterconviction, I should not have written this book, but I should haveconfined myself to deploring in secret the destiny of mankind. I havesought to point out the dangers to which the principle of equalityexposes the independence of man, because I firmly believe that thesedangers are the most formidable, as well as the least foreseen, of allthose which futurity holds in store: but I do not think that they areinsurmountable. The men who live in the democratic ages upon which weare entering have naturally a taste for independence: they are naturallyimpatient of regulation, and they are wearied by the permanence even ofthe condition they themselves prefer. They are fond of power; but theyare prone to despise and hate those who wield it, and they easily eludeits grasp by their own mobility and insignificance. These propensitieswill always manifest themselves, because they originate in thegroundwork of society, which will undergo no change: for a long timethey will prevent the establishment of any despotism, and they willfurnish fresh weapons to each succeeding generation which shall strugglein favor of the liberty of mankind. Let us then look forward to thefuture with that salutary fear which makes men keep watch and wardfor freedom, not with that faint and idle terror which depresses andenervates the heart. 

Chapter VIII: General Survey Of The Subject

Before I close forever the theme that has detained me so long, I wouldfain take a parting survey of all the various characteristics of modernsociety, and appreciate at last the general influence to be exercised bythe principle of equality upon the fate of mankind; but I am stoppedby the difficulty of the task, and in presence of so great an object mysight is troubled, and my reason fails. The society of the modern worldwhich I have sought to delineate, and which I seek to judge, has butjust come into existence. Time has not yet shaped it into perfect form:the great revolution by which it has been created is not yet over: andamidst the occurrences of our time, it is almost impossible to discernwhat will pass away with the revolution itself, and what will surviveits close. The world which is rising into existence is still halfencumbered by the remains of the world which is waning into decay; andamidst the vast perplexity of human affairs, none can say how much ofancient institutions and former manners will remain, or how much willcompletely disappear. Although the revolution which is taking place inthe social condition, the laws, the opinions, and the feelings of men, is still very far from being terminated, yet its results already admitof no comparison with anything that the world has ever before witnessed. I go back from age to age up to the remotest antiquity; but I find noparallel to what is occurring before my eyes: as the past has ceased tothrow its light upon the future, the mind of man wanders in obscurity. Nevertheless, in the midst of a prospect so wide, so novel and soconfused, some of the more prominent characteristics may already bediscerned and pointed out. The good things and the evils of life aremore equally distributed in the world: great wealth tends to disappear, the number of small fortunes to increase; desires and gratificationsare multiplied, but extraordinary prosperity and irremediable penury arealike unknown. The sentiment of ambition is universal, but the scopeof ambition is seldom vast. Each individual stands apart in solitaryweakness; but society at large is active, provident, and powerful: theperformances of private persons are insignificant, those of the Stateimmense. There is little energy of character; but manners are mild, andlaws humane. If there be few instances of exalted heroism or of virtuesof the highest, brightest, and purest temper, men's habits are regular, violence is rare, and cruelty almost unknown. Human existence becomeslonger, and property more secure: life is not adorned with brillianttrophies, but it is extremely easy and tranquil. Few pleasures areeither very refined or very coarse; and highly polished manners are asuncommon as great brutality of tastes. Neither men of great learning, nor extremely ignorant communities, are to be met with; genius becomesmore rare, information more diffused. The human mind is impelled by thesmall efforts of all mankind combined together, not by the strenuousactivity of certain men. There is less perfection, but more abundance, in all the productions of the arts. The ties of race, of rank, and ofcountry are relaxed; the great bond of humanity is strengthened. IfI endeavor to find out the most general and the most prominent of allthese different characteristics, I shall have occasion to perceive, thatwhat is taking place in men's fortunes manifests itself under a thousandother forms. Almost all extremes are softened or blunted: all that wasmost prominent is superseded by some mean term, at once less lofty andless low, less brilliant and less obscure, than what before existed inthe world. 

When I survey this countless multitude of beings, shaped in each other'slikeness, amidst whom nothing rises and nothing falls, the sight of suchuniversal uniformity saddens and chills me, and I am tempted to regretthat state of society which has ceased to be. When the world was full ofmen of great importance and extreme insignificance, of great wealth andextreme poverty, of great learning and extreme ignorance, I turned asidefrom the latter to fix my observation on the former alone, who gratifiedmy sympathies. But I admit that this gratification arose from my ownweakness: it is because I am unable to see at once all that is aroundme, that I am allowed thus to select and separate the objects of mypredilection from among so many others. Such is not the case with thatalmighty and eternal Being whose gaze necessarily includes the whole ofcreated things, and who surveys distinctly, though at once, mankind andman. We may naturally believe that it is not the singular prosperity ofthe few, but the greater well-being of all, which is most pleasing inthe sight of the Creator and Preserver of men. What appears to me to beman's decline, is to His eye advancement; what afflicts me is acceptableto Him. A state of equality is perhaps less elevated, but it is morejust; and its justice constitutes its greatness and its beauty. I wouldstrive then to raise myself to this point of the divine contemplation, and thence to view and to judge the concerns of men. 

No man, upon the earth, can as yet affirm absolutely and generally, that the new state of the world is better than its former one; but itis already easy to perceive that this state is different. Some vicesand some virtues were so inherent in the constitution of an aristocraticnation, and are so opposite to the character of a modern people, thatthey can never be infused into it; some good tendencies and some badpropensities which were unknown to the former, are natural to thelatter; some ideas suggest themselves spontaneously to the imaginationof the one, which are utterly repugnant to the mind of the other. Theyare like two distinct orders of human beings, each of which has itsown merits and defects, its own advantages and its own evils. Caremust therefore be taken not to judge the state of society, which is nowcoming into existence, by notions derived from a state of societywhich no longer exists; for as these states of society are exceedinglydifferent in their structure, they cannot be submitted to a just or faircomparison. It would be scarcely more reasonable to require of ourown contemporaries the peculiar virtues which originated in the socialcondition of their forefathers, since that social condition is itselffallen, and has drawn into one promiscuous ruin the good and evil whichbelonged to it. 

But as yet these things are imperfectly understood. I find that a greatnumber of my contemporaries undertake to make a certain selection fromamongst the institutions, the opinions, and the ideas which originatedin the aristocratic constitution of society as it was: a portion ofthese elements they would willingly relinquish, but they would keep theremainder and transplant them into their new world. I apprehend thatsuch men are wasting their time and their strength in virtuousbut unprofitable efforts. The object is not to retain the peculiaradvantages which the inequality of conditions bestows upon mankind, butto secure the new benefits which equality may supply. We have not toseek to make ourselves like our progenitors, but to strive to work outthat species of greatness and happiness which is our own. For myself, who now look back from this extreme limit of my task, and discover fromafar, but at once, the various objects which have attracted my moreattentive investigation upon my way, I am full of apprehensions andof hopes. I perceive mighty dangers which it is possible to wardoff--mighty evils which may be avoided or alleviated; and I cling witha firmer hold to the belief, that for democratic nations to be virtuousand prosperous they require but to will it. I am aware that many of mycontemporaries maintain that nations are never their own mastershere below, and that they necessarily obey some insurmountable andunintelligent power, arising from anterior events, from their race, orfrom the soil and climate of their country. Such principles are falseand cowardly; such principles can never produce aught but feeble menand pusillanimous nations. Providence has not created mankind entirelyindependent or entirely free. It is true that around every man a fatalcircle is traced, beyond which he cannot pass; but within the wideverge of that circle he is powerful and free: as it is with man, so withcommunities. The nations of our time cannot prevent the conditions ofmen from becoming equal; but it depends upon themselves whether theprinciple of equality is to lead them to servitude or freedom, toknowledge or barbarism, to prosperity or to wretchedness. 

Part I. 

Appendix A

For information concerning all the countries of the West which havenot been visited by Europeans, consult the account of two expeditionsundertaken at the expense of Congress by Major Long. This travellerparticularly mentions, on the subject of the great American desert, thata line may be drawn nearly parallel to the 20th degree of longitude *a(meridian of Washington), beginning from the Red River and ending atthe River Platte. From this imaginary line to the Rocky Mountains, whichbound the valley of the Mississippi on the west, lie immense plains, which are almost entirely covered with sand, incapable of cultivation, or scattered over with masses of granite. In summer, these plains arequite destitute of water, and nothing is to be seen on them but herds ofbuffaloes and wild horses. Some hordes of Indians are also foundthere, but in no great numbers. Major Long was told that in travellingnorthwards from the River Platte you find the same desert lyingconstantly on the left; but he was unable to ascertain the truth of thisreport. However worthy of confidence may be the narrative of Major Long, it must be remembered that he only passed through the country of whichhe speaks, without deviating widely from the line which he had tracedout for his journey. 

[Footnote a: The 20th degree of longitude, according to the meridian ofWashington, agrees very nearly with the 97th degree on the meridian ofGreenwich. ]

Appendix B

South America, in the region between the tropics, produces an incredibleprofusion of climbing plants, of which the flora of the Antilles alonepresents us with forty different species. Among the most graceful ofthese shrubs is the passion-flower, which, according to Descourtiz, grows with such luxuriance in the Antilles, as to climb trees by meansof the tendrils with which it is provided, and form moving bowers ofrich and elegant festoons, decorated with blue and purple flowers, andfragrant with perfume. The Mimosa scandens (Acacia a grandes gousses) isa creeper of enormous and rapid growth, which climbs from tree to tree, and sometimes covers more than half a league. 

Appendix C

The languages which are spoken by the Indians of America, from the Poleto Cape Horn, are said to be all formed upon the same model, and subjectto the same grammatical rules; whence it may fairly be concluded thatall the Indian nations sprang from the same stock. Each tribe ofthe American continent speaks a different dialect; but the number oflanguages, properly so called, is very small, a fact which tends toprove that the nations of the New World had not a very remote origin. Moreover, the languages of America have a great degree of regularity, from which it seems probable that the tribes which employ them had notundergone any great revolutions, or been incorporated voluntarily orby constraint, with foreign nations. For it is generally the union ofseveral languages into one which produces grammatical irregularities. Itis not long since the American languages, especially those of theNorth, first attracted the serious attention of philologists, when thediscovery was made that this idiom of a barbarous people was the productof a complicated system of ideas and very learned combinations. Theselanguages were found to be very rich, and great pains had been takenat their formation to render them agreeable to the ear. The grammaticalsystem of the Americans differs from all others in several points, butespecially in the following:--Some nations of Europe, amongstothers the Germans, have the power of combining at pleasure differentexpressions, and thus giving a complex sense to certain words. TheIndians have given a most surprising extension to this power, so as toarrive at the means of connecting a great number of ideas with a singleterm. This will be easily understood with the help of an example quotedby Mr. Duponceau, in the "Memoirs of the Philosophical Society ofAmerica": A Delaware woman playing with a cat or a young dog, saysthis writer, is heard to pronounce the word kuligatschis, which is thuscomposed: k is the sign of the second person, and signifies "thou" or"thy"; uli is a part of the word wulit, which signifies "beautiful, ""pretty"; gat is another fragment, of the word wichgat, which means"paw"; and, lastly, schis is a diminutive giving the idea of smallness. Thus in one word the Indian woman has expressed "Thy pretty little paw. "Take another example of the felicity with which the savages of Americahave composed their words. A young man of Delaware is called pilape. This word is formed from pilsit, "chaste, " "innocent"; and lenape, "man"; viz. , "man in his purity and innocence. " This facility ofcombining words is most remarkable in the strange formation of theirverbs. The most complex action is often expressed by a single verb, which serves to convey all the shades of an idea by the modificationof its construction. Those who may wish to examine more in detail thissubject, which I have only glanced at superficially, should read:--

1. The correspondence of Mr. Duponceau and the Rev. Mr. Hecwelderrelative to the Indian languages, which is to be found in the firstvolume of the "Memoirs of the Philosophical Society of America, "published at Philadelphia, 1819, by Abraham Small; vol. I. P. 356-464. 

2. The "Grammar of the Delaware or the Lenape Language, " by Geiberger, and the preface of Mr. Duponceau. All these are in the same collection, vol. Iii. 

3. An excellent account of these works, which is at the end of the sixthvolume of the American Encyclopaedia. 

Appendix D

See in Charlevoix, vol. I. P. 235, the history of the first war whichthe French inhabitants of Canada carried on, in 1610, against theIroquois. The latter, armed with bows and arrows, offered a desperateresistance to the French and their allies. Charlevoix is not a greatpainter, yet he exhibits clearly enough, in this narrative, the contrastbetween the European manners and those of savages, as well as thedifferent way in which the two races of men understood the sense ofhonor. When the French, says he, seized upon the beaver-skins whichcovered the Indians who had fallen, the Hurons, their allies, weregreatly offended at this proceeding; but without hesitation they setto work in their usual manner, inflicting horrid cruelties upon theprisoners, and devouring one of those who had been killed, whichmade the Frenchmen shudder. The barbarians prided themselves upon ascrupulousness which they were surprised at not finding in our nation, and could not understand that there was less to reprehend in thestripping of dead bodies than in the devouring of their flesh like wildbeasts. Charlevoix, in another place (vol. I. P. 230), thus describesthe first torture of which Champlain was an eyewitness, and the returnof the Hurons into their own village. Having proceeded about eightleagues, says he, our allies halted; and having singled out one oftheir captives, they reproached him with all the cruelties which hehad practised upon the warriors of their nation who had fallen into hishands, and told him that he might expect to be treated in like manner;adding, that if he had any spirit he would prove it by singing. Heimmediately chanted forth his death-song, and then his war-song, and allthe songs he knew, "but in a very mournful strain, " says Champlain, whowas not then aware that all savage music has a melancholy character. Thetortures which succeeded, accompanied by all the horrors which we shallmention hereafter, terrified the French, who made every effort to put astop to them, but in vain. The following night, one of the Hurons havingdreamt that they were pursued, the retreat was changed to a real flight, and the savages never stopped until they were out of the reach ofdanger. The moment they perceived the cabins of their own village, theycut themselves long sticks, to which they fastened the scalps which hadfallen to their share, and carried them in triumph. At this sight, thewomen swam to the canoes, where they received the bloody scalps from thehands of their husbands, and tied them round their necks. The warriorsoffered one of these horrible trophies to Champlain; they also presentedhim with some bows and arrows--the only spoils of the Iroquois whichthey had ventured to seize--entreating him to show them to the Kingof France. Champlain lived a whole winter quite alone among thesebarbarians, without being under any alarm for his person or property. 

Appendix E

Although the Puritanical strictness which presided over theestablishment of the English colonies in America is now much relaxed, remarkable traces of it are still found in their habits and their laws. In 1792, at the very time when the anti-Christian republic of Francebegan its ephemeral existence, the legislative body of Massachusettspromulgated the following law, to compel the citizens to observe theSabbath. We give the preamble and the principal articles of thislaw, which is worthy of the reader's attention: "Whereas, " says thelegislator, "the observation of the Sunday is an affair of publicinterest; inasmuch as it produces a necessary suspension of labor, leadsmen to reflect upon the duties of life, and the errors to which humannature is liable, and provides for the public and private worship ofGod, the creator and governor of the universe, and for the performanceof such acts of charity as are the ornament and comfort of Christiansocieties:--Whereas irreligious or light-minded persons, forgetting theduties which the Sabbath imposes, and the benefits which these dutiesconfer on society, are known to profane its sanctity, by following theirpleasures or their affairs; this way of acting being contrary to theirown interest as Christians, and calculated to annoy those who do notfollow their example; being also of great injury to society at large, byspreading a taste for dissipation and dissolute manners; Be it enactedand ordained by the Governor, Council, and Representatives convened inGeneral Court of Assembly, that all and every person and persons shallon that day carefully apply themselves to the duties of religionand piety, that no tradesman or labourer shall exercise his ordinarycalling, and that no game or recreation shall be used on the Lord's Day, upon pain of forfeiting ten shillings. 

"That no one shall travel on that day, or any part thereof, under painof forfeiting twenty shillings; that no vessel shall leave a harbour ofthe colony; that no persons shall keep outside the meeting-house duringthe time of public worship, or profane the time by playing or talking, on penalty of five shillings. 

"Public-houses shall not entertain any other than strangers or lodgers, under penalty of five shillings for every person found drinking andabiding therein. 

"Any person in health, who, without sufficient reason, shall omit toworship God in public during three months, shall be condemned to a fineof ten shillings. 

"Any person guilty of misbehaviour in a place of public worship, shallbe fined from five to forty shillings. 

"These laws are to be enforced by the tything-men of each township, whohave authority to visit public-houses on the Sunday. The innkeeper whoshall refuse them admittance, shall be fined forty shillings for suchoffence. 

"The tything-men are to stop travellers, and require of them theirreason for being on the road on Sunday; anyone refusing to answer, shallbe sentenced to pay a fine not exceeding five pounds sterling. Ifthe reason given by the traveller be not deemed by the tything-mansufficient, he may bring the traveller before the justice of the peaceof the district. " (Law of March 8, 1792; General Laws of Massachusetts, vol. I. P. 410. )

On March 11, 1797, a new law increased the amount of fines, half ofwhich was to be given to the informer. (Same collection, vol. Ii. P. 525. ) On February 16, 1816, a new law confirmed these same measures. (Same collection, vol. Ii. P. 405. ) Similar enactments exist in thelaws of the State of New York, revised in 1827 and 1828. (See RevisedStatutes, Part I. Chapter 20, p. 675. ) In these it is declared that noone is allowed on the Sabbath to sport, to fish, to play at games, or tofrequent houses where liquor is sold. No one can travel, except incase of necessity. And this is not the only trace which the religiousstrictness and austere manners of the first emigrants have left behindthem in the American laws. In the Revised Statutes of the State of NewYork, vol. I. P. 662, is the following clause:--

"Whoever shall win or lose in the space of twenty-four hours, by gamingor betting, the sum of twenty-five dollars, shall be found guilty of amisdemeanour, and upon conviction shall be condemned to pay a fine equalto at least five times the value of the sum lost or won; which shallbe paid to the inspector of the poor of the township. He that losestwenty-five dollars or more may bring an action to recover them; and ifhe neglects to do so the inspector of the poor may prosecute the winner, and oblige him to pay into the poor's box both the sum he has gained andthree times as much besides. "

The laws we quote from are of recent date; but they are unintelligiblewithout going back to the very origin of the colonies. I have no doubtthat in our days the penal part of these laws is very rarely applied. Laws preserve their inflexibility, long after the manners of a nationhave yielded to the influence of time. It is still true, however, thatnothing strikes a foreigner on his arrival in America more forciblythan the regard paid to the Sabbath. There is one, in particular, ofthe large American cities, in which all social movements begin to besuspended even on Saturday evening. You traverse its streets at the hourat which you expect men in the middle of life to be engaged in business, and young people in pleasure; and you meet with solitude and silence. Not only have all ceased to work, but they appear to have ceased toexist. Neither the movements of industry are heard, nor the accents ofjoy, nor even the confused murmur which arises from the midst of a greatcity. Chains are hung across the streets in the neighborhood of thechurches; the half-closed shutters of the houses scarcely admit a rayof sun into the dwellings of the citizens. Now and then you perceive asolitary individual who glides silently along the deserted streets andlanes. Next day, at early dawn, the rolling of carriages, the noise ofhammers, the cries of the population, begin to make themselves heardagain. The city is awake. An eager crowd hastens towards the resort ofcommerce and industry; everything around you bespeaks motion, bustle, hurry. A feverish activity succeeds to the lethargic stupor ofyesterday; you might almost suppose that they had but one day to acquirewealth and to enjoy it. 

Appendix F

It is unnecessary for me to say, that in the chapter which has just beenread, I have not had the intention of giving a history of America. Myonly object was to enable the reader to appreciate the influence whichthe opinions and manners of the first emigrants had exercised upon thefate of the different colonies, and of the Union in general. I havetherefore confined myself to the quotation of a few detached fragments. I do not know whether I am deceived, but it appears to me that, bypursuing the path which I have merely pointed out, it would be easy topresent such pictures of the American republics as would not be unworthythe attention of the public, and could not fail to suggest to thestatesman matter for reflection. Not being able to devote myself to thislabor, I am anxious to render it easy to others; and, for this purpose, I subjoin a short catalogue and analysis of the works which seem to methe most important to consult. 

At the head of the general documents which it would be advantageous toexamine I place the work entitled "An Historical Collection of StatePapers, and other authentic Documents, intended as Materials for aHistory of the United States of America, " by Ebenezer Hasard. The firstvolume of this compilation, which was printed at Philadelphia in 1792, contains a literal copy of all the charters granted by the Crown ofEngland to the emigrants, as well as the principal acts of the colonialgovernments, during the commencement of their existence. Amongst otherauthentic documents, we here find a great many relating to the affairsof New England and Virginia during this period. The second volume isalmost entirely devoted to the acts of the Confederation of 1643. Thisfederal compact, which was entered into by the colonies of New Englandwith the view of resisting the Indians, was the first instance ofunion afforded by the Anglo-Americans. There were besides many otherconfederations of the same nature, before the famous one of 1776, whichbrought about the independence of the colonies. 

Each colony has, besides, its own historic monuments, some of which areextremely curious; beginning with Virginia, the State which was firstpeopled. The earliest historian of Virginia was its founder, CaptainJohn Smith. Captain Smith has left us an octavo volume, entitled "Thegenerall Historie of Virginia and New England, by Captain John Smith, sometymes Governor in those Countryes, and Admirall of New England";printed at London in 1627. The work is adorned with curious maps andengravings of the time when it appeared; the narrative extends from theyear 1584 to 1626. Smith's work is highly and deservedly esteemed. The author was one of the most celebrated adventurers of a period ofremarkable adventure; his book breathes that ardor for discovery, thatspirit of enterprise, which characterized the men of his time, whenthe manners of chivalry were united to zeal for commerce, and madesubservient to the acquisition of wealth. But Captain Smith ismost remarkable for uniting to the virtues which characterized hiscontemporaries several qualities to which they were generally strangers;his style is simple and concise, his narratives bear the stamp of truth, and his descriptions are free from false ornament. This author throwsmost valuable light upon the state and condition of the Indians at thetime when North America was first discovered. 

The second historian to consult is Beverley, who commences his narrativewith the year 1585, and ends it with 1700. The first part of his bookcontains historical documents, properly so called, relative to theinfancy of the colony. The second affords a most curious picture of thestate of the Indians at this remote period. The third conveys very clearideas concerning the manners, social conditions, laws, and politicalcustoms of the Virginians in the author's lifetime. Beverley was anative of Virginia, which occasions him to say at the beginning ofhis book, that he entreats his readers not to exercise their criticalseverity upon it, since, having been born in the Indies, he does notaspire to purity of language. Notwithstanding this colonial modesty, theauthor shows throughout his book the impatience with which he enduresthe supremacy of the mother-country. In this work of Beverley are alsofound numerous traces of that spirit of civil liberty which animated theEnglish colonies of America at the time when he wrote. He also shows thedissensions which existed among them, and retarded their independence. Beverley detests his Catholic neighbors of Maryland even more thanhe hates the English government: his style is simple, his narrativeinteresting, and apparently trustworthy. 

I saw in America another work which ought to be consulted, entitled "TheHistory of Virginia, " by William Stith. This book affords some curiousdetails, but I thought it long and diffuse. The most ancient as well asthe best document to be consulted on the history of Carolina, is a workin small quarto, entitled "The History of Carolina, " by John Lawson, printed at London in 1718. This work contains, in the first part, ajourney of discovery in the west of Carolina; the account of which, given in the form of a journal, is in general confused and superficial;but it contains a very striking description of the mortality causedamong the savages of that time both by the smallpox and the immoderateuse of brandy; with a curious picture of the corruption of mannersprevalent amongst them, which was increased by the presence ofEuropeans. The second part of Lawson's book is taken up with adescription of the physical condition of Carolina, and its productions. In the third part, the author gives an interesting account of themanners, customs, and government of the Indians at that period. There isa good deal of talent and originality in this part of the work. Lawson concludes his history with a copy of the charter granted to theCarolinas in the reign of Charles II. The general tone of this work islight, and often licentious, forming a perfect contrast to the solemnstyle of the works published at the same period in New England. Lawson'shistory is extremely scarce in America, and cannot be procured inEurope. There is, however, a copy of it in the Royal Library at Paris. 

From the southern extremity of the United States, I pass at once to thenorthern limit; as the intermediate space was not peopled till a laterperiod. I must first point out a very curious compilation, entitled"Collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society, " printed for thefirst time at Boston in 1792, and reprinted in 1806. The collection ofwhich I speak, and which is continued to the present day, contains agreat number of very valuable documents relating to the history of thedifferent States in New England. Among them are letters which have neverbeen published, and authentic pieces which had been buried in provincialarchives. The whole work of Gookin, concerning the Indians, is insertedthere. 

I have mentioned several times in the chapter to which this noterelates, the work of Nathaniel Norton entitled "New England's Memorial";sufficiently, perhaps, to prove that it deserves the attention of thosewho would be conversant with the history of New England. This book is inoctavo, and was reprinted at Boston in 1826. 

The most valuable and important authority which exists upon thehistory of New England, is the work of the Rev. Cotton Mather, entitled"Magnalia Christi Americana, or the Ecclesiastical History of NewEngland, 1620-1698, 2 vols. 8vo, reprinted at Hartford, United States, in 1820. " *b The author divided his work into seven books. The firstpresents the history of the events which prepared and brought about theestablishment of New England. The second contains the lives of the firstgovernors and chief magistrates who presided over the country. The thirdis devoted to the lives and labors of the evangelical ministers who, during the same period, had the care of souls. In the fourth the authorrelates the institution and progress of the University of Cambridge(Massachusetts). In the fifth he describes the principles and thediscipline of the Church of New England. The sixth is taken up inretracing certain facts, which, in the opinion of Mather, prove themerciful interposition of Providence in behalf of the inhabitants ofNew England. Lastly, in the seventh, the author gives an account ofthe heresies and the troubles to which the Church of New England wasexposed. Cotton Mather was an evangelical minister who was born atBoston, and passed his life there. His narratives are distinguished bythe same ardor and religious zeal which led to the foundation of thecolonies of New England. Traces of bad taste sometimes occur in hismanner of writing; but he interests, because he is full of enthusiasm. He is often intolerant, still oftener credulous, but he never betraysan intention to deceive. Sometimes his book contains fine passages, andtrue and profound reflections, such as the following:--

"Before the arrival of the Puritans, " says he (vol. I. Chap. Iv. ), "there were more than a few attempts of the English to people andimprove the parts of New England which were to the northward of NewPlymouth; but the designs of those attempts being aimed no higherthan the advancement of some worldly interests, a constant series ofdisasters has confounded them, until there was a plantation erected uponthe nobler designs of Christianity: and that plantation though ithas had more adversaries than perhaps any one upon earth, yet, havingobtained help from God, it continues to this day. " Mather occasionallyrelieves the austerity of his descriptions with images full of tenderfeeling: after having spoken of an English lady whose religious ardorhad brought her to America with her husband, and who soon after sankunder the fatigues and privations of exile, he adds, "As for hervirtuous husband, Isaac Johnson, He tryed To live without her, liked it not, and dyed. "

[Footnote b: A folio edition of this work was published in London in1702. ]

Mather's work gives an admirable picture of the time and country whichhe describes. In his account of the motives which led the Puritans toseek an asylum beyond seas, he says:--"The God of Heaven served, as itwere, a summons upon the spirits of his people in the English nation, stirring up the spirits of thousands which never saw the faces of eachother, with a most unanimous inclination to leave all the pleasantaccommodations of their native country, and go over a terribleocean, into a more terrible desert, for the pure enjoyment of all hisordinances. It is now reasonable that, before we pass any further, the reasons of his undertaking should be more exactly made knownunto posterity, especially unto the posterity of those that were theundertakers, lest they come at length to forget and neglect the trueinterest of New England. Wherefore I shall now transcribe some of themfrom a manuscript, wherein they were then tendered unto consideration:

"General Considerations for the Plantation of New England

"First, It will be a service unto the Church of great consequence, tocarry the Gospel unto those parts of the world, and raise a bulwarkagainst the kingdom of Antichrist, which the Jesuits labour to rear upin all parts of the world. 

"Secondly, All other Churches of Europe have been brought underdesolations; and it may be feared that the like judgments are comingupon us; and who knows but God hath provided this place to be a refugefor many whom he means to save out of the general destruction?

"Thirdly, The land grows weary of her inhabitants, insomuch that man, which is the most precious of all creatures, is here more vile andbase than the earth he treads upon; children, neighbours, and friends, especially the poor, are counted the greatest burdens, which, if thingswere right, would be the chiefest of earthly blessings. 

"Fourthly, We are grown to that intemperance in all excess of riot, asno mean estate almost will suffice a man to keep sail with his equals, and he that fails in it must live in scorn and contempt: hence it comesto pass, that all arts and trades are carried in that deceitful mannerand unrighteous course, as it is almost impossible for a good uprightman to maintain his constant charge and live comfortably in them. 

"Fifthly, The schools of learning and religion are so corrupted, as(besides the unsupportable charge of education) most children, even thebest, wittiest, and of the fairest hopes, are perverted, corrupted, and utterly overthrown by the multitude of evil examples and licentiousbehaviours in these seminaries. 

"Sixthly, The whole earth is the Lord's garden, and he hath given it tothe sons of Adam, to be tilled and improved by them: why, then, shouldwe stand starving here for places of habitation, and in the meantimesuffer whole countries, as profitable for the use of man, to lie wastewithout any improvement?

"Seventhly, What can be a better or nobler work, and more worthy of aChristian, than to erect and support a reformed particular Church in itsinfancy, and unite our forces with such a company of faithful people, asby timely assistance may grow stronger and prosper; but for want of it, may be put to great hazards, if not be wholly ruined?

"Eighthly, If any such as are known to be godly, and live in wealthand prosperity here, shall forsake all this to join with this reformedChurch, and with it run the hazard of an hard and mean condition, itwill be an example of great use, both for the removing of scandal and togive more life unto the faith of God's people in their prayers for theplantation, and also to encourage others to join the more willingly init. "

Further on, when he declares the principles of the Church of New Englandwith respect to morals, Mather inveighs with violence against thecustom of drinking healths at table, which he denounces as a pagan andabominable practice. He proscribes with the same rigor all ornaments forthe hair used by the female sex, as well as their custom of having thearms and neck uncovered. In another part of his work he relates severalinstances of witchcraft which had alarmed New England. It is plain thatthe visible action of the devil in the affairs of this world appeared tohim an incontestable and evident fact. 

This work of Cotton Mather displays, in many places, the spirit of civilliberty and political independence which characterized the times inwhich he lived. Their principles respecting government are discoverableat every page. Thus, for instance, the inhabitants of Massachusetts, inthe year 1630, ten years after the foundation of Plymouth, are found tohave devoted Pound 400 sterling to the establishment of the Universityof Cambridge. In passing from the general documents relative to thehistory of New England to those which describe the several Statescomprised within its limits, I ought first to notice "The History ofthe Colony of Massachusetts, " by Hutchinson, Lieutenant-Governor of theMassachusetts Province, 2 vols. 8vo. The history of Hutchinson, whichI have several times quoted in the chapter to which this note relates, commences in the year 1628, and ends in 1750. Throughout the work thereis a striking air of truth and the greatest simplicity of style: itis full of minute details. The best history to consult concerningConnecticut is that of Benjamin Trumbull, entitled "A Complete Historyof Connecticut, Civil and Ecclesiastical, " 1630-1764, 2 vols. 8vo, printed in 1818 at New Haven. This history contains a clear and calmaccount of all the events which happened in Connecticut during theperiod given in the title. The author drew from the best sources, andhis narrative bears the stamp of truth. All that he says of theearly days of Connecticut is extremely curious. See especially theConstitution of 1639, vol. I. Ch. Vi. P. 100; and also the Penal Laws ofConnecticut, vol. I. Ch. Vii. P. 123. 

"The History of New Hampshire, " by Jeremy Belknap, is a work held inmerited estimation. It was printed at Boston in 1792, in 2 vols. 8vo. The third chapter of the first volume is particularly worthy ofattention for the valuable details it affords on the political andreligious principles of the Puritans, on the causes of their emigration, and on their laws. The following curious quotation is given from asermon delivered in 1663:--"It concerneth New England always to rememberthat they are a plantation religious, not a plantation of trade. Theprofession of the purity of doctrine, worship, and discipline, iswritten upon her forehead. Let merchants, and such as are increasingcent. Per cent. , remember this, that worldly gain was not the end anddesign of the people of New England, but religion. And if any man amongus make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such an one hathnot the spirit of a true New Englishman. " The reader of Belknap willfind in his work more general ideas, and more strength of thought, thanare to be met with in the American historians even to the present day. 

Among the Central States which deserve our attention for their remoteorigin, New York and Pennsylvania are the foremost. The best historywe have of the former is entitled "A History of New York, " by WilliamSmith, printed at London in 1757. Smith gives us important details ofthe wars between the French and English in America. His is the bestaccount of the famous confederation of the Iroquois. 

With respect to Pennsylvania, I cannot do better than point out thework of Proud, entitled "The History of Pennsylvania, from the originalInstitution and Settlement of that Province, under the first Proprietorand Governor, William Penn, in 1681, till after the year 1742, " byRobert Proud, 2 vols. 8vo, printed at Philadelphia in 1797. This work isdeserving of the especial attention of the reader; it contains a mass ofcurious documents concerning Penn, the doctrine of the Quakers, andthe character, manners, and customs of the first inhabitants ofPennsylvania. I need not add that among the most important documentsrelating to this State are the works of Penn himself, and those ofFranklin. 

Part II. 

Appendix G

We read in Jefferson's "Memoirs" as follows:--

"At the time of the first settlement of the English in Virginia, whenland was to be had for little or nothing, some provident persons havingobtained large grants of it, and being desirous of maintainingthe splendor of their families, entailed their property upon theirdescendants. The transmission of these estates from generation togeneration, to men who bore the same name, had the effect of raising upa distinct class of families, who, possessing by law the privilege ofperpetuating their wealth, formed by these means a sort of patricianorder, distinguished by the grandeur and luxury of their establishments. From this order it was that the King usually chose his councillors ofstate. " *c

[Footnote c: This passage is extracted and translated from M. Conseil'swork upon the life of Jefferson, entitled "Melanges Politiques etPhilosophiques de Jefferson. "]

In the United States, the principal clauses of the English lawrespecting descent have been universally rejected. The first rule thatwe follow, says Mr. Kent, touching inheritance, is the following:--If aman dies intestate, his property goes to his heirs in a direct line. If he has but one heir or heiress, he or she succeeds to the whole. Ifthere are several heirs of the same degree, they divide the inheritanceequally amongst them, without distinction of sex. This rule wasprescribed for the first time in the State of New York by a statute ofFebruary 23, 1786. (See Revised Statutes, vol. Iii. Appendix, p. 48. ) Ithas since then been adopted in the Revised Statutes of the same State. At the present day this law holds good throughout the whole of theUnited States, with the exception of the State of Vermont, where themale heir inherits a double portion. (Kent's "Commentaries, " vol. Iv. P. 370. ) Mr. Kent, in the same work, vol. Iv. P. 1-22, gives a historicalaccount of American legislation on the subject of entail: by thiswe learn that, previous to the Revolution, the colonies followed theEnglish law of entail. Estates tail were abolished in Virginia in 1776, on a motion of Mr. Jefferson. They were suppressed in New York in 1786, and have since been abolished in North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and Missouri. In Vermont, Indiana, Illinois, South Carolina, and Louisiana, entail was never introduced. Those States which thoughtproper to preserve the English law of entail, modified it in such away as to deprive it of its most aristocratic tendencies. "Our generalprinciples on the subject of government, " says Mr. Kent, "tend to favorthe free circulation of property. "

It cannot fail to strike the French reader who studies the lawof inheritance, that on these questions the French legislation isinfinitely more democratic even than the American. The American lawmakes an equal division of the father's property, but only in the caseof his will not being known; "for every man, " says the law, "in theState of New York (Revised Statutes, vol. Iii. Appendix, p. 51), hasentire liberty, power, and authority, to dispose of his property bywill, to leave it entire, or divided in favor of any persons he choosesas his heirs, provided he do not leave it to a political body or anycorporation. " The French law obliges the testator to divide his propertyequally, or nearly so, among his heirs. Most of the American republicsstill admit of entails, under certain restrictions; but the French lawprohibits entail in all cases. If the social condition of the Americansis more democratic than that of the French, the laws of the latter arethe most democratic of the two. This may be explained more easily thanat first appears to be the case. In France, democracy is still occupiedin the work of destruction; in America, it reigns quietly over the ruinsit has made. 

Appendix H

Summary Of The Qualifications Of Voters In The United States As TheyExisted In 1832

All the States agree in granting the right of voting at the age oftwenty-one. In all of them it is necessary to have resided for a certaintime in the district where the vote is given. This period varies fromthree months to two years. 

As to the qualification: in the State of Massachusetts it is necessaryto have an income of Pound 3 or a capital of Pound 60. In Rhode Island, a man must possess landed property to the amount of $133. 

In Connecticut, he must have a property which gives an income of $17. Ayear of service in the militia also gives the elective privilege. 

In New Jersey, an elector must have a property of Pound 50 a year. 

In South Carolina and Maryland, the elector must possess fifty acres ofland. 

In Tennessee, he must possess some property. 

In the States of Mississippi, Ohio, Georgia, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, the only necessary qualification for voting is thatof paying the taxes; and in most of the States, to serve in the militiais equivalent to the payment of taxes. In Maine and New Hampshire anyman can vote who is not on the pauper list. 

Lastly, in the States of Missouri, Alabama, Illinois, Louisiana, Indiana, Kentucky, and Vermont, the conditions of voting have noreference to the property of the elector. 

I believe there is no other State besides that of North Carolina inwhich different conditions are applied to the voting for the Senate andthe electing the House of Representatives. The electors of the former, in this case, should possess in property fifty acres of land; to votefor the latter, nothing more is required than to pay taxes. 

Appendix I

The small number of custom-house officers employed in the United States, compared with the extent of the coast, renders smuggling very easy;notwithstanding which, it is less practised than elsewhere, becauseeverybody endeavors to repress it. In America there is no police forthe prevention of fires, and such accidents are more frequent than inEurope; but in general they are more speedily extinguished, because thesurrounding population is prompt in lending assistance. 

Appendix K

It is incorrect to assert that centralization was produced by the FrenchRevolution; the revolution brought it to perfection, but did not createit. The mania for centralization and government regulations dates fromthe time when jurists began to take a share in the government, in thetime of Philippele-Bel; ever since which period they have been on theincrease. In the year 1775, M. De Malesherbes, speaking in the name ofthe Cour des Aides, said to Louis XIV:-- *d

[Footnote d: See "Memoires pour servir a l'Histoire du Droit Public dela France en matiere d'impots, " p. 654, printed at Brussels in 1779. ]

". . . Every corporation and every community of citizens retained theright of administering its own affairs; a right which not only formspart of the primitive constitution of the kingdom, but has astill higher origin; for it is the right of nature, and of reason. Nevertheless, your subjects, Sire, have been deprived of it; and wecannot refrain from saying that in this respect your government hasfallen into puerile extremes. From the time when powerful ministersmade it a political principle to prevent the convocation of a nationalassembly, one consequence has succeeded another, until the deliberationsof the inhabitants of a village are declared null when they have notbeen authorized by the Intendant. Of course, if the community has anexpensive undertaking to carry through, it must remain under the controlof the sub-delegate of the Intendant, and, consequently, follow theplan he proposes, employ his favorite workmen, pay them according to hispleasure; and if an action at law is deemed necessary, the Intendant'spermission must be obtained. The cause must be pleaded before this firsttribunal, previous to its being carried into a public court; and if theopinion of the Intendant is opposed to that of the inhabitants, or iftheir adversary enjoys his favor, the community is deprived of thepower of defending its rights. Such are the means, Sire, which have beenexerted to extinguish the municipal spirit in France; and to stifle, ifpossible, the opinions of the citizens. The nation may be said to lieunder an interdict, and to be in wardship under guardians. " What couldbe said more to the purpose at the present day, when the Revolution hasachieved what are called its victories in centralization?

In 1789, Jefferson wrote from Paris to one of his friends:--"There isno country where the mania for over-governing has taken deeper root thanin France, or been the source of greater mischief. " (Letter to Madison, August 28, 1789. ) The fact is, that for several centuries past thecentral power of France has done everything it could to extend centraladministration; it has acknowledged no other limits than its ownstrength. The central power to which the Revolution gave birth made morerapid advances than any of its predecessors, because it was strongerand wiser than they had been; Louis XIV committed the welfare of suchcommunities to the caprice of an intendant; Napoleon left them tothat of the Minister. The same principle governed both, though itsconsequences were more or less remote. 

Appendix L

The immutability of the constitution of France is a necessaryconsequence of the laws of that country. To begin with the mostimportant of all the laws, that which decides the order of succession tothe throne; what can be more immutable in its principle than a politicalorder founded upon the natural succession of father to son? In 1814, Louis XVIII had established the perpetual law of hereditary successionin favor of his own family. The individuals who regulated theconsequences of the Revolution of 1830 followed his example; they merelyestablished the perpetuity of the law in favor of another family. Inthis respect they imitated the Chancellor Meaupou, who, when he erectedthe new Parliament upon the ruins of the old, took care to declare inthe same ordinance that the rights of the new magistrates should be asinalienable as those of their predecessors had been. The laws of 1830, like those of 1814, point out no way of changing the constitution: andit is evident that the ordinary means of legislation are insufficientfor this purpose. As the King, the Peers, and the Deputies, all derivetheir authority from the constitution, these three powers united cannotalter a law by virtue of which alone they govern. Out of the pale of theconstitution they are nothing: where, when, could they take their standto effect a change in its provisions? The alternative is clear: eithertheir efforts are powerless against the charter, which continues toexist in spite of them, in which case they only reign in the name of thecharter; or they succeed in changing the charter, and then, the law bywhich they existed being annulled, they themselves cease to exist. By destroying the charter, they destroy themselves. This is much moreevident in the laws of 1830 than in those of 1814. In 1814, the royalprerogative took its stand above and beyond the constitution; but in1830, it was avowedly created by, and dependent on, the constitution. Apart, therefore, of the French constitution is immutable, because it isunited to the destiny of a family; and the body of the constitution isequally immutable, because there appear to be no legal means of changingit. These remarks are not applicable to England. That country having nowritten constitution, who can assert when its constitution is changed?

Appendix M

The most esteemed authors who have written upon the English Constitutionagree with each other in establishing the omnipotence of the Parliament. Delolme says: "It is a fundamental principle with the English lawyers, that Parliament can do everything except making a woman a man, or aman a woman. " Blackstone expresses himself more in detail, if not moreenergetically, than Delolme, in the following terms:--"The power andjurisdiction of Parliament, says Sir Edward Coke (4 Inst. 36), 'is sotranscendent and absolute that it cannot be confined, either for causesor persons, within any bounds. ' And of this High Court, he adds, may betruly said, 'Si antiquitatem spectes, est vetustissima; si dignitatem, est honoratissima; si jurisdictionem, est capacissima. ' It hathsovereign and uncontrollable authority in the making, confirming, enlarging, restraining, abrogating, repealing, reviving, andexpounding of laws, concerning matters of all possible denominations;ecclesiastical or temporal; civil, military, maritime, or criminal; thisbeing the place where that absolute despotic power which must, in allgovernments, reside somewhere, is intrusted by the constitution of thesekingdoms. All mischiefs and grievances, operations and remedies, thattranscend the ordinary course of the laws, are within the reach of thisextraordinary tribunal. It can regulate or new-model the succession tothe Crown; as was done in the reign of Henry VIII and William III. Itcan alter the established religion of the land; as was done in a varietyof instances in the reigns of King Henry VIII and his three children. Itcan change and create afresh even the constitution of the kingdom, and of parliaments themselves; as was done by the Act of Union and theseveral statutes for triennial and septennial elections. It can, inshort, do everything that is not naturally impossible to be done; and, therefore some have not scrupled to call its power, by a figure rathertoo bold, the omnipotence of Parliament. "

Appendix N

There is no question upon which the American constitutions agree morefully than upon that of political jurisdiction. All the constitutionswhich take cognizance of this matter, give to the House of Delegates theexclusive right of impeachment; excepting only the constitution of NorthCarolina, which grants the same privilege to grand juries. (Article 23. )Almost all the constitutions give the exclusive right of pronouncingsentence to the Senate, or to the Assembly which occupies its place. 

The only punishments which the political tribunals can inflict areremoval, or the interdiction of public functions for the future. Thereis no other constitution but that of Virginia (p. 152), which enablesthem to inflict every kind of punishment. The crimes which are subjectto political jurisdiction are, in the federal constitution (Section 4, Art. 1); in that of Indiana (Art. 3, paragraphs 23 and 24); of New York(Art. 5); of Delaware (Art. 5), high treason, bribery, and other highcrimes or offences. In the Constitution of Massachusetts (Chap. I, Section 2); that of North Carolina (Art. 23); of Virginia (p. 252), misconduct and maladministration. In the constitution of New Hampshire(p. 105), corruption, intrigue, and maladministration. In Vermont (Chap. 2, Art. 24), maladministration. In South Carolina (Art. 5); Kentucky(Art. 5); Tennessee (Art. 4); Ohio (Art. 1, 23, 24); Louisiana (Art. 5); Mississippi (Art. 5); Alabama (Art. 6); Pennsylvania (Art. 4), crimes committed in the non-performance of official duties. In theStates of Illinois, Georgia, Maine, and Connecticut, no particularoffences are specified. 

Appendix O

It is true that the powers of Europe may carry on maritime wars withthe Union; but there is always greater facility and less danger insupporting a maritime than a continental war. Maritime warfare onlyrequires one species of effort. A commercial people which consents tofurnish its government with the necessary funds, is sure to possess afleet. And it is far easier to induce a nation to part with its money, almost unconsciously, than to reconcile it to sacrifices of men andpersonal efforts. Moreover, defeat by sea rarely compromises theexistence or independence of the people which endures it. As forcontinental wars, it is evident that the nations of Europe cannot beformidable in this way to the American Union. It would be very difficultto transport and maintain in America more than 25, 000 soldiers; an armywhich may be considered to represent a nation of about 2, 000, 000 of men. The most populous nation of Europe contending in this way against theUnion, is in the position of a nation of 2, 000, 000 of inhabitants at warwith one of 12, 000, 000. Add to this, that America has all its resourceswithin reach, whilst the European is at 4, 000 miles distance from his;and that the immensity of the American continent would of itself presentan insurmountable obstacle to its conquest. 

Appendix P

The first American journal appeared in April, 1704, and was publishedat Boston. See "Collection of the Historical Society of Massachusetts, "vol. Vi. P. 66. It would be a mistake to suppose that the periodicalpress has always been entirely free in the American colonies: anattempt was made to establish something analogous to a censorship andpreliminary security. Consult the Legislative Documents of Massachusettsof January 14, 1722. The Committee appointed by the General Assembly(the legislative body of the province) for the purpose of examining intocircumstances connected with a paper entitled "The New England Courier, "expresses its opinion that "the tendency of the said journal is to turnreligion into derision and bring it into contempt; that it mentionsthe sacred writers in a profane and irreligious manner; that it putsmalicious interpretations upon the conduct of the ministers of theGospel; and that the Government of his Majesty is insulted, and thepeace and tranquillity of the province disturbed by the said journal. The Committee is consequently of opinion that the printer and publisher, James Franklin, should be forbidden to print and publish the saidjournal or any other work in future, without having previously submittedit to the Secretary of the province; and that the justices of the peacefor the county of Suffolk should be commissioned to require bail of thesaid James Franklin for his good conduct during the ensuing year. " Thesuggestion of the Committee was adopted and passed into a law, but theeffect of it was null, for the journal eluded the prohibition by puttingthe name of Benjamin Franklin instead of James Franklin at the bottom ofits columns, and this manoeuvre was supported by public opinion. 

Appendix Q

The Federal Constitution has introduced the jury into the tribunals ofthe Union in the same way as the States had introduced it into their ownseveral courts; but as it has not established any fixed rules for thechoice of jurors, the federal courts select them from the ordinary jurylist which each State makes for itself. The laws of the States musttherefore be examined for the theory of the formation of juries. See Story's "Commentaries on the Constitution, " B. Iii. Chap. 38, p. 654-659; Sergeant's "Constitutional Law, " p. 165. See also the FederalLaws of the years 1789, 1800, and 1802, upon the subject. For thepurpose of thoroughly understanding the American principles with respectto the formation of juries, I examined the laws of States at a distancefrom one another, and the following observations were the result ofmy inquiries. In America, all the citizens who exercise the electivefranchise have the right of serving upon a jury. The great State of NewYork, however, has made a slight difference between the two privileges, but in a spirit quite contrary to that of the laws of France; for in theState of New York there are fewer persons eligible as jurymen than thereare electors. It may be said in general that the right of forming partof a jury, like the right of electing representatives, is open toall the citizens: the exercise of this right, however, is not putindiscriminately into any hands. Every year a body of municipal orcounty magistrates--called "selectmen" in New England, "supervisors"in New York, "trustees" in Ohio, and "sheriffs of the parish" inLouisiana--choose for each county a certain number of citizens who havethe right of serving as jurymen, and who are supposed to be capableof exercising their functions. These magistrates, being themselveselective, excite no distrust; their powers, like those of mostrepublican magistrates, are very extensive and very arbitrary, and theyfrequently make use of them to remove unworthy or incompetent jurymen. The names of the jurymen thus chosen are transmitted to the CountyCourt; and the jury who have to decide any affair are drawn by lot fromthe whole list of names. The Americans have contrived in every way tomake the common people eligible to the jury, and to render the serviceas little onerous as possible. The sessions are held in the chief townof every county, and the jury are indemnified for their attendanceeither by the State or the parties concerned. They receive in general adollar per day, besides their travelling expenses. In America, the beingplaced upon the jury is looked upon as a burden, but it is a burdenwhich is very supportable. See Brevard's "Digest of the Public StatuteLaw of South Carolina, " vol. I. Pp. 446 and 454, vol. Ii. Pp. 218and 338; "The General Laws of Massachusetts, revised and published byauthority of the Legislature, " vol. Ii. Pp. 187 and 331; "The RevisedStatutes of the State of New York, " vol. Ii. Pp. 411, 643, 717, 720;"The Statute Law of the State of Tennessee, " vol. I. P. 209; "Acts ofthe State of Ohio, " pp. 95 and 210; and "Digeste general des Actes de laLegislature de la Louisiane. "

Appendix R

If we attentively examine the constitution of the jury as introducedinto civil proceedings in England, we shall readily perceive that thejurors are under the immediate control of the judge. It is true that theverdict of the jury, in civil as well as in criminal cases, comprisesthe question of fact and the question of right in the same reply;thus--a house is claimed by Peter as having been purchased by him: thisis the fact to be decided. The defendant puts in a plea of incompetencyon the part of the vendor: this is the legal question to be resolved. But the jury do not enjoy the same character of infallibility in civilcases, according to the practice of the English courts, as they do incriminal cases. The judge may refuse to receive the verdict; and evenafter the first trial has taken place, a second or new trial may beawarded by the Court. See Blackstone's "Commentaries, " book iii. Ch. 24. 

Appendix S

I find in my travelling journal a passage which may serve to convey amore complete notion of the trials to which the women of America, whoconsent to follow their husbands into the wilds, are often subjected. This description has nothing to recommend it to the reader but itsstrict accuracy:

". . . From time to time we come to fresh clearings; all these placesare alike; I shall describe the one at which we have halted to-night, for it will serve to remind me of all the others. 

"The bell which the pioneers hang round the necks of their cattle, in order to find them again in the woods, announced our approach to aclearing, when we were yet a long way off; and we soon afterwards heardthe stroke of the hatchet, hewing down the trees of the forest. As wecame nearer, traces of destruction marked the presence of civilizedman; the road was strewn with shattered boughs; trunks of trees, halfconsumed by fire, or cleft by the wedge, were still standing in thetrack we were following. We continued to proceed till we reached a woodin which all the trees seemed to have been suddenly struck dead; in theheight of summer their boughs were as leafless as in winter; and uponcloser examination we found that a deep circle had been cut round thebark, which, by stopping the circulation of the sap, soon kills thetree. We were informed that this is commonly the first thing a pioneerdoes; as he cannot in the first year cut down all the trees which coverhis new parcel of land, he sows Indian corn under their branches, andputs the trees to death in order to prevent them from injuring his crop. Beyond this field, at present imperfectly traced out, we suddenly cameupon the cabin of its owner, situated in the centre of a plot of groundmore carefully cultivated than the rest, but where man was still wagingunequal warfare with the forest; there the trees were cut down, buttheir roots were not removed, and the trunks still encumbered the groundwhich they so recently shaded. Around these dry blocks, wheat, suckersof trees, and plants of every kind, grow and intertwine in all theluxuriance of wild, untutored nature. Amidst this vigorous and variousvegetation stands the house of the pioneer, or, as they call it, thelog house. Like the ground about it, this rustic dwelling bore marks ofrecent and hasty labor; its length seemed not to exceed thirty feet, its height fifteen; the walls as well as the roof were formed of roughtrunks of trees, between which a little moss and clay had been insertedto keep out the cold and rain. 

"As night was coming on, we determined to ask the master of the loghouse for a lodging. At the sound of our footsteps, the children whowere playing amongst the scattered branches sprang up and ran towardsthe house, as if they were frightened at the sight of man; whilst twolarge dogs, almost wild, with ears erect and outstretched nose, camegrowling out of their hut, to cover the retreat of their young masters. The pioneer himself made his appearance at the door of his dwelling;he looked at us with a rapid and inquisitive glance, made a sign to thedogs to go into the house, and set them the example, without betrayingeither curiosity or apprehension at our arrival. 

"We entered the log house: the inside is quite unlike that ofthe cottages of the peasantry of Europe: it contains more than issuperfluous, less than is necessary. A single window with a muslinblind; on a hearth of trodden clay an immense fire, which lights thewhole structure; above the hearth a good rifle, a deer's skin, andplumes of eagles' feathers; on the right hand of the chimney a map ofthe United States, raised and shaken by the wind through the crannies inthe wall; near the map, upon a shelf formed of a roughly hewn plank, afew volumes of books--a Bible, the six first books of Milton, and two ofShakespeare's plays; along the wall, trunks instead of closets; in thecentre of the room a rude table, with legs of green wood, and with thebark still upon them, looking as if they grew out of the ground on whichthey stood; but on this table a tea-pot of British ware, silver spoons, cracked tea-cups, and some newspapers. 

"The master of this dwelling has the strong angular features and lanklimbs peculiar to the native of New England. It is evident that this manwas not born in the solitude in which we have met with him: his physicalconstitution suffices to show that his earlier years were spent inthe midst of civilized society, and that he belongs to that restless, calculating, and adventurous race of men, who do with the utmostcoolness things only to be accounted for by the ardor of the passions, and who endure the life of savages for a time, in order to conquer andcivilize the backwoods. 

"When the pioneer perceived that we were crossing his threshold, he cameto meet us and shake hands, as is their custom; but his face was quiteunmoved; he opened the conversation by inquiring what was going on inthe world; and when his curiosity was satisfied, he held his peace, as if he were tired by the noise and importunity of mankind. When wequestioned him in our turn, he gave us all the information we required;he then attended sedulously, but without eagerness, to our personalwants. Whilst he was engaged in providing thus kindly for us, how cameit that in spit of ourselves we felt our gratitude die upon our lips? Itis that our host whilst he performs the duties of hospitality, seems tobe obeying an irksome necessity of his condition: he treats it as a dutyimposed upon him by his situation, not as a pleasure. By the side ofthe hearth sits a woman with a baby on her lap: she nods to us withoutdisturbing herself. Like the pioneer, this woman is in the prime oflife; her appearance would seem superior to her condition, and herapparel even betrays a lingering taste for dress; but her delicatelimbs appear shrunken, her features are drawn in, her eye is mild andmelancholy; her whole physiognomy bears marks of a degree of religiousresignation, a deep quiet of all passions, and some sort of natural andtranquil firmness, ready to meet all the ills of life, without fearingand without braving them. Her children cluster about her, fullof health, turbulence, and energy: they are true children of thewilderness; their mother watches them from time to time with mingledmelancholy and joy: to look at their strength and her languor, one mightimagine that the life she has given them has exhausted her own, andstill she regrets not what they have cost her. The house inhabited bythese emigrants has no internal partition or loft. In the one chamberof which it consists, the whole family is gathered for the night. Thedwelling is itself a little world--an ark of civilization amidst anocean of foliage: a hundred steps beyond it the primeval forest spreadsits shades, and solitude resumes its sway. "

Appendix T

It is not the equality of conditions which makes men immoral andirreligious; but when men, being equal, are at the same time immoral andirreligious, the effects of immorality and irreligion easily manifestthemselves outwardly, because men have but little influence upon eachother, and no class exists which can undertake to keep society in order. Equality of conditions never engenders profligacy of morals, but itsometimes allows that profligacy to show itself. 

Appendix U

Setting aside all those who do not think at all, and those who dare notsay what they think, the immense majority of the Americans will still befound to appear satisfied with the political institutions by which theyare governed; and, I believe, really to be so. I look upon this stateof public opinion as an indication, but not as a demonstration, ofthe absolute excellence of American laws. The pride of a nation, thegratification of certain ruling passions by the law, a concourse ofcircumstances, defects which escape notice, and more than all the rest, the influence of a majority which shuts the mouth of all cavillers, maylong perpetuate the delusions of a people as well as those of a man. Look at England throughout the eighteenth century. No nation was evermore prodigal of self-applause, no people was ever more self-satisfied;then every part of its constitution was right--everything, even to itsmost obvious defects, was irreproachable: at the present day a vastnumber of Englishmen seem to have nothing better to do than toprove that this constitution was faulty in many respects. Which wasright?--the English people of the last century, or the English people ofthe present day?

The same thing has occurred in France. It is certain that during thereign of Louis XIV the great bulk of the nation was devotedly attachedto the form of government which, at that time, governed the community. But it is a vast error to suppose that there was anything degraded inthe character of the French of that age. There might be some sort ofservitude in France at that time, but assuredly there was no servilespirit among the people. The writers of that age felt a species ofgenuine enthusiasm in extolling the power of their king; and there wasno peasant so obscure in his hovel as not to take a pride in the gloryof his sovereign, and to die cheerfully with the cry "Vive le Roi!" uponhis lips. These very same forms of loyalty are now odious to the Frenchpeople. Which are wrong?--the French of the age of Louis XIV, or theirdescendants of the present day?

Our judgment of the laws of a people must not then be founded FutureCondition Of Three Races In The United States exclusively upon itsinclinations, since those inclinations change from age to age; but uponmore elevated principles and a more general experience. The love which apeople may show for its law proves only this:--that we should not be intoo great a hurry to change them. 

Appendix V

In the chapter to which this note relates I have pointed out one sourceof danger: I am now about to point out another kind of peril, more rareindeed, but far more formidable if it were ever to make its appearance. If the love of physical gratification and the taste for well-being, which are naturally suggested to men by a state of equality, were toget entire possession of the mind of a democratic people, and to fill itcompletely, the manners of the nation would become so totally opposed tomilitary tastes, that perhaps even the army would eventually acquirea love of peace, in spite of the peculiar interest which leads it todesire war. Living in the midst of a state of general relaxation, thetroops would ultimately think it better to rise without efforts, bythe slow but commodious advancement of a peace establishment, thanto purchase more rapid promotion at the cost of all the toils andprivations of the field. With these feelings, they would take up armswithout enthusiasm, and use them without energy; they would allowthemselves to be led to meet the foe, instead of marching to attack him. It must not be supposed that this pacific state of the army would renderit adverse to revolutions; for revolutions, and especially militaryrevolutions, which are generally very rapid, are attended indeed withgreat dangers, but not with protracted toil; they gratify ambition atless cost than war; life only is at stake, and the men of democraciescare less for their lives than for their comforts. Nothing is moredangerous for the freedom and the tranquillity of a people than an armyafraid of war, because, as such an army no longer seeks to maintain itsimportance and its influence on the field of battle, it seeks to assertthem elsewhere. Thus it might happen that the men of whom a democraticarmy consists should lose the interests of citizens without acquiringthe virtues of soldiers; and that the army should cease to be fit forwar without ceasing to be turbulent. I shall here repeat what I havesaid in the text: the remedy for these dangers is not to be found in thearmy, but in the country: a democratic people which has preserved themanliness of its character will never be at a loss for military prowessin its soldiers. 

Appendix W

Men connect the greatness of their idea of unity with means, God withends: hence this idea of greatness, as men conceive it, leads us intoinfinite littleness. To compel all men to follow the same course towardsthe same object is a human notion;--to introduce infinite variety ofaction, but so combined that all these acts lead by a multitude ofdifferent courses to the accomplishment of one great design, is aconception of the Deity. The human idea of unity is almost alwaysbarren; the divine idea pregnant with abundant results. Men think theymanifest their greatness by simplifying the means they use; but it isthe purpose of God which is simple--his means are infinitely varied. 

Appendix X

A democratic people is not only led by its own tastes to centralizeits government, but the passions of all the men by whom it is governedconstantly urge it in the same direction. It may easily be foreseen thatalmost all the able and ambitious members of a democratic community willlabor without 2 ceasing to extend the powers of government, because theyall hope at some time or other to wield those powers. It is a wasteof time to attempt to prove to them that extreme centralization maybe injurious to the State, since they are centralizing for their ownbenefit. Amongst the public men of democracies there are hardly any butmen of great disinterestedness or extreme mediocrity who seek to opposethe centralization of government: the former are scarce, the latterpowerless. 

Appendix Y

I have often asked myself what would happen if, amidst the relaxation ofdemocratic manners, and as a consequence of the restless spirit of thearmy, a military government were ever to be founded amongst any of thenations of the present age. I think that even such a government wouldnot differ very much from the outline I have drawn in the chapter towhich this note belongs, and that it would retain none of the fiercecharacteristics of a military oligarchy. I am persuaded that, in such acase, a sort of fusion would take place between the habits of officialmen and those of the military service. The administration would assumesomething of a military character, and the army some of the usages ofthe civil administration. The result would be a regular, clear, exact, and absolute system of government; the people would become thereflection of the army, and the community be drilled like a garrison. 

Appendix Z

It cannot be absolutely or generally affirmed that the greatest dangerof the present age is license or tyranny, anarchy or despotism. Bothare equally to be feared; and the one may as easily proceed as the otherfrom the selfsame cause, namely, that "general apathy, " which is theconsequence of what I have termed "individualism": it is because thisapathy exists, that the executive government, having mustered a fewtroops, is able to commit acts of oppression one day, and the next day aparty, which has mustered some thirty men in its ranks, can also commitacts of oppression. Neither one nor the other can found anything tolast; and the causes which enable them to succeed easily, prevent themfrom succeeding long: they rise because nothing opposes them, and theysink because nothing supports them. The proper object therefore of ourmost strenuous resistance, is far less either anarchy or despotism thanthe apathy which may almost indifferently beget either the one or theother. 

Constitution Of The United States Of America

We The People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfectUnion, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquillity, provide for thecommon defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessingsof Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish thisConstitution for the United States of America:

Article I

Section 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in aCongress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and Houseof Representatives. 

Section 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members ofchosen every second Year by the People of the several States, and theElectors in each States shall have the Qualifications requisite forElectors of the most numerous Branch of the State Legislature. 

No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to theAge of twenty-five Years, and been seven Years a Citizen of the UnitedStates, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that Statein which he shall be chosen. 

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the severalStates which may be included within this Union, according to theirrespective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the wholeNumber of free Persons, including those bound to service for a Termof Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three-fifths of all otherPersons. The actual Enumeration shall be made within three Years afterthe first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and withinevery subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Lawdirect. The Number of Representatives shall not exceed one for everythirty Thousand, but each State shall have at Least one Representative;and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshireshall be entitled to choose three, Massachusetts, eight, Rhode-Islandand Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six, NewJersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six, Virginiaten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three. 

When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, theExecutive Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill suchVacancies. 

The House of Representatives shall choose their Speaker and otherOfficers; and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment. Section 3. TheSenate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators fromeach State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six Years; and eachSenator shall have one Vote. 

Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the firstElection, they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at theExpiration of the second Year, of the second Class at the expiration ofthe fourth Year, and of the third Class at the expiration of thesixth Year, so that one-third may be chosen every second Year; and ifVacancies happen by Resignation, or otherwise, during the Recess ofthe Legislature of any State, the Executive thereof may make temporaryAppointments until the next Meeting of the Legislature, which shall thenfill such Vacancies. 

No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age ofthirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States, andwho shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State for which heshall be chosen. 

The Vice-President of the United States shall be President of theSenate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided. TheSenate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President protempore, in the Absence of the Vice-President, or when he shall exercisethe Office of President of the United States. 

The Senate shall have the sole power to try all Impeachments. Whensitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation. Whenthe President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shallpreside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence oftwo-thirds of the Members present. Judgment in cases of Impeachmentshall not extend further than to removal from Office, anddisqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of Honor, Trust, or Profitunder the United States: but the Party convicted shall neverthelessbe liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment, and Punishmentaccording to Law. 

Section 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections forSenators and Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by theLegislature thereof; but the Congress may at any time by Law make oralter such Regulations, except as to the Places of choosing Senators. 

The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year, and suchMeeting shall be on the first Monday in December, unless they shall byLaw appoint a different Day. 

Section 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returnsand Qualifications of its own Members, and a Majority of each shallconstitute a Quorum to do Business; but a smaller Number may adjournfrom day to day, and may be authorized to compel the Attendance ofAbsent Members, in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each Housemay provide. 

Each House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish itsMembers for disorderly Behaviour, and, with a Concurrence of two-thirds, expel a Member. 

Each House shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings, and from time totime publish the same, excepting such Parts as may in their Judgmentrequire Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the Members of either Houseon any question shall, at the Desire of one-fifth of those present, beentered on the Journal. 

Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without theConsent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any otherPlace than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting. 

Section 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensationfor their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of theTreasury of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony, and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during theirattendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going toand returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in eitherHouse, they shall not be questioned in any other Place. 

No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he waselected, be appointed to any civil Office under the Authority of theUnited States, which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereofshall have been increased during such time; and no Person holding anyOffice under the United States, shall be a Member of either House duringhis Continuance in Office. 

Section 7. All Bills for Raising Revenue shall originate in the House ofRepresentatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with Amendments ason other Bills. 

Every Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and theSenate, shall, before it become a Law, be presented to the President ofthe United States; if he approve he shall sign it, but if not he shallreturn it, with his Objections, to that House in which it shall haveoriginated, who shall enter the Objections at large on their Journal, and proceed to reconsider it. If after such Reconsideration two-thirdsof that House shall agree to pass the Bill, it shall be sent, togetherwith the Objections, to the other House, by which it shall likewisebe reconsidered, and if approved by two-thirds of that House, it shallbecome a Law. But in all such Cases the Votes of both Houses shall bedetermined by Yeas and Nays, and the Names of the Persons voting forand against the Bill shall be entered on the Journal of each Houserespectively. If any Bill shall not be returned by the President withinten days (Sundays excepted) after it shall have been presented to him, the Same shall be a Law, in like manner as if he had signed it, unlessthe Congress by their Adjournment prevent its Return, in which Case itshall not be a Law. 

Every Order, Resolution, or Vote to which the Concurrence of the Senateand House of Representatives may be necessary (except on a question ofAdjournment) shall be presented to the President of the United States;and before the Same shall take Effect, shall be approved by him, orbeing disapproved by him, shall be repassed by two-thirds of the Senateand House of Representatives, according to the Rules and Limitationsprescribed in the case of a Bill. 

Section 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes, Duties, Imposts, and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for thecommon Defence and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties, Imposts and Excises shall be uniform throughout the United States;

To borrow Money on the credit of the United States;

To regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States, and with the Indian Tribes;

To establish an Uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws on thesubject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States; To coin Money, regulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin, and fix the Standard ofWeights and Measures;

To provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities andcurrent Coin of the United States;

To establish Post Offices and Post Roads;

To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing forlimited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right to theirrespective Writings and Discoveries;

To constitute Tribunals inferior to the Supreme Court; To define andpunish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas, and Offencesagainst the Law of Nations;

To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal, and make Rulesconcerning Captures on Land and Water;

To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Useshall be for a longer Term than two years;

To provide and maintain a Navy;

To make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and navalForces. 

To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of theUnion, suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions. 

To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, andfor governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of theUnited States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment ofthe Officers, and the Authority of training the Militia according to thediscipline prescribed by Congress;

To exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever, oversuch District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may, by Cession ofparticular States, and the Acceptance of Congress become the Seat of theGovernment of the United States, and to exercise like Authority over allPlaces purchased by the Consent of the Legislature of the State inwhich the Same shall be, for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals, Dock-Yards, and other needful Buildings;--And To make all Laws whichshall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoingPowers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in theGovernment of the United States, or in any Department or Officerthereof. 

Section 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any of theStates now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not be prohibitedby the Congress prior to the year one thousand eight hundred and eight, but a tax or duty may be imposed on such Importation, not exceeding tendollars for each Person. 

The Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion the public Safety mayrequire it. 

No Bill of Attainder or ex post facto Law shall be passed. NoCapitation, or other direct Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion tothe Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken. 

No Tax or Duty shall be laid on Articles exported from any State. 

No preference shall be given by any Regulation of Commerce or Revenueto the Ports of one State over those of another: nor shall Vessels boundto, or from, one State, be obliged to enter, clear, or pay Duties inanother. 

No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in consequence ofAppropriations made by Law; and a regular Statement and Account of theReceipts and Expenditures of all public Money shall be published fromtime to time. 

No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States: And noPerson holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, withoutthe Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office, or Title of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince, or foreign State. 

Section 10. No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, orConfederation; grant Letters of Marque or Reprisal; coin Money; emitBills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender inPayment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law, or Lawimpairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility. 

No State shall, without the Consent of the Congress, lay any Imposts orDuties on Imports or Exports, except what may be absolutely necessaryfor executing its inspection Laws: and the net Produce of all Duties andImposts, laid by any State on Imports or Exports shall be for the Use ofthe Treasury of the United States; and all such laws shall be subject tothe Revision and Control of the Congress. 

No State shall, without the Consent of Congress, lay any Duty ofTonnage, keep Troops, or Ships of War in time of Peace, enter into anyAgreement or Compact with another State, or with a foreign Power, orengage in War, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent Danger aswill not admit of delay. 

Article II

Section 1. The Executive Power shall be vested in a President of theUnited States of America. He shall hold his Office during the Term offour Years, and, together with the Vice-President, chosen for the sameTerm, be elected as follows:

Each State shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof maydirect, a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators andRepresentatives to which the State may be entitled in the Congress: butno Senator or Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust orProfit under the United States, shall be appointed an Elector. 

[The Electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by Ballotfor two persons, of whom one at least shall not be an inhabitant ofthe same State with themselves. And they shall make a List of all thePersons voted for, and of the Number of Votes for each; which Listthey shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the Seat of theGovernment of the United States, directed to the President of theSenate. The President of the Senate shall, in the Presence of the Senateand House of Representatives, open all the Certificates, and the Votesshall then be counted. The Person having the greatest Number of Votesshall be the President, if such Number be a Majority of the whole Numberof Electors appointed; and if there be more than one who have suchMajority, and have an equal number of Votes, then the House ofRepresentatives shall immediately choose by Ballot one of them forPresident; and if no Person have a Majority, then from the five higheston the List the said House shall in like Manner choose the President. But in choosing the President, the Votes shall be taken by States, the Representation from each State having one Vote; A quorum for thisPurpose shall consist of a Member or Members from two-thirds of theStates, and a Majority of all the States shall be necessary to a Choice. In every Case, after the Choice of the President, the Person having thegreatest number of Votes of the Electors shall be the Vice-President. But if there should remain two or more who have equal Votes, the Senateshall choose from them by Ballot the Vice-President. ]*d

[Footnote *d: This clause is superseded by Article XII, Amendments. Seepage 396. ]

The Congress may determine the Time of choosing the Electors, and theDay on which they shall give their Votes; which Day shall be the samethroughout the United States. 

No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the UnitedStates, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall beeligible to the Office of President; neither shall any person beeligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age ofthirty-five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the UnitedStates. 

In case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death, Resignation or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the saidOffice, the same shall devolve on the Vice-president, and the Congressmay by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation orInability, both of the President and Vice-President, declaring whatOfficer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall actaccordingly, until the Disability be removed, or a President shall beelected. 

The President shall, at stated Times, receive for his Services, aCompensation, which shall neither be increased nor diminished during thePeriod for which he shall have been elected, and he shall not receivewithin that period any other Emolument from the United States, or any ofthem. 

Before he enter on the Execution of his Office, he shall take thefollowing Oath or Affirmation:--"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) thatI will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect, and defend theConstitution of the United States. "

Section 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army andNavy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States, when called into the actual Service of the United States; he mayrequire the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer in each of theexecutive Departments, upon any Subject relating to the Duties of theirrespective Offices, and he shall have Power to grant Reprieves andPardons for Offences against the United States, except in Cases ofImpeachment. 

He shall have Power, by and with the Advice and Consent of the Senate, to make Treaties, provided two-thirds of the Senators present concur;and he shall nominate, and by and with the Advice and Consent of theSenate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the Supreme Court, and all other Officers of the UnitedStates, whose Appointments are not herein otherwise provided for, andwhich shall be established by Law: but the Congress may by Law vestthe Appointment of such inferior Officers, as they think proper, in thePresident alone, in the Courts of Law, or in the Heads of Departments. 

The President shall have Power to fill up all vacancies that may happenduring the recess of the Senate, by granting Commissions which shallexpire at the End of their next Session. 

Section 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress Informationof the state of the Union, and recommend to their Considerationsuch Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient; he may, onextraordinary Occasions, convene both Houses, or either of them, andin Case of Disagreement between them, with Respect to the Time ofAdjournment, he may adjourn them to such Time as he shall think proper;he shall receive Ambassadors and other Public Ministers; he shall takeCare that the Laws be faithfully executed, and shall Commission all theOfficers of the United States. 

Section 4. The President, Vice-President and all civil Officers of theUnited States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for, andConviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other High Crimes and Misdemeanors. 

Article III

Section 1. The judicial Power of the United States shall be vested inone supreme Court, and in such inferior Courts as the Congress may fromtime to time ordain and establish. The Judges, both of the Supreme andinferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good Behaviour, andshall, at stated Times, receive for their Services, a Compensation, which shall not be diminished during their Continuance in Office. 

Section 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all cases, in Law andEquity, arising under this Constitution, the Laws of the United States, and Treaties made, or which shall be made, under their Authority;--toall Cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls;--toall cases of Admiralty and maritime Jurisdiction; to Controversies towhich the United States shall be a Party;--to Controversies between twoor more States;--between a State and Citizens of another State; betweenCitizens of different States, --between Citizens of the same Stateclaiming Lands under Grants of different States, and between a State, orthe Citizens thereof, and foreign States, Citizens or Subjects. 

In all Cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, and those in which a State shall be Party, the Supreme Court shall haveoriginal Jurisdiction. In all the other Cases before mentioned, theSupreme Court shall have appellate Jurisdiction, both as to Law andFact, with such Exceptions and under such Regulations as the Congressshall make. 

The Trial of all Crimes, except in Cases of Impeachment, shall be byJury; and such Trial shall be held in the State where the said Crimesshall have been committed; but when not committed within any State, theTrial shall be at such Place or Places as the Congress may by Law havedirected. 

Section 3. Treason against the United States shall consist only inlevying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving themAid and Comfort. No person shall be convicted of Treason unless on theTestimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession inopen Court. 

The Congress shall have power to declare the Punishment of Treason, butno Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood or Forfeitureexcept during the life of the person attainted. 

Article IV

Section 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to thePublic Acts, Records, and judicial Proceedings of every other State. And the Congress may by general Laws prescribe the Manner in which suchActs, Records and Proceedings shall be proved, and the Effect thereof. 

Section 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to allPrivileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States. A personcharged in any State with Treason, Felony, or other Crime, who shallflee from Justice, and be found in another State, shall on Demand of theexecutive Authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered up, tobe removed to the State having Jurisdiction of the Crime. 

No Person held to Service or Labour in one State, under the Lawsthereof, escaping into another, shall, in consequence of any Law orRegulation therein, be discharged from such Service or Labour, but shallbe delivered up on Claim of the Party to whom such Service or Labour maybe due. 

Section 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;but no new State shall be formed or erected within the Jurisdiction ofany other State; nor any State be formed by the Junction of two or moreStates, or Parts of States, without the Consent of the Legislatures ofthe States concerned as well as of the Congress. 

The Congress shall have Power to dispose of and make all needful Rulesand Regulations respecting the Territory or other Property belongingto the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be soconstrued as to Prejudice any Claims of the United States, or of anyparticular State. 

Section 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in thisUnion a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of themagainst Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of theExecutive (when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domesticViolence. 

Article V

The Congress, whenever two-thirds of both Houses shall deem itnecessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on theApplication of the Legislatures of two-thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in eitherCase, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of thisConstitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three-fourths of theseveral States, or by Conventions in three-fourths thereof, as theone or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress;Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year Onethousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the firstand fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article; and thatno State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of its equal Suffragein the Senate. 

Article VI

All Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoptionof this Constitution, shall be as valid against the United States underthis Constitution, as under the Confederation. 

This Constitution, and the Laws of the United States which shall be madein Pursuance thereof; and all Treaties made, or which shall be made, under the Authority of the United States, shall be the supreme Law ofthe Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby, any Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the contrarynotwithstanding. 

The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members ofthe several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound byOath or Affirmation to support this Constitution; but no religious testshall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trustunder the United States. 

Article VII

The Ratification of the Conventions of nine States shall be sufficientfor the Establishment of this Constitution between the States soratifying the Same. 

Done in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of the States present theSeventeenth Day of September in the Year of Our Lord One thousand sevenhundred and eighty-seven and of the Independence of the United States ofAmerica the Twelfth. In witness whereof We have hereunto subscribed ourNames, Geo. Washington Presidt. And deputy from Virginia. 

 New Hampshire John Langdon Nicholas Gilman

 Massachusetts Nathaniel Gorham Rufus King

 Connecticut Wm. Saml. Johnson Roger Sherman

 New York Alexander Hamilton

 New Jersey Wil. Livingston. David Brearley. Wm. Paterson. Jona. Dayton

 Pennsylvania B Franklin Thomas Mifflin Robt. Morris. Geo. Clymer Thos. Fitzsimons Jared Ingersoll James Wilson Gouv. Morris

 Delaware Geo. Read Gunning Bedford Jun John Dickinson Richard Bassett Jaco. Broom

 Maryland James McHenry Dan of St Thos. Jenifer Danl. Carroll

 Virginia John Blair-- James Madison Jr. 

 North Carolina Wm. Blount Richd. Dobbs Spaight Hu. Williamson

 South Carolina J. Rutledge Charles Cotesworth Pinckney Charles Pinckney Peirce Butler. 

 Georgia William Few Abr. Baldwin

 Attest. William Jackson, Secretary

The Word 'the, ' being interlined between the seventh and eighth Lines ofthe first Page, The word 'Thirty' being partly written on an Erasurein the fifteenth Line of the first Page, The Words 'is tried' beinginterlined between the thirty-second and thirty-third Lines of the firstPage, and the Word 'the' being interlined between the forty-third andforty-fourth Lines of the second page. 

[Note by the Department of State. --The foregoing explanation in theoriginal instrument is placed on the left of the paragraph beginningwith the words, 'Done in Convention, ' and therefore precedes thesignatures. The interlined and rewritten words, mentioned in it, are inthis edition printed in their proper places in the text. ]

Bill Of Rights

In addition to, and amendment of, the Constitution of the United Statesof America, proposed by Congress and ratified by the Legislatures ofthe several States, pursuant to the Fifth Article of the originalConstitution

Article I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedomof speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably toassemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. 

Article II

A well regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a freeState, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not beinfringed. 

Article III

No Soldier shall in time of peace be quartered in any house withoutthe consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to beprescribed by law. 

Article IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall notbe violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or Affirmation, and particularly describing the placeto be searched, and the persons or things to be seized. 

Article V

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamouscrime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except incases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when inactual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any personbe subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of lifeor limb; nor shall be compelled in any Criminal Case to be a witnessagainst himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, withoutdue process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation. 

Article VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to aspeedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and districtwherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall havebeen previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the natureand cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses againsthim; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favour, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence. 

Article VII

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceedtwenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and nofact tried by a jury shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of theUnited States, than according to the rules of the common law. 

Article VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, norcruel and unusual punishments inflicted. 

Article IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not beconstrued to deny or disparage others retained by the people. 

Article X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, norprohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people. 

Article XI

The Judicial power of the United States shall not be construed to extendto any suit in law or equity, commenced or prosecuted against one of theUnited States by Citizens of another State, or by Citizens or Subjectsof any Foreign State. 

Article XII

The electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by ballotfor President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be aninhabitant of the same State with themselves; they shall name in theirballots the person voted for as President; and in distinct ballots theperson voted for as Vice-President; and they shall make distinct listsof all persons voted for as President, and of all persons voted for asVice President, and of the number of votes for each, which liststhey shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of thegovernment of the United States, directed to the President of theSenate;--The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of theSenate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and thevotes shall then be counted;--The person having the greatest numberof votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be amajority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no personhave such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers notexceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House ofRepresentatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the votes shall be taken by States, the representation from each State having one vote; a quorum for thispurpose shall consist of a member or members from two-thirds of theStates, and a majority of all the States shall be necessary to achoice. And if the House of Representatives shall not choose a Presidentwhenever the right of choice shall devolve upon them, before the fourthday of March next following, then the Vice-President shall actas President, as in the case of the death or other constitutionaldisability of the President. The person having the greatest number ofvotes as Vice-President, shall be the Vice-President, if such a numberbe a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed, and if noperson have a majority, then from the two highest numbers on the list, the Senate shall choose the Vice-President; a quorum for the purposeshall consist of two-thirds of the whole number of Senators, and amajority of the whole number shall be necessary to a choice. But noperson constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall beeligible to that of Vice-President of the United States. 

Article XIII

Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as apunishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to theirjurisdiction. 

Section 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article byappropriate legislation. 

Article XIV

Section 1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, andsubject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United Statesand of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce anylaw which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of theUnited States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person withinits jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. 

Section 2. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several Statesaccording to their respective numbers, counting the whole number ofpersons in each State, excluding Indians not taxed. But when the rightto vote at any election for the choice of electors for President andVice-President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the Executive and Judicial officers of a State, or the members of theLegislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of suchState, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or othercrime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in theproportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to thewhole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such State. 

Section 3. No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President, or hold any office, civilor military, under the United States, or under any State, who, havingpreviously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer ofthe United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as anexecutive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitutionof the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellionagainst the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove suchdisability. 

Section 4. The validity of the public debt of the United States, authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions andbounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shallnot be questioned. But neither the United States nor any State shallassume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrectionor rebellion against the United States, or any claim for the loss oremancipation of any slave; but all such debts, obligations and claimsshall be held illegal and void. 

Section 5. The Congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriatelegislation, the provisions of this article. 

Article XV

Section 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall notbe denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account ofrace, colour, or previous condition of servitude. 

Section 2. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article byappropriate legislation.