# Democracy in America

##  Book One

##  Introductory Chapter

Of all the new and remarkable things that caught my attention during my stay in the United States, nothing impressed me more than the general equality of conditions. I quickly recognized the tremendous influence this fundamental fact has on the direction of society, shaping public opinion and the nature of laws; introducing new principles to those in power, and cultivating particular customs among the governed. I soon saw that the effect of this fact reaches far beyond the political character or laws of the country, exerting equal control over civil society as over the government; it forms opinions, gives rise to feelings, shapes daily practices, and alters whatever it does not create. The deeper I studied American society, the more I realized that equality of conditions is the central fact from which all others seem to spring, and the main point to which all my observations kept returning.

I then turned my thoughts to our side of the Atlantic, where I believed I saw something similar to what I observed in the New World. I noticed that equality of conditions is advancing every day to the limits it seems to have already achieved in the United States, and that the democracy governing American communities appears to be quickly gaining power in Europe. This led me to the idea for the book now before the reader.

It is clear to everyone that a great democratic revolution is unfolding among us; but there are differing opinions about its nature and consequences. Some see it as a new and accidental event that can still be stopped; others regard it as unstoppable, since it is the most consistent, ancient, and enduring tendency in history. Let us recall the condition of France seven hundred years ago, when the land was divided among a small number of families, who owned the soil and ruled over the people; the right to govern was inherited along with land from one generation to the next; brute force was the only way people could influence each other, and land ownership was the sole basis of power. Soon, however, the political power of the clergy arose and began to assert itself: the clergy opened its ranks to all, rich and poor, peasant and lord; equality entered government through the Church, and someone who as a serf would have remained in bondage could become a priest among nobles, sometimes even above the heads of kings.

As society gradually became more stable and civilized, the relationships between people grew more complex and numerous. This created a need for civil laws; and the legal profession, which had been hidden in dusty courtrooms, came to appear at the king’s court beside feudal lords dressed in ermine and armor. While the kings bankrupted themselves with grand projects, and the nobles exhausted their resources in private wars, the lower classes grew wealthy through commerce. The impact of money started to influence state affairs. Business dealings opened new paths to power, and financiers gained political influence—respected and yet despised at the same time. As learning spread and interest in literature and art increased, talent offered new opportunities for success; science became a means of governance, intelligence led to social prominence, and writers became involved in state affairs. The importance of birthright declined in direct proportion to the new routes of advancement. In the eleventh century, nobility was priceless; in the thirteenth, it could be bought; it was first granted to commoners in 1270; and thus equality entered government by means of the aristocracy itself.

Over these seven centuries, it sometimes happened that, to resist royal authority or weaken rivals, nobles gave some political rights to the people. More often, kings allowed the lower classes some power in order to limit the aristocracy. In France, kings have always been the most determined and consistent proponents of leveling. When strong and ambitious, they spared no effort to raise the people up to the nobles’ level; when moderate or weak, they allowed the people to rise above themselves. Some aided democracy with their abilities, others through their flaws. Louis XI and Louis XIV reduced every rank beneath the throne to the same subjection; Louis XV sank into decadence, bringing his court down with him.

As soon as land could be held by other means than feudal tenure, and personal property started to give influence and authority, each improvement in commerce or manufacturing further increased equality of conditions. From then on, every new discovery, every new need it created, and every new desire seeking satisfaction, brought society closer to universal equality. The craving for luxury, the love of war, the force of fashion, and both shallow and deep passions of human nature all worked to enrich the poor and diminish the wealthy.

Once intellect became a source of power and wealth, it was impossible not to see that every advance in science, every new truth, and every original idea was a seed of power placed within the people’s reach. Poetry, eloquence, memory, quick wit, creative imagination, depth of thought, and all the gifts that Providence bestows equally turned to democracy’s advantage; even when these were held by its opponents, they still served the cause by highlighting the fundamental greatness of humanity. Democracy’s influence grew alongside civilization and knowledge, and literature became an arsenal where the weakest and poorest could always find weapons.

Throughout our history, there is scarcely a single major event in the past seven centuries which has not benefited equality. The Crusades and wars with the English decimated nobles and split their lands; the founding of towns introduced the element of democratic freedom into feudal monarchy; the invention of firearms put peasant and noble on equal footing in battle; printing gave all minds the same access to information; the postal system brought news to both the poor man’s cottage and the palace gates; and Protestantism declared all men equally able to find their path to heaven. The discovery of America opened thousands of new roads to fortune, putting wealth and power within reach of the obscure and the adventuresome. If we look at what happened in France every fifty years since the eleventh century, we always see a two-fold change in society: the noble fell down the social ladder, the commoner rose. Each half-century, they grow closer together, and soon they will meet.

Nor is this phenomenon unique to France. Wherever we look, we see this continual transformation everywhere in Christendom. Every event in national life has benefited democracy; everyone has helped it: those who worked for it knowingly, those who aided it by accident; those who fought for it and those who claimed to oppose it—all were pushed in the same direction, all labored toward the same end, some unknowingly and unwillingly; all turned out to be instruments in the hands of God.

The slow development of equality of conditions is, therefore, a providential fact, marked by all the qualities of a divine decree: it is universal, durable, escapes all human control, and all events and people contribute to its progress. Is it reasonable, then, to think that a social impulse so ancient can be stopped by the efforts of a single generation? Is it believable that the democracy which destroyed the feudal system and defeated kings will now respect the citizen and the capitalist? Will it pause now, when it has grown so strong and its opponents so weak? No one can say where we are heading, for there is nothing to compare to: the equality of conditions is more complete in today’s Christian countries than ever before in any other era or place; the extent of what we already possess prevents us from predicting what may yet come.

The entire book I offer the public has been written under a sense of religious awe, inspired by the sight of so irresistible a revolution, which has advanced over centuries despite immense obstacles and which still moves forward through the ruins it has made. God does not need to speak directly for us to understand His will; we can perceive it in the regular course of nature and the unvarying direction of events: I know, without direct revelation, that the planets move in paths drawn by the Creator. If the people of our era, through careful observation and sincere thought, acknowledged that the gradual spread of social equality is both the past and the future of their history, then this single truth would give the change the sacred hallmark of a divine decree. Trying to halt democracy would, in that case, be to resist God’s will; and nations would be compelled to make the best of the role Providence has assigned them.

To me, the Christian nations of our age present a truly alarming picture; the force moving them forward is so powerful it cannot be stopped, but not yet so fast that it cannot be guided. Their fate is still within their grasp; but in a short time, that may no longer be the case. The foremost duty today for those who lead us is to educate democracy; to fortify its faith, if possible; to improve its morals; to channel its energy; to replace its inexperience with practical knowledge, and its blind impulses with an understanding of its real interests; to adapt its government to the times and to adjust it as circumstances and people change. A new science of politics is essential for a new world. Yet this is exactly what we neglect; driven by a rapid current, we fix our gaze on the ruins still visible on the shore we have left, even as the stream sweeps us toward the unknown.

Nowhere in Europe has the great social revolution I’m discussing progressed so quickly as in France; but it has always been driven by chance. The nation’s leaders have never prepared for its needs, and its victories have happened without their consent or even their awareness. The most powerful, intelligent, and moral members of society have never tried to align themselves with it to help guide it. As a result, the people have been left to their untamed instincts, growing up like those outsiders educated in the streets, learning only society’s vices and miseries. The existence of democracy was barely recognized, when suddenly it took control of the state. Everything was then surrendered to its whims; it was worshiped as a new idol; until, weakened by its own excesses, the lawmakers sought to destroy its power, instead of educating and correcting it; no one tried to prepare it for government, but all were determined to lock it out.

This is why the democratic revolution in France has happened only in the material aspects of society, without the corresponding changes in laws, ideas, customs, and manners needed to make such a revolution beneficial. We have a democracy, but without the factors that limit its flaws and highlight its virtues; and though we already see the problems it brings, we are still unaware of the benefits it can give.

When the monarchy, backed by the aristocracy, peacefully ruled European nations, society enjoyed, even in its misery, many advantages we can now hardly even imagine. A segment of society’s power formed an unbreakable barrier to royal tyranny; and the monarch, knowing his near-divine status in people’s eyes, was inspired to use his power fairly by the respect he received. Nobles, set high above the masses, were almost forced to feel a reserved and kind interest for their fate, much as a shepherd feels for his flock; and, though they didn't see the poor as their equals, they still watched over the welfare of those whom Providence had entrusted to their care. The people, never having thought of a different social status or expected to ever join the upper ranks, accepted favors from them without questioning their rights. They grew attached to nobles who acted with mercy and justice, and submitted without resistance or servility to their demands, as if to the natural order of God. Custom and the manners of the time created an odd type of law amid brutality, setting certain limits to oppression. The noble, convinced no one would challenge what he saw as his lawful privileges, and the serf, believing his own low status to be the eternal order of things, naturally exchanged goodwill, despite their different fortunes. Social inequality and poverty existed, but neither group’s spirit was degraded. Men are not corrupted by wielding power or debased by obedience, but by exercising power they believe unjust, or by submitting to authority they consider illegitimate and oppressive. One side possessed wealth, strength, and leisure, alongside luxury, refined taste, wit, and art. The other labored and was largely ignorant; but amid this rough, uneducated mass were often found strong passions, noble feelings, firm faith, and independent virtue. Such a state could claim stability, strength, and, above all, glory.

But things have now changed, and gradually the two classes merge; dividing lines are lowered, property is split, power is shared, the light of intelligence spreads, and everyone’s abilities are developed; the state becomes democratic, and democracy’s rule enters society’s customs and institutions slowly and quietly. I can imagine a society where everyone shows the same respect for laws they collectively authored; where the authority of the state is respected as necessary, not divine; where loyalty to the chief magistrate is not a passion but a calm, rational conviction. If each individual holds rights that are secure, then a spirit of mutual trust and respect can flourish, free from pride or servility. The people, understanding their real interests, would acknowledge that to enjoy society’s benefits, they must meet its requirements. In such a situation, the voluntary association of citizens might replace the individual efforts of nobles, and the community would be protected from both anarchy and oppression.

I admit that in a democratic state like this, society will not remain static; yet its momentum can be managed and guided forward; with less brilliance than an aristocracy, but with less visible misery as well; pleasures may be less extravagant, but comfort will be more common; science might not reach the same heights, but ignorance will be rarer; intense passions will be controlled, and the nation’s habits will soften; there may be more vices but fewer crimes. Without great enthusiasm or passionate faith, large sacrifices can still be inspired by appealing to people’s reason and experience; each person will see the need to join with others to defend against weakness; knowing that helping others ensures help for himself, he will see that his own interest is tied to the interest of the whole. As a nation, it may be less glamorous, less heroic, and perhaps less strong; but most citizens will enjoy greater prosperity, and the people will remain peaceful—not because they despair of improvement, but because they recognize the value of their situation. If not every result of this order is good, society will have at least gathered all that is useful and right; and, having forever given up the advantages of aristocracy, humanity would receive all the benefits democracy can provide.

But it may be asked: what have we replaced those old institutions, ideas, and customs with, now that we have abandoned them? The mystique of royalty is gone, but we have not replaced it with reverence for the law; people have learned to despise all authority, but now fear forces them to obey more than love or respect ever did.

I see that we have destroyed those independent forces that could once oppose tyranny; but it is now the government that has taken on the privileges lost by families, corporations, and individuals; the power of a few, which was sometimes oppressive but often protective, has been replaced by the general weakness of all. The division of property has reduced the distance between rich and poor; yet as they come closer, their mutual hatred, envy, and suspicion only increase; neither really understands the concept of rights, and both see force as the only standard now and the only promise for the future. The poor man keeps the prejudices of his ancestors, but not their faith, and their ignorance without their virtues; he follows self-interest blindly and without understanding the complex ideas that guide it, just as his devotion was once blind. Society is peaceful not because of strength and well-being, but because it knows its weakness and fragility; a single effort could be fatal; everyone recognizes the faults, but no one has the courage or will to fix them; the desires, regrets, pains, and pleasures of the time leave nothing enduring—like the passions of old men, whose energy ends in impotence.

We have, then, abandoned the advantages of the old order without gaining any benefit from our new condition; we have destroyed an aristocracy, and seem content to live amid its ruins, gazing at them with satisfaction.

The state of mind in intellectual life is no better. The democracy of France, either blocked or left to its wild passions, has wrecked whatever resisted and shaken everything else. Its influence on society has not been gradual or peaceful, but has always moved forward in turmoil and strife. In the heat of conflict, everyone is pushed beyond his beliefs by the ideas and extremes of his rivals, until he loses sight of his original purpose and speaks in a way that hides his true feelings or intentions. From this comes the confusion we see today. I cannot recall a time in history more deserving of grief and regret than what we are now witnessing; it is as if the natural connection between a person’s ideas and their feelings, between actions and principles, is now broken; the old harmony between thought and sentiment appears lost, and all our moral codes have fallen apart.

Today, zealous Christians can be found among us, deeply grounded in the knowledge and hope of an afterlife, who eagerly defend human liberty as the source of all true greatness. Christianity has asserted that all people are equal in God’s eyes and will not refuse to accept that all citizens are equal under the law. But, through a strange turn of events, religion has become linked to institutions that democracy opposes, and is often led to reject equality and denounce the cause of liberty which it could have embraced as an ally.

Beside these religious men, I see others who are more concerned with the present world than with salvation; they support liberty, not only for its higher virtues but also for its practical benefits, and sincerely hope to spread its blessings. Naturally, they look for religion’s support, since they must know that liberty cannot survive without morality, nor morality without faith; but seeing religion aligned with the other side, they look no further; some attack it directly, while others are unwilling to defend it.

In the past, supporters of slavery were servile and self-serving, while the independent and passionate struggled hopelessly to protect freedom. But now, men of principle and generosity are found whose opinions clash with their character, who praise submission to authority they themselves have never endured. On the other hand, some claim to speak for liberty, as if they feel its importance, but loudly demand for humanity rights they have always rejected. There are upright, peaceful people among us—moral, settled, wealthy, and talented—perfectly suited to lead others; their patriotism is sincere, and they are ready to make great sacrifices for their country’s good, but they confuse civilization’s flaws with its advantages and cannot separate the idea of evil from the idea of progress.

Nearby is another group, whose goal is to make life purely material, to seek what works over what’s right, to pursue knowledge without belief, and prosperity without virtue; calling themselves champions of modern civilization, claiming a standing they take by force and from which their own weakness soon expels them. Where, then, are we? Religious people oppose liberty, while liberty’s supporters reject religion; noble spirits defend subjection, while the lowliest preach independence; good and wise citizens resist change, while those without patriotism or principle are apostles of progress and intelligence. Has it always been like this—has mankind always lived in a world with no coherence, where virtue is without genius, genius without honor; where order is confused with oppression, and sacred rites are treated with contempt for law; where conscience sheds little light, and nothing seems truly encouraged or forbidden, honored or shameful, false or true? Still, I cannot believe God created man just to leave him lost in endless turmoil: Providence surely has a better future for the nations of Europe. I do not know His designs, but I will not stop believing in them simply because I cannot understand them; it is better to question my own capacity than faith in divine justice.

There is a country in the world where the great revolution I am describing has nearly reached its natural completion; it has developed easily and naturally—indeed, that nation has reached the results of the democratic revolution now upon us without experiencing the revolution itself. The settlers who arrived in America in the early seventeenth century separated the democratic element from all the forces that curbed it in old Europe and transplanted it, pure and full, to the New World. There it could develop without limitation, shaping both laws and manners.

To me, it is beyond doubt that sooner or later we will reach, like the Americans, an almost complete equality of conditions. But I do not mean we must always draw the same political lessons the Americans have drawn from a similar social structure. I do not at all assume they have chosen the only possible type of government for a democracy; but the similarity between the root causes of law and custom in both countries is enough to explain why we care so much to learn what effects this may have.

Therefore, it is not just out of curiosity that I have studied America; my purpose was to find practical lessons for our own future. Anyone imagining that this book is intended as a eulogy will see that was not my goal; nor did I write it to endorse any particular type of government, as I believe perfection is rare in any legislation; I did not debate whether this social revolution—which I consider unstoppable—is good or bad for humanity; I accepted this revolution as something already accomplished or soon to be; I chose the nation where it has happened most peacefully and completely, to study its natural consequences and, if possible, to see how it can be made beneficial. I admit that in America I found more than just America; I looked for the very image of democracy, its character, tendencies, prejudices, and passions, so that we might understand what we have to fear or to hope from its progress.

In the first part of this work, I have tried to show the influence that democracy in America has on its laws—democracy that is allowed almost total freedom to follow its natural inclinations. I have aimed to set out the direction it gives to the Government and the impact it has on public affairs. I have sought to identify the harms and benefits it creates. I have reviewed the precautions Americans use to guide this democracy, as well as those they have not taken, and I have tried to explain the reasons why it is able to govern society. I am not certain if I have succeeded in conveying what I observed in America, but I know for sure that this was my sincere goal, and that I have never, intentionally, adjusted facts to fit my ideas—I always tried to fit my ideas to the facts.

Whenever a point could be established by referring to written sources, I used original documents and the most reliable and respected works. I have cited my sources in the notes so anyone can check them. When I mention an opinion, a political custom, or a comment on American manners, I tried to consult the most informed people I met. If the matter was significant or uncertain, I did not rely on just one account but formed my opinion based on testimony from several people. Here, the reader must trust my word. I could often have named people—either well-known to the reader or deserving of such recognition—to back up my statements, but I have deliberately avoided doing so. A visitor may often hear important truths shared in confidence at the fireside, truths the host wouldn’t reveal even to a friend; the host finds comfort in speaking freely to a guest who will soon depart, reducing concern about indiscretion. I carefully recorded every such conversation as soon as it happened, but these notes will remain private; I would rather risk limiting the support for my work than join those strangers who repay generous hospitality with later trouble and annoyance.

I recognize that, despite my care, it will be easy to criticize this book, should anyone choose to do so. Any reader examining it closely will notice the central idea that unites the different sections. However, because the topics I address are so varied, it would not be hard to find a single fact to oppose the collection of facts I present, or a single idea to contrast with those I set forth. I hope readers will approach my work in the same spirit in which I wrote it, and that the book will be judged by the overall impression it leaves, just as I have formed my judgments based on the gathered evidence, not on any single argument. It is important to remember that an author who wants to be understood must develop ideas fully—even to their theoretical limits, and sometimes to the edge of what may be untrue or impossible; for while it is sometimes necessary to step outside logic in practical life, this is not the case in writing, and one often finds that almost as many difficulties come from inconsistent language as from inconsistent conduct.

I will end by noting what many readers may see as the main flaw of this work. This book is not written to promote any particular position, nor have I set out to help or attack any party. My intention was not to see things differently, but to look beyond the immediate disputes of parties, and while they focus on tomorrow, I have tried to turn my thoughts to the future.

##  Chapter I: Exterior Form Of North America

##  Chapter Summary

North America is divided into two vast regions, one sloping toward the Pole, the other toward the Equator—The Mississippi Valley—Traces of global revolutions—The Atlantic shore where the English colonies were founded—Differences in the appearance of North and South America at the time of their discovery—Forests of North America—Prairies—Wandering tribes of natives—Their appearance, manners, and language—Traces of an unknown people.

### Exterior Form Of North America

North America displays in its external form certain general features that are easy to distinguish at first glance. There appears to be a kind of methodical order that has shaped the separation of land and water, mountains and valleys. Amidst what might seem confusion and great variety, a simple yet grand arrangement can be found. The continent is almost evenly divided into two enormous regions. One is bounded to the north by the Arctic Pole and by two great oceans to the east and west. It stretches south, forming a triangle with its irregular sides coming together below the Great Lakes of Canada. The second region begins where the first ends, covering the rest of the continent. One region gently inclines towards the Pole, the other towards the Equator.

The first region slopes so gradually toward the north that it could almost be described as a level plain. This vast area contains neither high mountains nor deep valleys. Streams wind through it irregularly, great rivers join and separate, merge and create extensive marshes, losing their channels in the maze of waters they themselves have formed, and finally, after countless bends, empty into the Polar Seas. The great lakes marking the boundary of this first region are not hemmed in, as in most parts of the Old World, by hills and rocks. Their shores are flat, rising only a few feet above the water, making each lake a vast bowl filled to the brim. The slightest shift in the structure of the globe would send their waters rushing either toward the Pole or the tropics.

The second region is more varied in its surface and is better suited for human habitation. Two long mountain chains run the length of it; the Allegheny range follows the shape of the Atlantic coast, while the other parallels the Pacific. The land between these two mountain chains covers 1,341,649 square miles.\*a Its area is about six times larger than that of France. Yet this vast territory forms a single valley, with one side descending gently from the rounded peaks of the Alleghenies and the other rising steadily toward the tops of the Rocky Mountains. At the bottom of this valley, an immense river flows, fed by various streams from the mountains. In memory of their homeland, the French once named this river the St. Louis. In their grand language, the Native Americans called it the Father of Waters—the Mississippi.

a
\[ Darby’s “View of the United States.”\]

The Mississippi begins above the boundary of the two great regions just described, near the highest point of the tableland where they join. Near this spot rises another river,\*b which empties itself into the Polar Seas. At first, the Mississippi’s course is uncertain: it doubles back north several times, the direction from which it came; at last, after lingering in lakes and marshes, it slowly flows south. Sometimes gliding quietly over its clay bed, sometimes swollen by storms, the Mississippi waters 2,500 miles in its journey.\*c At 1,364 miles from its mouth, the river is about fifteen feet deep on average, and ships of 300 tons can navigate nearly 500 miles. Fifty-seven large navigable rivers add to the Mississippi’s flow, including the Missouri, crossing 2,500 miles; the Arkansas, 1,300 miles; the Red River, 1,000 miles; and four more, each between 800 and 1,000 miles—the Illinois, the St. Peter’s, the St. Francis, and the Moingona—plus countless smaller streams.

b
\[ The Red River.\]

c
\[ Warden’s “Description of the United States.”\]

The valley watered by the Mississippi seems perfectly shaped for this mighty river, which, like an ancient god, brings both benefit and destruction as it passes. Close to its banks, nature shows rich fertility; but the farther one moves from its shores, the weaker vegetation becomes, the soil turns poor, and the remaining plants grow listlessly. Nowhere else are there clearer signs of the earth’s great upheavals than in the Mississippi Valley: its very landscape demonstrates the power of water, visible both in its fertility and its barrenness. The waters of the ancient ocean once deposited thick beds of topsoil in the valley, then leveled them as they withdrew. On the river’s right bank are vast plains, smoothed as if a farmer had rolled over them. The closer one comes to the mountains, the more uneven and barren the land becomes; the ground seems pierced everywhere by ancient rocks, resembling the exposed bones of a half-skeleton. The earth’s surface is covered in granite sand and large, rough stones among which a few plants manage to grow, making it look like a meadow strewn with the ruins of a vast building. These stones and sand closely resemble those forming the arid heights of the Rocky Mountains. The water that swept the soil to the valley also carried away parts of those rocks. Dashed and battered against nearby cliffs, they now lie scattered like shipwrecks at their feet.\*d Overall, the Mississippi Valley is perhaps the most magnificent home prepared by God for humanity, and yet today it remains largely a vast wilderness.

d
\[ See Appendix, A.\]

To the east of the Alleghenies, between their base and the Atlantic Ocean, lies a long strip of rocks and sand, apparently left by the receding sea. This land is at most a hundred miles wide, but about nine hundred miles long. The soil here offers constant challenges for farmers, and its plant life is sparse and monotonous.

It was on this forbidding coast that the first united efforts of human industry took root. This narrow, barren strip was the cradle of the English colonies destined to become the United States of America. The center of power still resides here, while in the backwoods, the true foundations of the great people who will eventually inherit the continent are quietly coming together.

When Europeans first landed on the shores of the West Indies and later on the coast of South America, they believed they had arrived in the legendary lands celebrated by poets. The sea sparkled with a phosphorescent light, and its unusual transparency revealed to sailors everything that had before been hidden in its depths.\*e Small, fragrant islands, like floating baskets of flowers, drifted on the calm surface. Everything in this enchanting region seemed made to meet human needs or enjoyment. Nearly all the trees were heavy with nourishing fruit, and even non-edible ones dazzled with brilliant, varied colors. In groves of fragrant lemon trees, wild figs, myrtles in bloom, acacias, and oleanders draped with flowering vines, hosts of birds unknown in Europe flashed their purple and blue feathers, and filled the air with songs, blending with the lively sounds of a world brimming with life and movement.\*f Yet beneath this brilliant exterior, death was always near. The climate itself was so weakening that people, intoxicated by pleasure, forgot about the future.

e
\[ Malte Brun tells us (vol. v.) that the water of the Caribbean Sea is so clear that coral and fish can be seen at a depth of sixty fathoms. The ship appeared to float in air; sailors became dizzy peering through the crystal water, seeing underwater gardens, shells, and golden fish among the seaweed.\]

f
\[ See Appendix, B.\]

North America appeared completely different: everything was somber, serious, and majestic, seeming made to be the realm of thought, as the South was the realm of sensual enjoyment. A wild, foggy ocean beat against its coasts. It was surrounded by granite rocks or broad sandy stretches. Its forests were dark and dense, made up of firs, larches, evergreen oaks, wild olive trees, and laurels. Beyond this outer fringe lay thick central forests, home to the largest trees found in either hemisphere. The plane tree, catalpa, sugar maple, and Virginian poplar grew alongside the oak, beech, and lime. As in the Old World, decay was constant in these woods. Dead plant life piled on top of itself; but with no one to clear away the ruins and decay not happening fast enough for new growth, the old and new intertwined. Vines, grasses, and other plants forced their way through the fallen timber, feeding off its dust, snaking under dead bark, and thus decay supported life. The forests’ depths were dim and shadowy, forever dampened by endless streams wandering without human guidance. Flowers, fruits, and birds were rarely found beneath these branches. The crashing of a fallen tree, a waterfall’s roar, the bison’s lowing, and the wind’s howl were nearly the only sounds in the stillness.

East of the great river, the forests almost vanished, replaced by vast prairies. Whether nature never seeded these fertile plains with trees or whether they were once forested and later cleared by humans is a mystery that neither tradition nor science has settled.

Still, these huge open spaces were not empty of people. Wandering tribes had, for ages, roamed the forests or the green prairie pastures. From the mouth of the St. Lawrence to the Mississippi delta, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific, these native peoples displayed certain similarities pointing to a shared origin. Yet they were unlike any other known race:\*g they were not white like Europeans, nor yellow like most Asians, nor black like Africans. Their skin was reddish brown, hair long and shiny, lips thin, and cheekbones sharply defined. Though the words differed, the languages spoken by North American tribes all followed the same grammatical rules. These rules did not match those known to govern the roots of language elsewhere. The American idioms appeared to be the result of new combinations, suggesting an intellectual effort beyond the capabilities of the present-day Indians.\*h

g
\[ As exploration has progressed, similarities have been noted between the physical features, language, and habits of North American Indians and those of the Tungus, Manchu, Mongol, Tartar, and other nomadic tribes of Asia. The lands these tribes occupy are not far from the Bering Strait, making it possible that, in the distant past, they peopled the empty continent of America. Still, science has yet to offer a clear explanation. See Malte Brun, vol. v.; Humboldt’s works; Fischer, “Conjecture sur l’Origine des Americains;” Adair, “History of the American Indians.”\]

h
\[ See Appendix, C.\]

The social organization of these tribes was unlike anything seen in the Old World. They seem to have multiplied freely in vast wildernesses without ever encountering more civilized peoples. Accordingly, they displayed none of the half-formed, conflicting ideas of right and wrong, nor the deep corruption that usually comes with ignorance and decline among nations that have fallen back from civilization. The Indian owed nothing to anyone but himself; his virtues, vices, and prejudices were his own creation; he had grown up in the wild independence of his nature.

In civilized countries, the lower classes are not rough merely because they are poor and untaught; rather, they are daily brought face to face with the wealthy and educated. Seeing their own hard fate set against the prosperity and power of others, they feel both anger and fear: the awareness of their inferiority and dependence at once irritates and humbles them. This attitude appears in their manners and speech; they become both insolent and servile. This can be confirmed by observation: people are ruder in aristocratic societies and rich cities than in rural areas. Where wealth and power cluster together, the weak and poor feel crushed by their standing. Seeing no hope of rising, they despair and sink below the dignity of human nature.

In contrast, this harmful aspect of inequality was not found in Native American life: though ignorant and poor, Indians were equal and free. When Europeans first arrived, the Native Americans did not grasp the value of wealth and were unmoved by the pleasures that civilization brings. Still, there was nothing crude in their behavior; they showed a constant reserve and a sort of noble politeness. Gentle and hospitable at peace, yet merciless in war beyond known limits, the Indian would starve himself to help a stranger at his door, but could also tear apart a prisoner with his bare hands. The famed republics of antiquity never produced greater courage, fiercer spirit, or stronger love of independence than what once lived in the forests of the New World.\*i The Europeans made little impression upon landing in North America; their coming stirred neither envy nor fear. How could such men, as described, be influenced by others? The Indian could live without wants, suffer without complaint, and sing his death-song at the stake.\*j Like other members of humankind, they believed in a better world, and worshipped, under different names, God, the creator of the universe. Their ideas on great philosophical truths were generally simple and reflective.\*k

i
\[ President Jefferson notes (“Notes upon Virginia,” p. 148) that among the Iroquois, when attacked by overwhelming forces, old men refused to flee or outlive the ruin of their country, facing death like the Romans during the sacking of their capital by the Gauls. Further on, he records that no Indian is known to have begged for his life as a captive; on the contrary, the prisoner sought death from his captors, taunting and provoking them.\]

j
\[ See “Histoire de la Louisiane,” by Lepage Dupratz; Charlevoix, “Histoire de la Nouvelle France”; “Lettres du Rev. G. Hecwelder;” “Transactions of the American Philosophical Society,” vol. I; Jefferson’s “Notes on Virginia,” pp. 135-190. What Jefferson says carries particular weight, due to his personal merit, his unique position, and the practical nature of the era in which he lived.\]

k
\[ See Appendix, D.\]

Although here we have described the character of a primitive people, there can be little doubt that another, more civilized and advanced people had preceded them in these same regions.

An obscure tradition among the Indians north of the Atlantic tells us that these same tribes once lived on the west side of the Mississippi. Even today, along the banks of the Ohio and throughout the central valley, are often found burial mounds built by human hands. When these earth mounds are excavated to their center, human bones are typically found, along with strange tools, weapons, and utensils of all kinds—often made of metal or intended for uses unknown to the present inhabitants. The Indians of today cannot provide any information about the history of this unknown people. Nor did the Indians living three hundred years ago, at the time America was first discovered, leave any records from which even a guess could be made. Tradition—that fragile yet continually renewed monument of the ancient world—sheds no light on the subject. Yet, it is a certain fact that thousands of people once lived in this part of the world. When they arrived, what their origins were, their fate, their history, and how they vanished, remain unknown. How strange it is that whole nations could exist, and then disappear so completely from the earth that even the memory of their names is gone; their languages are lost; their glory faded away like a sound without an echo—though perhaps none of them failed to leave behind at least one tomb as a reminder of their passing! The most lasting monuments of human labor are those that remind us of our own frailty and insignificance.

Although this vast country, as we have described, was inhabited by many native tribes, it would be fair to say that, at the time Europeans discovered it, it was in effect one great wilderness. The Indians occupied the land without truly possessing it. It is through agricultural labor that people make the land their own, and the early inhabitants of North America relied on hunting for survival. Their relentless prejudices, unchecked passions, vices, and perhaps even more so their wild virtues, doomed them to certain destruction. The downfall of these peoples began the day Europeans arrived on their shores; it has continued ever since, and we now witness its completion. They seem to have been placed by Providence amidst the riches of the New World merely to enjoy them for a time and then to surrender them. Those coasts, so well suited for commerce and industry; those broad, deep rivers; that boundless and fertile Mississippi valley; the entire continent, in fact, seemed designed to become the home of a great nation yet to come.

It was in this land that the great experiment was to be attempted by civilized man: the effort to construct society on a new foundation. There, for the first time, theories previously unknown or considered impossible were to be put into practice, presenting a spectacle for which all previous history had not prepared the world.

##  Chapter II: Origin Of The Anglo-Americans—Part I

## Chapter Summary

The usefulness of understanding the origins of nations to better grasp their social conditions and laws—America as the only country where the beginning of a great people has been clearly observed—Similarities among all who emigrated to British America—Points of difference—Remarks applicable to all Europeans who settled on the shores of the New World—Colonization of Virginia—Colonization of New England—The original character of New England’s first settlers—Their arrival—Their earliest laws—Their social contract—Penal code inspired by Hebrew law—Religious fervor—Republican spirit—Close connection between religious spirit and the spirit of liberty.

### Origin Of The Anglo-Americans, And Its Importance In Relation To Their Future Condition

After a human being is born, his earliest years are spent obscurely in the efforts and pleasures of childhood. As he grows, the world receives him when adulthood begins and he comes in contact with others. People then start to study him, believing that the roots of his adult virtues and vices are formed at that stage. This, I believe, is a significant mistake. We need to look further back; we must observe the infant in his mother’s arms, see the first images that the world casts upon his mind, witness his earliest experiences, hear the first words that awaken his emerging thoughts, and stand by during his earliest attempts. Only then can we begin to understand the prejudices, habits, and passions that will guide his life. The whole person is, in a sense, visible in the child’s cradle.

The development of nations is similar. All bear some traits of their origins, and the events surrounding their birth shape their existence for generations. If we could trace the origins of states and examine their oldest records, I am sure we would find the primary cause of their prejudices, habits, ruling passions, and everything that makes up what we call national character; we would discover the reasons for some customs that now seem at odds with current manners, for laws that conflict with established principles, and for odd opinions found in society, like fragments of broken chains hanging in an empty vault. This would help explain the fate of certain nations, which seem pushed by some unknown force towards goals they barely understand. Yet, until now, there have been few facts for research of this kind: historians have examined communities only in their later days; when they finally look back to their origins, time has already obfuscated them, or ignorance and pride have hidden them behind myths.

America is the only country where it has been possible to clearly observe the natural and steady growth of society, and where the effect of a society’s origins on its future is unmistakable. When the peoples of Europe landed in the New World, their national characters were already fully formed; each group had a unique identity; and, since they had reached a level of civilization at which people study themselves, they left us a clear record of their ideas, manners, and laws. The people of the sixteenth century are almost as familiar to us as our own contemporaries. As a result, America presents transparently what earlier centuries hid from research through ignorance or roughness. We are close enough to the era when the American states were founded to know their elements, yet far enough to judge some of their results. Our generation therefore can see further into history than those before us. Providence has given us a light our ancestors did not possess, allowing us to uncover fundamental causes in history that were hidden from them. If we carefully consider America’s social and political state, having studied its past, we will be convinced that for every opinion, custom, law, or even event recorded, the origin of the people provides an explanation. Readers will find in this chapter the seed of all that follows, and the key to almost the entire book.

The emigrants who occupied the land now forming the American Union arrived at different times, differed greatly from one another in purpose and in how they governed themselves. Yet, they shared certain traits and found themselves in comparable circumstances. Perhaps the strongest, most lasting bond among people is language. All the emigrants spoke the same tongue; all were branches of the same people. Born in a country that had been disrupted for centuries by factional conflict, where all groups had in turn sought the shelter of law, their political education was shaped in this difficult school, so they were more familiar with the ideas of law and true liberty than most of their European contemporaries. At the time of their first migrations, the English parish system—a fruitful source of free institutions—was deeply embedded in their habits, along with the principle of popular sovereignty that had entered the monarchy during the Tudor era.

Religious conflicts that agitated the Christian world were widespread at the time. England had embraced the new religious order with great energy. The nature of its people, which had always been calm and thoughtful, turned argumentative and strict. Debate increased people’s general knowledge, and their minds were considerably cultivated. While religious controversies raged, people’s morals were also transformed. These national traits can be found, to varying degrees, among the adventurers who sought new homes across the Atlantic.

Another point, which will be revisited later, applies not only to the English but also to the French, Spaniards, and others who settled in the New World. All these European colonies contained the seeds, if not the full development, of democracy. Two main factors led to this. Generally, when they left their mother country, the emigrants had little or no sense of superiority over each other. The happy and powerful do not go into exile, and poverty and adversity are strong guarantees of social equality. Occasionally, people of high rank were driven to America by political and religious strife, and laws tried to establish social hierarchies; but it was soon clear that the land itself resisted the formation of a territorial aristocracy. Bringing the stubborn American soil under cultivation required the constant, invested labor of the owner. Even when prepared, the harvests were rarely enough to support both landlord and tenant. Land soon ceased to be concentrated, naturally splitting into small plots cultivated by their owners. Land is the true foundation of an aristocracy, which is tied to property passed down through generations; neither privilege nor birth alone suffice. A nation might contain great wealth and great poverty, but without hereditary landed wealth, there is no lasting aristocracy—just a class of rich and a class of poor.

At the time of settlement, all the British colonies displayed remarkable similarity. From their earliest days, they did not seem destined for the aristocratic liberties of their English homeland, but for a new freedom among the middle and lower classes, of a sort then unknown in world history.

Within this uniformity, however, there were significant differences worth pointing out. Two main branches grew up in the Anglo-American family, still distinct—one in the South, the other in the North.

Virginia was home to the first English colony, claimed in 1607. At that time, Europeans widely believed that gold and silver mines were the source of national wealth—a damaging error that cost more lives and caused more poverty in America than war or bad laws combined. The first men sent to Virginia\*a were gold seekers, adventurers without resources or character, whose unruly spirit endangered the young colony\*b and made its progress uncertain. Later came artisans and farmers—better behaved and more moral, but still no higher than the lower classes in England.\*c There was no noble purpose or well-developed plan guiding these settlements. As soon as the colony was founded, slavery began\*d—an event that profoundly shaped the character, laws, and destiny of the South. Slavery, as will be shown, degrades work; it encourages idleness, which leads to ignorance, pride, luxury, and distress. It weakens the mind's powers and saps human energy. The combination of slavery and the English character explains the ways and social order of the Southern States.

\*a [The charter from the English Crown in 1609 required that a fifth of all gold and silver be paid to the Crown. See Marshall’s “Life of Washington,” vol. i.]

\*b [A large portion of the adventurers, says Stith (“History of Virginia”), were unprincipled young men of family, whom their parents were glad to ship off, discharged servants, fraudulent bankrupts, or debauchees; and others of the same class, people more apt to pillage and destroy than to assist the settlement, were the seditious chiefs, who easily led this band into every kind of extravagance and excess. For the history of Virginia see:  
“History of Virginia, from the First Settlements in the year 1624,” by Smith.  
“History of Virginia,” by William Stith.  
“History of Virginia, from the Earliest Period,” by Beverley.]

\*c [It was not until somewhat later that a number of wealthy English investors settled in the colony.]

\*d [Slavery was introduced around 1620, when a Dutch ship landed twenty Africans on the banks of the James River. See Chalmer.]

In the North, the same English foundation was shaped by very different forces; here I may go into detail. The core ideas that form the basis of American society were first concentrated in the northern English colonies, commonly known as the New England States.\*e The principles that arose in New England spread first to neighboring states, then more distant areas, and finally influenced the entire Confederation. Their impact now extends well beyond, across all of America. New England’s civilization has been like a beacon on a hill, illuminating the surroundings and even coloring the distant horizon.

\*e [The States of New England are those east of the Hudson: 1. Connecticut, 2. Rhode Island, 3. Massachusetts, 4. Vermont, 5. New Hampshire, and 6. Maine.]

The founding of New England was an extraordinary and unique event. Most colonies were first settled by uneducated, resource-lacking men forced out by poverty or wrongdoing, or by investors and fortune hunters. Some settlements cannot even claim such respectable beginnings—St. Domingo was started by pirates, and England’s penal courts initially supplied Australia’s population.

The settlers along New England’s coast all came from the more independent ranks of their homeland. Their gathering in America was a rarity: a community with neither nobility nor peasants, neither rich nor poor. Relative to their numbers, they had more intelligence than any European nation possesses in our own time. Every settler, without exception, had a good education, and many were already renowned in Europe for their skills and knowledge. While other colonies were founded by adventurers with no family ties, the New England emigrants brought order and morality, arriving with their wives and children. Most significantly, their motivation stood out. They were not forced from home by necessity; the lives they left behind were secure and even enviable. They did not cross the Atlantic to improve their fortunes or amass wealth; instead, they left behind comfort and security for the sake of an idea.

The emigrants, or as they called themselves, the Pilgrims, were members of an English sect whose rigorous beliefs earned them the name Puritans. Puritanism was not just a religious doctrine—it matched in many ways the most steadfast democratic and republican ideals, which made it bitterly opposed by its enemies. Driven out by the government and alienated by a society that did not match their rigid standards, the Puritans left to find an untamed land where they could live by their own convictions and worship God in freedom.

A few quotations will illustrate the spirit of these devout settlers better than any commentary. Nathaniel Morton,\*f historian of the early settlement, begins his account as follows:

\*f [“New England’s Memorial,” p. 13, Boston, 1826. See also “Hutchinson’s History,” vol. ii.]

> “Gentle Reader,—I have for some length of time looked upon it as a duty incumbent, especially on the immediate successors of those that have had so large experience of those many memorable and signal demonstrations of God’s goodness, viz., the first beginners of this Plantation in New England, to commit to writing his gracious dispensations on that behalf; having so many inducements thereunto, not only otherwise but so plentifully in the Sacred Scriptures: that so, what we have seen, and what our fathers have told us (Psalm lxxviii. 3, 4), we may not hide from our children, showing to the generations to come the praises of the Lord; that especially the seed of Abraham his servant, and the children of Jacob his chosen (Psalm cv. 5, 6), may remember his marvellous works in the beginning and progress of the planting of New England, his wonders and the judgments of his mouth; how that God brought a vine into this wilderness; that he cast out the heathen, and planted it; that he made room for it and caused it to take deep root; and it filled the land (Psalm lxxx. 8, 9). And not only so, but also that he hath guided his people by his strength to his holy habitation and planted them in the mountain of his inheritance in respect of precious Gospel enjoyments: and that as especially God may have the glory of all unto whom it is most due; so also some rays of glory may reach the names of those blessed Saints that were the main instruments and the beginning of this happy enterprise.”

It is impossible to read these opening lines without an involuntary sense of religious awe; they are steeped in the atmosphere of Gospel times. The writer’s honesty adds to the force of his words. What to him was a mere group of adventurers seeking their fortune overseas appears to readers as the seed of a great nation, carried by Providence to a destined shore.

Morton continues in his narrative about the departure of the first pilgrims:—

“So they left that good and pleasant city of Leyden,\*g which had been their home for over eleven years. But they remembered that they were pilgrims and strangers here on earth, and did not focus much on these things, but lifted their eyes to Heaven, their true country, where God has prepared a city for them (Heb. xi. 16), and in this hope they calmed their spirits. When they arrived at Delfs-Haven, they found the ship and everything ready; and those friends who could not go with them followed after, while several came from Amsterdam to see them off and to bid them farewell. Most of them spent the night with little sleep, but enjoyed friendly company, Christian conversation, and other genuine expressions of real Christian love. The next day, they went on board, and their friends came with them. The scene of this sad and mournful parting was truly moving: their sighs, sobs, and prayers resounded; tears flowed from every eye, and heartfelt words touched everyone deeply, so much that even some of the Dutch strangers standing on the quay as bystanders could not hold back their own tears. But the tide (which waits for no one) called them away, even as they were reluctant to leave. Their Reverend Pastor knelt in prayer, and all joined him, with tearful faces, committing themselves to the Lord and His blessing with the utmost sincerity; then, with mutual embraces and many tears, they said goodbye to one another, which turned out to be the last farewell for many.”

g  
\[ The emigrants were, for the most part, devout Christians from the North of England, who had left their native country because they were “dedicated to reformation, and entered into a covenant to walk together according to the original model of the Word of God.” They emigrated to Holland, settling in the city of Leyden in 1610, where they were warmly respected by the Dutch for many years. They left Leyden in 1620 for several reasons, including, lastly, the fear that their descendants would, after a few generations, become Dutch and lose their connection to the English nation. They preferred instead to expand His Majesty’s dominions and to live under their natural sovereign.—Translator’s Note.\]

The emigrants numbered about 150, including women and children. Their goal was to establish a colony on the shores of the Hudson; but after being driven about the Atlantic Ocean for a time, they were forced to land on the barren coast of New England, which is now the town of Plymouth. The rock where the pilgrims landed is still shown.\*h

h  
\[ This rock has become a revered object in the United States. I have seen fragments of it carefully kept in several towns of the Union. Does this not clearly show that all human power and greatness exist in the soul of man? Here is a stone touched only briefly by the feet of a handful of exiles, and this stone becomes famous; prized by a great nation, its very dust shared as a relic—yet what has become of the gateways of a thousand palaces?\]

“But before we move on,” continues our historian, “let the reader pause with me and seriously consider the poor people’s situation, to better appreciate God’s goodness in preserving them. For after crossing the vast ocean, and with many troubles still ahead, they now had no friends to welcome them, no inns for rest or refreshment, no houses, and certainly no towns to turn to for help. And since it was winter—and those who know the winters of this region know how sharp and severe they are, with brutal storms that make even travel to known places dangerous, let alone seeking out unknown coasts—the situation was dire. Besides, what did they find but a bleak and desolate wilderness, full of wild beasts and wild men? And they did not know how many of these there might be. Wherever they looked (except upward to Heaven) there was little comfort or hope in anything they saw. With summer gone, everything looked as if beaten by weather, and the country, full of woods and thickets, took on a wild and savage appearance. If they looked back, there stood the mighty ocean they had crossed, now a vast barrier separating them from all civilized parts of the world.”

It should not be thought that the Puritans’ piety was merely theoretical, or disconnected from worldly affairs. As I have mentioned, Puritanism was almost as much a political movement as a religious one. As soon as the emigrants landed on that barren coast described by Nathaniel Morton, their first act was to organize a society by passing the following Act:

“In the name of God. Amen. We, whose names are underwritten, the loyal subjects of our dread Sovereign Lord King James, etc., etc., having undertaken, for the glory of God, the advancement of the Christian Faith, and the honor of our King and country, a voyage to plant the first colony in the northern parts of Virginia, do by these presents solemnly and mutually, in the presence of God and one another, covenant and combine ourselves together into a civil body politic, for our better ordering and preservation, and furtherance of the ends stated above: and by virtue of this, we enact, constitute, and frame such just and equal laws, ordinances, acts, constitutions, and officers, as may be thought most suitable and convenient from time to time for the general good of the Colony; to which we promise all due submission and obedience,” etc.\*i

i  
\[ The emigrants who founded Rhode Island in 1638, those who landed at New Haven in 1637, the first settlers in Connecticut in 1639, and the founders of Providence in 1640, all began by drawing up a social contract, which everyone concerned agreed to. See “Pitkin’s History,” pp. 42 and 47.\]

This took place in 1620. From that time on, emigration continued. The religious and political turbulence that shook the British Empire throughout the reign of Charles I sent fresh waves of sectarians to America every year. In England, Puritanism’s stronghold was among the middle classes, and it was mainly from these ranks that the emigrants were drawn. The population of New England grew rapidly; and while strict class divisions ruled the mother country, the colony stood out as a unique example of a society that was homogeneous throughout. A democracy, more complete than any dreamed of in antiquity, sprang fully grown from the midst of an old feudal society.

##  Chapter II: Origin Of The Anglo-Americans—Part II

The English Government was not displeased with emigration that removed sources of new discord and further revolutions. On the contrary, they encouraged it and made significant efforts to ease the hardships faced by those seeking refuge from their country’s harsh laws in America. It was as if New England had become a land given over to imaginative dreams and the unchecked experiments of innovators.

The English colonies (and this is one of the primary reasons for their prosperity) always enjoyed more internal freedom and greater political independence than colonies established by other nations; but this principle of liberty was nowhere more widely practiced than in the States of New England.

At that time, it was generally accepted that the territories of the New World belonged to the European nation that first discovered them. By the end of the sixteenth century, almost the entire coast of North America had become a British possession. The English Government employed several methods to populate these new lands: in some cases, the King himself appointed a governor to rule part of the New World in the name and under the direct authority of the Crown; \*j this was the standard colonial system used by other European powers. Sometimes the Crown granted certain lands to an individual or to a company, \*k in which case all civil and political authority was held by one or more people, who, under the Crown’s supervision and control, sold land and governed the inhabitants. Finally, a third system allowed a group of emigrants to form a political society under the protection of the mother-country and to govern themselves in all matters not contrary to its laws. This approach to colonization, highly favorable to liberty, was only adopted in New England. \*l

j
\[ This was the case in the State of New York.\]

k
\[ Maryland, the Carolinas, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey were in this situation. See “Pitkin’s History,” vol. i.\]

l
\[ See the work entitled “Historical Collection of State Papers and other authentic Documents intended as materials for a History of the United States of America, by Ebenezer Hasard. Philadelphia, 1792,” for numerous documents related to the beginnings of the colonies, which are valuable for their content and authenticity: among them are the various charters granted by the King of England, and the first acts of the local governments.

See also the analysis of all these charters given by Mr. Story, Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, in the Introduction to his “Commentary on the Constitution of the United States.” These documents show that the principles of representative government and the outward forms of political liberty were introduced into all the colonies from their origins. These principles were more fully practiced in the North than in the South, but they existed everywhere.\]

In 1628, \*m Charles I granted such a charter to the emigrants forming the colony of Massachusetts. Generally, however, charters were not granted to New England colonies until after they had achieved some measure of existence. Plymouth, Providence, New Haven, the State of Connecticut, and Rhode Island \*n were founded with little to no involvement from, or even knowledge of, the mother-country. The new settlers did not derive their incorporation from the seat of empire, although they did not deny its supremacy; they formed a society on their own, and it was not until thirty or forty years later, under Charles II, that their existence was legally recognized by royal charter.

m
\[ See “Pitkin’s History,” p. 35. See the “History of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay,” by Hutchinson, vol. i.\] \[Footnote n: See “Pitkin’s History,” pp. 42, 47.\]

This often makes it difficult to trace the connection that linked the emigrants to their homeland when studying the earliest historical and legislative records of New England. They exercised sovereign rights; named their magistrates, made peace or declared war, regulated the police, and enacted laws as if their only allegiance was to God. \*o Nothing is more fascinating and, at the same time, more instructive than the laws of that period; it is there that we find the solution to the great social questions that the United States now present to the world.

o
\[ The inhabitants of Massachusetts had deviated from the procedures that persist in English civil and criminal law; in 1650 the decrees of justice were not yet issued in the royal style. See Hutchinson, vol. i.\]

Among these documents, the code of laws issued by the small State of Connecticut in 1650 is especially noteworthy. \*p The legislators of Connecticut \*q begin with the penal laws, and, surprisingly, they take their provisions straight from the text of the Bible. “Whosoever shall worship any other God than the Lord,” says the preamble of the Code, “shall surely be put to death.” This is followed by ten or twelve similar enactments, copied verbatim from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy. Blasphemy, sorcery, adultery, \*r and rape were all punishable by death; even an insult by a son to his parents required the same penalty. Laws suited to a rough and only half-civilized people were thus applied to a community that was enlightened and moral. The result was that, while the death penalty was prescribed more often than ever before, it was rarely actually enforced on the guilty.

p
\[ Code of 1650; Hartford, 1830.\]

q
\[ See also in “Hutchinson’s History,” vol. i., 456, the analysis of the penal code adopted in 1648 by the Colony of Massachusetts: this code is based on the same principles as that of Connecticut.\]

r
\[ Adultery was also punished by death in Massachusetts: and Hutchinson, vol. i., notes that several people were actually executed for this crime. He relates a curious incident from 1663. A married woman had a relationship with a young man; her husband died, and she married her lover. Years later, suspicions arose about their prior relationship: they were imprisoned, put on trial, and narrowly escaped capital punishment.\]

The legislators’ main concern in this set of penal laws was to maintain good order and morals in the community: they constantly entered the realm of conscience, and there was scarcely any sin not subject to magisterial correction. Readers are already aware of the harshness with which these laws punished rape and adultery; sexual relations between unmarried people were also severely suppressed. The judge could impose a fine, a whipping, or even marriage \*s on the offenders; and if the records of the old courts at New Haven are to be believed, prosecutions of this nature were not uncommon. We find a sentence dated May 1, 1660, imposing a fine and a reprimand on a young woman accused of using improper language and allowing herself to be kissed. \*t The Code of 1650 is full of preventive measures. Idleness and drunkenness were punished severely. \*u Innkeepers were forbidden from serving more than a set amount of liquor to each customer; even simple lying, whenever it was harmful, \*v could be punished by a fine or flogging. Elsewhere, the legislator, abandoning the very principles of religious tolerance he had defended in Europe, made church attendance compulsory, \*w and even punished Christians—sometimes severely, even with death—if they chose to worship God in ways different from his own. \*x Occasionally, the zeal of these laws extended to seemingly trivial matters: for example, a law in the same Code forbids the use of tobacco. \*y It is important to remember that these peculiar and burdensome laws were not imposed by an authority, but were freely voted on by the people concerned, and that the community’s customs were even more strict and puritanical than the laws themselves. In 1649, a formal association was formed in Boston to oppose the worldly luxury of long hair. \*z

s
\[ Code of 1650. At times, judges combined these punishments, as seen in a 1643 sentence (p. 114, “New Haven Antiquities”) in which Margaret Bedford, found guilty of loose conduct, was sentenced to be whipped and then to marry Nicholas Jemmings, her accomplice.\]

t
\[ “New Haven Antiquities,” p. 104. See also “Hutchinson’s History,” for several equally extraordinary cases.\]

u
\[ Code of 1650, 57.\]

v
\[ Ibid.\]

w
\[ Ibid.\]

\*
\[ This was not unique to Connecticut. See, for instance, the law of September 13, 1644, that banished the Anabaptists from Massachusetts. (“Historical Collection of State Papers,” vol. i.) See also the law against the Quakers, passed on October 14, 1656: “Whereas,” says the preamble, “an accursed race of heretics called Quakers has sprung up,” etc. The statute heavily fines all ship captains who bring Quakers into the country. Quakers found there are to be whipped and forced into hard labor in prison. Those members of the sect who defend their opinions shall first be fined, then imprisoned, and eventually driven out of the province.—“Historical Collection of State Papers,” vol. i.\]

x  
\[ By the penal law of Massachusetts, any Catholic priest who entered the colony after having once been expelled was subject to capital punishment.\]

y  
\[ Code of 1650.\]

z  
\[ “New England’s Memorial,” p. 316. See Appendix, E.\]

These errors are clearly discreditable to human reason; they show the weakness of our nature, which cannot firmly grasp what is true and just, and is often forced into one of two extremes. Closely connected with this penal legislation—so clearly marked by a narrow sectarian spirit, as well as the religious passions stoked by persecution and still simmering among the people—there exists a set of political laws which, though written two centuries ago, still surpass the liberties of our own age. The fundamental principles underlying modern constitutions—principles barely known in Europe, and not even fully victorious in Great Britain during the seventeenth century—were all acknowledged and established in the laws of New England: the involvement of the people in public affairs, the free voting of taxes, government accountability, personal liberty, and trial by jury were all solidly founded without question. From these rich principles, consequences and applications have arisen that no European nation has yet dared to pursue.

In Connecticut, the electorate initially included all citizens; and this is easy to understand, \*a considering that the people enjoyed almost absolute equality of wealth and, even more so, uniformity of opinions. \*b In Connecticut at that period, every executive officer was elected, including the Governor of the State. \*c All citizens over the age of sixteen were required to bear arms; they formed a national militia, chose their own officers, and had to be ready at all times to defend the country. \*d

a  
\[ Constitution of 1638.\]

b  
\[ In 1641, the General Assembly of Rhode Island unanimously declared that the government of the State was a democracy, with power vested in the body of free citizens, who alone had the right to make the laws and oversee their execution.—Code of 1650.\]

c  
\[ “Pitkin’s History,” p. 47.\]

d  
\[ Constitution of 1638.\]

The laws of Connecticut, like those throughout New England, show the seeds and growth of the independent township government that remains the beating heart of American liberty today. In most European nations, political life began in the upper ranks of society, slowly and imperfectly spreading to the rest of the social body. In America, however, one can say that the township was established before the county, the county before the State, and the State before the Union. In New England, townships were fully established as early as 1650. Township independence became the core around which local interests, passions, rights, and duties gathered and thrived. It allowed for the vigorous activity of a genuine political life that was deeply democratic and republican. The colonies still recognized the supremacy of the mother country; monarchy remained the law of the State; but republicanism was already in place in every township. Towns appointed their own officials of every type, taxed themselves, and levied their own taxes. \*e In the New England parish, there was no representative system; instead, community affairs were debated, as in Athens, by a general assembly of the citizens in the town square.

e  
\[ Code of 1650.\]

When we study the laws enacted at this first era of the American republics, it is impossible not to notice the remarkable understanding of government and the advanced legislative principles they reveal. The views there expressed on society’s duties to its members are plainly broader and more elevated than those held by European lawmakers at the time: obligations that were ignored elsewhere were enforced here. In the New England States, from the start, care was taken for the poor; \*f strict procedures ensured the maintenance of roads, with surveyors appointed to oversee them; \*g registers were established in every parish to record public decisions, as well as births, deaths, and marriages; \*h clerks were instructed to keep these records; \*i officers took charge of unclaimed inheritances and mediated property disputes; and many more were appointed primarily to maintain public order in the community. \*j The law addressed a wide range of practical needs for society, many of which are still inadequately met in France. \[Footnote f: Ibid..\]

g  
\[ Ibid..\]

h  
\[ See “Hutchinson’s History,” vol. i. .\]

i  
\[ Code of 1650.\]

j  
\[ Ibid..\]

But it is the focus on Public Education that most clearly reveals the original character of American civilization. “It being,” says the law, “one chief project of Satan to keep men from the knowledge of the Scripture by persuading from the use of tongues, to the end that learning may not be buried in the graves of our forefathers, in church and commonwealth, the Lord assisting our endeavors. . . .” \*k There follow clauses setting up schools in every township and obliging the residents, under threat of heavy fines, to support them. Higher schools were likewise established in the more populous areas. Local authorities had to make sure parents sent their children to school; they could fine those who refused; and if parents resisted, society stepped in, took charge of the child, and took away those parental rights which the father had used so poorly. The reader will surely have noticed the introduction to these statutes: in America, religion leads to knowledge, and obedience to divine law is the path to civil liberty.

k  
\[ Ibid..\]

If, after briefly reviewing American society in 1650, we turn to the state of Europe—especially the Continent—during the same period, we cannot help but be amazed. On the European Continent, at the start of the seventeenth century, absolute monarchy had everywhere triumphed over the ruined oligarchical and feudal freedoms of the Middle Ages. Never were the principles of rights more confused than during the artistic and literary splendor of Europe; never was there less political engagement among the people; never were the ideas of real freedom more rarely spread; and while Europe dismissed or ignored these principles, in the wilds of the New World, they were proclaimed and accepted as the future creed of a great nation. The boldest philosophical theories were tested out by a community so humble that no statesman paid them any attention, and a law code with no precedent was created on the spot by the imagination of ordinary citizens. In this obscure democracy, which had produced no generals, philosophers, or writers, a man could stand before a free people and deliver the following fine definition of liberty. \*l

l  
\[ Mather’s “Magnalia Christi Americana,” vol. ii. . This speech was made by Winthrop; he was accused of arbitrary conduct during his time as magistrate, but after giving the speech from which this fragment comes, he was acquitted by acclamation, and was always afterward re-elected governor of the State. See Marshal, vol. i. .\]

“Nor would I have you mistake the matter of your own liberty. There is a liberty of a corrupt nature which both men and beasts desire, to do whatever they please, and this liberty is incompatible with authority, impatient of any restraint; by this liberty ‘sumus omnes deteriores’: it is the chief enemy of truth and peace, and all God’s ordinances are directed against it. But there is a civil, a moral, a federal liberty which is the true end and object of authority; it is liberty for that only which is just and good: for this liberty you must stand, even at the risk of your lives, and whatever opposes it is not authority but disorder. This liberty is maintained by submitting to authority; the authority set over you, in everything intended for your benefit, will be quietly accepted by everyone except those who wish to throw off the yoke and lose true liberty by rebelling against proper authority.”

These observations should be enough to reveal the character of Anglo-American civilization. It is the product—something that should always be kept in mind—of two distinct elements which have often been in conflict elsewhere, but in America have been remarkably joined and harmonized: the spirit of Religion and the spirit of Liberty.

The settlers of New England were at the same time passionate sectarians and bold innovators. While the boundaries of some of their religious views were narrow, they were entirely free from political prejudice. From this arose two tendencies, distinct but not opposed, which are always seen in the country’s manners and laws.

It might be thought that people who sacrificed their friends, family, and homeland for a religious belief would be completely dedicated to pursuing the intellectual benefits they had acquired at such a high cost. However, the determination with which they sought wealth, moral satisfaction, and the comforts and freedoms of the world was almost as strong as their devotion to spiritual matters.

Political principles, as well as all human laws and institutions, were shaped and changed as they saw fit; the social barriers of their birth were broken down; the old principles that had guided the world for ages were gone; new paths and limitless opportunities opened up for the eager and curious. Yet, at the edge of the political realm, they paused in their investigations, wisely set aside their most powerful intellectual tools, no longer questioned or pushed boundaries, and carefully refrained from probing sacred matters. Instead, they submitted respectfully to truths they would not debate. Thus, in the moral sphere, everything is organized, adapted, decided, and anticipated; in politics, everything is unsettled, uncertain, and debated: in one area, there is passive, though voluntary, obedience; in the other, independence that distrusts experience and resists authority.

These two tendencies, though they may seem so different, are not actually in conflict; they progress together and reinforce each other. Religion sees that civil liberty provides a noble arena for the abilities of humanity, and that the political world is a field prepared by the Creator for the work of human intelligence. Satisfied with the freedom and power it holds in its own sphere, and the place it occupies, the influence of religion is strongest when it reigns in people’s hearts by its natural strength alone. Religion is equally the companion of liberty in all its struggles and victories; it is the cradle of liberty, and its divine foundation. Religion safeguards morality, and morality is the best protection of the law and the strongest guarantee for freedom. *m

m
[See Appendix, F.] Reasons For Certain Anomalies In The Laws And Customs Of The Anglo-Americans

Surviving aristocratic institutions within a fully democratic society—Why?—The need to distinguish between what is of Puritan and what is of English origin.

The reader should be careful not to draw too general or absolute a conclusion from what has been stated. The social conditions, religion, and morals of the first settlers certainly had a major impact on the future of their country. Still, they were not able to create a society completely on their own terms: nobody can entirely escape the influence of their background, and the settlers, whether intentionally or not, mixed traditions and ideas from their upbringing and homeland with those that were uniquely their own. To understand today’s Anglo-Americans, it is therefore important to distinguish what comes from Puritan roots and what is inherited from England.

Often in the United States, there are laws and customs that stand out sharply from everything around them. These laws seem to be written in a spirit opposed to the general direction of American legislation, and these customs are just as contrary to the tone of their society. If the English colonies had begun in a less enlightened era, or if their origins were lost to history, this contradiction would be a mystery.

Here is one example to illustrate this point. In American civil and criminal procedure, there are only two courses of action—committal and bail. The first thing a magistrate does is demand bail from the defendant or, if refused, put him in jail. Only then are the details of the accusation and the seriousness of the charges examined. It is clear that such a system is unfair to the poor and favors the wealthy. The poor do not always have bail to offer, even in civil cases; and if forced to wait in jail for justice, they quickly suffer hardship. The wealthy, on the other hand, almost always avoid jail in civil matters; in fact, they can easily avoid the consequences of wrongdoing by failing to appear for their case after posting bail. Thus, for them, almost every penalty can be reduced to a fine. *n Nothing could be more aristocratic than such a system. Yet in America, it is the poor who create the laws, and they usually secure the greatest social benefits for themselves. The reason for this contradiction is found in England; these laws are English *o and have been kept by Americans, even though they go against the main direction of their laws and beliefs. After their customs, a nation is least likely to change its civil laws. Civil law is really known only to legal professionals, who have a direct interest in keeping things as they are, whether good or bad, simply because they understand them. The general population knows little about them; people just experience civil law in particular situations and have difficulty understanding its overall aim, obeying it without much thought. I’ve mentioned one case, but there are many more. American society, if I may put it this way, is covered by a layer of democracy, but underneath, the old aristocratic elements are still sometimes visible.

n
[Crimes do exist for which bail is not allowed, but such cases are few.]

o
[See Blackstone; and Delolme, book I, chap. x.]

##  Chapter III: Social Conditions Of The Anglo-Americans

##  Chapter Summary

A social condition is usually the result of circumstances, sometimes of laws, and most often of both combined. Wherever it exists, it can rightly be considered the source of nearly all the laws, customs, and ideas that shape the conduct of nations; whatever it does not create, it still modifies. Therefore, if we want to understand the laws and customs of a nation, we must begin by studying its social condition.

The Striking Characteristic Of The Social Condition Of The Anglo-Americans: Its Essential Democracy

The first emigrants of New England—Their equality—Aristocratic laws introduced in the South—Period of the Revolution—Change in the law of descent—Effects of this change—Democracy brought to its limits in the new States of the West—Equality in education.

Many important observations arise from the social condition of the Anglo-Americans, but one stands above all. The American social condition is fundamentally democratic; this was true at the founding of the Colonies and is even more pronounced today. As stated in the previous chapter, there was great equality among the emigrants who settled on New England’s shores. No aristocratic institutions were ever rooted in that part of the Union. The only influence there was intellectual; people respected certain names as symbols of knowledge and virtue. Some citizens acquired influence over the rest which could be called aristocratic, if only it could be passed from father to son.

This was the situation east of the Hudson. To the southwest of that river, toward Florida, things were different. In most of the States southwest of the Hudson, some prominent English landowners settled, bringing with them aristocratic principles and English inheritance law. I have already explained why it was impossible to establish a true aristocracy in America; these reasons were less strong southwest of the Hudson. In the South, a single man with the help of slaves could cultivate a vast territory, so it was common to see wealthy landowners. Yet their influence was not fully aristocratic as in Europe, because they had no special privileges, and because their lands were worked by slaves—they had no tenants depending on them, and thus no patronage. Still, the great proprietors south of the Hudson formed a higher class with its own ideas, tastes, and political influence. This type of aristocracy sympathized with the general population, easily embracing its passions and interests, but it was too weak and short-lived to inspire real love or hatred. This was the class that led the Southern insurrection and supplied the best leaders of the American Revolution.

During this period, society was intensely shaken: the people, on whose behalf the struggle had been fought, now wanted to use the authority they had gained; their democratic tendencies awakened. Having cast off the mother country, they sought independence of every kind. The influence of individuals gradually faded, and custom and law combined to create the same effect.

The change in inheritance law was the final step toward equality. I am surprised that old and modern legal scholars have not given this law more credit for shaping human affairs.\*a It is true these are civil laws, but they still belong at the top of all political institutions; because, while political laws only symbolize a nation’s condition, they deeply affect its social state. They also reliably and steadily influence society, touching even generations yet to be born.

a
\[ I define the law of descent as all laws primarily aimed at determining how property is distributed after an owner’s death. The law of entail falls under this; it certainly bans the owner from selling property before death, but only to keep it whole for the heir. The main purpose, therefore, of entail is to control inheritance after death; the rest is just a means to this end.\]

Through such laws, people gain an almost supernatural power over the future lives of others. Once the legislator has set the law of inheritance, he can rest. The machine, once started, will run for ages, moving toward its chosen point as if by itself. When set a certain way, this law unites and concentrates property and power in a few hands—a clearly aristocratic tendency. On the opposite principle, its effects are even faster; it breaks up, distributes, and spreads both property and power. Those alarmed by its pace try in vain to slow or block its action, but over time, it erodes obstacles, reducing the barriers of wealth to the unstable ground of democracy. When the inheritance law allows—or even more so, requires—the equal division of a father’s property among all his children, it has two distinct effects, though both push in the same direction.

Thanks to partible inheritance, the death of every landowner causes a kind of revolution in property; not only do the assets change owners, but they are themselves divided—each split makes the pieces smaller. This is the law’s direct, or physical, effect. So, in countries where inheritance equality is the law, property—especially land—naturally gets smaller generation after generation. However, these effects become clear only over time if the law is left on its own; for example, if a family has two children (and in a country like France, the average is barely three), when the siblings split their parents' estates, they don’t end up poorer than their father or mother.

But the law of equal division doesn't just affect property—it also molds the heirs’ thinking and passions. These indirect results are powerful drivers of the destruction of big fortunes, and especially large estates. In countries with primogeniture, large landholdings pass down intact across generations, so family identity bonds tightly with the estate. The family represents the estate, the estate the family—the name, the origins, the honors, the power, and the values are all bound together and preserved as a lasting symbol for the future.

When equal property partition is law, this intimate connection between family and ancestral land is broken; the estate no longer represents the family, since it must inevitably be divided after one or two generations, shrinking until it is finally dispersed. The sons of a wealthy landowner, even if they are few or lucky, may hope to be as rich as their father, but not to possess the same land. Their fortunes must come from different sources.

Once you loosen a landowner's tie to his estate—which comes from family pride, custom, and tradition—he is bound, sooner or later, to sell. There's a strong financial motive: invested capital brings higher returns than land and can be used more easily to satisfy current desires.

Once large estates are divided, they rarely come back together; smaller landowners get more return per acre and thus ask a higher price when selling.\*b So the same profit motives that encourage the rich to sell large estates work even more powerfully against them buying up small ones to make new big holdings.

b
\[ I don’t mean small owners work their land better, but they do with more effort and care; their labor makes up for their lack of expertise.\]

What is called family pride is often just an illusion of self-regard. People want to live on in their great-grandchildren. When family spirit fades, individual self-interest dominates. Once the idea of family continuity becomes vague, a person thinks only of present convenience and looks out only for the next generation. Either the goal of family continuity is given up, or people seek it by means other than land. Thus, partible inheritance not only makes it hard to keep family lands together but also kills the desire to do so, forcing people to help the law undo their own legacy.

Equal distribution laws work two ways: they affect property and people, and by affecting people, they shape property. This way, the law cuts deep into landed wealth, quickly scattering both families and fortunes.\*c

c
\[ Land is the most stable property, so occasionally wealthy individuals sacrifice a lot to get it, even at lower returns, for security's sake. But these are rare cases. The preference for land is now mainly among the poor. Small landowners, who are less informed, less imaginative, and less driven by passion, often focus on expanding their plots. Through inheritance, marriage, or luck, they may slowly grow their holdings. So, while inheritance law tends to divide estates endlessly, counter forces do work to rebuild them—but they are too weak to form new large estates, and certainly not to keep them in one family.\]

Surely we French in the nineteenth century, who constantly see the social shifts the inheritance law causes, cannot doubt its influence. Its effects are everywhere—knocking down houses and moving field boundaries. Still, even in France, its work is not yet complete. Our memory, customs, and habits still offer resistance.

In the United States, the process is nearly finished, and its results can be seen most clearly. English property transmission laws were abolished in almost all the States during the Revolution. Entail was adjusted to allow free circulation of property.\*d With the older generation gone, estates started to break up, the process accelerating over time. Now, after sixty years, society looks totally different; families of the old landowners are merged into the broader population. In New York, which once had many such families, only two hold on—and they will soon vanish. The sons of these wealthy citizens are now merchants, lawyers, or doctors. Most have faded into obscurity. The last traces of hereditary class have disappeared—the partition law reduced everyone to the same level. \[Footnote d: See Appendix, G.\]

This is not to say that the U.S. lacks wealthy individuals; in fact, there may be no other country where the desire for money is stronger, or where the idea of permanent property equality is more thoroughly dismissed. But wealth moves quickly, and it’s rare for the same fortune to last for two generations.

Even this description may seem extreme, but it still falls short of reality in the new Western and Southwestern States. At the end of the previous century, a few daring settlers began moving into the Mississippi Valley, and soon, more populated the region: new communities, unheard of before, appeared; States with new names entered the Union. In the West, we can see democracy pushed to its furthest reach. In these hastily-founded States, whose residents are new arrivals, neighbors barely know each other’s past. Thus, Westerners have not felt the influence of great names or wealth, or even the natural aristocracy of learning and virtue. There is no one to wield that worthy authority which people grant to those they remember for a life spent doing good. The Western States have people, but real society does not yet exist there.\*e

e
\[ This may have been true in 1832, but not so in 1874, with large cities like Chicago and San Francisco now in the West. Yet Western States still don’t have a major impact on American society.—Translator’s Note.\]

It is not just people’s fortunes that are equal in America; even their wants are, to some extent, similar. I do not think any country in the world, relative to its population, has so few uneducated and so few truly learned. Basic education is available to all; advanced learning is hardly within reach of anyone. This follows logically from what was said above. Nearly all Americans are financially comfortable and can access the basics of education.

In America, few have enough wealth to live without working. Every profession needs an apprenticeship, so education usually ends when people are quite young. At fifteen, most begin their careers, and so their schooling stops when ours is just starting. Anything later is driven by practical needs—learning a subject becomes just a business decision, and only immediately useful knowledge gets attention. In America, most rich people were once poor; most who now enjoy leisure spent their youth working. So, when they could have developed a taste for learning, they lacked time for it—and when they finally have time, they don’t have the inclination.

As a result, there is no social class in America where a taste for intellectual pursuits, leisure, and intelligence is inherited and respected. Thus, there is a general lack of both the desire and capacity for pursuing these interests.

A middle level is set for knowledge in America. Everyone tries to get as close to it as possible—some climb up to it, others drop down to it. So, a huge number of people share similar ideas about religion, history, science, economics, law, and government. The gifts of intellect come directly from God, and humans cannot control their unequal spread. But because of the situation just described, although people’s abilities differ greatly—as the Creator must have intended—they are all treated in the same way.

In America, the aristocratic element has always been weak since its beginning; and if it is not completely eliminated today, it is at least so powerless that it barely has any influence on the course of affairs. The democratic principle, on the other hand, has gained so much strength over time—through events and legislation—that it has not only become dominant, but all-powerful. There is no family or corporate authority, and it is rare even for the influence of individual character to last.

America, then, displays in her social state a truly remarkable phenomenon. Nowhere else are men seen more equal in fortune and intellect—in other words, more alike in their capabilities—than in any other country in the world or in any era history remembers.

Political Consequences Of The Social Condition Of The Anglo-Americans

The political results of such a social condition are easy to deduce. It is impossible to believe that equality would not eventually make its way into the political sphere as it does everywhere else. The idea that men can remain unequal in just one area yet equal in all others is not plausible; in the end, they must become equal in everything. I see only two ways to establish equality in politics: either every citizen must be given their rights, or rights must be given to no one at all. For nations at the same social stage as the Anglo-Americans, it is very hard to find a middle ground between the sovereignty of all and the absolute power of a single individual; and we cannot deny that the social state I've described is equally prone to both outcomes.

There is, in fact, a noble and legitimate passion for equality that inspires people to want everyone to be powerful and respected. This passion lifts the humble to the status of the great. But there's also a corrupted taste for equality that drives the weak to try to drag down the powerful to their own level, making people prefer equality in slavery over inequality with freedom. That does not mean that countries with democratic societies naturally scorn liberty; on the contrary, they instinctively love it. But liberty is not their chief, constant goal—equality is their idol. They make rapid and sudden efforts to obtain liberty, and if they fail, they accept their disappointment; but nothing but equality will satisfy them, and they would rather perish than lose it.

On the other hand, in a state where citizens are nearly equal, it becomes difficult for them to defend their independence against encroaching power. None are individually strong enough to fight effectively; only a common effort can protect their liberty. Such unity is not always found.

From this same social state, then, nations may achieve one or the other of two great political outcomes; these outcomes are extremely different, yet both can result from the same cause.

The Anglo-Americans are the first to have faced this daunting choice and managed to avoid the rule of absolute power. Thanks to their circumstances, origins, intelligence, and especially their moral values, they've established and maintained the sovereignty of the people.

##  Chapter IV: The Principle Of The Sovereignty Of The People In America

##  Chapter Summary

It prevails throughout society in America—How this principle was put into practice by the Americans even before their Revolution—How the Revolution further developed it—The steady and unstoppable expansion of voting rights.

The Principle Of The Sovereignty Of The People In America

Whenever we discuss the political laws of the United States, we must begin with the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people. This principle, which is present to some degree in nearly all human institutions, usually stays hidden from view. It is followed without being acknowledged, or if it does come to light for a moment, is quickly returned to obscurity. “The will of the nation” is a phrase that has been widely abused by the cunning and the despotic throughout history. Some have defined it as the bribed votes of the supporters of those in power; others by the votes of a timid or self-interested minority; some have even claimed to find it in the silence of a people, assuming that submission gives authority to command.

In America, the principle of the sovereignty of the people is neither sterile nor hidden as it is in some other nations; it is recognized in custom and declared by law. It operates freely and reaches its farthest consequences without obstruction. If there is any country in the world where this principle can truly be understood, where it can be studied in all of its societal applications, with both its risks and its advantages clearly visible, it is surely America.

As I have already noted, from its beginnings the sovereignty of the people was the foundational principle of most British colonies in America. However, at that time it was far from wielding as much influence over society as it does now. Two obstacles—one external, one internal—slowed its progress. It could not openly appear in the laws of colonies still compelled to obey the mother country, so it spread secretly, gaining ground in provincial assemblies, especially among the townships.

American society was not yet ready to fully embrace its implications. The intelligence of New England and the wealth of the South (as I noted in the previous chapter) maintained a kind of aristocratic influence, keeping most social authority in the hands of a few. Not all public officials were elected, and not every citizen could vote. The right to vote was limited, only granted to people meeting certain requirements—very modest in the North, more substantial in the South.

The American Revolution began, and the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people, which had grown strong in townships and municipalities, took command of the State: every class supported it; battles were fought, and victories won for its cause, until it became the supreme law.

An equally rapid change happened within society, where laws of inheritance wiped out local sources of power.

At the very moment these legal and revolutionary changes were plainly visible, victory for the democratic cause became certain. All power, in practice, was in its hands, and resistance was impossible. The upper classes accepted this inevitable loss without protest or struggle. Like all declining powers, each member looked to their own interests; and since it was impossible to take power back from a people they could not hate enough to fight, they aimed only to earn the people's favor at any cost. The very lawmakers whose interests were harmed passed the most democratic laws; and so, although the upper class did not stir up popular anger against themselves, they sped up the triumph of democracy. Ironically, the push for democracy was strongest in the very states where the aristocracy was the most entrenched. The state of Maryland, founded by noblemen, was the first to declare universal suffrage and introduce the most democratic practices into its government.

When a nation changes its voting qualifications, it is easy to predict that sooner or later those qualifications will be completely abolished. In the history of societies, there is no more constant rule: the broader the voting rights are made, the greater the urge to expand them. Each concession strengthens democracy, and its demands grow with its power. Those excluded are provoked by how many are included. Ultimately, the exception becomes the rule, concession follows concession, and universal suffrage is the only possible stopping point.

Today, the principle of the sovereignty of the people in the United States has reached all the practical effects one can imagine. It is not hidden by the fictions that surround it in other countries, and it appears in every possible form as needed. Sometimes laws are made directly by the people themselves, as in ancient Athens; other times, elected representatives, chosen by universal suffrage, conduct business on their behalf and nearly under their immediate oversight.

In some countries, there exists a power that is somewhat outside society, directing it and forcing it onto a particular path. In others, ruling power is partially within and partially outside the people. But this is not the case in the United States; here, society governs itself, for itself. All power is held within it, and you would be hard-pressed to find anyone who would even consider, let alone suggest, looking for it elsewhere. The nation takes part in making its laws by choosing its lawmakers, and takes part in carrying them out by selecting government officials. It can almost be said to govern itself, so little authority is left to administrative bodies, so completely do government officials remember their popular origins and the source of their power. *a [Footnote a: See Appendix, H.]

##  Chapter V: Necessity Of Examining The Condition Of The States—Part I

Necessity Of Examining The Condition Of The States Before That Of The Union At Large.

In the following chapter, I intend to examine the form of government established in America under the principle of the sovereignty of the people: its resources, challenges, benefits, and dangers. The first difficulty that arises is due to the complex nature of the United States Constitution, which consists of two distinct social systems, connected and, so to speak, nested one within the other; two governments, fully separate and nearly independent—one handling the ordinary duties and responding to the daily and limitless needs of the community, the other confined within certain boundaries and only exercising special authority over the general interests of the country. In short, there are twenty-four small sovereign nations whose union forms the body of the Union. Trying to examine the Union before studying the States would be an approach filled with difficulties. The Federal Government of the United States was the last to be adopted; it is really just a modification or summary of republican principles already established throughout the community before its creation, and independently of it. Moreover, as I have just noted, the Federal Government is the exception; the Government of the States is the rule. An author who tries to present the whole picture before explaining its parts would inevitably fall into confusion and repetition.

The main political principles guiding American society today unquestionably originated and developed in the States. It is therefore necessary to understand the State in order to grasp the rest. The States that now make up the American Union all share the same features when it comes to the structure of their institutions. Their political or administrative existence centers around three spheres of action, which might be compared to different nerve centers controlling movement in the human body. The township comes first, then the county, and finally the State. I plan to devote the following chapter to examining these three divisions.

The American System Of Townships And Municipal Bodies

Why the Author begins the examination of the political institutions with the township—Its presence in all societies—Difficulty of establishing and maintaining municipal independence—Its importance—Why the Author chose the township system of New England as the main subject.

It is not by chance that I begin this subject with the Township. The village or township is the only association so natural that, wherever a group of people gather, it seems to form itself.

The town, or tithing, as the smallest division of a community, is necessary in all nations, regardless of their laws and customs: if people create monarchies and establish republics, the first association of mankind seems created by the hand of God. But although the township has existed as long as humanity, its freedoms are rarely respected and are easily destroyed. A nation can always create large political assemblies, since there are usually enough talented, if not experienced, people to run public affairs. The township, by contrast, is made up of more ordinary materials, less easily shaped by the legislator. The challenges in establishing its independence actually increase with the greater enlightenment of the people. A highly civilized society resists attempts at local independence, is frustrated by its many blunders, and is likely to give up before the trial has run its course. Also, no rights are so poorly protected from the central government's intrusion as those of municipal bodies in general: they struggle to stand alone against a strong or ambitious government and cannot successfully defend themselves unless their cause is rooted in national tradition and supported by public opinion. Until the independence of townships becomes part of a people’s habits, it is easily wiped out, and only after long existence in the laws can it become so ingrained. Municipal freedom is not the result of human invention; it is rarely created outright; rather, it is subtly and spontaneously generated amid a semi-barbarous society. The ongoing influence of the laws and national customs, special circumstances, and, above all, time may solidify it; but there is no nation on the European continent that has truly enjoyed its benefits. Nevertheless, local gatherings of citizens form the backbone of free nations. Town-meetings are to liberty what primary schools are to science; they make liberty accessible to the people, teaching them how to use and enjoy it. A nation may set up a free government, but without the spirit of municipal institutions, it cannot have the spirit of liberty. Temporary passions, passing interests, or chance may create the outward forms of independence, but the authoritarian tendency that was repelled will, sooner or later, inevitably reappear.

To explain to the reader the general principles underlying the political organization of the counties and townships of the United States, I thought it best to select one of the New England States as an example, to examine the workings of its structure, and then to take a broader look at the country. The township and the county are not organized the same way everywhere in the Union; however, it's clear that the same ideas guided their formation throughout. I believe these principles have been taken further in New England than elsewhere, and thus offer an especially good opportunity for an outsider to observe them. The institutions of New England form a complete and regular system; they have the support of time and the law, and even more importantly, the support of communal customs, over which they exert an enormous influence; for all these reasons, they merit our attention.

Limits Of The Township

The township of New England is a division that lies between the French commune and canton, and is generally equivalent to the English tithing or town. Its average population is between two and three thousand; *a so on one hand, the interests of its residents are unlikely to clash, yet there are always people among them capable of handling its affairs.

a
\[ In 1830 there were 305 townships in the State of Massachusetts, and 610,014 inhabitants, which gives an average of about 2,000 inhabitants to each township.\]

Authorities Of The Township In New England

The people the source of all power here as elsewhere—Manages its own affairs—No corporation—The majority of authority held by Selectmen—How the Selectmen act—Town-meeting—List of township public officers—Obligatory and paid roles.

In the township, as everywhere else, the people are the only source of power; but at no other level of government do the citizens exercise such direct influence. In America, the people are a master whose demands must be met to the fullest extent possible.

In New England the majority acts through representatives for the State’s public business; yet, while this approach is needed for general affairs, in the townships—where government acts more directly and immediately on the people—representation is not used. There is no corporation; after electing its magistrates, the body of voters continues to direct them in all matters beyond routine executive business of the State. *b

b
\[ The same rules are not applicable to the great towns, which generally have a mayor, and a corporation divided into two bodies; this, however, is an exception which requires the sanction of a law.—See the Act of February 22, 1822, for appointing the authorities of the city of Boston. It frequently happens that small towns as well as cities are subject to a peculiar administration. In 1832, 104 townships in the State of New York were governed in this manner.—Williams’ Register.\]

This arrangement is so foreign to our ideas and customs that I need to give some examples to fully explain it.

The public duties within a township are both numerous and highly detailed, as I will describe later; but the greater share of administrative power is concentrated in a small group known as “the Selectmen.” *c The state’s general laws impose several obligations on the selectmen that they may carry out without needing consent from those they represent, but if neglected, they are personally responsible. For example, state law requires them to create the list of electors in their township; if they fail to do so, it's a misdemeanor. In all matters settled by the town-meeting, the selectmen act as the executors of the popular will, just as in France the Maire enforces the decisions of the municipal council. The selectmen usually act on their own authority, merely putting into practice policies already approved by the majority. But if they wish to make a change or start a new project, they must refer back to the source of their authority. For example, if a school is to be founded, the selectmen call together all the electors at a specified time and place; they explain why it's needed, offer their opinions on how to address it, estimate the costs, and suggest the best location. The meeting votes on these points; it agrees on the project, selects the location, approves the expense, and entrusts the selectmen with carrying out the decision.

c
\[ Three selectmen are appointed in the small townships, and nine in the large ones. See “The Town-Officer,” p. 186. See also the principal laws of the State of Massachusetts relative to the selectmen:

Act of February 20, 1786, vol. i. ; February 24, 1796, vol. i. ; March 7, 1801, vol. ii. ; June 16, 1795, vol. i. ; March 12, 1808, vol. ii. ; February 28, 1787, vol. i. ; June 22, 1797, vol. i. .\]

Only the selectmen can call a town-meeting, but they may be asked to do so: if ten citizens want to submit a new proposal to the township, they can request a general meeting of the people; the selectmen must comply, but they are only allowed to preside over the meeting. *d

d
\[ See Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i. , Act of March 25, 1786.\]

The selectmen are elected every year in April or May. At the same time, the town-meeting appoints a number of other municipal officers with important administrative roles. The assessors set the township’s tax rates; the collectors collect the tax. A constable is chosen to keep order, watch the streets, and enforce the laws; the town-clerk records all town votes, decrees, orders, grants, births, deaths, and marriages; the treasurer manages the finances; the overseer of the poor manages the poor-laws; committee members handle the schools and public instruction; and road-surveyors look after the roads, completing the list of the township’s main officials. The roles are even more divided: among the municipal officers are parish commissioners, who audit worship expenses; various inspectors, some appointed for fire emergencies; tithing-men, listers, haywards, chimney-viewers, fence-viewers to maintain property lines, timber-measurers, and sealers of weights and measures. *e

e
\[ All these magistrates actually exist; their various functions are all detailed in a book called “The Town-Officer,” by Isaac Goodwin, Worcester, 1827; and in the “Collection of the General Laws of Massachusetts,” 3 vols., Boston, 1823.\]

There are nineteen main officers in a township. Each inhabitant is required, on pain of a fine, to take on these various roles; but nearly all are paid posts, so poorer citizens can serve without financial loss. The American system, in general, does not offer a fixed salary to its officers. Instead, every task has its price, and they are paid according to what they accomplish.

Existence Of The Township

Everyone is the best judge of their own interests—Corollary of the principle of the sovereignty of the people—How these ideas are applied in American townships—The New England township is sovereign in all that concerns itself alone, but subject to the State in all other matters—Connection between township and State—In France the Government lends its agent to the Commune—In America, the reverse is true.

I have already pointed out that the principle of the sovereignty of the people governs the entire political system of the Anglo-Americans. Every page of this book will provide further examples of this doctrine. In the nations where the sovereignty of the people is recognized, every individual holds an equal share of power and takes part in the government of the State. Each individual is thus considered to be as informed, as virtuous, and as capable as any fellow citizen. He obeys the government not because he is inferior to the authorities, nor less capable than his neighbor of self-governance, but because he acknowledges the value of joining with others, knowing that no such association can exist without a guiding force. If he is a subject in matters concerning the mutual relations of citizens, he is free and answerable only to God in what concerns himself. From this comes the maxim that everyone is the best and only judge of their own private interests, and that society has no right to control a man’s actions unless they harm the common good or require his cooperation for its welfare. This doctrine is universally accepted in the United States. I will later discuss the general influence this principle has on daily life; for now, I am speaking specifically about municipal bodies.

The township, considered as a whole and in relation to the wider government, can be seen as an individual to whom the principle just described is applied. Municipal independence is, therefore, a natural result of the principle of people’s sovereignty in the United States: all American republics recognize it to different degrees, but circumstances have especially allowed it to thrive in New England.

In this region, the initial impulse for political activity came from the townships themselves; it can almost be said that each of them originally functioned as an independent nation. When the Kings of England asserted their supremacy, they were satisfied claiming only the central authority of the State. The townships of New England remained unchanged; and though now they are subject to the State, at first they depended on it very little. It’s important to note that they were not granted privileges but instead gave up some independence to the State. The townships are subordinate to the State only in what I will call social matters, meaning those interests common to all citizens. They remain independent in local matters; and among New England’s residents, I believe, not a single person would accept that the State has any right to interfere in their local affairs. The towns in New England buy and sell, sue or are sued, raise or lower their taxes, all without any interference from the administrative authority of the State.

However, they must meet the needs of the wider community. If the State needs money, a town cannot choose to give or withhold funds. If the State constructs a road, the township cannot refuse to have it cross its territory; if the State issues a police regulation, the township must enforce it. A uniform system of education is established throughout the country, and every town is required to provide the schools the law calls for. When discussing the administration of the United States, I will describe how the townships are compelled to comply in these ways; here, I am simply highlighting that the obligation exists. As strict as this requirement is, the State government imposes it in principle only, and the township reclaims all its independent rights when enacting it. For instance, taxes are determined by the State, but they are collected by the township; schools are mandatory, but townships construct, fund, and oversee them. In France, a State agent collects local taxes; in America, the town collector gathers State taxes. So, the French government sends agents to the commune, whereas in America, the township acts as the agent of the government itself. This fact alone illustrates the profound differences between the two nations.

### Public Spirit Of The Townships Of New England

How the township in New England earns the devotion of its people—Why local public spirit is hard to build in Europe—The American township’s rights and duties support this spirit—Home life in America—Examples of public spirit in New England—Its positive effects.

In America, not only do municipal bodies exist, but they are maintained and energized by public spirit. The New England township has two advantages that guarantee its engaged interest: independence and authority. Its influence is small and limited, but within its boundaries its actions are not restrained, and its independence gives a real importance that size or population might not otherwise command.

One must remember that people’s loyalties usually rest with authority. Patriotism rarely lasts in a conquered nation. The New Englander cares for his township not just because he was born there, but because it is a social body of which he is a member, whose government seeks and values his input. In Europe, a lack of local public spirit is often regretted by those in power; everyone agrees on its value as a guarantee of order and peace, yet it is difficult to create. If municipal bodies were made powerful and independent, national authorities might fear becoming divided and losing order. Still, without local power and independence, a town may have obedient subjects, but not active citizens. Another key point is that the township in New England is designed to inspire deep human affection, without stirring the ambitious passions found in human nature. County offices are not elected, and their authority is limited. Even the State is only a secondary community whose quiet, routine administration barely tempts people away from their private lives. The federal government offers power and honor to its leaders, but those ranks are few. The Presidency can only be reached later in life, and other federal positions usually go to the fortunate or already distinguished—roles which are not the constant ambitions of the many. The township, however, provides a center for a desire for public respect, for seeking stimulating interests, and for aspiring to authority and popularity within everyday life; and the passions that so often disrupt society are transformed when they find such a close and familiar channel within the home and family circle.

Power in the American States has been distributed with impressive skill to involve as many people as possible in the common good. Besides periodic participation by voters, the political body is divided among countless officials and officers, who, each in their domain, represent the larger system in whose name they act. Local administration provides a constant source of engagement and benefit for many individuals.

The American system, which divides local authority among so many citizens, has no hesitation in multiplying town officers’ functions. For in the United States, it is rightly believed that patriotism is a form of devotion that grows stronger with regular practice. In this way, the township’s activity is always visible; it appears daily in the fulfillment of a duty or the use of a right, and a constant, gentle motion maintains a liveliness in society without disturbing it.

The American is attached to his home just as a mountaineer is to his hills, for the features of his country stand out most clearly there. Life in New England’s townships is generally happy. Their government fits their preferences and is chosen by themselves. Amidst the widespread peace and prosperity in America, municipal conflicts are rare. Local business is easy to manage. The people’s political education has long been completed—one might say it was complete the moment the people first settled there. In New England, there are no old traditions of class distinctions; no part of society is tempted to oppress others; and abuses that might harm individuals are forgotten in general contentment. If the government has flaws (which could surely be pointed out), the fact that it genuinely comes from those it governs, acting, whether well or poorly, casts over its faults a protective sense of pride. No external comparison can shake the citizen’s satisfaction: though England once governed the colonies, the people were always sovereign in their townships, where such rule is not only old but original.

A native of New England is devoted to his township because it is independent and free: his involvement secures his attachment to its interests; its benefits earn his devotion; and its prosperity is the goal of his ambition and his future work. He takes part in every event in his area; he learns to govern within the small sphere open to him; he becomes accustomed to those processes that alone ensure steady progress toward liberty; he adopts their spirit; he develops a taste for order, understands how powers unite or balance, and gains clear, practical knowledge of his own duties and rights.

### The Counties Of New England

The division of counties in America is similar to the division of arrondissements in France. County boundaries are set arbitrarily, and the various local districts within have no necessary connection, tradition, or natural affinity; they exist simply to assist in the administration of justice.

Townships are too small to host full judicial systems; each county, however, has a court of justice,\*f a sheriff to enforce the court’s orders, and a jail for criminals. Some needs are shared by all the townships within a county; thus, it is natural they be met by a central authority. In Massachusetts, this authority resides in several magistrates appointed by the Governor with the advice\*g of his council.\*h The county officers have only narrow, occasional authority covering specified situations. The State and the townships have all the power needed to conduct public affairs. The county budget is created by its officials and approved by the legislature, but there is no assembly directly or indirectly representing the county. Thus, it has no real political existence.

f  
\[ See the Act of February 14, 1821, Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i. \]

g  
\[ See the Act of February 20, 1819, Laws of Massachusetts, vol. ii. \]

h  
\[ The council of the Governor is an elected body.\]  
A dual tendency can be seen in American constitutions, pushing legislators to centralize legislative power but disperse executive power. The New England township has, at its core, a durable element of independence; and this real existence was never intentionally transferred to counties, where such value was not recognized. But all the townships together have just one real point of representation, the State—the center of national authority: beyond the township and the nation, nothing truly exists apart from the influence of individual action.

### Administration In New England

Administration largely invisible in America—Why?—Europeans think liberty is best preserved by removing some rights from society’s authority; Americans believe it comes by sharing power—Nearly all administration is handled locally, spread among many town officers—No administrative hierarchy to be found, locally or above—The reason—How State administration stays uniform—Who ensures townships and counties obey laws—Judicial power integrates with administration—Effect of electing all officials—The Justice of the Peace in New England—By whom appointed—A county officer: ensures town affairs—Court of Sessions—Its work—Oversight and indictment powers spread out like other administrative functions—Informers encouraged by sharing of fines.

To a European traveling in the United States, nothing is more remarkable than the absence of what we call “the Government” or “the Administration.” Written laws exist in America, and one sees them enforced daily; yet, though everything runs smoothly, the hand that drives the machinery of society is nowhere visible. Still, just as all languages must use certain rules to make themselves understood, so all societies must have some authority in place to avoid falling into anarchy. This authority may be distributed in different ways, but it must exist somewhere.

There are two ways to weaken the force of authority in a nation. The first is to weaken the supreme power at its very root, by preventing society from acting in its own defense in certain cases. In Europe, weakening authority in this way is usually thought to help build freedom. The second way is to spread the exercise of authority into many hands, creating many officials each with enough power to do their duty. Some nations might slip into chaos if power were spread this way; but by itself, this system is not anarchical. Authority becomes less overwhelming and less dangerous, but it is not eliminated.

The revolution in the United States sprang from a careful and dignified passion for liberty, not simply from a vague longing for independence. It was not fueled by unruly passions, but was marked instead by devotion to legality and order.

In the United States, it was never assumed that citizens of a free nation have the right to do as they please; instead, more varied social obligations are placed on individuals than anywhere else. There was never talk of overthrowing the basic rules or rights of society; rather, the exercise of its authority was divided up so that offices could remain powerful, but officeholders themselves would not be, leaving the community both regulated and free. Nowhere does law speak as authoritatively as in America, and nowhere is the power to apply it spread among so many people. Administrative power in America is neither centralized nor hierarchical, making it almost invisible. The power is there, but its holder is hard to see.

As previously noted, the independent New England townships handle their own affairs; most often, municipal magistrates are responsible for enforcing State laws.\*i In addition to general laws, the State sometimes issues broad police regulations; but more often, townships and town officials, alongside justices of the peace, regulate the details of local life according to area needs, and pass rules about public health, as well as the community’s peace and morals.\*j Finally, these local officials often deal with unexpected events in society by their own initiative, without needing special authority.\*k

i  
\[ See “The Town-Officer,” especially at the entries for Selectmen, Assessors, Collectors, Schools, Surveyors of Highways. One of many examples: the State forbids travel on Sundays; the tything-men, who are town officers, are specifically tasked to watch and enforce this law. See the Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i. The selectmen prepare voter rolls for the Governor’s election and report the ballot results to the Secretary of State. See Act of February 24, 1796: Id., vol. i.\]

j

\[ For example, the selectmen authorize the construction of drains and designate proper locations for slaughterhouses and other trades that are considered nuisances to the neighborhood. See the Act of June 7, 1785: Id., vol. i. .\]

k
\[ The selectmen, together with the justices of the peace, take measures to protect the public in case of contagious diseases. See Act of June 22, 1797, vol. i. .\]

From what we have discussed, it follows that in the State of Massachusetts administrative authority is almost entirely limited to the township,\*l but it is distributed among a large number of individuals. In the French commune, there is really only one official—namely, the Maire—while in New England, as we have seen, there are nineteen. These nineteen officials generally do not depend on one another. The law carefully defines the sphere of action for each of these magistrates, and within that sphere, they have the full right to perform their duties independently of any other authority. Above the township, hardly any sign of a hierarchy of official dignitaries is found. Sometimes, county officers change a decision of township or town magistrates,\*m but in general, county authorities have no right to interfere with township authorities,\*n except in matters that specifically concern the county.

l
\[ I say almost, because there are circumstances in the affairs of a township that are regulated either by the justice of the peace acting alone, or by the justices of the peace gathered in the chief town of the county; for example, licenses are issued by the justices. See the Act of February 28, 1787, vol. i. .\]

m
\[ For instance, licenses are only given to those who present a certificate of good conduct from the selectmen. If the selectmen refuse this certificate, the individual may appeal to the justices assembled in the Court of Sessions, who may grant the license. See Act of March 12, 1808, vol. ii. .

Townships also have the right to make by-laws and enforce them by fines set by law; but these by-laws must be approved by the Court of Sessions. See Act of March 23, 1786, vol. i. .\]

n
\[ In Massachusetts, county magistrates are often called to investigate the acts of town magistrates; but as will be discussed further, this investigation comes not from their administrative power, but from their judicial power.\]

The township magistrates, as well as those of the county, are required to report their actions to the central government only in a very limited number of predetermined cases.\*o However, the central government is not represented by a person whose job it is to publish police regulations and ordinances to enforce the law, to maintain regular communication with township and county officers, to oversee their conduct, to guide their actions, or to correct their mistakes. There is no central authority that connects the branches of the administration.

o
\[ The town school committees are required to make an annual report to the Secretary of the State on the condition of the schools. See Act of March 10, 1827, vol. iii. .\]

##  Chapter V: Necessity Of Examining The Condition Of The States—Part II

So, what is the standard approach by which the government operates, and how is compliance by counties and their magistrates, or by the townships and their officers, enforced? In the States of New England, legislative authority covers more subjects than it does in France; legislators delve into the very core of administration; laws reach down to the smallest details. The same statute both establishes the principle and directs its application, thus imposing a large number of strict and clearly defined obligations on secondary State officials. The result is that if all these secondary officials follow the law, society operates with remarkable uniformity in all its branches. The remaining challenge is to ensure that secondary administrative officials actually comply with the law. It can generally be asserted that society has only two main ways to enforce the laws: it can grant a superior official the discretionary power to direct all others, dismissing them for disobedience and promoting them for proper conduct; or, it can authorize the courts to impose judicial penalties on offenders. However, these two methods aren't always feasible.

The authority to direct a civil officer assumes the right to remove him if he disobeys, and to reward him with promotion if he performs well. But an elected magistrate can neither be dismissed nor promoted during his term. All elected positions remain the property of their holders until their term expires. In essence, an elected magistrate doesn't have much to expect or fear from his constituents during his term, and when all public offices are filled by ballot, there can be no chain of official ranks. The double right to command and to enforce obedience can never rest with the same individual, and the power to issue orders can never be combined with the power to punish or reward.

Therefore, communities where government secondary officials are elected are forced to rely heavily on judicial penalties as a tool of administration. This isn't immediately obvious; those in power often regard making offices elective as one concession, and making the elected magistrate answerable to the courts as a further one. They usually dislike both changes, but since pressure for elections is stronger than pressure for judicial oversight, they often allow the election of magistrates while leaving them independent of judicial power. Yet the second measure is the only thing that can really balance the first; in fact, an elective authority not subject to judicial power inevitably either avoids all control or ends up being destroyed. Only the courts can serve as an effective intermediary between the central authority and administrative bodies, compelling elected officials to obey without infringing on voters' rights. The expansion of judicial power in political life should therefore match the growth of elective offices: if these two systems don't develop in tandem, the state will fall into either anarchy or despotism.

It's long been noted that people used to legal affairs aren't necessarily suited for administrative authority. The Americans adopted from the English—their ancestors—the concept of an institution unknown on the continent of Europe: the Justices of the Peace. The Justice of the Peace is a kind of middle ground between a government functionary and an ordinary citizen, between a civil officer and a judge. A justice of the peace is generally a well-informed citizen, even if he isn't an expert in law. The office mainly requires him to carry out the police regulations of society—a role in which good common sense and integrity matter more than legal knowledge. He brings into administration a respect for established procedures and openness, making him ill-suited for despotism, and also free from the prejudices that can make legal specialists unsuited for government. The Americans borrowed the English idea of the justice of the peace but stripped it of the aristocratic airs visible in England. The Governor of Massachusetts \*p appoints several justices of the peace in each county, who serve for seven years. \*q The governor also selects three of these to form, in each county, what is called the Court of Sessions. The justices participate directly in public business; sometimes they are assigned administrative duties jointly with elected officers, \*r and sometimes they serve as a tribunal before which magistrates prosecute noncompliant citizens, or citizens bring complaints against magistrates' abuses. Their most significant role, however, is exercised in the Court of Sessions. This court convenes twice a year in the county seat; in Massachusetts, it has the authority to enforce the obedience of most public officials. \*s \*t It's worth noting that, in Massachusetts, the Court of Sessions is at the same time a properly administrative body and a political tribunal. Though the county is a purely administrative division, the Court of Sessions oversees those few matters which, because they concern several or all the townships of the county, cannot be handled by any one town alone. \*u For county business, the court's duties are strictly administrative; if it occasionally adopts judicial procedures in its investigations, it does so for its own understanding \*v or as a safeguard for the community. However, when concerns about township management come before it, it always acts as a judicial body, and in rare cases as an official assembly.

p
\[ We shall later discuss what a Governor is; for now, let it be said that he represents the executive authority of the entire State.\]

q
\[ See the Constitution of Massachusetts, chap. II. sect. 1. Section 9; chap. III. Section 3.\]

r
\[ For example: If a stranger arrives in a town from a country with a contagious disease and falls ill, two justices of the peace, with the approval of the selectmen, can order the county sheriff to remove and care for him.—Act of June 22, 1797, vol. i. In general, the justices are involved in all important administrative acts, giving them a semi-judicial character.\] \[Footnote s: I say "most," as some administrative violations are handled by regular courts. For instance, if a township fails to fund its schools or appoint a school committee, it's fined—by the Supreme Judicial Court or Court of Common Pleas. See Act of March 10, 1827, Laws of Massachusetts, vol. iii. Or if a township neglects to supply required war materials.—Act of February 21, 1822: Id., vol. ii.\]

t
\[ As individuals, justices of the peace also participate in county and township affairs.\] \[Footnote u: These matters include: 1. Building prisons and courthouses. 2. The county budget, later approved by the State. 3. Allocating the voted taxes. 4. Granting certain patents. 5. Creating and maintaining county roads.\]

v
\[ When a road is being considered, nearly all disputes are settled with a jury.\]

The first challenge is enforcing obedience from an authority as independent of state law as the township. As mentioned, assessors are appointed annually by town meetings to collect taxes. If a township tries to evade taxes by not naming assessors, the Court of Sessions imposes a heavy fine. \*w This fine is collected from each inhabitant, and the county sheriff, as justice officer, carries out the order. Thus, in the U.S., government authority is subtly enforced through judicial decisions, and its force is increased by the compelling power that formal legal procedures hold for people.

w
\[ See Act of February 20, 1786, Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i.\]

These procedures are easy to understand. The demands on a township are generally clear and simple; they're either a straightforward action or a principle to be applied, not one to be interpreted in detail. \*x But things get more complicated when it's not the township as a whole, but its officers, whose obedience must be secured. All the wrong actions a public official might commit can be grouped as follows:

x
\[ There’s another way to ensure a township obeys: if it doesn't provide funds for road repairs, the town surveyor is allowed ex officio to collect supplies. He is personally responsible to individuals for road conditions, and can be prosecuted by the Court of Sessions, so he's certain to use this special right against the township. By forcing the officer's compliance, the court ensures the town fulfills its duty. See Act of March 5, 1787, Id., vol. i.\]

He may enforce the law without energy or zeal;

He may neglect to enforce the law at all;

He may do what the law specifically prohibits.

Only the last two types of neglect can be addressed by a court; a definite, recognizable act must be the basis for legal action. For example, if selectmen fail to carry out the proper legal procedures at a town election, they can be fined; \*y but if a public officer does his job poorly, merely following the letter of the law without energy or dedication, he can't be judicially compelled to do better. Even when empowered, the Court of Sessions cannot remedy such half-hearted obedience. The only constraint on these borderline offenses is the threat of removal from office; but the Court of Sessions, not responsible for appointing town officials, cannot remove those it did not name. Furthermore, continual investigation would be needed to prove negligence or apathy, yet the Court of Sessions meets only twice a year and can only try cases brought before it. The only safeguard for getting the active, informed obedience that a court cannot impose is the possibility of arbitrary removal. In France, this safeguard is found in administrative superiors; in America, it is found in the principle of election.

y
\[ Laws of Massachusetts, vol. ii.\]

To sum up what has been explained: when a public officer in New England commits a crime during his duties, the ordinary courts of justice always try him. If he commits a misconduct in office, an administrative tribunal can punish him; and if the matter is urgent or important, the judge can step in to fix the official's failure. \*z Finally, for subtle forms of negligence that escape human justice, each year he faces a tribunal from which there is no appeal: the voters, who can strip him of his office and influence. This system has clear benefits, but it's important to note a practical difficulty.

z
\[ For example, if a township keeps refusing to appoint assessors, the Court of Sessions will do so; those named have the same powers as if elected. See the above Act, February 20, 1787.\]

As already mentioned, the administrative tribunal known as the Court of Sessions has no right to supervise town officials—only to respond when a magistrate's conduct is specifically brought to its attention. This aspect is particularly sensitive. New Englanders don't know the office of public prosecutor in the Court of Sessions, \*a and it's clear why it would be hard to establish. If an accusing magistrate were appointed just in the county seat, and lacked agents in each township, he'd know no more about local affairs than court members. But to assign agents to each township would be to create a judicial-administrative authority with too much power. Besides, laws are shaped by custom, and nothing like this is found in English law. Americans therefore separated the inspection and prosecution roles, as they do with most administrative functions. Grand jurors are legally required to report to their court any misdemeanors in their county. \*b Some major offenses are officially prosecuted by the States; \*c more often, prosecution of administrative delinquents falls to the fiscal officer who receives the fines: for example, the township treasurer must pursue any administrative violations he discovers. Even more, American law especially relies on the private interests of citizens; \*d this significant principle is a recurring feature in U.S. law. American lawmakers tend to trust people's intelligence as much as their honesty, often counting on self-interest to enforce the law. When someone suffers direct, tangible harm from administrative misconduct, he is naturally motivated to prosecute. But if a minor legal formality—beneficial for the community but of little importance to individuals—must be followed, it may be hard to find a plaintiff, and so laws may go unenforced. Confronted with this, Americans sometimes encourage informers by awarding them a share of the penalty, \*e thus securing law enforcement by the questionable means of appealing to self-interest. The only administrative authority above the county magistrates is, in truth, that of the Government.

a
\[ I refer to the Court of Sessions, since in regular courts there is a magistrate who performs some functions of a public prosecutor.\]

b
\[ Grand-jurors must, for example, report the poor state of roads to the court.—Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i.\]

c
\[ For example, if the county treasurer withholds his accounts.—Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i. \] \[Footnote d: Likewise, if a private individual is injured or suffers a loss due to the poor condition of a road, he can sue the township or county for damages at the sessions.—Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i. \]

e
\[ In cases of invasion or insurrection, if the town officers fail to provide the necessary supplies and ammunition for the militia, the township may be fined between \$200 and \$500. It is easy to imagine that in such a case, no one might want to prosecute; so the law states that any citizen may bring such offenses to court, and that half of the fine shall go to the plaintiff. See Act of March 6, 1810, vol. ii. The same clause is frequently found in Massachusetts law. Not only are private individuals thus encouraged to prosecute public officers, but public officers similarly are encouraged to bring the disobedience of private individuals to justice. If a citizen refuses to do the work assigned to him on a road, the road surveyor may prosecute and receives half of the penalty as compensation. See the Laws referenced above, vol. i. \]

General Remarks On The Administration Of The United States Differences among the States of the Union in their systems of administration—Activity and effectiveness of local authorities decrease toward the South—Power of the magistrate increases; that of the elector decreases—Administration shifts from the township to the county—States of New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania—Principles of administration common throughout the Union—Election of public officers, and security of their functions—Lack of rank hierarchy—Role of judicial oversight in administration.

I have already stated that, having examined the structure of the township and county systems in New England in detail, I would now give a general overview of the rest of the Union. Townships and forms of local activity exist in every State, but nowhere else in the confederation does a township exactly resemble those of New England. The farther south one goes, the less active the township or parish becomes; the number of magistrates, offices, and rights decreases; the population has less direct influence on local affairs; town meetings are held less often, and their agendas are smaller. The authority of the elected magistrate grows, while that of the elector declines; the public spirit of local communities is less stirred and holds less sway. \*f These differences can be seen to some extent in New York; they are quite marked in Pennsylvania, but become less obvious as we move towards the northwest. Many of those who settle in the northwestern States are originally from New England and bring their customs with them to their new homes. A township in Ohio is not very different from one in Massachusetts.

f
\[ For more details see the Revised Statutes of the State of New York, part i. chap. xi. vol. i., titled, “Of the Powers, Duties, and Privileges of Towns.”

See also in the Digest of the Laws of Pennsylvania under the headings: Assessors, Collector, Constables, Overseer of the Poor, Supervisors of Highways; and in the Acts of a general nature of the State of Ohio, the Act of February 25, 1834, concerning townships; plus the special rules concerning various town-officers such as Township Clerk, Trustees, Overseers of the Poor, Fence Viewers, Appraisers of Property, Township Treasurer, Constables, Supervisors of Highways.\]

We have seen that in Massachusetts, the core of public administration is the township. It is the central focus for citizens’ interests and loyalty. This stops being true in States where education is less widespread, and where the township therefore provides fewer guarantees of wise and active administration. As we leave New England, the importance of the town is gradually transferred to the county, which becomes the administrative hub and the link between government and citizen. In Massachusetts, county business is managed by the Court of Sessions, composed of a quorum appointed by the Governor and his council; but the county has no representative assembly, and its spending is decided by the national legislature. In the great State of New York, by contrast—as well as in Ohio and Pennsylvania—the people of each county elect a certain number of representatives, forming the county assembly. \*g The county assembly has the power to tax the inhabitants to a certain extent, giving them the privileges of a true legislative body; at the same time, it exercises executive power within the county, often oversees the administration of townships, and limits their powers much more than in Massachusetts.

g
\[ See the Revised Statutes of the State of New York, part i. chap. xi. vol. i.; also chap. xii.; and in the Acts of the State of Ohio, an act concerning county commissioners, February 25, 1824. See the Digest of the Laws of Pennsylvania under County-rates and Levies. In New York, each township elects a representative who shares in both county and township administration.\]

These are the main differences between county and township administration in the Federal States. If I were to examine American law in detail, I would have to identify further differences in how each State implements the executive branch. However, what I have said already is enough to show the general principles underlying administration in the United States. Though these principles are applied differently and their results are more or less numerous depending on the locality, the core ideas remain consistent. The laws vary, and their surface features differ, but their essential character does not. Even if the township and county are not organized identically everywhere, it is at least true that in the United States they are always founded on the same principle: that every individual is the best judge of their own affairs, and the best person to provide for their own needs. Thus, the township and county are tasked with handling their specific interests: the State governs but does not interfere in their everyday administration. There may be exceptions to this rule, but not an opposing principle.

This doctrine's first consequence has been the choice of all magistrates by, or at least from among, the citizens themselves. As officers are everywhere elected or appointed for a fixed period, it has been impossible to create a strict hierarchy of subordinate officials; there are almost as many independent officials as there are roles, and executive power is spread among many hands. This has led to the essential need for judicial oversight of administration, and the use of financial penalties to ensure that secondary bodies and their representatives obey the laws. This system exists throughout the Union. The authority to punish the misconduct of public officers or to step in during emergencies is not, however, always vested in the same judges in each State. The Anglo-Americans adopted the system of justices of the peace from a shared tradition; though present in all States, their function is not the same everywhere. Justices of the peace participate in township and county administration \*h either as public officers or as judges of public misdemeanors, but in most States the more serious classes of public offenses fall within the jurisdiction of ordinary courts.

h
\[ In some Southern States the county courts handle all the details of administration. See the Statutes of Tennessee, arts. Judiciary, Taxes, etc.\]

The election of public officers or the non-transferability of their posts, the absence of a rank hierarchy, and the introduction of court oversight into the secondary branches of administration are universal traits of the American system from Maine to Florida. In some States (and New York leads in this direction) some signs of centralized administration have begun to appear. In New York, central government officers sometimes exercise a kind of inspection or supervision over secondary bodies. \*i

i
\[ For example, the management of public education is centralized in government hands. The legislature appoints members of the University, called Regents; the Governor and Lieutenant-Governor are automatically Regents. —Revised Statutes, vol. i. The Regents annually visit the colleges and academies and report to the legislature. Their oversight is effective for several reasons: colleges must obtain a charter, granted only on the Regents’ recommendation; each year, state funds are distributed for learning, administered by the Regents. See chap. xv. “Instruction,” Revised Statutes, vol. i. School commissioners must send annual reports to the Superintendent of the Republic.—Id.

A similar report on the number and condition of the poor is made annually to the same official.—Id.\]

At other times, they serve as a court of appeal for resolving disputes. \*j In New York State, financial penalties are less relied upon than elsewhere as a tool of administration, and the right to prosecute public officers’ offenses is held by fewer individuals. \*k This same trend appears, though faintly, in some other States; \*l but in general, local independence remains the dominant feature of administration in the United States.

j
\[ If anyone feels wronged by the school commissioners (who are local town officers), they can appeal to the superintendent of primary schools, whose decision is final.—Revised Statutes, vol. i. Similar provisions occasionally appear in New York law, but in general, these attempts at centralization are weak and ineffective. The chief State authorities have the right to oversee and supervise subordinate agents, but not to reward or punish them. No official is ever empowered both to give orders and to punish disobedience; they have the authority to direct, without the means to compel compliance. In 1830, the Superintendent of Schools reported to the legislature that several school commissioners, despite his efforts, had failed to submit the accounts owed. He added that if this continued, he would have to prosecute them, as the law requires, before the appropriate courts.\]

k
\[ For example, the district attorney must recover all fines under fifty dollars, unless another magistrate has been granted that right.—Revised Statutes, vol. i.\]

l
\[ Some evidence of centralization can be found in Massachusetts; for instance, the committees of the town schools are required to submit an annual report to the Secretary of State. See Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i.\]

Of The State

I have discussed the townships and their administration; I now turn to the State and the Government. This subject I can cover quickly, as all I have to say can be found in the written constitutions, which are easy to obtain. These constitutions rest on a simple, rational theory; their forms have been adopted by all constitutional nations and are now familiar to us. Therefore, I only need to offer a brief analysis here before I attempt an evaluation of what I have described.

##  Chapter V: Necessity Of Examining The Condition Of The States—Part III

### Legislative Power Of The State

Division of the Legislative Body into Two Houses—Senate—House of Representatives—Different Functions of These Two Bodies.

The legislative power of the State is vested in two assemblies, the first of which generally goes by the name of the Senate. The Senate is typically a legislative body, but it sometimes also acts as an executive or judicial one. It takes part in the government in various ways, depending on the constitution of the different States; \*m but it most frequently exercises executive power in the nomination of public officials. It also participates in judicial power during the trial of certain political offenses, and sometimes in the decision of certain civil cases. \*n Its membership is always small. The other branch of the legislature, usually called the House of Representatives, takes no part in administration, and only participates in judicial power by impeaching public officials before the Senate. Members of both Houses are almost always subject to the same election requirements. They are chosen in the same way, by the same citizens. The only notable difference is that the Senate’s term is usually longer than that of the House. The House of Representatives seldom serves more than a year; the Senate typically serves for two or three years. By allowing senators to be elected for several years, and staggering their renewal, the law preserves a core group in the legislative body who are experienced with public affairs and able to guide newer members effectively.

m
\[In Massachusetts, the Senate does not have any administrative functions.\]

n
\[As in the State of New York.\]

The Americans clearly did not intend, by this division of the legislature into two branches, to make one house hereditary and the other elective; one aristocratic and the other democratic. Their aim was not to create, in one house, a safeguard for power while the other represented the interests and emotions of the people. The main benefits of the United States’ legislative structure are the separated legislative powers that provide a check on political assemblies, and the establishment of an appellate body for reviewing laws.

Experience and time have shown Americans that even if these are the only advantages, dividing the legislative power remains essential. Pennsylvania was the only one of the United States that initially tried to set up a single House of Assembly, and even Franklin was so strongly persuaded by the principle of the people’s sovereignty that he supported this action; but Pennsylvanians soon found it necessary to change the law and establish two Houses. Thus, the principle of dividing legislative power was firmly established, and its necessity can now be regarded as a proven truth. This idea, almost unknown to ancient republics, introduced nearly by accident like many other important truths, and misunderstood by some modern nations, has now become an accepted rule in modern political science.

\[See Benjamin Franklin\]

The Executive Power Of The State

Office of Governor in an American State—His Position Relative to the Legislature—His Rights and Duties—His Dependence on the People.

The executive power of the State can truthfully be said to be represented by the Governor, though he only possesses some of its rights. The chief magistrate, known as the Governor, acts as both moderator and advisor to the legislature. He has veto or suspensive power, letting him stop, or at least delay, its actions when he chooses. He brings the needs of the country before the legislative body and recommends ways he thinks they might best be addressed; he is the natural executor of its decisions in matters of interest to the whole public. \*o When the legislature is not in session, the Governor is responsible for taking whatever measures are needed to protect the State from sudden dangers and disturbances. The entire military force of the State is under his command. He leads the militia and heads the armed forces. When the authority given to the laws is ignored, the Governor leads the State’s armed forces to suppress resistance and restore order. Finally, the Governor does not have a role in administering townships and counties, except indirectly through appointing Justices of the Peace—a nomination he cannot revoke. \*p The Governor is an elected official and is typically chosen for only one or two years; he therefore remains strictly accountable to the majority that elected him.

o
\[In practice, the Governor does not always carry out the legislature’s plans; often, the legislature appoints special agents to oversee their execution.\]

p
\[In some States, justices of the peace are not appointed by the Governor.\]

Political Effects Of The System Of Local Administration In The United States

Necessary Distinction Between the General Centralization of Government and the Centralization of Local Administration—Local Administration Not Centralized in the United States; General Centralization of Government—Some Negative Consequences for the U.S. From Local Administration—Administrative Advantages of This System—The Power Directing the Government is Less Regular, Less Knowledgeable, Less Expert, but Far Greater Than in Europe—Political Advantages of This System—In the U.S. National Interests Are Always Considered—Community Support for Government—Local Institutions Become More Important as Society Grows More Democratic—Explanation for This.

Centralization has become a word used frequently and broadly, though often without clear definition. Yet it is necessary to distinguish between two separate types of centralization. Some interests are common to the entire nation, like the creation of general laws or foreign policy. Others are specific to parts of the nation—for example, township affairs. If the authority managing general interests is located in one place or assigned to the same people, this is central government. Similarly, combining the power to oversee local interests in one place amounts to a central administration.

At certain points, these two forms of centralization overlap; but by separating the areas assigned to each, we can easily tell them apart. It’s clear a central government is very powerful when combined with administrative centralization. When combined, it conditions people to completely and continually set aside their own will; not just one time, or in one area, but everywhere and always. This combination not only compels submission but also affects daily habits, influencing each person both individually and collectively.

These forms of centralization reinforce and draw on each other, but they are not inseparable. There has rarely been a government more centralized than that of Louis XIV’s France; when one person was both the creator and interpreter of the laws, and represented France nationally and internationally, he was right to claim that the State was identified with him. Yet, administrative centralization was actually less thorough under Louis XIV than it is today.

In England, government centralization is very advanced; the State acts with unified power, moving enormous resources at will, and directing or consolidating all authority. In fact, I do not think a nation can prosper or stay secure without strong central government. Still, I believe an overly centralized administration weakens any nation it controls, gradually sapping its public spirit. Such an administration may gather a nation’s resources at a moment’s notice for action, but it also weakens the renewal of those resources over time. It may guarantee victory when needed, but it gradually weakens the core. It may help create the temporary greatness of a leader, but not the lasting success of a nation.

Careful analysis shows that when people say a State cannot act because it lacks a central point, what is missing is central government, not central administration. It’s often stated, and people generally agree, that the German empire could never fully mobilize its strength. The reason was that the State could never enforce general laws, since its various members continually asserted the right or found ways to refuse cooperating with central authority, even on matters of broad importance; in other words, there was no centralization of government. The same holds true for the Middle Ages; the confusion of feudal society was due to both local and general control being scattered among countless hands, impeding progress in any consistent direction for European nations, because there was no strong central government.

We have shown that the United States lacks a centralized administration and a hierarchy of dependent public officials. Local authority is exercised more extensively than any European nation could likely tolerate, which has even caused some drawbacks in America. Yet, in the United States, government centralization is complete; it's easy to show that national power is more unified than it was historically in Europe. There is only one legislative chamber per State; there is a single source of political authority. District assemblies and county courts have not been multiplied, lest they overstep administrative roles and disrupt government. In America, each State’s legislature is supreme; nothing obstructs its power—not privilege, local exemptions, individual influence, nor even the authority of reason, since it claims to act as reason’s only true voice. Its own decision is the only limit to its actions. Adjacent to it, and directly under its oversight, stands the executive’s representative, whose job is to compel the disobedient with superior force. Any weakness of the government appears only in limited administrative details. The American republics have no standing armies to intimidate dissenting minorities, but as no minority has yet been forced to rebellion, such an army hasn't been needed. \*q The State generally employs township or county officers to interact with the people. In New England, for example, the assessor sets tax rates; the collector gathers them; the town treasurer sends the money to the treasury; and any disputes go to the regular courts. This tax collection process is slow and inconvenient, and would be a constant burden for a government needing large funds. For anything essential to its survival, the government should employ its own directly-appointed officers, removable at will, trained for efficient procedures. However, given America’s current organization, the central government could easily adopt more effective methods, if needed. \[Footnote q: \[The Civil War of 1860–65 painfully disproved this; during that conflict the North alone called 2.5 million men to service. Yet, to the credit of the United States, with the war’s end, this army was dissolved as quickly as it was assembled.—Translator’s Note.\]\]

Therefore, the lack of a central administration will not be the downfall of the American republics; far from being insufficiently centralized, I will later demonstrate that they may even be too centralized. Legislative bodies increasingly intrude on the authority of government, much like the French Convention tended to absorb all power for itself. Under these conditions, social power continually shifts, subordinate to the people, who all too often forget the principles of wisdom and foresight in the thrill of their power. That is where their danger lies; so it is their strength, not their weakness, that could eventually cause their undoing.

America’s system of local administration has several effects. In my view, Americans may have gone beyond healthy policy in totally separating administration and government, since national order, even in less significant matters, remains important. \*r Because the State has no administrative officials placed throughout its territory to provide unified direction, it seldom issues general police regulations. This lack is deeply felt, and often noted by Europeans. The apparent disorder seen at first glance may lead one to think society is near anarchy, but a deeper look reveals the truth. Certain projects matter to the whole State but cannot be carried out because there’s no national administration to lead them. Left to towns or counties with elected or temporary agents, such projects rarely succeed, or only yield limited, short-term benefits.

r
\[The State, I think, should not entirely give up the right to oversee local administration, even without taking direct action. Suppose a government agent was stationed periodically in the countryside to prosecute offenses by town and county officers—would this not lead to more consistent order, without risking township independence? Nothing like this exists in America: county courts have only limited oversight of the offenses they’re supposed to prevent.\]

Advocates of centralization in Europe often argue that government can manage local affairs better than citizens themselves—true, perhaps, if the central power is informed and the local districts are ignorant, if it is alert and they are slow, if it is used to action and they to obedience. This dual tendency only grows with more centralization: the government’s readiness and the people’s inability become more pronounced. But I do not believe this applies when the public is as informed, as alert to its interests, and as thoughtful about them as Americans. On the contrary, I am convinced that, in this case, the collective strength of citizens always serves the common good better than government authority can. It is not easy to awaken an indifferent population or give it interests and understanding it lacks; getting people to attend to their own affairs may be harder than calling their attention to a court ceremony. Still, when a central administration strives to replace those with the greatest stake, I suspect it is either mistaken or has ulterior motives. However knowledgeable or skillful a central authority may be, it cannot handle all the details of a large nation. Such vigilance is beyond human capacity. Trying to set countless complex mechanisms in motion, it must either accept an incomplete outcome, or drain itself in fruitless effort.

Centralization is usually more effective at making people’s outward actions uniform, which at least wins admiration, no matter the results—rather like devotees who honor a statue and forget the god it depicts. Centralization easily produces admirable orderliness in routine business; it handles social policing with foresight, suppresses small disturbances and minor offenses, preserves society in a steady state impervious to progress or decay, and upholds a dependably precise order that administrators see as the mark of public peace: \*s centralization is better at prevention than at action. Yet its power fails when society must be moved or energized; and once private citizens’ cooperation is needed, its limitations are revealed. Even as it seeks their help, it does so only on the condition that they act entirely as the government instructs, and solely as it directs. They may manage the details, but must not try to shape the overall plan; they act in a limited and subordinate capacity, and only get to judge their own work by its results. These, however, are not the terms likely to engage the human will; people must act freely and be responsible for their actions, or else, by nature, they would rather be passive bystanders than subordinate contributors to plans they do not understand.

s

\[China seems to me to provide the most complete example of the kind of well-being that a fully centralized administration can offer to the nations in which it exists. Travelers tell us that the Chinese enjoy peace without happiness, industry without improvement, stability without strength, and public order without public morality. Society's condition is always tolerable, never excellent. I am convinced that when China becomes open to European scrutiny, it will be found to be the most perfect model of centralized administration anywhere in the world.\]

It is undeniable that the absence of those uniform regulations, which guide the conduct of every inhabitant of France, is often felt in the United States. Clear instances of social indifference and neglect do occur, and from time to time, shameful shortcomings appear in stark contrast to the surrounding civilization. Useful projects that need ongoing attention and strict accuracy often end up being abandoned; for in America, as elsewhere, the people are prone to sudden impulses and brief surges of activity. Europeans, used to finding an official always on hand to oversee any endeavor, often find it hard to adjust to the complex workings of township administration. Generally, one can say that the minor details of policing that make life comfortable are neglected in America; but the fundamental protections of life in society are as strong there as anywhere. In America, the power directing the government is far less organized, less informed, and less educated, but a hundred times more authoritative than in Europe. In no country do citizens make such efforts for the public good; and I know of no people that have set up schools as plentiful or effective, places of worship better adapted to the needs of the people, or roads kept in better repair. You should not expect uniformity, lasting plans, meticulous detail, or the perfection of a clever administration in the United States; but, on the other hand, it is easy to find signs of a power that, while somewhat rough, is at least strong, and of a society that, though full of mishaps, is brightened by activity and effort.

t
\[A talented writer who, in comparing the finances of France and the United States, has shown that cleverness cannot always substitute for factual knowledge, rightly criticizes the Americans for the sort of confusion found in the accounting of township expenditure; and after providing the model of a departmental budget in France, he adds:—“We owe to centralization, that admirable invention of a great man, the uniform order and method that prevails in all municipal budgets, from the largest town to the smallest commune.” However much I may admire this outcome, when I see the communes of France, with their excellent accounting systems, sunk in deep ignorance of their real interests, and given over to an unshakeable indifference so profound that they seem merely to exist rather than to live; while, on the other hand, I see the activity, the awareness, and the enterprise that keeps society in constant motion in American townships whose budgets are written with little method and even less uniformity, I am struck by this contrast; for I believe the real goal of good government is to ensure the well-being of a people, not just to create order and routine among its suffering and misery. So I am led to think that the prosperity of the American townships and the apparent confusion of their accounts, and the distress of the French communes and the perfection of their budgets, may in fact be due to the same cause. In any case, I am wary of a benefit linked to so many drawbacks, and I do not object to a flaw that brings so many advantages with it.\]

Suppose, for a moment, that the villages and counties of the United States would be better governed by a distant authority they have never seen than by officials drawn from among their own ranks—accept, just for argument’s sake, that the country would be safer and its resources better used if all administration were focused in a single hand—still, the political benefits Americans gain from their system would make me prefer it to the opposite approach. It does me little good, in the end, that a watchful authority protects the peace of my pleasures and constantly averts any dangers in my path, without my own effort or concern, if this same authority is the absolute master of my freedom and my life, and if it so monopolizes all the energy of society that when it weakens, everything around it falters, when it sleeps all is asleep, and when it dies, the State itself must perish.

In certain European countries, the people see themselves as a sort of tenants, indifferent to the fate of the place where they live. The greatest changes happen without their participation and (unless by chance they hear of them) without their knowledge; even more, the citizen does not care for the state of his village, the policing of his street, or repairs to the church or parsonage; for he considers these matters as unconnected to himself, as the property of a powerful stranger called the Government. He has only a life-interest in these things and feels no sense of ownership or duty to improve them. This lack of concern goes so far that, if his or his children’s safety is threatened, instead of acting to prevent danger, he will fold his arms and wait for the nation to rescue him. This same person, who has so completely given up his personal will, has no real tendency to obey; he cringes before the smallest official, but defies the law like a conquered enemy as soon as its superior force is withdrawn. His swings between servitude and license are never-ending. When a nation reaches this point, it must either change its ways and laws or perish: the source of public virtue has dried up, and while there may still be subjects, the breed of citizens is extinct. Such societies are natural prey for foreign conquerors, and if they do not vanish from the world, it is only because they are surrounded by nations similar or worse than themselves; it is because some instinctive sense of their country’s claims still stirs in their hearts, and because a lingering pride in their nation’s name, or faded memory of its former glory, still gives them enough impulse for self-preservation.

Nor can the impressive efforts made by peoples in defending a country to which they did not truly belong be used as arguments for such a system; for in those cases, religion was their main motivation. The endurance, the fame, or the prosperity of the nation became part of their faith, and in defending the land they lived in, they were defending the Holy City to which they all felt they belonged. The Turkish tribes have never actively participated in managing society’s affairs, but they accomplished extraordinary feats as long as the Sultan’s victories were the glory of their Islamic faith. Today, they are swiftly decaying, because their religion is fading and only despotism remains. Montesquieu, who ascribed to absolute power a unique authority of its own, actually gave it, I think, undeserved credit; for despotism, by itself, can produce nothing lasting. On closer inspection, we will find that it is religion, and not fear, that has always been the source of any long-lasting strength in absolute government. Whatever efforts are made, no real power among men can exist that does not depend on the free unity of their desires; and patriotism and religion are the only motives that can permanently move an entire society toward one goal.

Laws cannot restore the passion of a lost faith, but laws can engage people’s interest in their country’s fate. In this way, the vague spark of patriotism, which never leaves the human heart, can be channeled and rekindled; and if it is tied to people’s thoughts, passions, and everyday habits, it may grow into a lasting and reasonable feeling.

Let no one say that it is too late to try; for the old age of nations is not like the old age of men—every new generation is a fresh people, ready for the legislator’s attention.

It is not the administrative, but the political, effects of the local system that I most admire in America. In the United States, the country’s welfare is kept constantly in sight; it is a concern for the whole people, and every citizen feels as attached to it as if it were his own. He takes pride in his nation’s glory; he boasts of its success, which he believes he helped achieve, and he rejoices in the country’s prosperity, which benefits him. The feeling he has toward the State is similar to that which binds him to his family—a kind of self-interest that draws him to care for his country’s well-being.

The European generally obeys a public official because the official represents superior power; but to an American, he represents a right. In America, it can be said that no one obeys a man, but rather justice and the law. If the opinion an American has of himself is somewhat exaggerated, at least it is a healthy one; he confidently trusts in his own abilities, which seem to him more than enough. When an individual considers taking on a project, no matter how important to society, he never thinks to ask for the Government’s help; instead, he announces his plan, proposes to carry it out himself, seeks aid from others, and works determinedly against every difficulty. He is often less successful than the State might have been, but in the end, the total of these private efforts far surpasses anything the Government could do.

Since administrative authority is accessible to the citizens and to some degree represents them, it arouses neither jealousy nor hatred; since its resources are limited, everyone knows not to rely solely on its help. So when administration does intervene, it is not left alone as in Europe; private citizens’ responsibilities don’t vanish because the State helps fulfill them—on the contrary, everyone is prepared to guide and support it. The combined effect of individual effort and public authority often achieves what the strongest central administration could not accomplish. I could offer many examples, but I would rather give just one, which I know best. \*u In America, the authorities have limited means for solving crimes and catching criminals. There is no State police, and passports are unknown. The criminal police in the United States cannot be compared to that of France; the number of magistrates and prosecutors is small, and interrogations are brief and oral. Yet no country more rarely lets crime go unpunished. The reason is that everyone thinks it important to provide evidence and help catch the culprit. When I was in the United States, I saw committees form spontaneously to seek and prosecute a man who had committed a serious crime in a certain county. In Europe, a criminal is a wretch fighting for his life against justice officials, while the public merely watches; in America, he is considered an enemy of humanity, and all join together against him.

u
\[See Appendix, I.\]

I believe that provincial institutions are useful to all nations, but to a democratic people they seem absolutely essential. In an aristocracy, order can be kept even with liberty, and since the rulers have much to lose, order is especially valued. Likewise, an aristocracy shields the people from the excesses of despotism, since it always has enough organized strength to resist a despot. But a democracy without provincial institutions has no defense against either problem. How can a population, not practiced in small freedoms, learn to handle greater matters with moderation? What resistance is there to tyranny, where every individual is powerless and the citizens have nothing uniting them? Both those who fear mob rule and those who dread absolute power should favor the steady growth of regional liberty.

On the other hand, I am sure that democratic nations are especially liable to fall under the control of a central administration, for several reasons—among them the following: the constant tendency in such nations is to gather all governmental power into the hands of the only body that directly represents the people, because beyond the people there is nothing but a mass of equal individuals all mixed together. When that same power already holds all attributes of government, it can hardly resist expanding into the administrative details, and an opportunity will sooner or later emerge, as happened in France. During the French Revolution, two contrary influences were at work—one in favor of liberty, the other in favor of despotism. Under the old monarchy, the King alone made the laws, and beneath the throne there still remained some faint remnants of provincial institutions, half destroyed. These were sometimes badly organized, sometimes misused by the aristocracy as tools for oppression. The Revolution declared war both on royalty and on provincial institutions; it hated everything from the past—despotic power and its checks—without distinction, and sought both to destroy and to centralize. This double nature of the Revolution has been cleverly used by supporters of absolute power. Can they be accused of promoting despotism when defending that central administration, one of the main innovations of the Revolution? \*v In this way, popularity can be combined with hostility to the people’s rights, and the secret supporter of tyranny can appear to be a champion of freedom.

v
\[See Appendix K.\]

I have visited the two countries where provincial liberty is most fully developed, and I have listened to differing parties there. In America, I found people who quietly hoped to overturn the Union’s democratic institutions; in England, I met others who openly attacked the aristocracy. But I know no one who does not consider provincial independence a great good. In both countries, I heard a thousand different reasons given for the country’s troubles, but local government was never one of them. I heard citizens attribute their nation’s power and prosperity to many things, but all put local institutions at the top of the list. Should I believe that, when people so divided—on religion and politics—agree on one thing based on daily experience, they are all mistaken? The only nations that deny the value of provincial liberties are those that have the fewest; that is, those least familiar with them are the only ones who criticize them.

##  Chapter VI: Judicial Power In The United States

##  Chapter Summary

The Anglo-Americans have preserved the core characteristics of judicial power common to all nations—however, they have made it into a powerful political institution—How—In what ways the judicial system of the Anglo-Americans differs from that of other nations—Why American judges have the authority to declare laws unconstitutional—How they exercise this right—Measures taken by legislators to prevent its abuse.

### Judicial Power in the United States and Its Influence on Political Society

I thought it essential to devote a separate chapter to the judicial authorities of the United States, to ensure their great political importance is not diminished in the reader’s mind by mentioning them only in passing. Confederations have existed in other countries besides America, and republics have not been founded only on the shores of the New World; the representative system of government has been adopted in several European States, but I am not aware that any nation has organized judicial power on the principles now adopted by the Americans. The organization of the judiciary in the United States is perhaps the institution that most confuses foreigners. They hear the authority of judges invoked in everyday political matters, and naturally conclude that, in the United States, judges are significant political figures; yet, when examining the nature of the courts, there appears nothing contrary to the typical habits and privileges of judicial bodies, and magistrates seem to involve themselves in public affairs only by chance—though such chances recur every day.

When the Parliament of Paris remonstrated, refused to register an edict, or summoned a functionary accused of malfeasance to its bar, its political influence as a judicial body was obviously visible; but nothing similar occurs in the United States. The Americans have preserved all the usual characteristics of judicial authority and have carefully limited its action to its usual domain.

The first characteristic of judicial power in every country is its role as an arbiter. Rights must be in dispute to warrant judicial intervention, and a lawsuit must be brought for a judge to decide. Therefore, as long as a law remains uncontested, the judiciary need not address it and may exist almost invisibly. When a judge, in a specific case, challenges the law at issue, he somewhat extends his normal duties, but does not overstep them; since he is, in a sense, required to interpret the law to decide the case. If, however, he rules on a law without any case before him, he clearly overreaches, encroaching on legislative authority.

The second characteristic of judicial power is that it rules on specific cases, not on general principles. If a judge, in deciding a particular issue, undermines a broad principle by delivering a judgment that annuls it and all its inferences, he remains within his regular functions. But if he directly attacks a general principle with no specific case, he steps outside the circle in which all societies confine his power; he assumes a more significant, and perhaps more useful, influence than a standard magistrate, but he ceases to represent judicial authority.

The third core aspect of judicial power is its inability to act unless it is called upon or has taken notice of a matter. While this trait is not as universally observed as the first two, I still consider it essential. Judicial power is, by its nature, inactive; it must be set in motion to produce a result. When called to punish a crime, it punishes; when asked to redress a wrong, it does so; when required to interpret an act, it does that as well; but it does not hunt criminals, seek out wrongs, or investigate facts on its own initiative. A judicial functionary who initiated proceedings and assumed the role of censoring laws would violate the passive character intrinsic to his role.

The Americans have retained these three defining characteristics of judicial power: an American judge can only decide when a dispute has arisen, is only concerned with specific cases, and cannot act before the matter has properly reached the court. His role is thus entirely like that of judges in other countries; yet he is granted immense political power. If his authority and methods match those of other judges, where does his unique power originate? The explanation is simple: Americans have accepted that judges may base their decisions on the Constitution rather than on ordinary laws. In short, they allow judges to disregard laws they consider unconstitutional.

I know that judges in other countries have also claimed this right—but unsuccessfully; in America, all authorities recognize it, and not a party or even an individual contests its legitimacy. This fact is explained only by American constitutional principles. In France, the constitution is (or is supposed to be) unchangeable; and the prevailing theory holds that no authority can alter it. In England, Parliament openly has the right to change the constitution; thus, since it may be changed at any time, it lacks true permanence, and Parliament functions as both legislator and constitutional authority. America’s political theories are simpler and more rational. An American constitution is not held to be immovable, as in France, nor can it be revised by the regular powers of society, as in England. Rather, it forms a distinct entity, representing the collective will of the people, and is binding on lawmakers and citizens alike—but it can be altered by the people’s will under prescribed conditions. In America, the constitution can be changed, but, so long as it exists, it is the source of all authority and the only vehicle for dominant power.

*a*

a
> [*The fifth article of the original Constitution of the United States outlines how amendments can be made. Amendments must be proposed by two-thirds of both Houses of Congress and ratified by the legislatures of three-fourths of the States. Since 1789, fifteen amendments have been made, the most significant being the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth, drafted and ratified after the Civil War. The original Constitution followed by these fifteen amendments is printed at the end of this edition. —Translator’s Note, 1874.*]

It is easy to see how these differences affect the position and rights of courts in the three countries I’ve mentioned. If, in France, courts were permitted to disregard laws deemed unconstitutional, ultimate power would rest with them, since only they could interpret a constitution that no authority can alter. They would therefore replace the nation itself and wield control over society as far as judicial power allows. Of course, since French judges cannot invalidate laws for violating the constitution, the power to amend the constitution passes, in effect, to the legislative body, since no legal barrier impedes whatever changes it might prescribe. Still, it is preferable to grant such a power to people chosen to represent the people’s will—however imperfectly—than to individuals who represent only themselves.

It would be even less reasonable to allow English judges to defy legislative decisions, since Parliament, which makes the laws, also creates the constitution; thus, no law passed by the three powers can be unconstitutional. Neither situation applies to America.

In the United States, the constitution governs lawmakers as much as private citizens; as the highest law, it cannot be modified by ordinary legislation, and so it is right for the courts to respect the constitution over any statute. This is essential to judicial power: choosing the strongest legal obligation is every magistrate’s natural right.

In France, too, the constitution is the supreme law, and judges have the same right to base their decisions upon it. But if they exercised this right, they must infringe on rights even more sacred than their own—those of society in whose name they act. Here, the interests of the State take precedence over individual prerogatives. In America, where the people can always compel obedience from their judges by changing the constitution, no such danger exists. Thus, both political and logical reasons align, and the people and the judges each preserve their privileges.

Whenever a law regarded as unconstitutional is challenged in an American court, the judge may ignore it. This is the only power unique to the American magistrate, but it brings immense political influence. Few laws escape judicial scrutiny for long, since nearly every law affects some private interest, and any can be brought before a court by the actions of the parties or the necessity of the case. Once a judge refuses to apply a given law in any case, that law loses some of its moral authority. Those whose interests are harmed learn there are ways to bypass it, leading to a rise in similar challenges until the law becomes ineffectual. At that point, either the people must amend the constitution or the legislature must repeal the law. The political power Americans have given their courts is immense, but the potential harm is limited by requiring that all attacks on laws proceed only through the courts. If judges could challenge laws on theoretical grounds, or openly censure the legislature, they would become political actors and, as partisans or opponents, would stir public passions. But when a judge contests a law in the context of a specific, private case, the importance of his action is hidden, affecting only an individual’s interest. If the law is disregarded, this happens indirectly. Moreover, while criticized, the law is not abolished—its moral weight may decline, but it is not suspended, and only repeated judicial decisions can remove it entirely. It is easy to see how linking legal challenges to private interests and joining the prosecution of laws with individual lawsuits protects legislation from frivolous or partisan attacks. Legislative errors are revealed when their negative consequences are most keenly felt, and always on the basis of specific, tangible facts.

I believe this American judicial practice best preserves both liberty and public order. If judges could only oppose the legislator openly and directly, they might sometimes hesitate to resist, yet at other times partisan feeling could embolden them to defy every law. As a result, laws would be challenged when their source is weak and obeyed when it is strong—meaning, laws would be questioned when respect would be useful, and respected when they could be abused as tools of oppression. In the American system, however, the judge is drawn into politics against his own will. He only judges the law because a case demands it. The political question is intertwined with the litigants’ interests, and he cannot evade it without abdicating his duties. Thus, he fulfills his role as a citizen by carrying out his responsibilities as a magistrate. True, this system does not allow judicial review to reach all laws, since some never raise the sort of controversy that produces lawsuits; even when such conflict is possible, perhaps no one bothers to bring it before the courts. Americans have often noticed this flaw but have left the remedy incomplete, wary of making it too effective and thus potentially dangerous. Within these limits, the American judiciary’s power to declare statutes unconstitutional is one of the strongest barriers ever devised against the tyranny of legislatures.

### Other Powers Granted to American Judges

In the United States, all citizens have the right to prosecute public officials in the regular courts—How they exercise this right—Art. 75 of the French Constitution of the Year VIII—The Americans and the English cannot grasp the purpose of this clause.

It is perfectly natural that, in a free country like America, all citizens should have the right to indict public officials in ordinary courts, and that all judges should have the authority to punish public offenses. The ability granted to the courts to try executive agents who have broken the law seems such a logical right that it doesn’t appear an unusual privilege. Nor do I believe that this practice weakens the machinery of government in the United States. On the contrary, the Americans seem to have increased respect for authority while also making those in power more careful not to offend public opinion. I was struck by how few political trials occur in America, but I found the reason clear: any lawsuit is difficult and expensive. It’s easy to criticize public officials in the press, but a legal action requires serious grounds. There must be a solid complaint for someone to prosecute a public official, and officials take care not to provide such causes when prosecution is a real possibility.

This is not solely a feature of republican institutions, for the same holds true in England. Both nations find the impeachment of top officials insufficient for ensuring their freedom, believing instead that the right of lesser prosecutions—available to all citizens—is a better safeguard than rare, major judicial proceedings that often come too late.

In the Middle Ages, when apprehending offenders was difficult, judges inflicted terrible punishments on the few captured, but this did not reduce crime. It has since been found that when justice is more certain and more humane, it becomes more effective. English and American thought is that tyranny and oppression should be prosecuted like any other crime—by lowering penalties and making conviction easier.

Under the Year VIII constitution in France, a clause stated: “Art. 75. All government agents—except ministers—can only be prosecuted for offenses related to their official functions by decree of the Conseil d’Etat; if such a decree is issued, the prosecution takes place in an ordinary court.” This provision survived the “Constitution de l’An VIII” and continues despite public complaints. I have always struggled to explain its meaning to Englishmen and Americans. They can only assume the Conseil d’Etat in France is a great central tribunal holding preliminary, almost tyrannical, jurisdiction in all political cases. When I explain that the Conseil d’Etat is not a judicial body as understood elsewhere, but an administrative council dependent on the Crown—so the king, after ordering a Prefect to commit an injustice, can order a Councillor of State to prevent his punishment; and that the citizen harmed by sovereign authority must ask the sovereign’s permission to seek redress—they cannot believe such a glaring abuse and suspect me of error or deception. Prior to the Revolution, Parliament sometimes issued warrants for public officials who broke the law, and proceedings were rarely stopped by the Crown’s absolute will. It is shameful to see how far we have fallen since: what violence alone would once have imposed is now passed off as justice and sanctioned by law.

##  Chapter VII: Political Jurisdiction in the United States

##  Chapter Summary

Definition of political jurisdiction—How political jurisdiction is understood in France, England, and the United States—In America, the political judge may only pass sentence on public officials—Usually, the sentence is removal from office rather than a criminal penalty—Political jurisdiction in the United States, despite—and perhaps because of—its mildness, is a very powerful tool in the hands of the majority.

Political Jurisdiction in the United States

By political jurisdiction, I mean the temporary right to give a legal decision, granted to a political body.

In absolute governments, there is no benefit in adopting extraordinary legal procedures: the ruler, in whose name someone is prosecuted, is as much the master of the courts as of everything else, and the perception of his power is security enough. The main thing to avoid is neglecting judicial formalities and thereby diminishing his authority in an attempt to make it more absolute. However, in most free countries—where the majority never has the influence over the courts an absolute monarch does—judicial power is sometimes temporarily given to representatives of the nation. It's been considered better to allow some overlap between the branches of government than to violate the essential principle of unified government.

England, France, and the United States have all established political jurisdiction by law; and it's interesting to compare how these three nations have adapted this principle. In England and France, the House of Lords and the Chambre des Paris\*a form the highest criminal courts of their nations, and though they do not always handle all political crimes, they have the authority to do so. Another political body has the right to impeach before the House of Lords: the main difference between the two countries is that in England the Commons can impeach anyone before the Lords, while in France the Deputies can only use this process against ministers of the Crown.

a  
\[As it existed under the constitutional monarchy up to 1848.\]

In both countries, the Upper House can apply all the penal laws of the nation to punish those found guilty.

In the United States, as in Europe, one legislative branch has the power to impeach and another to judge: the House of Representatives charges the offender, and the Senate gives the sentence. But the Senate can only try people brought before it by the House of Representatives, and these people must be public officials. Thus, the Senate’s jurisdiction is less broad than that of the French Peers, while the Representatives’ right to impeach is more general than that of the Deputies. The major difference between Europe and America, however, is that in Europe, political courts can use all the punishments outlined in the penal code, while in America, once the offender has been removed from office and declared ineligible for future office, the political court's jurisdiction ends and ordinary courts take over.

Suppose, for example, that the President of the United States commits the crime of high treason; the House of Representatives impeaches him, and the Senate removes him from office; after that, he must be tried by a jury, which alone has the authority to take away his liberty or life. This illustrates the matter perfectly. In Europe, political jurisdiction is designed to try serious offenders, regardless of birth, status, or power, extending the privileges of the courts temporarily to a political body. Legislators become judges; they are tasked with admitting, distinguishing, and punishing offenses; and since they exercise the authority of a judge, the law requires they follow all the responsibilities and formalities of that office. When a public official is impeached before an English or French political court and found guilty, the penalty includes removal from office and disqualification from ever holding public office again. In this case, political exclusion is a consequence of the sentence, not the whole penalty itself. In Europe, the sentence from a political court is seen as a judicial decision more than an administrative action. In the United States, the reverse is true; the Senate’s decision, while judicial in form (since the Senators must follow court procedures) and based on legal reasons (as the Senate generally uses a common law offense as the basis for their verdict), is ultimately an administrative act. If Americans intended for a political body to have great judicial authority, it would not be restricted to public officials, since the most dangerous actors against the state might hold no office at all—a common situation in republics, where party influence is powerful, and those wielding influence often hold no legal position.

If the American founders had wanted society to punish political crimes through exemplary penalties, as in ordinary criminal justice, political courts would have had access to the whole penal code. But the weapon they are given is imperfect, unable to reach the most dangerous offenders—those who aim to overthrow the laws are unlikely to be deterred simply by losing potential office.

Therefore, the principal aim of political jurisdiction in the United States is to remove from office those officials who have abused their power, and to prevent them from ever regaining it. This is really an administrative measure made official by judicial formalities. Americans have created a mixed system: they require the removal of public officials to be surrounded by political trial safeguards, but have deprived political convictions of their most severe punishments. Every part of the system follows from this: it explains why American constitutions subject all civil officials, but not military ones (whose crimes can be more serious), to the Senate’s jurisdiction. In the civil service, no American official is technically removable at will; some offices are held for life, others for a set term. Therefore, a trial is necessary for removing them. Military officers, however, are subordinate to the chief magistrate, who himself is a civil functionary—the condemnation of the chief magistrate is a blow to the others.

Comparing the American and European systems, we find similarly striking differences in their practical effects. In France and England, political jurisdiction is considered an extraordinary resource, only to be used in exceptional dangers. These tribunals, as structured in Europe, tend to disrupt the conservative balance of state power and continually threaten the lives and freedom of citizens. By contrast, the American version is only indirectly a threat to the balance of power; it cannot endanger people's lives, nor does it hang over society, since only those who accept office are subject to it. It is both less frightening and less effective; indeed, the U.S. lawmakers view it not as a last resort for grave social crises but as an ordinary tool of governance. In this sense, it may actually have a more profound effect on American society than it does in Europe. We should not be fooled by the apparent mildness of American political jurisdiction. Note first that in the U.S., the tribunal that passes sentence is made up of the same groups, affected by the same influences, as those who bring charges, making it easier for party passions to dominate. If political judges in the U.S. cannot assign severe punishments as in Europe, they are less likely to acquit defendants; while the consequences are less severe, conviction is more certain. The main aim of European political courts is to punish the guilty; in America, it is to strip them of authority. Thus, a political conviction in America functions more as a preventative measure, and there’s little reason to require judges to stick strictly to criminal law definitions. Nothing is more troubling than the extreme looseness with which political offenses are defined in U.S. law. Article II, Section 4, of the U.S. Constitution says: “The President, Vice-President, and all civil officers of the United States shall be removed from office on impeachment for, and conviction of, treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.” Many state constitutions are even vaguer. “Public officers,” states the Massachusetts Constitution,\*b “shall be impeached for misconduct or maladministration;” the Virginia Constitution says that any civil officer who offends the State by maladministration, corruption, or other high crimes may be impeached by the House of Delegates. Some constitutions do not specify offenses at all, thus holding public officials to unlimited liability.\*c But I would argue that it is precisely this mildness that makes American laws so harsh in this respect. We have seen that in Europe, removal and disqualification follow as consequences of the penalty; in America, they are the penalty itself. Hence, in Europe, political courts have powers they are afraid to use, and the fear of punishing too harshly holds them back from punishing at all. In America, no one hesitates to impose a penalty that is not inhumane. To condemn a political opponent to death simply to remove his power would be universally seen as a wicked act; but to declare someone unworthy of office, to remove them, and let them go free in body—this can pass as a reasonable outcome of conflict. Yet, this penalty, which is so easy to impose, is nonetheless devastating to most who receive it. Truly dangerous criminals may ignore such intangible punishment, but ordinary offenders will fear it as a judgment that ruins their standing, stains their honor, and dooms them to a shameful inactivity worse than death. The influence exercised by political bodies over the direction of American society may not seem terrifying, but it is immense. It does not directly control the individual, but it makes the majority even more absolute over those in power; it does not give the legislator unlimited authority to use in emergencies, but provides a steady, constant influence. While the power is reduced, it is also easier to use and abuse. By forbidding political courts from imposing criminal punishments, Americans have avoided the worst dangers of legislative tyranny—but perhaps not tyranny itself; and I am not sure that political jurisdiction in the U.S. is not the most dangerous weapon ever placed in the hands of a popular majority. If the American republics ever begin to decline, it will be easy to test this observation by seeing whether political impeachments become more frequent.\*d

b  
\[Chap. I. sect. ii. Section 8.\]

c  
\[See the constitutions of Illinois, Maine, Connecticut, and Georgia.\]

d  
\[See Appendix, N.

\[The impeachment of President Andrew Johnson in 1868—which was resorted to by his political opponents solely as a means of removing him from office, since it could not truly be claimed that he was guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors, and he was in fact honorably acquitted and reinstated in office—is a striking confirmation of this point.—Translator’s Note, 1874.\]

##  Chapter VIII: The Federal Constitution—Part I

Up to now, I have considered each State as a separate entity and described the different forces that the people activate and the mechanisms they use. But all the States I have discussed as independent must, in certain cases, submit to the supreme authority of the Union. The time has now come for me to examine the supremacy given to the Union, and to take a quick look at the Federal Constitution.

##  Chapter Summary

Origin of the first Union—Its weakness—Congress appeals to the constituent authority—Interval of two years between this appeal and the promulgation of the new Constitution.

History Of The Federal Constitution

The thirteen colonies that simultaneously cast off English rule toward the end of the last century shared, as I have already noted, the same religion, language, customs, and nearly identical laws. They fought against a common enemy, and these factors were strong enough to bind them together and form them into one nation. However, since each colony had long maintained its own separate existence and self-government, the unique interests and habits that arose from this autonomy stood in the way of a close and complete union, which would have submerged each state’s individual significance within the general unity of all. Thus, two conflicting tendencies emerged—one urging the Anglo-Americans to unite, the other to preserve their independence. While the war with England continued, necessity sustained the spirit of union, and despite major flaws in the laws that bound them, the alliance lingered in spite of those defects. \*a But once peace was achieved, the weaknesses of the legislative framework became apparent, and the union seemed on the verge of dissolving. Each colony became a sovereign republic and claimed absolute independence. The federal government, rendered powerless by its constitution and no longer upheld by the pressure of a shared threat, witnessed the disrespect shown to its flag by major European nations, while it struggled even to defend itself against Indigenous tribes and to pay the interest on debts accrued during the war for independence. It was nearing collapse when it officially declared its inability to govern and appealed to the nation’s constituent authority. \*b If America ever truly reached that pinnacle of greatness its people often imagine, it was surely at the moment when the national authority effectively abdicated its power. Throughout history there have been many examples of peoples vigorously fighting for their independence; indeed, the Americans’ efforts in throwing off English rule have often been overstated. Separated from their enemies by three thousand miles of ocean and aided by a powerful ally, the United States’ victory is more rightly credited to their geography than to the valor of their armies or the patriotism of their citizens. It would be absurd to compare the American war to the wars of the French Revolution, or the Americans’ efforts to those of the French, who, without credit or allies, stood against the nations of Europe, mustering one-twentieth of their population and spreading revolution abroad while quelling it at home. Yet, history had not before witnessed an entire people calmly and carefully examining its own predicament when informed by its lawmakers that the machinery of government had stalled; patiently analyzing the depth of the problem, and then waiting two full years for a consensual remedy—adopted without a tear or a drop of blood spilled. When the defects of the first constitution became clear, America benefited doubly from the calm that followed the storm of revolution and from the presence of those distinguished leaders who had guided the revolution to success. The assembly tasked with drafting a new constitution was small; \*c but George Washington presided over it, and it included the finest intellects and noblest characters ever seen in the New World. After long and careful deliberation, this national commission presented the new general laws, which continue to govern the Union, for public approval. Each state adopted the new constitution in turn. \*d The new Federal Government began its duties in 1789, after a two-year gap. The American Revolution ended just as the French Revolution began.

a
\[ See the articles of the first confederation formed in 1778. This constitution was not adopted by all the States until 1781. See also the analysis given of this constitution in “The Federalist” from No. 15 to No. 22, inclusive, and Story’s “Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States,” pp. 85-115.\]

b
\[ Congress made this declaration on February 21, 1787.\]

c
\[ It consisted of fifty-five members; Washington, Madison, Hamilton, and the two Morrises were amongst the number.\]

d
\[ It was not adopted by the legislative bodies, but representatives were elected by the people for this sole purpose; and the new constitution was discussed at length in each of these assemblies.\]

##  Summary Of The Federal Constitution

Division of authority between the Federal Government and the States—The Government of the States is the rule, the Federal Government the exception.

The first major issue the Americans faced was complex and not easily resolved: they needed to divide authority between the States of the Union so that each could govern its own internal affairs, while the nation as a whole, represented by the Union, could act as a unified entity to address the people’s collective needs. It was impossible to decide in advance, with any exactness, how much power each government should hold, just as one cannot predict all the future events in a nation’s life.

The obligations and responsibilities of the Federal Government were simple and clearly defined, as the Union was created specifically to meet the nation’s general needs. The powers and duties of the individual States, by contrast, were complicated and varied, since those governments played a part in every detail of daily life. The powers of the Federal Government were therefore listed carefully; anything not specifically included was reserved as a privilege of the respective State governments. Thus, state governments remained the norm and the authority of the Confederation was the exception. \*e

e
\[ See the Amendment to the Federal Constitution; “Federalist,” No. 32; Story; Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. .

It is important to note that when the exclusive authority over certain matters is not given to Congress by the Constitution, States may address these concerns themselves, unless or until the matter is brought before the National Assembly. For example, Congress has the authority to pass a general bankruptcy law, but if it fails to do so, each State is free to create its own legislation. This has been settled by court discussions and more properly belongs to jurisprudence.\]

However, it was anticipated that disputes might arise in practice about the precise limits of this exceptional federal authority, and that it would be unsafe to leave such matters to the routine courts established by the States themselves. Therefore, a high Federal court was created, \*f whose purpose, among other duties, was to maintain the balance of power set by the Constitution between the two competing governments. \*g

f
\[ The action of this court is indirect, as we shall hereafter show.\]

g
\[ It is thus that “The Federalist,” No. 45, explains the division of supremacy between the Union and the States: “The powers delegated by the Constitution to the Federal Government are few and defined. Those which are to remain in the State Governments are numerous and indefinite. The former will be exercised principally on external objects, as war, peace, negotiation, and foreign commerce. The powers reserved to the several States will extend to all the objects which, in the ordinary course of affairs, concern the internal order and prosperity of the State.” I shall often have occasion to quote “The Federalist” in this work. When the bill which has since become the Constitution of the United States was submitted to the approval of the people, and the discussions were still pending, three men, who had already acquired a portion of that celebrity which they have since enjoyed—John Jay, Hamilton, and Madison—formed an association with the intention of explaining to the nation the advantages of the measure which was proposed. With this view they published a series of articles in the shape of a journal, which now form a complete treatise. They entitled their journal “The Federalist,” a name which has been retained in the work. “The Federalist” is an excellent book, which ought to be familiar to the statesmen of all countries, although it especially concerns America.\]

Prerogative Of The Federal Government

Power of declaring war, making peace, and levying general taxes vested in the Federal Government—What part of the internal policy of the country it may direct—The Government of the Union in some respects more central than the King’s Government in the old French monarchy.

A nation’s external affairs can be compared to those of private individuals; these affairs cannot be handled effectively without a single, unified government. The Union was granted exclusive authority to declare war and peace, negotiate treaties, raise armies, and equip fleets. \*h A national government was not considered as essential for internal policy, but some general interests can only be addressed effectively by a central authority. The Union was given power over the monetary system, oversight of the post office, and responsibility for establishing major roads to connect different regions of the country. \*i The independence of state governments was formally recognized within their own spheres, but the Federal Government was also given the right to intervene in state affairs \*j in specific, predetermined circumstances where irresponsible use of state independence could threaten the broader Union’s security. Thus, while every republic retained the ability to change its laws at will, they were forbidden from passing ex post facto laws or establishing a hereditary noble class. \*k Finally, in order for the Federal Government to meet its obligations, it was granted unlimited power to levy taxes. \*l

h
\[ See Constitution, sect. 8; “Federalist,” Nos. 41 and 42; Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. ; Story; Ibid. .\]

i
\[ Several other privileges of the same kind exist, such as that which empowers the Union to legislate on bankruptcy, to grant patents, and other matters in which its intervention is clearly necessary.\]

j
\[ Even in these cases its interference is indirect. The Union interferes by means of the tribunals, as will be hereafter shown.\]

k
\[ Federal Constitution, sect. 10, art. I.\]

l

\[ Constitution, sections 8, 9, and 10; “Federalist,” Nos. 30-36 inclusive, and 41-44; Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. and 381; Story and 514.\]

When examining the balance of power established by the Federal Constitution—observing on one hand the portion of sovereignty reserved for the States, and on the other the share of power assumed by the Union—it’s clear that the Federal legislators had a precise and thorough understanding of government centralization. The United States form not only a republic, but also a confederation; yet, national authority is more centralized than it was in several monarchies in Europe at the time the American Constitution was formed. Consider the following examples.

In France, there were thirteen supreme courts of justice, each generally having the right to interpret the law without appeal. Provinces known as *pays d’états* could refuse their assent to a tax imposed by the sovereign, who represented the nation. In the Union, by contrast, there is only one court to interpret the law and one legislature to enact it; a tax approved by the nation’s representatives binds all citizens. On these two essential points, therefore, the Union has a more centralized authority than the French monarchy once did, though it is merely an assembly of confederated republics.

In Spain, certain provinces had the right to create their own systems of customs duties, even though such a privilege is inherently a matter of national sovereignty. In America, only Congress may regulate the States’ commercial relations. In this respect, the Confederation government is more centralized than the Spanish kingdom. It’s true that the Crown, in France or Spain, could ultimately obtain by force anything denied by the Constitution, so the practical result was the same; but here, I am discussing constitutional theory.

Federal Powers

After establishing the limits within which the Federal Government would operate, the next step was to determine its powers.

Legislative Powers *m

m
\[ [In this chapter, the author addresses the core conflict between the seceding States and the Union that led to the Civil War of 1861.] \]

Division of the Legislative Body into two branches—Differences in how the two Houses are formed—The principle of State independence prevails in the creation of the Senate—The principle of national sovereignty dominates the House of Representatives—Unique effects of keeping a constitution logically consistent only in a nation's earliest stages.

The plan used for the State constitutions was followed in many ways when organizing the powers of the Union. The Federal legislature consists of a Senate and a House of Representatives. A spirit of compromise dictated different principles for forming each of these bodies. I have already shown that two opposing interests shaped the Federal Constitution. One party wanted to create a league of independent States—a sort of congress where delegates would meet to discuss certain shared matters. The other party wanted to unite the people of the American colonies into a single nation and establish a government to act as the people's sole representative within its limited authority. These two theories led to very different consequences.

The question was whether to create a mere league rather than a national government: whether the majority of the States, not the majority of the Union’s people, should make laws; in that case, both small and large States would remain fully independent and enter the Union on equal footing. On the other hand, if the United States were considered a single nation, the majority of the Union’s citizens should make the laws. Of course, the smaller States could not accept this idea without essentially forfeiting their political existence within the Confederation; they would have gone from co-equal authorities to insignificant parts of a larger nation. The first approach would give them too much power; the second would eliminate their influence. As a result, strict logic was avoided, as usually happens when interests conflict with ideas, and a compromise between theoretically opposing systems was devised.

State independence guided the creation of the Senate, while national sovereignty prevailed in the House of Representatives. Each State was given two Senators and a number of Representatives based on population. *n From this setup, for instance, the State of New York today has forty Representatives but only two Senators; Delaware has two Senators and just one Representative. Thus, Delaware is equal to New York in the Senate, while New York has forty times more influence than Delaware in the House. So, if the minority dominates the Senate, it can stall the decisions of the majority represented in the House, which runs contrary to the spirit of constitutional government.

n
\[ Every ten years, Congress reassigns the number of Representatives for each State. In 1789, the total was 69; in 1833, it was 240. (See “American Almanac,” 1834.) The Constitution set a maximum of one Representative per 30,000 people, but did not set a minimum. Congress has not increased the number of Representatives in line with population growth. The first Act on the subject (April 14, 1792: see “Laws of the United States,” by Story, vol. i.) allowed one Representative for every 33,000 inhabitants. The last Act, passed in 1832, set it at one for 48,000. The population counted includes all free men and three-fifths of slaves.

\[The most recent Act of apportionment, passed February 2, 1872, set representation at one to 134,684 inhabitants. There are now (1875) 283 members in the House, plus 9 for the States at large, totaling 292. The original States have lost Representatives as new States have gained them.—Translator’s Note.\] \]

These details show how rare and difficult it is to combine all aspects of legislation with complete logic. Over time, new interests and principles appear in society and are approved by the people; when a general constitution is written, these interests and principles are obstacles to implementing any political system in all its logical outcomes. Only in a nation's early stages can the complete logic of legislation usually be achieved; and when we find a nation with that advantage, we should remember that it is because the nation is young before concluding that it is wise. When the Federal Constitution was built, only two competing interests existed among Anglo-Americans: the independence of the States, and the unity of the people—which meant a compromise was inevitable.

However, it’s fair to admit this part of the Constitution hasn’t yet produced the feared problems. The States are all young and adjacent; their customs, ideas, and needs are similar; differences in size or status aren’t enough to set their interests against each other. As a result, the small States have never formed a bloc in the Senate to oppose the large ones’ plans; and in fact, the legitimate will of the people is so powerful that the Senate could hardly block the House of Representatives’ majority decisions.

We should also remember that the American legislators could not create a single nation out of the people for whom they were making laws. The Federal Constitution was not meant to destroy State independence, but to restrain it. By recognizing the real authority of these smaller communities (which could not have been abolished), they acknowledged the continued existence of a power that should be negotiated with, not suppressed. Thus, the States’ influence in the Federal Government was entirely natural, as it reflected an authorized power that had to be accommodated, not overpowered.

A Further Difference Between The Senate And The House Of Representatives

The Senate is chosen by the State legislatures, the Representatives by the people—Double election for the former; direct election for the latter—Term lengths for each office—Distinct functions of the two Houses.

The Senate differs from the House not only in what it represents, but also in how it is elected, how long its members serve, and the nature of its duties. The House of Representatives is elected by the people; the Senate, by each State’s legislature. The House is directly elected; the Senate is chosen by an elected body. Representatives serve two-year terms, while Senators serve for six. The House’s duties are primarily legislative, with its only judicial role being the impeachment of public officers. The Senate shares in legislation and tries political offenses submitted to it by the House. It also acts as the nation’s senior executive council: the treaties made by the President must be ratified by the Senate, and his appointments must be confirmed by them as well. *o

o
\[ See “The Federalist,” Nos. 52-56 inclusive; Story; Constitution of the United States, sections 2 and 3.\]

The Executive Power *p

p
\[ See “The Federalist,” Nos. 67-77; Constitution of the United States, art. 2; Story; Kent’s “Commentaries,” p. 255.\]

Dependence of the President—He is elected and accountable—He acts freely within his own sphere, under Senate oversight but not control—His salary fixed when he takes office—Suspensive veto.

The American legislators faced a challenge in creating an executive branch that was subject to the people’s will, yet strong enough to act independently. To preserve a republican government, it was essential that the executive be accountable to the nation.

The President is elected. His honor, property, liberty, and even life serve as guarantees to the people for the careful use of his powers. Still, he isn’t entirely independent: the Senate oversees his foreign relations and public appointments, so he cannot be bribed or use corruption. The legislators recognized that the executive would not be effective or dignified unless it had more stability and strength than executive authority had been given in the separate States.

The President is elected for four years and can be re-elected; this possibility of a longer administration can inspire him to pursue public benefits and carry out policies. The President alone represents the federal executive power, and his decisions are deliberately not made subject to a council vote—a risky system that could slow government action and reduce accountability. The Senate can overturn certain presidential actions but cannot force him to act or share in executive power.

Legislative influence on executive power can be direct (which the Americans sought to avoid) or indirect. If public assemblies can cut an executive’s salary, they threaten his independence; and as they make the laws, they may try to take authority meant for the President. Dependence on the legislature is a common flaw in republican systems. The Americans could not fully eliminate legislatures’ tendency to seize authority, but they made it less irresistible. The President’s salary is set for the full term when he takes office. He also holds a suspensive veto, letting him reject laws that would erode his independence. This struggle between President and legislature will always be unequal, since the legislature can win simply by persistence. But the veto at least makes the legislature reconsider its decision—and if it persists, a two-thirds majority of the whole house is needed to override. The veto is, in a way, an appeal to the people. The executive, who might otherwise be quietly dominated, can use it to state his case before the nation. If it is said the legislature is bound to triumph just by persisting, I reply: in every country, regardless of its constitution, there is always a point where lawmakers must rely on the judgment and virtue of their fellow citizens. That point is more obvious in republics and more hidden in monarchies, but it always exists. No country can have laws to cover every situation, or political institutions that can replace common sense and public morality.

Differences Between The Position Of The President Of The United States And That Of A Constitutional King Of France

## Executive Power in the Northern States: Limited and Partial, Reflecting Its Supremacy—Executive Power in France: Universal, Reflecting Its Supremacy—The King as Part of the Legislature—The President as Sole Executor of the Law—Other Differences Stemming from the Duration of Their Powers—The President’s Executive Authority Is Checked—The King Exercises His Power Independently—Despite These Differences, France Is Closer to a Republic Than the Union Is to a Monarchy—Comparison of the Number of Public Officers Dependent on Executive Power in the Two Countries

The executive branch has such a significant influence on the fate of nations that I feel it is important to pause briefly here to explain more clearly the role it plays in America. To truly understand the position of the President of the United States, it is helpful to compare it to that of one of the constitutional monarchs of Europe. In making this comparison I will pay little attention to external signs of power, which are more likely to mislead the observer than to aid in genuine understanding. When a monarchy is gradually evolving into a republic, the executive branch keeps the titles, honors, ceremonial customs, and even the financial support of royalty long after its actual authority has faded. The English, for example, after executing one king and expelling another from the throne, continued to greet their new sovereigns while kneeling. In contrast, when a republic comes under the control of a single person, the ruler’s conduct is often simple and modest, as if their authority had not yet become absolute. When the emperors exercised unrestricted control over the lives and fortunes of their citizens, they were called Caesar in conversation and often dined informally at friends’ homes. For these reasons, it is necessary to look past appearances.

In the United States, sovereignty is divided between the Union and the individual States, while in France it is undivided and unified. This leads to the first and most significant difference between the President of the United States and the King of France. In the United States, executive power is as limited and partial as the sovereignty of the Union on whose behalf it acts; in France, executive power is as universal as the authority of the State itself. The Americans have a federal government, while the French have a national one.

## Chapter VIII: The Federal Constitution—Part II

This cause of inferiority arises naturally, but it is not the only one; the second most important is as follows: Sovereignty can be defined as the right to make laws. In France, the King actually wields part of the sovereign power, since laws have no effect until he gives his approval; moreover, he executes everything they command. The President also acts as the executor of laws, but does not truly participate in making them, since his refusal to approve a law does not invalidate it. Therefore, he is merely considered the agent of the sovereign power. Not only does the King of France exercise part of the sovereign power, he also contributes to the selection of the legislature, which wields the other part. The King has the privilege of appointing the members of one legislative chamber and dissolving the other at will; whereas the President of the United States has no part nor control in forming the legislative body and cannot dissolve any portion of it. The King has the same right to propose legislation as the Chambers; this is a right the President does not have. The King is represented in each assembly by his ministers, who explain his intentions, support his opinions, and uphold government principles. The President and his ministers are excluded from Congress; so his influence and viewpoints can only reach Congress indirectly. The King of France therefore stands on equal footing with the legislature, neither able to act without the other. The President's authority, by contrast, is both subordinate to and dependent upon the legislature.

Even in exercising executive power properly so called—the area where his position resembles that of the King of France—the President faces several sources of inferiority. The King's authority, in France, first benefits from its permanence over the President's, and durability is one of the key elements of strength; things are only loved or feared when they are likely to last. The President of the United States is an official elected for four years; the King, in France, is a hereditary monarch. In exercising executive power, the President of the United States is constantly subjected to intense scrutiny. He may negotiate, but cannot conclude, treaties; he may select, but cannot appoint, public officers. *q The King of France is absolute within his limits. The President of the United States is held accountable for his actions; but under the French Charter, the King’s person is declared inviolable. *r

q  
\[ The Constitution left it unclear whether the President had to consult the Senate when removing as well as appointing Federal officers. "The Federalist" (No. 77) appeared to argue yes; but in 1789 Congress explicitly decided that, since the President was responsible for his actions, he should not have to employ agents who had lost his confidence. See Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. \]

r  
\[ \[This comparison applies to the Constitutional King of France and the powers he held under the Charter of 1830, up until the monarchy’s fall in 1848.—Translator’s Note.\]\]

Nevertheless, public opinion reigns above both the President and the King. This power of public opinion is less defined, less visible, and less backed by law in France than in America, but it certainly exists. In America, it operates through elections and legal decisions; in France, it acts through revolutions; yet despite these different constitutions, public opinion is the supreme force in both. The fundamental legislative principle—the principle most essentially republican—remains the same in both countries, though its effects may differ, and its reach may vary. Therefore, I conclude that France with its King is, in some respects, closer to a republic than the Union with its President is to a monarchy.

So far, I have only outlined the major distinctions; had I gone into more detail, the contrast would be even more striking. I have noted that the President’s authority in the United States is limited by partial sovereignty, while the King’s authority in France is undivided. I could have further demonstrated that the French King’s power exceeds its natural limits, however broad, and reaches in countless ways into private affairs. For example, consider the large number of public officials whose appointments come from the government. This number is now greater than ever; it totals 138,000 *s appointments, each representing a potential extension of power. The President of the United States lacks the sole authority to make any public appointment, and the total number scarcely exceeds 12,000. *t

s  
\[ The sums paid annually by the State to these officials amount to 200,000,000 francs (\$40,000,000).\]

t  
\[ This number comes from the “National Calendar” for 1833, an American almanac listing all Federal officers. This comparison shows that the King of France has eleven times as many appointments at his disposal as the President, although the population of France is not much more than twice that of the Union.

\[I do not have current figures for the number of appointments now at the disposal of the President of the United States, but his patronage—and its abuse—have grown significantly since 1833.—Translator’s Note, 1875.\]\]

### Accidental Causes Which May Increase The Influence Of The Executive Government

External security of the Union—Army of six thousand men—Few ships—The President cannot exercise his greatest powers—In the powers he does use, he is weak.

If the executive government is weaker in America than in France, the reason lies more in the country’s circumstances than in its laws.

The executive power’s skill and energy are mostly needed in foreign affairs. If the Union were constantly threatened, or its major interests regularly involved with those of stronger nations, the executive would naturally take on greater significance, in line with the responsibilities and actions required of it. The President of the United States is commander-in-chief of the army—but the army numbers only six thousand men; he commands the fleet—but it consists of only a few ships; he handles foreign relations—but the United States is a nation without nearby rivals. Separated by the ocean and too weak to seek control of the seas, the United States has no enemies, and its interests seldom intersect with those of any major world power.

One should not judge government in practice solely by its constitutional theory. The President of the United States possesses almost royal prerogatives, but has little chance to use them; and even the powers he does currently exercise are strictly limited. The law allows him a certain influence, but current circumstances prevent him from using it.

In contrast, the royal prerogative in France draws its strength more from circumstance than from law. There, the executive government faces immense obstacles, constantly laboring to suppress them; thus, it grows in power and stature by the very challenges it faces, without any change to its constitution. If the law had rendered it as weak and restricted as the Union's, its influence would rapidly become greater still.

### Why The President Of The United States Does Not Require The Majority Of The Two Houses In Order To Carry On The Government

It is a generally accepted belief in Europe that a constitutional King cannot continue ruling in opposition to the other two branches of the legislature. Yet several American Presidents have lost their majority in the legislature without being forced to step down or causing major harm to society as a result. Some have cited this as evidence of the independence and power of the American executive; but a moment’s thought reveals it is, instead, a sign of its extreme weakness.

A King in Europe needs the legislature’s support to fulfill constitutional duties, because those duties are enormous. A European constitutional King is not simply the executor of law—the carrying out of every provision depends so thoroughly on him that he can, in practice, block laws he opposes. He needs the legislatures to make law, but they need him to enforce it: the two can’t function without each other, and government grinds to a halt if they clash.

In America, the President cannot stop any law from being passed, nor can he avoid enforcing it. His sincere cooperation is useful, but not essential, for public affairs to proceed. All major presidential actions are directly or indirectly subject to legislative approval, and he can do very little on his own. It is therefore not his strength, but his weakness, that enables him to oppose Congress without immediate consequence. In Europe, harmony between the Crown and legislature is crucial, because conflict can be dangerous; in America, such harmony is not essential, because a serious clash is impossible.

### Election Of The President

Dangers of the elective system increase with the extent of prerogative—Possible in America only because a strong executive is not needed—What conditions favor the elective system—Why the President's election does not cause deviation from government principles—Effect on lower officials.

The dangers of electing the head of executive government in a large nation have been well demonstrated by history; my comments focus on America alone. These dangers are greater or lesser depending on how important the executive power is, how extensive its influence, the mode of election, and the situation of the voters. The most serious argument against electing a chief magistrate is that it offers such a tempting prize to personal ambition, so likely to inflame the struggle for power, that if legal means are insufficient, force may take what is denied by right.

Clearly, the greater the power of the executive, the greater the temptation; the more ambition this excites among candidates, the more their interests are pushed by eager supporters hoping for a share in the rewards. So, the dangers of the elective system grow in direct proportion to the executive authority’s role in state affairs. The revolutions in Poland cannot be blamed solely on the elective system as such, but on the fact that the monarch chosen was sovereign over a powerful kingdom. Before we can discuss the absolute merits of election, we must ask whether geography, law, custom, manners, and opinion among the people allow for a weak, dependent executive. To try to make the head of state both a powerful sovereign and also elective is, in my view, to attempt two contradictory things. To turn hereditary monarchy into elective office, the only method I know is to gradually reduce the role, limit its powers, and get the people used to managing without its protection. But nothing is further from the aims of European republicans: many, having suffered personally under tyranny, hate oppression—not strong executive power itself—so they attack oppression without noticing how closely it is tied to the extent of that power.

To date, no citizen has shown any inclination to risk his honor or life to become President of the United States, because the power of that office is temporary, limited, and subordinate. The prize must be great before men will gamble so much for it. No candidate has yet stirred up dangerous excitement or intense public sympathy, simply because the President, once in office, has so little power, wealth, or glory to divide among supporters; and his influence is too limited for a faction’s success or collapse to depend on one man's rise.

The great advantage of hereditary monarchies is that the private interest of one family is always closely linked to the state's interest; therefore, the executive is never left leaderless, even if not always well managed. In elective states, on the other hand, government slows nearly to a stop as elections approach, and even in the time before the event. Laws can make elections quick and simple enough to keep the office from being vacant, but, despite these precautions, the people’s minds experience a suspension.

As an election nears, the head of government is completely absorbed by the upcoming contest; future plans are uncertain; he attempts nothing new, and pursues existing policies only with indifference, knowing another may finish them. “I am so near the time of my retirement from office,” President Jefferson wrote on January 21, 1809 (six weeks before the election), “that I feel no passion, I take no part, I express no sentiment. It appears to me just to leave to my successor the commencement of those measures which he will have to prosecute, and for which he will be responsible.”

Meanwhile, the nation's eyes are fixed on one spot; everyone is watching the rise of so momentous an event. The wider the executive’s influence, the greater and more constant its required action, the more damaging this period of inaction becomes; a people used to strong administrative leadership or government would be thoroughly shaken by such an election. In the United States, government activity can slow down safely, because it is always limited and weak. *u

u  
\[ \[This, however, can be very risky. The period when Mr. Buchanan stayed in office after Mr. Lincoln’s election, from November 1860 to March 1861, allowed the southern states to prepare fully for the Civil War, leaving the Executive paralyzed. No greater disaster could befall a nation.—Translator’s Note.\]\]

One of the main faults of the elective system is that it always brings a certain degree of instability into both the internal and external policies of the State. However, this disadvantage is felt less strongly if the elected official’s share of power is small. In Rome, the principles of government remained unchanged even though Consuls changed every year, because the Senate, a hereditary body, held the controlling authority. If the elective system were adopted in Europe, most monarchies would see their conditions shift with every new election. In America, the President wields some influence on state affairs, but does not control them; the majority of power rests in the representatives of the entire nation. Thus, the political principles of the country rely on the will of the people, not just the President; so in America, the elective system does not have a severely negative effect on the fixed foundations of government. Still, the lack of fixed principles is a flaw so rooted in the elective system that it remains obvious even in the limited scope of the President’s authority.

The Americans decided that the head of the executive, who carries full responsibility for the duties he must fulfill, should be empowered to select his own agents and remove them at will: the legislative bodies monitor the actions of the President more than they direct them. The result is that with each new election, the fate of all federal public officers hangs in the balance. When Mr. Quincy Adams took office, he dismissed most individuals appointed by his predecessor; and I do not believe General Jackson allowed a single removable official in the federal service to keep his post beyond his first year in office. People sometimes complain that in constitutional monarchies of Europe, junior members of the Administration are tied to the fate of the Ministers. But in elective governments, this issue is much more severe. In a constitutional monarchy, ministries change quickly, but the main executive does not, so innovation is restrained; changes occur in details more than in the underlying principles of administration. However, in America, replacing one system with another by law every four years amounts to a kind of revolution. As for the misfortunes individuals may face because of this, it must be recognized that the unstable position of public officers is less damaging in America than elsewhere. In the U.S., it is easy to gain an independent livelihood, so losing a public job may deprive a person of comfort, but not of the means of survival.

Earlier in this chapter, I noted that the risks of electing the head of state increase or decrease based on the particular circumstances of each nation. However limited the executive’s functions, it always exerts substantial influence over foreign policy, since only a single figure can open or manage negotiations successfully. The more unstable and threatened a nation is, the more it needs a steady, consistent external policy, and the more dangerous it becomes to have an elected Chief Magistrate. American foreign policy is extremely simple; one could say no country needs America’s help, nor does America need to cooperate with others. Their independence is never threatened. In their current condition, the President’s powers are limited as much by circumstance as by law; he may often shift his policies without endangering or destroying the state.

Whatever the executive’s powers, the period leading up to an election, and the time during which it occurs, must always be seen as a national crisis, made more dangerous based on the nation's internal or external predicaments. Few European nations could avoid chaos or conquest every time they needed to elect a new sovereign. In America, society is structured so it can stand on its own; there is little risk from outside threats, and election of the President causes agitation but not ruin.

### Mode Of Election

**Skill of the American legislators shown in the mode of election adopted by them—Creation of a special electoral body—Separate votes of these electors—Case in which the House of Representatives is called upon to choose the President—Results of the twelve elections which have taken place since the Constitution has been established.**

Beyond the risks inherent in the system itself, many other difficulties could arise from the way the election is organized, but these can be avoided by careful legislative measures. When people gathered in arms in a public place to select a leader, as in ancient times, they risked civil war from such a forceful method, in addition to the natural dangers of the elective system. Polish law, for example, subjected the election of a monarch to the veto of a single person, paving the way for assassination or anarchy.

Examining the institutions and the political and social condition of the United States, one can see a remarkable match between favorable circumstances and human efforts. The nation enjoyed two of the primary factors for internal peace: it was a new land, but populated by people experienced in liberty. America had no serious external enemies; and American lawmakers took advantage of these favorable conditions to create a weak and subordinate executive, which could safely be elective.

All that remained was to select the least dangerous form of election, and the rules they devised perfectly matched the strengths of the country's structure. Their goal was to settle on a method that best represented the people's will with the least possible excitement and delay. First, it was agreed that a simple majority would decide; but the difficulty was securing this majority without dangerous delays. It is rare that a person instantly gains the majority of a whole country’s votes; this is even more difficult in a federation, where local pressures are strong. To overcome this problem, it was decided to delegate the nation’s electoral power to a body of representatives. With fewer electors, a majority is more likely, and a wise choice more probable. Next, it had to be decided whether election should be handled by the regular legislature, or by a specifically elected body. Americans chose the latter, believing those elected to pass laws could not accurately represent the national will in choosing the executive, especially since their mandate might be out of date. They also supposed that allowing the legislature to elect the executive would expose its members to intrigue and corruption beforehand, whereas special electors, staying among the general population until the day of the vote, would act solely for that purpose, similar to a jury.

It was therefore established that every State would appoint a certain number of electors,\*v who, in turn, would elect the President. Since it had been seen that assemblies assigned the choice of a chief in electoral countries became centers of passion and scheming, sometimes misused their powers, and sometimes prolonged their proceedings dangerously, it was decided that electors should all vote on the same day, but not all in the same place.\*w This double layer of selection made a majority outcome probable, though not certain; electors might still differ as much as their constituents. In this situation, there were three options: appoint new electors, consult the same ones again, or transfer the choice to another body. The first two options risked delay and risking ongoing agitation. The third was adopted: votes would be sent sealed to the President of the Senate, and opened and counted in front of the Senate and House of Representatives. If no candidate received a majority, the House would select the President from among the top three candidates.\*x

v  
\[ As many as it sends members to Congress. The number of electors at the election of 1833 was 288. (See “The National Calendar,” 1833.) \]

w  
\[ The electors of the same State assemble, but they transmit to the central government the list of their individual votes, and not the mere result of the vote of the majority.\]  
\[Footnote x: In this case it is the majority of the States, and not the majority of the members, which decides the question; so that New York has not more influence in the debate than Rhode Island. Thus the citizens of the Union are first consulted as members of one and the same community; and, if they cannot agree, recourse is had to the division of the States, each of which has a separate and independent vote. This is one of the singularities of the Federal Constitution which can only be explained by the jar of conflicting interests.\]

So, only in rare and unpredictable cases is the election handed to the regular representatives of the nation—who must then choose from candidates already selected by a significant minority of electors. This careful approach combines respect for the people’s voice with efficient execution and safeguards for the nation’s peace. However, having the House decide does not always provide a quick solution, since the majority might still be uncertain, and there is no further remedy in the Constitution. Yet, by limiting the number of candidates to three, and entrusting the decision to an informed public body, most obstacles\*y not inherent to the elective process have been smoothed out.

y  
\[ Jefferson, in 1801, was not elected until the thirty-sixth time of balloting.\]

In the forty-four years since the adoption of the Federal Constitution, the United States has elected a President twelve times. Ten of these elections were carried out at the same time by special electors in various States. The House of Representatives has exercised its right to decide in ambiguous cases only twice: once with the election of Mr. Jefferson in 1801, and again in 1825 with the selection of Mr. Quincy Adams.\*z

z  
\[ \[General Grant is now (1874) the eighteenth President of the United States.\]\]

### Crises Of The Election

**The Election may be considered as a national crisis—Why?—Passions of the people—Anxiety of the President—Calm which succeeds the agitation of the election.**

I have shown what factors allowed the elective system to flourish in the U.S., and what steps were taken by lawmakers to manage its dangers. Americans are used to different types of elections and know from experience how much excitement is safe. The vastness of the country and the spread of the population make actual clashes between parties less likely and less dangerous there than elsewhere. The political background of previous elections has posed no real difficulties for the nation.

Yet, the time of a U.S. presidential election can be seen as a national crisis. The President’s influence on public affairs may be relatively weak and indirect, but the choice, though of small personal importance to most citizens, involves all citizens collectively; and even a small issue grows in importance when it is shared by everyone. The President does not have as many rewards to offer supporters as European monarchs, but his appointments reach enough people to interest, directly or indirectly, thousands of voters in his success. Political parties in America often rally around a person to make their principles more tangible for the masses; the candidate’s name becomes a symbol of the party’s ideas. Thus, parties care deeply about winning, not just to help their policies prevail under a new President, but also to demonstrate their strength through the size of the majority that elects him.

Long before the actual date, the election becomes the main topic of discussion. Party fervor grows; and every artificial passion that a comfortable society can invent is stirred up and brought into the open. The President himself is focused on self-preservation. He no longer governs for the country’s good, but for his re-election; he panders to the majority, and rather than restraining its passions—which is his duty—he often encourages its worst whims. As the election nears, intrigue increases and public excitement grows; people split into rival camps each named for its favorite; the whole nation is gripped by feverish anticipation. The election dominates the newspapers, private conversations, and everyone’s thoughts and actions; it becomes the single concern of the moment. Once the result is decided, all this passion evaporates; as peace returns, the State, which nearly lost its balance, regains stability: \*a but who can help but be amazed at what caused such upheaval.

a  
\[ \[Not always. The election of President Lincoln was the signal of civil war.—Translator’s Note.\]\]

##  Chapter VIII: The Federal Constitution—Part III

### Re-election Of The President

When the head of the executive power can be re-elected, the State itself becomes the source of intrigue and corruption. The desire for re-election becomes the primary goal of a President of the United States. This system has a unique disadvantage in America—the natural weakness of democracy is that it subordinates all authority to the slightest wishes of the majority. The re-election of the President amplifies this problem.

One might ask whether the lawmakers of the United States were right or wrong to allow the President to be re-elected. At first glance, it seems unreasonable to prevent the head of the executive from serving a second term. The influence that the talents and character of a single individual can have on a nation's destiny, especially in critical or difficult times, is well known: a law preventing the re-election of the chief magistrate would deprive citizens of the surest guarantee of the commonwealth’s welfare and security. And, by a peculiar inconsistency, a man would be excluded from office just as he had demonstrated his ability to govern.

However strong these arguments may be, perhaps even stronger reasons can be offered against them. Intrigue and corruption are the typical flaws of an elective government, but when the head of the State is eligible for re-election, these problems reach their highest levels and may threaten the country's very existence. When an ordinary candidate seeks advancement through intrigue, his influence is limited; but when the chief magistrate participates, he can use the strength of the government itself for his own ends. In the first case, only an individual’s limited resources come into play; in the second, the entire influence of the State is involved in corruption and scheming. The private citizen who uses immoral methods to gain power can harm the public welfare only indirectly. But if the executive uses his office in the fight, the duties of governing fall into secondary importance, and his re-election becomes his main concern. Every law and negotiation he undertakes turns into an electioneering approach; government positions become rewards for services not to the country, but to the President; and the influence of the government, if not outright harmful, becomes at best no longer beneficial to the people it is meant to serve.

Anyone observing the regular operations in the United States will see that the President’s main focus is on being re-elected; that his entire administration, even its smallest actions, are aimed at that objective; and as the election gets nearer, the President’s personal interests take precedence over the public good. The principle of re-eligibility deepens the corrupting influence of elective government.

In America, this has a particularly harmful effect on the foundations of national existence. Every form of government has some inherent flaw, and the skill of the lawmaker is shown in evading its dangers. A nation can survive many bad laws, and often the harm they cause is overstated; but a law that nurtures rot from within will eventually be fatal, even if its negative effects are not immediately visible.

The root problem of absolute monarchies is the over-extension of royal power; any measure removing the constitutional checks on this authority is fundamentally wrong, even if it does not create instant harm. Similarly, in democracies, where people are always seeking to draw all power into their hands, any laws that increase or accelerate this tendency undermine the system itself.

The greatest sign of the American lawmakers’ skill is that they clearly understood this, and had the courage to act on it. They believed that some authority above the people was necessary, one that should have some independence while still remaining under popular control; an authority forced to comply with the majority’s permanent wishes, but able to resist its whims and reject its most dangerous demands. For this reason, they concentrated the executive power in a single individual; they provided the President with extensive powers, including the veto, to resist legislative encroachment.

However, by allowing re-election, they partially undermined their own efforts, making the President less inclined to use the power entrusted to him. If he could not be elected a second time, he would not be wholly independent from the people, since he would still be accountable; but he would not need their approval so much that he would try to win it by pandering to their desires. If re-eligible—and this is especially true now, when political morality is weaker and great leaders are rare—the President of the United States becomes a convenient tool of the majority. He adopts its likes and dislikes, rushes to fulfill its wishes, anticipates its criticisms, and yields to its smallest demands. Instead of guiding the majority, as the lawmakers intended, he is always ready to follow it. Thus, to avoid losing the talent of an exceptional individual, those abilities are made nearly useless; and, in reserving a method for use in extraordinary times, the country is exposed to dangers every day.

Federal Courts \*b

b
\[ See chap. VI, entitled “Judicial Power in the United States.” This chapter explains the general principles of the American theory of judicial institutions. See also the Federal Constitution, Art. 3. See “The Federalists,” Nos. 78-83, inclusive; and a work entitled “Constitutional Law,” being a view of the practice and jurisdiction of the courts of the United States, by Thomas Sergeant. See Story, 162, 489, 511, 581, 668; and the organic law of September 24, 1789, in the “Collection of the Laws of the United States,” by Story, vol. i. .\]

Political importance of the judiciary in the United States—Difficulty of treating this subject—Utility of judicial power in confederations—What tribunals could be introduced into the Union—Necessity of establishing federal courts of justice—Organization of the national judiciary—The Supreme Court—How it differs from all known tribunals.

I have examined the Union’s legislative and executive powers; now the judicial power remains to be discussed. At this point, I must admit some hesitation. The judicial institutions of America have a major impact on the lives of Anglo-Americans, and they are essential among those institutions commonly called political. For this reason, they deserve particular attention. However, I find it difficult to explain the political functions of American courts without describing details of their structure and procedure. I am unsure how to address these specifics without either boring the reader with the subject’s natural dryness or becoming unclear by being overly brief. I can barely hope to avoid both these pitfalls; if I seem too long-winded to the general reader, a lawyer might find me too brief. But these challenges are unavoidable, especially for the topic I am about to cover.

The main challenge was not to design the Federal Government's Constitution, but to find an effective way to enforce its laws. Governments usually have only two methods of overcoming public opposition: the physical force at their disposal, and the moral authority they gain from court rulings.

A government with no way to enforce obedience except through outright force is close to collapse, for it faces one of two outcomes: if it has little authority and governs with restraint, it will not resort to violence except in the last resort, ignoring many small acts of disobedience, and so, the country will slide towards anarchy; if it is ambitious and strong, it will often rely on force, quickly becoming a military despotism. In either situation, its actions harm the state, whether through excessive force or total inaction.

Justice is meant to replace violence with the concept of right, and to erect a legal barrier between government power and the use of force. The respect that courts of justice command from public opinion is so great that it persists even in mere formalities, granting the semblance of law a real influence. The moral authority of courts makes the need for force rare, and often replaces it entirely; but if force is needed, its power is doubled when it acts in association with law.

Federal governments need the backing of judicial institutions even more than others, as they are naturally weak and often face strong opposition. \*c If they always had to turn to force first, they could not perform their duties. The Union therefore needed a national court system both to enforce citizens’ obedience to the law and to defend against attacks on those laws. The question then was: which courts should have these powers? Should existing State courts have them, or should special federal courts be created? One can easily see that the Union could not simply use the States' judicial systems for its own purposes. Separating the judiciary from a state’s executive is important for every citizen’s security and liberty. But it is just as important for the nation that these government branches share the same origin, abide by the same principles, and operate in the same sphere—that is, that they are coordinated and unified. No one would suggest putting French citizens on trial in a foreign court just to gain impartial judges. Americans are one people regarding their Federal Government, but within this people are several political bodies—dependent on the national government in some matters, independent in others—with separate origins, unique principles, and their own ways of operating. Entrusting Union laws to courts created by these political bodies would effectively subject the nation to foreign judges. Worse still, each State is not only foreign to the Union at large but is in ongoing competition with it, for any power the Union loses goes to the States. So, using State courts to enforce federal law would mean allowing judges both foreign and partial.

c
\[ Federal laws are those which most require courts of justice, yet these are also the laws that have least often created such courts. The reason is that federations usually arise from independent States, which have little real intention to obey a central government and are willing to cede the right to command while carefully keeping for themselves the right of non-compliance.\]

Moreover, the sheer number of State courts made them unfit for national use. When the Federal Constitution was adopted, there were already thirteen courts in the U.S. whose decisions were final. Such courts now number twenty-four. To think a State can last when its core laws are subject to two dozen different interpretations at the same time is to ignore both reason and experience.

Therefore, American lawmakers agreed to create a Federal judiciary to apply the laws of the Union, and to decide certain carefully specified questions of general interest. All the judicial power of the Union was placed in one body, called the Supreme Court of the United States. To speed legal proceedings, lower courts were created as well, empowered to decide less important cases without appeal, as well as appeals in more significant ones. The members of the Supreme Court are chosen not by the people nor by the legislature, but by the President of the United States, with the advice of the Senate. To make them independent from other authorities, their positions were made permanent, and their salaries, once set, cannot be changed by the legislature. \*d Declaring the Federal judiciary's principle was simple; defining the true reach of its jurisdiction was much more difficult.

d
\[ The Union was divided into districts, with a resident Federal judge in each, presiding over a “District Court.” Each judge of the Supreme Court travels yearly to a part of the Republic to try important cases on site; such sessions are held in “Circuit Courts.” All the most serious disputes go before the Supreme Court, which meets formally once a year, attended by all the Circuit judges. Juries are used in the Federal Courts just as they are in State courts.

There is no real similarity between the U.S. Supreme Court and the French Cour de Cassation, which only reviews points of law on appeal. The Supreme Court considers both facts and law, whereas the Cour de Cassation does not decide cases but refers them to other courts for judgment. See the law of September 24, 1789, “Laws of the United States,” by Story, vol. i. .\]

Means Of Determining The Jurisdiction Of The Federal Courts

Difficulty of defining the jurisdiction of separate courts in federations—The courts of the Union obtained the right to define their own jurisdiction—How this affects the sovereignty of the States—The sovereignty of the States limited by the laws and by the interpretation of those laws—Thus, the States’ loss of power appears greater than it actually is.

Since the U.S. Constitution recognizes two distinct authorities, each represented by its own courts, even the greatest care in defining their separate jurisdictions could not prevent frequent disputes. The question then was: who should have the right to decide the jurisdiction of each court?

In countries that are a single political unit, if two courts clash over their respective jurisdictions, a third tribunal is available to settle the matter. This occurs easily enough, since such disputes do not affect the national sovereign’s authority. But it was impossible to set up a third authority between the Union's highest court and the highest court of a State that didn’t belong to either side. So, it was necessary to allow one set of courts to decide for themselves, to resolve disputes over their competence. Granting this right to State courts would have destroyed the Union’s actual sovereignty, after it was established in law; through constitutional interpretation, the States would soon reclaim independence the Constitution meant to remove. The purpose of the Federal tribunal was precisely to prevent State courts from settling national issues within their own boundaries, and to ensure uniform federal jurisprudence. This goal would not have been met if State courts had been free to decide cases on their own, whenever they could not do so as Federal judges. The Supreme Court of the United States was therefore given authority to determine all such jurisdictional questions. \*e

e
\[ To reduce the number of such cases, many Federal cases may be tried in the State courts as well as those of the Union, with appeals allowed to the U.S. Supreme Court. The Supreme Court of Virginia challenged the U.S. Supreme Court's right to hear appeals from its decisions, but failed. See “Kent’s Commentaries,” vol. i. et seq.; Story’s “Commentaries,” p. 646; and “The Organic Law of the United States,” vol. i. .\]

This seriously limited the independence of the States—not only by law, but also by how the law is interpreted; by a clear boundary and by one that is less certain; by a definite rule, and by an arbitrary one. It is true that the Constitution sets out the exact limits of Federal supremacy, but when a State questions this supremacy, a Federal court settles the issue. Still, the threats to State independence posed by this arrangement are less dire than they seem. We shall see later that, in America, the real power rests much more with the States than with the Federal Government. Federal judges are conscious of the relative weakness of the authority they represent, and are more likely to yield jurisdiction where it is just, rather than laying claim to powers to which they have no legal right.

## Different Cases Of Jurisdiction

The matter and the party are the first requirements for Federal jurisdiction—Suits involving ambassadors—Suits involving the Union—Or a separate State—Who presides over them—Cases arising from the laws of the Union—Why they are judged by Federal courts—Cases relating to contracts tried by Federal courts—Consequences of this arrangement.

After establishing the means for determining the authority of the Federal courts, the lawmakers of the Union defined the cases that would fall within their jurisdiction. On one hand, it was decided that certain parties must always come before the Federal courts, regardless of the case's specific nature. On the other hand, certain cases must always be decided by those courts, regardless of who the parties are. These distinctions were therefore recognized as the foundation of Federal jurisdiction.

Ambassadors are representatives of nations friendly to the Union, and anything concerning these individuals in some way concerns the entire Union. When an ambassador is involved in a case, that case affects the nation's well-being, and a Federal tribunal is naturally suited to decide it.

The Union itself may be engaged in legal proceedings, and in such cases it would be against the customs of all nations and against common sense to refer the matter to any other sovereign tribunal; the Federal courts, therefore, have jurisdiction over these matters.

When two parties from two different States are involved in a lawsuit, it would not be appropriate to bring the case before either State's courts. The best solution is to use a tribunal like that of the Union, which cannot be suspected of favoritism by either party, and which offers both a natural and a reliable remedy.

When the two parties are not private individuals but States, an important political concern is added to the same reasoning of fairness. The status of the parties in such cases gives national significance to their disputes—and even the smallest litigation between States could be said to endanger the peace of the entire Union. \*f

f  
\[ The Constitution also states that the Federal courts shall decide “controversies between a State and the citizens of another State.” This gave rise to a crucial constitutional question: did the jurisdiction granted by the Constitution in cases where a State is a party extend to lawsuits brought against a State, as well as by it, or was it only meant for those brought by a State? The matter was deeply considered in Chisholm v. Georgia, where the majority of the Supreme Court decided in the affirmative. This decision caused widespread concern among the States, and an amendment was proposed and ratified that completely removed this power, at least regarding suits brought against a State. See Story’s “Commentaries,” p. 624, or in the large edition Section 1677.\]

The type of case often determines which court is competent. For example, all questions relating to maritime commerce clearly fall under the purview of the Federal courts. \*g Almost all such questions require interpreting the law of nations, and in this way, they directly interest the Union in matters concerning foreign powers. Furthermore, since the sea is not part of any particular State's jurisdiction, only the national courts can handle cases that arise from maritime affairs.

g  
\[ For example, all cases of piracy.\]

The Constitution organizes almost all cases that, by their nature, belong under the jurisdiction of the Federal courts into one category. Its rule is simple, but it holds an entire system of ideas and a countless array of facts. It declares that the judicial power of the Supreme Court will extend to all cases in law and equity arising under the laws of the United States.

Two examples will best explain the intention of the lawmakers:

The Constitution forbids the States from creating laws regarding the value and circulation of money. If, despite this prohibition, a State passes such a law and affected parties refuse to comply because it contradicts the Constitution, the case must be brought before a Federal court, since it arises under the laws of the United States. Similarly, if there are disagreements over collecting import duties passed by Congress, the Federal court must decide, since the case concerns the interpretation of a law of the United States.

This rule is fully consistent with the core principles of the Federal Constitution. The Union, as formed in 1789, does indeed have limited supremacy; but within its sphere, it was intended to function as a single people. \*h Within those boundaries, the Union is sovereign. Once this point is recognized, one can easily conclude that if the United States are considered one people within the limits set by their Constitution, they cannot be refused the rights held by any other nation. Since time immemorial, every nation has had the right to decide, in its own courts, any matter concerning the implementation of its laws. Some argue that the Union is in a unique position, acting as a nation in some matters, and being a nonentity in others. Even so, it follows that in matters reserved for the Union by the Constitution, it holds all the rights of absolute sovereignty. The challenge is knowing exactly what those matters are; but once that is settled (and I've shown how this is determined by defining the Federal courts' jurisdiction), no confusion remains. If it is established that a suit is Federal—that is, that it belongs to the portion of sovereignty reserved to the Union by the Constitution—it naturally follows that it should be tried in a Federal court.

h  
\[ This principle was somewhat limited by bringing the several States in as independent powers in the Senate, and by letting them vote separately in the House of Representatives when the President is chosen by that body. Still, these are exceptions, and the general principle is the rule.\]

Whenever the laws of the United States are challenged, or used as a defense, the Federal courts must be appealed to. Thus, the authority of the Union’s courts expands or contracts according to how much sovereignty the Union possesses. We have shown that the main goal of the legislators of 1789 was to split sovereign power into two parts: One governing the general interests of the Union, the other the special interests of the individual States. Their chief concern was to give the Federal Government enough power to resist encroachments by the States, within its proper sphere. For the States, an independence within certain boundaries was set; they were shielded from oversight and protected from control by the central Government. When discussing the division of authority, I noted that this principle was not always strictly maintained, since States are forbidden from passing some laws that would seem to belong to their own area of interest. When a State passes such a law, its citizens who are harmed by it can seek recourse in the Federal courts.

Therefore, the Federal courts’ jurisdiction covers not only all cases arising under the laws of the Union, but also those arising from laws made by the States that contradict the Constitution. States are banned from making ex post facto laws in criminal cases, and anyone convicted under such a law can appeal to the judicial power of the Union. States are also prevented from passing laws that could impair the obligations of contracts. \*i If a citizen believes a law passed in his State impairs such an obligation, he can refuse to comply and appeal to the Federal courts. \*j

i  
\[ Mr. Story says very clearly (“Commentaries,” p. 503, or in the large edition Section 1379) that any law which enlarges, limits, or in any way alters what the parties intended in a contract necessarily impairs it. He also provides a detailed definition of what counts as a contract in Federal law. For instance, a grant by the State to a private person, which is accepted, is a contract and cannot be revoked by any later law. A charter from the State to a company is also a contract and binds the State as much as the recipient. The clause in the Constitution referred to here thus secures many acquired rights, though not all. Property can be held legally even if it has not been acquired by contract; its possession is still an acquired right that the Federal Constitution does not guarantee.\]

j  
\[ Mr. Story gives a notable example (p. 508, or in the large edition Section 1388): “Dartmouth College in New Hampshire had been founded by a charter granted to some individuals before the American Revolution, and its trustees formed a corporation under this charter. The New Hampshire legislature, without the corporation’s consent, passed an act changing the original colonial charter and transferring all rights, privileges, and franchises from the old trustees to new trustees under the act. After much debate, the Supreme Court held that the colonial charter was a contract under the Constitution (Art. I. Section 10) and that the amending act was void for impairing that contract’s obligations. The college, like other privately founded colleges, was a private charitable institution, endowed by its charter with the ability to accept property unrelated to the Government. Its funds were given in trust of the charter, consisting totally of private donations. While the uses of the college were public in some sense, for general benefit rather than only for the corporators, this did not make the college a public corporation. It was a private institution for general charity, similar to a private trust for a public cause. The State itself, if it had given funds to such a charity, could not reclaim those funds.”\]

This provision seems to me to be the most significant attack on the independence of the States. The powers given to the Federal Government for clear national interests are specific and understandable; but those given by the final clause are neither easy to define nor to limit. Many political laws affect contract obligations, and these could easily be used as a pretense for central authority overreach.

##  Chapter VIII: The Federal Constitution—Part IV

### Procedure Of The Federal Courts

Natural weakness of judicial power in confederations—Legislators should strive as much as possible to bring private individuals, not States, before the Federal Courts—How the Americans accomplished this—Direct prosecution of private individuals in Federal Courts—Indirect prosecution of States that violate Union laws—The decisions of the Supreme Court weaken but do not destroy state laws.

I have shown what the privileges of the Federal courts are, and it is just as important to explain how they are exercised. The undeniable authority of justice in countries with undivided sovereignty comes from the fact that the courts represent the entire nation in opposition to the individual against whom their decree is directed; thus, the idea of power reinforces the idea of right. But this is not always the case in countries where sovereignty is divided; there, judicial power is more frequently set against a segment of the nation rather than just an individual, so its moral authority and actual strength are reduced. In federal States, the authority of the judge naturally decreases, while that of the litigating parties increases. Therefore, in confederate States, the legislator’s aim should be to make the position of the courts as similar as possible to their role in countries with undivided sovereignty—in other words, to ensure that the federal judicial branch continues to represent the nation, while the party before it represents a private interest.

Every government, whatever its constitution, needs the ability to compel its members to fulfill their obligations and to protect its privileges from being violated. Regarding the direct action of the Government on society, the Constitution of the United States ingeniously arranged, with remarkable foresight, that the federal courts, acting by the authority of the law, should take cognizance only of parties in their individual capacities. Because the Union was declared to consist of one people within the Constitution's limits, the government created by this Constitution, operating within those limits, was given all the privileges of a national government—chief among them, the right to address its orders directly to individual citizens. For example, when the Union imposes a tax, it does not ask the States to collect it, but applies directly to each American citizen in proportion to his assessment. The Supreme Court, empowered to enforce Union law, does not act against a defiant State, but against the private taxpayer; like the judiciary in other nations, it acts against individuals. The Union gets to choose its adversary; and since that adversary is weak, it is easy to prevail.

But the situation becomes more complicated when proceedings are directed not by the Union, but against it. The Constitution recognizes the legislative power of the States; and a law adopted by a State might infringe on the Union’s privileges, leading to inevitable conflict between the Union and the State that passed the law. Then, the only thing left is to choose the least dangerous course of action—a solution that follows directly from principles I have previously established. *k

k
\[ See Chapter VI. on “Judicial Power in America.”\]

One might think that, in such a case, the Union could sue the State before a Federal court, which would then annul the State act—in other words, take a straightforward legal approach. However, this would place the Federal judiciary in open conflict with the State, an outcome to be avoided if possible. Americans believe that it's nearly impossible for any new law not to damage some individual’s interests. The legislators, therefore, use these private interests as grounds to challenge measures that may harm the Union, and it is to these cases that the Supreme Court extends its protection.

Suppose a State sells some of its land to a company, and a year later passes a law disposing of the same land differently, in violation of the Constitution's clause prohibiting laws impairing the obligation of contracts. When the new purchaser tries to take possession, the original owner sues in the Union courts and invalidates the new claimant’s title. *l In reality, the judiciary is contesting the authority of a State, but it only does so indirectly, in response to a specific case; it challenges the law’s effects, not its principle. Thus, it undermines but does not fully overturn the law.

l
\[ See Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. .\]

The remaining scenario was that each State is a corporation with its own legal identity and civil rights, and could therefore sue or be sued in court. So, a State could bring a suit against another State. In such cases, the Union is not challenging a State law, but is simply serving as the venue for a suit between States. This is just like any other case, except for the status of the parties involved—and here, the danger noted at the beginning of this chapter is harder to avoid. The fundamental problem of federal constitutions is that they create parties within the nation who may strongly impede the smooth course of justice.

High Rank Of The Supreme Court Amongst The Great Powers Of State No nation has ever established a judiciary as powerful as the Americans have—Scope of its authority—Its political role—The tranquility and very existence of the Union rely on the judgment of the seven Federal Judges.

Once we have reviewed in detail how the Supreme Court is organized, and its extensive powers, we see that no people have ever established a more impressive judicial body. The Supreme Court stands above all other known courts, both by virtue of its rights and the kinds of parties whose disputes it judges.

In civilized European countries the government has always been very reluctant to let ordinary courts resolve cases in which the government itself is a party. This reluctance is strongest in absolute governments; but as public liberties grow, so do the privileges of the courts—though in no European country has it been accepted that all judicial controversies, no matter their origin, can be settled by the regular courts.

In America, this concept has actually been realized: the United States Supreme Court is the nation’s sole court for all such matters. Its authority covers all cases arising under laws and treaties made by the executive and legislative branches; all admiralty and maritime matters; and, in general, all issues concerning international law. In fact, while the Court’s structure is essentially judicial, its powers are largely political. Its primary function is to enforce federal law; and the federal government deals only with relationships between itself and its citizens, and between the nation and foreign powers. Most relations among citizens themselves are governed almost exclusively by the States’ authority.

There is another, even greater reason for the Court’s preeminence. In European nations, courts usually only handle disputes between private individuals; but the U.S. Supreme Court can call sovereign entities to appear before it. When the court clerk announces, “The State of New York versus the State of Ohio,” it’s clear that the court being addressed is no ordinary tribunal. When you realize that one party stands for a million people, and the other for two million, the magnitude of the responsibility entrusted to the seven judges—whose verdict will satisfy or disappoint such a vast number—is evident.

The peace, prosperity, and even the continued existence of the Union are held in the hands of these seven judges. Without their active support, the Constitution would be meaningless: the Executive turns to them for protection against legislative overreach; the Legislature seeks their protection from Executive schemes; they defend the Union from the States’ disobedience, the States from excessive claims by the Union, the public from private interests, and the stability of order against fleeting democratic trends. Their power is immense, yet it is grounded in public opinion. They are powerful guardians of a law-abiding people—yet would be powerless if the public grew indifferent or scornful. Public opinion is the most uncontrollable force, since its boundaries cannot be precisely determined; and it is as risky to overstep as to fall short of its limits.

Federal judges must not only be good citizens with the knowledge and integrity essential for magistrates, but also be statesmen—politicians alert to the times, unafraid to confront conquerable obstacles, and capable of deflecting any threats to the Union’s supremacy and the respect due to law.

The President, holding a limited role, can make mistakes without bringing great harm to the State. Congress may also err without destroying the Union, since its errors can be remedied by changes in its members through elections. But if the Supreme Court ever consists of reckless or unprincipled men, the Union could descend into anarchy or civil war.

The real source of this danger, however, does not lie in the structure of the court, but in the very nature of federal governments. As we have seen, it is especially crucial in confederations to strengthen the judiciary, as nowhere else do independent individuals exist in such numbers or with so much power to resist the government. But the more a power must be reinforced, the more broad and independent it must become; and the risks that its misuse could bring are heightened by its independence and strength. So the root of the issue lies not in how this authority is organized, but in the nature of the States that make such an authority necessary.

In What Respects The Federal Constitution Is Superior To That Of The States

How the Constitution of the Union compares to State Constitutions—The superiority of the Union’s Constitution is attributable to the wisdom of the Federal legislators—The Union's legislature is less dependent on popular will than in the States—Executive power is more independent—Judicial power is less subject to majority influence—Practical results of these facts—Dangers inherent to democracy avoided by Federal lawmakers, but increased by State lawmakers.

The Federal Constitution differs greatly from State Constitutions in its objectives, but there is a greater similarity in the means used to achieve them. The governments have different purposes, but the same structures; so from this viewpoint it is useful to compare them.

I believe that the Federal Constitution is superior to any State Constitution, for several reasons.

The current Constitution of the Union was created later than most State Constitutions, and may have benefitted from their experience. But this is really a minor cause of its superiority, as since the Federal Constitution was adopted, eleven new States *n have joined the American Confederation, and these new republics have generally exaggerated rather than corrected the defects of earlier Constitutions.

n
\[ \[The number of States has now risen to 46 (1874), besides the District of Columbia.\]\]

The main source of the Federal Constitution’s superiority was the character of the legislators who created it. When it was written, the Confederation was in imminent danger, and its destruction seemed unavoidable. In this crisis, the people chose those most worthy of the country’s esteem, rather than those most popular. As I have already said, almost all the Union’s legislators stood out not just for their intelligence, but even more for their patriotism. They had been raised in a time when liberty was forged by a constant struggle against overwhelming power. Once the fight ended, while the excited public kept battling dangers that no longer existed, these men stopped; they calmly and carefully surveyed the country that was now theirs. They understood that the war for independence was truly over, and the only threats America now faced were those that could result from abusing the freedom it had secured. They had the courage to speak honestly, driven by sincere love for liberty; and they dared to propose limits, because they were firmly against anarchy. *o

o
\[ At this time Alexander Hamilton, who was one of the principal founders of the Constitution, ventured to express the following sentiments in “The Federalist,” No. 71:—

“There are some who might be inclined to see the Executive’s willingness to follow the dominant mood of the community or the Legislature as its chief virtue. However, such people have a very shallow understanding, both of the purpose of government and of the ways public happiness can truly be fostered. The Republican principle requires that those entrusted with managing the people’s affairs should act according to the considered will of the community; but it does not demand blind obedience to every sudden passion, or every passing impulse that may come from those who flatter popular prejudices to betray the general interest. It is a fair observation that the people generally intend the public good—this often even applies to their mistakes. Yet their good sense would scorn anyone who pretended that they always reason correctly about how to achieve that end. They know from experience they sometimes make mistakes; indeed, it’s remarkable how seldom this occurs, considering how constantly they are surrounded by parasites and flatterers, the schemes of the ambitious, the greedy, the reckless; and the tricks of those who possess their trust more than they deserve—or who seek such trust rather than to earn it. When the people’s interests conflict with their immediate desires, it becomes the duty of their chosen guardians to resist temporary delusions, allowing time for cooler, more considered reflection. There are examples where such courage has saved the people from disastrous consequences of their own errors and earned lasting gratitude for those who braved their displeasure to serve them truly.”\]

Most State Constitutions limit the House of Representatives’ term to one year, and the Senate’s to two; so that legislators are always held tightly to the immediate wishes of their constituents. The framers of the Union believed this extreme dependence of the Legislature changed the very nature and main results of the representative system, by making the ultimate source of not just authority, but government itself, the people. They extended the terms of federal representatives, to allow them more freedom to exercise independent judgment.

The Federal Constitution, like the State Constitutions, divided the legislative branch into two houses. However, in the States, both houses were made up of similar kinds of members, chosen in the same way. As a result, the passions and desires of the people were reflected just as quickly and energetically in both chambers, and laws tended to be made with haste and emotion. Under the Federal Constitution, both houses also originate with the people’s choice; but the qualifications and method of election differ, so that even if both houses represent the same interests—like in some countries—one at least reflects a higher level of intelligence and prudence. A higher age requirement was set for senators, and the Upper House was chosen by an elected assembly with fewer members.

Democracies naturally tend to concentrate all social force in the legislative branch, since it is the one most directly chosen by the people, and thus participates most in the majority’s authority and seeks to gather every kind of influence. This concentration is harmful to good administration and encourages majority tyranny. State legislators often gave in to such democratic tendencies, but the founders of the Union persistently and bravely resisted them.

In the States, executive power is held by a magistrate who seems to be on equal footing with the Legislature, but in practice is merely its blind agent and passive instrument. He gains no true influence from the length of his term—typically just one year—or from powers that barely exist. The Legislature can effectively immobilize him by assigning execution of laws to its own committees, and can undermine his already weak authority by withholding his salary. By contrast, the Federal Constitution assigns all privileges and responsibility of the executive branch to one person. The President serves for four years; his pay cannot be changed during his term; he is supported by a group of appointed officials, and has the power to veto legislation temporarily. Essentially, every measure was taken to give the executive a strong, independent role—within defined limits.

Under all State Constitutions, the judiciary is the most independent of the three powers; yet still, in every State, the Legislature has kept control over judicial salaries, putting judges under its immediate influence. In some States, judges serve only temporarily, depriving them of much of their power and independence. In other States, legislative and judicial powers overlap completely; for example, in New York, the Senate sometimes acts as the Superior Court of the State. The Federal Constitution, in contrast, carefully separates judicial authority from outside influence; it guarantees judges’ salaries cannot be altered, and that their positions cannot be taken away.

It is easy to see the practical effects of these different systems. An attentive observer will quickly notice that the affairs of the Union are managed far better than those of any single State. The Federal Government’s conduct is fairer and more moderate, its plans are wiser, more lasting, and better devised, and its policies are executed with greater vigor and consistency.

To sum up the chapter: Democracies suffer from two main dangers—complete submission of the Legislature to the whims of the voters, and the concentration of all government power in the Legislature. These problems have been worsened by the actions of State legislators, but the federal framers worked hard to oppose them with every means at their disposal.

### Characteristics Which Distinguish The Federal Constitution Of The United States Of America From All Other Federal Constitutions

#### The American Union seems to resemble all other confederations—But its effects differ—Why this is—Distinctions between the Union and all other confederations—The American Government is not a federal but an imperfect national Government.

The United States is not the first, nor the only example of confederate States; several have existed in modern Europe, not including those of ancient times. Switzerland, the Germanic Empire, and the Republic of the United Provinces are, or have been, confederations. In studying their constitutions, a politician will be surprised to find that the powers given to their central governments nearly match those given to the U.S. Government. They grant the central authority rights to make peace and war, raise money and troops, and address national needs and interests. Yet the governments of these confederations have always been notably weak and ineffective, while the U.S. federal government has been vigorous and ambitious. The first American Confederation fell apart due to its government’s extreme weakness—even though it actually had broader powers than today’s federal government. However, the newer U.S. Constitution contains unique principles that have a deep impact, even if not immediately obvious.

While on the surface this Constitution may seem similar to earlier federations, it is based on a new theory—a great breakthrough in modern political science. In all previous confederations formed before America’s Constitution of 1789, allied states agreed to follow a federal government’s orders, but kept for themselves the right to carry out and enforce federal laws. In 1789, the American States agreed that the federal government should not only make the laws, but also execute them directly. The rights involved were the same, but the way they were exercised differed; this made an enormous difference.

In all previous confederations, the federal government had to ask the member states for money and troops; if its demands were burdensome to any state, those states had ways to get around them. A powerful state might resort to arms; a weaker state might simply ignore resistance to the union’s law and call itself unable to act. In such systems, one of two things nearly always happens: either the strongest member takes on the federal authority’s powers and rules the others in its name, \*p or the federal government loses the support of its members, which results in anarchy among the confederates and total government inaction. \*q

p
\[ This happened in Greece, with Philip enforcing the Amphictyons’ decree; in the Low Countries, where Holland dominated; and in modern times, in the Germanic Confederation, where Austria and Prussia have much influence over the country via the Diet.\]

q
\[ This has always been the case for the Swiss Confederation, which would have collapsed long ago if not for the distrust among its neighbors.\]

In America, the subjects of the Union are not states, but individuals: the national government levies taxes not on Massachusetts itself, but on each resident of Massachusetts. Whereas all prior federations governed member communities, the Union governs individuals directly. Its power is not borrowed, but its own; enforced through its own civil and military officers, its own army, and its own courts. Granted, the spirit of the nation, the shifting passions of the masses, and every state’s local pride naturally work to undermine a federal power so structured, making resistance easier; but the relative weakness of federal sovereignty is a built-in flaw of all federations. In the U.S., states have fewer opportunities and incentives to resist; noncompliance would require openly breaking federal law, disrupting justice, and essentially declaring rebellion—a drastic step most will hesitate to take.

In previous confederations, the union’s claimed rights created more discord than power; they multiplied obligations without supplying the means to enforce them. Thus, federal governments were usually weakest when their rights seemed strongest. This is not the case in the American Union, where, as in most governments, federal power can be enforced wherever allowed.

Human understanding finds it easier to invent new things than new words, which means we are stuck using many imprecise terms. When different nations form a lasting alliance and create a supreme authority, which, though less powerful than a true national government, acts on the collective states, this unique system is called Federal. Later, there arises another form, where several peoples become, in crucial matters, a single nation, even though they remain separate or partially connected in other areas. In this case, the central power acts on those it governs as a national government does, but over a smaller range. The term Federal Government no longer fits this arrangement, which should be called an incomplete national Government—a new form, for which we still lack a proper term.

The lack of this new kind of confederation is why all previous unions have ended in civil war, subjugation, or stagnation. Peoples involved in such leagues have either been too dull to see, or too timid to apply, this solution. The first American Confederation failed for the same reasons.

But the American Confederate States had long been part of one empire before gaining independence; they had not become used to ruling themselves, and local prejudices had not deeply taken hold. More advanced in political knowledge than other nations, and sharing it equally among themselves, they were less swayed by the passions that usually limit federal power, and those impulses were restrained by the wisdom of key leaders. Americans applied the necessary remedy with steady resolve as soon as they recognized the problem; they reformed their laws, and preserved their nation.

##  Chapter VIII: The Federal Constitution—Part V

Advantages Of The Federal System In General, And Its Special Utility In America.

Happiness and freedom of small nations—Power of great nations—Great empires foster the growth of civilization—Strength often the primary factor of national prosperity—Aim of the Federal system is to combine the advantages of both small and large territories—Advantages gained by the United States from this system—The law adapts itself to the needs of the people; the people are not forced to conform to the demands of the law—Activity, progress, and love and enjoyment of freedom in American communities—Public spirit of the Union is the collective form of local patriotism—Ideas and goods move freely throughout the United States—The Union is as happy and free as a small nation and as respected as a great empire.

In small nations, society’s scrutiny reaches every part, and the spirit of improvement touches even the smallest details; as the ambition of the people is naturally limited by their lack of power, all the efforts and resources of the citizens are directed inward for the community’s benefit, rather than dissipated in the fleeting pursuit of glory. The ambitions of individuals are modest, as exceptional abilities are rare. The equal distribution of wealth makes for uniform living conditions and simple, orderly habits among the people. Thus, if we measure popular morality and enlightenment, we usually find that small nations have more people living comfortably, a larger overall population compared to their size, and a calmer society than great empires.

When tyranny arises in a small nation, it is more oppressive than elsewhere because, acting within a small circle, its influence touches every point directly. Lacking grand projects to pursue, it meddles in petty details with a harsh or vexing hand; it abandons governing only the public sphere to interfere with private life. It prescribes tastes as well as actions, regulating both families and state matters as it pleases. This violation of rights is rare, however, and true freedom is the natural state of small communities. The government is not tempting enough for ambitious individuals, nor do private citizens have the resources to seize power easily; and if such a rise to power ever happens, the people can readily unite to overthrow the tyrant and end oppression.

Small nations have therefore always been the birthplace of political liberty; and the fact that many lost their freedoms only when they expanded in size shows that what they enjoyed was due more to their smallness than to special virtue.

History contains no example of a large nation maintaining a republican form of government for a long period, \*r and this has led to the belief that such a situation is impossible. Personally, I find it reckless to define the limits of possibility and judge the future, especially since humans are so often fooled by the obvious and surprised by the familiar. Yet it is safe to say that a large republic will always face much greater dangers than a small one.

r
\[ I do not speak of a confederation of small republics, but of a great consolidated Republic.\]

All the dangers most harmful to republics spread more as the country grows, while the virtues that sustain them do not grow at the same rate. Ambition rises with state power; parties grow in strength as their goals become more important; but dedication to the public good—which best restrains destructive passions—is not stronger in a large republic than in a small one. Indeed, it might be shown that the devotion to the common good is weaker and less genuine in larger republics. The pride of the rich and the depression of the poor, sprawling capital cities, looser morals, widespread selfishness, and tangled interests are the almost inevitable problems of large states. Many of these are hardly harmful to monarchies; some even support their survival. In monarchies, the government's power is its own; it may use the people, but it does not rely on them, and royal authority grows with national prosperity. But a republic’s only safeguard against these dangers is the backing of the majority. This support, however, is not greater in large republics than small ones; so, while opportunities for attack constantly grow in size and impact, the country’s defenses remain the same, or actually weaken: with more people, there are more varied interests and desires, making it harder to form a cohesive majority. Furthermore, strong feelings spread not just because the stakes are higher, but because so many people share them at once. Everyone has noticed how emotions run high in crowds, far more than they would in private. In great republics, the energy behind political passions becomes overwhelming—because the goals are vast and because millions feel them together.

This leads to the general principle that nothing is more opposed to human happiness and freedom than vast empires. Nevertheless, the unique advantages of large nations must be recognized. The same intensity that makes people thirst for power in these countries also makes the desire for glory brighter in those who value the approval of a great people as the highest reward and a powerful motivation. The secret to why large nations promote civilization more than small states lies in the swift and vigorous flow of ideas, and in major cities that become focal points where all forms of human talent meet. Add to this that significant discoveries often require resources and efforts beyond the capacity of small states; in large nations, government leaders are exposed to broader concepts and less bound by tradition and local biases, so their plans are created with greater talent and carried out with more courage.

During peacetime, small nations do enjoy more widespread prosperity, but they suffer more sharply during war than great empires, whose far-off borders may delay danger for many years and where threats may trouble, but rarely destroy, the core population.

However, as in so many things, necessity overrides other arguments. If only small nations existed, I do not doubt that humanity would be happier and freer; but the existence of great nations cannot be avoided.

This raises physical strength as an essential factor in national success. There is little benefit in being wealthy and free if constantly threatened by invasion or domination; trade and manufacturing mean little if another nation controls the seas and trade rules. Small nations suffer not simply from their size, but from their weakness; great empires thrive more because they are strong than merely because they are large. Physical power is one of the first requirements for a nation’s happiness—even its survival. That is why, unless unique conditions are present, small nations often end up joining large empires, whether by force or choice: and nothing is more pitiable than a nation unable to defend or sustain its independence.

The Federal system was designed to combine the advantages of both small and large nations, and a glance at the United States of America quickly reveals the benefits they have gained from it.

In large centralized countries, legislators must try to make laws uniform, often ignoring the specific customs and needs of different regions; since they cannot account for particularities, they rely only on general rules. The people must therefore adjust to the law, which cannot adapt to them—leading to constant hardship and dissatisfaction. This problem does not happen in federations. Congress handles the major issues of national government, while all the details of administration are managed by local legislatures. The way sovereignty is divided greatly benefits every State in the Union. In these local communities, which are not troubled by dreams of conquest or self-defense, all public and private resources go to improving internal conditions. The central government of each State, being close to its citizens, is always aware of society’s needs. New projects are introduced each year, debated at local meetings or by State legislatures, and spread by the press to awaken enthusiasm and interest. This spirit of betterment is always strong in American republics, yet it does not threaten their peace; the drive for power gives way to the safer, less ambitious pursuit of comfort. In America, people generally agree that the survival of republican government in the New World depends on the federal system; it is often argued that part of the trouble faced by the new South American countries was due to building large republics rather than a decentralized, confederate government.

It is certainly true that the love and habits of republican government in the United States developed first in local town meetings and assemblies. In a small State like Connecticut, where building a canal or road is a big event, where there is no army or foreign war, and where neither wealth nor honor can be showered upon a few citizens, no government suits better than a republic. And these very republican values, cultivated in the different States, are then applied to the nation as a whole. The public spirit of the nation essentially sums up the local patriotism of the states. Every American pours his love for his small republic into the common pool of American patriotism. When defending the Union, he is also defending his own district’s prosperity, self-determination, and the hope of passing measures that support his interests; these are motives that more readily move people than the abstract good or fame of the nation.

On the other hand, if the people’s character and habits suit the establishment of a strong republic, the federal system overcomes the typical obstacles to building one. The union of all the American States avoids the problems that usually arise in such populous communities. The Union is a vast republic by size, but because its government manages relatively few affairs, it is more like a small state. Its actions matter, but they are not frequent. Because federal authority is limited and incomplete, it is not incompatible with liberty; it does not arouse the wild cravings for fame and power that ruined great republics in history. There is no single capital; there are no huge cities or extreme poverty and wealth, nor sudden revolutions. Political passions, instead of sweeping the country in destructive waves, are checked by local interests and concerns.

All the same, goods and ideas move throughout the Union as easily as within a single nation. Nothing restrains enterprise. Government draws on all local talent and expertise. Within the Union’s borders there is deep internal peace, as within a great empire; and internationally, it stands as one of the most powerful nations. Two thousand miles of coastline are open to world trade, and possessing the keys to global commerce, its flag is respected in distant seas. The Union is as happy and as free as a small nation, but as famous and strong as a great one.

Why The Federal System Is Not Adapted To All Peoples, And How The Anglo-Americans Were Enabled To Adopt It.

Every Federal system contains flaws that even the best laws cannot fix—The Federal system is complicated—It requires daily use of judgment by citizens—Americans commonly possess practical knowledge of government—Relative weakness of the Union’s government is another inherent flaw in the Federal system—Americans have mitigated but not removed it—The authority of the individual States appears weaker but is actually stronger than that of the Union—Why?—Natural causes of unity must exist between confederated peoples, not just legal arrangements—These causes among the Anglo-Americans—Maine and Georgia, a thousand miles apart, are more naturally united than Normandy and Brittany—War is the main danger for confederations—The United States is proof of this—The Union faces no major wars—Why?—Dangers Europeans would face if they copied the Americans’ Federal system.

When a legislator manages, after diligent effort, to guide the destiny of nations, people praise his genius; but in truth, the country’s geography, its unplanned social structure, the character and customs of its people, and its unknown origins all have such powerful influence that the legislator is ultimately swept along, unable to steer events as much as he would like. Like a sailor, he may steer the ship, but he cannot redesign it or command the weather or the waves beneath him.

I have described the benefits Americans gain from their federal system; I must now point out the unique historical and social factors that made it work for them, since not every nation can enjoy its advantages. The incidental drawbacks of federalism that come from laws can be improved by wise lawmakers, but other disadvantages are built into the system and cannot be avoided. Countries must be strong enough to handle these inherent difficulties.

The most obvious problem of all federal systems is the complexity of their mechanisms. Two sovereign authorities always stand side by side. The legislator may try to simplify or clearly define the roles of each, but cannot fuse them into one or prevent conflicts. Federal government is, therefore, fundamentally complex, requiring citizens to use good judgment every day.

For an idea to gain popular acceptance, it must be clear. A simple, even false, principle will always win more supporters than a true but unclear one. That is why political parties—which are communities within the nation—always adopt some label or principle that does not truly represent their goals or means, but which is necessary for their unity and operation. Governments based on a single clear idea or feeling may not be best, but they are definitely the strongest and most long-lasting.

Examining the United States Constitution, the most complete federal constitution ever made, it is striking how much knowledge and judgment is assumed in the population. The government of the Union relies entirely on legal fictions; the Union itself is an abstract concept, existing only in the mind, whose boundaries and authority can be understood only through careful thinking.

Even once the general idea is understood, many practical difficulties remain in carrying it out; federal and state authority are so intertwined it is hard to see immediately where one ends and the other begins. The whole system is artificial and conventional; it would not suit a population not used to governing itself or a society where political knowledge has not reached every class. I was never more impressed by American common sense and practical skill than in the clever ways they deal with the many difficulties that arise from their Federal Constitution. I rarely met an ordinary American who could not easily tell the difference between requirements created by federal law and those made by state law; and who, after distinguishing between matters handled by the Union and those by the state, could not point out the lines dividing federal and state courts.

The Constitution of the United States is like a fine invention that brings wealth and fame to its creator, but which is useless when copied by others. This is demonstrated by the current situation in Mexico. The Mexicans wanted a federal system and chose the United States’ Constitution as their model, copying it quite closely. \*s But though they inherited the letter of the law, they could not create the spirit and practical understanding necessary to make it work. They became entangled in constant confusion between the functioning of their two levels of government; the authority of the states and of the union regularly exceeded their boundaries and clashed; and even today, Mexico swings between anarchy and military dictatorship.

s
\[ See the Mexican Constitution of 1824.\]

The second and most serious flaw I have mentioned, and which I believe is inherent in federal systems, is the relative weakness of the Union’s government. All confederations are based on shared sovereignty. Lawmakers may try to make this division less apparent, or even hide it temporarily, but they cannot eliminate it: divided sovereignty is always weaker than absolute sovereignty. As shown in my remarks on the U.S. Constitution, the Americans have shown remarkable ingenuity in limiting the Union’s power while giving it the appearance—and to a certain extent the actual force—of a national government. In this way, the Union’s framers have reduced, though not eliminated, the natural dangers of federalism.

It has been noted that the American Government does not primarily address the States, but instead communicates its directives directly to the citizens, compelling them as individuals to comply. However, if Federal law were to conflict with the interests or sentiments of a State, there is reason to fear that all the citizens of that State might consider themselves stakeholders in the cause of a single individual who refused to obey. If every citizen of the State were to be harmed at the same time and in the same way by the authority of the Union, the Federal Government would find it futile to attempt to subdue them individually; instead, they would instinctively unite in common defense, drawing upon the structured organization granted by their share in their State’s sovereignty. Legal fiction would give way to reality, and an organized section of the territory could then confront the central authority. \*t The same applies to Federal jurisdiction. If the courts of the Union were to violate a significant State law in a private case, the real, if not the apparent, conflict would be between the aggrieved State, represented by a citizen, and the Union, as represented by its courts. \*u

t
\[ \[This is precisely what occurred in 1862, and the following paragraph describes correctly the feelings and mindset of the South. General Lee believed his primary loyalty was owed not to the Union, but to Virginia.\]\]

u
\[ For example, the Union, by the Constitution, has the right to sell unoccupied lands for its own benefit. Suppose Ohio claimed the same right for certain lands within its boundaries, arguing that the Constitution refers only to those lands which don’t fall under any State’s jurisdiction and thus should choose to manage those lands itself. The legal dispute would occur between those who purchased land from Ohio and those who purchased from the Union, not in the names of Ohio and the Union themselves. But what would become of this legal fiction if the Federal purchaser were favored by the Union's courts, while the other party was ordered to retain possession by the courts of Ohio?\]

It would be naive to imagine that legal fictions can prevent people from finding and using means to fulfill their passions wherever possible; and it is debatable whether American lawmakers, by making collisions between the two sovereign powers less likely, actually removed the underlying causes of such conflicts. It might even be asserted that they could not guarantee the dominance of the Federal authority in such circumstances. The Union has money and troops, but the heart and sympathies of the people lie within the States. The Union’s sovereignty is an abstract thing, tied to few tangible objects; the sovereignty of the States is ever-present, easily understood, and constantly active; and while the Union’s is relatively new, the States’ authority goes back to the founding of the people. The sovereignty of the Union is artificial; that of the States is natural, arising simply from its familiar influence, like the authority of a parent. The nation’s supreme power only affects a few primary interests; it represents a vast but distant country, and asks for a form of patriotism that can feel vague; but the States’ authority touches every individual at all times, protecting property, liberty, and life. Given the traditions, customs, and strong local loyalties tied to it, we must recognize the strength of a power so tightly bound to everything that makes love for one’s homeland a natural human feeling.

Since lawmakers cannot prevent the dangerous collisions that arise between the two forms of sovereignty coexisting in the federal system, their primary goal must be not just to deter the confederate States from warfare, but to foster institutions that support peace. The Federal union cannot endure unless the communities it binds together have enough shared interests to make interdependence desirable and government less burdensome; this system cannot succeed without favorable conditions alongside sound laws. Every group that has formed a confederation has remained united by certain shared interests that serve as mental or social bonds.

But human sentiments and principles must be considered alongside practical interests. Some degree of uniform civilization is as necessary for the survival of a confederation as a commonality of interests among its component States. In Switzerland, the difference between the Canton of Uri and the Canton of Vaud is as great as that between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries; in truth, Switzerland has never really had a federal government. The union between these two cantons is mostly theoretical, and their differences would quickly emerge if a central authority tried to legislate for the whole territory.

One of the main reasons the Federal Government in America stands strong is that the States not only share common interests, a common origin, and common language, but have also reached a similar stage of civilization—conditions that generally make union possible. I do not know of any European nation, however small, that shows less uniformity among its provinces than the American people, who occupy a country half as large as Europe. The distance from Maine to Georgia is about a thousand miles; but the difference in civilization between the two is less than the difference between Normandy and Brittany. Maine and Georgia, though at opposite extremes of a vast country, have stronger reasons to unite than Normandy and Brittany, though separated by only a bridge.

Geography further improved the chances American lawmakers had from the habits and customs of their people; and it is largely for this reason that the adoption and continued existence of the Federal system have been possible.

The greatest event in a nation’s history is the outbreak of war. In war, a nation rallies all its strength as one against foreign threats in defense of its very survival. Good governance, reason, and ordinary patriotism may be enough to keep peace within a region and promote its internal well-being, but waging large wars requires many difficult and costly sacrifices, and to expect that citizens will spontaneously meet the State’s demands is to misunderstand human nature. Any people forced to sustain serious, long-term war has been compelled to increase its government's power. Those that failed in this regard were conquered. War usually leaves nations with the harsh choice of ruin through defeat or loss of freedom through despotism if victorious. War thus reveals a government's weaknesses most clearly and alarmingly, and I have shown that federal governments are inherently weak.

The Federal system lacks all forms of centralized administration, and even the central government itself is not fully organized. This is a major disadvantage compared to nations governed by a single authority. In the U.S. Federal Constitution, where the central government is stronger than in most federations, this weakness is still quite apparent. An example will make the point clear.

The Constitution gives Congress the power to call out the militia to enforce Federal laws, suppress insurrections, and repel invasions; another article names the President as commander-in-chief of the militia. During the War of 1812, the President ordered the militias of Northern States to go to the frontiers; yet Connecticut and Massachusetts, whose interests were threatened by war, refused to comply. They argued that the Constitution permitted the Federal Government to use the militia only for insurrection or invasion, and that neither applied in this case. They also pointed out that while the Union could call forth the militia, the States retained the right to appoint officers; they interpreted this to mean that no Federal officer, except the President himself, could command the militia—even in war; yet they were now being ordered to join an army under someone else. These unreasonable and harmful positions were upheld not only by the governors and legislatures, but by the courts in both States, and the Federal Government had to recruit troops elsewhere. \*v

v
\[ Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. i. I chose an example from after the current Constitution was enacted. If I had looked back to the Confederation era, the examples could have been even more striking. At that time, the whole nation was caught up in revolutionary excitement; the Revolution was led by a man who was beloved by the people; yet even then Congress, to be frank, had no real resources. Troops and supplies were always lacking. Even the best plans often failed when it came time to act, and the Union—constantly on the verge of collapse—was saved more by the weakness of its adversaries than by its own strength. \[All doubt about the powers of the Federal Executive was, however, abolished during the Civil War, when those powers were greatly expanded.\]\]

The only real safeguard the American Union has, despite the relative excellence of its laws, against the risks of dissolution from a major war, is the probability of avoiding such a calamity. Situated in the middle of a vast continent, which offers limitless prospects for human industry, the Union is almost as insulated as if it were surrounded by ocean. Canada has only a million inhabitants, divided into two rival communities. Its cold climate restricts expansion and closes its ports for half the year. From Canada to the Gulf of Mexico there are only a few Indigenous tribes, gradually retreating and dwindling before a handful of soldiers. To the south, the Union borders Mexico; it is there that genuine threats may someday arise. But for a long time yet, the unsettled condition of Mexican society, its failing morality, and its severe poverty, will prevent that country from being a major force. \*w The Powers of Europe are too remote to pose a threat.

w
\[ \[War did break out between the United States and Mexico in 1846, resulting in the conquest of a huge region that included California.\]\]

The main advantage of the United States lies not in possessing a Federal Constitution that enables them to undertake great wars, but in a geographic position that makes such wars highly unlikely.

No one appreciates the benefits of the federal system more than I do—I believe it is among the most favorable combinations for the prosperity and freedom of humankind. I envy nations able to adopt it. Yet I cannot believe that any confederate people could sustain a prolonged or equal struggle against a nation of similar strength that has a central government. Any nation that divides its sovereignty as the United States does, if facing the military monarchies of Europe, would thereby be surrendering not only its power, but potentially its very existence and name. But such is the remarkable situation of the New World that humanity here need fear no enemy but itself; and, to be happy and free, it suffices to seek prosperity and an understanding of liberty.

##  Chapter IX: Why The People May Strictly Be Said To Govern In The United

States

So far, I have examined America's institutions, reviewed its legislation, and described the current state of political society in the country. But above these institutions and characteristics stands a sovereign authority, capable of destroying or altering them at will—I mean the people. It remains to be explained how this power, which dictates the laws, expresses itself: its tendencies and passions must be explored, as well as the hidden mechanisms that slow, hasten, or direct its irresistible advance, and the effects and likely destiny of its unbounded authority.

In America, the people choose the legislative and executive officials, and also supply the jurors who enforce all laws. American institutions are democratic not only in theory but in all their consequences; the people directly elect their representatives, usually every year, to maintain their accountability. The people are therefore the true governing power; and although the government takes a representative form, it is clear that the views, biases, interests, and even the passions of the populace are met with no enduring obstacles to their steady influence on society. In the United States, the majority rules in the name of the people, as is true in all nations where the people are supreme. The majority consists mainly of law-abiding citizens who, through inclination or interest, earnestly desire their country's welfare. Yet they are constantly surrounded by the agitation of parties, each seeking their support for its own ends.

##  Chapter X: Parties In The United States

## Chapter Summary

Significant distinctions exist between different types of parties—Some parties resemble rival nations, while others are truly political parties—Differences between major and minor parties—The eras that produce them—Their defining qualities—America has had major parties—They are now extinct—Federalists—Republicans—Defeat of the Federalists—Challenges of forming parties in the United States—Efforts made for this purpose—Aristocratic or democratic tendencies can be found in all parties—General Jackson's battle against the Bank.

## Parties In The United States

A clear distinction must be made between different types of parties. In some countries, territories are so vast that the various populations within them have conflicting interests, even though they are governed by the same authority. As a result, these different groups are often in perpetual opposition. In such cases, these groups can be seen more as distinct nations than as mere parties; if civil war erupts, the conflict is fought by peoples rather than only by state factions.

However, when citizens hold different views on issues that affect the entire country equally—such as the guiding principles of government—true parties emerge. Parties are a necessary evil in free governments; yet, their character and tendencies are not always the same.

There are periods when a nation suffers from such overwhelming problems that it seeks to completely change its political system; at other times, the unrest runs so deep that the very existence of society is threatened. These are eras of major revolutions and major parties. But between these times of distress and chaos, there are periods in which society appears to be at rest, where humanity seems to pause. This rest is merely an illusion, as time does not stand still for nations any more than for individuals; all are moving toward an unknown destination, and their progress goes unnoticed, just as people walking slowly seem stationary to those who are running.

Nevertheless, there are eras in which changes to the social and political makeup of nations happen so slowly and subtly that people believe their current state is final; the mind, thinking itself secure, does not look beyond what it can see. These are the times of minor parties and political intrigue.

The parties I describe as great are those that hold fast to principles more than to their immediate results; that focus on broad ideas over specific cases; that are devoted to ideas rather than individuals. These parties usually rise above the others by virtue of their nobler character, stronger passions, sincere convictions, and more courageous, open actions. In such parties, personal interests—always central to political passions—are more carefully disguised under the pretense of public welfare; sometimes, they are hidden even from those who act upon them.

Smaller parties, in contrast, typically lack true political conviction. Without a higher cause to sustain or dignify them, these groups make their selfish motives obvious. Their zeal is often artificial; their words fiery, but their actions uncertain and hesitant. Both their goals and the means they use are unworthy. That is why, after a tumultuous revolution is followed by calm, true leaders seem to vanish and the strength of the mind appears dormant. Society is upended by great parties, agitated by minor ones; the former tear society apart, the latter degrade it; while the latter may occasionally bring beneficial disturbance, the former always cause disruption with little benefit.

America has already lost the major parties that once divided the nation; and though happiness has increased with their disappearance, public morality has declined. After the War of Independence, as the groundwork for the new Government was laid, the nation split into two ideologies—ideas as old as society itself, ever-present in all forms and under countless names in free communities: one aimed at restraining, the other at vastly expanding, the people's power. The fight between these factions in America never became as violent as it has in other places. Both sides agreed on the country's fundamental points, and neither needed to abolish a standing tradition or overthrow society to win. Few private interests hinged on victory or loss, but high moral ideals such as equality and independence were at stake, enough to stir intense feelings.

The faction wanting to limit popular power sought to implement its ideas mainly in the Constitution of the Union, and was thus called the Federal party. The other, professing greater attachment to liberty, became known as the Republican party. In a land as democratic as America, Federalists were always in the minority; yet among them were almost all the prominent leaders produced by the War of Independence, granting their movement significant moral influence. They also benefited from circumstance: the failure of the Confederation had created a fear of anarchy, something the Federalists fully exploited. For about ten or twelve years, they governed, applying some of their policies, though not all; soon, public sentiment rose too strongly against them to be resisted. In 1801, the Republicans gained control; Thomas Jefferson became President, lending his fame, talents, and immense popularity to their cause.

The Federalists' hold on power relied on artificial means and short-lived resources: chiefly, the virtue and skill of their leaders. When Republicans attained dominance, their rivals suffered total defeat. The retiring party faced such overwhelming opposition that it quickly lost all hope of recovery. From then on, the Republican or Democratic party\*a has moved from one victory to the next, eventually gaining absolute control of the nation. Recognizing their position as hopeless and isolated, the Federalists split; some joined the Republicans, others abandoned their cause and name entirely. It has now been many years since they have existed as a party.

a
\[ [It is almost unnecessary to remark that in more recent times, the meaning of these party labels has shifted. The Republicans are now the heirs of the old Federalists, while the Democrats represent the old Republicans.—Trans. Note (1861).]\] The Federalists' initial rise to power was, I believe, one of the most fortunate events in the formation of the American Union; they resisted both the spirit of their time and the tendencies of their country. But, regardless of the merits of their doctrines, these proved impractical as a system for the society they sought to govern, and what happened during Jefferson's presidency would inevitably have transpired sooner or later. Yet their administration allowed the young republic time to develop a certain strength, and to later accommodate the rapid growth of the very ideas the Federalists opposed. Many of their principles were, in fact, preserved by their opponents, and the Federal Constitution that endures today is a lasting testament to their patriotism and wisdom.

Major political parties, then, are no longer seen in the United States. There are parties that pose threats to the Union's future peace, but none now contend over the present government or the current course of society. Rather, the parties now endangering the Union are not based on principles, but on temporary interests. These interests, spread across the provinces of so broad an empire, resemble rival nations more than parties. For example, not long ago, the North supported commercial restrictions, while the South fought for free trade, because the North was industrial and the South agricultural; the trade policy benefiting one side hurt the other.\*b

b
\[ [The split between North and South has since grown more intense, and the South, though conquered, still strongly opposes Northern rule.—Translator’s Note, 1875.]\]

Without major parties, the United States is filled with smaller disputes; public opinion divides into countless subtle camps over issues of little real significance. The effort that goes into creating parties is astonishing, and doing so is now no simple task. In the United States, there is no religious animosity, because all faiths are respected and none prevail; no jealousy of rank, because the people hold all power and none can challenge it; and there is no collective poverty to drive unrest, since the country's resources are so vast and industry so profitable that individuals can accomplish remarkable things on their own. Yet, ambitious people have an interest in party-making, as it is hard to remove someone from office merely because others covet their place. Thus, political maneuvering now depends on the art of creating parties. A political hopeful identifies their own interests, seeks out allied interests that can be gathered and combined, and seeks out an idea or principle suitable to unite them—a principle adopted chiefly to advance the party and secure popular favor, much as a king’s seal once validated a book, even when it had little true connection. Once these first steps are complete, the new party enters political life.

Upon first observation, American domestic disputes seem so trivial and bewildering that visitors may either pity a society that treats such minor matters as seriously as it does, or envy a nation so content that it can dwell on them at all. But closer study of underlying tendencies reveals most disputes are ultimately linked to one or the other of the two fundamental divisions always present in free societies. The deeper one explores American party dynamics, the clearer it is that one side aims to restrict popular power while the other seeks to expand it. I do not claim the stated or even secret aim of American parties is truly to further aristocracy or democracy; but aristocratic and democratic passions are visible in every party, and, though often hidden from superficial observation, are the true foundation and spirit of every faction in the United States.

A recent example illustrates this. When the President challenged the Bank, the nation was stirred, and parties formed; educated circles rallied to the Bank, while the common people stood with the President. However, it should not be assumed that the public had formed a truly informed opinion on an issue so complex, even for the most experienced leaders. The Bank was a powerful institution with its own standing; the people, used to creating and destroying whatever it wishes, were troubled by something beyond its immediate control. In a society driven by constant change, such a permanent institution provoked irritation, and the public moved to attack it just to see whether it too could be disturbed and controlled like every other institution in America.

### Remnants of the Aristocratic Party in the United States

Secret opposition of wealthy individuals to democracy—Their withdrawal—Their love of private luxury and exclusivity—Their public display of simplicity—Their affected humility toward the people.

It sometimes happens in a nation with many opinions that the balance among parties collapses, and one party gains complete dominance, crushes all opposition, oppresses its rivals, and redirects all of society’s resources for its own use. The defeated despair and retreat into silence and apathy. The country then seems ruled by a single principle, and the victorious party claims to have brought unity and peace. But such apparent harmony merely hides deep unrest and continuous opposition.

This occurred in America; once the democratic party gained control, it monopolized the government, and from then on, laws and customs adapted to its wishes. Today, the wealthier classes are so removed from national leadership that wealth, instead of being a qualification for power, is actually a barrier to it. The wealthy step back, reluctant to struggle—often fruitlessly—against even the poorest citizens. They confine their pleasures to the seclusion of home, where they maintain a status unattainable publicly, forming a private elite with their own tastes and amusements. They accept the situation as unavoidable, but take care not to show they resent it; in public, it is not unusual to hear them praise the joys of republican government and the benefits of democracy. After hatred, flattery is our next instinct toward those we cannot defeat.

Consider, for example, the wealthy citizen today, who, like a medieval Jew, is eager to disguise his fortune. His attire is plain, his public behavior humble; but within his home, luxury abounds, and only selected guests—whom he calls his equals—are allowed inside. No European aristocrat is more exclusive in his pleasures, or more jealous of every privilege his rank affords. Yet the same man will walk across town to a crowded office downtown, where anyone may approach him. He chats with his shoemaker along the way, the two discussing state affairs as equals, shaking hands when they part.

But behind this superficial enthusiasm and feigned humility toward the dominant power, it is obvious that the wealthy harbor a deep dislike for their country’s democratic systems. The masses are both scorned and feared. Should democracy’s mismanagement ever cause a crisis severe enough to make monarchy possible, my claims will be proven true.

The two main weapons that parties use to achieve their goals are the public press and the creation of associations.

## Chapter XI: Liberty Of The Press In The United States

##  Chapter Summary

Difficulty of restraining the liberty of the press—Specific reasons some nations maintain this liberty—The liberty of the press as a necessary consequence of popular sovereignty as understood in America—Harsh language in the periodical press in the United States—Tendencies of the periodical press—Illustrated by the United States—American views on curbing abuse of press freedom through legal actions—Reasons why the press is less powerful in America than in France.

Liberty Of The Press In The United States

The influence of press freedom does not impact only political opinions; it permeates all aspects of thought and shapes customs as well as laws. Elsewhere in this work, I will try to determine the extent to which press freedom has influenced civil society in the United States, the direction it has given to ideas, and the tone it has imparted to the character and feelings of Anglo-Americans. For now, I intend simply to examine the effects of press freedom in the political realm.

I admit I do not hold that unwavering devotion to press freedom that truly and supremely good things inspire; I approve of it more because of the evils it prevents than the benefits it ensures.

If anyone could point out a balanced and sustainable middle ground between full independence and total control of public expression, I might be inclined to accept it. But finding that position is difficult. If you aim to correct the abuses of unregulated publishing and restore civil discourse, you may try the offender by a jury; but if the jury acquits, the individual’s opinion becomes that of the general public. Too much and too little have thus been done. If you continue, you must bring the accused before a court of permanent judges. Yet even there, the case must be heard before it is decided, and principles no book would have dared publish are boldly restated in court arguments and repeated in the press. The words in which thoughts appear are only the shell—not the idea itself; courts may punish the form, but the meaning and spirit of a work are too elusive for their authority. Still, you have not gone far enough to achieve your end and have gone too far to retreat; so you proceed. If you establish censorship, public speakers will still be heard; you have only shifted the problem. The powers of reason do not depend, like physical strength, on numbers, nor can you count authors as you do soldiers; often, the authority of an idea is increased when expressed by only a few. The words of a strong-minded person, which penetrate a passionate audience, have more effect than the shouts of a thousand orators; and if free speech is allowed in any venue, it is as if it is allowed everywhere. Destroying the liberty of speech must accompany suppressing the liberty of the press; this is where your efforts must end. But if your aim was to check abuses of liberty, you have ended under a despot. You have gone from the extreme of independence to the extreme of subjugation, without finding a single place to pause or take shelter.

Some nations have particular reasons to protect press freedom, beyond the general motives I have already discussed. In certain countries claiming to enjoy liberty, any government agent can break the law with impunity, since those he oppresses cannot take him to court. In these cases, press freedom is not just a guarantee, but the only guarantee, of liberty and security for the citizens. If the rulers of such countries seek to end press independence, the people would be justified in saying: Give us the right to prosecute your offenses before regular courts, and perhaps then we might give up our appeal to public opinion.

But in countries where the doctrine of the people's sovereignty visibly prevails, press censorship is not only dangerous, it is illogical. When the right of every citizen to join in governing is recognized, every citizen must be considered able to distinguish between varying opinions and to understand the facts behind them. The people's sovereignty and the liberty of the press are related institutions; in the same way, press censorship and universal suffrage are fundamentally opposed and cannot long coexist within one society. Not one of the twelve million residents of the United States has yet dared to propose limiting press freedom. The first newspaper I read upon my arrival in America contained the following article:

In this whole matter, Jackson’s language has been that of a heartless despot, concerned only with preserving his own authority. Ambition is his crime, and will become his punishment: intrigue is his element, and intrigue will undo him and strip him of power. He governs by corruption, and his immoral practices will bring only shame and defeat. His conduct in politics has been that of a shameless and lawless gambler. He succeeded for the moment, but retribution is coming, and he will soon have to return his winnings, throw away his loaded dice, and end his days in obscurity, cursing his madness; for repentance is a virtue he is unlikely ever to acquire.

In France, it is often believed that press violence comes from the nation’s unstable social condition, political turmoil, and the general sense of crisis; and that as soon as society calms, the press will abandon its extreme tone. I tend to think these causes explain the extraordinary influence the press has acquired, but do not affect its language. The periodical press, to me, is driven by instinct and tendencies unchanged by circumstance, and America’s current state supports this view.

America, at this point, is perhaps the country with the fewest threats of revolution in the world; yet the press there is just as destructive in principle as in France, and exhibits the same intensity without cause for outrage. In America, as in France, the press represents a unique power—a mixture of good and evil, indispensable to freedom yet often undermining public order. Its influence is certainly greater in France than in the United States; still, in the latter it is rare to see legal action brought against the press. The reason is simple: Americans, having accepted the doctrine of popular sovereignty, apply it consistently. They never meant to build a system on ever-changing foundations; so nothing is criminal unless it involves actual law-breaking. They also believe the courts are unable to restrain press abuses; the subtleties of language always evade strict legal examination, and such offenses are likely to escape prosecution. For effective action against the press, one would need a tribunal not only loyal to those in power but able to overcome public opinion, operating in secret, declaring judgments without explaining reasons, punishing intention more than language. Whoever could create and maintain such a court would not bother suing the press, for he would be absolute ruler and could as easily rid himself of writers as of their writings. On this matter, there is no middle ground—only despotism or complete freedom. To enjoy the priceless benefits of a free press, one must accept the inevitable flaws it brings. Hoping to have the benefits without the harms is a fantasy some nations believe when weary from conflict and wish to reconcile irreconcilable principles.

The limited influence of American newspapers can be traced to several factors, chiefly these:

Freedom of writing, like any freedom, is most dangerous when new, as people unused to participating in government put all their trust in the first orator who captures their interest. The Anglo-Americans have enjoyed such liberty since the settlements were founded. Also, the press cannot create passions on its own, though it can stir up those that exist. American politics is debated energetically and passionately, but rarely touches the deep passions aroused when the core interests of some are threatened; yet in the United States those interests are thriving. One glance at a French and an American newspaper reveals the difference: in France, little space is given to commercial ads, and the main content is political debate; in America, three-quarters of the newspaper is devoted to ads, with the remainder reserved for political news or trivial anecdotes; only sometimes does one find areas set aside for the heated debate typical in French journalism.

It has been observed—from petty tyrants to great despots—that a power’s influence grows as it becomes more centralized. In France, the press is centralized twice over; most of its power is concentrated in the same place and in few hands, since there are not many papers. The influence of such a press, in a skeptical nation, becomes enormous. It is an enemy with whom the government may come to temporary terms, but cannot oppose for long.

Nothing like this centralization exists in America. The United States has no single metropolis; information and power are dispersed and overlap rather than radiate from a single point; there is no central control over opinion or business. Some of this comes down to fate, but federal law also ensures no licenses are needed for printers, no security is required from editors as in France, and there is no stamp tax as in France or formerly in England. Anyone can start a newspaper, and a small readership can pay its expenses.

The number of periodicals and occasional publications in the United States is beyond belief. The most knowledgeable Americans attribute the lesser influence of the press to its overwhelming numbers; it is a political maxim there that the only way to reduce the press’s effect is to multiply it endlessly. I am surprised that this obvious truth is not more widely accepted in Europe. It is understandable if revolutionaries wish to channel the press’s action through a handful of influential outlets, but it is astounding that supporters of order try to weaken the press by consolidating its power. Governments in Europe treat the press much as medieval knights did their opponents—eager to arm it with central power so as to claim greater glory in opposing it.

In America, almost every town has its own newspaper. It follows that neither discipline nor unity of purpose can be given to such a variety of publications, and each fights under its own flag. All U.S. political newspapers are aligned either with or against the government, but they fight and defend in hundreds of different ways. They cannot form the sweeping tides of opinion that overwhelm all obstacles. This division of press influence has other notable effects. The ease of founding newspapers draws many people into the business, but the fierce competition makes large profits impossible, so the high social classes rarely join in. And given how many papers there are, even if journalism were profitable, there would not be enough skilled writers to edit them all. Most American journalists have little education and a coarse outlook. The majority’s will sets the standard behaviors of every social group, just as it determines court etiquette and legal practice. The French journalist is generally fierce, yet often eloquent and elevated in discussing current politics, with only occasional exceptions. The American journalist is characterized by open and crude appeals to popular passions, often neglecting political principles to attack individuals, invade their private lives, and expose their flaws and mistakes.

Nothing could be more regrettable than this abuse of intellectual power; I will later discuss the newspaper’s influence on American taste and morality, but my focus here is solely political. It must be admitted that this extreme press freedom indirectly maintains public order. Those who enjoy high regard among their fellow citizens are afraid to write for newspapers, and thus lose the most effective tool for stirring up the masses to their benefit. \*a

a
\[ They only write in print when speaking in their own name; for instance, in response to slanders or to correct false reports.\]

Editorial opinions have almost no influence on the public; the only real use of a newspaper is to share information, and only by distorting or changing facts can a journalist advance his own perspective.

Still, even limited in these ways, the press’s influence in America is immense. It keeps political life circulating throughout the vast land. It watches for hidden motives in politics and summons party leaders to account before public opinion. It unites community interests around certain principles, shaping party doctrines, and allows parties to speak and listen to one another without direct contact. When numerous newspapers take the same stance, their impact becomes unstoppable, and public opinion, constantly pressed from the same side, eventually yields. Each American journal holds little authority individually, but together, the periodical press wields power just below that of the people themselves. \*b

b
\[ See Appendix, P.\]

The opinions that form in America under a free press are often more deeply rooted than those formed under the watchful eye of a censor elsewhere.

In the United States, the democracy continually introduces new leaders into government, so administration is rarely consistent or orderly. Yet the government’s core principles are more stable, and the prevailing social opinions typically more lasting than in many other countries. Once Americans have accepted an idea, whether justified or not, it is very hard to change their minds. The same strong attachment to opinion is noted in England, where over the last century, greater freedom of belief and more stubborn prejudices have coexisted than elsewhere in Europe. I attribute this effect to something that might at first seem opposite in tendency: press freedom. Peoples with this liberty are as inclined to cling to their views from pride as from conviction. They prize them not only because they believe them true, but because they chose them freely; they defend them not just for being right, but because they are their own. Several other factors reinforce this outcome.

A man of genius once remarked, “ignorance lies at the two ends of knowledge.” Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that absolute convictions are found at the extremes, and doubt in between; for the human mind passes through three states, often in sequence. A person believes absolutely, having accepted an idea without questioning; he doubts, once faced with objections from further inquiry; but at length he overcomes these doubts, and begins to believe again—not holding truth as a vague feeling, but seeing it clearly and advancing with newfound certainty. \*c

c
\[ It may, however, be doubted whether this rational and independent conviction stirs as much fervor or devotion in people as their initial, dogmatic belief.\]

When press freedom acts on those in the first of these states, it does not at first break the habit of blind belief, but constantly shifts the focus of such convictions. The mind still sees only a single point on the horizon, a point that is always moving. Such are the signs of sudden revolutions, and the misfortunes that befall generations who abruptly embrace absolute press freedom.

The period of embracing new ideas soon passes; experience touches them, doubt and mistrust spread as uncertainty grows. Most people will either believe without knowing why, or not know what to believe. Only a few can hope to attain a reasoned and independent conviction, born out of true understanding and resilient against doubt.

It has been noted that in times of intense religious feeling, people sometimes change beliefs; whereas during general skepticism, each clings to his own view. The same occurs in politics under press freedom. In countries where every social theory has been debated in turn, those who adopt one stick to it, not so much from confidence in its excellence, but from lack of certainty about any alternative. In our era, people are less likely to die for their beliefs, but also less likely to change them; there are fewer martyrs, as well as fewer defectors.

Another, even more compelling reason can also be given: when no abstract opinions are considered certain, people cling to the immediate tendencies and external interests of their position, which are naturally more concrete and longer-lasting than any opinions in the world.

It is not an easily solved question whether aristocracy or democracy is better suited to govern a country. However, it is certain that democracy annoys one part of the community, while aristocracy oppresses another. When the issue is simply defined as the conflict between poverty and wealth, the inclinations of each side in the dispute become perfectly clear without further debate.

##  Chapter XII: Political Associations In The United States

##  Chapter Summary

How Anglo-Americans use the right of association in daily life—Three types of political associations—How Americans apply the representative system to associations—Potential dangers to the State—The Great Convention of 1831 regarding the Tariff—Legislative nature of this Convention—Why the unlimited exercise of the right of association is less dangerous in the United States than elsewhere—Why it may be considered necessary—Value of associations in a democratic society.

Political Associations In The United States

Nowhere in the world has the principle of association been more effectively used or more widely applied to a vast array of purposes than in America. Besides the permanent associations mandated by law and called townships, cities, and counties, a great number of other associations are formed and maintained through the initiative of private individuals.

From early childhood, American citizens are taught to rely on their own efforts to overcome life's challenges and problems; they view social authority with suspicion and anxiety, and only seek its help when they are truly unable to manage without it. This attitude can even be seen in schools, where children, in their games, tend to follow rules they have set for themselves and to punish misbehavior they have themselves defined. This same spirit appears in all aspects of social life. If a blockage happens in a public street and the flow of people is disrupted, the neighbors quickly form a deliberative group; this impromptu assembly soon creates an executive authority that fixes the problem before anyone considers appealing to a higher authority. If public entertainments are involved, an association is formed to ensure the event's splendor and organization. Associations are created to counter enemies that are purely moral, and to reduce the vice of intemperance: in the United States, groups are established to promote public order, trade, industry, morality, and religion; there is no goal that, with collective effort, people consider unattainable.

I will later explore how associations impact society; here, I will limit myself to their political aspect. Once the right of association is acknowledged, citizens can use it in several ways.

An association begins as a group of people giving public support to certain ideas, and committing to promoting those ideas through their combined efforts. This right is very similar to the freedom of unlicensed writing, but societies formed in this way have even more authority than the press. When an idea is embodied by a society, it necessarily becomes more precise and explicit. It counts its supporters and links their well-being to its cause: these supporters, in turn, get to know one another, and their enthusiasm grows with their numbers. An association channels the energy of individual minds toward a single goal.

The second degree in the right of association is the ability to assemble. When an association is allowed to establish centers of activity at important locations in the country, its operations expand and its influence grows. People can meet face-to-face, plans are more easily coordinated, and beliefs are promoted with a passion and strength that writing alone cannot achieve.

Finally, there is a third degree to the political right of association: the supporters of an idea may come together as electoral groups and choose delegates to represent them in a central assembly. This is, essentially, applying the representative system to a party.

So, first, a group is formed among individuals sharing an opinion, grouped by intellectual agreement; second, small local assemblies are created which represent only part of the party. Finally, they form a separate community within the nation—a government within the government. Their delegates, like the official delegates of the majority, represent the whole strength of their party; they enjoy a degree of the honor and influence given to representatives of the people. They do not make laws, but they have the power to challenge existing ones and to draft measures that may later be adopted.

If, in a nation unaccustomed to freedom, or one facing strong political passions, a minority group is allowed to act as a deliberative body, even just considering future laws, next to the legislative majority, I cannot help but think public order is at great risk. There is a big difference between showing that one law is better than another and arguing that the better law must replace the other. But the common people easily lose sight of this difference, even though it is obvious to the thoughtful. Sometimes a nation splits into two almost equal factions, each claiming to speak for the majority. If another power is established close to the governing authority, a power with nearly equal moral authority, it is unlikely to long limit itself to mere discussion; nor will it always hold back from acting, reasoning that associations are meant to argue, not enforce, to suggest rather than legislate.

The more closely we consider the results of press freedom, the more we are convinced it is the primary element of liberty in the modern world. A nation determined to stay free is right to insist on the full exercise of press independence. But the absolute freedom of political association is not quite the same as that of the press. It is both less essential, and more dangerous. A country can limit it without losing real self-government, and may sometimes need to, to maintain order.

In America, the right to associate for political purposes is virtually unlimited. An example will clearly show how far this is accepted.

The tariff question, or the question of free trade, provoked intense party feeling in America; the tariff was not just debated as an idea, but it affected many powerful state interests for good or ill. The North credited much of its prosperity to the system, and the South blamed it for its troubles; thus the tariff became the chief source of political conflict within the Union.

In 1831, with the controversy at its peak, a Massachusetts private citizen invited all opponents of the tariff, using the newspapers, to send delegates to Philadelphia to discuss ways to advance free trade. Within days, thanks to the press, this call spread from Maine to New Orleans: those opposed to the tariff seized upon it eagerly; meetings were held everywhere, and delegates appointed. Most of these people were well known, and some were quite prominent. South Carolina alone, later to take up arms for this cause, sent sixty-three delegates. On October 1, 1831, the assembly—called a Convention, by the common American usage—convened at Philadelphia, numbering more than two hundred members. Its debates were public and immediately took on a legislative tone; the powers of Congress, the principles of free trade, and the specific details of the tariff were discussed in turn. After ten days of debate, the Convention adjourned, having issued a message to the American people stating:

I. That Congress had no right to impose tariffs, and the current tariff was unconstitutional;

II. That blocking free trade was harmful to all nations, and especially to the American people.

It must be admitted that the unfettered liberty of political association has not, so far in the United States, led to the disastrous results it might cause elsewhere. The right of association came from England, and has always existed in America; it is now interwoven with national traditions. At this time, the freedom of association is a necessary safeguard against majority tyranny. In the United States, once a party becomes dominant, it controls all public authority; its supporters fill all positions and command the machinery of government. Leading figures on the losing side face obstacles that keep them from power, so they need independent means of organization to challenge the majority’s physical power with their own group’s moral authority. Thus, a risky method is used to resist an even greater danger.

The absolute power of the majority seems to me so threatening to the American Republics that the dangerous remedy employed to limit it seems more beneficial than harmful. Here, I will make a point recalling my observations on municipal liberty: Associations are most needed in democratically organized countries to prevent the tyranny of factions or a ruler’s arbitrary power. In aristocratic nations, the noble and wealthy classes form natural associations that check abuses of power. In countries lacking such built-in checks, if individuals cannot create temporary and artificial substitutes for them, I see no enduring defense against oppression; a great nation could be easily ruled by a small faction, or even one person, without challenge.

The gathering of a large political Convention (for there are conventions of all types), sometimes a necessary course, is always a serious event, even in America, and thoughtful patriots never anticipate one without some worry. This was very clear in the 1831 Convention, where the efforts of the most esteemed members were aimed at moderating the debate and restricting its scope. In fact, it is likely that the 1831 Convention greatly affected the discontented, and prepared them for the open rebellion against federal trade laws that broke out in 1832.

We cannot deny that unlimited freedom to associate for political reasons is the last liberty a people learns to use wisely. If it does not plunge society into chaos, it at least increases the risk of such a disaster. Still, on one point, this risky freedom offers some safety: where associations are open, secret societies do not exist. In America, there are many factions, but not conspiracies.

Differences in how the right of association is seen in Europe and the United States—Different uses made of it.

The most basic freedom after self-action is the right to join forces with others and act together. I therefore conclude that the right of association is nearly as inalienable as personal liberty itself. No lawmaker can suppress it without damaging the foundation of society. Still, while association is a major source of advantages and prosperity in some countries, it can be twisted or pushed too far in others, turning energy into destruction. Comparing the different ways associations are used—in countries where they are wisely managed and where liberty lapses into abuse—might help both governments and political groups.

Most Europeans see an association as a quickly made weapon for immediate use. A society is formed to discuss matters, but its focus is action: it is essentially an army, the debates only a prelude to counting their strength and bolstering their courage, before marching against their enemies. Legal resources may be considered, but rarely as the only path to success.

In contrast, Americans have a different view. In America, minority citizens associate first to show their numbers and so reduce the majority’s moral authority; second, to foster competition and identify the best arguments to persuade the majority—since they generally hope to win the majority over and later to govern in its name. Political associations in the United States are therefore peaceful in their intention and strictly legal in their actions; they sincerely claim to seek success by legal means alone.

The difference between Americans and Europeans arises from several causes. In Europe, many parties are so fundamentally opposed to the majority that they cannot hope for its support, yet they believe themselves strong enough to fight for their views alone. When such a party forms an association, its goal is not to persuade, but to fight. In America, those whose views differ greatly from the majority do not really threaten its power, and the remaining parties all hope to win over the majority eventually. The dangers of association increase as the possibility for large parties to gain a majority decreases. In a country like the United States, where political differences are mostly of degree, association can be left unrestricted without harming society. Many European countries, new to liberty, see association mostly as a tool for attacking government. The first instinct of a group, when it feels its strength, is violence; the idea of persuasion comes only later, and only through experience. The English, though split into sharply differing factions, seldom misuse association, because they have long practiced it. In France, the love of conflict is so strong that there is no cause so mad or damaging to the state that a man does not feel honored defending it, even at the risk of his life.

However, the strongest factor limiting political association’s excesses in America is universal suffrage. Where universal suffrage exists, the majority is never in doubt, because neither side can claim to represent non-voters. Associations know, as does the national public, that they do not represent the majority by their very nature—if they did, they would change the law directly, not merely seek reform. The result is that the government’s moral authority is higher, and associations’ own power is weaker.

In Europe, few associations do not claim to represent the majority, or do not believe they do. This assumption greatly increases their power and helps justify their actions. Violence may seem justified when defending a noble cause. Thus, in the complicated maze of human laws, extreme freedom sometimes counters excessive lawlessness, and extreme democracy counters its own dangers. In Europe, associations tend to see themselves as legislative and executive councils for a people who cannot speak for themselves. In America, where they represent only a minority, they argue and petition.

The organization of European associations matches their purpose. Since their main aim is action, not debate—fighting rather than persuasion—they naturally move toward centralized leadership, adopting military habits and rules. They centralize resources as much as possible and entrust the power of the entire group to a small group of leaders.

Members of these groups respond to commands like soldiers; they accept the principle of passive obedience—indeed, by uniting, they immediately renounce independent judgment and free will. The strict control these societies demand is often even more oppressive than the authority wielded by the government they oppose. Their moral authority is weakened by this behavior, and they lose the powerful appeal created by a fight between oppressors and the oppressed. Anyone who willingly obeys his peers and surrenders his activity and opinions to their control cannot claim to be a free citizen.

The Americans have also established specific forms of government for their associations, but these are always adapted from the structures of civil administration. Each individual's independence is formally acknowledged; while the members of the association aim for the same overall goal, just as in the larger community, they are not required to choose the same path. No one gives up the use of their own reason or free will; instead, everyone uses their own reason and will for the good of the collective effort.

##  Chapter XIII: Government Of The Democracy In America—Part I

I am well aware of the difficulties involved in this part of my subject, but although every statement I am about to make may, in some way, offend the feelings of the various parties that divide my country, I will speak my opinion with complete openness.

In Europe, we find it difficult to judge the true character and more enduring tendencies of democracy, because two opposing principles exist there, and we cannot tell what to attribute to the principles themselves, and what to assign to the passions they bring into conflict. This is not the case in America; there, the people rule without any obstacle, and face no dangers to fear or past injuries to avenge. In America, democracy follows its own inclinations; its course is natural, and its actions are unrestrained. The United States, therefore, provide the best possible opportunity to study the real nature of democracy. No nation should find this inquiry more relevant than the French people, who are being pushed, day by day, by an irresistible force toward a future that will certainly be democratic, whether it turns out despotic or republican.

Universal Suffrage

I have already stated that universal suffrage has been adopted in all the States of the Union. It is found among different populations who occupy very different positions in society. I have observed its effects in different regions and among groups almost strangers to each other in language, religion, and way of life: in Louisiana as well as New England, in Georgia and in Canada. I have noticed that in America, universal suffrage does not produce either all the good or all the bad consequences commonly attributed to it in Europe, and its effects are very different from the usual expectations.

Choice Of The People, And Instinctive Preferences Of The American Democracy

In the United States, the most capable people are rarely placed at the head of affairs—The reason for this peculiarity—The envy held by the lower classes in France toward the higher classes is not a French, but a purely democratic sentiment—Why the most distinguished individuals in America often withdraw from public life.

Many in Europe are ready to believe, or to say without truly believing, that one of the main advantages of universal suffrage is that it allows public affairs to be directed by people worthy of public trust. They admit that the people cannot govern themselves directly, but they claim that the people are always sincerely disposed to promote the nation’s welfare, and instinctively choose those with good intentions most fit to hold authority. The observations I made in America do not confirm these opinions. When I arrived in the United States, I was struck by how much remarkable talent I found among private citizens, and how little among the leaders of government. It is a well-established fact that today, the most capable men in the United States are seldom placed at the head of government, and this trend has increased as democracy has pushed past all former limits. The class of American statesmen has clearly diminished in the past fifty years.

Several reasons can be given for this. It is impossible, even with the greatest efforts, to raise the people’s level of intelligence beyond a certain point. No matter how easy it is to access knowledge, or how plentiful the methods for cheap learning, the human mind cannot be educated without dedicating significant time to the task.

The greater or lesser possibility of surviving without labor is therefore the necessary limit to intellectual improvement. This boundary is further out in some countries, more restricted in others; but it must exist somewhere as long as the people must work to meet their physical needs—in other words, as long as they remain a true people. It is as difficult to imagine a country where all citizens are highly educated as it is a country where they are all wealthy; these problems go hand in hand. One may readily admit that most citizens earnestly wish to promote their country’s welfare, and even that the lower classes may be less influenced by self-interest than the higher; yet it is still more or less impossible for them to discover the best means to attain their sincere desires. Careful and prolonged observation, along with a wide variety of ideas, is required to properly judge even one individual; can it be supposed that ordinary people can succeed in an inquiry that can mislead even geniuses? The people lack the time and means necessary for such investigations: they draw conclusions quickly, based on only a shallow look at the most obvious features of a question. As a result, they often agree with the showman who knows how to appeal to their tastes, while those who are their true friends often fail in their efforts.

Furthermore, democracy lacks not only the judgment to choose people truly worthy of its trust, but it neither wants nor tries to find them. It cannot be denied that democratic institutions strongly encourage the feeling of envy in the human heart—not just because they offer everyone the chance to rise to another’s level, but because those chances often disappoint those who try them. Democratic institutions arouse and nurture a passion for equality they can never fully satisfy. This total equality always slips away from the people just when they feel about to grasp it, and, as Pascal says, “flies, with eternal flight”; the people become fixated on gaining an advantage that is especially desirable precisely because it is not too distant to be unknowable, nor close enough to be enjoyed. The lower classes are agitated by the prospect of success and frustrated by its uncertainty; they pass from the excitement of pursuit, to the exhaustion of failure, and finally to the bitterness of disappointment. Anything that rises above their own limits seems an obstacle to their desires, and no superiority—however legitimate—fails to irritate them.

It has been supposed that the instinctive tendency of the lower orders to remove their superiors from authority is unique to France. This is not true; the tendency I mention is not unique to any one nation, but to democratic institutions in general. Though it may be heightened by certain political circumstances, it ultimately comes from a deeper source.

In the United States, the people do not wish harm to the upper classes; but they are not especially friendly toward them and carefully keep them from holding authority. They do not fear those with special talents, but rarely admire them, and give little recognition to those who rise without popular support.

While the tendencies of democracy lead the people to reject the most distinguished citizens as leaders, these individuals often withdraw from public life, finding it nearly impossible to keep their independence or to advance without debasing themselves. This view was frankly presented by Chancellor Kent, who said, in praising the part of the Constitution that lets the Executive nominate judges: “It is indeed probable that the men who are best fitted to discharge the duties of this high office would have too much reserve in their manners, and too much austerity in their principles, for them to be returned by the majority at an election where universal suffrage is adopted.” Such opinions were published without objection in America in 1830!

I consider it thoroughly proven that universal suffrage is by no means a guarantee for wise popular choices, and that, whatever its merits, this is not among them.

Causes Which May Partly Correct These Tendencies Of The Democracy

Opposite effects produced on peoples and on individuals by great dangers—Why so many distinguished men held office in America fifty years ago—The influence of the intelligence and customs of the people on their choices—Example of New England—States of the Southwest—Influence of certain laws on the people’s choices—Election by an elected body—Its effects on the Senate’s makeup.

When a State faces serious dangers, the people are often able to select individuals best able to save it. It has been observed that people rarely remain at their usual level in the face of grave crises; they either rise above or fall below their ordinary state, just as entire nations do. Extreme perils sometimes crush a people’s energy rather than rouse it; they stir up passions without guiding them, and instead of clarifying, they cloud judgment. The Jews filled the smoking ruins of their temple with the bloodshed of their own remnants. But more often, in both nations and individuals, extraordinary virtue arises in the face of real danger. Great characters are highlighted, just as buildings hidden by the shades of night are revealed in the glow of a fire. At such times of danger, genius no longer keeps away from the public arena, and the people, alarmed by the threats they face, let go of their envy, at least for a while. Great leaders may then emerge from the ballot box.

I have already said that today’s American statesmen are much less impressive than those who led fifty years ago. This results as much from the circumstances as from the laws of the country. When America was fighting for independence and to break free from another nation, and when it was about to create a new nation, the people’s spirits were raised to a level their great efforts demanded. In these circumstances, the most distinguished stepped forward to meet the needs of the time, and the people relied on them for support, putting them in charge. But events of this magnitude are rare, and we must judge from the ordinary situation.

If unusual events sometimes check the more dangerous passions of democracy, the intelligence and customs of the people have an influence just as strong, and far more lasting. This is easy to see in the United States.

In New England, the education and freedoms of the communities stemmed from the founders’ moral and religious principles. Where society is stable enough to hold on to certain beliefs and fixed habits, the lower classes are used to respecting intellectual superiority and yielding to it without complaint, even while rejecting privileges based on wealth or birth. The democracy in New England thus makes better choices than elsewhere.

But as we head south, to States where society is newer and less established, where education is less widespread, and where morality, religion, and liberty mix less successfully, the number of talented and virtuous leaders in office grows steadily fewer.

Finally, in the new Southwestern States, where society is just established, and is made up of adventurers and speculators, we are amazed at those who are given public authority, and wonder by what power, aside from the laws and policymakers, the State can be sustained and society made to prosper.

There are certain democratic laws that, for all their dangers, help offset the worst tendencies of democracy. Entering the House of Representatives in Washington, one is struck by the ordinary manners of this grand assembly. Often, there is not a single well-known figure present. The representatives are mostly obscure people, their names bringing no associations to mind: they are mostly small-town lawyers, tradesmen, or even from the working classes. In a country with generally high education, it is said that the people’s representatives do not always know how to write correctly.

A few paces away is the entrance to the Senate, and within its small chamber is a large share of America’s renowned men. Hardly anyone sits there who does not bring to mind a notable and energetic career: the Senate is filled with skilled advocates, famous generals, wise judges, and renowned statesmen, whose speech would honor any European parliament.

What causes this striking difference? Why are the ablest citizens in one body and not the other? Why is one marked by its ordinariness and lack of talent, and the other by its intelligence and wisdom? Both are chosen by the people; both chosen by universal suffrage; and no one in America claims that the Senate is opposed to the people’s interest. What, then, accounts for this striking difference? The reason seems very clear: the House of Representatives is elected by the people directly; the Senate is elected by bodies of elected officials. Every citizen helps choose each State’s legislature, and the Federal Constitution makes them electoral bodies that choose the Senators. The Senators are chosen by an indirect use of universal suffrage, because the legislatures that elect them are not privileged groups with their own franchise, but are chosen by all the citizens, usually every year. New members can always be selected, who will use their voting rights according to the wishes of the people. However, passing popular authority through an elected body changes it a great deal, refining its judgment and improving its methods. People chosen this way truly represent the nation’s majority, but they represent the higher ideas present in the community and the tendencies that inspire noble actions, more than the small passions or vices that disturb or discredit it.

It is likely that the American Republics will soon need to make use of election by elected bodies more frequently in their systems of representation—or else risk tragically running aground on the hazards of democracy.

And I do not hesitate to say that I see this election system as the only way to bring the use of political power to the level of all classes. Thinkers who see this institution as merely a partisan tool, and those who fear to use it, seem to be equally mistaken.

Influence Which The American Democracy Has Exercised On The Laws Relating To Elections

When elections are rare, the State faces a violent crisis—If they are frequent, they keep people in a state of constant excitement—The Americans have preferred the latter—Instability of the laws—Hamilton and Jefferson’s opinions on the subject.

If elections happen rarely, each one throws the State into upheaval. Parties fight fiercely for a prize that rarely becomes available; and because the loss is hard to recover, the defeated candidates may cause real trouble; but if new elections come around quickly, even those who lose can take heart. When elections happen often, they keep society in a constant state of excitement, and cause public affairs to remain unstable.

Thus, on one hand, the State is exposed to the dangers of revolution, and on the other to constant change; the first threatens the very existence of the Government, while the second prevents any stable and consistent policy. The Americans have preferred the second of these evils to the first; but this choice was made more by instinct than by reasoning, for a taste for variety is one of the intrinsic passions of democracy. As a result, an extraordinary instability has been introduced into their legislation. Many Americans view the instability of their laws as an unavoidable consequence of a system whose overall results are beneficial. Yet, no one in the United States claims to deny the existence of this instability, nor argues that it is not a serious problem.

Hamilton, after demonstrating the usefulness of a power that might prevent, or at least impede, the passing of bad laws, adds: “It might perhaps be said that the power of preventing bad laws includes that of preventing good ones, and may be used to the one purpose as well as to the other. But this objection will have little weight with those who can properly estimate the mischiefs of that inconstancy and mutability in the laws which form the greatest blemish in the character and genius of our governments.” (Federalist, No. 73.) And again in No. 62 of the same work he observes: “The facility and excess of law-making seem to be the diseases to which our governments are most liable. ... The mischievous effects of the mutability in the public councils arising from a rapid succession of new members would fill a volume: every new election in the States is found to change one-half of the representatives. From this change of men must proceed a change of opinions and measures, which forfeits the respect and confidence of other nations, poisons the blessings of liberty itself, and diminishes the attachment and reverence of the people toward a political system which betrays so many marks of infirmity.”

Jefferson himself, the greatest Democrat that the democracy of America has yet produced, pointed out the same problems. “The instability of our laws,” he wrote to Madison, “is really a very serious inconvenience. I think that we ought to have prevented it by deciding that a whole year should always pass between the bringing in of a bill and its final passage. It should then be discussed and put to the vote without the possibility of making any alteration in it; and if the situation required a quicker decision, the question should not be decided by a simple majority, but by a majority of at least two-thirds of both houses.”

### Public Officers Under The Control Of The Democracy In America

Simple appearance of American public officers—No official uniform—All public offices are paid positions—Political consequences of this system—No public career exists in America—Result of this.

Public officers in the United States mix among ordinary citizens; they have neither palaces, nor guards, nor ceremonial costumes. This simple exterior of people in authority is connected not only with the distinct traits of the American character but also with the fundamental principles of their society. In the eyes of the democracy, government is not a benefit, but a necessary evil. A certain degree of power must be granted to public officers, for they would be useless otherwise. But obvious signs of authority are by no means essential to the running of public affairs, and are unnecessarily offensive to the public's feelings. The public officers themselves know well that they only hold superiority over others as a condition of acting like equals in their manners. A public officer in the United States is always civil, accessible to everyone, attentive to all requests, and polite in replies. These qualities of a democratic government pleased me; and I admired the genuine independence of the citizens, who respected the office more than the officer, and who cared less for the symbols of authority than for the character of the individual holding them.

I am inclined to believe that the influence of uniforms and costumes, in an age like ours, has been greatly exaggerated. I never saw an American public officer less respected during the performance of his duties because his merit was not displayed through outward markers. Conversely, it is very questionable whether a special uniform encourages public figures to respect their own position, at least when they are not already inclined to do so. If a magistrate (and in France such examples are not uncommon) makes jokes at the prisoner’s expense, or mocks a defendant’s situation, it would be better to deprive him of his robes of office, to see whether he might regain some part of mankind’s natural dignity if dressed as an ordinary citizen.

A democracy may, however, permit a certain amount of official display, and dress its officers in silks and gold, without seriously compromising its principles. Privileges like these are temporary; they belong to the office, not the person. However, if public officers are not universally paid by the State, then public duties would fall to wealthy and independent men, forming the core of an aristocracy; and if the people still retains its right of election, it can only choose from a limited class of citizens. When a democratic republic turns paid offices into unpaid ones, it can be confidently believed that the State is moving toward monarchical institutions; and when a monarchy begins paying officers who were previously unpaid, it clearly signals a shift toward a despotic or republican government. Introducing paid functionaries in place of unpaid ones is, in my view, enough to constitute a major revolution.

I see the total absence of unpaid functionaries in America as one of the most prominent signs of democracy’s absolute rule in that country. All public services, no matter their kind, are paid; so everyone has not just the right, but the means to serve. While all citizens in democratic States are eligible to hold government positions, not all are motivated to seek them. The number and abilities of the candidates are more likely to limit the voters' choices than any restrictions on eligibility.

In nations where every office in the State is filled by election, no true political career can be said to exist. Men are promoted seemingly by chance to the positions they hold, and they cannot be sure of keeping them. As a result, in peaceful times, public office holds limited attraction for ambitious individuals. In the United States, those who involve themselves in the complications of political life are people of very modest ambitions. The pursuit of wealth usually distracts those with great talents and passions from seeking political power, and often, a man only seeks to guide the fate of the State after he finds himself unable to manage his own affairs. The large number of quite ordinary people in public positions is as much due to these factors as to poor choices by the democracy. In the United States, I am not sure that the people would elect highly capable men who asked for their support, but it is certain that such men usually do not come forward.

### Arbitrary Power Of Magistrates Under The Rule Of The American Democracy

Why the arbitrary power of Magistrates is greater in absolute monarchies and in democratic republics than in limited monarchies—Arbitrary power of the Magistrates in New England.

In two different kinds of government magistrates\*a exercise a considerable degree of arbitrary power: under the absolute rule of a single individual, and under democracy. This same result comes from causes that are quite similar.

a  
\[I use the word ‘magistrates’ in the broadest sense here; I apply it to all officers entrusted with carrying out the laws.\]

In despotic States, the fortunes of no citizen are secure, and public officers are no safer than private individuals. The sovereign, who has under his control the lives, property, and sometimes the honor of those he employs, does not hesitate to allow them much freedom in their actions, because he is confident they will not use it against him. In despotic States, the sovereign is so deeply attached to exercising his power that he dislikes even the restraints of his own regulations, and is content for his agents to act flexibly, as long as their actions never go against his wishes.

In democracies, since the majority can each year remove the officers it appointed, it has no reason to fear any abuse of their authority. As the people can always communicate its wishes to those leading the Government, it prefers to allow them to act on their own initiative rather than bind them to a strict set of rules that would restrict both their activity and the authority of the public.

In fact, on close examination, under a democracy the arbitrary power of the magistrate can be greater than in despotic States. In the latter, the sovereign can punish any faults he becomes aware of, but he cannot hope to know about all wrongs that occur. In the former, sovereign power is not only supreme but ever-present. American officials are, in practice, far more independent within the areas defined for them by law than their counterparts in Europe. Often, only the end they are to achieve is spelled out, and the means are left up to their judgment.

In New England, for example, the selectmen of each township are required to prepare a list of people to serve on juries; the only rule they must follow is to choose citizens with the right to vote and good reputations.\*b In France, it would be thought dangerous to life and liberty if any public officer were given such a significant authority. In New England, the same magistrates can publicly post the names of habitual drunkards in taverns and forbid townspeople from selling them alcohol.\*c Such an extreme form of social control would be outrageous even in the most absolute monarchies; yet here, it is accepted without protest.

b  
\[See the Act of February 27, 1813, “General Collection of the Laws of Massachusetts,” vol. ii. It should be noted that jurors are later chosen from these lists by lot.\]

c  
\[See Act of February 28, 1787, “General Collection of the Laws of Massachusetts,” vol. i.\]

Nowhere has the law left so much to the judgment of the magistrate as in democratic republics, because this power brings no serious risks. In fact, one could say that the freedom of the magistrate increases as the right to vote is extended and terms of office become shorter. This is also what makes it so difficult to turn a democratic republic into a monarchy. The magistrate’s office is no longer elected, but he retains the rights and habits of an elected official, which naturally leads toward despotism.

Only in limited monarchies does the law, which prescribes the limits of public office, oversee all their actions. The reason for this is plain to see. In limited monarchies, power is split between the King and the people, both of whom care about the magistrate’s stability. The King does not make public officers subordinate to the people, fearing they might betray him; on the other hand, the people fear that if officers were entirely dependent on the Crown, they would become tools to oppress freedom. Therefore, neither the King nor the people can be said to control them completely. The same reason that leads both to make magistrates independent also creates the need for safeguards, to prevent this independence from threatening either royal power or public liberty. Thus, both sides agree that officials should be bound by regulations they cannot avoid.

##  Chapter XIII: Government Of The Democracy In America—Part II

### Instability Of The Administration In The United States

In America, the public actions of a community often leave fewer lasting records than the events within families—Newspapers are often the only historical sources—Instability of the administration is harmful to the art of governing.

The authority which public officials have in America is so brief, and they so quickly blend into the ever-changing population, that the actions of a community often leave fewer traces than even private family matters. The public administration is, in a sense, oral and based on tradition. Very little is put into writing, and what is written is often lost forever, like the Sibyl’s leaves, scattered by the lightest breath of wind.

The only historical records left in the United States are found in newspapers; but if a single issue is missing, the timeline is broken and the present becomes disconnected from the past. I am convinced that in fifty years it will be harder to gather authentic documents about Americans’ current social conditions than it is to find records of French administration from the Middle Ages. If the United States were ever invaded by outsiders, one might have to turn to the histories of other nations to learn anything about the people who now live there.

This administrative instability has become part of the people’s habits: it even seems to match the general liking, and no one cares about what happened before their own time. There is no organized system; no archives are established; no documents are collected, even though it would be easy to do. Where documents do exist, they are not valued; and I have among my own papers several original public documents given to me just in response to my questions. In America, society seems to live day by day, like an army on campaign. Still, public administration truly is a science, and no science can progress without connecting the discoveries and observations of each generation in the order they occurred. One man, in his short life, notices a fact; another has an idea; the first invents a practical solution, while the other forms a general principle; and humanity gathers the fruits of individual experience over time, slowly creating the sciences. But public administrators in America can rarely teach each other anything; when they take charge of society, they come with only the general knowledge that is widespread throughout the community, with no experience unique to themselves. Democracy, taken to its furthest extent, therefore harms the art of governing; for this reason, it is better suited to a people already experienced in administration than to a nation that is new to public affairs.

This observation, in fact, does not apply only to administration. Although a democratic government is based on a very simple and natural idea, it always assumes that the society is already highly educated and enlightened. \*d At first glance, it might seem suited to the earliest ages of the world; but closer study will show that it could only truly appear late in the course of human development.

d
\[ It should be noted that I am speaking here of the democratic form of government as applied to a nation, not just to a single tribe.\]

Charges Levied By The State Under The Rule Of The American Democracy

In every society, citizens can be divided into three classes—The financial habits of each class—Why public spending tends to rise under popular government—What makes the extravagance of democracy less alarming in America—Public spending under democracy.

Before we can decide whether a democratic government is economical, we need to establish a fair basis for comparison. The question would be easy to settle if we compared a democratic republic to an absolute monarchy. Public spending is higher in democracies than in absolute monarchies; this is true for all free states versus unfree ones. Despotism destroys wealth mainly by preventing people from creating it, rather than by taking away what already exists; it stops riches at their source, while usually leaving acquired property intact. Freedom, in contrast, creates far more good than it destroys; nations with free institutions almost always find their resources grow even faster than their taxes.

My goal here is to compare free nations to each other and to show how democracy influences a state’s finances.

Like living organisms, communities are formed by certain fixed rules that cannot be escaped. They are always composed of specific elements, present in all times and places. The people can always be mentally divided into three distinct classes. The first is the wealthy; the second, those who are comfortable; the third, those with little or no property, who live mainly by working for the two higher classes. The proportion of people in each division may change, but the divisions themselves always exist.

Clearly, each class exerts its own influence on how the state’s finances are managed. If the first class (the wealthy) holds all legislative power, they may not be careful with public funds, since taxes on large fortunes only limit their surplus pleasures, and have little real impact. If the second class makes the laws, they will likely be careful with taxes: nothing is so burdensome as heavy taxes on a small income. Government by the middle classes seems to me the most economical, though perhaps not the most enlightened or generous, of free governments.

Now imagine if legislative authority lies with the lowest class: there are two obvious reasons why spending will go up, not down. Since most lawmakers own no property to be taxed, all public spending seems to benefit them at no cost to themselves; and those with a little property easily arrange for taxes to fall heavily on the wealthy and profit the poor, while the rich cannot similarly advantage themselves when in control.

In countries where the poor \*e hold all law-making power, one should not expect great economy in public spending: expenses will always be high, because taxes do not affect those imposing them, or because they are structured not to burden those classes. In short, democracy is unique in allowing those who impose taxes to be exempt from paying them.

e
\[ The word poor is used here (and throughout this chapter) in a relative, not absolute, sense. The poor in America might seem rich compared to Europe’s poor, but still count as poor compared to their own wealthier countrymen.\]

It could be argued (though the point is weak) that the real interests of the people are linked to those of the rich, since they too would suffer from harsh measures. But isn’t it also the real interest of kings to keep their subjects happy, and of nobles to admit new members under fair conditions? If people always acted for their long-term advantage, tyranny and exclusive aristocracies would never exist.

Another argument is that the poor are never the sole lawmakers; but wherever universal suffrage exists, the majority holds legislative power—and if the poor are always the majority, they can be said, truthfully, to hold all legislative authority. In every nation, the greater number has always consisted of those with little or no property, or just enough to still need to work for a comfortable life. So, universal suffrage really does put society in the hands of the poor.

The harmful influence of popular authority over state finances was clearly seen in some ancient democracies, where public funds were spent on relieving the poor or providing entertainment for the masses. It’s true that representative government was then poorly understood, and today the influence of popular emotion in government is lessened; yet it is reasonable to believe that delegates eventually follow the principles and preferences of their constituents.

However, democratic wastefulness is less dangerous as property is more equally shared, because then less is needed from the rich and it becomes harder to tax the lower classes without affecting their own interests. For this reason, universal suffrage would be less risky in France than England, since in England property is held by fewer people. In America, where most citizens own at least some property, the situation is even safer than in France.

There are a few other reasons public spending may rise in democracies. When aristocracies rule, those in charge are already above want, satisfied with their rank, and seek power and fame; and being far above the general population, they may not clearly see how the majority's welfare might enhance their own reputation. They are not indifferent to suffering, but cannot feel it as keenly as if it were their own. As long as the people seem content, rulers are satisfied, and expect nothing more from government. Aristocrats focus more on maintaining their influence than improving their situation.

On the other hand, when the people have supreme power, leaders’ constant awareness of hardship drives them to seek improvement at every turn. Countless matters are seen as needing reform; even minor details are pursued as possible improvements; and expensive changes are often prioritized, as the goal is to improve conditions for those who cannot pay themselves.

Moreover, democratic societies are constantly stirred by vague excitement and restless impatience, sparking countless innovations—nearly all of which cost money.

In monarchies and aristocracies, rulers’ natural desire for power and fame is driven by ambition, often pushing them to expensive enterprises. In democracies, where leaders themselves experience want, they can only be attracted by improvements to their own well-being—improvements that require spending. As people begin to examine their lives, they discover many previously unknown needs, which must be met by public funds. Thus, as civilization advances, public charges grow, and taxes increase as knowledge spreads through society.

A final reason why democracy is often costlier than other forms is that it does not always succeed in controlling spending, because it doesn’t understand the art of economy. Plans often change, and officials change even more frequently, so projects are badly managed or left unfinished: in the first case, huge sums are spent for little result; in the second, the expenses are wasted. \*f

f
\[ The gross receipts of the Treasury of the United States in 1832 were about \$28,000,000; in 1870 they had risen to \$411,000,000. The gross expenditure in 1832 was \$30,000,000; in 1870, \$309,000,000.\]

Tendencies Of The American Democracy As Regards The Salaries Of Public Officers

In democracies, those who raise the highest salaries have no prospect of benefiting from them themselves—Tendency of American democracy to raise the salaries of lower officials and lower those of higher officials—The reason behind this—Comparison of public officer salaries in the United States and France.

There is a strong reason why democracies tend to economize on the salaries of public officials. In democratic countries, the number of citizens who pay these salaries is extremely large, but the number of people who can hope to benefit from them is comparatively small. In aristocratic countries, by contrast, those individuals who set high salaries almost always have a vague hope of benefiting from them themselves. These appointments may be seen as a sort of capital they create for their own use, or at least as a resource for their children.

However, it must be admitted that a democratic state is most frugal toward its highest officials. In America, the lower-level officials are paid much better, while the dignitaries of the administration are paid much worse than elsewhere.

These opposite outcomes stem from the same cause: in both cases, the people set the salaries of public officers, and the pay scale is determined by their own circumstances. It is considered fair that public servants should enjoy circumstances as comfortable as those of the general public; \*g but when it comes to the salaries of high-ranking state officials, this principle breaks down, and the popular decision ends up being determined by chance. The poor do not adequately understand the needs of the upper classes. The sum that is meager for the wealthy seems enormous to the poor person, whose own needs do not go beyond the basics. In his view, the Governor of a State earning twelve or fifteen hundred dollars a year is a very lucky and enviable person. \*h If you try to argue that the representative of a great people ought to show some measure of splendor to impress foreign nations, he may intellectually agree, but when he thinks of his own modest home and the hard-won fruits of his exhausting labor, he remembers all that he could do with the salary you claim is too little—and he feels shocked or even frightened at the sight of such unusual wealth. Furthermore, the lower-level public officer is much closer to the people, while the others are set above them. The former may inspire sympathy, but the latter often stir up envy.

g  
\[ The comfortable circumstances of lower-level officials in the United States also come from another reason, independent of democracy's general tendencies: all kinds of private business are very lucrative, and the state would not be able to attract employees if it did not pay well. The country is like a business enterprise, required to keep up costly competition despite its preference for thrift. \]

h  
\[ The State of Ohio, with a million inhabitants, gives its Governor a salary of just \$1,200 a year. \]

This is very apparent in the United States, where the higher the authority of the office, the lower the salary seems to be. \*i

i  
\[ To make this point absolutely clear, it is enough to look at the salary scales of Federal Government officials. For comparison, I have included the corresponding salaries in France under the constitutional monarchy.

United States  
Treasury Department  
Messenger ………………………. \$700  
Clerk with lowest salary …………. 1,000  
Clerk with highest salary ………… 1,600  
Chief Clerk …………………….. 2,000  
Secretary of State ………………. 6,000  
The President …………………… 25,000  

France  
Ministère des Finances  
Hussier ……………………… 1,500 fr. Clerk with lowest salary, 1,000 to 1,800 fr.  
Clerk with highest salary 3,200 to 8,600 fr.  
Secrétaire-général …………….20,000 fr. The Minister ………………….80,000 fr.  
The King ………………….12,000,000 fr. Perhaps it was a mistake to choose France as the basis for this comparison. In France, democratic tendencies of the people are having more and more influence on government, and the legislative chambers tend to raise lower salaries and reduce the highest ones. For instance, the Minister of Finance, who received 160,000 fr. under the Empire, receives only 80,000 fr. in 1835. The Directeurs-généraux of Finance, who then received 50,000 fr. now receive only 20,000 fr. \[This comparison is based on the situation in France and the United States in 1831. There have since been significant changes in both countries, but not enough to invalidate the truth of the author's observation.\]\]

By contrast, under aristocratic rule, it often happens that high officers receive lavish salaries, while lower ones have little more than what is necessary to get by. The reason for this is similar to what I mentioned earlier. If a democracy cannot understand or witness the pleasures of the rich without envy, an aristocracy is slow to grasp—or more accurately, is unfamiliar with—the difficulties of the poor. The poor man is not (in the true sense of the word) a peer of the rich, but a person of an entirely different order. Aristocracies therefore tend to care little for their lower-level agents, and only increase their pay when those agents refuse to work for starvation wages.

This frugal treatment of top officials in democracies has given rise to a belief in their far more economical habits than they really possess. It is true that democracies barely allow the means for their leaders to live honorably, but they often spend huge sums to support the needs or pleasures of the general public. \*j Tax revenues may be spent more justly, but not necessarily saved. In general, democracy gives freely to the community as a whole, but very little to those who govern it. The reverse is true in aristocracies, where state money is spent for the benefit of those who run the government.

j  
\[ See the American budgets for support of the poor and for free education. In 1831, \$250,000 was spent in New York State to maintain the poor, and at least \$1,000,000 was devoted to free education. (William’s “New York Annual Register,” 1832, p. 243.) In 1830, New York had only 1,900,000 inhabitants—barely double the population of the Department du Nord in France.\]

Difficulty of Distinguishing The Causes Which Contribute To The Economy Of The American Government

We are prone to frequent mistakes in the study of those facts that seriously impact human affairs, since it's very difficult to judge their true importance. Some peoples are naturally inconsistent and excitable; others are calm and calculating—and these traits come from their physical makeup or from distant causes we cannot identify.

Some nations love spectacle and festivity, happily paying for a brief moment of enjoyment. Others, in contrast, prefer quieter pleasures, and almost seem embarrassed to be seen enjoying themselves. In some countries, people value beautiful public buildings highly; in others, they care little for art and tend to look down on anything unproductive. In some places, reputation is a person's ruling passion, in others, it is money.

Apart from legislation, all these factors have a strong influence on a country's public finances. For example, Americans never spend public money on galas, not only because the people control taxes, but also because they do not care for public celebrations. When they reject architectural ornament and value only practical and functional benefits, it is not only because they have democratic institutions, but also because they are a nation of businesspeople. Private habits carry over into public affairs, and we should be careful to distinguish between thrift arising from their political system and that resulting from their national character and customs.

Whether The Expenditure Of The United States Can Be Compared To That Of France

Two key points must be settled to properly assess public charges: national wealth and the rate of taxation—The wealth and expenditures of France are not exactly known—Why neither the wealth nor the expenditures of the U.S. can be known accurately—Author’s investigations to find the taxation level in Pennsylvania—General clues that may help indicate the level of public charges in any nation—Findings from this analysis in the United States.

Many recent attempts have been made in France to compare French public spending with that of the United States; none has been successful, and a few remarks will make clear why such an effort could not succeed.

To estimate the public cost of a people, two preliminaries are essential: first, to determine the wealth of that people; second, to find out what share of that wealth is spent by the state. Showing the taxes raised without showing the resources available to meet those demands is pointless; what matters is not simply the spending, but its ratio to the revenue.

The same rate of taxation that can be easily borne by a wealthy taxpayer will drive a poor one into extreme hardship. The wealth of nations consists of several distinct elements: population is the first, real property is the second, and personal property is the third. The first of these elements can be determined without difficulty. Among civilized nations, it is easy to obtain an accurate census of the population; but the other two cannot be established as readily. It is hard to make a precise accounting of all the cultivated land in a country, along with its natural or acquired value; and it is even more impossible to estimate all the personal property within a nation, which eludes even the most rigorous analysis due to the diversity and sheer number of its forms. Indeed, we can see that the most advanced countries in Europe, even those with the most centralized administrations, have still not been able to determine their exact wealth.

In America, such an attempt has never been made; for how would it even be possible in a country where society has not yet settled into regular and peaceful habits, where the national government lacks a multitude of agents whose efforts it can direct toward a single aim, and where statistics are not studied because no one can collect the necessary documents or find the time to review them? Thus, the primary components used in calculations done in France are unavailable in the United States; the relative wealth of the two nations is unknown; France's property is not precisely measured, and no way exists to compute that of America.

Therefore, for the purposes of this discussion, I agree to set aside this necessary element of comparison and limit myself to considering the actual amount of taxation, without investigating the relationship between taxation and revenue. Still, the reader will see that my task is not made easier by these restrictions I now impose on my research.

It is undoubted that France's centralized administration, with all its public officials, could accurately determine the amount of direct and indirect taxes collected from citizens. But such an investigation, which no private individual can undertake, has not yet been completed by the French government, or at least its results have not been publicized. We know the total charges of the state; we know the departmental expenditures; but the costs of the communal divisions have not been calculated, and as a result, the overall public expenses of France are unknown.

If we now turn to America, the difficulties multiply and grow even greater. The Union publishes an exact account of its spending; the budgets of the twenty-four states give similar figures for their revenues; but the costs related to county and township affairs are unknown. \*k

k
\[ The Americans, as we've seen, keep four separate budgets: the Union, the States, the Counties, and the Townships each have their own. During my stay in America, I did all I could to determine public spending in the townships and counties of the major states of the Union and readily got the budgets of the larger townships, but I found it impossible to get those of the smaller ones. However, I do possess some documents regarding county expenses, which, although incomplete, are still interesting. I am grateful to Mr. Richards, Mayor of Philadelphia, for the budgets of thirteen Pennsylvania counties—Lebanon, Centre, Franklin, Fayette, Montgomery, Luzerne, Dauphin, Butler, Alleghany, Columbia, Northampton, Northumberland, and Philadelphia—for the year 1830. These counties then had a total population of 495,207. Looking at a map of Pennsylvania, you’ll see these counties are scattered throughout, generally subject to the range of influences that affect the state's condition, and can be assumed to furnish a fair average of the financial state of Pennsylvania counties overall. Reckoning that their expenses in 1830 were about \$361,650, or nearly 75 cents per inhabitant, and that each person also contributed about \$2.55 to the Union and about 75 cents to the state, it appears each person’s share of all public expenses (except for the township) was \$4.05 that year. This calculation is doubly incomplete, being for only one year and only a part of total public charges; but at least it is not merely speculative.\]

The Federal government has no authority to require provincial governments to shed any light on this matter; and even if those governments were willing to cooperate, it is doubtful whether they could obtain a satisfactory answer. Besides the inherent difficulties of the task, the country’s political organization would hinder their success. County and town magistrates are not appointed by state authorities, nor are they under their control. So, it is reasonable to assume that if the state wanted to obtain the data we need, its efforts would be frustrated by the indifference of the lower officials it would have to use. \*l In reality, it is pointless to ask what the Americans might do about this inquiry, for it is certain they have done nothing at all. At present, there is not a single person in America or Europe who can tell us what each citizen of the Union annually pays toward the nation’s public expenses. \*m

\[Footnote l: Those who have tried to compare French and American public spending have quickly seen that no such comparison can be made of total national expenditure; but they have tried comparing specific portions. This second approach is just as flawed as the first. If I try to compare the French budget to the Union’s budget, remember that the latter covers far fewer matters, so its spending is naturally smaller. If I compare the budgets of French Departments with those of the American States, it must be observed that the States wield much greater power and oversight than the Departments, and so their expenditures are larger. American counties do not correspond to anything in the French system, and it’s unclear whether American county expenses should be attributed to the state’s budget or to those of municipal divisions. Both countries have municipal expenses, but they are not always similar. In America, townships perform many functions assigned in France to the Departments or the State. Moreover, what are we to include as municipal expenses in America? Township and municipal organization varies by state. Should we look at New England, or Georgia, Pennsylvania, or Illinois? There may be an apparent analogy between certain budgets in both countries, but since their components always differ, no reliable comparison can be made. \[The same difficulty, perhaps an even greater one, exists today, since America’s taxation has increased significantly.—1874.\]\]

m
\[ Even if we knew the exact monetary contributions of every French and American citizen to their respective States, we would only have part of the truth. Governments require not only money, but also personal service, which can be considered equal to a certain sum. When a State raises an army, beyond paying the troops—funded by the nation as a whole—each soldier also gives up his time, the value of which depends on what he could have earned otherwise. The same holds for the militia: the citizen devotes his time to public order, really surrendering potential earnings. Many other examples could be given. The governments of France and America each levy these kinds of taxes, weighing on citizens, but who can accurately measure their relative weight in the two countries?

This is not the last of the obstacles to comparing expenditure between the Union and France. The French government assumes obligations that do not exist in America, and vice versa. In France, the government pays the clergy; in America, the voluntary principle prevails. In America, there are legal provisions for the poor; in France, the poor rely on public charity. French public officers are paid fixed salaries; in America, they are allowed certain fees. In France, tolls or payments in kind exist on very few roads; in America, they are common. In France, roads are free for all; in America, turnpikes are widespread. All these different ways contributions are collected make it even harder to compare each country’s spending, since there are costs that citizens would not bear—or at least, that would be much lower—if the State did not take them on in the name of the public.\]

Therefore, we must conclude that it is just as difficult to compare social expenditures as it is to estimate the relative wealth of France and America. I will even add that it would be risky to attempt such a comparison; for when statistics are not founded on strictly accurate calculations, they mislead instead of guiding properly. People are easily fooled by a false appearance of precision, which even scientific errors can take on, and they accept as fact mistakes that are presented with mathematical certainty.

So we leave aside our numerical investigation in hopes of finding other types of evidence. In the absence of solid documents, we may estimate the effect of a people’s taxation on its prosperity by observing whether its outward condition is flourishing—whether, after paying state taxes, the poor still have enough to live on, and the rich retain the means for comfort; and whether both are satisfied with their lot, but eager to improve it by constant effort, so that industry is never short of capital, nor capital left idle. Any observer using such indications will undoubtedly conclude that the average American contributes a much smaller share of income to the state than the average French citizen. Indeed, this result is to be expected.

A portion of France’s debt was caused by two successive invasions; the Union faces no similar threat. Nations on the European continent must maintain large armies; the Union, being geographically isolated, has only 6,000 soldiers. France has a navy of 300 ships; America has 52. \*n How, then, can Americans be expected to contribute as much as the French? No fair comparison can be made between the finances of two countries so differently situated.

n
\[ See the Budget of the French Minister of Marine for details; for America, see the National Calendar of 1833. \[In 1870, however, the U.S. public debt after the Civil War reached \$2,480,672,427, and that of France more than doubled due to the extravagance of the Second Empire and the war of 1870.\]\]

We must look at how things operate within the Union itself, not try to compare the Union to France, to see if the American government is really economical. Looking at the various republics in the confederation, I see that their governments are inconsistent in their initiatives and exercise little consistent oversight over their officials. From this, I naturally infer that they often spend public funds inefficiently, or use more than necessary for their projects. In keeping with their democratic society, they make great efforts to address the needs of the lower classes, to make power accessible to them, and to spread education and comfort among them. The poor are cared for, enormous sums are devoted each year to public education, every type of service is well paid, and even the lowest officials enjoy generous compensation. If this approach to government seems reasonable and beneficial, I must still admit that it is costly.

Where the poor manage public affairs and control national resources, it seems inevitable that, since they benefit from State spending, they will tend to increase that spending.

So, without relying on inaccurate calculations or taking the risk of an incorrect comparison, I conclude that American democratic government is not inexpensive, as is sometimes claimed. I have no doubt in saying that, if the people of the United States are ever faced with serious challenges, their taxes will quickly rise to match those of most European aristocracies and monarchies. \*o

o
\[ \[That is exactly what eventually occurred.\]\]

##  Chapter XIII: Government Of The Democracy In America—Part III

Corruption And Vices Of The Rulers In A Democracy, And Consequent Effects Upon Public Morality

In aristocracies, rulers sometimes attempt to corrupt the people—in democracies, rulers often display their own corruption. In the former, their vices directly harm public morality. In the latter, their indirect influence is even more damaging.

It is important to distinguish between the ways aristocratic and democratic principles each contribute to corruption when they criticize one another. In aristocratic governments, those at the top are wealthy men, primarily seeking power. In democracies, politicians are often poor and need to make their fortunes. As a result, rulers of aristocratic states are rarely open to bribery and have little desire for money, while in democratic nations the opposite is true.

However, in aristocracies, since those who wish to lead already possess significant wealth and the number of people whose support they need is relatively small, the government, if I may use the term, resembles an auction. In democracies, those craving power are rarely rich, and the number of citizens granting power is extremely large. The number of people who could be bought may not be smaller, but genuine buyers are rare; and since so many would have to be bought at once, such efforts usually fail.

Many individuals who have held office in France over the past forty years have been accused of enriching themselves at the expense of the state or its allies—a charge rarely leveled at the public officials of the old monarchy. Yet in France, the bribery of voters is almost unknown, while in England it is notorious and public. In the United States, I have never heard of anyone accused of spending their wealth to corrupt the populace; but I have often heard questions raised about the integrity of public officials, and even more frequently, their success attributed to petty intrigues and immoral actions.

If, then, the leaders of an aristocracy sometimes seek to corrupt the people, the leaders of a democracy are themselves corrupt. In the former, the people’s morality is attacked directly; in the latter, a much more insidious, indirect influence is at work that is even more dangerous.

As rulers in democratic nations are almost always suspected of dishonorable conduct, they partly lend governmental authority to the questionable practices they're accused of. In doing so, they set an example that discourages virtuous independence and encourages the secret ambitions born of vice. If it’s argued that evil passions appear in all levels of society, that villainous people rise to thrones by inherited right, and that disreputable characters are found at the head of aristocracies as well as democracies, I do not find this argument very convincing. The corruption of those who rise to power by chance has a crude and vulgar quality that makes it infectious among the masses. In contrast, there is a sort of aristocratic refinement and a sense of grandeur in the vices of the great, which often prevents such depravity from spreading widely.

The people can never truly unravel the complex web of court intrigue and will always struggle to see the corruption hidden behind polished manners, refined tastes, and eloquent language. But looting public funds and selling state favors are actions any low-level criminal can understand and hope to repeat.

In reality, it is far less harmful to see the immorality of the elite than to witness immorality as the path to greatness. In a democracy, ordinary citizens see someone from their own background rise suddenly to wealth and power; this sight sparks surprise and envy, and they wonder how their former equal has become their ruler. It's unpleasant to attribute their rise to talent or virtue, for that is an unspoken admission that one is less virtuous or talented. Consequently (and often rightly), people attribute such success to flaws, creating a toxic association of corruption with power, unworthiness with achievement, and dishonor with usefulness.

Efforts Of Which A Democracy Is Capable

The Union has only faced one real fight for its existence—there was initial enthusiasm at the start of the war, and indifference as it dragged on. Establishing military conscription or impressment of seamen in America is difficult. A democratic society is less capable of sustained collective effort than some others.

Let me clarify that I am speaking here of a government that genuinely follows the people’s true desires, not one that simply rules in their name. Nothing is as unstoppable as a tyrannical power operating under the people's authority, as it uses the moral weight of the majority's will while acting with the focus and speed of a single ruler.

It's difficult to predict what level of effort a democratic government can muster in a national crisis. No great democratic republic has ever existed until now. To call the group that ruled France in 1793 by that name would be an insult to the true form of republican government. The United States is the first real example.

The American Union has now existed for half a century, and it has faced a serious threat to its survival only once—during the War of Independence. At the start of that long conflict, various events revealed extraordinary patriotic zeal. \*p Yet as the struggle continued, selfish tendencies began to emerge. Little money made its way into the public treasury; few recruits joined the army; people wanted independence, but were unwilling to suffer the hardships needed to achieve it. “Tax laws,” Hamilton says in the “Federalist” (No. 12), “have in vain been multiplied; new methods to enforce the collection have in vain been tried; the public expectation has been uniformly disappointed and the treasuries of the States have remained empty. The popular system of administration inherent in the nature of popular government, coinciding with the real scarcity of money incident to a languid and mutilated state of trade, has hitherto defeated every experiment for extensive collections, and has at length taught the different legislatures the folly of attempting them.”

p
\[ One of the most remarkable of these events was the decision by Americans to temporarily stop using tea. Anyone who knows that people often cling more to their habits than their own lives will rightly admire this significant yet quiet sacrifice made by an entire population.\]

The United States has not fought any major war since then. To know what sacrifices a democracy might impose upon itself, we’ll have to wait until the American people is forced to put half its income at the government’s disposal—as the English once did—or send a twentieth of its population into battle, as France did. \*q

q
\[ \[The Civil War demonstrated that, when the need arose, the American people—both North and South—could make enormous sacrifices in both money and lives.\]\]

Drafting is unknown in America; men are encouraged to enlist by bounties. The attitudes and habits of Americans are so opposed to forced enlistment that I doubt any law could ever establish it. What the French call conscription is certainly the heaviest tax on their population; but how else could a major war be fought? The Americans haven’t adopted the British method of impressing seamen, nor anything like the French maritime conscription. Both the navy and merchant ships rely on volunteers. Still, it’s hard to see how a nation can fight a major naval war without using one of these two systems. In truth, the Union—which has distinguished itself on the seas—has never had a very large fleet, and even outfitting a small number of vessels has always been extremely expensive.

I have heard American politicians admit that the Union will struggle to maintain its status on the seas without adopting some form of impressment or maritime conscription; but the problem is persuading the people, who hold ultimate authority, to accept impressment or any form of compulsion.

It is undeniable that in dangerous times, a free people shows more energy than an unfree one. But I think this is especially true in free nations where democracy is strongest. Democracy seems better suited for peaceful times or for a single, powerful effort than for enduring the long-term storms that threaten a nation's existence. The reason is simple: enthusiasm can lead people to face dangers and hardships, but without reflection, they won't endure them for long. Even in acts of courage there is more calculation than people think; initial efforts may come from passion, but perseverance requires a clear sense of purpose. We risk some of what we have to save the rest.

But this clear understanding of the future, built on sound judgment and experience, is often lacking in democracies. The masses tend to feel more than they reason; and if present suffering is extreme, they may forget that defeat will mean even worse.

Another factor makes democratic governments less steady in their efforts than aristocracies. The lower classes are not only less aware of future risks or rewards than the upper classes, but hardships fall much harder on them. A noble risks his life in battle, but the prospect of glory equals the risk. If he gives up much of his income to the state, he loses only temporary pleasures. To the poor, death brings no honor, and taxes that are merely burdensome to the rich can be fatal for them.

This relative weakness of democratic republics may be the biggest obstacle to establishing such a republic in Europe. For it to work in any Old World country, similar institutions would have to be introduced everywhere else.

I believe that democratic government tends, in the long run, to increase a society’s real strength; but it can never concentrate as much power at one time as an aristocracy or monarchy. If a democratic nation were subject to a republican government for a century, it would likely be more numerous and prosperous than its despotic neighbors. But it would also risk being conquered far more often during that time.

Self-Control Of The American Democracy

The American people accept slowly—or often refuse to accept—what is best for them. The faults of American democracy are, for the most part, fixable.

A democracy's struggle to overcome its impulses and meet the longer-term interests of the nation is visible even in the smallest details of American life. The people, constantly surrounded by flatterers, rarely overcome their immediate desires. Whenever asked to make a sacrifice or endure inconvenience—even for a goal they rationally recognize as right—they almost always refuse at first. Americans' respect for law has been rightly praised, but we must also note that in America, laws are made by the people, for the people. As a result, American law favors the very groups most interested in evading it elsewhere. It follows that any unpopular law, unless widely seen as immediately useful, would probably not be passed or obeyed.

In America, there is no law against fraudulent bankruptcy—not because fraud is rare, but because bankruptcies are common. Fear of being prosecuted as a bankrupt affects the majority more than fear of loss by others’ bankruptcy, and public opinion extends a sort of guilty tolerance to a crime everyone personally condemns. In the newer southwestern states, citizens often take justice into their own hands, and murders are frequent. This is due to the rough manners and ignorance of settlers in these wild regions, who don’t appreciate the need for strong legal authority, and prefer duels over court proceedings.

Someone once remarked to me in Philadelphia that almost all crimes in America are caused by the abuse of intoxicating liquors, which the lower classes can easily obtain due to their extremely low cost. “Why don’t you put a duty on brandy?” I asked. “Our legislators,” my informant replied, “have often considered this possibility; but putting it into practice is difficult. There might be a revolt, and the members who voted for such a law would almost certainly lose their seats.” “From that, I infer,” I replied, “that the drinking population forms the majority in your country, and temperance is not very popular.”

When these matters are brought to the attention of American statesmen, they usually assure you that time will bring the necessary changes, and that people will learn their own best interests through experience. This is often true. Although a democracy is more susceptible to error than a monarchy or a body of nobles, it also has a greater ability to return to the right path once it admits its mistakes, as it is rarely hindered by internal interests conflicting with those of the majority or resisting the power of reason. Yet, a democracy can only arrive at the truth through experience, and many nations might lose their existence while waiting for the consequences of their errors to unfold.

The great privilege of Americans isn’t just that they are more enlightened than other nations, but that they have the ability to fix the mistakes they make. It should also be added that a democracy can only truly benefit from past experience if it has reached a certain level of knowledge and civilization. There are tribes and peoples whose education has been so poor, and whose character is such a strange mix of passion, ignorance, and misconceptions, that they cannot recognize the causes of their own suffering, and they fall victim to ills they do not understand.

I have traveled across vast regions once inhabited by powerful Indian nations that are now extinct. I have spent time among remnants of tribes who watch their numbers and their independence diminish each day, and I have heard these Indians themselves speak of the downfall of their people. Any European can see ways to save these unfortunate beings from inevitable destruction. They alone are blind to these solutions; they suffer the mounting sorrows, year after year, but will perish to the last man rather than accept the remedy. It would require force to lead them into the protection and discipline of civilization.

The constant revolutions that have shaken the South American provinces over the last twenty-five years have often been mentioned with surprise, and people have expected these nations to soon return to their natural state. But can it really be said that the turmoil of revolution isn’t actually the most natural state for South American Spaniards at this time? Society there is caught in difficulties it cannot escape. The people of that beautiful part of the Western Hemisphere seem determined to carry on self-destruction. If they pause, exhausted, that rest only sets the stage for the next round of chaos. Considering their condition, swinging between misery and crime, I might be tempted to think even despotism could benefit them — if I could ever associate the words despotism and benefit in my mind.

## Conduct Of Foreign Affairs By The American Democracy

### Direction given to the foreign policy of the United States by Washington and Jefferson—Almost all the defects inherent in democratic institutions are brought to light in the conduct of foreign affairs—Their advantages are less perceptible.

We have seen that the Federal Constitution assigns the permanent management of the country’s foreign interests to the President and the Senate, \*r which helps somewhat to separate the general foreign policy of the Union from direct public control. Therefore, it cannot truly be said that foreign affairs are managed by the general democracy.

r
\[ “The President,” says the Constitution, Art. II, sect. 2, Section 2, “shall have power, by and with the advice and consent of the Senate, to make treaties, provided two-thirds of the senators present concur.” Note here that senators serve six-year terms and are chosen by the legislature of each State.\]

America’s foreign policy started with Washington and, after him, Jefferson, both of whom established the principles still followed today. Washington stated in the admirable letter to his fellow-citizens—which can be seen as his political legacy to the country: “The great rule of conduct for us in regard to foreign nations is, in extending our commercial relations, to have with them as little political connection as possible. So far as we have already formed engagements, let them be fulfilled with perfect good faith. Here let us stop. Europe has a set of primary interests which to us have none, or a very remote relation. Hence, she must be engaged in frequent controversies, the causes of which are essentially foreign to our concerns. Hence, therefore, it must be unwise in us to implicate ourselves, by artificial ties, in the ordinary vicissitudes of her politics, or the ordinary combinations and collisions of her friendships or enmities. Our detached and distant situation invites and enables us to pursue a different course. If we remain one people, under an efficient government, the period is not far off when we may defy material injury from external annoyance; when we may take such an attitude as will cause the neutrality we may at any time resolve upon to be scrupulously respected; when belligerent nations, under the impossibility of making acquisitions upon us, will not lightly hazard the giving us provocation; when we may choose peace or war, as our interest, guided by justice, shall counsel. Why forego the advantages of so peculiar a situation? Why quit our own to stand upon foreign ground? Why, by interweaving our destiny with that of any part of Europe, entangle our peace and prosperity in the toils of European ambition, rivalship, interest, humor, or caprice? It is our true policy to steer clear of permanent alliances with any portion of the foreign world; so far, I mean, as we are now at liberty to do it; for let me not be understood as capable of patronizing infidelity to existing engagements. I hold the maxim no less applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is always the best policy. I repeat it; therefore, let those engagements be observed in their genuine sense; but in my opinion it is unnecessary, and would be unwise, to extend them. Taking care always to keep ourselves, by suitable establishments, in a respectable defensive posture, we may safely trust to temporary alliances for extraordinary emergencies.” Earlier in the same letter, Washington makes this striking and true remark: “The nation which indulges towards another an habitual hatred or an habitual fondness is in some degree a slave. It is a slave to its animosity or to its affection, either of which is sufficient to lead it astray from its duty and its interest.”

Washington always guided his political conduct by these principles. He succeeded in keeping his country at peace while other nations were at war, and he established as a fundamental doctrine that Americans’ true interest lay in perfect neutrality regarding the internal struggles of European powers.

Jefferson took it further, introducing a principle into Union policy stating that “the Americans ought never to solicit any privileges from foreign nations, in order not to be obliged to grant similar privileges themselves.”

These two principles are so clear and reasonable that even the general population could understand them, and they have greatly simplified U.S. foreign policy. Since the Union takes no part in European affairs, it really has no pressing foreign interests to manage, as it currently has no powerful neighbors on the American continent. The nation’s position, as much as its chosen policy, keeps it removed from Old World passions, with no requirement to either refuse or embrace Europe’s conflicting interests; and the disputes of the New World are still hidden in the future.

The Union faces no pre-existing obligations and thus can benefit from the experience of older European nations, without the need to accommodate inconvenient traditions or mixed legacies from their ancestors—legacies of glory mixed with disaster, of alliances conflicting with national antipathies. The foreign policy of the U.S. is, by its nature, focused on awaiting whatever the future may bring, and at present it is more about avoiding entanglements than initiating action.

Therefore, it’s very difficult right now to judge how wisely American democracy will manage the country’s foreign affairs; on this point, both critics and advocates must wait before drawing conclusions. For myself, I don’t hesitate to say I believe that in foreign relations, democratic governments seem to me decidedly less effective than those run on other principles. Experience, education, and habit can almost always develop a kind of practical discretion in democracies—a common-sense approach to daily life. Among a well-educated people, the benefits of democratic liberty in internal matters can more than balance out its disadvantages. But this is not always the case in foreign relations.

Foreign policy requires few of the abilities in which a democracy excels, and instead calls for almost all those qualities in which it is lacking. Democracy helps develop the country’s internal resources, spreads moderate independence, fosters public spirit, and strengthens respect for the law across society—benefits that only indirectly affect relations with other nations. But a democracy cannot effectively manage the details of large undertakings, persist in a plan, or see it through in the face of challenges. It cannot act with secrecy, and it will not patiently wait for results. These qualities are better suited to an individual ruler or an aristocracy; and it is precisely through such means that a nation can gain a dominant position.

By contrast, if we look at the natural faults of aristocracy, we see that in foreign affairs their influence is mainly harmless. The main criticism of aristocratic bodies is that they tend to pursue their own advantage over that of the general public. But in foreign policy, it’s rare for the aristocracy’s interests to differ from those of the people.

The tendency of democracies to act on passion rather than prudence, and to abandon a thoughtful policy for a passing impulse, was plain to see in America at the start of the French Revolution. It was obvious then, as it is now, that American interests strongly discouraged involvement in a conflict that was about to flood Europe with blood, but that could not harm America. Yet, popular sympathies for France ran so strong that only Washington’s steadfast character, and the immense popularity he enjoyed, prevented the United States from declaring war on England. Even then, the determined efforts required by his strict reason to restrain the generous but reckless passions of his fellow citizens almost deprived him of the sole reward he ever sought—his country’s love. At that time, the majority opposed the policy he adopted, which has since received unanimous approval from the nation.\*s Had the Constitution and public support not handed control of foreign affairs to Washington, it’s clear the American nation would have made decisions it now regrets.

s
\[ See the fifth volume of Marshall’s “Life of Washington.” In a government like that of the United States, he says, “it is impossible for the chief magistrate, however firm he may be, to oppose for any length of time the torrent of popular opinion; and the prevailing opinion at that time leaned towards war. In fact, in the session of Congress held at the time, it was frequently seen that Washington had lost the majority in the House of Representatives.” The public attacks on him were extremely harsh, and in a political meeting he was even compared, indirectly, to the traitorous Arnold. “By the opposition,” says Marshall, “the friends of the administration were declared to be an aristocratic and corrupt faction, who, from a desire to introduce monarchy, were hostile to France and under the influence of Britain; that they were a paper nobility, whose extreme sensibility at every measure which threatened the funds, induced a tame submission to injuries and insults, which the interests and honor of the nation required them to resist.”\]

Almost all the nations that have had great influence on world affairs—by conceiving, pursuing, and accomplishing grand projects, from the Romans to the English—have been governed by aristocratic institutions. This is not surprising, when we remember that nothing in the world holds to its purpose so firmly as an aristocracy. The masses can be misled by ignorance or passion; a king’s mind can be influenced, and his perseverance shaken—and besides, a king is not immortal—but an aristocratic body is too large to be swayed by intrigue, yet not so large as to give in to the wild swings of blind passion. An aristocracy combines the focus of a determined, enlightened individual with the enduring power that comes from being a permanent institution.

##  Chapter XIV: Advantages American Society Derive From Democracy—Part I

What the Real Advantages Are That American Society Derives From the Government of Democracy

Before beginning this chapter, I feel it’s important to remind the reader of what I have referenced several times throughout this book. The political institutions of the United States seem to me to be just one of the possible governmental forms that a democracy may adopt; however, I do not consider the American Constitution to be the best, or the only, system that a democratic people can establish. In showing the advantages Americans gain from a democratic government, I am far from suggesting, or believing, that similar benefits can only be achieved under the same laws.

General Tendency of the Laws Under the Rule of the American Democracy, and Habits of Those Who Administer Them

Defects of a democratic government are easy to notice—Its strengths are only visible upon long observation—Democracy in America is often inexperienced, but the general trend of the laws is beneficial—In American democracy, public officers have no lasting interests apart from those of the majority—Resulting effects.

The shortcomings and weaknesses of a democratic government are easily noticed; the worst examples make them clear, while their positive influence is felt much more subtly. A single glance is enough to spot its harmful effects, but its virtues become apparent only after long experience. American democracy’s laws are often flawed or incomplete; sometimes they infringe on established rights or legitimize others that may harm the community; and even good laws become problematic when changed too frequently. How is it, then, that American republics thrive and sustain their standing?

In discussing laws, one must carefully differentiate between the goal aimed for and the means used to achieve it—between their absolute and relative merit. If a lawmaker intends to benefit a minority at the expense of the majority, and his methods are well-designed to achieve that with minimal time and effort, the law may be skillfully crafted, despite its bad purpose; and the more effective it is, the more damage it does.

Democratic laws generally aim to improve the fortunes of as many people as possible; since they originate with the majority, who may make mistakes but can’t have motives contrary to their own well-being. In contrast, aristocratic laws tend to concentrate wealth and power among a minority, as aristocracy by definition is a minority. It can therefore be said, as a general rule, that the purpose behind democratic legislation benefits more citizens than aristocratic legislation does. This, however, sums up the benefits.

Aristocracies are far more skilled in legislative science than democracies can ever be. They possess self-control, which shields them from the mistakes of passing enthusiasm, and they formulate goals which they develop over time, aided by favorable circumstances. Aristocratic government functions with the precision of art; it knows how to direct the collective force of its laws toward a specific goal. Democracies, in contrast, almost always produce laws that are ineffective or ill-timed. So, democracy’s methods are more flawed than those of aristocracy, and it often unknowingly works against its own cause; yet its intentions tend to be more widely beneficial.

Now, imagine a society organized by nature or its constitution so that it can endure the temporary effects of flawed laws, and can wait, without disaster, for the overall direction of the lawmaking: then we can understand why a democratic government, despite its faults, is best suited to promote such a society’s thriving. This is exactly the case in the United States; and I repeat what I’ve said before: the Americans’ great advantage is their ability to make mistakes they can later correct.

A similar observation applies to public officials. It’s easy to see that American democracy often chooses unqualified individuals for administrative power; but it is harder to explain why the state still prospers under their leadership. First, note that even if rulers in a democracy are less honest and less capable than elsewhere, the people they represent are more informed and attentive to their interests. Since the people in democratic societies watch their own affairs more closely and vigilantly guard their rights, they keep their representatives within the general path dictated by shared interests. Secondly, remember that while a democratic official is more prone to abuse power, he holds it for a shorter time. Yet there is an even deeper and more convincing reason. It certainly matters that nations be governed by talented and moral individuals; but perhaps it is even more important that the interests of those in charge aren’t separated from the public’s interests; because if they are, even great virtues could be wasted, and talent misused. I say it is crucial that the leaders’ interests do not conflict with those of the wider community—not that they are identical to all, as I know of no nation where this has ever truly occurred.

No political structure has yet been found that equally promotes the prosperity and growth of all social classes. These classes remain almost like separate nations within a nation; and experience shows that entrusting their fate to any one group is as dangerous as letting one people control another’s destiny. When only the rich govern, the poor’s welfare is threatened; when the poor make the laws, the rich’s interests are seriously at risk. So, democracy’s benefit is not, as sometimes claimed, to promote everyone’s prosperity—but rather to favor the well-being of the largest possible number.

The men charged with governing public affairs in the United States are often inferior in both ability and morality to those whom aristocratic systems would bring to power. But their interests are united with those of the majority of citizens. They may often be unfaithful and wrong, but they will never intentionally pursue a course against the will of the majority; and it is impossible for them to drive the government in a dangerous or exclusive direction.

The poor governance of a democratic official is just a temporary event, occurring only during his short term in office. Corruption and incompetence have no common cause binding men together over time. A corrupt or incompetent official will not cooperate with another simply because he too is corrupt or incompetent; such men will not band together to extend their failings to future generations. Instead, their ambition and schemes tend to expose each other. The faults of an official in a democracy are usually his alone.

But in aristocratic governments, public men are influenced by the interests of their class, which, though sometimes overlapping with those of the majority, are often quite separate. This shared and enduring interest unites them; it encourages them to work together to reach aims that do not always bring the greatest happiness to the greatest number; and it serves to bind officeholders not only to each other, but to a significant part of the public, since many citizens belong to the aristocracy without being in office themselves. Thus, the aristocratic official is constantly backed by a part of society, as well as by the government.

The shared motive linking aristocratic officials with some of their contemporaries connects them with future generations too; their influence reaches ahead as much as it shapes the present. The aristocratic official is at once pushed toward the same goal by community passions, his own ambitions, and I might almost say by the interests of his descendants. Is it any wonder, then, that he follows these strong incentives? In fact, aristocracies are often led astray by the spirit of their order without realizing it; and they unconsciously shape society for themselves and for their heirs.

The English aristocracy may be the most liberal ever to exist, and no group has ever produced so many upright and intelligent leaders over such a long span. Still, it’s clear that England’s laws have favored the rich at the expense of the poor and have protected the rights of the few over the majority. As a result, present-day England combines the extremes of wealth within her society, and her troubles and dangers are almost equal to her power and fame. *a

a
[ [The legislation of England for the forty years is certainly not fairly open to this criticism, which was written before the Reform Bill of 1832, and accordingly Great Britain has thus far escaped and surmounted the perils and calamities to which she seemed to be exposed.] ]

In the United States, where public officials have no special interests tied to their social rank, the steady influence of government is positive, even though those who run it may lack skill or even merit. In fact, democratic institutions subtly encourage citizens’ efforts to benefit the community, despite their individual failings and mistakes; whereas, in aristocratic institutions, there is a subtle tendency that, regardless of the talents and virtues of those in power, often fuels the ills that burden others. In aristocratic systems, public men may often do harm they never meant, while in democracies, they sometimes bring about benefits they never planned.

Public Spirit in the United States

Patriotism of instinct—Patriotism of reflection—Their different qualities—Nations must strive to develop the second when the first fades—Efforts of Americans in this direction—Individual interests closely tied to the nation's.

One kind of patriotic attachment arises from an instinctive, selfless, and hard-to-define feeling that connects a person’s affections to the place of their birth. This natural fondness is joined with a liking for old customs and a respect for ancestral traditions; those who hold it dear love their country as they love their family home. They enjoy the peace it gives, they rely on the habits they developed there, they’re attached to its memories, and they are even content with the obedience their place imposes. This patriotism can sometimes be charged by religious fervor, and when that happens, it can drive remarkable sacrifice. At its heart, it is almost a kind of religion; it doesn’t reason, but is motivated by faith and feeling. In some nations, the monarch has stood as the living symbol of the country; in such cases, patriotism transforms into loyalty, and people take pride in the king’s victories and glory in his might. At one time, under the old monarchy, the French felt proud even in their dependence on their king’s will, often declaring, “We are the subjects of the most powerful king in the world.”

But, like other instinctive passions, this kind of patriotism is better at stirring short-term action than serving as a lasting motive for consistent effort. It may save the nation in moments of crisis, but will often let the country decay in peaceful times. As long as a people’s ways are simple and their faith unshaken, while society continues upon old institutions whose legitimacy is not questioned, this gut-level patriotism usually endures.

There is another kind of attachment to one’s country that is more rational than the first. It may be less intense and less noble, but it is more productive and durable; it grows with spreading knowledge, is encouraged by the law, develops with civil participation, and eventually merges with the citizen’s own interests. A person sees how their country’s success improves their own situation; they know that the law allows them to influence that success, so they actively promote it, first out of self-interest and then out of a sense of right.

But sometimes there come moments in a nation’s life when old customs are discarded, public morality is undermined, religious beliefs are shaken, and tradition’s magic is broken, while education is still incomplete and civil rights are either poorly protected or limited to a few. Then the concept of country becomes vague or even invisible to many citizens; they no longer find it in the land they walk on—since the earth itself feels lifeless to them; nor in the habits of their ancestors, which now seem oppressive; nor in religion, which they doubt; nor in laws that don’t reflect their will; nor in lawmakers, whom they fear or despise. The country is lost to their senses; they cannot see it under familiar or even borrowed forms, and they retreat into a narrow, selfish existence. They’ve cast off prejudice without embracing reason; they have neither the instinctive patriotism of monarchy nor the thoughtful patriotism of a republic; instead, they are stranded partway between, in confusion and hardship.

In such a situation, going back is impossible; a people cannot revive the spirit of its youth, any more than a person can return to childhood innocence. Such things may be missed, but never recovered. The only choice, then, is to move forward, working to link personal and public interests ever more closely, since the era of unselfish patriotism has passed.

I am a long way from claiming that to achieve this, political rights should be immediately extended to every member of society. Still, I argue that the most effective, and perhaps the only, way to involve people in their country's well-being is to let them have a share in its government. Today, it seems to me that public spirit cannot be separated from the exercise of political rights; and I believe the number of active citizens in Europe will grow or decline according to how widely those rights are given.

In the United States, the people settled the land only recently, bringing little in the way of custom or tradition; they met each other as strangers; the instinctive love of country found little place in their minds. Yet everyone takes as keen an interest in the affairs of his township, county, and state as if they were his own, because everyone, at his own level, takes an active part in government.

The lower classes in America understand the connection between the country's general prosperity and their own well-being; and while this insight is simple, it is not one often reached by the people elsewhere. But in America, the public sees this prosperity as the direct result of its own efforts; every citizen regards the nation’s fortune as his personal interest and works for its success—not as much from pride or duty, but, I dare say, from a kind of self-interest.

You do not need to study American institutions and history to see this fact, as their everyday behavior demonstrates it. Because Americans are involved in their country’s every action, they feel compelled to defend whatever is criticized; for when their country is targeted, so are they personally. As a result, their national pride takes on countless forms, with all the subtlety and vanity of individual pride.

Nothing is more awkward in everyday life than the sensitive patriotism of Americans. A visitor may be perfectly willing to praise many of the institutions in their country, but if he asks to criticize some of the peculiarities he observes, that permission is firmly denied. America is, therefore, a free country where, so that no one’s feelings are hurt, you are not allowed to speak freely about individuals or the nation, about citizens or authorities, about public or private enterprises—in fact, about anything at all except perhaps the climate and the land; and even then, Americans are ready to defend both the one and the other, as if these had been designed by the country’s inhabitants themselves.

In our time, a choice must be made between the patriotism of all and the government of a few, for the energy and vigor provided by the first are incompatible with the peace and security that the second offers.

Notion Of Rights In The United States

No great people without a notion of rights—How the notion of rights can be taught—Respect for rights in the United States—Where it comes from.

Apart from the idea of virtue, I know no principle higher than that of right; or, to put it more precisely, these two ideas merge into one. The idea of rights is simply virtue applied to the political sphere. It is the idea of rights that enabled people to define both anarchy and tyranny and taught them how to remain independent without arrogance and to obey without servility. The man who submits to violence is diminished by his compliance; but when he obeys the order of someone who justly holds authority, he rises in a sense above the person giving the command. There are no great men without virtue, and there are no great nations—indeed, there would be no society at all—without the notion of rights; for what is the state of a group of intelligent beings joined together only by force?

I am convinced that the only way we can now teach the idea of rights, and make it almost tangible, is to allow all members of society to peacefully exercise certain rights. This is very clear in children, who are people without the strength or experience of adults. When a child begins to interact with the world around him, he naturally tries to use everything he can reach for his own benefit; he has no concept of other people’s property. But, as he learns the value of things and realizes that his possessions can be taken from him as well, he becomes more cautious, respecting the rights in others that he wants respected in himself. The lesson a child learns from having toys is reinforced for adults by their own property. In America, you never hear the complaints against property in general that are so common in Europe, because there are no paupers; since everyone has something to protect, everyone acknowledges the principle by which they possess it.

The same is true in political life. In America, even the lowest classes have a strong sense of political rights because they exercise them; and they avoid infringing on the rights of others to protect their own. While in Europe the lower classes sometimes resist even the highest authority, the American accepts without protest the direction of even a minor magistrate.

This is revealed in the smallest national details. In France, very few pleasures are reserved only for the upper class; the poor are welcomed wherever the rich go, and so they behave properly and respect whatever enhances the experiences they themselves enjoy. In England, where the wealthy hold a monopoly on both recreation and power, there are complaints that when the poor sneak into the spaces reserved for the amusements of the rich, they commit needless destruction: but is this surprising, since they have been given nothing themselves? *b

b
[ [This, too, has improved thanks to much greater public amenities like parks, gardens, museums, etc.; and the behavior of the public in these places has improved alongside this increase. ]]

Democratic government brings the idea of political rights down to even the humblest citizens, just as widespread wealth gives everyone an understanding of property. To me, this is one of democracy’s greatest benefits. I do not say that it is easy to teach people how to use political rights, but I do argue that when possible, its results are highly significant, and I add that if there was ever a time to try, it is now. It is obvious that religious beliefs have weakened and the concept of divine rights is fading; public morality has been corrupted and the idea of moral rights is also disappearing: these all show the replacement of faith with reason, and of instinctive feeling with calculation. If, in the middle of all this disruption, you do not succeed in connecting the idea of rights to personal interest—the only steadfast aspect of the human heart—what means of governing the world will remain, except for fear? When I’m told that, since the laws are weak and the populace unruly, passions run high and the authority of virtue is paralyzed, therefore no effort should be made to extend the rights of the democracy, I reply that these are exactly the reasons why such efforts must be made. I am convinced that governments have an even greater stake in this than society does, because governments can be overthrown while society endures.

Still, I do not wish to exaggerate the example of America. In those states, people were given political rights at a time when abuse was nearly impossible—the citizens were few and their habits simple. As they have grown, Americans have not increased the power of democracy, but, if I may put it this way, have expanded its domain. Without a doubt, the moment when a people are first granted political rights is very critical, though also necessary. A child may kill before knowing the value of life and may steal before realizing that his own belongings may be taken. When the lower classes first acquire political rights, they stand in relation to those rights much like children do to the world, and the old saying applies: Homo puer robustus—a man, but a strong child. This truth is visible even in America. The states that have had rights the longest are those that make the best use of them.

It cannot be said too often that nothing produces wonders like the art of being free; but nothing is harder than learning liberty. This is not true for despotic governments: despotism may compensate for many past evils, protect rights, help the oppressed, and maintain order. The nation enjoys temporary prosperity until it suddenly awakens to its misery. Liberty, on the other hand, usually appears amid agitation, is refined by civil conflict, and its benefits can only be fully appreciated once it is already well established.

##  Chapter XIV: Advantages American Society Derive From Democracy—Part II

### Respect For The Law In The United States

Respect of the Americans for the law—Parental affection they have for it—Personal interest of everyone in increasing the authority of the law.

It is not always possible to consult the entire population, either directly or indirectly, in forming the law; but it cannot be denied that, whenever this can be done, the authority of the law is greatly strengthened. This popular origin, which may reduce the excellence and wisdom of legislation, nevertheless greatly increases its power. There is remarkable strength in the expression of a whole people’s resolve, and when that power speaks, even those most prone to oppose it are awed into submission. Parties understand this well and always strive to show they have a majority. When lacking a numerical majority, they claim the real majority didn’t vote; and if that claim fails, they appeal to the group of those who could not, or did not, vote.

In the United States, aside from slaves, servants, and paupers receiving support from the townships, there is no group that does not hold the right to vote and thus, at least indirectly, help make the laws. Anyone who wants to oppose the laws must either try to change public opinion or defy the nation’s expressed decision.

There is an even stronger reason: in the United States each person has a personal stake in ensuring that everyone obeys the law; since the minority may soon become the majority, it wants to establish respect for laws that it may itself soon need. However disagreeable a rule may be, the American citizen obeys it—not just because it was made by the majority, but because it expresses his own authority; he sees it as a contract in which he is involved.

In the United States, then, there is not that numerous and restless group that always sees the law as its natural enemy and greets it with fear and suspicion. Instead, all classes display the greatest confidence in their country's laws, to which they are attached almost as if by parental affection.

Yet I am mistaken to say "all classes"; for in America, with the typical European scale of authority reversed, the wealthy are in a situation similar to that of the poor in Europe—it is the wealthier classes who often regard the law with distrust. As I have previously observed, the chief advantage of democracy is not, as sometimes claimed, that it protects everyone’s interests, but that it serves the majority. In America, where the poor rule, the rich always have reason to fear abuse of power. This natural anxiety among the rich may cause silent discontent, but it doesn’t disturb society; for the same reason that prevents the rich from trusting the legislators also prevents them from resisting the law— their wealth keeps them from making the law, but also makes it impossible for them to stand firmly against it. Among civilized nations, rebellion is rarely started except by those with nothing to lose; and if the laws of a democracy are not always worthy of respect, they still always receive it; those who tend to violate them have no excuse because they've made the laws and benefit from them, while the citizens whose interests could be served by violating them are, due to their character and position, compelled to submit to whatever the legislature decides. Additionally, the people obey the law not only because it comes from popular authority, but also because that authority can change any law that becomes burdensome; the law is obeyed as a self-imposed hardship at first, and as a temporary one in the end.

Activity Which Pervades All The Branches Of The Body Politic In The United States; Influence Which It Exercises Upon Society

It’s harder to imagine the political activity that fills the United States than the level of freedom and equality that exists there—The constant energy seen in the legislative assemblies is just a small part of the general activity—It is difficult for an American to focus solely on his own business—Political agitation extends to all aspects of social life—The commercial energy of Americans is partly owed to this—Indirect benefits that society gains from democratic government.

When moving from a country with free institutions to one without, a traveler is struck by the change; in the former, everything is busy and lively, while in the latter, all seems calm and still. In the land of liberty, improvement and progress are the constant topics; in the other, society appears only to seek rest, enjoying what it has gained. Yet, the country pushing so hard for progress is often richer and more prosperous than the one that seems content; and comparing the two, it is remarkable how many new needs appear each day in the former, while so few arise in the latter.

If this can be said of those free countries with monarchical or aristocratic institutions, it is far more notable in democratic republics. In these countries, it is not just a portion but the entire community moving to improve society; and it is not just the needs of a single class but of every group that must be considered.

One may imagine the tremendous freedom Americans have, or picture the great equality there, but it is impossible to understand the constant political activity throughout the United States without witnessing it. The moment you arrive, you are struck by a sort of commotion; a lively noise is everywhere, and all around, people are calling for immediate solutions to their social needs. Everything is bustling; here, townspeople gather to decide on building a church; there, a representative is being elected; nearby, district delegates hurry to consult about local improvements; elsewhere, villagers leave their fields to discuss a new road or public school. Meetings are called just to express disapproval of the Government’s actions, while in other gatherings, citizens greet the authorities as if they were the fathers of their country. Societies are formed to target public problems, like those which see drunkenness as the main cause of the State’s troubles and solemnly pledge to set an example of sobriety. \*c

c
\[ During my visit to the United States, temperance societies already had over 270,000 members, and had reduced the consumption of fermented liquors by 500,000 gallons per year in Pennsylvania alone.\]

The major political excitement seen in America’s legislative bodies, which alone attracts foreign notice, is just one small part or extension of that broad movement that starts with the lowest classes and spreads to all ranks of society. No more energy can be devoted to the pursuit of happiness.

Politics take up much of an American citizen’s daily activities, and for most Americans, the main pleasure is participating in government and debating their part in it. This attitude influences even the smallest habits; even women often attend public meetings and listen to political speeches as relaxation after household duties. Debating clubs partially replace theatrical entertainment: an American rarely converses; he debates. When he talks, he tends to lecture. He speaks to you as if addressing an audience; and if he gets passionate in discussion, he will almost always say, “Gentlemen,” even in one-on-one conversation.

In some countries, people seem reluctant to use their political rights; they value their time too much to worry about the public good, and prefer to stay within the comfortable boundaries of private life. But for an American, to limit his activity to his own affairs would be to take away half his existence; he would feel a huge emptiness in his life and would be profoundly unhappy. \*d I believe that if a despotic government ever arises in America, it will find it harder to overcome the habits learned under free institutions than to destroy the people's attachment to liberty itself.

d
\[ The same was said of Rome during the first Caesars. Montesquieu notes the deep despair of certain Roman citizens who, after the excitement of political life, were suddenly thrust into the stagnation of private life.\]

This constant movement brought by democratic government also affects every aspect of society. I am not sure that this is not democracy’s greatest benefit. I am less inclined to praise democracy for what it achieves directly than for what it sets in motion. It is true the people often mishandle public affairs; but it is impossible for the lower classes to participate in government without broadening their minds and stepping beyond their usual routine of thinking. The most modest person who is called to help govern society gains a bit of self-respect; holding authority, he can command the talents of those brighter than himself. He is courted by many who seek to mislead him, but their deception nonetheless instructs him. He takes part in new undertakings that he did not invent but which encourage him to pursue such projects. Every day, improvements are suggested for property he holds in common, and this gives him a desire to improve his own private property. Perhaps he is not happier or better than his ancestors, but he is certainly better informed and more active. I am convinced that the democratic institutions of the United States—and the nature of its land—are the main causes (not directly, as is often claimed, but indirectly) of the incredible commercial vigor of its people. Their laws do not directly create this activity, but they teach people how to achieve it through the experience of self-government.

When critics of democracy claim that one individual could better handle public tasks than a whole community does, I agree. An individual, if equally well educated, acts with greater consistency, persistence, and precision than a crowd, and is better able to choose competent subordinates. Anyone who disagrees has likely never seen a real democratic government or has only a very narrow view. Even when local circumstances and popular character allow democratic institutions to function, they never provide regular or methodical government. Democratic liberty falls far short of matching the systematic achievements of clever despotism; it often abandons projects before they mature or risks them with dangerous consequences. Yet in the end, it gets more done than any absolute government; if it does fewer things well, it does many more things in total. Under democracy, the main actions of public administration matter less than those accomplished by private effort. Democracy does not guarantee the most skillful government, but it creates the one thing that even the best governments often cannot: a restless, widespread activity; an abundance of energy; and a force that, in the right conditions, can yield astonishing benefits. These are the real advantages of democracy.

In our time, when Christendom's fate seems uncertain, some rush to attack democracy as its foe while it is still young; others rush to worship this new power emerging from the old order. Yet both groups hardly understand what they hate or what they praise; they strike blindly and argue in the dark.

We first need to understand what we want from society and what the goal of government should be. If your aim is to raise the human spirit, to inspire noble perspective, to foster honorable convictions and selfless devotion; if you think it right to refine habits, beautify manners, promote artistic achievement, or instill the love of poetry, beauty, and fame; if you wish to create a people ready for great deeds and capable of leaving a glorious legacy—if these are your goals, democratic government would be an unreliable guide.

But if you believe it better to channel men’s energy into comfort and meeting life's necessities; if clear reason matters more to you than genius; if you value peaceful habits more than heroic virtues; if you would rather see ordinary vices than spectacular crimes, and fewer heroic acts if it lessens wrongdoing; if you are content to build a prosperous society rather than a dazzling one; if, in short, you think the government’s main role is to maximize each person’s wellbeing and minimize suffering, then the best way to meet those desires is to equalize social conditions and establish democratic institutions.

However, if the time to choose is past and fate propels us toward one system or the other, let us seek to make the best of our situation; let us study democracy’s good and bad points so we can encourage the former and keep the latter in check.

##  Chapter XV: Unlimited Power Of Majority, And Its Consequences—Part I

##  Chapter Summary

Natural strength of the majority in democracies—Most of the American Constitutions have increased this strength by artificial means—How this has been done—Pledged delegates—Moral power of the majority—Opinion as to its infallibility—Respect for its rights, how augmented in the United States.

Unlimited Power Of The Majority In The United States, And Its Consequences

The very essence of democratic government lies in the absolute sovereignty of the majority, for nothing in democratic States is capable of resisting it. Most of the American Constitutions have attempted to increase this natural strength of the majority through artificial means. \*a

a
\[As we observed in our examination of the Federal Constitution, the legislators of the Union took a diametrically opposite approach. As a result, the Federal Government is more independent within its own sphere than the State governments. However, the Federal Government rarely interferes except with external affairs; and the governments of the States are, in reality, the authorities that direct society in America.\]

Of all political institutions, the legislature is the one most easily influenced by the wishes of the majority. The Americans decided that members of the legislature should be elected directly by the people, and for very brief terms, to make them subject not only to the general opinions but even to the current passions of their constituents. Members of both houses come from the same social class and are nominated in the same way, so that the composition of the legislative bodies changes almost as rapidly and just as unavoidably as a single assembly. It is to such a legislature that almost all governmental authority is entrusted.

Yet while the law increased the power of those authorities that were strong by nature, it further weakened those that were naturally weak. It deprived the executive representatives of all stability and independence, and by making them entirely subject to the changes of the legislature, it stripped away what little influence a democratic government might have let them keep. In several States, the judiciary was also placed under the elective will of the majority, and in all States its existence was made to depend on the legislature, since the representatives could adjust judges' salaries annually.

Custom, however, has accomplished even more than law. A practice now spreading in the United States, which will ultimately undermine all the safeguards of representative government, is that electors who choose a delegate often dictate a specific course of action and impose certain explicit obligations which he is bound to fulfill. Except for the lack of commotion, this is essentially as if the majority of the people held their deliberations in the marketplace.

Several other circumstances combine to make the power of the majority in America not only dominant, but irresistible. The moral authority of the majority rests partly on the belief that there is more intelligence and wisdom in a large group than in a single person, and that the number of legislators is more important than their quality. In fact, the theory of equality is applied to human intelligence, so that pride is challenged in its last stronghold by a doctrine the minority hesitate to embrace, and only slowly accept. Like all other forms of power—perhaps even more so—the authority of the many needs the endorsement of time; at the outset, it enforces obedience by force, but its laws are not respected until they have stood for a long time.

The right to govern society, which the majority believes arises from its superior intelligence, was first introduced to the United States by the early settlers, and this idea—which alone could suffice to found a free nation—has now become part of the people’s customs and even their daily interactions.

The French, under the old monarchy, held as a maxim (which remains a fundamental part of the English Constitution) that the King could do no wrong; and if he did err, his advisors were blamed. This belief encouraged obedience, allowing subjects to complain about the law without losing respect or affection for the lawgiver. Americans hold the same idea regarding the majority.

The moral power of the majority is established on another principle: that the interests of the many outweigh those of the few. It is clear that respect for the majority’s rights will rise or fall depending on party divisions. When a nation is divided into several irreconcilable factions, the rights of the majority are often disregarded, since complying with its demands seems intolerable.

If there were in America a class of citizens from whom the legislative majority sought to strip exclusive privileges that had lasted for generations, and to lower from an elevated social position to the common level, it is likely the minority would be less willing to obey its laws. But since the United States were settled by people who were already socially equal, there remains no inherent or lasting source of conflict between the interests of its different inhabitants.

In some communities, the minority can never hope to bring the majority over to their side, for they would have to give up the very matter at issue. Thus, an aristocracy can never become a majority so long as it retains its exclusive privileges, nor can it surrender those privileges without ceasing to be an aristocracy.

In the United States, political questions are never discussed in such broad and absolute terms, and all parties are willing to acknowledge the rights of the majority, since they each hope to benefit from them at some future day. Therefore, in that country, the majority holds immense actual authority and a moral influence almost as dominant; no real obstacles exist to stop or even delay its advance, or to induce it to heed the complaints of those it crushes along the way. This state of affairs is dangerous both now and in the future.

How The Unlimited Power Of The Majority Increases In America The Instability Of Legislation And Administration Inherent In Democracy

The Americans add to the inherent instability of laws in democracy by changing their legislature every year and giving it unlimited power—The same effect touches administration—In America social improvements are pursued more energetically but less persistently than in Europe.

I have already discussed the natural flaws of democratic institutions, and all of these increase in direct proportion to the power of the majority. To begin with the most obvious: the instability of laws is a problem inherent in democratic government, since democracies naturally promote people to power rapidly in succession. Still, this problem is more or less noticeable depending on the power and capabilities of the legislature.

In America, legislative bodies exercise supreme power; nothing prevents them from acting rapidly and with overwhelming force, as they receive new representatives every year. In other words, the conditions that most heighten democratic instability—allowing fickleness to touch every matter in the State—exist in their fullest form. Accordingly, America is now the country in the world where laws last the shortest time. Almost all American constitutions have been amended within thirty years; thus, not a single American State has left its legislative principles unchanged during that period. As for the laws themselves, a brief survey of the archives of various States shows immediately that in America the legislator's activity is unceasing. The American democracy is not by nature less stable than others, but it is allowed to indulge its changing inclinations fully in passing laws. \*b

b
\[The legislative acts issued by the State of Massachusetts alone, from 1780 to the present, already fill three thick volumes; and keep in mind that this collection, published in 1823, omits many old, disused laws. Massachusetts, which is no more populous than a single department of France, may be considered the most stable, consistent, and wise in its undertakings out of all the Union.\]

The omnipotence of the majority, and the rapid and absolute execution of its decisions in the United States, not only makes the law unstable, but has the same effect on law enforcement and administration. Since the majority is the only power worth courting, all of its projects are pursued with maximum zeal, but as soon as its attention is diverted, that energy vanishes; while in the free States of Europe, administration is both independent and secure, so the legislature’s projects are carried out even if its immediate focus is elsewhere.

In America, some reforms are undertaken with much more zeal and energy than elsewhere; in Europe, the same improvements are achieved with far less effort but with more continuity.

Some years ago, several devout individuals tried to improve the condition of the prisons. The public was stirred by their reports, and the reform of criminals became a highly popular cause. New prisons were built, and for the first time, the idea of reform as well as punishment was included in prison discipline. But this welcome change, which the public so eagerly supported, and which private citizens worked hard to speed along, could not be completed overnight. While the new penitentiaries were going up (and the majority demanded they be finished as quickly as possible), the old prisons still held many offenders. These jails became more unhealthy and corrupt as the new ones were improved and beautified, creating a sharp contrast. The majority was so preoccupied with founding new prisons that it forgot about those that already existed; and as public attention shifted to the new project, care for the old ones faded away. Initially, the healthy rules of discipline were relaxed, and later disregarded entirely; thus, right next to a prison displaying the enlightened spirit of the age, there could be dungeons that reminded visitors of medieval cruelty.

##  Chapter XV: Unlimited Power Of Majority, And Its Consequences—Part II

### Tyranny Of The Majority

How the principle of the sovereignty of the people is to be understood—Impossibility of conceiving a mixed government—The sovereign power must center somewhere—Precautions to be taken to control its action—These precautions have not been taken in the United States—Consequences.

I hold it to be an impious and execrable maxim that, politically speaking, a people has a right to do whatever it pleases. Yet I have asserted that all authority originates in the will of the majority. Am I, then, contradicting myself?

A general law—called Justice—has been made and approved not only by a majority of this or that people, but by a majority of mankind. The rights of every people are therefore confined within the limits of what is just. A nation can be regarded much like a jury, empowered to represent society at large and apply the broad and general law of justice. Should such a jury, which represents society, have more power than the society from which the laws it applies originate?

When I refuse to obey an unjust law, I do not challenge the majority's right to command, but simply appeal from the sovereignty of the people to the sovereignty of all humanity. It has been claimed that a people can never entirely violate the boundaries of justice and reason in matters that are exclusively its own, and thus, that full power may be safely given to the majority it represents. But that is the language of a slave.

A majority, considered collectively, may be seen as a being whose opinions, and often whose interests, oppose those of another being, called a minority. If we admit that a single person with absolute power might misuse that power to harm adversaries, why should a majority not face the same charge? People do not typically change character simply by coming together; nor does their patience in the face of obstacles increase with their sense of power. \*c For these reasons, I could never willingly give any number of my fellow beings that unlimited authority which I would refuse to any one of them.

c
\[ No one would claim that a people cannot forcibly wrong another people; but parties may be regarded as lesser nations within a greater one, and they are strangers to one another: if it is admitted that a nation can act tyrannically toward another nation, it cannot be denied that a party may do the same toward another party.\]

I do not believe it possible to combine several principles within the same government so as to maintain freedom while truly opposing those principles to one another. What is usually called a mixed form of government has always seemed to me a mere illusion. Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as a mixed government (in the usual sense of the word), because in all societies, some one principle of action will be found that dominates the rest. England in the last century, which is often cited as the main example of this form of government, was in reality an essentially aristocratic state, even though it housed strong democratic elements. The laws and customs of the country made it inevitable that the aristocracy would prevail in the end, directing public affairs to its own will. The mistake lay in focusing too much on the ongoing struggle between the nobles and the people, without considering the likely result of the contest, which in fact was the important point. When a community truly has a mixed government, that is, when it is equally split between two opposing principles, it must either undergo revolution or fall into total dissolution.

I therefore believe that some one social power must always dominate the others. Yet I believe that liberty is threatened when this power is faced with no obstacles to slow its progress and force it to moderate its own intensity.

Unlimited power is, by itself, a bad and dangerous thing; humans are not capable of exercising it with discretion. Only God can be omnipotent, because His wisdom and justice always match His power. But no earthly power is so deserving of honor in itself, or of obedience for the rights it represents, that I would consent to admit its uncontrolled and all-powerful authority. When I see the right and means of absolute command given to a people or a king, to an aristocracy or democracy, to a monarchy or a republic, I recognize the seed of tyranny, and I move on to seek better institutions.

In my view, the main problem of the current democratic institutions in the United States does not arise, as is often claimed in Europe, from their weakness, but from their excessive strength. I am not so much alarmed by the excessive liberty in that country as I am by how few safeguards exist against tyranny.

When an individual or party is wronged in the United States, to whom can they turn for redress? If to public opinion, it is the majority; if to the legislature, it represents the majority and follows its orders; if to the executive, it is appointed by the majority and remains its passive tool; the public troops are the majority under arms; the jury is the majority empowered to decide legal cases; in certain States, even the judges are elected by the majority. However unjust or ridiculous the grievance you complain about may be, you must tolerate it as best you can. \*d

d
\[ A striking example of the excesses caused by the despotism of the majority happened at Baltimore in 1812. The war was very popular in Baltimore at the time. A newspaper that opposed the war provoked the residents' anger with its dissent. The crowd gathered, destroyed the printing presses, and attacked the newspaper editors' homes. The militia was called out, but no one responded; the only way to save those threatened by the mob's frenzy was to imprison them as common criminals. Even that precaution failed: the mob gathered again at night, the magistrates' attempt to summon the militia again failed, the jail was broken into, one newspaper editor was killed on the spot, and the others were left for dead; the guilty parties were acquitted by the jury at trial.

I once asked a resident of Pennsylvania, “Please explain to me how it happens that in a State founded by Quakers, known for its tolerance, freed Blacks are not allowed to exercise civil rights. They pay taxes; isn't it fair they should have a vote?”

“You insult us,” replied my informant, “if you think our legislators could have done something so terribly unjust and intolerant.”

“What! Then Blacks have the right to vote in this county?”

“Without the slightest doubt.”

“Then how is it that at the polling place this morning, I did not see a single Black person there?”

“This is not the fault of the law: the Blacks have an undisputed right to vote, but they choose not to come.”

“A remarkable show of modesty on their part!” I replied.

“The truth is, they are not unwilling to vote, but they are afraid of being mistreated. In this country, sometimes the law cannot maintain its authority without backing from the majority. But here the majority has strong prejudices against Blacks, and the magistrates are unable to protect them in using their legal rights.”

“What! So the majority claims not only the right to make laws, but also to break the laws it has made?”\]

If, on the other hand, a legislative body could be set up to represent the majority without necessarily being a slave to its passions; an executive, retaining some amount of independent authority; and a judiciary able to remain independent of the other two branches—a government would be created which would still be democratic without the risk of tyranny.

I do not claim that tyrannical abuses are common in America today, but I maintain that there is no solid barrier against them, and that the factors moderating the government are found more in the country's circumstances and customs than in its laws.

Effects Of The Unlimited Power Of The Majority Upon The Arbitrary Authority Of The American Public Officers

Liberty left by the American laws to public officers within a certain sphere—Their power.

A distinction needs to be made between tyranny and arbitrary power. Tyranny may be exercised by means of the law, and in that case it is not arbitrary; arbitrary power may be used for the good of society as a whole, in which case it is not tyrannical. Tyranny often uses arbitrary means, but, if needed, it can govern without them.

In the United States, the limitless power of the majority, which favors the legal despotism of the legislature, also supports the arbitrary authority of the magistrate. The majority controls the law both when it is made and when it is enforced; and as it holds equal power over those in office and the people at large, it considers public officers its passive agents and readily entrusts them with serving its wishes. The specifics of their office and their privileges are rarely defined in advance; instead, the majority treats them as a master treats servants always working in his sight, with the ability to direct or rebuke them at any moment.

In general, American officials are much more independent than French civil officers within the limits prescribed to them. Sometimes, they are even permitted by popular authority to go beyond those limits; and since they are supported by public opinion and backed by the cooperation of the majority, they dare to display their power in ways that surprise Europeans. In this manner, habits can form in the heart of a free country that may one day endanger its liberties.

Power Exercised By The Majority In America Upon Opinion

In America, once the majority has irreversibly decided an issue, all discussion stops—Reason for this—Moral power exercised by the majority over opinion—Democratic republics have taken away despotism's physical tools—Their despotism rules over the minds of men.

It is in examining how public opinion is displayed in the United States that we can clearly see how far the power of the majority surpasses all the powers known in Europe. Intellectual principles wield influence so invisible and often so subtle that they escape the reach of oppression. Today, even the most absolute monarchs in Europe cannot stop certain ideas, opposed to their authority, from spreading secretly throughout their realms, and even at their own courts. This is not so in America: as long as the majority is undecided, discussion continues; but once its decision is final, a respectful silence follows, and both supporters and opponents of the measure join in agreeing with its wisdom. The reason for this is obvious: no monarch is so absolute as to combine all the powers of society in one person and overcome all opposition with the energy of a majority that has both the right to make and enforce laws.

A king's authority is purely physical; it governs a citizen's actions without conquering his personal will. But the majority holds a power that is both physical and moral; it acts upon the will as well as the actions of individuals, suppressing not only opposition but also debate. I know of no country with less true independence of thought or freedom of discussion than America. In any constitutional state in Europe, all sorts of religious and political ideas can be expressed and spread; there is no country in Europe so dominated by one authority as to lack citizens willing to protect someone who speaks for the truth, regardless of the risk. If a person is unlucky enough to live under an absolute government, the people support him; if he lives in a free country, he can find shelter behind the authority of the throne if needed. In some countries, the aristocracy backs him; in others, the democracy. But in a nation with democratic institutions organized like those of the United States, there is only one authority, one source of strength and success, with nothing beyond it.

In America, the majority creates very strong barriers to freedom of opinion: within these barriers, a writer may say what he wants—but he will regret it if he ever crosses them. He is not threatened with the horrors of an auto-da-fé, but he suffers from social slights and daily persecution. His political career ends forever, as he has offended the only authority that can advance him. Every sort of reward, even recognition, is denied him. Before publishing, he thought his views were shared by many; but once he speaks out, he is harshly criticized by strong opponents, while those who quietly agree with him abandon him in silence. Eventually, crushed by daily struggle, he falls silent, as though tormented by regret for having spoken the truth.

Chains and executioners were the crude tools of past tyranny; but the civilization of our age has refined the arts of despotism, which once seemed fully developed. The excesses of monarchies devised many ways to oppress physically; now, democratic republics turn oppression into a matter of the mind, just as they intend to control the will. Under an absolute despot, the body was attacked to reach the soul, and the soul could often rise above such attacks; but in democratic republics, the body remains free while the soul is enslaved. The sovereign can no longer say, “You must think as I do, or die;” instead, he says, “You are free to think differently, and to keep your life, property, and everything you own; but if you do, you will be an outcast among your people. Your civil rights will remain, but be useless, as your fellow-citizens will never vote for you, and they will pretend to despise you if you ask for their regard. You will live among others, but be deprived of the rights of mankind. People will avoid you as if you were unclean, and those convinced of your innocence will abandon you too, for fear of being shunned in turn. Go in peace! I have allowed you to live, but your life is incomparably worse than death.”

Monarchies have made despotism openly hated; we should be careful that democratic republics do not bring back oppression, making it less hateful to the masses, yet even more burdensome to the few.

Works have been published in the proudest nations of the Old World specifically to criticize the vices and ridicule the follies of the age; La Bruyère lived in the palace of Louis XIV when he wrote his chapter on the Great, and Molière mocked courtiers in plays performed before the Court itself. But the ruling power of the United States cannot be made fun of; the slightest criticism upsets it, and even a mild joke based in truth makes it indignant. From the tone of its discourse to the substance of its virtues, everything must be praised. No writer, no matter how prominent, can avoid paying this tribute of flattery to his fellow-citizens. The majority continuously practices self-congratulation, and there are some truths Americans can only learn from foreigners or from experience.

If great writers have not existed in America, the reason is clear: there can be no literary genius without freedom of opinion, and freedom of opinion does not exist in America. The Inquisition in Spain could never succeed in stopping the spread of anti-religious books; the rule of the majority in the United States works more effectively, as it even destroys the desire to publish them. There are unbelievers in America, but truly, there is no public voice for disbelief. Some governments have tried to protect public morals by banning indecent books. In the United States, no one suffers punishment for publishing such works, but no one is motivated to write them—not because all citizens are morally spotless, but because the majority is decent and orderly.

Here, the benefits of exercising this power are real and not in question; I am only discussing the character of this power itself. This irresistible authority is an abiding fact; its wise use is only occasional.

Effects Of The Tyranny Of The Majority Upon The National Character Of The Americans

Effects of majority tyranny have so far been felt more in habits of society than in public conduct—They hinder the development of prominent individuals—Democratic republics organized like the United States bring the practice of seeking favor into reach of the many—Examples of this spirit in the United States—Why the people are more patriotic than those who govern in their name.

The tendencies I've just described are, as yet, only faintly visible in political society, but they are already starting to negatively affect the national character of Americans. I tend to attribute the notable lack of distinguished political figures to the growing influence of majority despotism in the United States. When the American Revolution began, many such individuals emerged, because public opinion then helped guide individuals without oppressing them. Those famous figures fully participated in the great intellectual upheaval of their day and won personal fame, which then reflected honor on the nation, though not taken from it.

In absolute governments, the nobles closest to the throne flatter the monarch’s whims and willingly submit to his caprices. But the nation as a whole does not humiliate itself in servitude; it often obeys from weakness, habit, or ignorance, and sometimes out of loyalty. Some nations have been known to give up their own wishes for those of the sovereign with satisfaction and pride, showing a certain independence even in obedience. Such peoples may be miserable, but they are not degraded. There’s a big difference between doing what one disapproves of and pretending to approve; the first is forced on a weak person, the second suits only the mentality of a lackey.

In free countries, where everyone is at least somewhat involved in public affairs; in democratic republics, where public life and domestic affairs are constantly intertwined, where government is accessible in all directions, and where attention can usually be caught by raising one’s voice, there are more people who take advantage of its weaknesses and live off its passions than in absolute monarchies. This isn’t because people are inherently worse in such states, but because temptation is both stronger and easier to give in to. The result is a far wider moral decline among citizens.

Democratic republics spread the culture of seeking favor from the masses, introducing it to more social classes at once—a very serious criticism. In democratic States organized like the American republics, this is especially true, where the majority’s authority is so absolute and irresistible that a person must surrender his rights as a citizen, and nearly deny his humanity, if he plans to stray from the majority’s path.

Among the huge crowd seeking power in the United States, I found very few who showed the honesty and bold independence of thought that often distinguished Americans in the past, and that is the hallmark of distinguished individuals anywhere. At first glance, it seems as if all American minds are cast from the same mold, so closely do they agree in their judgments. Sometimes a visitor encounters Americans who don’t follow these strict expectations—people who regret the shortcomings of the laws, the instability and ignorance of democracy, or even point out flaws harming the national character and suggest cures. But no one hears these things but you, the traveler and outsider. They are quick to share truths useless to you, but in public they continue to speak differently.

If these words are ever read in America, I am certain of two things: first, that everyone who reads them will loudly condemn me; and second, that many will secretly agree with me.

I have heard about patriotism in the United States, and it is a virtue found among the people, but never among the country's leaders. This is similar elsewhere; despotism demeans the oppressed more than the oppressor: in absolute monarchies the king may have great virtues, but the courtiers are always servile. True, American courtiers do not say "Sire" or "Your Majesty"—but the difference is superficial. They constantly praise the intelligence of the people they serve; they do not debate which royal virtue is most admirable—they claim the people have all virtues without ever working for them. They do not give the monarch their daughters and wives to join his court as mistresses, but, by surrendering their views, they debase themselves. Philosophers and moralists in America do not have to hide their ideas as allegory; but before stating a hard truth, they say, “We know that the people we address are too noble to be angered by this; and we would not say it otherwise, as they alone possess the wisdom and virtue that make them more worthy of freedom than anyone else.” Louis XIV's sycophants could not have flattered more skillfully. Personally, I believe that servility will always cling to power in any form of government. The surest way to prevent men from degrading themselves is to give no one the unlimited authority that inevitably debases them.

The Greatest Dangers Of The American Republics Proceed From The Unlimited Power Of The Majority

Democratic republics are most vulnerable to misuse of power, not to weakness—The governments of the American republics are more centralized and energetic than those of European monarchies—Dangers resulting from this—Views of Hamilton and Jefferson.

Governments fall either through lack of power or because of tyranny. In the first case, power slips away from them; in the second, it is wrested from them. Many observers, seeing chaos in democratic States, have thought that those governments are inherently weak or powerless. In reality, when party conflict erupts, government can lose control over society. But I do not think democratic power is naturally weak or lacking in resources. In fact, it is almost always from abusing its force or misusing its resources that a democratic government fails. Anarchy is almost always caused by its tyranny or mistakes, not by a lack of strength.

It is important not to confuse stability with strength, or greatness with durability. In democratic republics, the power directing society is not stable, because it often changes hands and direction. But wherever it points, its strength is nearly unstoppable. The governments of the American republics strike me as being as centralized as the absolute monarchies of Europe, and even more energetic. I do not, therefore, think they will fall from weakness. *f

e
[ This power may be centered in an assembly, in which case it will be strong without being stable; or it may be centered in an individual, in which case it will be less strong, but more stable.]

f
[ I should remind the reader here, as throughout this chapter, that I am speaking not of the Federal Government, but of each individual State government, which is controlled by its majority.]

If American democracy ever collapses, it will be due to the majority’s unlimited authority, which may one day drive minorities to desperation and force them to use violence. Anarchy will then happen, but it will have been brought about by despotism.

Mr. Hamilton expresses a similar view in “The Federalist,” No. 51: “It is of great importance in a republic not only to guard the society against oppression by its rulers, but to guard one part of the society against the injustice of another part. Justice is the purpose of government. It is the goal of civil society. It always has been—and always will be—strived for until it is achieved, or until liberty is lost in the process. In a society where the stronger faction can unite and oppress the weak, anarchy reigns just as in a state of nature where the weak are left unprotected. In the latter, even the strong may be pushed by uncertainty to seek government that can protect both strong and weak; and so, in the former, powerful factions eventually want a government that protects every group. There can be no doubt that, if Rhode Island were separated from the Confederacy, the insecurity of rights under popular government in such a small State would lead to repeated oppression by majorities, so that eventually, some power entirely independent from the people would be demanded by the very factions whose abuse proved its necessity.”

Jefferson wrote to Madison: *g “The executive in our government is not the sole, perhaps not even the chief, object of my concern. The tyranny of the Legislature is really the greatest danger to fear, and will continue to be for many years. The tyranny of the executive will come, but only later.” I am glad to cite Jefferson here, since I consider him the most powerful advocate democracy has ever produced.

g
\[March 15, 1789.\]

##  Chapter XVI: Causes Mitigating Tyranny In The United States—Part I

## Chapter Summary

The national majority does not claim to conduct all business—It is obliged to use town and county officials to carry out its highest decisions.

I have already pointed out the distinction that must be made between a centralized government and a centralized administration. The former exists in America, but the latter is almost unknown there. If the guiding power of American communities had both of these instruments at its disposal, and combined the habit of enforcing its own commands with the right to command; if, after establishing the general principles of government, it involved itself in the details of public business; and if, after regulating the major interests of the country, it intruded into the private affairs of individuals, freedom would quickly disappear from the New World.

But in the United States, the majority—which so often displays the tendencies and preferences of a despot—still lacks the more refined tools of tyranny. In the American republics, the central Government's activity has never extended beyond a limited range of prominent issues that draw its attention. The secondary affairs of society have never been governed by its authority, and so far, nothing indicates a desire to interfere in them. The majority is becoming more absolute, but it has not expanded the central government's powers; those significant powers have remained within a fixed sphere. Although the despotism of the majority may be oppressive in one area, it cannot be said to reach into all aspects of life. No matter how much the ruling party of the nation is driven by passion or determined in its pursuits, it cannot force all citizens to obey its wishes in the same way and at the same time throughout the country. When the central Government, which represents that majority, issues a decree, it must rely on agents to carry out its will—agents over whom it often has no control and cannot continually direct. Townships, municipal bodies, and counties can thus be considered hidden breakwaters that check or divide the surge of popular excitement. If an oppressive law were passed, the people's liberties would still be protected by the very mechanisms involved in enforcing that law: the majority cannot get involved in the details and (as I might call them) the minutiae of administrative tyranny. Nor does the populace have such full awareness of its power that it would be prompted to interfere in these matters; it knows the limits of its natural powers, but is unaware of the further resources that governmental technique could provide.

This point deserves notice, because if a democratic republic like that of the United States were established in a country where a single individual's power had existed before, and where a centralized administration had deeply influenced people's habits and laws, I do not hesitate to say that in that country an even more unbearable despotism would arise than exists now in the monarchies of Europe, or even anywhere this side of Asia.

### The Profession of Law in the United States Serves to Balance Democracy

The importance of understanding the natural tendencies of legal professionals—These individuals are called to play a major role in future society—How the specific work of lawyers gives their ideas an aristocratic leaning—Incidental factors may check this tendency—How easily the aristocracy merges with legal professionals—Usefulness of lawyers to a despot—The legal profession is the only aristocratic element that naturally merges with democracy—Unique factors that give an aristocratic outlook to English and American lawyers—The real American aristocracy is in the judiciary and the legal field—Lawyers' influence on American society—Their judicial habits influence the legislature, the administration, and even the public.

When visiting Americans and studying their laws, it becomes clear that the trust they place in legal professionals, and the influence these individuals have in government, is the strongest real safeguard against the excesses of democracy. This effect, I think, results from a general cause worth exploring, since it could have similar consequences elsewhere.

Members of the legal profession have taken a leading role in all the political changes in Europe over the last five centuries. Sometimes they served as tools for those in power, and at other times they managed to use political authority for their own ends. In the Middle Ages, they powerfully supported the Crown; since then, they have worked hard to limit royal power. In England, they formed a close alliance with the aristocracy; in France, they became its most dangerous enemies. My aim is to find out whether lawyers have been driven by sudden impulses, or by deeper principles inherent to their work that tend to repeat themselves in history. I am encouraged in this investigation by the thought that this group of men will probably play a major role in the emerging order to which our times are giving rise.

Those who dedicate themselves to legal work develop certain habits of order, a taste for formalities, and an instinctive respect for logical coherence, all of which make them quite hostile to revolutions and to the reckless passions of the masses.

The specialized knowledge that lawyers gain from their studies gives them a special place in society: they form a kind of privileged order in the hierarchy of intelligence. This sense of superiority is always present in their professional lives: they are masters of a necessary but not widely understood science; they act as arbiters between citizens; and the habit of directing opposing parties’ blind passions gives them a certain disdain for the judgment of the crowd. Furthermore, they naturally form a group—not through any prior agreement or united plan, but through the similarity of their training and the uniformity of their work, which unite their thinking as much as common interests would unite their efforts.

Thus, a portion of the tastes and habits of the aristocracy can be found in lawyers’ characters. They share the aristocracy’s instinctive love of order and formalities; they have the same aversion to mob action, and the same quiet disdain for popular government. I do not mean that lawyers’ natural tendencies are so strong as to drive them irresistibly; like most people, they are also ruled by their own interests and the opportunities of the moment.

In a society where lawyers are prevented from holding the political status they have in private life, we can be sure they will become the leading agents of revolution. But it remains to be seen whether their motivation to innovate and destroy arises from a lasting aim or merely from circumstance. It is true that lawyers were instrumental in the overthrow of the French monarchy in 1789; but we have to ask whether this was because of their legal studies, or because they had been excluded from taking part in making the laws.

Five hundred years ago, the English nobles led the people and spoke in their name; today the aristocracy supports the throne and defends royal authority. Nonetheless, the aristocracy retains its own specific instincts and tendencies. We must be careful not to confuse individual members of a group with the group itself. In every kind of free government, no matter its form, lawyers will be found leading all parties. The same is true for members of the aristocracy; almost every democratic revolution has had nobles at its head.

A privileged order can never satisfy the ambition of all its members; it always has more talent and passion than it can use or reward, so a number of individuals are usually found who want to attack the very privileges from which they have not benefited.

So, I do not claim that all lawyers are always friends of order and opponents of change, but that most of them generally are. In a society where lawyers are allowed, without opposition, to hold their natural high station, their general spirit will be particularly conservative and anti-democratic. When an aristocracy excludes these leading professionals from its ranks, it creates adversaries who are especially threatening because their industry makes them independent of the nobility; and while they may lack wealth and power, they see themselves as the nobility’s equals in intelligence. But once the aristocracy agrees to share some of its privileges with these lawyers, the two groups easily merge, forming in effect a single extended order based on family or class interest.

Likewise, I tend to think that a monarch can always make lawyers into his most effective agents. There is much more natural affinity between lawyers and the executive power than between lawyers and the people; just as there is more natural affinity between nobles and the king than between nobles and the people, although nobles have sometimes allied with the people against the Crown.

Lawyers are more attached to public order than anything else, and the surest guarantee of public order is authority. It is important to remember that, even if they highly value their country’s free institutions, they value the legality of those institutions even more: they fear arbitrary power more than tyranny itself; and as long as the legislature takes responsibility for restricting freedom, lawyers are not discontented.

Thus, I am convinced that a ruler who, in the face of growing democracy, tries to reduce judicial power or the political influence of lawyers, would be making a grave mistake. He would be giving up real authority for the sake of its appearance. He would do better to bring legal professionals into the government; and if he gives them direction over a despotic regime with some hints of force, that regime will likely take on the appearance of justice and legality in their hands.

Democratic government actually favors the political influence of lawyers; for when the wealthy, the nobility, and the prince are excluded from government, lawyers take the highest stations by virtue of their expertise—they are the only informed and able men outside the general populace whom the people can choose. So, by taste they may lean toward aristocracy and support the Crown, but by self-interest they are placed in relation to the people. Lawyers favor democratic government, though they do not necessarily share its inclinations or weaknesses; hence, they enjoy a double authority, both with and over democracy. The people in democratic countries do not distrust lawyers, because it is known that lawyers are invested in serving popular causes; and the people listen to them calmly, as they do not suspect them of sinister motives. Lawyers do not aim to overthrow democracy’s institutions, but they constantly try to steer it in a direction away from its natural tendencies, through means foreign to democracy itself. Lawyers belong to the people by birth and interest, to the aristocracy by habit and taste, and can be viewed as the natural link joining the two great social classes.

The legal profession is the only aristocratic element that can be blended, peacefully and permanently, with the natural elements of democracy. I am well aware of the flaws inherent in that profession; but without this mixture of legal sobriety and democratic spirit, I doubt democratic institutions could last long, and I cannot believe a republic could survive today unless lawyers’ influence in public affairs rises in step with the power of the people.

This aristocratic character, which I believe is widespread in the legal profession, is far more clearly marked in the United States and in England than elsewhere. This is not just the result of their legal training but of the nature of law and the social position lawyers have in both countries. The English and Americans have maintained the tradition of legal precedents; that is, they continue to base judicial opinions and court rulings on the judgments and decisions of their forebears. In the mind of an English or American lawyer, a taste and respect for what is old is almost always joined to a love of regular, lawful procedures.

This tendency has another effect on the legal profession’s character and on society as a whole. English and American lawyers examine what has been done before; French lawyers consider what should have been done. The former provide precedents, the latter argue principles. A French visitor is often surprised by how frequently an English or American lawyer cites others’ opinions and how rarely they advance their own, while in France the opposite is true. There, even minor cases bring in a whole philosophy original to each lawyer; and basic legal principles are often debated just to resolve a dispute over a small piece of property. This restraint of personal opinion, and this deference to the judgments of earlier generations, which are typical of English and American lawyers, make them more cautious and less restless than French lawyers.

Although the French codes can be hard to understand, anyone can read them; but nothing is more mysterious to the uninitiated than a precedent-based legal system. The constant need for legal help in England and the United States, and the high public opinion of lawyers’ expertise, keep separating them further from the people and setting them apart as a special class. The French lawyer is mainly someone with a deep knowledge of national laws; the English or American lawyer is like an Egyptian priest—he alone interprets an obscure science.

The place lawyers occupy in England and America also shapes their habits and opinions. The English aristocracy, eager to draw everything similar to itself into its ranks, has given lawyers a high level of importance and authority. Within English society, lawyers do not have the very first rank, but accept their allotted status; they seem to be the cadet branch of the nobility, linked to their elder brothers even if they lack all the same privileges. Therefore, English lawyers blend the tastes and ideas of the elite circles in which they move with the interests of their profession.

Indeed, the lawyerly character I’m describing can be found most evidently in England: laws are valued not so much for being good as for being old; if they must be changed to fit modern society, the most curious legal tricks are used to preserve the traditional framework and to maintain the appearance that nothing new has really been done. Those making the changes even deny any intent to innovate, preferring strange solutions over admitting to such a crime. This is especially true of English lawyers; they are often indifferent to the purpose of the law, caring only for its precise wording, and would sooner break with common sense or humanity than deviate a little from established law. The English system is like the trunk of an ancient tree, onto which lawyers have grafted various new limbs, hoping that, although the fruits may differ, the leaves will blend in with the venerable trunk that supports them all.

In America, where there are no nobles or men of letters, and the people tend to distrust the rich, lawyers form the top political class and the most cultured social circle. They therefore have nothing to gain from innovation, which adds a conservative motivation to their natural fondness for order. If asked where the American aristocracy is found, I would answer, without hesitation, that it is not among the wealthy, whose only bond is riches; it is found on the judicial bench and at the bar.

The more we consider events in the United States, the more we see that lawyers, as a group, provide the most effective—if not the only—check on democratic forces. In that country, we see how the legal profession, by its skills and even by its weaknesses, is ideally equipped to balance the defects of popular government. When Americans are swept up in passion or the rush of new ideas, they are restrained and guided by the subtle influence of their legal advisers, who quietly oppose democratic instincts with their own aristocratic tendencies, their reverence for tradition to the love of change, their limited perspectives to great plans, and their habit of delay to the people's impatience.

The courts are the most evident means by which the legal profession exercises its check on democracy. The judge is a lawyer who, on top of the respect for order and regularity gained from legal study, gets an even stronger desire for stability from his own permanent position. Legal knowledge has already given him high status among his fellow citizens; his political authority completes the distinction of his rank and gives him the inclinations of a privileged class.

With the authority to declare laws unconstitutional, *a the American judge is constantly involved in political matters. He cannot force the people to pass laws, but he can require them to obey their own laws and act consistently with their own principles. I know that there is an undercurrent tending to reduce judicial power in the United States, and that most state constitutions allow the Government to remove judges at the request of both legislative houses. Some constitutions even make the judges' seats elective and subject them to frequent reelection. I predict that these changes will one day have grave consequences, and that people will eventually realize that undermining the judiciary undermines the democratic republic itself.

a
\[ See chapter VI. on the “Judicial Power in the United States.”\]

However, it should not be assumed that the legal spirit I have described is limited to the courts of justice in the United States; its influence extends far beyond them. Since lawyers are the only educated class the people trust, they are naturally called upon to fill most public offices. They populate the legislative assemblies and manage the administration; as a result, they have a powerful influence on both the creation and execution of laws. Still, lawyers are compelled to follow the prevailing current of public opinion, which is too strong for them to resist, but it is easy to see what their conduct would be like if they could act freely. While Americans have made many significant changes in their political laws, they have introduced very few changes to their civil laws, and even those have been made only with great difficulty, despite those civil laws often being at odds with their social conditions. This is because, in civil law matters, the majority must defer to the authority of the legal profession, and American lawyers prefer not to innovate when left to their own judgment.

To a Frenchman, used to a very different state of affairs, it is curious to hear the constant complaints in the United States about the conservative tendencies of legal professionals, and their attachment to existing institutions.

The influence of American legal habits goes even further than I have just outlined. Almost every issue that arises in the United States eventually becomes the subject of a judicial debate; because of this, all parties are compelled to adopt the ideas—and even the language—common to judicial proceedings in their daily disputes. Since most public figures are or have been legal practitioners, they introduce the traditions and technicalities of their profession into national affairs. The jury system spreads this habit to all levels of society. In this way, the language of the law becomes, to some extent, a common tongue; the legal spirit, which originates in the schools and courts, gradually spreads beyond those walls into society at large, reaching even the lowest classes, so that the whole population acquires the habits and tastes of the magistrate. The lawyers in the United States form a group that inspires little fear and is barely noticed, has no distinctive badge of its own, and is highly adaptable to the needs of the time and to every movement of society; nevertheless, this group extends throughout the entire community and reaches all social classes. It acts on the nation imperceptibly, but ultimately shapes it according to its own purposes.

##  Chapter XVI: Causes Mitigating Tyranny In The United States—Part II

### Trial By Jury In The United States Considered As A Political Institution

Trial by jury, which is one of the instruments of the people's sovereignty, deserves to be compared with the other laws that establish that sovereignty—Composition of the jury in the United States—Effects of trial by jury on the national character—It educates the people—It helps establish the authority of magistrates and spreads knowledge of the law among the public.

Since my discussion has led me to consider the administration of justice in the United States, I won’t overlook the institution of the jury. Trial by jury can be viewed in two separate aspects: as a judicial institution and as a political institution. If my purpose were to examine how far trial by jury (especially in civil cases) contributes to ensuring the best administration of justice, I admit that its usefulness might be debated. The jury was first introduced when society was still largely uncivilized and when courts of justice only needed to decide based on evidence of facts. It’s not easy to adapt this system to the needs of a highly civilized society, where human relationships have multiplied remarkably and assumed a highly intellectual and enlightened character. \*b

b
\[ The investigation of trial by jury as a judicial institution, and the assessment of its effects in the United States, along with the benefits the Americans have gained from it, would be enough to fill a book—and a book on a very interesting and useful subject at that. Louisiana, in particular, would offer the curious phenomenon of both French and English law and populations gradually combining with each other. See the "Digeste des Lois de la Louisiane," in two volumes; and the "Traité sur les Règles des Actions civiles," printed in French and English at New Orleans in 1830.\]

But my current focus is on the jury as a political institution, and anything beyond that would distract from my subject. Of trial by jury as a judicial institution, I will say only a few words. When the English first adopted trial by jury, they were a semi-barbarous people; since then, they have become one of the most enlightened nations on earth, and their attachment to this institution seems to have grown with their culture. They soon expanded beyond their island to all parts of the inhabited world: some founded colonies, others formed independent states. The mother country has continued as a monarchy, while many of its offspring established powerful republics; but wherever the English have gone, they have taken pride in trial by jury. \*c They have established or quickly restored it in all their communities. A judicial institution that earns the support of a great people over so many ages, and is renewed at every stage of civilization, in every climate and under every form of government, cannot be contrary to the spirit of justice. \*d

c
\[ All English and American jurists agree on this. Mr. Story, judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, writes in his "Treatise on the Federal Constitution" about the advantages of jury trial in civil cases:—"The inestimable privilege of a trial by jury in civil cases—a privilege scarcely inferior to that in criminal cases, which is counted by all persons to be essential to political and civil liberty. . . ." (Story, book iii., chap. xxxviii.)\]

d
\[ If it were appropriate here to discuss the usefulness of the jury as a judicial institution, much could be said, including the following points:—

By using the jury in the courts, you can reduce the number of judges, which is a great benefit. When there are many judges, deaths are constantly creating openings, leading to frequent appointments of newcomers. This inevitably excites the ambition of magistrates, making them dependent on the majority or the individual who controls these appointments; court officers then rise like those in an army. This state is entirely contrary to the sound administration of justice and to the intentions of lawmakers. The office of judge is made inalienable so that judges remain independent—but what use is that independence if the judge is tempted to give it up voluntarily? When judges are too numerous, many of them are bound to be unfit for such significant responsibilities, as a great magistrate is a rare individual; and I believe a half-informed tribunal is the worst possible means of achieving the true objectives of courts of justice. For my part, I would rather have a case decided by uninformed jurors guided by a skilled judge than by a bench of judges, the majority of whom lack full understanding of law or jurisprudence.\]

However, I will leave this part of the discussion. To see the jury as just a judicial institution is to take a narrow view; for whatever influence it may have on court decisions, that effect is far less important than the broader impact it has on the future of the society as a whole. The jury is, above all, a political institution and must be seen in this light to be properly appreciated.

By "the jury," I mean a certain number of citizens chosen at random and given the temporary authority to judge. Trial by jury, as it’s used to suppress crime, seems to me to bring an essentially republican element into government for the following reasons:—

The jury can be aristocratic or democratic, depending on which social class the jurors are drawn from, but it always keeps its republican character, as it puts real authority into the hands of the governed, or at least a portion of them, instead of leaving it to the government. Force can only be a temporary means of success; eventually, the idea of right takes over. A government that can only defeat its enemies on the battlefield will not last long. The true sanction behind political laws is found in penal legislation, and if that sanction is missing, laws lose their effectiveness. Whoever punishes violations of the law is, therefore, the true master of society. The jury puts the people themselves—or at least a segment of them—on the seat of judicial authority. The jury thus entrusts the people, or that class of citizens, with the real direction of society. \*e

e
\[ Still, an important point must be made. Trial by jury certainly gives people broad power over citizens’ actions, but it neither allows this power to be exercised in every case nor with absolute authority. When an absolute monarch tries cases by his representatives, the verdict is virtually predetermined. But even if the people were inclined to convict, the makeup and lack of accountability of the jury still provides some chance that innocence will be protected.\]

In England, the jury is drawn largely from the upper classes; \*f the aristocracy makes, applies, and enforces the laws. Everything is consistent, so England could be called an aristocratic republic. In the United States, the same system applies to the whole population. Every American citizen can vote, serve on a jury, and hold office. \*g The American understanding of the jury appears to me to be as direct and thorough an expression of the people’s sovereignty as universal suffrage. These are two equally powerful tools that help the majority prevail. All rulers who wanted to govern by their own authority and direct society, rather than follow society’s guidance, have weakened or abolished the jury. The Tudor monarchs imprisoned jurors who refused to convict, and Napoleon had juries chosen by his own agents.

f
\[ \[This still describes special juries more than common juries. The author seems unaware that the requirements for jurors in England vary greatly.\]\]

g
\[ See Appendix, Q.\]

However clear these truths might seem, they are not universally accepted, and in France the institution of trial by jury is still poorly understood. Debates about juror qualifications focus only on citizens’ intelligence and knowledge, as if the jury were just a judicial institution, which is the smallest part of the issue. The jury is above all a political institution; it is one form of the sovereignty of the people. When that sovereignty is denied, the jury must be abolished or adapted to match the laws created under the new sovereignty. The jury consists of that part of the nation entrusted with executing the laws, just as the Houses of Parliament consist of the part that makes laws. For a consistent and unified society, the list of citizens eligible for jury service must grow and shrink along with the list of electors. I see this as the main concern for lawmakers; everything else is secondary.

I am so convinced that the jury is primarily a political institution that I still see it this way even when it applies to civil cases. Laws are always unstable if they are not based on the customs of a nation; customs are the only lasting and resilient power among a people. If the jury is only used for criminal cases, the populace only observes its occasional use in rare situations; daily life proceeds without its influence, and it is seen as merely one way (not the only way) to dispense justice. This is even truer if the jury only applies to certain types of criminal cases.

By contrast, when the jury’s influence covers civil cases, its impact is constantly visible; it touches all aspects of society; everyone becomes involved in its workings—it spreads throughout all areas of life, shaping people’s thinking to its ways, and it becomes closely linked with the idea of justice itself.

If the jury is reserved only for criminal cases, the institution is always in danger; but once it is used in civil cases, it becomes firmly rooted in both law and custom. If it had been as easy to remove the jury from English manners as from the law, it would have disappeared under Henry VIII or Elizabeth; in fact, it was the civil jury that during that period actually saved English liberty. However it is used, the jury cannot help but powerfully shape the national character; this effect is greatly magnified when applied to civil matters. The jury, and especially the civil jury, helps spread the spirit of the courts among all citizens; and this spirit—along with the habits it builds—is the best preparation for a free society. It teaches all social classes to respect the finality of judgments and the principle of rights. Remove these things, and love of freedom becomes just a destructive force. The jury teaches people to practice fairness, for everyone learns to judge others as he himself would wish to be judged; and this is especially true in civil cases, because while few anticipate a criminal trial, anyone can find himself party to a civil case. The jury also teaches every man not to shrink from responsibility for his actions, and instills that strong, manly confidence without which civic virtue cannot exist. It gives every citizen a sense of serving as a magistrate, making them all conscious of their duties to society and their role in government. By engaging people in affairs not strictly their own, it erases the self-centeredness that corrodes society.

The jury greatly shapes judgment and expands a people’s natural intelligence—this, I believe, is its greatest benefit. It can be seen as a free, public school—always open—in which every juror learns to use his rights, has daily contact with the most learned and capable members of the higher classes, and gains practical knowledge of the laws of the land. The process is made accessible by the lawyers’ arguments, the judge’s advice, and the parties’ passions. I believe that the practical intelligence and sound political judgment of Americans largely come from their long-standing use of civil juries. I do not know if the jury is always helpful to those in disputes, but I am certain it is very useful to those who decide them, and I consider it among the most effective means for educating citizens that any society can employ.

Everything I’ve said so far applies to all countries, but my next point applies especially to Americans and democratic societies. As I have already mentioned, in democracies the legal profession and the magistracy form the only aristocratic body with the ability to check the people’s excesses. This group has no physical power, but it holds a conservative influence over people’s minds; much of that authority comes from the civil jury. In criminal cases, where society acts against an individual, the jury often sees the judge as a mere tool of state power and mistrusts him. Also, criminal issues are mostly about facts that common sense can easily comprehend; on this ground, judge and jury are equals. But in civil cases, the judge is a neutral referee between the opposing parties’ passions. The jurors look up to him, trust him, and listen respectfully, because in these matters their own understanding relies on his expertise. The judge sums up the complex arguments, guides the jurors through the details, points them to the main question of fact, and gives them the answer to the question of law. His influence on the verdict is nearly unlimited.

If I am asked why I am not especially bothered by criticisms about jurors’ ignorance in civil cases, my answer is that in civil proceedings, unless the issue is merely factual, the jury takes on only the appearance of a judicial body. The jury ratifies the judge’s decision: they, by representing the will of society; he, by representing reason and law. \*h

h
\[ See Appendix, R.\]

In both England and America, judges hold an influence over criminal trials that French judges never attain. The reason is easy to see: English and American judges gain authority in civil cases and then carry it over to other types of courts, where their authority did not originate. In some cases—often the most important—American judges have the right to decide cases on their own. \*i In these instances, they occupy a role similar to that of French judges, but with far greater power. They remain surrounded by the memory of the jury, and their judgments carry nearly as much weight as the community’s voice, as embodied by the jury. Their influence extends beyond the courtroom. In private life, in public affairs, wherever they go—even in legislative bodies—the American judge is surrounded by people used to regarding his mind as superior to their own, and after exercising his power in court, he continues to shape the thoughts and characters of those involved.

i
\[ The Federal judges decide almost all the most important national questions independently.\]

The jury, therefore, which might seem to limit the authority of magistrates, actually strengthens their power. In no country are judges as influential as in those where the people share in their privileges. It is especially through the jury in civil cases that American magistrates instill the spirit of their profession into all levels of society. Thus, the jury, which is the most powerful way to make the people govern, is also the most effective way to teach them how to govern well.

## Chapter XVII: Principal Causes Maintaining The Democratic Republic—Part I

Principal Causes That Help Sustain the Democratic Republic in the United States

A democratic republic exists in the United States, and the main purpose of this book has been to explain the reasons behind its continued existence. Some of the causes that help maintain America's institutions have been unintentionally passed over or only briefly mentioned as my subject carried me forward. Others I have been unable to discuss, and those I have detailed most are, so to speak, buried in earlier parts of this work. Therefore, before I move on to discuss the future, I think it is best to gather, in one concise chapter, the main reasons that best explain the present. In this review, I will be brief, simply reminding the reader of what is already familiar, and I will select only the most prominent facts that I haven't yet highlighted.

All the causes that support the democratic republic in the United States can be grouped under three main categories:

I. The unique and accidental circumstances in which Providence has placed the Americans.

II. The laws.

III. The manners and customs of the people.

### Accidental or Providential Causes That Help Maintain the Democratic Republic in the United States

The Union has no neighboring enemies—No capital city dominating the country—Americans benefited by circumstances of birth—America as an empty land—How this fact strongly supports the democratic republic in America—How the American frontier is settled—Eagerness of Anglo-Americans in occupying the vast spaces of the New World—Influence of physical prosperity on the political views of Americans.

Countless circumstances, independent of human will, work together to make it easier to sustain a democratic republic in the United States. Some of these features are well known, while others are easily pointed out; but I will focus on the most important among them.

Americans have no powerful neighbors, and therefore, they face no major wars, financial crises, invasions, or threats of conquest; they have no need for heavy taxes, large armies, or great generals; and they are free from an even more dangerous threat to republics than all these evils combined: military glory. It is impossible to overstate the influence that military glory can have on a nation’s spirit. General Jackson, whom the Americans have twice elected as their leader, is a man of a violent disposition and only mediocre talents; nothing in his career showed he was suited to lead a free people, and, in fact, most of the educated classes have always opposed him. Yet he was made President, and has held that high office only because of a victory he won twenty years earlier at New Orleans—a victory that was hardly remarkable, and would only be memorable in a country where battles are rare. That even such a practical, unmilitary, and businesslike people can be swept up in the illusion of glory shows how powerful this force is.

America does not have a single dominant capital city—a city whose influence shapes the entire country, which I believe is one of the main reasons republican institutions survive in the United States. In cities, people inevitably gather and excite each other, inspiring sudden, emotional decisions. Cities can be seen as massive assemblies, where all residents are members; their lower classes exercise tremendous influence on leaders and often enforce their own wishes directly.

a
[ The United States do not have a true capital city, but already have several large cities. Philadelphia had 161,000 residents and New York 202,000 in 1830. The lower classes in these cities are an even greater threat than in European cities: freed Black people, condemned by law and custom to poverty and degradation, and many Europeans who have come to America driven by hardship or wrongdoing. These immigrants bring with them the vices of Europe but none of the balancing interests, and, lacking civil rights in the U.S., are quick to take advantage of any unrest. Recent serious riots in Philadelphia and New York have resulted. Such disturbances do not happen in the rest of the country, which remains unalarmed, since urban populations so far have had little power in rural America. Still, the size and nature of American cities pose a real threat for the future safety of democratic republics in the New World. I predict they will fail unless the government creates an armed force, independent of the city mob but still under the control of the majority, that can keep excesses in check.

[By 1870, New York City’s population reached 942,292, and Philadelphia’s, 674,022. Brooklyn, essentially part of New York, had 396,099 more. Frequent city disturbances and rampant local government corruption—unchecked by oversight—are some of the country’s biggest dangers. ]]

So, putting the provinces under a dominant city not only places the nation's fate in the hands of just one segment—an injustice—but also in the hands of a volatile, self-interested mob, which is far more dangerous. The dominance of capital cities is a serious problem for representative government and exposes modern republics to the same defect that doomed ancient ones who did not know this form of government.

I could list many lesser causes that have helped establish and maintain the democratic republic of the United States, but I see two main circumstances among these favorable factors that I will hasten to highlight. I have already said that the founding of the American settlements was the first and strongest reason for the country’s prosperity. Americans were favored by the circumstances of their birth, and their ancestors brought with them a level of social equality from which the democratic republic could naturally grow. Even more, the early settlers left traditions, customs, and opinions that remain key to supporting a republic. When I think about these origins, it seems as if America's destiny was embodied in the first Puritan to land there, just as the first man embodied all of humanity.

Yet the greatest circumstance helping to establish and preserve a democratic republic in the U.S. is the nature of the land itself. Their ancestors gave Americans a love of equality and freedom, but God provided the way for them to remain equal and free by placing them on an immense continent open to their energy. Prosperity supports stability for all governments, but especially a democracy, which depends on the attitudes of the majority, especially those most at risk from poverty. When the people rule, they must be satisfied, or they will endanger the state; and poverty is as likely to drive them to excess as ambition does kings. More than any other nation in history, the U.S. enjoys natural advantages, beyond the law, that promote wealth for all. In America, not only are the laws democratic, but even nature helps the people.

Where else in history do we find anything like what is happening now in North America? The great societies of the past were all founded among hostile neighboring nations, who they had to conquer before thriving. Even some modern states in South America were founded in regions already inhabited by less-advanced societies who still worked and lived on the land—meaning settlers had to fight or displace them, staining the record of civilization. But North America was only occupied by nomadic tribes who never cared for the land's resources; the continent was, in effect, empty—an uninhabited wilderness awaiting people.

Everything about America is extraordinary: its society and its laws, but above all, its land. When man was first created, the earth was youthful and bountiful, but mankind was weak and ignorant; by the time humanity had mastered the earth’s secrets, the world was crowded, and he had to fight for space and liberty. At that very time, North America was discovered—as if it had been reserved by Providence, just rising out of the waters of the flood.

Even now, that continent still has rivers rising from never-failing sources, lush forests, and fields never touched by plows. It is now offered to people not as isolated savages, but as modern humans armed with all the knowledge and unity developed over fifty centuries. At this very moment, thirteen million civilized Europeans are spreading across fertile lands whose resources they themselves barely understand. Just a few thousand soldiers push the native tribes aside, followed by pioneers who clear woods, drive off predators, chart rivers, and prepare the way for civilization’s steady progress.

The power of America’s current prosperity on its institutions has been described by others and by myself, so I’ll only add a few facts. Many believe, incorrectly, that the deserts of America are peopled mainly by European immigrants arriving on New World shores, while the American-born population multiplies where their fathers settled. In truth, the European newcomer often arrives alone and penniless, so he must work for wages and rarely goes beyond established, populated areas near the coast. Penetrating the wilderness requires capital or credit, and a body used to the local climate. It is mainly Americans themselves who leave their birthplace each day for new land. The European leaves his home for the Atlantic; the American, born on that shore, heads into the heart of the continent. This double migration is constant: starting in the farthest parts of Europe, crossing the Atlantic, and advancing through the American wilderness. Millions move west, with different languages, religions, and customs, but all chasing the same hope—prosperity in the West. *b

b
[[In the fifty years from 1820 to 1871, there were 7,556,007 foreign immigrants to the United States. Of these, 4,104,553 spoke English (from Great Britain, Ireland, or the British colonies); 2,643,069 came from Germany or northern Europe; and around half a million from southern Europe.]]

Nothing compares to this ongoing human migration—except perhaps the great waves of migration that preceded the Roman Empire’s fall. Then and now, generation after generation moved together, to compete for the same land; but Providence’s purpose was different: back then, each new arrival caused destruction, while now, each newcomer brings prosperity and life. We cannot know the ultimate result of this American movement west, but we can easily see its immediate effects. As people constantly leave their home states, the population in those states grows slowly, even if they are long-established. For example, in Connecticut, which has just fifty-nine people per square mile, the population has grown only one-fourth in forty years, whereas England’s grew by a third in the same time. European immigrants arrive in a land only half settled and in demand of workers—he starts out as a well-paid worker and his son becomes a landowner in the wilderness. The father amasses the capital that the son invests, and both native and immigrant are spared hardship.

The laws of the United States strongly support the division of land; but an even stronger force than law prevents this division from going too far. *c This is clearest in the more populated states; Massachusetts is the densest, with just eighty people per square mile—about half as many as France, which has 162. Yet in Massachusetts, farms are rarely split up; the eldest son takes the land, and the others head for new territory. The law did away with primogeniture, but circumstances have brought it back in a form that offends no one and robs no one of justice.

c
[In New England, farms are very small, but are rarely split up any further.]

Just one fact shows the massive number of people leaving New England for frontier lands: In 1830, thirty-six members of Congress were born in tiny Connecticut. The State of Connecticut makes up just one forty-third of the U.S. population, yet it produced an eighth of Congress. Connecticut itself sends only five delegates to Congress; the other thirty-one represent new western states. If these men had stayed in Connecticut, they likely would have stayed as poor workers, unknown, unable to rise, and—far from being useful legislators—perhaps even troublesome citizens.

Americans notice these patterns as readily as we do. "It cannot be doubted," says Chancellor Kent in his "Treatise on American Law," "that the division of landed estates must produce great evils when it goes to excess, so that each plot of land can’t support a family; but such problems have never arisen in the U.S., and many generations must pass before they do. Our vast inhabited territory, abundant available land, and steady emigration from the Atlantic inland are enough, and will remain enough for a long time, to prevent over-division of property."

It is hard to overstate how eagerly the American goes after the rich opportunities before him. He braves the threat of Native attack and the hardships of the forest with little worry; wild beasts don’t deter him, for he is driven by a passion even greater than the love of life. A vast continent lies open, and he hurries as if he might run out of room. I have spoken of emigration from the older states, but how can anyone describe what happens in the newer ones? Barely fifty years ago, Ohio was founded; most residents weren't born there; its capital was built just thirty years ago, and large expanses are still untouched, but the population is already moving west, and many of the settlers in Illinois are from Ohio. These people left their first home to improve their lot; they abandon each new place for better chances elsewhere; fortune is always just ahead, but happiness remains out of reach. The pursuit of prosperity becomes a restless passion that only grows the more it is fed. They left their birthplace for opportunity, and quickly break any new ties. Emigration began as a necessity for survival and soon became a type of adventure, pursued as much for excitement as for gain.

Sometimes people move so fast that wilderness returns behind them. Forests fall before their axes and grow back as soon as they've gone. In the West's new states, travelers often find deserted houses deep in the woods—a log cabin amidst the wild, proof of human industry and restlessness. On these abandoned farms, the forest quickly regrows, wild animals return, and Nature soon covers up all traces of humanity’s brief passing.

I recall crossing one of the forest regions still covering much of New York State, reaching a lake hidden within ancient woods. There, a small island, thick with trees, rose from the water. On the shore, the only sign of man was a column of smoke on the horizon, floating above the trees, suspended between earth and sky. I saw a Native canoe drawn up on the sand and decided to visit that distant isle. Within minutes, I set foot on it, finding one of those beautiful wild places in the New World that almost make civilization seem less appealing. The rich, thriving plants showed the incredible fertility of the soil. The deep silence was broken only by a wood-pigeon's call and a woodpecker's tapping. At first, I never guessed anyone had ever lived here, so completely did nature rule. But, as I approached the island’s center, I thought I noticed faint signs of human activity. Looking closer, I saw unmistakable indications that a European must have sheltered here. Yet how things had changed! The logs used to build a hut had sprouted anew, living vines tangled in the beams, and the cabin was now a leafy arbor. In the midst of these shrubs, some blackened stones lay sprinkled with ashes—here surely was the hearth, collapsed chimney, and its debris. I stood quietly, pondering the overwhelming abundance of nature and the frailty of man: and as I left that peaceful solitude, I sadly exclaimed, “Are there ruins here already?”

In Europe, we tend to view a restless spirit, an insatiable desire for wealth, and an excessive love of independence as qualities that are very dangerous to society. Yet these are exactly the traits that ensure the long and peaceful existence of the American republics. Without these impetuous passions, the population would concentrate in certain areas and would soon become subject to the challenges of the Old World, challenges that are hard to overcome. Such is the current fortune of the New World that even its people's vices seem almost as beneficial to society as their virtues. These circumstances strongly affect how human actions are judged on both continents. Americans often call what we would consider greed a praiseworthy industry, and they criticize as weakness what we see as the virtue of moderate desires.

In France, simple tastes, orderly ways, family bonds, and attachment to one's birthplace are seen as great safeguards of the State's peace and happiness. But in America, these very virtues seem to be most harmful to society. The French Canadians, who have faithfully kept up the traditions of their early ways, are already running out of space on their small territory; and this little community, which only recently came into being, will soon suffer the hardships of old nations. In Canada, the most enlightened, patriotic, and compassionate citizens work hard to make the people dissatisfied with the simple pleasures that still content them. There, the lure of wealth is promoted as energetically as the appeal of an honest but modest income is in the Old World, and more effort goes into stirring people's ambitions there than into calming them elsewhere. If we listen to their praise, we hear that nothing is more admirable than to exchange the simple and homely pleasures enjoyed even by the poor at home for the mundane comforts of prosperity in a foreign land; to leave the ancestral hearth and the ground where one's forebears sleep; in short, to forsake both the living and the dead in pursuit of fortune.

Right now, America offers opportunities for human effort far greater than the sum of the labor available to take advantage of them. In America, there cannot be too much knowledge spread, since all knowledge, even as it helps those who possess it, also benefits those who do not. New wants are nothing to fear, as they can easily be met; the growth of human passions is not dangerous, as all passions can find an easy and legitimate outlet; nor can people be given too much freedom, since they are seldom tempted to misuse it.

The American republics today are like groups of adventurers set up to explore the wild lands of the New World together, engaged in a thriving trade. The passions that move Americans most deeply are not political but commercial; or, to put it better, they bring the habits they learn in business into their political life. They value order, without which business cannot succeed; and they highly esteem regular conduct, which is the foundation of sound business. They prefer the common sense that builds large fortunes to the adventurous spirit that often wastes them. General ideas unsettle their minds, which are more used to practical calculations, and they honor practice above theory.

It is in America that one truly sees the influence material prosperity has on political actions, and even on opinions that should only answer to reason—and this is especially clear among foreigners. Most European immigrants to the New World bring with them that wild love of independence and of change which our own troubles so often create. I sometimes met Europeans in the United States who had to leave their countries because of political beliefs. They all surprised me by what they said, but one especially stood out to me. As I was traveling through one of the most remote parts of Pennsylvania, night overtook me, and I had to ask for shelter at the home of a wealthy planter, who was French by birth. He invited me to sit by his fire, and we began to talk openly, as people do who meet in the wilderness, two thousand leagues from home. I knew that my host had been a radical egalitarian and ardent revolutionary forty years earlier, and that he was not unknown to fame. I was quite surprised, then, to hear him talk about property rights as an economist or landowner might. He spoke about the necessary grades that wealth creates among men, about obedience to laws, about the importance of good morals in republics, and the support that religious beliefs give to order and liberty. He even cited Evangelical authority to back one of his political points.

I listened, and marveled at the weakness of human reason. A proposition is either true or false, but nothing can make it appear as either in the confusion of science and the conflicting lessons of experience, until some new event clears away the uncertainty. I was poor, then I became rich, and I should not expect that my newfound prosperity won’t influence my actions or change my opinions. My views change with my fortunes, and the lucky turn in my circumstances gives me the decisive argument I once lacked. Prosperity’s influence works even more freely on Americans than on foreigners. The American has always seen with his own eyes the close connection between public order and public prosperity; he cannot even imagine one existing without the other. He has nothing to unlearn, nor, like so many Europeans, must he forget the teachings of his youth.

##  Chapter XVII: Principal Causes Maintaining The Democratic Republic—Part II

Influence of the Laws Upon the Maintenance of the Democratic Republic in the United States

Three principal causes support the endurance of the democratic republic—Federal constitutions—Local institutions—Judicial power.

The central aim of this book has been to explain the laws of the United States; if I have succeeded, the reader can already discern which laws effectively support the democratic republic and which might threaten its existence. If I have not succeeded throughout, I cannot hope to do so in the confines of a single chapter. I do not intend to repeat my previous arguments, and a few lines will suffice to summarize what I have already discussed.

Three factors seem to me most influential in sustaining the democratic republic in the United States.

The first is the Federal form of government adopted by Americans, which allows the Union to combine the strength of a great empire with the security of a small state.

The second lies in those local institutions that limit the despotism of the majority, and at the same time foster a taste for liberty and an understanding of how to be free among the people.

The third can be found in the structure of the judicial power. I have shown how the courts work to restrain the excesses of democracy, checking and guiding the actions of the majority without halting its energy.

Influence of Customs on the Maintenance of the Democratic Republic in the United States

I have already noted that the customs of the people may be viewed as one of the general causes that help maintain a democratic republic in the United States. Here, I use the word "manners" as the ancients used the word mores, extending it not just to social customs and interactions, but also to the range of beliefs and opinions prevalent among people, and to the set of ideas forming their mindset. I include under this term the entire moral and intellectual condition of a people. My intention is not to paint a full picture of American customs, but simply to highlight those aspects that support the survival of political institutions.

Religion Considered as a Political Institution, Which Powerfully Contributes to the Maintenance of the Democratic Republic Among the Americans

North America was settled by people who practiced a democratic and republican version of Christianity—Arrival of Catholics—Why Catholics form the most democratic and republican class at present.

Every religion is found beside a political view that shares an affinity with it. If the human mind is left to its natural inclinations, it will shape the worldly and spiritual institutions of society based on a unified principle; and people will try, so to speak, to make earthly society resemble the state they believe awaits them in heaven. Most of British America was settled by people who, after rejecting the Pope's authority, recognized no other religious supremacy; they brought to the New World a form of Christianity best described as democratic and republican. This faith had a powerful role in establishing democracy and a republic, and from the earliest days of settlement, politics and religion formed an alliance that has never been broken.

About fifty years ago, Ireland began sending large numbers of Catholics to the United States; at the same time, American Catholics made converts, and currently, more than a million Christians following the Church of Rome are found in the Union. \*d The Catholics are dedicated to their religious practices and zealous in upholding their doctrines. Yet they make up the most republican and democratic group of citizens in the United States—and although this may seem surprising at first, reflection reveals the causes behind it.

d
\[ \[It is hard to determine the exact number of Roman Catholics in the United States, but in 1868, an able writer in the “Edinburgh Review” (vol. cxxvii.) stated that the whole Catholic population of the United States was then about 4,000,000, divided into 43 dioceses, with 3,795 churches, cared for by 45 bishops and 2,317 clergymen. However, this rapid growth is largely due to immigration from Catholic countries in Europe.\]\]

I believe that Catholicism has wrongly been regarded as the natural enemy of democracy. Among the Christian sects, Catholicism seems to me, on the contrary, to be especially favorable to social equality. In the Catholic Church, the religious community consists of just two groups: the priest and the people. The priest alone rises above his congregation; all others are equal.

On matters of doctrine, the Catholic faith levels all human capacities; it subjects the learned and ignorant alike, the brilliant and the ordinary, to the same creed and practices; it requires the same observances from rich and poor, demands the same austerities from strong and weak, accepts no compromise with humanity, but makes all people equal before the same altar, as they are equal before God. If Catholicism inclines the faithful toward obedience, it certainly does not prepare them for inequality. The opposite may be said for Protestantism, which generally promotes independence more than equality.

Catholicism is like an absolute monarchy; if the sovereign is removed, all other social classes are more equal than in republics. It has often happened that a Catholic priest has left the altar to take a leading role in government and to rank among the upper classes. This religious influence has sometimes supported the interests of the political order to which the priest belonged. At times, Catholics have sided with aristocracy out of religious convictions.

But when the priesthood is completely separated from the government, as in the United States, it is found that no group is more naturally inclined than Catholics to translate the doctrine of equality into the political world. If the Catholic citizens of the United States are not compelled by their beliefs to adopt democratic and republican principles, at least they are not inherently opposed; and their social position and minority status require them to embrace these viewpoints. Most Catholics are poor, and cannot participate in government unless it is open to all. They are a minority, and all rights must be respected to ensure their own privileges. These two reasons lead them, often unconsciously, to adopt political views they might argue for less if they were wealthy and predominant.

The Catholic clergy in the United States has never tried to oppose this political leaning; rather, it seeks to justify its outcomes. The priests in America have divided the intellectual world in two: one part includes the doctrines of revealed religion, to which they demand assent; the other, subjects considered open to free political inquiry. Thus, Catholics in the United States are at once the most faithful believers and the most enthusiastic citizens.

It can be said that in the United States, no religious doctrine opposes democratic and republican institutions. The clergy of every sect speaks the same way, their views align with the laws, and the nation’s mindset moves in a single direction.

I was once staying in one of the largest American cities when I was invited to a public meeting to support the Poles and send them arms and money. There were two or three thousand people gathered in a large hall prepared for the event. Soon, a priest in his robes approached the podium: everyone stood and uncovered their heads as he spoke:

“Almighty God! the God of Armies! You who strengthened the hearts and guided the arms of our fathers when they fought for the sacred rights of national independence; You who made them triumph over hateful oppression and granted our people liberty and peace; Turn your favor, O Lord, to the other side of the world; look mercifully upon that heroic nation now struggling as we once did, for the same rights we defended with our blood. You, who created Man in your image, let not tyranny spoil your work by establishing inequality on earth. Almighty God! watch over the destiny of the Poles, and help them to be worthy of freedom. Guide their leaders with your wisdom, support their arms with your strength! Fill their enemies with fear, scatter those who plot against them; grant that the injustice the world has seen for fifty years may not be finalized in our time. O Lord, who holds both the hearts of nations and individuals in your powerful hand; raise up allies for the sacred cause of justice; stir the French nation from the apathy their rulers keep them in, so they may again fight for the world’s freedom.

“Lord, do not turn away from us, and allow us always to be the most religious and the freest people on earth. Almighty God, hear our prayers today. Save the Poles, we ask through your beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for humanity’s salvation. Amen.”

The whole assembly answered, “Amen!” with devotion.

Indirect Influence of Religious Opinions Upon Political Society in the United States

Christian morality is common to all sects—Influence of religion on American customs—Respect for marriage—How religion limits the imagination of Americans and restrains the longing for constant change—Americans’ views on the political importance of religion—Their efforts to extend and secure its predominance.

I have just shown the direct influence of religion on politics in the United States, but its indirect influence seems to me even greater, and it never teaches Americans more about how to be free than when it remains silent on the subject of freedom.

There are countless sects in the United States. They all differ in how they worship the Creator, but all agree on what people owe to one another. Each sect worships God in its own manner, but all preach the same moral law in God’s name. If it is vitally important for an individual that his religion is true, the situation for society is different. Society lacks an afterlife to fear or hope for; as long as citizens hold some religion, the specific dogmas matter little to the common good. Moreover, nearly all American sects are branches of Christianity, and Christian morality is the same everywhere.

It is not unfair to suppose that some Americans follow a particular form of worship more out of habit than conviction. In the United States, the supreme authority is religious, so some hypocrisy is inevitable; but nowhere in the world does Christianity exert greater influence over people’s hearts than in America. This, above all, shows its utility and deep harmony with human nature, for its influence is strongest among the most enlightened and free people on earth.

I have noted that members of the American clergy in general—even those who do not support religious liberty—are all in favor of civil freedom; yet they do not endorse any specific political system. They stay apart from political parties and public affairs. In the United States, religion has little direct influence on laws or on the details of public opinion, but it shapes the manners of society, and by regulating domestic life, it helps regulate the State.

I do not doubt that the strictness of manners observed in the United States originally arises from religious faith. Religion is often unable to restrain men from the many temptations of fortune, nor can it entirely check the passion for gain that every aspect of life seems to encourage. However, its influence over the minds of women is profound, and women are the guardians of morality. There is certainly no country in the world where the institution of marriage is so deeply respected as in America, or where marital happiness is more highly valued. In Europe, nearly all social upheaval arises from domestic disorder. To disregard the natural bonds and lawful pleasures of home is to develop a taste for excess, a restlessness of spirit, and the problem of restless desires. Troubled by the passionate discord that often disturbs his household, the European chafes against the obedience that the State requires. But when the American retreats from public commotion to the heart of his family, he finds there an image of order and peace. His pleasures are simple and natural; his joys innocent and calm. Because he sees that orderly living is the surest path to happiness, he readily adapts to moderate his opinions as well as his desires. While the European tries to forget his domestic troubles by stirring up society, the American draws from his home a love of order that he then brings with him into public life.

In the United States, religion’s influence is not limited to manners; it extends to the intelligence of the people. Among Anglo-Americans, there are those who profess Christianity from genuine belief, and others who do so because they fear being suspected of unbelief. Christianity, therefore, prevails without opposition, by universal agreement. As I have noted before, this means that every moral principle is fixed and definite, even while the political world is open to debate and experimentation. Thus, the human mind is never left to wander aimlessly; regardless of ambition, it is occasionally checked by barriers it cannot pass. Before change can happen, certain basic and unchanging principles are established, and even the boldest human plans are subject to rules that slow and sometimes halt their fulfillment.

Even in their most imaginative moments, Americans remain cautious and undecided; their impulses are restrained, and their projects unfinished. These habits of restraint appear in political society as well, and are particularly favorable to both the peace of the people and the stability of the institutions they have built. Both nature and circumstance have encouraged Americans to be bold, as shown by their enterprising pursuit of fortune. If Americans’ minds were completely unrestrained, they could quickly become the world’s boldest innovators and fiercest debaters. But American revolutionaries are required to profess respect for Christian morality and justice, which prevents them from easily violating laws that oppose their aims; nor could they easily overcome the scruples of their followers, even if they got past their own. So far, no one in the United States has dared to claim that anything is allowed if it serves society’s interests—an irreligious saying invented, it seems, in an age of freedom to justify all the tyrannies of the future. Thus, while the law allows Americans to do as they wish, religion prevents them from even conceiving or committing rash or unjust acts.

Religion in America takes no direct role in governing society, but it must still be regarded as the foremost political institution of the country. Even if it does not create a desire for freedom, it helps people use free institutions wisely. In fact, Americans themselves view religious belief in this same way. I do not know whether all Americans sincerely believe in their religion—who can read the human heart?—but I am sure that they see it as essential to maintaining republican government. This is not just the view of one class or party, but is shared by the entire nation, across all social ranks.

In the United States, if a politician attacks a particular sect, even members of that sect may still support him; but if he attacks all the sects together, he is deserted by everyone and finds himself alone.

While I was in America, a witness was called at the assizes of Chester County (State of New York) who declared that he did not believe in the existence of God or the immortality of the soul. The judge refused to admit his testimony, stating that the witness had already destroyed all the Court’s confidence in what he might say. \*e The newspapers reported the event without additional comment.

e  
\[ The New York “Spectator” of August 23, 1831, reports the incident as follows:—“The Court of Common Pleas of Chester County (New York) a few days ago rejected a witness who declared his disbelief in the existence of God. The presiding judge said he had never before heard of anyone who did not believe in God’s existence; that this belief forms the basis of all testimony in court, and that he knew of no instance in a Christian country where a witness was allowed to testify without such belief.”\]

Americans so closely tie the ideas of Christianity and liberty in their minds that they cannot imagine one without the other; and for them, this conviction does not come from a dry, inherited faith that simply persists rather than lives.

I have heard of American societies sending ministers of the Gospel to the new Western States to establish schools and churches, fearing that otherwise religion would fade in those remote settlements and the new States would become less able to sustain free institutions than those from which they originated. I met wealthy New Englanders who left their home states to establish Christianity and freedom along the Missouri River or in the Illinois prairies. In this way, religious zeal in the United States is constantly fueled by patriotic duty. These men are not motivated exclusively by the promises of the next life; eternity is only one reason for their commitment. If you converse with these missionaries of Christian civilization, you may be surprised by how much importance they place on worldly matters, encountering a politician where you expected a priest. They will tell you, “All the American republics are tied together; if the Western republics were to fall into anarchy or be seized by a tyrant, the republican institutions flourishing on the Atlantic coast would be in great danger. Therefore, it is in our interest for the new States to be religious, so as to preserve our liberties.”

Such are Americans’ beliefs, and if anyone thinks that the religious spirit I admire is the greatest flaw of America, and that the only thing missing for the freedom and happiness of humanity is a belief in some mindless cosmogony, or to claim with Cabanis that thought is just a product of the brain, I can only respond that such people have never been to America, and have never seen a religious or a free nation. When they return from their journey, we’ll see what they have to say.

Some in France view republican institutions as simply a way to gain power, wealth, or status—mercenaries of liberty, fighting for their own benefit, regardless of claims or colors. It is not to these that I address these thoughts. But there are others who look to the republic as a peaceful and enduring state toward which modern society is moving, and who sincerely wish to prepare people to be free. When these men attack religious beliefs, they are following passion rather than their true interests. Despotism may rule without faith, but liberty cannot. Religion is far more necessary in the republic they imagine than in the monarchy they oppose; it is needed more in democratic republics than in any others. How can society avoid destruction unless the moral bond is strengthened as the political bond is loosened? And what can be done with a people who rule themselves, if they are not led by reverence for the Divine?

##  Chapter XVII: Principal Causes Maintaining The Democratic Republic—Part III

Principal Causes Which Render Religion Powerful In America. Care taken by the Americans to separate the Church from the State—The laws, public opinion, and even the efforts of the clergy all work to promote this separation—The influence of religion on the mind in the United States can be attributed to this cause—Explanation of this—What is the natural condition of men regarding religion today—What are the particular and incidental causes that prevent people, in certain countries, from reaching this state.

The philosophers of the eighteenth century explained the gradual decline of religious faith in a very simple way. Religious zeal, they said, must inevitably decrease as liberty becomes more common and knowledge more widespread. Unfortunately, the facts do not support their theory. There are populations in Europe whose lack of belief only matches their ignorance and degradation, while in America one of the freest and most educated nations in the world diligently fulfills every outward sign of religious fervor.

When I arrived in the United States, the religious character of the country was the first thing that caught my attention. The longer I stayed, the more I realized the great political consequences stemming from this condition, which was unlike anything I had known. In France I had almost always observed the spirit of religion and the spirit of freedom following completely opposing courses; but in America I found that they were closely linked, and that they flourished together in the same country. My desire to discover the causes of this phenomenon grew stronger each day. To satisfy it, I questioned members of all the different sects, and especially sought out the clergy, who are the custodians of the different persuasions and most interested in their endurance. As a member of the Roman Catholic Church, I was especially brought into contact with several of its priests, with whom I became closely acquainted. To each of these individuals I expressed my astonishment and outlined my doubts; I found that while they differed on points of detail, they mainly attributed the peaceful sway of religion in their country to the separation of Church and State. I do not hesitate to affirm that during my stay in America I did not meet a single member of either the clergy or the laity who disagreed with this view.

This led me to study more carefully than before the role the American clergy hold in political society. I was surprised to learn that they hold no public office; \*f not one is to be found in administration, nor are they represented in the legislative assemblies. In several states, \*g the law explicitly excludes them from political life, and public opinion supports this everywhere. When I examined the general attitude of the clergy, I found that most of them seemed to withdraw of their own will from all exercise of power, and that they considered it an important aspect of their position to abstain from politics.

f  
\[ Unless this term be applied to the functions which many of them perform in schools. Almost all education is entrusted to the clergy.\]

g  
\[ See the Constitution of New York, art. 7, Section 4:— “And whereas the ministers of the gospel are, by their profession, dedicated to the service of God and the care of souls, and ought not to be diverted from the great duties of their functions: therefore no minister of the gospel, or priest of any denomination whatsoever, shall at any time hereafter, under any pretence or description whatever, be eligible to, or capable of holding, any civil or military office or place within this State.”

See also the constitutions of North Carolina, art. 31; Virginia; South Carolina, art. I, Section 23; Kentucky, art. 2, Section 26; Tennessee, art. 8, Section I; Louisiana, art. 2, Section 22.\]

I heard them denounce ambition and deceit, no matter under which political opinions these vices might lie; but I learned from their sermons that men are not guilty in God’s eyes for any sincerely held views about political government, any more than they are for their errors in building a house or plowing a field. I saw that these ministers of the gospel avoided all parties with the earnestness that comes from personal conviction. These facts convinced me that what I had been told was true; and it became my goal to find the reasons for it, and to understand how the real authority of religion could grow in a system that reduced its apparent power: these reasons did not long elude my search.

The brief span of sixty years can never satisfy the imagination of man; nor can the imperfect joys of this world fulfill the desires of his heart. Man alone of all creatures shows a natural disdain for mere existence, and yet an endless longing to exist; he scorns life but dreads annihilation. These conflicting feelings constantly push his soul to contemplate a future state, and religion guides his thoughts there. Religion, then, is simply another expression of hope; and it is no less natural to the human heart than hope itself. People cannot give up their religious faith without a kind of intellectual confusion and a violent twisting of their true nature; but they are irresistibly brought back to more devout feelings, for unbelief is only temporary, and faith is the permanent state of humanity. Even if we consider religious institutions only from a human perspective, they may be said to draw endless strength from human nature itself, since they are rooted in basic human instincts.

I am aware that at certain times religion may strengthen this influence, which comes from within, through the artificial power of laws and the support of those worldly institutions that govern society. Religions that are closely joined to governments have sometimes exercised supreme authority gained from both fear and faith; but when a religion forms such an alliance, I do not hesitate to say it makes the same mistake as a man who sacrifices his future for his present gain; and by gaining a power it is not entitled to, it puts at risk its legitimate authority. When a religion bases its power on the longing for immortality found in every human heart, it may hope for universal dominion; but when it connects itself to a government, it must adopt principles suited only to certain nations. Thus, by forming an alliance with political power, religion increases its authority with a few but loses the chance to rule over all.

As long as a religion is supported by those feelings that comfort all suffering, it can win people’s affection. But if it becomes entangled with the harsh passions of the world, it may have to defend allies tied to it by interest, not by principle, or to oppose as enemies those who still share its spirit, even if they oppose its allied powers. The Church cannot take on the State’s temporal power without attracting some of the animosity directed at the State.

Political powers that seem most firmly rooted often have no better guarantee of lasting than the opinions of a single generation, the interests of the time, or one person's life. One law may alter even the most settled social condition; and as the social state changes, so does everything else. The forces of society are fleeting, like the years we spend on earth; they follow one another quickly, like the passing cares of daily life; and no government has ever been founded upon a permanent part of human nature, or a never-changing interest.

As long as a religion draws its support from those feelings and tendencies that appear in the same way throughout history, it can outlast the ages; or at least it can only be replaced by another religion. But when faith clings to worldly interests, it becomes nearly as fragile as earthly powers. Religion alone of them all may hope for immortality; but if it links itself to their short-lived authority, it shares their fate and may fall with the very passions that once upheld it. The alliance that religion makes with political powers is inevitably a burden, since it does not need their help to survive, and by supporting them, it may be led to its own decline.

The danger I have described always exists, but is not always equally obvious. In some times, governments seem unshakable; in others, the very existence of society looks more uncertain than that of individuals. Some systems lull citizens into lethargy; others rouse them to restless excitement. When governments look so strong and laws seem so stable, people do not see the dangers of uniting Church and State. When government appears weak and laws inconsistent, the danger is clear—but by then it is often too late to avoid it. To be effective, steps must be taken to anticipate and recognize its coming.

As a nation becomes more democratic, and as communities take on more democratic tendencies, it becomes increasingly risky to tie religion to political institutions. The time will come when political power will pass rapidly from hand to hand, political theories will replace one another, and people, laws, and constitutions will constantly change—this not just for a little while, but constantly. Change and unrest are natural to democratic republics, just as stillness is the rule of absolute monarchies.

If the Americans, who change their government’s leader every four years, elect new lawmakers every two years, and replace local officials every year—if the Americans, who have left politics open to reformers and experimenters, had not set religion apart, where could it stand amid the waves of political opinion? How could respect for it survive among constant factional conflict? And how could it claim immortality amid continual decay? The American clergy were the first to see this truth and to act on it. They understood that they would lose their religious influence if they fought for political power, so they chose to give up support from the State rather than share in its instability.

In America, religion may be less dominant than it has been in some times and places, but its influence is more enduring. It depends on its own resources, which no one can take away. Its range is limited to certain principles, but those principles are entirely its own and under its undisputed control.

All over Europe we hear complaints about the decline of religious faith and questions about how to restore even a shadow of religion’s former authority. It seems to me that we must first carefully examine what ought to be the natural state of people towards religion today; and when we know both our hopes and our fears, we may see the path our efforts should take.

The two main dangers to the existence of religions are division and indifference. In ages of passionate devotion, people sometimes leave their religion, but only to adopt another. Their faith simply changes its focus; it does not falter. The old religion then inspires either enthusiastic loyalty or bitter hostility in different groups; some leave it angrily, others cling to it more fiercely, and although beliefs differ, real irreligion does not exist. Such, however, is not the case when a religious belief is eroded not by a new faith, but by negative doctrines that deny the truth of one religion without affirming another. Vast changes then happen in the human mind, without obvious help from personal passions and often without people realizing it. People lose the comforts of their deepest hopes almost by accident. An unseen current carries them from the faith they love to a scepticism that leaves them in despair.

At such times, people abandon their religion more from apathy than dislike; they do not reject it, but the feelings that once supported it fade away. Yet even unbelievers, though they do not view religion as true, still acknowledge its usefulness. Viewing religious institutions from a human perspective, they recognize their influence on behavior and law. They admit that religion may help people live together peacefully and prepare for death. They regret the faith they have lost, and, recognizing what a treasure it is, they hesitate to deprive others of it.

On the other hand, those who still believe do not fear to openly declare their faith. They regard those who don’t share their beliefs as more deserving of pity than opposition; and they know that they do not need to follow the unbelievers’ example to earn their respect. They are hostile to no one and, since they do not see their society as a battlefield where religion is beset by enemies on all sides, they love their contemporaries, all the while condemning weaknesses and regretting errors.

Because the unbelievers hide their disbelief, and those who believe display their faith, public opinion supports religion—honor, support, and affection are given to it. The damage religion suffers can only be detected by a deep look into the human soul. Most people are never without religious feeling and see nothing that conflicts with the accepted faith. The common longing for another life draws them to the altar and opens their hearts to religion’s teachings and comfort.

But this description does not fit us: among us there are some who have stopped believing in Christianity without embracing any other faith; others are lost in doubt and already pretend not to believe; others, again, are afraid to admit the Christian faith they still secretly hold.

Among these lukewarm supporters and passionate opponents, there are a few believers willing to face any hardship and risk any danger in defending their faith. They have overcome human weakness to rise above public opinion. Stirred by the effort, they hardly know when to stop; knowing that the first use their countrymen made of freedom was to attack religion, they view their peers with suspicion, withdrawing in fear from the liberty others seek. Since unbelief seems a new thing to them, they react to all innovation with hostility. They are out of step with their age and nation, and see every new idea as an enemy of the faith.

Yet, this is not humanity’s natural state regarding religion today; something extraordinary or abnormal must be at work in France to prevent people from following their natural inclination and make them go beyond natural limits. I am convinced that this abnormal and incidental cause is the close tie between politics and religion. The unbelievers of Europe attack Christians mainly as political opponents, not as simply religious adversaries; they hate Christianity not as a mistaken belief, but as a party’s opinion, and they oppose the clergy not so much because of their religious teachings as because they are allied to political power.

In Europe, Christianity has been closely linked to the powers of the world. Those powers are now weakening, and Christianity is, so to speak, being buried under their ruins. The living religion has been tied down to the dead weight of worn-out government: cut those bonds, and that which lives will rise again. I do not know what could restore the Christian Church of Europe to its original vigor; that belongs to God alone. But human policy can at least allow the faith to exercise whatever strength it still has.

How The Instruction, The Habits, And The Practical Experience Of The Americans Promote The Success Of Their Democratic Institutions

What is meant by the instruction of the American people—The intellect of Americans is less deeply educated than that of Europeans—No one is entirely uneducated—The reason for this—The speed with which ideas spread even in the undeveloped states of the West—Practical experience benefits Americans more than formal learning.

I have little to add to what I have already mentioned about the influence that American education and habits have on maintaining their political institutions.

America has so far produced very few writers of distinction; it has no great historians, and not a single renowned poet. The people there view what are truly literary pursuits with a certain disapproval; and there are towns of secondary importance in Europe that produce more literary works each year than all twenty-four States of the Union combined. The American spirit resists general ideas and does not seek theoretical discoveries. Neither politics nor manufacturing lead them toward these endeavors; and although new laws are constantly being enacted in the United States, no great writers have yet investigated the general principles of their legislation. The Americans have lawyers and commentators, but no true jurists; \*h and they provide examples, rather than lessons, to the world. The same is true in the mechanical arts. In America, European inventions are adopted with insight, perfected, and impressively adapted to local needs. They have manufacturing, but not the science of manufacturing; good workers, but very few inventors. Fulton had to offer his inventions to foreign nations for a long time before he could bring them to his own country.

h
\[ \[This cannot be said with truth of the country of Kent, Story, and Wheaton.\]\]

Someone seeking to understand the level of education among Anglo-Americans must consider the subject from two perspectives. If one focuses only on the highly educated, they’ll be surprised at how rare they are; but if one counts the ignorant, the American people may seem the most enlightened in the world. The entire population, as I’ve noted elsewhere, falls between these two extremes. In New England, every citizen receives basic knowledge; they’re also taught the principles and evidence of their religion, the history of their country, and the main features of its Constitution. In Connecticut and Massachusetts, it is extremely rare to find someone lacking all this knowledge, and finding someone completely ignorant of these matters is almost unheard of.

When I compare the Greek and Roman republics to these American States—the manuscript libraries and unsophisticated populations of the former, versus the countless newspapers and educated masses of the latter—when I remember all the attempts to judge modern republics by the standards of those of antiquity, and to predict the present by what happened two thousand years ago, I am tempted to burn my books and apply only new ideas to this new state of society.

However, what I have said about New England should not be indiscriminately applied to the entire Union; as you move west or south, the general level of education decreases. In States near the Gulf of Mexico, a number of people, as in Europe, lack even basic instruction. But in no district of the United States is there total ignorance; for a simple reason: European peoples began in the darkness of barbarism and advanced toward civilization, but their progress has been uneven—some advanced quickly, others lagged, some even stalled and are still stationary. \*i

i
\[ \[In the Northern States the number of people without instruction is small—the largest number being 241,152 in New York State (according to Spaulding’s “Handbook of American Statistics” for 1874); but in the South no fewer than 1,516,339 whites and 2,671,396 colored people are listed as “illiterate.”\]\]

This was not the case in the United States. The Anglo-Americans settled already civilized on the land their descendants occupy; they did not have to start from scratch, but simply not forget what they already knew. Now, the children of these Americans are the people who, year after year, move into the wilderness with their homes—bringing with them their established knowledge and their respect for learning. Education has taught them the value of instruction, and enabled them to pass it on. In the United States, society never had an infancy—it was born mature.

Americans never use the word “peasant,” because they have no concept of that particular class; the ignorance of past ages, the simplicity of rural life, and the rustic manners of villagers are gone from among them; they know nothing of the virtues, vices, rough habits, or simple charms of an early civilization. At the outer limits of the Confederate States, on the frontier between settled society and wilderness, a class of bold pioneers has settled, seeking in the American woods an escape from the poverty of their former homes. When a pioneer settles a spot to make his home, he cuts down a few trees and builds a log cabin. Nothing could look more miserable than these isolated houses. A traveler arriving at one near nightfall sees firelight flickering through the gaps in the walls, and at night, if the wind rises, hears the bough roof swaying between tall forest trees. One might suppose this rough hut shelters only hardship and ignorance. Yet there’s no comparing the pioneer to the primitive dwelling that shelters him. Everything around him is raw and unfinished, but he himself is a product of eighteen centuries of learning and experience. He wears city clothes, speaks a cultured language, knows the past, is curious about the future, and ready to debate the present; he is, in short, a highly civilized being who has chosen—for a time—to live in the wilderness, carrying with him the Bible, an axe, and a stack of newspapers.

It is hard to imagine the extraordinary speed with which public opinion circulates in these wilds. \*j I do not think there is as much intellectual exchange in even the most educated and densely populated parts of France. \*k There is no doubt that, in the United States, popular education plays a powerful role in supporting the democratic republic; and this is always true, I believe, when education that awakens intellect is combined with moral teaching that shapes the heart. Still, I do not overstate its benefits, and am even further from believing, as so many in Europe do, that simply teaching people to read and write instantly makes them citizens. True knowledge is largely gained through experience; if the Americans had not gradually learned self-government, book learning would not do them much good today.

j
\[ I traveled part of the United States frontier in a kind of wagon called the mail. We sped along roads barely marked out, day and night, through vast forests; when the woods grew impenetrable, the driver lit fir branches, and we traveled by their light. Occasionally we came to a hut in the forest, which served as a post office. The mail dropped off a huge bundle of letters at this isolated home, and we raced on, leaving the nearby log house residents to fetch their share of the treasure.

\[When the author visited America, the locomotive and railroad were hardly invented and not yet introduced in the United States. It is hardly necessary to point out the immense effect those inventions had on expanding civilization and developing that vast continent's resources. In 1831, there were 51 miles of railway in the United States; in 1872 there were 60,000 miles.\]\]

k
\[ In 1832, each resident of Michigan paid a sum equal to 1 fr. 22 cent. (French money) to the post office; each resident of Florida paid 1 fr. 5 cent. (See “National Calendar,” 1833.) In the same year, each inhabitant of the Département du Nord paid 1 fr. 4 cent. to the French post office revenue. (See “Compte rendu de l’administration des Finances,” 1833.) Michigan only had 7 people per square league then, Florida only 5; the public education and commerce of these areas was less than that of most U.S. States, while the Département du Nord, with 3,400 people per square league, was among the most advanced and industrial in France.\]

I have lived extensively among people in the United States, and I cannot express how much I admire their practical experience and common sense. An American should never be allowed to talk about Europe, for he will likely display a good deal of presumption and foolish pride, adopting those crude, vague ideas so useful to the ignorant everywhere. But if you ask him about his own country, his mind immediately clears; his speech becomes as direct and precise as his thoughts. He can tell you what his rights are, and how he exercises them; he can point out political customs. You’ll find he knows the procedures of government, and understands how laws work. Americans do not gain this practical knowledge from books; whatever instruction helped prepare them to receive these ideas, it did not provide them. Americans learn the laws by participating in making them; they learn forms of government by engaging in governance. The business of society goes on constantly before their eyes, and almost under their hands.

In the United States, politics are the purpose of education; in Europe, education’s main goal is to fit people for private life. Citizen involvement in public affairs is so rare there that it’s not usually anticipated. A look at society in both hemispheres shows these differences, visible even in its outward appearance.

In Europe, we often bring private ways of thinking and acting into public affairs; because we move straight from the home to state affairs, we sometimes discuss society’s great interests just as we would talk with friends. Americans, by contrast, bring habits of public life into their private manners; in their country, juries are part of schoolboys’ games, and parliamentary procedure is observed even at a feast.

##  Chapter XVII: Principal Causes Maintaining The Democratic Republic—Part IV

The Laws Contribute More To The Maintenance Of The Democratic Republic In The United States Than The Physical Circumstances Of The Country, And The Manners More Than The Laws

All the nations of America have a democratic social state, yet democratic institutions persist only among the Anglo-Americans. The Spaniards of South America, despite being equally favored by physical conditions as the Anglo-Americans, have been unable to sustain a democratic republic. Mexico, despite adopting the Constitution of the United States, is in the same situation. The Anglo-Americans of the West are less able to maintain it than those of the East. What accounts for these different outcomes?

I have noted that the survival of democratic institutions in the United States is due to the circumstances, the laws, and the manners of the people. \*l Most Europeans know only the first of these causes and tend to give it undue primacy, assigning it more influence than it actually possesses.

l  
\[I remind the reader of the general meaning I give to the term “manners”: the collective moral and intellectual characteristics of society.\]

It is true that the Anglo-Saxons arrived in the New World in a state of social equality—there were neither nobility nor commoners among them, and both professional and class prejudices were practically unknown. The democratic structure of society allowed democracy to take hold easily. However, this situation was not unique to the United States; nearly all trans-Atlantic colonies were founded by people equal among themselves or who became so upon settling. In no part of the New World have Europeans managed to establish an aristocracy, yet democratic institutions have thrived only in the United States.

The American Union lacks enemies to fight; it stands isolated like an island in the wilderness. Yet the Spaniards of South America were no less cut off by geography, and this isolation has not spared them from needing standing armies. They wage war among themselves even when no foreign enemies threaten, while the Anglo-American democracy is the only one so far able to maintain peace. \*m

m  
\[A note which, since the Civil War of 1861-65, is no longer wholly applicable.\]

The Union’s territory offers a vast space for human activity and endless opportunity for industry and labor. The pursuit of wealth replaces political ambition, and factional intensity is softened by a widespread sense of prosperity. But where else in the world do we find richer plains, greater rivers, or untapped resources than in South America?

Still, South America has not maintained democratic institutions. If a nation's prosperity depended simply on its remote location and the expanse of available land, the Spanish of South America would have little to complain about. Even if they were less prosperous than the United States, their condition might inspire envy in some European nations. Yet, there are few peoples on earth as miserable as those in South America.

Physical causes, therefore, not only fail to produce results like those in North America, but are insufficient even to raise South America above European states, where the same factors might act differently. Thus, physical circumstances do not affect national destinies as much as is often believed.

I have met people in New England ready to leave comfortable circumstances to seek fortune in the wilderness. Nearby in Canada, I saw a French population tightly packed into a small area, though they too were near vast wilderness; while American emigrants could buy large estates from short periods of labor, Canadians paid as much for land as they would in France. Nature offers the New World's expanses to Europeans, but not all know how to take advantage of that gift. Other peoples in America share the same physical possibilities as the Anglo-Americans but lack their laws and manners—and consequently, they are miserable. Therefore, it is the laws and manners of the Anglo-Americans that constitute the effective cause of their greatness, which is the focus of my inquiry.

I do not claim that American laws are themselves uniquely good, nor do I believe they are universally applicable to all democratic peoples; indeed, some seem risky even in the United States. Still, American legislation overall fits remarkably well with the character of the people and the country it was designed to govern. Thus, these laws are good, and a significant share of the success of democracy in America must be attributed to them. Yet I do not consider them the main reason for that success. While they likely influence American social welfare more than geography does, I believe they are less influential than the ways of the people.

The federal laws are certainly the most important part of American legislation. Mexico, equally well situated as the Anglo-American Union and using the same laws, cannot accustom itself to democratic governance. Some other cause must be at work, aside from these physical factors and unique laws that allow democracy to prosper in the United States.

Another, even clearer, example can be given. Nearly all the inhabitants of the Union are descended from the same ancestors; they speak the same language, practice the same religion, are subject to the same physical conditions, and follow the same laws. Why these differences, then? Why is it that, in the Eastern States, republican government is vigorous and steady, acting thoughtfully and durably, while in the West, society appears to be governed by luck and business is conducted with passionate, erratic excitement—a situation that does not suggest strength or permanence?

Here I am not comparing the United States to foreign nations, but contrasting its states with each other and trying to explain their differences. Arguments about geography or legislation are put aside here. We must seek another cause—and what cause could that be but the manners of the people?

It is in the Eastern States that the Anglo-Americans have the longest experience with democracy and have most learned the habits and formed the beliefs best suited to maintaining it. Democracy is woven into their customs, opinions, and social interactions, appearing both in daily life and in the laws. In the Eastern States, the popular education and practical training are more advanced, and religion has merged more thoroughly with liberty. These habits, opinions, customs, and values form what I have called manners.

In the West, many of these improvements are still missing. Many Western Americans were born on the frontier and combine elements of wilderness life with that of their ancestors' civilization. Their passions are more intense, their religious morality has less authority, and their convictions are less stable. Individuals exercise little control over each other, for they scarcely know one another. The Western states, with their inexperience and roughness, resemble a society still in its infancy. Even though their population comes from old sources, their communities are newly formed.

It is the manners of the Americans that, above all else, enable them to maintain a democratic government; and it is the influence of manners that creates the variations in order and prosperity seen among the different Anglo-American democracies. Thus, Europeans exaggerate the effect of geography on the stability of democratic institutions and overvalue legislation while undervaluing manners. These three key factors—circumstances, laws, and manners—all shape American democracy, but if ranked, geography is less influential than law, and law is subordinate to manners. I am convinced that even the best possible position and laws cannot preserve a constitution against the established manners of a country, while the proper national manners can make the best out of poor circumstances and disliked laws. The importance of manners is a central truth, repeatedly highlighted by both study and experience. It stands at the center of social observation and the end point of all such inquiries. Indeed, if I have failed to make readers appreciate the crucial impact of American manners—practical experience, habits, opinions—on the survival of its institutions, I have missed my main goal in this work.

Whether Laws And Manners Are Sufficient To Maintain Democratic Institutions In Other Countries Besides America

If the Anglo-Americans were relocated to Europe, they would have to adjust their laws—It is necessary to distinguish between democratic institutions as such and specifically American institutions—Democratic laws may be imagined that are better than, or at least different from, those adopted by American democracy—The American example only shows that democracy can be regulated by manners and legislation.

I have argued that the prosperity of democracy in the United States is tied more closely to its laws and national character than to geography. But does this mean that those factors alone would suffice elsewhere? If geography cannot substitute for laws and manners, can laws and manners then substitute for geography? It is clear that the elements needed to answer this question are lacking. Other peoples exist in the New World facing the same physical conditions as the Anglo-Americans, making for a valid comparison. Outside America, however, no other nation has adopted the same laws and manners while lacking the same natural advantages, so a direct comparison cannot be made and we can form only hypotheses.

First, I believe it is essential to distinguish between the institutions of the United States and democratic institutions more broadly. When considering Europe—its large nations, crowded cities, powerful armies, and complicated politics—I cannot suppose that even the Anglo-Americans, transplanted with their views, religion, and character, could maintain their laws without significant adaptation. Still, one can imagine a democratic nation organized differently from America: a government truly based on the will of the majority, but in which the majority, restraining its inherent drive for equality, consents for the sake of order and stability to give executive powers to a family or individual. One could picture a democracy where the nation’s resources were more centralized than in the United States, where the people’s influence over public affairs was less immediate—yet every citizen had certain official rights in government. From what I observed, I believe that democratic institutions of this type, introduced gradually and integrated with a people’s habits and opinions, could succeed outside America. If the United States’ laws were the only possible democratic laws, or even the best conceivable, I would concede that their success offered no encouragement to others in less fortunate circumstances. But as American laws strike me as imperfect in some ways, and as I can imagine other versions based on similar principles, America’s geographic advantages do not prove that democracy cannot work in nations with less favorable circumstances, if guided by better laws.

If human nature were somehow different in America than elsewhere, or if the social state of Americans produced opinions and livelihoods fundamentally different from those inspired by similar social conditions in the Old World, then American democracies would teach us nothing about other countries’ prospects. Or, if the Americans displayed the typical faults of other democratic peoples, and their leaders relied solely on geography and fortunate conditions to keep those tendencies in check, then their prosperity would be due only to physical causes, giving little hope to anyone wishing to imitate them without sharing their advantages. But neither of these is the case.

In America, the same passions are found as in Europe: some spring from human nature; others arise from democracy’s effects on society. In the United States, I noted a familiar restlessness of heart that occurs where social ranks are nearly equal and opportunities for advancement are open to all. I saw democratic envy in countless forms. I noticed that the people often exhibited a blend of ignorance and arrogance in public affairs; in short, men in America have the same flaws as men everywhere. However, with closer observation, I saw that Americans had made significant, often successful, efforts to overcome these natural faults and democratic dangers. Their municipal laws, for instance, serve to channel ambition into local government, diverting energies that might otherwise disrupt the state. American lawmakers have, to some degree, opposed the idea of individual rights to counter envy; they set religious stability against the volatility of politics, people’s practical experience against their theoretical ignorance, and business know-how against impatience.

The Americans, then, have not simply relied on natural advantages to offset the risks posed by their constitution and political laws. For dangers common to all democracies, they have invented remedies others had not considered—and, as pioneers, they have often succeeded.

American manners and laws are not the only possible ones for a democratic people; but the Americans have shown it is wrong to assume democracy cannot be moderated by thoughtful customs and regulations. If other nations take this valuable insight from America—without imitating the specific form it takes there—and work toward a social condition that destiny may hold for this age, perhaps they can avoid both tyranny and chaos. Why should we conclude that their efforts would not also succeed? Organizing and securing democracy in the Christian world is the great political challenge of our time. The Americans have not solved this problem, but they provide helpful guidance to anyone undertaking it.

Importance Of What Precedes With Respect To The State Of Europe

It should be clear why I have pursued this analysis. The issue discussed here matters not just to the United States but to all of humanity. If nations in a democratic condition could only remain free as long as they live in the wilderness, humanity’s prospects would indeed be grim, given democracy’s spread and the settlement of the wilds. If laws and manners cannot preserve democracy, then what hope would remain for nations aside from submission to a single ruler? I know that there are many sincere people today who do not worry about such an outcome, who are so weary of freedom’s turmoil that they welcome the calm of despotism. But these people are mistaken about where they are heading; they judge absolute power by what it once was, not by what it could become now.

If absolute power were reestablished among the democratic nations of Europe, I am convinced it would take on a new form and appear in ways unknown to our ancestors. There was a time in Europe when the laws and the people's consent gave princes nearly unlimited authority; but they hardly ever made full use of it. I do not refer to the privileges of the nobility, the authority of high courts, of corporations and their chartered rights, or of provincial freedoms, which helped check the blows of sovereign power and maintain a spirit of resistance in the nation. Separately from these political institutions—which, although often opposed to personal liberty, nevertheless kept the desire for freedom alive in the public mind and can be seen as useful in this regard—the customs and beliefs of society held royal authority in check with barriers that, though less visible, were just as powerful. Religion, the people's affections, the kindness of the ruler, a sense of honor, family pride, provincial biases, tradition, and public opinion set invisible limits on the power of kings. Though the constitution of nations was despotic in those days, their manners were free. Princes had the right, but neither the means nor often the will, to do whatever they liked.

But what remains now of those barriers that once held back the advances of tyranny? With religion having lost its influence over people’s souls, the clearest division between good and evil has been erased; the very elements of the moral world have become unclear; both rulers and citizens are led by chance, and no one can clearly set the natural limits of despotism or license. After long revolutions, the respect that once surrounded state rulers has been swept away; and as they have been relieved of the need for public esteem, monarchs may from now on indulge in the temptations of arbitrary power without fear.

When kings feel their subjects are loyal to them, they are merciful because they feel secure in their strength, and are careful with their people's affection, knowing it’s the main support of the throne. A mutual exchange of good will develops between ruler and people, like the pleasant interaction within a family. Subjects may complain about the king’s orders, but they regret displeasing him; and the ruler disciplines his subjects with the gentle hand of a parent.

But once the spell of royalty is broken by the storm of revolution—when multiple rulers have taken the throne and shown the people, in turn, the weakness of their claim and the harshness of their power—the sovereign is no longer seen by anyone as the Father of the State, and is feared by everyone as its master. If he is weak, he’s despised; if he is strong, he is hated. The ruler himself becomes filled with bitterness and fear; he finds himself a stranger in his own land and treats his subjects like conquered foes.

When provinces and towns were like separate nations within a country, each had its own will, countering the general spirit of submission. But now, after all parts of a single empire have lost their freedoms, customs, prejudices, traditions, and even their names, and are accustomed to the same laws, it is no harder to oppress them all at once than it once was to oppress them individually.

While the nobles still had power, and even after they lost it, the honor of the aristocracy gave remarkable force to their personal opposition. There are examples of men who, though individually weak, still had great self-respect and dared oppose public authority by themselves. But in our times, as all ranks become increasingly mixed, as individuals disappear into the crowd and are easily lost in general obscurity, as the former prestige of monarchy has nearly vanished and not been replaced by public virtue, and when nothing encourages someone to rise above themselves, who can say where the demands of power or the submission of the weak will end?

As long as family ties remained strong, those who opposed oppression were never alone; they had their clients, inherited friends, and relatives. If this support failed, they were sustained by ancestral pride and inspired by hopes for their descendants. But when family property is divided, and a few years suffice to erase distinctions between generations, where can family feeling be found? What force can traditions have in a country constantly changing, where every act of tyranny has a precedent and every crime an example, where nothing is so old that its age protects it from destruction, and nothing so new that its novelty prevents it from being attempted? What resistance can come from habits that have already yielded often? What strength can public opinion still have, when not even twenty people share a common cause; when no individual, family, chartered corporation, class, or free institution can represent or defend that opinion; and when every citizen—equally weak, equally poor, and equally dependent—has only his own powerlessness to set against the organized force of government?

The history of France offers no exact parallel to the situation that country could reach. It is more reminiscent of ancient times, and those dreadful periods of Roman oppression, when the people's morals were corrupted, traditions forgotten, habits destroyed, opinions shaken, and freedom—driven out of the laws—found no refuge in the land; when nothing protected citizens and they no longer protected themselves; when human beings became the playthings of others, and kings exhausted Heaven’s patience before they wore out their subjects. Those who hope to revive the monarchy of Henry IV or Louis XIV, seem to me blinded to reality; and when I consider the present state of several European nations—a state towards which the others are moving—I am led to believe that soon they will have no choice but between democratic liberty or the tyranny of the Caesars. \*n

n
\[ \[This prediction of France’s return to imperial despotism, and of the true nature of that despotic power, was written in 1832, and fulfilled precisely in 1852.\]\]

And indeed, it is important to consider whether people are to be completely freed or totally enslaved; whether their rights will be made equal or entirely removed. If those in power were reduced to either gradually raising the mass to their own level or lowering the citizens below that of humanity, would it not clear up the doubts of many, ease the consciences of many, and prepare society to make great sacrifices easily? In that case, the rise of democratic customs and institutions should be seen, not as the best, but as the only means of preserving liberty; and even if one does not love democratic government, it might still be adopted as the most suitable and just remedy for today’s problems.

It is hard to involve a people in governing themselves; but it is even harder to give them the necessary experience, and to inspire them with the spirit required to govern well. I admit that democracy’s whims are endless; its tools are crude; its laws are flawed. But if it is true that soon there will be no practical balance between democracy and the control of a single person, should we not lean towards the former rather than willingly submit to the latter? And if complete equality is our destiny, is it not better to be equal under free institutions than under despotic power?

Those who, after reading this book, believe my purpose in writing it was to advocate for all democracies to imitate the laws and customs of the Anglo-Americans, would be greatly mistaken; they must have focused more on the style than the content of my ideas. My goal has been to show—using America as an example—that laws, and especially customs, can develop that allow a democratic people to remain free. But I am far from believing we should follow the example of American democracy, or copy the ways it reached its goals; for I am well aware of the strong influence a country’s nature and political history have on its constitution, and I would consider it a great misfortune if liberty took the same form everywhere.

Still, I believe that if we fail to gradually introduce democratic institutions into France, and if we cannot instill in citizens the ideas and feelings that first prepare them for freedom and then allow them to enjoy it, there will be no independence at all—neither for the middle classes nor the nobility, neither for the poor nor the rich—but an equal tyranny over all; and I foresee that if we do not peacefully establish the rule of the majority among us in time, we will sooner or later see the unlimited authority of a single despot.

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races In The United States—Part I

The Present And Probable Future Condition Of the Three Races That Inhabit the Territory of the United States

The main part of the task I set for myself has now been completed. I have described, as best I could, the laws and customs of American democracy. Here, I could stop; but the reader might feel I have not met their expectations.

Absolute democratic supremacy is not the only feature in America; the people of the New World can be considered from more than one perspective. Throughout this work, my subject has led me to mention the Indians and the Negroes; but I have not had the chance to detail what place these two races occupy among the democratic people I have described. I have explained the spirit and laws under which the Anglo-American Union was formed, but I have only briefly mentioned the dangers threatening that confederation and have not been able to provide a thorough account of its chances for survival, regardless of its laws and customs. When discussing the united republican States, I did not speculate on the permanence of republican systems in the New World, and when I frequently alluded to the commercial energy in the Union, I was unable to examine the future of Americans as a commercial people.

These topics are closely related to my subject, though not central to it; they are American but not necessarily democratic; and my main goal has been to portray democracy. Therefore, it was necessary to postpone these questions, which I now take up to properly conclude my work.

The territory now occupied or claimed by the American Union stretches from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. On the east and west, its boundaries are those of the continent itself. In the south, it reaches nearly to the tropics, while it extends northward toward the frozen regions. The people scattered across this vast area do not form, as in Europe, branches of the same lineage. Three races, naturally distinct and, one might almost say, hostile to one another, are apparent at a glance. Nearly insurmountable barriers separate them—by education and law, as well as their origins and physical characteristics. Yet chance has brought them together on the same land, where, though side by side, they do not blend, and each race fulfills its own destiny separately.

Among these very different families, the first to draw attention, superior in intellect, power, and wealth, is the white or European—the preeminent man; followed in subordinate positions by the Black and the Indian. These two unfortunate races have nothing in common: not birth, not features, not language, nor customs. Their only similarity is their misfortune. Both hold a lower status in the land they inhabit; both suffer from oppression; and though the nature of their wrongs may differ, their origins are with the same oppressors.

If we judged only by what happens in the world, we might say that the European is to the other races of humanity as man is to animals: he makes them serve his needs, and when he cannot dominate, he destroys them. Oppression has, with one blow, stripped the descendants of Africans of nearly all human privileges. The Black person in the United States has lost all memory of his homeland; the language of his ancestors is no longer spoken; he abandoned their religion and forgot their customs when he ceased to belong to Africa—without gaining any rights to European privileges. Yet he remains caught halfway between both communities, sold by one, rejected by the other; not finding a single place in the universe to claim as country, except the faint image of home under his master's roof.

The Black person forms no real family; women are merely temporary partners in pleasure, and his children are his equals from birth. Am I to consider it a sign of God's mercy or His wrath, that in some circumstances man seems numb to his own extreme misery, or even embraces, in a twisted way, the cause of his suffering? The Black person, immersed in this pit of troubles, hardly senses his own situation. Violence made him a slave, and a life of servitude teaches him the desires and thoughts of a slave; he admires his tyrants more than he resents them, and finds joy and pride in mimicking those who oppress him—his intellect has sunk to the level of his oppressed soul.

The Black person is born into slavery: he might even have been bought before birth, and thus begun his slavery even before existing. Lacking in wants and pleasures, useless to himself, he learns with his earliest awareness that he is another's property, whose interest is in keeping him alive, and whose care he does not expect for himself; even thinking may seem to him a useless gift, and he passively enjoys the privileges of his debasement. If set free, independence often feels to him like a heavier burden than slavery; for, having grown up yielding to everything except reason, he is too unused to listening to reason to obey it. He faces new temptations but lacks the knowledge and will to resist them: these are new masters, but he has learned only obedience and submission. In short, he sinks so far into misery that while slavery degrades him, freedom destroys him.

Oppression has been just as disastrous to the Indian as to the Black, though in a different way. Before white men arrived in the New World, the native peoples of North America lived quietly in their forests, enduring the ups and downs and the virtues and vices common to all non-industrial societies. Europeans, having scattered the Indian tribes and forced them into the wilderness, condemned them to a wandering life full of unimaginable hardship.

Non-industrial societies are controlled only by opinion and custom. Once North American Indians lost their attachment to their land, saw their families separated, their traditions blurred, and the continuity of their history broken, once all their habits changed and their needs multiplied, European oppression made them more unruly and less civilized than before. Their physical and moral condition declined, and they became more barbaric as they became more miserable. Still, Europeans were not able to change Indian character; though they could crush them, they never succeeded in making them adapt to civilized society.

The Black person is pushed to the absolute limits of servitude, while the Indian stands at the far edge of liberty; slavery does no more harm to the former than unchecked freedom does to the latter. The Black person has lost all claim to himself and cannot choose his fate without betraying his owner; the Indian, on the other hand, is free once he is able to act; parental authority is barely recognized; he has never yielded to the will of another or learned the difference between voluntary obedience and shameful submission; the very concept of law is foreign to him. For him, freedom means escaping society's constraints. He relishes this rugged independence and would choose death before giving up any part of it, so civilization has little influence over him.

The Black person makes many useless attempts to fit in among people who reject him; he adopts his oppressors' ways, copies their opinions, and hopes, by imitating them, to become part of their world. Taught from childhood that his race is naturally inferior to whites, he accepts this and is ashamed of his own identity. He reads signs of his slavery in every trait, and, if he could, would strip away all that marks him as who he is.

The Indian, on the other hand, is filled with pride in his supposed noble origins, living and dying within these fantasies. Far from wanting to adopt our habits, he cherishes his traditional way of life as the distinctive mark of his race, rejecting all approaches to civilization not so much from hatred, but from fear of resembling Europeans. \*a While his only answer to our advanced technology is the means of the wilderness, and his response to our organized tactics is only raw courage, with our carefully laid plans confronting nothing but the spontaneous survival skills of his lifestyle—how can he win such an uneven struggle?

a
\[ The Native North American clings to his beliefs and even his smallest customs with a stubbornness without parallel in history. For more than two centuries, the wandering tribes of North America have had daily contact with whites, and yet have taken neither custom nor idea from them. Still, Europeans have heavily influenced the natives: they have made them more immoral, but not more European. In the summer of 1831, I happened to be beyond Lake Michigan, at a place called Green Bay, which marks the far edge between the United States and the Indians to the northwest. Here I met an American officer, Major H., who, after discussing the inflexible Indian character, told me the following story:—“I used to know a young Indian,” he said, “who was educated at a New England college, where he excelled and attained the appearance of a civilized man. When war broke out between us and the English in 1810, I saw him again; he was serving with our army, leading his tribe’s warriors, for Indians were admitted into the American ranks as long as they gave up their awful custom of scalping enemies. On the evening after the battle of . . ., C. came to sit with me at our campfire. I asked about his fate that day; he recounted his exploits, and, as he became animated by the memories, suddenly opened his coat, saying, ‘You must not betray me—look here!’ And I actually saw,” the Major continued, “between his body and shirt, the bloody skin and hair of an English head.”\]

The Black person, who deeply wishes to blend his race with Europeans, cannot do so; while the Indian, who might manage it to a degree, refuses to try. The former’s servility binds him to slavery, while the latter’s pride leads him to extinction.

I recall that while traveling through the forests still covering the state of Alabama, I came one day to the log home of a pioneer. I did not wish to enter the American’s dwelling, but stopped to rest by a spring not far off in the woods. While I was there (near the Creek territory), an Indian woman appeared, followed by a Black woman, and holding the hand of a little white girl, about five or six, whom I assumed was the pioneer’s daughter. The Indian’s appearance displayed a kind of rugged finery; metal rings hung from her ears and nostrils; her hair, adorned with glass beads, flowed down her back; and I saw that she was unmarried, for she wore the shell necklace brides place on the wedding bed. The Black woman was dressed in ragged European clothes. All three sat by the spring, and the young Indian, taking the child in her arms, showered motherly affection upon her, while the Black woman tried with little tricks to get the girl’s attention.

The child’s every gesture showed an awareness of her superiority, a strange contrast with her childish weakness; she seemed to accept her companions’ attentions with a kind of graciousness. The Black woman sat on the ground by her mistress, attending to her every wish, apparently struggling between devotion to the child and servile fear; while the native, amid her tenderness, displayed an almost wild pride and sense of freedom. I had quietly approached the small group and watched them in silence, but my presence likely displeased the Indian woman, for she rose suddenly, pushed the child from her, and with an angry glance at me, disappeared into the brush. I had often witnessed meetings of individuals from the three races populating North America. I had already seen many instances showing the dominance of the whites. But in the scene I just described, something deeply moving stood out: here, affection united the oppressors and the oppressed, and nature’s attempt to bring them together only made the vast gulf between them—created by prejudice and law—stand out all the more.

The Present And Probable Future Condition Of The Indian Tribes Living Within The Union’s Territory

Gradual disappearance of native tribes—How it happens—Suffering from forced Indian migrations—North American natives had only two ways to escape destruction: war or civilization—Now they can no longer resort to war—Reasons why they refused to become civilized when it was possible, and why they cannot do so now, even as they desire it—Examples from the Creeks and Cherokees—How individual States approach these Indians—How the Federal Government deals with them.

None of the Indian nations that once inhabited the territory of New England—the Naragansetts, the Mohicans, the Pecots—exist except in memory. The Lenapes, who welcomed William Penn one hundred and fifty years ago along the Delaware River, have vanished; I myself met the very last of the Iroquois, now begging for charity. These peoples once covered the land right up to the coast; now a traveler, to find an Indian, must go more than one hundred leagues deep into the continent. These wild tribes have not merely retreated; they have been wiped out; \*b and as they vanish or are destroyed, a massive and growing population takes their place. Nowhere else is there such an enormous increase of one people and such a rapid destruction of another: the process is not hard to explain.

b
\[ In the thirteen original States, only 6,273 Indians remain. (See Legislative Documents, 20th Congress, No. 117.) \[The decline is now even greater, nearing extinction. See page 360 of this volume.\]\]

When the Indians were the sole residents of the lands from which they have now been ousted, their needs were few. Their weapons were home-made, their only drink the stream, their clothing the skins of animals whose meat was also their food.

Europeans introduced fire-arms, strong alcohol, and iron to the Native Americans; they taught them to trade their old simple clothing for manufactured goods. Developing new tastes without the means to satisfy them, the Indians were forced to rely on goods from whites; but, in exchange, their only commodity was the valuable furs still plentiful in their forests. Thus, hunting became necessary not just for survival, but also to obtain the only things they could offer Europe. \*c While Native needs increased, their resources steadily shrank.

c
\[ Messrs. Clarke and Cass, in their Report to Congress on February 4, 1829, put it this way:—“The time when the Indians generally could supply themselves with food and clothing, without using any items from civilized life, has long since passed. The most remote tribes beyond the Mississippi, living among vast herds of buffalo, and following those animals on their migrations, could most easily return to their ancestors’ way of life, without needing white man or his goods. But even the buffalo are steadily disappearing. Smaller animals—bear, deer, beaver, otter, muskrat, etc.—mostly support the Indians, and these can’t be caught without guns, ammunition, and traps. Among the Northwestern Indians especially, the labor required just to feed a family is enormous. Days may go by with no success, and meanwhile their families must survive on bark or roots, or die. Hunger and misery are always nearby. Every winter, many actually starve to death.”

The Indians will not live as Europeans do, and yet they can neither survive without them, nor in their ancestors’ ways. Official evidence bears this out. Some Indians of a tribe on Lake Superior killed a European; the American government banned all trade with the tribe until the offenders were handed over. The measure worked as intended.\]

Once a European settlement is established near Indian land, the game animals sense danger. \*d Thousands of natives, wandering the forests without permanent homes, do not scare the animals; but as soon as the continuous noises of European labor move into the area, the animals flee, retreating west as their instincts point them toward the endless wilderness. “The buffalo is constantly receding,” report Clarke and Cass in 1829; “not long ago, they came to the base of the Allegheny; in a few more years, even the vast plains reaching the Rockies may hold few of them.” I have been told this effect of white people’s arrival is felt even two hundred leagues from their frontier. Their impact reaches tribes unknown to them, who suffer the disruptions of conquest long before they ever meet its authors. \*e

d

\[ “Five years ago,” (says Volney in his “Tableau des Etats-Unis,” p. 370) “while traveling from Vincennes to Kaskaskia—a region now part of the State of Illinois, but which in 1797 was still completely wild—you could not cross a prairie without seeing herds of four to five hundred buffalo. Now, there are none left; they swam across the Mississippi to escape the hunters, and especially the bells of the American cows.”\]

e
\[ The truth of what I state here can be easily verified by consulting the tabular statement of Indian tribes living within the United States and their territories. (Legislative Documents, 20th Congress, No. 117.) It shows that the tribes in central America are rapidly declining, even though Europeans are still at some distance from them.\]

Bold adventurers soon enter the land that the Indians have abandoned, and after advancing about fifteen or twenty leagues from the farthest edge of the white settlements, they begin to build homes for civilized people in the middle of the wilderness. They do this easily, since the land of a hunting nation is poorly defined; it is the common property of the tribe and belongs to no private person in particular, so that no individual interests are invested in defending any part of it.

A handful of European families settling in scattered locations at considerable distances from each other soon drive out the remaining wild animals that live between their homes. The Indians, who once lived in relative abundance, then find it hard to survive, and even harder to get the goods they need for trade.

To drive away their game is to deprive them of their means of survival, just as surely as if our farmers’ fields were struck barren; they are reduced, like starving wolves, to roam through the deserted woods in search of food. Their deep-rooted love for their homeland keeps them attached to the land of their birth, \*f even after it yields nothing but misery and death. In the end, they are forced to give in and leave: they follow the trails of the elk, buffalo, and beaver, letting these wild animals guide them to their new home. Strictly speaking, then, it is not the Europeans who drive away the original inhabitants of America; it is famine that forces them to retreat—a subtle difference that earlier generations of scholars missed, and for which we owe thanks to modern insight!

f
\[ “The Indians,” say Messrs. Clarke and Cass in their Report to Congress, “are attached to their country by the same feelings that bind us to ours; and, besides, certain superstitious beliefs about alienating what the Great Spirit gave to their ancestors weigh heavily on the tribes who have made few, if any, land cessions, though these attitudes gradually weaken as we have more interaction with them. ‘We will not sell the spot which holds the bones of our fathers’ is almost always their first response to a proposed sale.”\]

It is impossible to fully grasp the suffering that comes with these forced migrations. The people involved are already exhausted and depleted; and the lands they are sent to often belong to other tribes, who greet them with resentment and hostility. Hunger trails behind them; war awaits them, and misery surrounds them on every side. Hoping to escape this host of enemies, they scatter, and each person tries to survive alone, hidden in the vast wilderness, living like an outcast from civilized society. The bonds of community, already weakened by hardship, finally break; they lose their country, and soon their people abandon them too: even their families fade away; the shared names are forgotten, their language dies out, and all trace of their origins disappears. Their nation exists only in the memories of American antiquarians and a handful of European scholars.

I would regret if my readers thought I was exaggerating this picture; I saw with my own eyes several of the cases of misery I have described, and witnessed suffering that I cannot fully convey.

At the end of 1831, while I was on the left bank of the Mississippi at a place called Memphis by Europeans, a large group of Choctaws (or Chactas, as the French in Louisiana call them) arrived. These people had left their homeland and were trying to reach the right bank of the Mississippi, where they hoped to find a refuge promised by the American government. It was the middle of winter, and the cold was unusually harsh; the snow was thick and frozen hard on the ground, and the river carried huge blocks of ice. The Indians brought their families, including the wounded and sick, newborns, and elders close to death. They had neither tents nor wagons—only their weapons and some food. I saw them board canoes to cross the vast river, and that solemn scene will never leave my memory. No one in the gathered crowd cried out or sobbed; all were silent. Their hardships were old and they knew they could not be fixed. All the Indians entered the boat that would carry them across, but their dogs remained on shore. When these animals realized their masters were leaving for good, they howled mournfully, and suddenly all together plunged into the icy Mississippi to swim after the boat.

Today, the removal of Indians often happens in a formal, almost legal fashion. When the European population gets close to the edge of the desert inhabited by a native tribe, the government of the United States usually sends envoys. These gather the Indians in a broad plain, and after eating and drinking with them, address them in these words: “What are you doing in the land of your fathers? Soon you will have to dig up their bones just to survive. Is the land you live on really better than any other? Are there no woods, marshes, or prairies except here? Can you live nowhere but under your own sun? Beyond those mountains you see on the horizon, beyond the lake west of your land, there are vast countries with plenty of game; sell your land to us and go live happily in those lonely places.” After this, they display for the Indians firearms, woolen clothes, kegs of brandy, glass beads, bracelets of tinsel, earrings, and mirrors. \*g If, after seeing all these goods, the Indians still hesitate, it is hinted that they cannot refuse to agree, and that the government itself will soon be unable to defend their rights. What choice do they have? Partly convinced, partly forced, they leave for new wildernesses, where the invading whites will not let them live in peace for even ten years. In this way, Americans acquire for almost nothing whole provinces which the richest European monarchs could never buy. \*h

g
\[ See, in the Legislative Documents of Congress (Doc. 117), the account of what happens on these occasions. This notable passage comes from the above-mentioned report to Congress by Messrs. Clarke and Cass in February 1829. Mr. Cass is now Secretary of War.

“The Indians,” says the report, “arrive at the treaty grounds poor and nearly naked. Traders bring large quantities of goods, which the Indians see and examine. The women and children urgently ask to be supplied with what they need, and their influence soon persuades the group to sell. Their lack of foresight is habitual and can’t be conquered. Satisfying immediate needs and desires is an Indian’s main motivation. The hope of future rewards rarely has much effect. Past experience is forgotten, and future prospects are ignored. It would be hopeless to expect a land cession unless the means to satisfy immediate needs are right there; and when their condition and circumstances are fairly considered, it shouldn’t surprise us that they are so eager to help themselves.”\]

h
\[ On May 19, 1830, Mr. Edward Everett stated before the House of Representatives that Americans had already acquired by treaty, to the east and west of the Mississippi, 230,000,000 acres. In 1808, the Osages gave up 48,000,000 acres for an annual payment of \$1,000. In 1818, the Quapaws yielded 29,000,000 acres for \$4,000. They kept for themselves 1,000,000 acres as hunting grounds. A solemn promise was made that this would be respected; but before long it, too, was taken. Mr. Bell, in his Report of the Committee on Indian Affairs, February 24, 1830, wrote:—“To pay an Indian tribe what their ancient hunting-grounds are worth to them, after the game has fled or been destroyed, as a way of acquiring wild lands claimed by Indians, has proved more convenient, and is certainly more agreeable to the forms of justice, as well as more merciful, than simply taking them by force. So the practice of buying Indian titles is simply the substitute that humanity and expediency have created to replace the sword, as a way to gain enjoyment of property claimed by the right of discovery, and justified by the natural superiority allowed to civilized societies over savage tribes. So far, the process of first reducing the value of the forests for the Indians, and then encouraging them to sell, has never slowed, in any noticeable way, the prosperity of any of the States.” (Legislative Documents, 21st Congress, No. 227.)\]

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part II

These are severe problems; and I must add that they seem, to me, impossible to remedy. I believe that the Indian nations of North America are doomed to perish, and that once Europeans are established on the Pacific coast, that race of people will no longer exist. \*i The Indians had only two alternatives: war or civilization—in other words, they could have either destroyed the Europeans or become their equals.

i
\[ This appears to be the belief of nearly all American statesmen. “Judging of the future by the past,” says Mr. Cass, “we cannot err in anticipating a progressive diminution of their numbers, and their eventual extinction, unless our border should become stationary, and they be removed beyond it, or unless some radical change should take place in the principles of our intercourse with them, which it is easier to hope for than to expect.”\]

At the initial settlement of the colonies, the Indians might have had a chance, by joining their forces, to free themselves from the small numbers of foreigners landing on their continent. \*j They tried this more than once and nearly succeeded; but today, their resources are so vastly outmatched by those of the whites that such efforts are unthinkable. Nevertheless, there are sometimes among the Indians wise men who foresee the ultimate fate of their people and attempt to unite all the tribes against the Europeans; but their efforts prove useless. Those tribes living near the whites have been weakened too much to resist effectively, while the others, falling prey to the short-sightedness typical of life in the wild, wait until danger is close before they try to prepare; some are unable, others are unwilling, to exert themselves.

j
\[ Among other military efforts, there was one by the Wampanoags and allied tribes under Metacom in 1675, against the New England colonists; the English also fought a war in Virginia in 1622.\]

It is easy to see that the Indians will never fully adapt to civilization, or that, if they ever try, it will be too late.

Civilization is the result of a long social process, occurring in one place and passed down from one generation to the next, each building on the experience of the former. Of all nations, those who live by hunting are the least likely to adopt civilization. Pastoral tribes often move from place to place, but do so in an orderly fashion and return to familiar locations, while the hunter's home always changes based on the movement of game.

Several attempts have been made to spread knowledge among the Indians without trying to settle them in one place; by the Jesuits in Canada and the Puritans in New England; \*k yet none of these efforts met with lasting success. Civilization began with the home but soon faded away into the woods. The main mistake of those who tried to legislate for the Indians was not recognizing that, to civilize a people, you must first settle them in one spot—which can't happen unless they adopt agriculture. Initially, the Indians should have been introduced to farming. However, not only do they lack this crucial prerequisite for civilization, they have a hard time acquiring it. People who have embraced the restless and adventurous life of hunters develop an intense aversion to the steady, regular work that farming demands. We can see this in our own society, but it is even clearer in peoples whose love of hunting is part of their national identity.

k
\[ See the “Histoire de la Nouvelle France,” by Charlevoix, and the work entitled “Lettres édifiantes.”\]

Beyond this general difficulty, there is another, unique to the Indians: they see labor not just as an inconvenience, but as a disgrace; their pride keeps them from becoming civilized just as much as their indolence. \*l

l
\[ “In all the tribes,” says Volney, in his “Tableau des Etats-Unis,” p. 423, “there still exists a generation of old warriors, who cannot forbear, when they see their countrymen using the hoe, from exclaiming against the degradation of ancient manners, and asserting that the savages owe their decline to these innovations; adding, that they have only to return to their primitive habits in order to recover their power and their glory.”\]

No Indian, however poor, lacks a strong sense of personal worth under his bark shelter; he views work and industry as degrading. He compares the farmer to an ox plowing the field and sees even our most skilled craftsmen’s work as that of slaves. He is not without admiration for the power and intellect of white people, but while the results of our work amaze him, he scorns the ways we achieve them; and though he admits our ascendancy, he still believes in his own superiority. Only war and hunting seem to him to be truly worthy occupations for a man. \*m The Indian, in the desolate solitude of his woods, holds the same ideas and opinions as the medieval noble in his castle—he only lacks conquest to be their equal; thus, oddly enough, it is in the forests of the New World, rather than among Europeans on its coasts, that the old European prejudices endure.

m
\[ The following description comes from an official document: “Until a young man has been engaged with an enemy, and has performed some acts of valor, he gains no consideration, but is regarded nearly as a woman. In their great war-dances, all the warriors in succession strike the post, as it is called, and recount their exploits. On these occasions, their audience consists of the kinsmen, friends, and comrades of the narrator. The strong impression his speech makes is shown by their silent attention and by the loud shouts at the end. The young man who attends such a meeting with nothing to recount is very unhappy; sometimes young warriors, stirred by these passions, leave the war-dance abruptly to seek trophies to display and adventures to tell.”\]

More than once, I have tried in this work to explain the immense influence that social conditions seem to have on the laws and customs of people; I will add a few words further on this topic.

When I see the similarities between the political systems of our ancestors, the Germans, and the wandering tribes of North America; between the customs that Tacitus describes and those I have sometimes witnessed, I cannot help thinking the same cause produces the same results in both hemispheres. In all of humanity’s apparent diversity, certain core facts exist from which all others derive. In what we call “German institutions,” I see only the practices of barbarians, and what we call “feudal principles” are in fact the beliefs of savages.

However stubbornly the North American Indians’ vices and prejudices may oppose becoming agricultural and civilized, sometimes necessity forces them to try. Some southern nations, notably the Cherokees and the Creeks, \*n were surrounded by Europeans, who landed on the Atlantic coast, then descended the Ohio or moved up the Mississippi to their borders. These tribes were not chased across the land, like their Northern brothers, but were instead gradually hemmed into small areas, like game driven into thickets before the hunt. The Indians caught between civilization and death had to adopt the “shameful” labor of the whites to survive. They turned to farming, and though they did not wholly abandon their old habits, they sacrificed only as much as was necessary to get by.

n
\[ These nations are now absorbed into the States of Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi. There were once in the South four great nations (remnants still exist): the Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Cherokees. The remains of these four nations amounted, in 1830, to about 75,000 individuals. It is estimated that there are now about 300,000 Indians in territories occupied or claimed by the Anglo-American Union. (See Proceedings of the Indian Board in the City of New York.) Official documents to Congress put the number at 313,130. Readers curious for the names and populations of all tribes in Anglo-American territory should consult those documents. (Legislative Documents, 20th Congress, No. 117.) \[In the Census of 1870, it is stated that the Indian population of the United States is only 25,731, of whom 7,241 are in California.\]\]

The Cherokees went further; they created a written language, set up a permanent government, and, as everything moves swiftly in America, they had a newspaper even before all of them had clothing. \*o

o
\[ I brought back with me to France one or two copies of this unusual publication.\]

The spread of European customs has happened especially quickly among these Indians because of the emergence of a mixed-race group. \*p Drawing on intelligence from their European fathers and maintaining some of their mothers' indigenous ways, the mixed-bloods form a natural link between civilization and barbarism. Wherever these people increased in number, the wilds were changed, and the customs of the people transformed considerably. \*q

p
\[ See, in the Report of the Committee on Indian Affairs, 21st Congress, No. 227, the reasons for the multiplication of Indians of mixed blood among the Cherokees. The main cause dates back to the War of Independence. Many Anglo-Americans from Georgia, having sided with England, were forced to seek refuge among the Indians, where they married.\]

q
\[ Unfortunately, the mixed-race population has been less numerous and less influential in North America than anywhere else. The American continent was settled by two main European nations, the French and the English. The French quickly intermarried with the natives, but there was an unlucky compatibility between the Indian character and their own: instead of introducing native peoples to civilized life, the French themselves often became captivated by the wild freedom they found, turning into the most dangerous inhabitants of the wilderness. M. de Senonville, governor of Canada, wrote to Louis XIV in 1685: “It has long been believed that to civilize the natives we ought to bring them closer to us. But there is every reason to suppose we were wrong. Those who came into contact with us did not become French, and the French who lived among them turned into savages, adopting their ways.” (“History of New France,” by Charlevoix, vol. ii..) The English, on the other hand, remained firmly attached to the customs and even the smallest habits of their ancestors, remaining in the American wilds exactly as they were in European cities; they avoided all contact with natives, whom they despised, and were careful to prevent intermarriage. So while the French exerted no positive influence over the Indians, the English always kept themselves separate from them.\]

The success of the Cherokees shows that Indians are capable of civilization, but does not prove they will achieve it. The major obstacle Indians face in adapting to civilization comes from a universal cause, from which it is nearly impossible to escape. A close study of history shows that societies usually lift themselves from barbarism to civilization step by step and by their own initiative. When a people learned from outsiders, it was because they were conquerors, not the conquered. When the conquered are more learned and the conquerors are half-savage, as with Rome’s invasion by northern tribes or China’s by the Mongols, the victors’ power lets them keep their status among the civilized—each side admires what the other has until the barbarians enter civilized palaces and let the learned enter their own schools. But when the side with greater physical power also has greater knowledge, the conquered rarely become civilized; they either retreat or are destroyed. In general, it can be said that barbarians seek knowledge by force, but do not accept it when it comes to them peacefully.

If the Indian tribes now in the continent’s interior could find the energy to try to civilize themselves, they might succeed. Already superior to some surrounding barbaric nations, they could gradually grow stronger, and by the time Europeans reached their borders, they could at least maintain their independence or assert their rights to the land, and merge with the newcomers. But it is the Indians’ misfortune to meet a civilized—but also (it must be admitted) the world’s most greedy—nation while they are still half-barbarian: to find oppressors as instructors and receive knowledge from the hand of domination. Living in the freedom of the woods, the North American Indian was poor, but felt the equal of all; but as soon as he tries to enter into white society, he takes the lowest place, entering, poor and uneducated, into a world of learning and wealth. After a life of danger and excitement, filled with hardship but also proud emotions, \*r he must accept a monotonous, humble, and degraded existence, and earn his bread by hard and demeaning work; in his eyes, these are the only possible results of so-called civilization—and even these are never guaranteed.

r
\[ There is in the adventurous life of the hunter a certain irresistible charm, which seizes a person’s heart and carries him away in spite of reason and experience. This is clearly illustrated in the memoirs of Tanner. Tanner was a European captured at age six by the Indians, and lived with them for thirty years in the woods. The miseries he describes are unimaginable. He tells of tribes without chiefs, families without a nation, and men living in isolation, remnants of once great nations wandering aimlessly in the ice, snow, and desolate expanses of Canada. Hunger and cold constantly threatened their lives. Among these people, customs lost their power and traditions their influence. They became ever more savage. Tanner endured all this suffering. He knew his European roots and could have returned to white society at any time—indeed, he went every year to trade, visited their homes, saw their comforts, and knew he could return to civilization whenever he chose—yet he stayed thirty years in the woods. When he did return, he admitted that wild life had a secret appeal he could not explain: he kept returning to the wilderness until finally he gave it up with deep sorrow; even then, some of his children refused to join him in his comfortable new life. I met Tanner myself at the lower end of Lake Superior; he struck me as more like a savage than a civilized person. His book lacks taste and order, but he provides, often without realizing it, a vivid portrait of the prejudices, passions, vices, and above all, the hardship he experienced.\]

When Native Americans attempt to imitate their European neighbors and farm the land like the settlers, they immediately face intense competition. The white man is experienced in the art of agriculture, while the Indian is a novice in a skill that is unfamiliar to him. The former harvests abundant crops with little difficulty, while the latter encounters countless challenges in growing produce from the earth.

The European lives among people whose needs he understands and shares. The Native American, on the other hand, is isolated amidst a hostile population, unfamiliar with their customs, language, and laws, yet unable to survive without their help. He can only gain comfort by trading his goods for those of Europeans, as the support of his fellow countrymen is not enough to meet his needs. When the Indian tries to sell the products of his labor, he cannot always find a buyer, whereas the European easily finds a market; and the Indian can only produce at a high cost what the European sells cheaply. Thus, as soon as the Indian escapes the hardships faced by hunter societies, he is confronted by the even greater difficulties of civilized life, and he discovers that surviving amid our abundance is almost as difficult as living deep in his original wilderness.

He has not yet lost the habits of his wandering life; the traditions of his ancestors and his love for the hunt remain strong within him. The wild pleasures that once energized him in the forest now haunt his imagination; and his past hardships seem less severe, his former dangers less fearsome. He compares the independence he once enjoyed among his peers to the lower status he holds within civilized society. Meanwhile, the forests that were long his free domain still lie near; a few hours’ walk can take him back to them. The whites offer him what appears to be a considerable sum for the land he has started to clear. This European money may provide a path to a happier, more peaceful life farther away; so he abandons the plough, takes up his traditional arms, and returns to the wilderness forever. \*s The situation of the Creeks and Cherokees, which I mentioned earlier, clearly confirms this unfortunate reality.

s
\[ The damaging influence of highly civilized nations on those that are less so has been demonstrated by the Europeans themselves. About a century ago, the French established the town of Vincennes on the Wabash, deep in the wilderness; they lived there prosperously until American settlers arrived, first ruining the earlier inhabitants through competition, and then buying their land at very low prices. When M. de Volney, from whom I take these details, visited Vincennes, only about a hundred French remained, most of whom were preparing to move to Louisiana or Canada. These French settlers were good people, but idle and uneducated: they had adopted many habits of the native peoples. The Americans—perhaps their moral inferiors—were vastly superior in intelligence: they were industrious, knowledgeable, wealthy, and accustomed to governing themselves.

I saw for myself in Canada, where the intellectual gap between the two groups is less evident, that the English dominate commerce and manufacturing in the Canadian region, expanding constantly and confining the French to areas barely large enough to hold them. Similarly, in Louisiana, nearly all commercial and manufacturing activity is controlled by the Anglo-Americans.

But the case of Texas is even more striking: the State of Texas is part of Mexico, located on the frontier with the United States. In recent years, Anglo-Americans have settled in this province, which still has a small population; they buy land, produce goods, and replace the original residents. It is easy to predict that if Mexico does not stop this shift, Texas will soon no longer belong to that government.

If such major consequences arise from the relatively minor differences in European civilizations, it is easy to imagine the results when the most developed European society comes into contact with Native American tribes.\]

The Indians, in what little they have managed to accomplish, have clearly shown as much natural talent as Europeans have shown in their greatest undertakings; but nations, like individuals, need time to learn, regardless of their intelligence or determination. While the Native Americans tried to become civilized, the Europeans continued to close in and pushed them into ever smaller areas; the two peoples gradually came together, and they are now directly side by side. The Native American is already ahead of his primitive ancestors, yet he still lags far behind his white neighbor. Using their resources and knowledge, Europeans quickly claimed nearly all the benefits that the natives could have gotten from owning the land; they have settled the country, bought land at very low prices or seized it by force, and Native Americans have been ruined by competition they could not resist. They are alone in their own country, and their people only form a troublesome colony of outsiders within a large, dominant society. \*t

t
\[ See in the Legislative Documents (21st Congress, No. 89) examples of all sorts of abuses committed by whites on Native American land, whether taking over parts of it until forced out by federal troops, stealing their livestock, burning their homes, destroying their crops, or harming them physically. Despite this, all records show that the government's policies generally sought to protect Native rights from violent abuse. The Union always had a special representative living among the Indians; and the Cherokee agent's report, included with the referenced documents, nearly always supports the Native side. "The intrusion of whites," he says, "upon the lands of the Cherokees would bring ruin to the poor, helpless, and inoffensive inhabitants." He also notes, regarding the State of Georgia’s attempt to establish a boundary line to restrict the Cherokees, that “the line drawn, having been made by the whites and based completely on their own claims, is utterly invalid.”\]

Washington said in one of his addresses to Congress, “We are more enlightened and more powerful than the Indian nations, we are therefore bound in honor to treat them with kindness and even with generosity.” But this honorable and principled approach has not been maintained. The greed of settlers is usually backed by the authority of the government. Even though the Cherokees and Creeks live on land they occupied before European settlement, and even though Americans have often negotiated with them as with foreign nations, the surrounding states have refused to recognize them as independent peoples, making efforts to subject these woodland nations to Anglo-American officials, laws, and customs. \*u Hardship forced these unfortunate Indians toward civilization, and government oppression now drives them back to their former way of life: many leave the land they had started to cultivate and return to their previous ways.

u
\[ In 1829, the State of Alabama divided up Creek territory into counties and put the Native population under the authority of white officials.

In 1830, the State of Mississippi treated the Choctaws and Chickasaws as if they were part of the white population, and declared that anyone among them calling themselves a chief would face a $1,000 fine and a year in jail. When these laws were enforced on the Choctaws in that region, the tribe met together, their leader told them what the whites planned, and read some of the laws to which they were expected to submit; they unanimously decided it was better to retreat into the wilderness once more.\]

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part III

If we consider the harsh and oppressive measures adopted by the legislatures of the Southern States, the actions of their Governors, and the decisions of their courts of justice, it becomes clear that the complete removal of the Indians is the ultimate result their policies are aiming for. The Americans in that region regard the aborigines with suspicion; they understand that these tribes have not yet lost their connections to their traditional ways of life, and before civilization has truly settled them on the land, the objective is to force them to withdraw by driving them to despair. The Creeks and Cherokees, oppressed by the various States, have appealed to the central government, which is not indifferent to their misfortunes and genuinely wishes to preserve the remaining natives and keep them in peaceful possession of the territory the Union has pledged to respect. \*w However, the individual States resist this effort so strongly that the central government is forced to allow the extermination of a few native tribes, rather than endanger the security of the American Union.

v
\[ The Georgians, who complain so much about the proximity of the Indians, live in a territory which currently contains only seven inhabitants for every square mile. By contrast, France has one hundred and sixty-two inhabitants on the same area of land.\]

w
\[ In 1818 Congress appointed commissioners to visit the Arkansas Territory along with a delegation of Creeks, Choctaws, and Chickasaws. This mission was led by Messrs. Kennerly, M’Coy, Wash Hood, and John Bell. See the various reports of the commissioners, and their journal, in the Documents of Congress, No. 87, House of Representatives.\]

Yet while the federal government cannot protect the Indians, it still seeks to lessen their hardships; with this in mind, proposals have been made to move them into even more distant regions at public expense.

Between the thirty-third and thirty-seventh degrees of north latitude lies a vast stretch of land known as Arkansas, named after the main river running through it. It is bordered on one side by the boundary with Mexico and on the other by the Mississippi. Numerous streams crisscross the region; the climate is mild, and the soil fertile, but it is inhabited only by a few roaming bands of natives. The federal government wishes to relocate the remaining indigenous peoples of the South to the part of this area closest to Mexico, far from American settlements.

Towards the end of 1831, we learned that 10,000 Indians had already migrated to the banks of the Arkansas, and new groups were arriving constantly; but Congress has not been able to unite those it wishes to protect in common cause. Some are willing to escape oppression, but the most enlightened in the community refuse to abandon their recent homes and newly planted fields; they believe that once civilization is interrupted, it is unlikely to be restored; they fear that the domestic habits they have so recently developed could be lost forever in a still-wild country that is unprepared for agricultural life; they know their arrival there will be resisted by hostile bands, and though they have lost the vigor of their former life, they have not gained the advantages of civilization needed to defend themselves. Moreover, the Indians easily see that the move proposed for them is just a temporary fix. Who can assure them that they will finally be left in peace in their new home? The United States pledge to keep their word; but the land they now occupy was itself guaranteed to them by the most solemn promises of Anglo-American faith. \*x The American government does not directly take their lands, but allows frequent encroachments. In a few years, the same white population that now surrounds them will seek them out in the wilderness of Arkansas; at that point, they will face the same troubles, but without remedies, and when there is no more land left, their only refuge will be the grave.

x
\[ The fifth article of the treaty with the Creeks in August, 1790, states:—“The United States solemnly guarantee to the Creek nation all their land within the limits of the United States.”

The seventh article of the treaty concluded in 1791 with the Cherokees says:—“The United States solemnly guarantee to the Cherokee nation all their lands not hereby ceded.” The following article says that if any citizen of the United States or any non-Indian settler establishes himself on Cherokee land, the United States will withdraw protection from that person, leaving him to be punished as the Cherokee nation sees fit.\]

The Union treats the Indians with less greed and harshness than do the States, but both levels of government lack good faith. The States extend what they call the benefits of their laws to the Indians, hoping the tribes will withdraw rather than submit; and the central government, promising a permanent refuge to these unhappy people, knows it cannot truly provide it. \*y

y
\[ This does not stop them from making the most solemn promises to do so. See the letter of the President to the Creek Indians, March 23, 1829 (Proceedings of the Indian Board, in the city of New York): “Beyond the great river Mississippi, where some of your nation have gone, your father has provided a country large enough for all of you, and he advises you to move there. Your white brothers will not trouble you there; they will have no claim to the land, and you and your children can live on it, as long as grass grows or water runs, in peace and plenty. It will be yours forever.”

The Secretary of War, in a letter to the Cherokees, April 18, 1829, (see the same work), tells them they cannot expect to keep the land they currently occupy, but gives them the strongest assurance of lasting peace if they move past the Mississippi: as if a government that cannot protect them now, could protect them in the future!\]

Thus, the harshness of the States forces the natives to retreat, while the Union, through promises and resources, helps them do so; both approaches lead to the same result. \*z “By the will of our Father in Heaven, the Governor of the whole world,” wrote the Cherokees in their petition to Congress, \*a “the red man of America has become small, and the white man great and renowned. When the ancestors of the people of these United States first landed in America, they found the red man strong: although he was ignorant and savage, he welcomed them kindly and gave them dry land to rest upon. They met in peace, and shook hands as friends. Whatever the white man wanted from the Indian, he willingly gave. At that time, the Indian was lord, and the white man a petitioner. But now, everything has changed. The strength of the red man has faded. As his neighbors multiplied, his strength diminished, and now, of the many powerful tribes that once filled these United States, only a few remain—a few spared by a sweeping pestilence. The once-numerous northern tribes are nearly extinct. So it has gone for the red man of America. Shall those of us remaining share the same fate?”

z
\[ To truly understand how the States and the Union treat the Indians, look at: 1st, “The Laws of the Colonial and State Governments relating to the Indian Inhabitants.” (See the Legislative Documents, 21st Congress, No. 319.) 2nd, The Union’s laws on the subject, especially from March 30, 1802. (See Story’s “Laws of the United States.”) 3rd, The Report of Mr. Cass, Secretary of War, about Indian Affairs, November 29, 1823.\]

a
\[ December 18, 1829.\]

“The land on which we stand was inherited from our fathers, who had possessed it from time immemorial as a gift from our common Father in Heaven. They passed it to us as their children, and we have faithfully kept it, knowing it holds the remains of our honored men. We have never given up nor lost this right of inheritance. Let us ask, what better right can any people have to a country than inheritance and countless years of peaceful possession? We know it is said recently by the State of Georgia and the Executive of the United States, that we have forfeited this right; but we think this claim is unfounded. When did we supposedly forfeit it? What great crime have we committed, that we must forever lose our land and our rights? Was it when we fought against the United States alongside the King of Great Britain during the war for independence? If so, why wasn’t our forfeiture declared in the first peace treaty between the United States and our leaders? Why wasn’t it written:—‘The United States grant peace to the Cherokees, but, for the role they played in the recent war, declare them to be only tenants at will, to be removed whenever the States within whose limits they live decide’? That would have been the time to make such a claim. But it was not mentioned, and our forefathers would never have agreed to any treaty that meant giving up their rights and their land.”

Such is the Indians’ own account: their statements are true, and their concerns are unavoidable. However we view the fate of the aborigines of North America, their troubles seem beyond remedy: if they remain in their traditional way of life, they are compelled to retreat; if they try to adopt civilized ways, the presence of a more advanced people leads only to oppression and poverty. They perish if they continue wandering from place to place, and they perish if they try to settle; they need Europeans to instruct them, but the arrival of Europeans corrupts them and pushes them back into a more primitive life; they will not change their habits so long as they own their wilderness, and by the time they are forced to submit, it is too late to change.

The Spaniards pursued the Indians with bloodhounds, as if they were wild animals; they plundered the New World with as little restraint or mercy as during the sack of a city captured in war; but the violence eventually ceased, and their fury subsided; the survivors among the Indians mixed with their conquerors and in the end adopted their religion and customs. \*b By contrast, the behavior of Americans toward North America’s aborigines is marked by a strict adherence to legal form. As long as the Indians remain in a barbarous state, Americans do not interfere in their affairs; they treat them as independent nations, make treaties to acquire their hunting lands, and if an Indian nation can no longer survive on its territory, they generously assist it in being relocated to a remote grave far from ancestral lands.

b
\[ The credit for this eventual outcome is, in fact, not due to the Spaniards. Had the Indian tribes not already been farmers when the Europeans arrived, they would certainly have been wiped out in South as they were in North America.\]

The Spaniards could not wipe out the Indian race despite their unmatched cruelty, nor could they take away all Indian rights; but the Americans have achieved both with unusual efficiency—quietly, legally, philanthropically, without bloodshed, and without violating any major moral principle in the eyes of the world. \*c It is impossible to destroy people with greater respect for the laws of humanity.

c
\[ See, among other sources, the report by Mr. Bell for the Committee on Indian Affairs, February 24, 1830, which systematically and eruditely argues that “the fundamental principle that the Indians had no right by virtue of their ancient possession either of will or sovereignty, has never been abandoned either expressly or by implication.” Reading this report, clearly written by a practiced hand, one is struck by how easily the author dismisses all arguments of reason and natural right, calling them abstract and theoretical. The more I study the difference between civilized and uncivilized people regarding justice, the more I see that the former dispute the justice of rights that the latter simply violate.\]

\[I leave this chapter wholly unchanged, for it has always seemed to me to be one of the most eloquent and moving parts of this book. But it is no longer prophetic; the destruction of the Indian race in the United States is now complete. In 1870 only 25,731 Indians remained in the entire Union, most of whom lived in California, Michigan, Wisconsin, Dakota, and New Mexico and Nevada. In New England, Pennsylvania, and New York the race is extinct; and M. de Tocqueville’s predictions have come to pass. —Translator’s Note.\]

### Situation Of The Black Population In The United States, And Dangers With Which Its Presence Threatens The Whites

Why it is harder to abolish slavery and erase its traces among modern people than it was among the ancients—In the United States, white prejudice against black people seems to grow as slavery is abolished—Status of black people in the Northern and Southern States—Why do Americans abolish slavery—Servitude that degrades the slave also impoverishes the master—Contrast between the left and right banks of the Ohio—Reasons for this—The Black population, along with slavery, moves South—Why this happens—The challenge of ending slavery in the South—Future dangers—General anxiety—Founding of a Black colony in Africa—Why Southern Americans make slavery harsher even while worrying about its existence.

The Indians are doomed to fade away in the same isolated condition in which they lived; but the fate of the black population is, in some respects, tied to that of Europeans. These two races are bound to each other without mingling, and yet they cannot truly separate nor unite. The greatest danger threatening the future of the Union arises from the presence of a black population on its soil; and whenever one considers the causes of the United States’ present difficulties or future perils, this stands out as a fundamental fact.

Lasting evils that afflict humanity are usually the result of deliberate or sustained actions by people; but there is one misfortune that crept silently into the world, at first almost invisible among the usual abuses of power; it began with someone whose name is forgotten by history; it arrived, like a cursed seed, on a patch of earth, and then it took root, flourished effortlessly, and naturally spread within the society it came to inhabit. I hardly need to say that this misfortune is slavery. Christianity once ended slavery, but Christians in the sixteenth century brought it back—this time as an exception to their social order and limited to one race; but the harm thus done to humanity, though smaller in scope, became that much harder to heal.

It is important to accurately distinguish between slavery itself and its consequences. The immediate evils caused by slavery were almost the same in ancient times as they are today; but the consequences of these evils were different. In antiquity, the slave often belonged to the same race as his master, and was sometimes even superior in education and instruction. Freedom was the only true distinction between them; and once freedom was granted, former slaves could easily blend in. The ancients thus had a straightforward way of escaping slavery and its consequences: emancipation. As soon as they generally adopted this measure, they found success. Of course, in ancient societies, traces of servitude lingered for some time after slavery itself was abolished. There is a natural prejudice that leads people to look down on those who were once their inferiors, long after both groups have become equals; and any real inequality created by fortune or law inevitably leads to an imaginary inequality rooted in custom. Still, this secondary effect of slavery ended within a certain time among the ancients, because the freedman resembled the freeborn so closely that it soon became impossible to tell them apart.

d  
\[It is well known that several of the most distinguished authors of antiquity, including Aesop and Terence, were, or had been, slaves. Slaves weren’t always taken from barbarian nations; often, highly civilized individuals were forced into servitude as a result of war.\]

The main challenge in antiquity was changing the law; among modern societies, it is changing customs. And, for us, the real obstacles begin where those of the ancients ended. This difference comes from the fact that, among modern peoples, the abstract and temporary fact of slavery is inextricably linked to the very real and permanent fact of color. The legacy of slavery brings shame upon a race, and the distinctiveness of the race keeps alive the tradition of slavery. No African ever voluntarily emigrated to the shores of the New World; meaning that all the Black people now found in that hemisphere are either slaves or descendants of slaves. Thus, the Black individual passes down this indelible mark of disgrace to all his descendants; and although the law may end slavery, only God can erase all trace of its existence.

The modern slave differs from his master not only in condition, but also in origin. You can set the Black person free, but you cannot make him anything other than an outsider to the European. And that is not all; we barely recognize the common humanity in this person, degraded by slavery, who has come among us. In our eyes, his appearance is unattractive, his understanding weak, his preferences base; we are sometimes tempted to see him as something between a human and an animal. \*e After slavery has been abolished, modern societies face three prejudices, each harder to fight and conquer than slavery itself: the prejudice of the master, the prejudice of race, and the prejudice of color.

e  
\[To persuade white people to abandon their belief in the moral and intellectual inferiority of their former slaves, Black people must change; but as long as this belief persists, change is impossible.\]

It is difficult for us, who have had the good fortune to be born among people like ourselves by nature and equal in the eyes of the law, to conceive the irreconcilable differences that separate the Black person from the European in America. Still, we may get a faint idea of these differences by analogy. France used to be filled with legally created distinctions of rank. Few things are more artificial than inferiority that is purely legal, and nothing more contrary to human instinct than permanent divisions between obviously similar beings. Yet those divisions lasted for centuries; they persist in some places even now; and everywhere they have left behind imagined distinctions that only time can erase. If it is so difficult to get rid of inequalities based solely on law, how will distinctions be destroyed when they seem to rest on what appear to be immutable laws of Nature? When I reflect on how hard it is for any aristocratic group, no matter its type, to merge with the larger society—and how jealously such groups protect the imaginary boundaries of their caste—it makes me doubt that an aristocracy founded on visible and permanent differences could ever disappear. Those who expect that Europeans will eventually mix with Black people, I believe, are deceiving themselves; neither my sense nor any evidence leads me to that conclusion.

So far, wherever whites have been dominant, they have held Black people in a subordinate or servile state; wherever Black people have been stronger, they have destroyed the whites. Such has been the only kind of reckoning between the two races.

I see that in some parts of the United States today, the legal barrier separating the races is slowly falling away, but not the barrier found in the customs of the country; slavery is receding, but the prejudice it created remains unmoved. Anyone who has lived in the United States will have noticed that in regions where Black people are no longer slaves, they have drawn no closer to the whites. On the contrary, racial prejudice seems stronger in the states where slavery has been abolished than in those where it still exists—and it is nowhere so intolerant as where servitude has never existed.

It’s true that in the North, marriages between Black and white people are legal; but public opinion would stigmatize any man who married a Black woman, and it is difficult to find a single case where this happened. In almost all states where slavery was abolished, Black people have the right to vote; but if they try to do so, their lives may be in danger. If they are oppressed, they may bring their case to court, but they will only find white judges; and while they can technically serve as jurors, prejudice keeps them from fulfilling this role. Black and white children do not attend the same schools. Even gold will not buy a seat beside a former master in the theater for someone of the servile race; in hospitals, Black people are separated; they are permitted to worship the same God, but only at separate altars, in different churches, with their own clergy. The gates of Heaven are not closed to these unfortunate souls, but their inferiority continues up to the threshold of the next world; even in death, the distinction persists—their bones are cast aside, and the divide continues, even when all should be equal. The Black person is free, but cannot share in the rights, pleasures, labor, sorrows, or even the final resting place of the one who has been proclaimed his equal; he cannot meet him as a true equal in life or in death.

In the South, where slavery still exists, Black people are kept less strictly apart; they sometimes work and socialize with whites; the whites are willing to mix to a degree, and even though the law treats Black people more severely, the customs of the people are a bit more tolerant and compassionate. In the South, the master does not fear elevating the slave, because at any moment he knows he can force him back down. In the North, whites no longer perceive a clear boundary separating them from the “degraded” race and avoid Black people even more determinedly, fearing they might someday be on the same level.

Among Southern Americans, nature sometimes reasserts itself, restoring a temporary equality between Black people and whites; but in the North, pride suppresses even the strongest human urges. The Northerner might allow himself to indulge in illicit relations with a Black woman, were it not for the law that says she could become his lawful wife; but he recoils at the idea of marrying her.

Thus, in the United States, the prejudice against Black people often grows even as they are emancipated, and inequality remains rooted in custom even as it is erased from the law. If the relationship between the two races in the United States is as I have described, you might wonder why Americans abolished slavery in the North, maintain it in the South, and even intensify its hardships there? The answer is simple. In the United States, efforts to abolish slavery are taken for the benefit of whites, not for the good of the Black people.

The first Black people were brought to Virginia around the year 1621.\*f In America, as elsewhere in the world, slavery began in the South. From there, it spread from settlement to settlement, but the number of slaves steadily decreased as one moved north, and the Black population was always very small in New England.\*g

f  
\[See Beverley’s “History of Virginia.” Also see in Jefferson’s “Memoirs” some interesting details about the introduction of Black people into Virginia, and the first Act prohibiting their importation in 1778.\]

g  
\[There were fewer slaves in the North, but the supposed benefits of slavery were not more disputed there than in the South. In 1740, New York State’s legislature declared that direct importation of slaves should be encouraged as much as possible, and that smuggling should be harshly punished so as not to discourage legitimate traders. (Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. ii.) Interesting research on New England slavery, by Belknap, can be found in “Historical Collection of Massachusetts,” vol. iv. It seems Black people arrived there in 1630, but both the laws and customs opposed slavery from the start; see the same work for how public opinion and then laws ultimately ended slavery.\]

Not even a century after the colonies were founded, planters noticed something surprising: provinces with fewer slaves grew in population, wealth, and prosperity faster than those with many Black people. In those regions, people had to work the land themselves or hire laborers; in the slave regions, planters had unpaid hands at their disposal. Nonetheless, despite higher costs and more labor in the free regions, those areas turned out to have a more advantageous system. This was even more striking considering that all the settlers, being of European background, shared almost identical habits, cultures, and laws—with very little variation.

As time went on, Anglo-Americans moved further from the Atlantic coast and deeper into the wilderness of the West; they encountered new soils and new climates, with every kind of obstacle; their groups mingled, with Southerners moving north and Northerners moving south; but everywhere, the same result was seen: generally, colonies without slaves grew more populous and wealthy than those where slavery thrived. The greater the progress, the clearer it became that slavery, while brutally damaging to the slave, also harmed the master.

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part IV

But this truth was most clearly demonstrated when civilization reached the banks of the Ohio. The river, which the Native Americans called the Ohio, or Beautiful River, flows through one of the most magnificent valleys ever inhabited by mankind. Rolling lands stretch out on both shores of the Ohio, with soil offering inexhaustible riches to anyone willing to work; on both banks, the air is healthy and the climate mild, and each forms the border of a vast state: To the left, following the winding Ohio, is Kentucky; to the right is the state named after the river, Ohio. These two states differ in just one respect—Kentucky has permitted slavery, while Ohio has banned it within its borders. \*h

h
\[ Not only is slavery prohibited in Ohio, but free Black people are not allowed to enter the state or hold property there. See the Statutes of Ohio.\]

So the traveler drifting down the Ohio to where it joins the Mississippi could be said to sail between freedom and servitude; and even a brief look at their surroundings will show which is better for humanity. On the left bank, the population is sparse; now and then, you see groups of slaves wandering in half-empty fields; the ancient forest appears again and again; society seems to be dormant, people are idle, and only nature shows activity and life. On the right bank, on the other hand, there is a busy hum that signals industry; the fields are rich with crops, the attractive houses show the taste and effort of the people, and you see prosperity and happiness as the reward of hard work. \*i

i
\[ Ohio's activity is not just in private enterprise; the accomplishments of the state itself are remarkable. A canal has been built between Lake Erie and the Ohio River, connecting the Mississippi Valley with the northern rivers, so European goods arriving in New York may be shipped by water to New Orleans across five hundred leagues of land.\]

Kentucky was founded in 1775, and Ohio only twelve years later; but twelve years in America mean more than half a century in Europe, and today Ohio’s population exceeds Kentucky’s by 250,000. \*j These opposite results from slavery and freedom are easy to understand, and help explain many differences between the societies of antiquity and our own time.

j
\[ The census of 1830 gave these exact numbers: Kentucky, 688,844; Ohio, 937,679. \[In 1890 Ohio's population was 3,672,316, and Kentucky's 1,858,635.\]\]

On the left bank of the Ohio, labor is closely linked to slavery; on the right, it's associated with prosperity and progress. On one side, it is looked down upon; on the other, it is respected. In Kentucky, you find no white laborers—they would fear being identified with the Black slaves; in Ohio, nobody is idle, and the white population puts its energy and intelligence to work in every field. Thus, those who have to farm Kentucky’s rich soil are often unskilled and indifferent, while the active and capable either do nothing or move across the river to Ohio, where they can work honorably.

It's true that Kentucky planters don’t have to pay wages to their slaves, but they gain little from their labor, whereas the wages given to free workers would pay for themselves through improved results. The free worker is paid, but works faster than the slave, and speed is a key part of efficiency. The white worker sells his services and is hired as needed; the Black slave gets no payment, but must be cared for his entire life—when he is old and unfit, as well as in his youth. While payment must be made for both, the free worker gets money, the slave receives food, care, and clothing. The master's spending on slave maintenance is gradual and barely noticed, while wages for free workers are more obvious, going directly to individuals; yet over time, the slave costs more, and his labor is less productive.\*k

k
\[ Apart from these reasons—which, wherever free workers are available, make their labor more efficient and affordable than that of slaves—there is another specific to the United States: the sugar-cane has only been successfully grown on the banks of the Mississippi, near where the river reaches the Gulf of Mexico. Sugar-cane cultivation in Louisiana is extremely profitable—no laborer earns as much for his work elsewhere—and because production costs connect to the value of the product, slaves are expensive in Louisiana. Since Louisiana is part of the Union, slaves can be brought from any state. Slave prices in New Orleans thus push up prices everywhere. This means that in less productive states, slave labor still costs a lot, which further favors competition from free labor.\]

Slavery’s influence goes further; it shapes the character of the master and gives a unique tone to his attitudes and tastes. On both sides of the Ohio, the people are ambitious and energetic, but they put this vigor to very different uses. The Ohioan, who must survive by his own effort, considers wealth his main goal, and as the land offers endless opportunities and encouragement, his pursuit of money becomes almost heroic. He will try any line of work—sailor, pioneer, craftsman, farmhand—and faces hardship or risk with the same resolve. His resourcefulness is remarkable, and his desire for gain is boundless.

The Kentuckian, by contrast, despises not just work but everything work supports. He lives in lazy independence, values pleasure or excitement over wealth, and spends his energy on hunting or military sport. He enjoys vigorous physical activity, is skilled with weapons, and learns early to risk his life in personal combat. Thus, slavery not only keeps whites from becoming wealthy, but even from wanting to.

Since these same forces have shaped the British colonies of North America for two centuries, they've caused a strong difference in business skill between the South and North. Today, only the Northern States have notable fleets, factories, railways, and canals. This difference is clear not just between North and South, but among Southern States as well. Nearly all business owners or others who try to use slave labor profitably in the far South have come from the North. People from the Northern States keep moving into southern territory—places with less competition—where they find opportunities the locals missed. Because they adapt to a system they dislike, they manage it better than the founders.

If I wished, I could easily show that nearly all the differences in character between Americans in the North and South come from slavery; but that would take me away from my topic. I am not trying to list all the results of slavery, just the ones affecting the prosperity of the states that allow it.

The impact of slavery on wealth was little understood in ancient times, since slavery then existed everywhere that was "civilized" and societies without it were called barbaric. Indeed, Christianity only got rid of slavery by defending the slave; but today it can be opposed in the name of the master—now, interest and morality are on the same side.

As these truths became clear in the United States, slavery retreated as experience spread. Slavery started in the South and spread northward, but now it is moving back. Freedom began in the North and is spreading steadily to the South. Of the larger states, Pennsylvania is now the furthest north where slavery survives: but even there, the system is weakening. Maryland, just south of Pennsylvania, is preparing to abolish slavery; and Virginia, below Maryland, is already debating its usefulness and dangers. \*l

l
\[ A specific reason is leading Maryland and Virginia away from slavery. Their wealth once depended mainly on tobacco, which is mostly grown using slaves. But the price of tobacco has dropped in recent years, while the value of slaves is unchanged—upsetting the balance between production cost and product value. The people of Maryland and Virginia are less inclined than thirty years ago to keep using slave labor for tobacco, or to keep both slavery and tobacco cultivation at all.\]

No major change in human society happens without being influenced by the laws of inheritance. When the law of primogeniture was in force in the South, each family was led by a wealthy person who neither needed nor wanted to work, and was surrounded by relatives also legally excluded from inheritance, who lived the same idle life. The same thing happened in Southern families as now happens in wealthy families in parts of Europe—youngest sons are idle like their older brothers, only not as rich. The result is the same in both Europe and America and comes from similar causes. In the Southern United States, the entire white population formed an aristocratic group, headed by privileged individuals with permanent wealth and inherited leisure. These leaders kept alive traditions and prejudices within the white race, and promoted the ideal of a non-working life. This aristocracy included many poor people, but none who would work; they preferred poverty to labor, and so there was never competition with Black slaves; whatever opinions people had about the value of their work, slaves had to be employed, because no one else would do the labor.

Once primogeniture was abolished, fortunes shrank, and families all over the region were forced into situations where work became necessary. Many families vanished entirely, and all learned to expect a time when everyone would have to support themselves. Wealthy people are still found, but they are no longer a unified, hereditary class, nor can they establish a joint approach infusing their values throughout society. The stigma once attached to manual labor was collectively dropped; the number of poor grew, and it became accepted for the poor to work for their keep without shame. Thus, a direct result of the division of estates has been the creation of a group of free laborers. As soon as free workers began to compete with slaves, the slaves' inferiority became obvious, and slavery was attacked at its root—the master's self-interest.

As slavery retreats, the Black population withdraws with it, returning toward the tropical regions from which it originally came. However surprising this may seem, it has an explanation. While Americans abolish slavery, they do not actually free their slaves. To clarify this, consider New York State. In 1788, New York banned the sale of slaves within its borders—an indirect way of banning the importation of Blacks. From then on, the Black population could grow only naturally. But eight years later, a stricter law declared that all children born to slaves after July 4, 1799, would be free. After that, although some slaves remained, slavery was effectively abolished.

Once a Northern State banned importing slaves, no more were brought there from the South. Since selling slaves was also banned, owners with unwanted slaves could only send them to the South. But once the law denied the possibility that a slave’s children would be sold, the slave became less valuable, so the owner had an extra reason to move the slave to the South. Thus, the same law stops the South’s slaves from entering the North, and pushes the North’s slaves to the South.

Shortage of free labor is felt in a state as the number of slaves declines. As free labor expands, slave labor becomes less effective, and the slave becomes a burden whose owner wants to send him southward, where competition is less severe. So, the end of slavery doesn't set the slave free, but simply moves him from one owner to another, and from North to South.

Free Black people, and those born after slavery’s abolition, do not move from North to South, but their position relative to white people is similar to that of the Native Americans; they remain only partly integrated, denied rights among a population far more prosperous and better educated, and subject to the oppression of law\*m and prejudice. In some ways, they are even worse off than the Indians, since they are haunted by memories of slavery and own not a patch of land themselves: many suffer greatly,\*n and the others gather in large cities, doing the lowest jobs and living in misery and uncertainty.

m
\[ States that have abolished slavery often make their territory uninviting to Black residents, and, competing with each other in this respect, the unfortunate Black people must choose the least bad situation.\]

n
\[ There is a significant difference in mortality rates for Black and white populations in states where slavery has been abolished; from 1820 to 1831, only one in forty-two white people died in Philadelphia, but one out of every twenty-one Black people died in the same period. Mortality is not nearly as high among Black people who are still slaves. (See Emerson’s “Medical Statistics,” p. 28.)\]

Even if the number of Black people continued to grow as quickly as in slavery, since the white population is increasing twice as fast after abolition, Black people will soon be greatly outnumbered.

A region farmed by slaves usually has fewer people than one worked by free labor. America is still a young country, so a state is far from fully populated when it ends slavery. As soon as slavery ends, the need for free labor is evident, and enterprising people swiftly arrive from across the country to seize the new opportunities. The land is quickly divided among them, and each tract is settled by a white family. Also, European immigrants go only to the free states; for what would be the fate of a poor immigrant crossing the Atlantic in search of comfort and happiness if he landed where labor was considered disgraceful?

Thus, the white population grows both through natural increase and through the immense influx of immigrants; meanwhile, the black population receives no newcomers and is steadily declining. The balance that once existed between the two races is soon reversed. The black people become a small remnant, a marginalized group of wanderers, lost in the midst of a vast population that fully possesses the land; and the lingering presence of the blacks is marked only by the injustice and hardships that they, sadly, continue to suffer.

In several of the Western States, the black population never appeared, and in all the Northern States, it is rapidly declining. So, the main question about the future of the black race is now limited to a smaller area, making the issue less imposing though not any easier to resolve.

The further south one goes, the harder it is to abolish slavery without hardship—and this is due to several physical factors that are important to point out.

The first of these causes is the climate; it's well known that, as Europeans approach the tropics, hard labor becomes increasingly difficult for them. Many Americans even claim that, within a certain latitude, the kind of work a black person can do safely would be fatal to them; \*o but I don't believe this idea, which supports the laziness of southern inhabitants, is backed up by experience. The southern parts of the Union are no hotter than southern Italy or Spain; \*p and it’s worth asking why Europeans couldn't work just as well there as in those countries. If slavery could be abolished in Italy and Spain without destroying their landowners, why not in the Union? I can't believe nature has forbidden Europeans in Georgia and Florida, under pain of death, from providing for themselves from the land, but their labor would surely be more uncomfortable and less productive than that of people in New England. As the free worker loses some of his advantage over the slave in the South, there are thus fewer incentives to abolish slavery.

o
\[ This is true in the rice-growing regions; rice fields, which are unhealthy everywhere, are especially dangerous in places exposed to a tropical sun. Europeans would struggle to cultivate land in that part of the New World if it had to be used for rice; but can't they manage without rice fields?\]

p
\[ These States are closer to the equator than Italy or Spain, but the temperature of the American continent is significantly lower than that of Europe.

At one point, the Spanish government sent several farmers from the Azores to live in the Louisiana district called Attakapas, as an experiment. These settlers still work the land without slaves, but their industry is so sluggish that it barely provides their basic needs.\]

All European plants grow in the northern parts of the Union; the South has special crops of its own. It has been noted that slave labor is a very expensive way to grow corn. In areas where slavery is unknown, corn farmers usually hire a small, year-round workforce, and during sowing and harvest, they bring in extra laborers for just a short time. But a farmer in a slave state must keep a large number of slaves all year, to both plant and harvest crops that only require large labor forces for a few weeks; and unlike free laborers, slaves can’t just wait to be hired and support themselves in the meantime—they must be bought outright. Therefore, besides its general downsides, slavery makes even less sense in regions where corn is grown than in those with other crops. Growing tobacco, cotton, and especially sugar cane, on the other hand, requires constant attention and can use women and children, who aren’t much help with wheat. So, slavery naturally fits better in regions producing these crops. Tobacco, cotton, and sugar cane are raised only in the South, and form one of the main sources of wealth there. If slavery were abolished, Southern landowners would face two choices: change their method of farming and compete with the more active and experienced Northerners, or continue with the same crops and face competition from other Southern states that still had slaves. In this way, unique reasons for maintaining slavery exist in the South that do not apply in the North.

But there is another, even stronger reason: in theory, the South could abolish slavery; but how could it remove the black population from its territory? In the North, both slaves and slavery are driven out by the same force of law, but such a complete result is unlikely in the South.

The arguments I've given to show why slavery is seen as more natural and more profitable in the South than in the North also show that there are far more slaves in the southern areas. The first Africans were brought to the southern colonies, and it's there that they have always been most numerous. As we move south, society’s bias that justifies idleness grows stronger. In the states closest to the tropics, not a single white person works manual labor; thus, the black population is much larger in the South than in the North. And, as I have said, this imbalance grows every day, since black people are moved to the South as soon as slavery is ended in the North. Thus, the black population increases in the South both through natural birth and through the forced migration of black Americans from the North; this gives the black race in the South similar growth factors to those that powerfully increase the white population in the North.

In the state of Maine, there is one black person for every 300 inhabitants; in Massachusetts, one for every 100; in New York, two for every 100; in Pennsylvania, three for every 100; in Maryland, thirty-four; in Virginia, forty-two; and finally, in South Carolina \*q fifty-five percent. These were the percentages of black to white population in 1830. But these proportions are always changing, dropping in the North and rising in the South.

q
\[ An American book, “Letters on the Colonization Society” by Mr. Carey, 1833, says, “For the past forty years, the black race has grown faster than the white race in South Carolina; and if we look at the average populations of the five Southern states where slaves were first introduced—Maryland, Virginia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Georgia—we’ll see that from 1790 to 1830, the white population grew at a rate of 80 to 100, while the black population grew at a rate of 112 to 100.”

In the United States, in 1830, the races were distributed as follows:—

States where slavery is abolished: 6,565,434 whites; 120,520 blacks. Slave states: 3,960,814 whites; 2,208,102 blacks. \[In 1890 the United States contained 54,983,890 whites and 7,638,360 blacks.\]\]

It’s clear that the southernmost states of the Union cannot abolish slavery without facing very serious dangers—dangers the North never had to worry about when it freed its black population. We have already shown the system the Northern States use to transition from slavery to freedom: they keep the current generation in bondage, but set their descendants free. In this way, black people are gradually brought into society; while those likely to abuse their freedom remain in servitude, the emancipated learn the ways of freedom before becoming their own masters. But it would be difficult to apply this system in the South. To declare that all black children born after a certain date are free is to plant the ideas and hope of liberty at the very heart of slavery; and the black people who remain enslaved while their children are freed are left shocked at such an unequal fate—shock that quickly grows into impatience and bitterness. From then on, slavery loses, in their eyes, the kind of moral force it once held through tradition and time, and stands revealed as nothing but a blatant abuse of power. The Northern States had little to fear from such a contrast, since their black populations were very small and whites were numerous. But if such an awakening occurred among two million people in the South, the slaveholders would have real cause for alarm. If Southerners freed the children of their slaves, they would soon have to extend liberty to the entire black population.

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part V

In the North, as I have already mentioned, a twofold migration occurs after the abolition of slavery, or even before it, when that event becomes likely. The slaves leave the region to be transported south, while whites from the Northern States and immigrants from Europe rush in to take their place. But these two forces cannot operate in the same way in the Southern States. On one hand, the number of slaves is so large that the idea of ever removing them is not realistic; and on the other hand, Europeans and Northern Anglo-Americans are reluctant to settle in a place where labor has not yet regained its dignity. Moreover, they rightly view those States where black populations equal or surpass whites as extremely dangerous, and avoid investing their efforts there.

Thus, unlike their Northern countrymen, the people of the South could not gradually transition the slaves to freedom by abolishing slavery; they have no practical way to reduce the black population, and would be left alone to deal with its excesses. Therefore, within a few years, a large population of free Black people could exist right in the midst of an equally large white population.

The same abuses of power that now support slavery would then become the source of the most serious dangers facing the white population of the South. Presently, the descendants of Europeans are the sole landowners; the absolute masters of all labor; and the only ones who possess wealth, knowledge, and weapons. The black population lacks all these advantages, but endures it because they are enslaved. If they were freed, and had to provide for themselves, could they survive without these things? Or wouldn’t the very tools of the current white superiority, under slavery, expose whites to numerous dangers if slavery ended?

As long as the black person remains a slave, he may be kept in a condition only slightly better than brute animals; but once given freedom, he can’t help but gain some education, making him aware of his hardships and how they might be resolved. Furthermore, there is a strong sense of relative justice deeply rooted in the human heart. People are much more disturbed by inequalities among members of the same class than by those seen between different classes. It is easier for them to accept slavery than to tolerate millions of citizens existing under perpetual shame and hereditary poverty. In the North, the free black population feels these hardships and resents these slights; but since their numbers and influence are small, it is less impactful, whereas in the South, their population would be massive and powerful.

Once it is accepted that whites and freed blacks share the same territory as two distinct communities, there are only two possible futures: either complete separation or complete integration. I have already stated my belief regarding the latter. \*r I do not think the white and black races will ever live together as equals in any nation. I am convinced this is even harder in the United States than elsewhere. An individual may overcome prejudices of religion, nation, or race, and if that individual is a monarch, he may bring major changes to society; but an entire people cannot rise above its own prejudices. A tyrant who forced Americans and their former slaves under one rule might blend the races, but so long as American democracy leads, no one will attempt such a feat; and it seems clear that the more free the white population of the United States becomes, the more separate it will remain. \*s

r  
\[ This opinion is supported by authorities far more distinguished than myself: as stated in the “Memoirs of Jefferson” (as collected by M. Conseil), “Nothing is more clearly written in the book of destiny than the emancipation of the blacks; and it is equally certain that the two races will never live in a state of equal freedom under the same government, so insurmountable are the barriers which nature, habit, and opinions have established between them.”\]

s  
\[ If the British West India planters had ruled themselves, they surely would not have passed the Slave Emancipation Bill recently imposed on them by the mother-country.\]

I previously noted that the mixed race is the main link between the Europeans and the Indians; in the same way, mulattoes are the true bridge between whites and blacks; so wherever mulattoes are numerous, intermingling of the two main races becomes possible. In some parts of America, the European and black populations have mixed so much that it is rare to find someone who is entirely black or entirely white. Once this point is reached, the two races can really be said to have blended or to have produced a third race, related to both but identical to neither.

Of all Europeans, the English have mixed least with blacks. There are more mulattoes in the South than in the North, but even so, their numbers are far lower than in any other European colony. Mulattoes are not numerous in the United States; they do not have a unique group identity, and in disputes over color, they generally side with whites—just as European servants adopt the snobberies of their aristocratic employers toward lower classes.

The pride in ancestry found among the English is strongly intensified by the individual pride fostered by American democratic liberty: the white citizen of the United States is proud of his race, and proud of himself. If whites and blacks do not intermingle in the North, how could they do so in the South? Could we really imagine a Southern American preferring the black man—forever positioned between physically and morally superior whites and blacks? Southerners are held apart by two major feelings: fear of being equated with their former slaves, and fear of being seen as lesser than neighboring whites.

If I had to predict the future, I would say that abolishing slavery in the South would, under normal circumstances, increase white aversion to people of color. I base this on similar observations in the North, where I saw that whites avoid blacks more carefully as legal separation disappears; why would the South be any different? In the North, the whites’ avoidance is based on imaginary dangers; in the South, where the threat would be very real, I can hardly imagine the fear would be weaker.

If it is accepted (as is indisputable) that the black population is growing in the far South, and growing faster than the white population; and if we also admit that there will never come a time when whites and blacks will be equally treated by society, must we not conclude that blacks and whites will, sooner or later, enter into open conflict in the Southern States? But if the question is what the outcome will be, only the vaguest ideas are possible. The mind may envision the general course of events, but within that general picture, random factors may change the outcome in a thousand ways; every picture of the future contains a shadowy spot reason cannot penetrate. It still seems probable that, in the West Indian Islands, the white race will eventually be overcome, and the same fate will await the black population on the continent.

On the West Indian Islands, white planters are surrounded by a huge black population; on the continent, blacks are caught between the ocean and a countless throng that stretches densely from Canada’s icy edges to Virginia’s borders, and from the Missouri River to the Atlantic shore. If the white citizens of North America stay united, the black population would have no escape from its threatened destruction; they would be overcome by deprivation or by arms. However, the black population concentrated along the Gulf of Mexico coast could have a chance if the Union dissolves before such a struggle. If the federal bond were broken, Southern citizens could not count on lasting help from the North. Northerners know the danger would never reach them; and unless legally obligated to help the South, it is unlikely that racial sympathy would motivate their action.

Whenever conflict does break out, the whites of the South—even if left to their own resources—would go into the conflict with much greater knowledge and military advantage; but the blacks would have numbers and the desperate energy of men fighting for survival, which are significant forces. The fate of the Southern white population may be similar to the Moors in Spain. After centuries on the land, they may end up retreating to the country of their ancestors, leaving the territory to the black population, whom Providence seems to have favored for that environment, since they can live and work there more easily than whites.

The risk of a clash between the white and black populations of the Southern States—a risk, however distant, that is inevitable—constantly troubles American thoughts. It’s commonly discussed in the North, despite presenting no direct danger there; but Northerners can’t find a way to prevent the misfortunes they foresee. In the South, the issue is not discussed openly: the planter doesn’t mention the future to strangers; citizens don’t share their fears with friends; they even try to hide their worries from themselves. In fact, the South’s silent forebodings are more troubling than the North’s open fears.

This widespread uneasiness has inspired a project that is little known, but which could profoundly affect human destiny. Out of fear of the dangers just described, a group of American citizens formed a society to send free Blacks, at their own expense, to the West African coast, for any who wished to escape ongoing oppression. \*t In 1820, this society established a settlement in Africa at the seventh degree north latitude, named Liberia. The latest reports indicate that 2,500 black people now live there; they have established the democratic systems of America in the land of their ancestors, including a representative government, black jurors, black judges, and black clergy. There are churches and newspapers, and—by an unusual twist—white people are forbidden from staying in the colony. \*u

t  
\[ This society called itself “The Society for the Colonization of the Blacks.” See its annual reports, especially the fifteenth. See also the pamphlet already mentioned, “Letters on the Colonization Society, and on its probable Results,” by Mr. Carey, Philadelphia, 1833.\]

u  
\[ The founders themselves set this rule; they feared that Africa could experience what happened on America’s frontiers, and that, just as Indians were driven out by whites, the Negroes might be wiped out before they could be civilized.\]

This is indeed a remarkable twist of fate. Two hundred years ago, Europeans forcibly removed Negroes from their families and homes, transporting them to North America; today, their descendants are being sent back by European settlers to the continent from which their ancestors came. The once-barbarous Africans came into contact with civilization through slavery, and encountered freedom’s institutions while enslaved. Until now, Africa has been closed to European art and science; but perhaps European innovations will now enter through Africans themselves. The founding of Liberia is a bold and visionary act; but whatever effect it may have on Africa, it can provide no solution for the New World.

In twelve years, the Colonization Society sent 2,500 black people to Africa; but over the same period, about 700,000 black children were born in the United States. Even if Liberia could receive thousands each year, and blacks could be sent there in good circumstances; even if the Union gave the society an annual grant \*v and transported the black population in State vessels, it could never keep up with the natural increase of the black population. As fast as they might send people away, new births would replace them, so the core problem in the States would remain unsolved. \*w The black population will never abandon the American continent, brought there by European greed and wrongdoing; and it will remain in the New World as long as they exist. The people of the United States may be able to delay the troubles they fear, but they can no longer end the underlying cause.

v  
\[ These are not the only obstacles to such an effort; if the Union tried to buy all the existing slaves to send to Africa, slave prices would rise as supply dropped, making the cost enormous. Northern States would never agree to pay so much for a plan with so little benefit to them. If the federal government tried to take the slaves by force or set the price by law, the resistance in the South would be absolute. Both options are impossible.\]

w  
\[ In 1830, the United States had 2,010,327 slaves and 319,439 free blacks, or 2,329,766 black people in total—about one-fifth of the nation’s population at that time.\]

I must admit that I do not see the abolition of slavery as a way to prevent future racial conflict in the United States. Blacks may endure slavery for a long time without protest, but once given freedom, they will soon be unable to bear being denied their civil rights; and since they cannot become equals to whites, they will soon turn against them. In the North, everything worked to make emancipation easy, and slavery ended without freed blacks ever becoming a major force, because their numbers were low. But in the South, it’s different. In the North, slavery was a question of business for slave-owners; in the South, it is about survival. God forbid that I should try to justify the principle of black slavery, as some Americans have! I only note that not all societies that once practiced that dreadful system are equally able to abandon it today.

Looking at the South, I see only two paths for its white inhabitants: either emancipate the blacks and mingle with them, or keep them slaves and remain separate as long as possible. Any halfway solution will likely end soon in the worst kind of civil war, possibly in the destruction of one race or the other. That is how white Southerners see their dilemma, and that is how they act. Refusing mingling, they refuse emancipation.

This does not mean Southerners consider slavery essential to planter wealth; many agree with their Northern peers that slavery hurts their economic interests. But they are convinced that, however harmful it is, their lives depend on it. Education now more widely shared in the South has convinced people that slavery harms slaveowners, but it has also made them realize more clearly that there is no way to rid themselves of its consequences. Hence a strange contradiction: the more slavery’s utility is questioned, the more firmly it is enforced in law; and while servitude is fading in the North, it is becoming ever harsher in the South.

The current slave laws of the Southern States show such extreme brutality that they expose how completely the laws of humanity have been twisted, revealing the desperate situation of the society in which they are enacted. The Southerners have not actually increased the slaves’ physical hardships; on the contrary, they have improved the physical condition of the slaves. The ancients kept slavery through chains and execution; the Southerners have instead found intellectual means to maintain their power. They use their authority against the mind. In the past, precautions were taken only to stop the slave from escaping; today, steps are taken to destroy even his desire for freedom. The ancients enslaved the body, but left the mind and education untouched, and this made sense because slavery did not last forever—sooner or later, the slave could be freed and become his master’s equal. But Southerners, unwilling ever to mix with blacks, have made teaching them to read or write a crime punished by severe penalties; and since they won’t raise them up, they keep them as close as possible to the level of animals.

The hope of liberty had always been offered to slaves as a way to ease the hardships of their condition. However, Southern Americans are well aware that emancipation can be dangerous when the freed person can never truly be integrated into the society of their former master. To grant freedom to a man, only to leave him in misery and disgrace, is essentially to create a future leader for a slave revolt. Additionally, it has long been observed that the presence of free Black people unsettles the minds of their enslaved peers and gives them a vague understanding of their rights. Consequently, Southern Americans have taken measures to prevent most slave owners from emancipating their slaves, not through outright prohibition, but by imposing complicated legal requirements that are difficult to meet. 

I once met an old man in the Southern United States who had lived in a forbidden relationship with one of his female slaves and had several children with her who, by law, were his slaves. He had often considered at least giving them their freedom; but after many years, he had not been able to overcome the legal barriers to their emancipation. Now, as he grew old and neared death, he imagined his sons being bought and sold in markets, shifting from his authority to that of strangers, until these horrible visions drove him into a frenzy in his final days. When I saw him, he was in the depths of despair, and he made me truly feel the terrifying consequences nature brings upon those who violate her laws.

These problems are undoubtedly severe, but they are the necessary and predictable consequences of the very principles behind modern slavery. When Europeans chose their slaves from a race different from their own—a race many considered inferior and all rejected from close connection—they must have assumed that slavery would be permanent; as there is no middle ground between the extreme inequality of servitude and the complete equality that comes with freedom. Europeans felt this truth imperfectly, even if they never admitted it to themselves. When dealing with Black people, their actions were driven either by self-interest and pride or by compassion. They first violated every human right in their treatment of African slaves, then later told them those same rights were precious and inviolable. They acted as if they were welcoming of freed slaves, but when Black people tried to join the wider community, they were pushed back with contempt. In the end, the Europeans ended up awkwardly allowing freedom instead of slavery—unable either to be totally unjust or totally fair.

If it is impossible to imagine a time when Southern Americans will intermarry with Black people, can they safely allow their slaves to become free? And if they must keep that race in bondage to protect their families, can they be blamed for using whatever means seem best suited to that purpose? The events unfolding in the Southern States strike me as both the most horrible and the most inevitable outcomes of slavery. When I see the natural order overturned, and hear the cries of humanity struggling in vain against these laws, my anger does not fall on the people of our own age who are merely carrying out these wrongs; instead, I reserve my condemnation for those who, after a thousand years of freedom, brought slavery back into the world.

No matter how much the Americans of the South strive to preserve slavery, they will not succeed forever. Slavery, now confined to a single part of the civilized world, is condemned by Christianity as unjust and by economics as harmful; and it stands in stark contrast to the democratic freedoms and knowledge of our time. It cannot endure. Whether ended by the choice of the master or the will of the slave, slavery will be abolished, and in either case, significant upheavals may follow. If liberty is denied to the Black people of the South, they will ultimately seize it for themselves by force; if freedom is granted, it will likely be misused before long. *x

x
[ [This chapter is no longer applicable to the condition of the Black race in the United States, since the abolition of slavery was the result, though not the aim, of the great Civil War, and Black people have been raised to the status not only of freedmen but also of citizens. In some States, they wield significant political power because of their numerical majority. For example, in South Carolina in 1870, there were 289,667 whites and 415,814 Blacks. However, emancipation has not solved the issue of how two races so different and so hostile can live together peacefully in one country with equal rights. That problem remains as challenging—perhaps more so—than ever, and for that reason, the author's remarks are still perfectly relevant.]

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part VI

What Are The Chances For the Longevity of the American Union, and What Dangers Threaten It\*y

y  
\[ \[This chapter is one of the most fascinating and notable parts of the work because it covers almost all the constitutional and social questions that arose from the great Southern secession and were ultimately resolved by the Civil War. But it must be admitted that the author’s foresight sometimes failed him in these speculations, resulting in significant errors that the events that followed have made clear. He asserted that “the legislators of the Constitution of 1789 were not appointed to form the government of a single people, but to regulate the association of several States; that the Union was formed by the voluntary agreement of the States, and in joining together they did not forfeit their nationality, nor were they reduced to the condition of one and the same people.” From this, he inferred that “if one of the States chose to withdraw its name from the contract, it would be difficult to disprove its right of doing so; and that the Federal Government would have no means of maintaining its claims directly, either by force or by right.” This was the Southern theory of the Constitution and the main argument for the South’s case for secession. To many Europeans, and to some American (Northern) jurists, this view seemed correct; but it was vigorously opposed by the North and ultimately suppressed by force of arms.

The author was mistaken in believing that the “Union was a vast body which presents no definite object to patriotic feeling.” When the moment of crisis arrived, millions readily risked their lives for it. He also erred in thinking that the Federal Executive was so weak as to require the governed’s consent to survive, and that it would collapse if it tried to preserve the Union against one or more states. In 1861, nine states, with a population of 8,753,000, seceded and fought a determined but unequal struggle for independence for four years, but ultimately, they were defeated.

Finally, the author misjudged the continued unity of interests between North and South as being strong enough to hold the Union together. He overlooked the powerful effect that the slavery issue would have on the Union once most Northerners opposed it. In 1831, when the author visited America, the anti-slavery movement had barely begun, and Southern slavery was accepted by members of all parties—even in the free states. This was, without doubt, the general view taken by all states and American statesmen at the adoption of the Constitution in 1789. But in thirty years’ time, a great transformation occurred, and the North refused to perpetuate what had become the “peculiar institution” of the South, particularly since it gave the South an aristocratic advantage. The result was the ratification, in December 1865, of the historic Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, which declared that “neither slavery nor involuntary servitude—except as a punishment for crime—shall exist within the United States.” Soon after, the Fifteenth Amendment was also adopted: “The right of citizens to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States, or by any state, on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” The emancipation of several million enslaved Black Americans without compensation, and giving them political power in states where they outnumbered whites, went completely against Southern interests and could only have been achieved through military conquest.—Translator’s Note. \]\]

Reasons Why Most Power Rests in the States Rather Than the Union—The Union Will Only Last as Long as All the States Wish to Remain in It—Factors That Encourage Their Unity—The Union’s Usefulness in Resisting Foreign Enemies, and in Preventing Foreign Powers in America—No Natural Barriers Between States—No Conflicting Interests to Divide Them—Shared Interests of the Northern, Southern, and Western States—Intellectual Connections and Similar Opinions—Dangers to the Union from Different Regional Characters and Passions—Differences Between Citizens in the South and North—Rapid Expansion as a Source of Danger—Population Growth Toward the Northwest—Power Shifting in the Same Direction—Passions Caused by Sudden Shifts in Fortune—Does the Federal Government Tend to Grow Stronger or Weaker?—Signs of Declining Power—Public Works—Public Lands—Indians—The Bank—The Tariff—General Jackson.

The stability of the existing institutions of the states is partly tied to the survival of the Union itself. It’s therefore important first to consider the Union’s likely future. One thing, however, can be taken for granted: if the current federation were dissolved, it seems unquestionable to me that the states would not return to their original isolated condition; instead, several new unions would likely form in its place. It’s not my purpose here to consider the principles on which those new unions might be based, but rather to explore the causes that could break up the present union.

To do this, I must retrace a few steps and revisit topics I’ve discussed already. I know the reader may accuse me of repetition, but the importance of the subject justifies such a risk. I prefer to say too much than too little, and I would rather harm my style as an author than treat the topic superficially.

The framers of the 1789 Constitution tried to grant real, dominant authority to the federal government. But they were limited by the nature of the task they set out to accomplish. They were not appointed to create the government of a single people but to regulate the partnership of several states; and whatever their desires, they inevitably had to split the sovereignty.

To understand the effects of this split, a brief distinction among government affairs is needed. Some matters are inherently national, meaning they concern the entire country and must be entrusted to the individual or body that best represents the nation as a whole. These include war and diplomacy. Others are by nature provincial, meaning they only concern certain localities and should be handled locally—for example, the budget of a town government. Lastly, some issues are mixed: national, because they affect all citizens, yet provincial in that the nation doesn’t always need to manage them uniformly. Rights regarding the civil and political status of citizens, for instance, are essential to all but don’t necessarily need to be regulated by a central authority.

Thus, there are two distinct groups of affairs placed under sovereign control, and these occur in all well-organized societies regardless of the overall structure of their constitution. The “mixed” affairs I mentioned above fall between these two extremes. Since such matters are neither purely national nor purely provincial, it can be agreed by the contracting groups that either national or local governments can handle them without violating the underlying contract of association.

Usually, sovereign power is formed by separate individuals uniting as one people; the small shares of authority each brings are then subjected to the general government they choose. In this arrangement, the general government is naturally expected to manage not just issues of national importance but some with more local dimensions. The local governments maintain only the minimum sovereign authority needed for their own wellbeing.

But sometimes sovereignty comes from pre-existing political bodies—states that have organized before the union. Here, provincial governments keep control not only of strictly local matters but also of some or all “mixed” issues. Such confederated nations, having been independent states before union and still retaining much of their sovereign power, have agreed only to transfer those rights absolutely necessary for the union itself to function.

When the national government, beyond its essential powers, is given authority over issues affecting both general and local interests, it becomes dominant. Not only are its own rights substantial, but it can also argue that all other rights exist only by its permission, raising the risk that provincial governments could lose powers necessary to their own existence.

However, when provincial governments have power over those same “mixed” affairs, the opposite occurs: the dominant force rests with the provinces, not the nation, and there’s a danger the federal government will eventually be stripped of powers it needs to survive.

Thus, independent nations tend toward centralization, while confederations naturally risk breaking apart.

Let’s apply these principles to the American Union. The states necessarily reserved control over all purely local affairs. They also kept the right to decide who their citizens are and to regulate community relationships and justice—matters of general importance but not automatically handled by a national government. As we’ve seen, the Union can act for the whole nation in cases where one undivided power is needed—foreign relations, common defense, and other affairs I have called strictly national.

In this division, the Union’s share of sovereignty seems at first the larger, but on closer examination, it is less. The Union’s tasks are grander, but its influence is less frequently felt. The state governments' responsibilities may be smaller, but they affect citizens constantly, keeping their authority alive in daily life. The Union defends national independence and greatness, which don’t directly affect individuals, while the states guarantee liberty, regulate rights, protect wealth, and secure the lives and future wellbeing of every citizen.

The federal government is remote from its citizens, while state governments are close at hand and responsive to even the smallest concern. The central government is supported by the ambition of a few prominent individuals who want to lead it, while the state governments serve the interests of countless secondary figures who can only hope for power at the local or state level. Because they are close to ordinary people, those local leaders wield greater influence. Thus, Americans have more to hope—and fear—from their states than from the Union, and naturally attach themselves more strongly to the former. In this way, their habits and feelings match their interests.

When a nation divides its sovereignty and adopts a confederate form, the people’s traditions and customs, as well as their habits, typically give the central government more influence than the law provides—at least for some time. Conversely, when formerly independent states join as a single nation, the same forces work in the opposite way. I have no doubt that if France were to become a confederate republic like the U.S., its central government would be more energetic at first than America’s; and if the U.S. were suddenly to become a monarchy like France, it would take years to reach the same level of governmental strength. When the American national identity began, the states had already long enjoyed their own local existence and traditions. Townships and individuals within each state had necessary relationships with each other and could easily distinguish between what was common and what was specific to their own states.

The Union is such a vast entity that it does not provide a clear focus for patriotic emotion. The states, by contrast, have distinct forms and boundaries and represent specific objects dear to citizens’ hearts. States are tied to the actual land, to property, to home and family, to memories of the past, daily labors, and hopes for the future. Patriotism—which is often just a broader self-interest—remains anchored in the state, not the Union. The interests, habits, and emotions of the people all tend to draw political energy toward the states and away from the federal government.

This difference in strength between the two levels of government can be easily seen in how they function. When a state government needs to address an individual or group, it speaks clearly and decisively; the federal government does the same with individuals, but when it needs to deal with a whole state, its tone changes: it starts to negotiate and explain, justify itself, appeal, advise—in short, anything but command. If there’s any doubt about where constitutional powers lie, the state presses its case confidently and acts quickly and forcefully. Meanwhile, the federal government reasons, appeals to the nation’s interests, common sense, or glory; it delays, negotiates, and doesn’t act until forced to the limit. At times, it might seem that the state government carries the authority of the nation, and Congress represents only a single state.

Therefore, despite the care of its founders, the federal government is naturally so weak that it especially needs the free consent of the governed to survive. It is apparent that its purpose is to help the states easily accomplish their goal of remaining united. As long as this essential prerequisite persists, federal authority is broad, measured, and effective. The Constitution allows the government to control individuals and easily overcome such obstacles as individuals might create; but it was not designed to deal with states potentially separating from the Union.

If the sovereignty of the Union were to come into conflict with that of the states today, its defeat could be confidently predicted, and such a conflict is unlikely to be seriously attempted. Whenever the federal government has faced steady resistance, it has yielded. Experience shows that whenever a state resolutely demands something, it succeeds; and if a state government directly refuses to act, it ends up acting as it wishes.\*z

z  
\[ See the conduct of the Northern States in the war of 1812. “During that war,” says Jefferson in a letter to General Lafayette, “four of the Eastern States were only attached to the Union, like so many inanimate bodies to living men.” \]

But even if the federal government had some inherent strength, the country’s geography would make exercising that strength very difficult.\*a The United States covers a huge territory; the states are far apart, and the population is spread thinly over largely unsettled land. If the federal government tried to enforce the allegiance of the states by military force, it would be in a situation much like England’s during the American War of Independence.

a  
\[ The peaceful circumstances of the Union provide no justification for a standing army; and without a standing army, a government is not prepared to use a sudden opportunity to suppress resistance and seize sovereign power. \[This note, and the preceding paragraph in the text, have been shown incorrect by the events of the Civil War.\]\]

No matter how strong a government may be, it cannot avoid the consequences of principles it has built into its constitution. The Union was formed by the states’ voluntary agreement; and, in joining together, they neither gave up their nationality nor became one and the same people. If a state wanted to withdraw from the compact, it would be hard to prove it lacked the right; the federal government would have no direct way to enforce its authority—neither by right nor by force. To let the federal government easily overcome resistance from any of its members, it would need one or more states that were especially invested in the Union’s survival, as sometimes happened in past confederations.

If among the states joined by federal ties there are some that exclusively enjoy the main advantages of union, or whose prosperity depends upon its continuation, such states will always be ready to aid the central government in enforcing obedience among the rest. But in that case, government power would come not from itself, but from a principle contrary to its own—since states form confederations to share equally in union’s benefits; any other distribution would empower the federal government for reasons that undermine union’s very purpose.

If one of the confederate States were to gain enough power to take exclusive control of the central authority, it would view the other States as subordinate provinces, and it would enforce its own supremacy under the guise of representing the sovereignty of the Union. Great feats might then be accomplished in the name of the Federal Government, but in reality, that Government would have ceased to function as intended.  
\*b In both scenarios, the power acting in the name of the confederation grows stronger the more it departs from the natural state and accepted principles of confederations.

b  
\[ Thus, the province of Holland in the republic of the Low Countries, and the Emperor in the Germanic Confederation, have at times assumed the role of the union itself, using federal authority for their own benefit.\]

In America, the existing Union benefits all the States, but it is not essential to any one of them. Several States could revoke the federal tie without endangering the welfare of the others, even though their own prosperity would decline. Since the existence and happiness of none of the States rely entirely on the present Constitution, none would be willing to make major sacrifices to preserve it. On the other hand, there is no State that appears to have its ambitions particularly bound up with maintaining the current Union. Although they do not all wield the same power in federal councils, no single State has hope of dominating the others or treating them as inferiors or subjects.

To me, it seems clear that if any part of the Union genuinely wished to break away from the others, they could not, and likely would not try to, stop it; and that the current Union will only endure as long as the States choose to remain members of the confederation. If we accept this point, the problem becomes simpler; and instead of asking whether the States in the present Union are capable of splitting, we must ask whether they will choose to stay united.

Among the many reasons that make the current Union advantageous for Americans, two major factors stand out. Even though the Americans seem alone on their continent, their trade connects them to all the nations with which they do business. Despite their apparent isolation, Americans need a certain level of strength, which they can only maintain by sticking together. If the States were to divide, they would not just lose the combined strength they can now display to other nations, but they would soon create foreign powers on their own soil. A system of internal customhouses would arise; valleys would be split by imaginary lines; rivers would be cut off by territorial borders; and countless obstacles would stop Americans from exploring the vast continent Providence has given them for dominion. Currently, they have no fear of invasion and thus need no standing armies or special taxes. Should the Union split, all these expensive measures might soon become necessary. Americans therefore have a strong incentive to keep their Union. On the other hand, it is almost impossible to find any sort of material interest, at present, that might tempt any part of the Union to secede from the others.

Looking at the map of the United States, we see the Alleghany Mountains stretching from the northeast to the southwest for nearly a thousand miles, and we might think Providence meant to create a natural barrier between the Mississippi valley and the Atlantic coast—a barrier that would discourage contact and establish borders between distinct States. Yet, the average height of the Alleghanies is only 2,500 feet, with their highest peaks less than 4,000 feet; their rounded tops and wide valleys offer easy passages on several sides. In addition, the main rivers flowing into the Atlantic—the Hudson, Susquehanna, and Potomac—begin beyond the Alleghanies, in a region bordering the Mississippi valley. These rivers leave this area and cut through the supposed barrier, winding through the mountains to provide natural and easy routes for people. There is therefore no real natural division in the regions settled by Anglo-Americans; the Alleghanies are so far from marking national boundaries that they do not even mark State borders. New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia include the mountains within their own limits, reaching as far west as east. The land now occupied by the twenty-four States of the Union, along with three major territories not yet States but already settled, covers an area of 1,002,600 square miles, \*c roughly five times the size of France. Inside these boundaries, the land, climate, and produce vary greatly. The vast size of the Anglo-American republics has caused some to doubt whether their Union can last. Here, however, a distinction is needed: contrary interests can arise in different parts of a vast empire, sometimes leading to open conflict, and then the nation’s size works against its power. But if the people living across such an area are not split by opposing interests, having a large territory can help them flourish; unity in government boosts the sharing and use of the land’s varied products, making them more valuable by making use and access easier.

c  
\[ See “Darby’s View of the United States,” p. 435. \[In 1890 the number of States and Territories had increased to 51, the population to 62,831,900, and the area of the States, 3,602,990 square miles. This does not include the Philippine Islands, Hawaii, or Porto Rico. A conservative estimate of the population of the Philippine Islands is 8,000,000; that of Hawaii, by the census of 1897, was given at 109,020; and the present estimated population of Porto Rico is 900,000. The area of the Philippine Islands is about 120,000 square miles, that of Hawaii is 6,740 square miles, and the area of Porto Rico is about 3,600 square miles.\]\]

It is indeed easy to find different interests in the various parts of the Union, but I do not know of any that are directly hostile to each other. The Southern States are almost entirely agricultural. The Northern States are more focused on commerce and manufacturing. The Western States combine agriculture and manufacturing. The South produces tobacco, rice, cotton, and sugar; the North and West harvest wheat and corn. These are distinct sources of wealth, but union provides the means for all regions to benefit, making these resources equally accessible to every district.

The North, which ships Anglo-American products worldwide and brings global goods back to the Union, clearly has a stake in preserving the confederation as it is, to ensure there are as many American producers and consumers as possible. The North naturally serves as the main link between both the South and the West and the outside world; therefore, it is invested in the unity and prosperity of the South and West, so they will continue supplying raw materials to its factories and cargo to its ships.

The South and the West, in turn, are even more directly interested in keeping the Union and the North strong. Most Southern goods are exported overseas; thus, both the South and West need the North’s commercial connections. They also depend on the Union to maintain a strong navy to protect them. The South and West have few ships, but they willingly contribute to navy expenses; for if European fleets blockaded Southern ports or the Mississippi delta, what would happen to Carolina rice, Virginia tobacco, or Mississippi valley sugar and cotton? Every part of the federal budget thus supports material interests shared by all the confederate States.

Beyond this commercial benefit, the South and West gain significant political advantages from their connection with the North. The South has a huge slave population—alarming now and even more so for the future. The Western States are deep inside one vast valley, with all their rivers rising in the Rocky Mountains or the Alleghanies and flowing into the Mississippi toward the Gulf of Mexico. The Western States are therefore cut off by geography from European traditions and Old World civilization. Southern States want the Union's protection from the black population; the Western States support the Union to stay connected to the rest of the world and not be isolated in the American interior. The North cannot help but desire the Union’s survival, to keep serving as the connection between the vast nation and the rest of the world.

The practical interests of all regions in the Union are thus closely linked. The same is true for the opinions and feelings—the immaterial interests—of Americans.

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part VII

The people of the United States often speak of their attachment to their country; but I must admit that I do not place much trust in the kind of calculated patriotism that is based on self-interest, since a shift in those interests could easily erase it. Nor do I give much weight to the way Americans frequently express, in daily conversation, their intention to maintain the federal system their forefathers established. A government holds sway over large numbers of citizens less through their voluntary and rational agreement, and more through an instinctive and, to some extent, involuntary solidarity that comes from shared feelings and similar viewpoints. I do not believe that people make up a true society simply because they obey the same laws and authorities. Society can only exist when many people see many things from the same perspective; when they share opinions on various subjects, and when the same events evoke similar thoughts and feelings in their minds.

Anyone who observes the United States today through this lens will quickly see that, although the citizens are divided into twenty-four distinct sovereignties, they nonetheless form a single people. It might even appear that the Anglo-American Union is in a more genuine state of society than some European nations, which may live under the same legislation and ruler.

Even though the Anglo-Americans are divided into several religious sects, they share a common approach to religion. They may not always agree on which measures best promote good government, and there are differences in the forms of government they believe are preferable, but they are united on the basic principles that should regulate human society. From Maine to Florida, and from the Missouri River to the Atlantic Ocean, the people are seen as the legitimate source of all power. The same views are held about liberty and equality, freedom of the press, the right of association, the jury system, and government accountability.

If we look beyond their political and religious beliefs to the moral and philosophical principles that guide their daily actions, we again find uniformity. The Anglo-Americans\*d accept the absolute moral authority of the community's reason, just as they accept the political authority of the majority; and they believe that public opinion is the best judge of what is lawful or forbidden, true or false. Most believe that a person will do what is right and good by following their own well-understood interests. They believe everyone is born with the right to self-government, and that no one has the right to force others to be happy. They all have a strong belief in human perfectibility; they think spreading knowledge must have good effects and that ignorance has harmful consequences; they see society as an improving organism, humanity as ever-changing, where nothing is or should be permanent, and they admit that what seems good today might be replaced by something better tomorrow. I do not claim all these ideas are true, but I mention them as characteristic of Americans.

d
\[ It hardly needs saying that by "Anglo-Americans," I mean only the great majority of the nation; of course, some individuals will always hold very different opinions.\]

Not only are the Anglo-Americans united by these common opinions, but they are also set apart from other nations by a shared sense of pride. For fifty years, every effort has been made to convince the people of the United States that they alone are religious, enlightened, and free. They see that their own democratic institutions are currently succeeding, while those of other nations are failing; from this, they develop an exaggerated sense of their superiority and are not far from thinking of themselves as belonging to a separate human race.

The dangers that threaten the American Union do not come from differences in interests or opinions, but from the distinct characters and passions of Americans themselves. The people who inhabit the vast territory of the United States mostly come from a common origin, but climate—and especially slavery—have brought about striking differences over time between the descendants of British settlers in the Southern States and those in the North. In Europe, people often believe that slavery has made the interests of one part of the Union different from those of the other; but I did not find this to be the case: slavery has not created Southern interests opposed to those of the North, but it has shaped the character and habits of Southern natives.

I have already described how slavery has influenced the commercial capacity of Southerners; this same influence extends to their manners. The slave is a servant who never argues and accepts everything without protest. He may resort to violence, but he never resists or challenges his master. In the South, even the poorest families have slaves. The Southern citizen is given a kind of domestic dictatorship from childhood; the first thing he learns is that he was born to command, and the first habit he forms is expecting unquestioned obedience. This upbringing tends to produce men who are overbearing and hasty, irritable, passionate, impatient with obstacles, and easily disheartened if they do not succeed right away.

In contrast, the American from the Northern States is not surrounded by slaves in childhood; he often does not even have free servants and usually has to take care of his own needs. From the start, he is pressed on all sides by necessity: he quickly learns the natural limits of his authority; he does not expect to subdue resistance by force, and he understands that the best way to gain the cooperation of others is to win their goodwill. As a result, he becomes patient, thoughtful, tolerant, slow to act, and persistent in his plans.

In the Southern States, the basic needs of life are always met; residents are not occupied with material concerns, as these are handled by others, leaving their imaginations free to pursue more attractive, less practical goals. The Southerner loves grandeur, luxury, fame, fun, pleasure, and most of all, leisure; having little need to work for his survival and no required labors, he becomes idle and does not bother with even useful tasks.

On the other hand, equality of fortune and the absence of slavery in the North immerse its people in the daily struggles that the whites in the South ignore. From childhood, they are taught to fight want and to value comfort above the pleasures of intellect or emotion. Their imaginations are dulled by the small concerns of life; their thoughts become less broad and numerous, but more practical and precise. Since prosperity is their highest goal, they achieve it very well; nature and society are organized to yield the best financial returns, and society is skillfully shaped for the benefit of each member, while individual self-interest is the wellspring of general happiness.

The Northern citizen possesses not only practical experience but also knowledge; yet he values knowledge mainly as a tool for reaching practical goals, eager to use its most profitable applications. The Southerner acts more by impulse, is more clever, frank, generous, cultured, and charming. The Northerner, with greater energy, common sense, learning, and overall versatility, shows the strengths and weaknesses typical of the middle class. The Southerner displays the tastes, prejudices, flaws, and grandeur found in aristocracies. When two people live in society with similar interests and to some extent similar opinions, but different characters, learning, and ways of life, it is likely they will not get along. The same truth applies to a society of nations. So, slavery does not threaten the American Union by directly affecting its interests, but indirectly through its impact on manners.

e
\[ Census of 1790, 3,929,328; 1830, 12,856,165; 1860, 31,443,321; 1870, 38,555,983; 1890, 62,831,900.\]

In 1790, thirteen States agreed to the federal pact; now the Union consists of thirty-four members. The population, nearly 4,000,000 in 1790, had more than tripled in just forty years, reaching almost 13,000,000 by 1830.\*e Such rapid changes cannot occur without risks.

A society—of nations as of individuals—owes its greatest stability to the wisdom, powerlessness, and limited numbers of its members. Americans who leave the Atlantic coast for the western wilderness are adventurous, impatient with restraint, eager for wealth, and often people rejected from where they were born. Arriving in the wilds, they are strangers to each other, with no traditions, family ties, or shared examples to control reckless behavior. The rule of law is weak among them; morality is even weaker. The settlers steadily filling the Mississippi Valley are, in every way, greatly inferior to Americans from older parts of the Union. Yet, they already wield strong influence in national councils and rise to positions of power before they have learned how to govern themselves.\*f

f
\[ This is only a temporary danger. I am confident that, over time, society in the West will become as regular and stable as it already is on the Atlantic coast.\]

The weaker each contracting party is, the greater the Union's chances for survival, since their security depends on their unity. When, in 1790, the largest American republics had populations below 500,000,\*g each felt powerless on its own, making federal authority acceptance easier. But when one confederate State, like New York, boasts 2,000,000 people and covers an area a quarter the size of France,\*h it is aware of its own strength. Such a State may still support the Union for its own benefit, but no longer sees it as essential to its existence. While it remains part of the federal compact, it soon seeks to dominate federal assemblies. The likelihood of harmony among the States decreases as their number grows. Currently, their interests do not conflict, but who can predict the many changes in a country where new towns are founded daily and new States nearly every year?

g
\[ Pennsylvania contained 431,373 inhabitants in 1790 \[and 5,258,014 in 1890.\]\]

h
\[ The area of the State of New York is 49,170 square miles. \[See U. S. census report of 1890.\]\]

Since the British colonies were first settled, their population has doubled roughly every twenty-two years. I see no reason this Anglo-American growth will slow for the next century; and before then, I believe the territories and dependencies of the United States will have more than 100,000,000 inhabitants, divided into forty States.\*i Even if these 100,000,000 people share no opposing interests—in fact, let us suppose they are all equally dedicated to the Union—I still contend that where there are 100,000,000 people and forty different nations, varying in strength, the continued survival of the Federal Government would be a fortunate accident.

i
\[ If the population continues doubling every twenty-two years, as it has for the last two centuries, the United States will have twenty million people in 1852; forty-eight million in 1874; ninety-six million in 1896. This could happen even if the lands west of the Rocky Mountains prove uncultivable. The currently occupied lands could easily hold this number. One hundred million people spread over the twenty-four States and three dependencies that form the Union would mean just 762 people per square league—far below the French average of 1,063, or England’s 1,457, and even less than Switzerland’s 783 per square league, despite its lakes and mountains. See “Malte Brun,” vol. vi.

\[In fact, the actual population was a bit lower despite America’s huge territorial gains: but in 1899, counting the Philippines, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico, the population probably stood near eighty-seven million.\]\]

However much I may believe in the perfectibility of man, until human nature itself is changed, I cannot believe that a government could long endure that is meant to unite forty different peoples, scattered over a region half as large as Europe, to prevent all rivalries, ambitions, and disputes among them, and to direct their diverse energies toward the same goals.

But the greatest threat to the Union from its expansion comes from shifts in its internal balance. The distance from Lake Superior to the Gulf of Mexico spans from the 47th to the 30th degree of latitude, over 1,200 miles as the crow flies. The United States’ frontier runs along this entire immense line, sometimes curling inside it, but more often stretching far beyond into the wilderness. It has been estimated that whites advance on average seventeen miles a year along this great frontier.\*j Sometimes obstacles—such as a barren region, a lake, or an unexpected Indian nation—are met. The advancing wave then pauses; its ends roll back until they meet, after which it presses forward once more. This steady and relentless movement of the European race toward the Rocky Mountains has the grandeur of a providential event: it resembles a flood of people, rising ceaselessly and driven ever onward by the hand of God.

j
\[ See Legislative Documents, 20th Congress, No. 117.\]

Inside this frontline of pioneering settlers, towns rise and great States are established. In 1790, there were only a few thousand pioneers scattered along the Mississippi’s valleys; today, these valleys themselves hold as many people as the entire Union did in 1790—nearly 4,000,000 in all.\*k The city of Washington was founded in 1800 at what was then the center of the Union; but so much has changed that the city is now nearly at its edge, and delegates from the farthest Western States must travel as far as one would from Vienna to Paris.\*l

k  
\[ 3,672,317—Census of 1830.\]

l  
\[ The distance from Jefferson, the capital of Missouri, to Washington is 1,019 miles. (“American Almanac,” 1831.)\]

All the States are pushed forward together on the path of prosperity, but naturally, they do not all grow and thrive at the same rate. North of the Union, the scattered branches of the Alleghany chain stretch all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, creating wide roads and ports that large ships can access year-round. But from the Potomac to the mouth of the Mississippi, the coastline is flat and sandy. Here, the mouths of almost every river are blocked, and the few harbors found among these lagoons offer shallower water for vessels and far fewer commercial advantages than those in the North.

This initial natural disadvantage is joined by a second cause rooted in the law. As we've seen, slavery, which has been abolished in the North, still exists in the South; and I have already pointed out its damaging effects on the prosperity of the planters themselves.

The North is therefore ahead of the South in both commerce\*m and manufacturing; the natural result of this is a faster rise in both population and wealth within its borders. The States along the Atlantic coast are already half settled. Most of the land is already owned, and so these areas cannot absorb as many new settlers as the Western States, where vast stretches of land are still open to those willing to work them. The Mississippi valley is much more fertile than the Atlantic coast. This, on top of everything else, pushes Europeans further west—a fact that can be clearly demonstrated by statistics. The total population of the United States has roughly tripled over forty years. But in the newer States near the Mississippi, the population has increased thirty-one times in the same period.\*n

m  
\[ The following examples show the clear difference between the commerce of the South and that of the North:—

In 1829, the total tonnage of all merchant vessels registered in Virginia, the two Carolinas, and Georgia (the four major Southern States), was only 5,243 tons. In the same year, Massachusetts alone had 17,322 tons of merchant shipping. (See Legislative Documents, 21st Congress, 2nd session, No. 140.) So Massachusetts had three times as much shipping as those four Southern States combined. Yet, Massachusetts covers only 7,335 square miles, with a population of 610,014 \[2,238,943 in 1890\]; while the total area of the four Southern States is 210,000 square miles, with a population of 3,047,767. Thus, the area of Massachusetts is just one-thirtieth the size of those four States, and its population is five times smaller. (See “Darby’s View of the United States.”) Slavery harms the South's commercial prosperity in several ways: it suppresses the spirit of enterprise among whites and makes it hard for them to find enough sailors. Sailors usually come from the lower classes. But in the South, these lower ranks are made up of slaves, and it is very difficult to use them at sea. They can't serve as well as white crews, and there are always concerns they might mutiny at sea or escape in foreign ports.\]

n  
\[ “Darby’s View of the United States,” p. 444.\]

The relative position of the central federal authority keeps shifting. Forty years ago, the majority of the Union’s citizens lived along the Atlantic coast, near where Washington now stands; but today, the main body of people is moving inland and north, so in twenty years, the majority will certainly be on the western side of the Alleghanies. If the Union continues to exist, the Mississippi basin, thanks to its fertility and size, is clearly destined to become the future center of the Federal Government. In thirty or forty years, that area will assume the rank it naturally deserves. It's easy to figure that its population, compared to the Atlantic coast, will be, roughly, 40 to 11. Soon the original States that founded the Union will lose control over its direction, and the population of the Mississippi valley will outweigh them in federal assemblies.

This steady movement of federal power and influence toward the northwest is checked every ten years, when a nationwide census is taken and each State’s number of congressional delegates is recalculated.\*o In 1790, Virginia had nineteen representatives in Congress. This number grew until 1813, when it peaked at twenty-three; after that, it began to fall, and in 1833, Virginia sent only twenty-one representatives.\*p At the same time, New York moved in the opposite direction: in 1790, it had ten representatives; by 1813, twenty-seven; by 1823, thirty-four; and by 1833, forty. Ohio had just one representative in 1803, but by 1833 that number had risen to nineteen.

o  
\[ In the past decade (1820-1830), for example, Delaware's population grew by five percent, but Michigan's shot up by 250 percent. Virginia’s population grew by thirteen percent in that time, while the bordering State of Ohio grew by sixty-one percent. The general table showing these changes, in the “National Calendar,” vividly illustrates the uneven progress of the various States.\]

p  
\[ Although Virginia's population grew thirteen percent in the last period, it’s possible for a State to lose representatives even while its population grows. To explain: the number of Virginia's representatives in 1823 matched the total number of representatives in the Union and the proportion of its state population to the national population. The same calculations were made for 1833. Therefore, the new number of representatives for Virginia relates both to the new total number of representatives and to the growth of Virginia’s population compared to the national growth. If the smaller State’s population growth matches the rate of increase in the number of representatives for the whole nation, the State’s representation stays the same. If its growth is less than the increase in total national representatives, then its number of representatives will decrease. \[By the 56th Congress in 1899, Virginia and West Virginia sent only fourteen representatives in total.\]\]

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part VIII

It is hard to imagine a lasting union between a people who are rich and strong and another who are poor and weak, even if it could be shown that the wealth and strength of one are not the cause of the other's poverty and weakness. But maintaining unity becomes even harder when one side is losing strength while the other is gaining it. This rapid and uneven growth among certain States threatens the independence of the others. New York, for instance, with its 2,000,000 residents and forty representatives, could potentially dominate Congress and the other States. Even if the more powerful States don't try to overpower the smaller ones, the danger remains; sometimes, the mere possibility of such dominance is almost as significant as the act itself. The weak often distrust the justice and reasoning of the strong. States whose growth lags behind begin to view the more fortunate States with envy and suspicion. This leads to the deep sense of unease and vague agitation seen in the South, which stands in stark contrast to the confidence and prosperity found elsewhere in the Union. I tend to believe that the hostile actions recently taken by the Southern provinces are due to this very cause. The people of the Southern States, more than any other Americans, have a vested interest in maintaining the Union—they would undoubtedly suffer the most if left on their own. Yet, they are the only citizens who threaten to break the bonds of confederation. It is clear that the South, which has produced four Presidents—Washington, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe—now sees its federal influence waning. The number of its representatives in Congress declines year after year, while those of the Northern and Western States rise. The South, home to passionate and quick-tempered people, is growing increasingly irritated and alarmed. Its citizens think about their current position and remember their former influence with a kind of melancholy unease, as if expecting oppression. If they find a federal law not clearly favoring their interests, they protest, calling it an abuse of power. If their intense complaints go unheard, they threaten to leave an association that, in their eyes, burdens them while depriving them of due benefits. "The tariff," said the people of Carolina in 1832, "enriches the North and ruins the South; if this were not true, why does the power and wealth of the North keep growing, despite its harsh climate and poor soil, while the South—the so-called garden of America—declines rapidly?" *q

q  
[See the report of its committee to the Convention which proclaimed the nullification of the tariff in South Carolina.]

If these changes occurred slowly, allowing each generation to vanish with the social order they knew, the danger would be less. But American society is changing quickly and almost revolutionarily. A single citizen might see his State rise to leading the Union, then become powerless in federal assemblies; an Anglo-American republic can mature as rapidly as a person goes from birth and childhood to adulthood in just thirty years. However, it shouldn't be thought that States losing their influence are also losing people or wealth. Their prosperity isn't halted, and they still grow faster than any nation in Europe. *r Yet, they feel poorer because their wealth isn't increasing as quickly as that of their neighbors; and they believe they've lost power because they suddenly face a force greater than their own. *s Their feelings and pride suffer more than their actual interests. But such feelings are enough to endanger the Union's survival. If kings and peoples had always focused on their true interests, humanity would barely know the word "war."

r  
[The population of a country is surely the primary measure of its wealth. From 1820–1830, while Virginia lost two Congressional seats, its population still grew by 13.7%; Carolina by 15%; and Georgia by 15.5%. (See the “American Almanac,” 1832.) By comparison, Russia—the fastest-growing country in Europe—only grew by 9.5% in ten years; France, by 7%; Europe overall, by 4.7%. (See “Malte Brun,” vol. vi.)]

s  
[It's true, however, that the falling value of tobacco over the last fifty years has significantly reduced the wealth of Southern planters—but this circumstance is as independent of their Northern brethren’s will as it is of their own.]

Thus, the prosperity of the United States itself creates the gravest dangers, since it triggers the overexcitement of rapidly-rising States and the envy, suspicion, and regret in others that usually come with losing influence. Americans view their extraordinary, breakneck progress with pride, but they would be wiser to observe it with some sorrow and caution. The people of the United States are destined to become one of the world's greatest nations, covering almost the whole of North America—the continent is theirs, and nothing can prevent them from claiming it. Why hurry to take possession? Wealth, power, and fame are surely in their future, but they seem to chase their destiny as if they only have a moment left.

I believe I have shown that the continued existence of the current confederation relies entirely on the ongoing agreement of all members; and, beginning with this idea, I have explored what might persuade any State to break away. However, the Union could fall apart in two different ways: One State might choose to leave the compact, forcefully breaking the federal tie—a scenario most of my comments so far address—or the Federal Government’s authority could be gradually eroded as all the republics seek to regain their independence. The central power, gradually stripped of its prerogatives and rendered powerless by silent consent, would become unable to perform its function. In this way, a second Union might die as the first did, declining into uselessness in old age. This slow weakening of the federal bond, which may eventually dissolve the Union, is a unique situation that might lead to minor consequences well before causing so dramatic a change. The confederation might linger on, even as its government becomes so feeble that the nation is paralyzed, internal chaos grows, and the country's general prosperity is held back.

After considering what might make Anglo-Americans disunite, it's important to ask whether, if the Union survives, their government will expand or shrink its influence, and whether it will become stronger or weaker.

Americans are clearly inclined to view their future with worry. They see, in most nations, the rights of sovereignty falling under the control of a few individuals, and they fear this could happen in their own country. Even politicians feel—or claim to feel—these anxieties, for centralization is not popular in America, and the surest way to appeal to the majority is to criticize the growing power of the central government. Americans do not recognize that centralization is feared most in countries inhabited by a single people, while the U.S., made up of different states, is a very different case. I must admit I consider many Americans’ fears largely unfounded; far from sharing their fear of power consolidating in the hands of the Union, I see the Federal Government clearly losing strength.

To show this, I need not look to distant events, but only to circumstances I've witnessed myself, in our own time.

A careful look at the U.S. today reveals two opposing tendencies, like two currents running in opposite directions in the same channel. The Union has now existed for forty-five years, and during that time, many original provincial prejudices have faded. The loyalty that once bound each American to his own State has become less exclusive; as the different parts of the Union come to know each other better, they become more closely connected. The postal service,*t that great tool of intellectual exchange, now reaches deep into the frontier, and steamboats connect points along the coast daily. An inland waterway system of unmatched speed moves goods along the nation's rivers.*u To these advantages, add the restless ambition, activity, and love of profit that push Americans into public life and into contact with each other. They travel all over the country; they meet all the various peoples; and there is not a province in France where the inhabitants are as familiar with each other as the 13,000,000 who cover the United States.

t  
[In 1832, Michigan—then with only 31,639 people and still practically wilderness—had 940 miles of mail roads. The Arkansas territory, even less developed, already had 1,938 miles of mail roads. (See the report of the General Post Office, Nov. 30, 1833.) Nationwide newspaper postage alone amounted to \$254,796.]

u  
[In the decade from 1821 to 1831, 271 steamboats were launched on the rivers of the Mississippi Valley alone. By 1829, the U.S. had 259 steamboats. (See Legislative Documents, No. 140.)]

As Americans mix, they start to resemble each other more; differences created by climate, background, and institutions fade, and everyone moves closer to a common national character. Each year, thousands leave the North to settle throughout the Union, bringing their faith, opinions, and customs; as they are generally more educated than the locals among whom they settle, they soon rise to leadership positions and shape society to suit themselves. This ongoing migration from North to South is particularly helpful in blending diverse local traditions into one national identity. The civilization of the North seems to be the common standard to which the whole nation will eventually conform.

Trade links among the states are reinforced by America’s growing manufacturing, and the sense of unity, once only a matter of ideas, becomes habit. Time has cleared away the old anxieties imagined by the citizens of 1789. The federal power has not become oppressive; it has not destroyed state independence; it has not forced confederates into monarchies; and the Union has not made the smaller States dependent on the larger ones. In fact, the confederation has continued to grow in population, wealth, and power. Thus, I am convinced that the natural barriers to the Union lasting are not as great now as they were in 1789, and that its enemies are fewer.

Yet, a close reading of U.S. history over the last forty-five years will quickly show that federal power is declining; and the causes are not hard to explain.*v When the Constitution of 1789 appeared, the nation was beset by anarchy; the new Union, following this disorder, inspired great fear and hostility but was strongly supported because it met an urgent need. So, though it faced more attacks then than now, federal power rapidly reached its maximum, as typically happens with a government that triumphs after a struggle. At that time, interpretations of the Constitution tended to broaden, rather than limit, federal authority; and in some ways, the Union resembled a single, united people governed by one authority in both foreign and domestic affairs. But to reach this point, the people had elevated themselves above their usual inclinations.

v  
[[Since 1861, the trend has reversed, and federal power has greatly increased and continues to do so.]]

The Constitution did not erase the States’ separate sovereignty; and all communities, whatever their nature, are driven by an inherent urge to assert independence. This urge is even stronger in America, where nearly every village is its own little republic, used to managing its own business. Submitting to federal supremacy required a real effort from the States; and such efforts, whatever their initial success, eventually fade once the danger they addressed has passed.

As federal authority grew firm, America regained its place among nations, peace was restored to its borders, and public credit recovered. Chaos gave way to stability, supporting the full expression of industry and enterprise. Ironically, this very prosperity led Americans to forget its source, and once the threat had faded, the effort and patriotism that helped overcome it also vanished. Freed from their worries, people quickly returned to their normal ways and yielded to their natural tendencies. Once a strong government no longer seemed necessary, it soon became seen as annoying. The Union fostered broad prosperity, and while the States were not willing to break from it, they wished to limit the influence of its central authority as much as possible. The principle of Union was accepted in general, but there was increasing state independence in the details. The idea of confederation became more and more accepted—while its practical application became rarer. In this way, the Federal Government paved the way for its own decline, even as it brought about order and peace.

As soon as this shift in public opinion became noticeable, party leaders—whose careers rely on people’s passions—began to exploit it. The Federal Government’s situation then became critical. Its opponents had public opinion on their side, and they took control of policy by vowing to reduce its influence. From then on, the government in Washington has always had to give ground whenever it found itself in conflict with the state governments. And whenever the Federal Constitution needed interpretation, the ruling usually did not favor the Union, but rather benefited the States.

The Constitution gave the Federal Government the power to oversee the nation’s interests, and it was once believed that only the federal authority could best handle “internal improvements” that benefited the entire Union—projects like canal building. But the States grew suspicious of a separate authority that could control parts of their territory, fearing the central government’s growing patronage and influence—something they wanted reserved for their own officials. The Democratic party, always critical of federal power, then accused Congress of overstepping and accused the President of ambition. The central government backed down in the face of opposition and soon promised to keep its influence strictly within set limits from then on.

The Constitution gives the Union the right to make treaties with foreign nations. Indian tribes on the U.S. frontiers had usually been treated as such. As long as these tribes continued to withdraw before white settlers, no one challenged the federal government’s authority. But as soon as a tribe sought to settle in one place, neighboring States claimed both land ownership and sovereignty over the natives. The central government soon accepted these claims; after making treaties with Indian tribes as independent nations, it surrendered them as subjects to the legislative power of the States.*w

w  
[See in the Legislative Documents—previously cited regarding the Indians—the President’s letter to the Cherokees, related correspondence, and messages to Congress.]

Some coastal States extended westward into wild, unexplored lands. States with fixed borders viewed their neighbors’ limitless western claims with jealousy. To ease tensions and facilitate Union, the States with open western boundaries agreed to draw fixed borders and hand over their lands beyond those limits to the United States as a whole.*x As a result, the Federal Government became owner of all uncultivated land beyond the borders of the original thirteen States. It was empowered to divide and sell this land, and the proceeds were reserved for the national treasury—to buy new land from the Indians, build roads to distant settlements, and speed up civilization’s advance. New States have since arisen in those once-ceded wilds. Congress continued to sell, for the whole country’s benefit, the uncultivated lands of these new States. But the new States eventually insisted that now, being fully established, they should have exclusive rights to the proceeds of these land sales. As their demands grew more urgent, Congress eventually stripped the Union of much of the authority it had enjoyed and, in 1832, passed a law giving most of the revenue from these sales to the new western States, though the land itself was not handed over.*y

x  
[The first cession act was passed by New York in 1780; Virginia, Massachusetts, Connecticut, South Carolina, and North Carolina followed over time, and Georgia finally ceded its claim in 1802.]

y
\[ It is true that the President refused to approve this law; but he fully embraced its principle. (See Message of December 8, 1833.)\]

Anyone observing life in the United States can quickly appreciate the benefits the country gains from the bank. These benefits are of several kinds, but one is especially striking to a foreign visitor. Banknotes from the United States are accepted on the very edges of the frontier for the same value as in Philadelphia, where the bank is based in its operations. \*z

z
\[ The current Bank of the United States was established in 1816, with a capital of \$35,000,000; its charter expires in 1836. Last year Congress passed a law to renew the charter, but the President vetoed the bill. The conflict continues vigorously on both sides, and the quick demise of the bank seems likely. \[It was soon after abolished by General Jackson.\]\]

Nevertheless, the Bank of the United States faces strong hostility. Its directors have openly declared their opposition to the President, and they are accused, not without some justification, of having misused their influence to disrupt his election. The President, in turn, attacks the institution they lead with the passion of personal enmity, and he is encouraged by the belief that he is supported by the hidden sympathies of the majority. The bank may be seen as the primary financial bond of the Union, just as Congress serves as the main legislative bond; and the same forces that encourage the States to assert their independence against central authority also work toward the destruction of the bank.

The Bank of the United States always holds a substantial amount of notes issued by state banks, which it can demand to be exchanged for cash at any time. The Bank itself does not fear a similar demand, since its vast resources allow it to fulfill all claims. However, state banks find their own existence threatened by this, and their operations are constrained, as they are only able to issue notes in proportion to their capital. They submit to this necessary regulation with reluctance. The newspapers under their influence and the President, whose interests align with theirs, attack the bank with intense fervor. They stir up local passions and the country’s instinctual support of democracy, claiming that the bank’s directors form a permanent aristocratic group whose influence will eventually be felt in the Government, thereby threatening the principles of equality that underpin American society.

The dispute between the bank and its opponents is only one part of a larger struggle in America between the states and central authority—between the spirit of democratic independence and the spirit of hierarchy and obedience. I am not suggesting that the bank’s enemies are the exact same people who, on other issues, oppose the Federal Government; but I do claim that the attacks on the Bank of the United States stem from the same impulses that work against the Federal Government, and that the many adversaries of the former indicate a troubling decline in support for the latter.

The Union has never shown such weakness as in the famous issue of the tariff. \*a The wars of the French Revolution and of 1812 created manufacturing industries in the North of the Union, by disrupting all free trade between America and Europe. After peace was restored and foreign goods could again reach the New World, Americans decided to impose import duties, both to protect new domestic industries and to pay off the war debt. The Southern States, which have no industries to protect and are completely agricultural, soon protested against this measure. These are the basic facts, and I do not intend here to judge whether their grievances were justified or not.

a
\[ For detailed information on this matter, see the Legislative Documents, 22nd Congress, 2nd Session, No. 30.\]

As early as 1820, South Carolina declared in a petition to Congress that the tariff was “unconstitutional, oppressive, and unjust.” The states of Georgia, Virginia, North Carolina, Alabama, and Mississippi later also objected, with varying force. Yet Congress, far from heeding these protests, raised tariff rates in 1824 and again in 1828, and reaffirmed the principle at the heart of the policy. A doctrine soon emerged—or rather, reemerged—in the South, called Nullification.

I have already shown that the Federal Constitution’s goal was not to create a mere alliance, but to establish a national government. Americans in the United States form a single, united people in all cases specified by the Constitution; and in these matters, the will of the nation is expressed by the majority, as in any constitutional nation. When the majority decides, the minority is obliged to submit. This is the correct legal principle, and the only one compatible with the text of the Constitution and the clear intentions of its authors.

The supporters of Nullification in the South, on the other hand, argue that the Americans did not intend to become a single unified people; instead, they meant to form a league of independent states. Thus, each state retains full sovereignty, if not in fact, then at least in law, and has the right to interpret the laws of Congress and suspend their enforcement within its own borders, if it deems them unconstitutional or unjust.

The core idea of Nullification is summed up in a statement made by Vice-President Calhoun, leader of that party in the South, before the Senate in 1833: “The Constitution is a compact to which the States were parties in their sovereign capacity; now, whenever a compact is entered into by parties which acknowledge no tribunal above their authority to decide in the last resort, each of them has a right to judge for itself in relation to the nature, extent, and obligations of the instrument.” Clearly, such a view undermines the very foundation of the Federal Constitution, bringing back all the problems of the former confederation from which Americans thought they had safely escaped.

When South Carolina saw that Congress was ignoring its objections, it threatened to apply the doctrine of nullification to the federal tariff law. Congress stuck to its approach, and eventually the conflict erupted. In 1832, the citizens of South Carolina, \*b elected a national Convention to consider what extraordinary measures to take; and on November 24th of that year, this Convention issued a law, described as a decree, which nullified the federal tariff law, prohibited the collection of duties that the law required, and refused to recognize appeals to the federal courts. \*c This decree was set to take effect the following February, and it was stated that if Congress changed the tariff before then, South Carolina might be willing to stop short of full action; and later a general wish was expressed to submit the matter to a special assembly of all the states in the Union.

b
\[ That is, the majority of the people; the opposing Union party always consisted of a strong and active minority. South Carolina may have had about 47,000 voters; 30,000 supported nullification, while 17,000 opposed it.\]

c
\[ This decree was preceded by a committee report that explained the motives and aims of the law. The following passage appears in it:—“When the rights reserved by the Constitution to the different States are deliberately violated, it is the duty and the right of those States to step in, to halt the growth of the evil; to resist usurpation, and to maintain, within their own borders, the powers and privileges that belong to them as independent sovereign States. If they lacked this right, they would not be sovereign. South Carolina declares that she recognizes no tribunal on earth above her authority. She has indeed entered into a solemn agreement of union with the other States; but she demands, and will exercise, the right to interpret it for herself; and when this agreement is broken by her sister States, and by the Government they have created, she is resolved to assert her unquestionable right to judge the extent of the violation, and to decide what steps are most suitable to obtain justice.”\]

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part IX

In the meantime, South Carolina armed its militia and prepared for war. But Congress, which had previously ignored its petitioning subjects, listened to their complaints as soon as they took up arms. \*d A law was passed, stipulating that tariff duties would be progressively reduced over ten years, until they were brought down to no more than what was necessary for Government expenses. \*e Thus, Congress entirely abandoned the principle of the tariff, substituting a simple fiscal impost for the previous system of protective duties. \*f In order to disguise its defeat, the Federal Government used a tactic often employed by weak administrations. It surrendered the point in practice but remained inflexible on the principle; and while Congress was amending the tariff law, it also passed another bill investing the President with extraordinary powers to put down by force a resistance no longer expected.

d
\[ Congress was ultimately swayed to take this step by the actions of the influential State of Virginia, whose legislature offered to mediate between the Union and South Carolina. Up until then, the latter State had appeared to be completely abandoned, even by those States that had previously joined in its protests.\]

e
\[ This law was passed on March 2, 1833.\]

f
\[ This bill was introduced by Mr. Clay and cleared both Houses of Congress by an overwhelming majority in just four days.\]

But South Carolina was unwilling to leave the Union with even these minor victories: the same national Convention that had annulled the tariff bill met again and accepted the offered compromise; but at the same time, it declared it maintained its belief in the doctrine of Nullification without wavering. To prove this, it annulled the law granting the President extraordinary powers, despite knowing that those provisions would likely never be put into effect.

Almost all the controversies I've discussed have occurred during General Jackson's Presidency; and it cannot be denied that, in the matter of the tariff, he championed the Union's cause with vigor and skill. However, I believe that the conduct of the current head of the Federal Government may actually represent one of the dangers threatening its continuance.

Some in Europe have exaggerated opinions about General Jackson’s potential impact on his country, which seem far-fetched to those more familiar with the subject. We've heard that General Jackson has won various battles, is an energetic man naturally—and by habit—prone to force, hungry for power, and a despot by inclination. This may all be true; but the conclusions drawn from these facts are seriously mistaken. It has been imagined that General Jackson aims to establish a dictatorship in America, to foster militarism, and to grant such influence to the central authority as to threaten provincial liberties. But in America, the time for such attempts—and for such leaders—has not yet arrived: if General Jackson had aspired to exercise such power, he would have surely lost his political position, and likely his life; accordingly, he has not been so unwise as to try.

Far from trying to expand federal power, the President belongs to the faction that wants to constrain that power strictly to the precise terms of the Constitution, never interpreting that charter in a way favorable to the Union; far from being a champion of centralization, General Jackson serves as an agent for the States’ jealousies; he was elevated to his high office by the very passions most hostile to the central Government. He maintains his position and popularity by continually pandering to these feelings. General Jackson is a servant of the majority: he complies with its wishes, its instincts, and its demands; in fact, he anticipates and satisfies them before they are fully formed.

Whenever the State governments come into conflict with the Union, the President is almost always first to question his own authority: he often takes the lead even before the legislature; and when the scope of federal power is disputed, he, as it were, sides against himself; he conceals his official interests and restrains his natural inclinations. Not that he is naturally weak or opposed to the Union: for when the majority decided against the supporters of nullification, he led them, asserted the doctrines the nation embraced, and was the first to recommend forceful action. But General Jackson, in my view—using American phrasing—is a Federalist by instinct and a Republican by calculation.

General Jackson humbles himself for the majority's favor, but once his popularity is secure, he crushes all obstacles pursuing the aims the public approves, or those it overlooks. He enjoys a power unknown to his predecessors; he overcomes political rivals more easily than any President before him; he assumes responsibility for actions no previous leader would have considered; he even treats Congress with a disrespect bordering on insult: he vetoes its laws and sometimes neglects to answer that powerful body at all. He is a favorite who sometimes treats his master harshly. The power of General Jackson steadily grows, but that of the Presidency itself is in decline: under him, the Federal Government is strong, but it will be left weakened for his successor.

I am much mistaken if the Federal Government of the United States is not continually losing influence, withdrawing step by step from public affairs, and shrinking its area of action. It is naturally weak, but now it even surrenders its pretensions to power. At the same time, I noticed a livelier sense of independence and a stronger attachment to local government in the States. The Union will endure, but as a shadow; it will be strong in emergencies but weak in all other times; in war, it can concentrate all the nation's forces and resources, but in peace, its presence is barely felt—as if such alternating weakness and strength could be natural or sustainable.

At present, I see nothing that could halt this general trend in public opinion; the causes that started it still operate. The change will thus continue, and unless a rare event intervenes, the Federal Government will likely grow weaker each day.

I do think, however, that the time when federal power will be completely extinguished, unable to protect itself or maintain peace, is still distant. The Union is supported by the customs and desires of the people; its results are visible, its benefits apparent. When the weakness of the Federal Government puts the Union itself at risk, I have no doubt there will be a reaction to restore its strength.

Of all the federal governments established so far, the United States' is the one most naturally suited to act. As long as it is only indirectly opposed by legal interpretation, and its substance remains unaltered, a change in public opinion, an internal crisis, or a war could restore the vigor it needs. The main point I have tried to make clear is this: many, especially in France, believe that the United States is undergoing a change of opinion favoring increased centralization in the hands of the President and Congress. I believe the opposite: the Federal Government is not gaining power or threatening the States’ sovereignty as it ages, but is instead growing weaker, and only the Union’s authority is at risk. These are the facts as they now stand. The future holds the outcome—whether something will check, slow, or speed up these changes cannot be foreseen; nor do I claim to see beyond the veil that hides them.

### Of The Republican Institutions Of The United States, And What Their Chances Of Duration Are

The Union is an accident—The Republican institutions have a better prospect for longevity—A republic is presently the natural condition for Anglo-Americans—Why this is so—To destroy it would require changing all the laws at once and a major shift in social attitudes—Difficulties Americans face in creating an aristocracy.

If the Union were to fracture, bringing war among the formerly confederate States, with standing armies, a dictatorship, and heavy taxes, it could ultimately jeopardize the fate of republican institutions. But we should not confuse the future of the republic with that of the Union. The Union is incidental, lasting only while conditions favor it; but a republican form of government appears to me as the natural condition for Americans—something which only persistent, consistent opposing forces could ever turn into a monarchy. The Union is mainly a matter of the law that established it; a single revolution or shift in public opinion could destroy it entirely; but the republic rests on much deeper foundations.

A republican government in the United States means the gradual and steady management of society by itself. It is a systematic state of affairs built on the enlightened will of the people. It is a conciliatory government where decisions are given time to mature, are discussed thoroughly, and carried out with due consideration. American republicans value morality, respect religious belief, and respect individual rights. They believe a people should be moral, religious, and temperate in proportion to its freedom. In the United States, the republic is the calm governance of the majority, which—after self-examination and evidence of legitimacy—is the sole source of all State authority. Yet the majority's power is not without limits. Morality, justice, and reason hold undisputed authority in the moral sphere; and in politics, established rights are equally respected. The majority acknowledges these boundaries; and if it sometimes oversteps them, it is because, like individuals, it has passions, and is prone to error even while discerning what is right.

However, Europe's demagogues have made odd discoveries. According to them, a republic is not majority rule, as has always been understood, but rule by the most passionate advocates of the majority. In this sort of government, it is not the people who govern, but those most fully equipped with the people’s supposed virtues. This clever distinction lets leaders act in the nation’s name without consulting it, and claim gratitude while trampling rights. In addition, a republican government is, uniquely, one that claims the right to do whatever it wants, disregarding everything previously respected—from high moral standards to everyday common sense. Until recently, despotism was thought intolerable in any form. But now, some argue that there is such a thing as legitimate tyranny and holy injustice—as long as it is in the name of the people.

The American ideas about republican government make living under it easy and support its continuance. In their country, if the form is sometimes flawed in practice, it is at least theoretically sound; and in the end, the people always act according to its principles.

When the States were founded—and still today—it would be difficult to set up a central administration in America. Too many inhabitants are spread over too vast a space, separated by too many natural barriers, for one person to direct the details of their lives. America is, therefore, by its nature, a land of local and municipal self-government. To this necessity—which all the European settlers in the New World understood—the Anglo-Americans added further reasons unique to themselves.

At the time North America was settled, municipal liberty was already part of English law and society; and the emigrants adopted it as both a necessity and a cherished privilege. As we have seen in the founding of the colonies, every province, almost every community, was settled separately by people who were strangers or who came together for very different reasons. Thus, English settlers in the U.S. soon realized they formed many small, independent communities with no overarching center; and that each community needed to manage its own affairs, since there was no central authority responsible or equipped to provide for them. Thus, the land’s nature, the way the British colonies were established, and the habits of the first settlers—all combined to make local and provincial liberties flourish to an extraordinary degree.

Therefore, in the United States, most national institutions are fundamentally republican; abolishing the laws forming the republic’s foundation would require erasing nearly all the laws at once. Today, it would be even harder for any faction to establish a monarchy in the U.S. than for a group to declare France a permanent republic. Royalty would find no system of laws ready to support it; a monarchy would be surrounded by republican institutions. Moreover, it would be hard for monarchical principles to take hold in American customs.

In the U.S., popular sovereignty isn’t some isolated theory disconnected from the attitudes and behavior of the people: on the contrary, it can be seen as the final link in a chain of ideas binding the Anglo-American world together. The belief that Providence has endowed each person with the sense needed to manage his own private affairs is the fundamental maxim underlying American civil and political society. Fathers apply it to their children, masters to servants, townships to their officials, provinces to their towns, States to their provinces, the Union to the States; and carried to the national level, it becomes the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people.

Thus, in the U.S., the republic’s principle is the same that guides most daily activity; republican ideas pervade American thought, opinion, and habits, and are formally recognized in law; and changing the law would mean profoundly changing the whole society. Even most Americans’ religion is republican, since it leaves otherworldly truths to private interpretation, just as in politics the people handle their own temporal affairs. Every person is free to choose the road he thinks will lead to salvation, just as every citizen has the right to choose his government.

Clearly, only a long series of coordinated events could ever replace this complex of law, opinion, and practice with an entirely different one.

If American republican principles ever disappear, it will be through a slow, difficult process—often interrupted and just as often revived. Their decline will show many apparent recoveries and will not be completed until a new people has replaced the old. There are, as yet, no signs of such a revolution. For the newcomer to the United States, nothing is more striking than the kind of restless activity in political life. Laws are constantly changing, and at first glance, it can seem that such a volatile people cannot avoid quickly adopting an entirely new system of government. These worries, however, are unfounded; political instability comes in two forms that should not be confused: the first modifies secondary laws and is compatible with a stable society; the second shakes the very foundation of the Constitution, attacking its fundamental principles—this leads to turmoil and revolution, and the nation that endures it is in a state of crisis.

Experience proves these two kinds of legislative instability aren't necessarily linked; they can appear together or separately, depending on time and circumstance. The first type is common in the United States, but not the second: Americans often change their laws, but the Constitution’s foundation is respected.

In our time, the republican principle prevails in America, just as the monarchical principle did in France under Louis XIV. The French of that era were not only supporters of the monarchy, but also believed it impossible to replace; they accepted it as naturally as we accept sunlight or the change of seasons. To them, royal power had neither defenders nor critics. In much the same way, the republican government exists in America without debate or opposition; it is accepted without need for justification or argument, through a tacit agreement—a kind of universal consensus. Still, I believe that by changing their administrative forms as often as they do, the people of the United States risk compromising the future stability of their government.

It could be feared that people, constantly obstructed in their plans by changing laws, might come to see republican institutions as an inconvenient form of society; the problems caused by unstable secondary laws could cast doubt on the fundamental principles of the Constitution, possibly leading, indirectly, to a revolution. However, this possibility still appears very distant.

Even now, it is possible to foresee that if the Americans ever lose their republican institutions, they will quickly transition to a despotic government, without passing through a period of limited monarchy. Montesquieu observed that nothing is more absolute than the authority of a ruler who comes to power directly after a republic, since the powers previously given freely to an elected official are then transferred to a hereditary monarch. This holds true generally, but especially so for a democratic republic. In the United States, officials are not elected by a special class of citizens, but by the majority of the nation; they directly represent the passions of the people, and if they depend entirely on public favor, they provoke neither hatred nor fear. As I have already explained, little effort has been made to restrain their influence, and they retain a vast amount of arbitrary power. This situation has cultivated habits that would endure beyond itself; the American official would keep his power, but would no longer be answerable for its use, making it impossible to predict what limits, if any, could then be set to tyranny.

Some European politicians expect to see an aristocracy emerge in America and have even predicted when it will take control of government. As I have said before, and repeat now, I believe American society is becoming increasingly democratic. Still, I do not deny that the Americans may, at some point, restrict the scope of political rights or concentrate those rights in one individual; but I cannot imagine they would ever give the exclusive exercise of those rights to a privileged class, or, in other words, create an aristocracy.

An aristocracy consists of a certain group of citizens who, though not far removed from the general population, are nonetheless set permanently above it: a group that is easy to reach but difficult to challenge, with whom the people are in daily contact but can never fully join. Nothing could be more unnatural or contrary to the deepest instincts of the human heart than such subordination; and people who are left to their own devices will always prefer the arbitrariness of a monarch to the steady rule of an aristocracy. Aristocratic institutions cannot survive without making inequality a foundational principle, built into the laws and shaping the human family as much as society itself; but such inequality is so contrary to natural justice that it can only be imposed by coercion.

I do not think history can show a single nation, since the beginning of society, that has voluntarily and intentionally created an aristocracy within itself. All aristocracies of the Middle Ages were established by military conquest; the conqueror became nobility, the defeated became serfs. Inequality was enforced by strength; and once established in the customs of a country, it maintained itself and was ratified by law. Some societies began as aristocracies due to circumstances predating their founding, and became more democratic over time. This was the path of the Romans and the nations that followed them. But a people that begins in a state of civilization and democracy, and then gradually introduces inequality until it has established inviolable privileges and exclusive classes, would be a historical first; and there is no reason to believe America will provide such a unique example.

Reflection On The Causes Of The Commercial Prosperity Of The United States

The Americans are naturally destined to be a great maritime people—Extent of their coastline—Depth of their ports—Size of their rivers—The commercial superiority of the Anglo-Americans is due less to physical factors than to moral and intellectual qualities—Explaining this view—The future of the Anglo-Americans as a commercial nation—The dissolution of the Union would not weaken the maritime strength of the states—Reason for this—Anglo-Americans will likely meet the needs of South Americans—They will become, like the English, the agents for a large part of the world.

The coastline of the United States, stretching from the Bay of Fundy to the Sabine River on the Gulf of Mexico, is more than two thousand miles long. These shores form a continuous line, all governed by the same authority. No other nation in the world owns ports that are more extensive, deeper, or safer for shipping than the Americans.

The people of the United States are a large, civilized society, placed by fortune in an undeveloped land three thousand miles from the center of Western civilization. America, therefore, relies daily on commerce with Europe. Eventually, Americans will likely manage to produce or manufacture at home most of what they need; but the two continents can never be fully independent of each other, because of the many natural links in needs, ideas, habits, and customs.

The Union produces specific goods that have become necessary to us, but which cannot be grown, or can only be produced at great cost, on European soil. Americans consume only a small portion of these products and are eager to sell the rest. Europe is thus the market for America, just as America is the market for Europe; and overseas commerce is just as essential for enabling Americans to ship their raw materials to European ports as it is for us to supply them with our manufactured goods. The United States was therefore faced with two options: to greatly increase the business of other maritime nations if they declined to trade themselves, as the Spaniards of Mexico have done so far; or, on the other hand, to become one of the leading trading countries in the world.

The Anglo-Americans have always had a strong inclination for the sea. The Declaration of Independence lifted the trade restrictions that tied them to England, and gave new and powerful energy to their maritime spirit. Ever since then, the shipping industry in the Union has grown almost as quickly as its population. Today, Americans themselves transport nine-tenths of the European goods they consume to their own shores. \*g They also carry three-quarters of the New World’s exports to European consumers. \*h Ships from the United States fill the docks of Havre and Liverpool; while the presence of English and French vessels in New York is comparatively small. \*i

g
\[ The total value of goods imported during the year ending September 30, 1832, was \$101,129,266. The value transported by foreign vessels was only \$10,731,039, or about one-tenth of the total.\]

h
\[ The value of goods exported in the same year reached \$87,176,943; exports by foreign vessels were \$21,036,183, or about one quarter of the total. (Williams’s “Register,” 1833.)\]

i
\[ The tonnage of all vessels entering United States ports in 1829, 1830, and 1831 was 3,307,719 tons, of which 544,571 tons were foreign vessels; the ratio was about 16 foreign to every 100 American. (“National Calendar,” 1833.) The tonnage of English vessels in London, Liverpool, and Hull in 1820, 1826, and 1831 amounted to 443,800 tons, with foreign vessels accounting for 159,431 tons. The ratio between them was thus about 36 to 100. (“Companion to the Almanac,” 1834.) In 1832, the ratio between foreign and British ships entering Great Britain’s ports was 29 to 100. \[These figures refer to a situation that no longer exists; the Civil War and high taxation in the United States completely changed the country’s trade and shipping.\]\]

So, the American merchant not only faces competition from his fellow citizens but also holds his own against foreign rivals in their own ports. This is easily explained: United States ships can cross the seas more cheaply than any others in the world. As long as American commercial shipping keeps this advantage, it will not only hold on to what it has gained, but will keep growing in prosperity.

##  Chapter XVIII: Future Condition Of Three Races—Part X

It is hard to determine exactly why Americans are able to trade at lower rates than other nations. At first, it seems this might be due to the physical or natural advantages at their disposal, but this is actually not the case. American ships cost nearly as much to build as those from other countries; \*j they are no better built, and usually do not last as long. The wages for American sailors are actually higher than those paid on European ships, as shown by the large number of Europeans found serving in American merchant vessels. However, I believe that their superiority is not rooted in physical advantages. Instead, it comes entirely from their moral and intellectual qualities.

j
\[ Materials are, generally speaking, less expensive in America than in Europe, but the price of labor is much higher.\]

A comparison will help clarify my point. During the Revolutionary campaigns, the French introduced new tactics to the art of war that confused the oldest generals and nearly toppled ancient European monarchies. They undertook actions that were unheard of, doing without things previously deemed essential for warfare. They demanded new efforts from their troops that no civilized nation had ever considered; they achieved great deeds in an incredibly short time; and they risked lives without hesitation to achieve their objectives. The French had fewer men and resources than their opponents, yet they triumphed repeatedly, until their enemies chose to imitate them.

Americans have taken a similar approach in their commercial ventures; they pursue low costs much as the French pursued victory. The European sailor navigates cautiously; he only sets sail in fair weather, enters port when unexpected trouble arises, reduces sail at night, and slows down near land to take observations. The American, on the other hand, ignores these precautions and faces dangers head-on. He weighs anchor even in stormy gales, sails day and night with full canvas, makes repairs at sea as needed, and rushes toward shore as soon as land is in sight. As a result, Americans are often shipwrecked—but no traders cross the seas faster. As they make the same journey in less time, they can do it more cheaply.

The European makes several stops at different ports during long voyages, wasting precious time entering and leaving harbors or waiting for favorable winds, and pays daily fees to stay in port. The American, by contrast, will leave Boston for China to buy tea, quickly arrive at Canton, stay just a few days, and return home. In less than two years, he has circled the globe, seeing land only once. True, during this eight or ten month journey he drinks brackish water and eats salted meat, always battling the sea, illness, and monotony. But when he returns, he can sell his tea for a half-penny less than the English merchant—and that is his goal.

Perhaps the best way to put it is to say that Americans approach trade with a kind of heroism. For the European merchant, it is very hard to emulate his American rival, who adopts this system not just from a calculation of profit, but from a natural impulse.

Americans experience all the needs and desires created by a highly civilized society; but, since their nation does not yet have communities as fully developed as Europe’s, they must often find ways to provide necessities for themselves. One may find an American who farms his own land, builds his own house, makes his own tools, crafts his own shoes, and weaves the rough cloth for his own clothes. This reduces the quality of the work, but greatly stimulates the worker’s intelligence. Nothing dulls a worker’s mind more or strips away the human aspect of work than excessive division of labor. In America, where specialists are hard to find, long apprenticeships are not expected in any trade. Americans therefore switch trades easily, adapting as necessary to whatever is most profitable. It’s not uncommon for a person to have been, in succession, an attorney, a farmer, a merchant, a minister, and a doctor. If the American is less skilled in each trade than the European, at least there is almost no trade he knows nothing about. His abilities are broader, and his understanding is wider.

Americans are never bound by professional conventions or traditions. They shake off the habits of their profession and even those of other nations, believing their country to be unique and without precedent. America is a land of wonder, where everything is always changing, and each change is seen as an improvement. Innovation and improvement are constant themes: there are no limits here to what people will attempt to do.

This constant motion—the frequent changes in fortune, the unpredictable shifts in both public and private wealth—keeps Americans’ minds in a continuous state of lively agitation, which drives their efforts and keeps them alert and ambitious. An American’s life is like a game of chance, a revolution, or a battle. With these forces always at work, they inevitably give a unique drive to the national character. A typical American is passionate, enterprising, adventurous, and above all, eager for innovation. This drive is clear in everything he does: politics, religion, economic theory, or daily life, whether deep in the woods or in a bustling city. Turned toward commerce, this same passion is what makes the American trader both the cheapest and the fastest on earth.

As long as American sailors keep these advantages—and the practical superiority they bring—they will not only meet their countrymen’s needs but increasingly, like the English, become the middlemen for the world’s producers and consumers. \*k This prediction is already coming true; American traders are becoming intermediaries in the commerce of several European countries, \*l and America will offer them even greater opportunities in the future.

k
\[ It must not be supposed that English vessels are exclusively employed in transporting foreign produce into England, or British produce to foreign countries; at the present day the merchant shipping of England may be regarded in the light of a vast system of public conveyances, ready to serve all the producers of the world, and to open communications between all peoples. The maritime genius of the Americans prompts them to enter into competition with the English.\]

l
\[ Part of the commerce of the Mediterranean is already carried on by American vessels.\]

The former Spanish and Portuguese colonies in South America have since become empires. Now, however, civil war and oppression plague those wide regions. Populations stagnate, and the few scattered inhabitants are too focused on defending themselves to improve their situation. But this will not last forever. Europe eventually emerged from the darkness of the Middle Ages through its own efforts; South America has the same Christian laws and customs, the same seeds of civilization that have flourished in Europe or its colonies, plus the benefit of our example. There is no reason, then, to believe South America will remain uncivilized forever. It is only a matter of time before the people of South America become prosperous and enlightened nations.

But as the Spaniards and Portuguese in South America start wanting the things common to civilized nations, they will still not be able to provide for all those wants themselves; as the youngest members of civilization, they will inevitably look to their older siblings for help. They will be farmers long before they master manufacturing or commerce, and they will need foreigners to help trade their goods overseas for the things they desire.

There is no doubt that one day North Americans will meet the needs of South Americans. Nature has placed the two in proximity and given the former every opportunity to recognize those needs, make connections, and fill South American markets. The American merchant in the United States would only lose these natural advantages if he were clearly inferior to his European counterparts; but in fact, he is superior in several ways. Already, Americans in the United States exercise much moral influence over the entire New World. They are the source of knowledge, and all their continental neighbors view them as the most enlightened, powerful, and prosperous members of the larger American family. All eyes turn toward the Union; its States serve as the model for other nations, who imitate their laws and political principles as best they can.

The Americans of the United States occupy exactly the same position in relation to the peoples of South America as the English do towards the Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese, and others in Europe who rely on England for goods they cannot provide for themselves. England is now the natural warehouse for nearly all nearby nations; the American Union will play the same role in the Western Hemisphere; every new or growing community in the New World will rise and thrive for the benefit of the Anglo-Americans.

If the Union falls apart, the commerce of its current States would certainly be slowed for a while; however, not as much as many expect. In any case, the commercial States will remain united. They are neighbors, share the same beliefs, interests, and ways of life, and alone could form a very significant maritime power. Even if the southern part of the Union becomes independent from the north, it would still need those commercial States. The South is not a land of commerce, nor does it seem likely to become one. Southern Americans will, for a long time, have to rely on outsiders for exporting their own goods and bringing in the foreign articles they need. But the Northern States can provide these services more cheaply than anyone else. They will keep that role, because price rules commerce. National loyalties and prejudices cannot stand against cheaper goods; nothing is more bitter than the rivalry between Americans and the English. Yet, despite this, Americans buy most of their manufactured goods from England, because England supplies them most cheaply. Thus, America’s rising fortunes still benefit British manufacturing, despite American resentment.

Experience and reason both show that commercial prosperity can last only when supported, if needed, by naval power. This fact is as well understood in the United States as anywhere else: Americans already command respect for their flag, and in a few years, they will inspire fear. I am convinced that splitting up the Union would not reduce American naval power; rather, it would actually increase it. Right now, the commercial States are linked to others that do not share their interests and who often hesitate to strengthen the maritime power from which they benefit only indirectly. But, if the commercial States became a nation on their own, commerce would be their chief national concern; they would invest heavily in protecting their shipping and would have nothing to stop them from pursuing their goals.

Nations, like individuals, often reveal the outline of their future in their beginnings. When I look at the zeal with which Anglo-Americans pursue trade, the advantages in their favor, and their impressive successes, I cannot help but believe they will eventually be the world’s greatest maritime power. They are born to command the seas, just as the Romans were born to conquer the world.

##  Conclusion

I am now nearly finished with my inquiry. So far, I have tried to separate my analysis of the future of the United States into clear sections, to better study each part. Now, my aim is to view the subject as a whole from a single perspective; my remarks will be less detailed, but perhaps more reliable. I will not see each element as clearly, but I will better grasp the main facts. It is like a traveler, who leaves a great city and climbs a nearby hill. As he moves away, the people he just left blur from sight; their homes blend together in a mass; he can no longer make out public squares or the main avenues, but it’s easier to see the city’s edge and, for the first time, its entire form. Such is how I view the future of the British race in North America; the details of the immense picture are shadowed, but the general shape is clear to me.

The land now occupied or claimed by the United States covers about one-twentieth of the earth that is fit for habitation. Still, we should not believe that the Anglo-American people will always remain within these borders; indeed, they have already gone far beyond them.

There was a time when we might have created a great French nation in the American wilderness, to balance the influence of the English in shaping the destiny of the New World. France once owned territory in North America nearly as large as all of Europe. The three largest rivers on the continent were then entirely within her domain. The local tribes stretching between the mouth of the St. Lawrence and the delta of the Mississippi heard no language but French. Every European outpost scattered over the vast region recalled our homeland. Places like Louisbourg, Montmorency, Duquesne, St. Louis, Vincennes, New Orleans (as they were called then) are still names dear to France.

But a combination of circumstances, too lengthy to list here, \*m robbed us of this magnificent inheritance. Where the French settlers were few and not firmly rooted, they have vanished; those who remain are grouped in a small region, now under foreign laws. The 400,000 French inhabitants of Lower Canada today are the last remnant of a nation lost among new people. A foreign population is quickly growing around them, already mixing in among the former masters, dominating their cities, and changing their language. This population is essentially the same as that of the United States; it is true, then, that the British race is not confined to the Union’s borders, since it is already spreading northeast.

m
\[ The foremost of these circumstances is, that nations which are accustomed to free institutions and municipal government are better able than any others to found prosperous colonies. The habit of thinking and governing for oneself is indispensable in a new country, where success necessarily depends, in a great measure, upon the individual exertions of the settlers.\]

To the northwest, one finds only a few insignificant Russian settlements; to the southwest, Mexico blocks the Anglo-Americans. Thus, the Spaniards and Anglo-Americans are the only two groups that truly divide New World territory. The boundary line between them has been established by treaty; even though the terms greatly favor the Anglo-Americans, I do not doubt they will soon cross that line. Vast regions beyond the Union’s border toward Mexico remain uninhabited. United States citizens will move into these empty lands, claiming the soil and establishing their social institutions so that, when the legal owner at last arrives, he will find farmland and strangers settled on his estate. \*n

n
\[ \[This was speedily accomplished, and ere long both Texas and California formed part of the United States. The Russian settlements were acquired by purchase.\]\]

The lands of the New World belong to those who occupy them first, and they are the natural reward for the boldest pioneers. Even countries that are already settled will have difficulty protecting themselves from this kind of invasion. I have already mentioned what is happening in the province of Texas. People from the United States are continually migrating to Texas, where they buy land; and although they comply with the country's laws, they are gradually establishing the dominance of their own language and customs. Texas is still part of the Mexican territories, but soon it will have hardly any Mexicans; this same pattern has happened whenever Anglo-Americans have come into contact with populations of different origins.

It cannot be denied that the British race has achieved an incredible dominance over all other European races in the New World, and that it far surpasses them in civilization, industry, and power. As long as it is surrounded only by wilderness or sparsely populated areas, and does not encounter dense populations it cannot penetrate, it will certainly continue to expand. The boundaries drawn by treaties will not hold it back; these imaginary lines will be crossed everywhere.

The geographical position of the British race in the New World is especially favorable to its rapid growth. The icy regions of the Pole are to its north; and just a few degrees below its southern edge lies the scorching climate of the Equator. The Anglo-Americans are therefore located in the most temperate and habitable zone of the continent.

It is generally believed that the tremendous growth of the population in the United States began after their Declaration of Independence. But this is a mistake: the population grew just as quickly under colonial rule as it does today—doubling about every twenty-two years. But the rate that now applies to millions once applied to just thousands of people; so the same pattern that was barely noticeable a century ago is now obvious to everyone.

The British subjects in Canada, who are governed by a king, have increased and spread nearly as quickly as British settlers in the United States, who live under a republican system. During the Revolutionary War, which lasted eight years, the population kept increasing at the same rate. Even though powerful Indian nations allied with the English lived on the western frontiers at that time, westward migration was never stopped. While the enemy ravaged the Atlantic shores, Kentucky, western Pennsylvania, Vermont, and Maine were all filling with settlers. Not even the unsettled political climate after the war slowed down population growth or expansion into the frontier. Therefore, differences in laws, and the alternating conditions of peace and war, order and disorder, have had no noticeable effect on the overall development of the Anglo-Americans. This is understandable: in such a large territory, no single factor is broad enough to affect the whole land at once. One part of the country always offers a haven from the problems afflicting another; and however great the hardship, the solution available nearby is always greater.

It must not, then, be thought that the expansion of the British race in the New World can be stopped. The breakup of the Union, the wars that could follow, the end of republican institutions, or the rise of a tyrannical government could slow this expansion, but cannot ultimately prevent it from fulfilling its destiny. No earthly power can keep emigrants away from the fertile wilderness that offers opportunity to all hard work and a refuge from all poverty. Whatever events may occur, nothing will deprive Americans of their climate or their inland seas, their great rivers, or their rich soil. Nor can bad laws, revolutions, or chaos erase that pursuit of success and entrepreneurial spirit that seems to be their defining trait, or extinguish the knowledge that guides them.

So, amid an unpredictable future, one thing is clear. In a time not far off (considering the lifespan of nations), the Anglo-Americans will be the only people across the immense territory from the polar regions to the tropics, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. The area likely to be settled by Anglo-Americans in the future can be estimated as equal to three-quarters the size of Europe.*o The climate in the United States is generally better than Europe's, and its natural advantages are just as great; so it is obvious that its population will one day match our own. Europe, divided among many different nations and scarred by constant wars and the harsh ways of the Middle Ages, has nevertheless reached a population of 410 people per square league.*p What could possibly prevent the United States from ultimately having as dense a population?

o
\[The United States already occupy a territory equal to half of Europe. Europe's area is 500,000 square leagues, and its population 205,000,000. (“Malte Brun,” liv. 114. vol. vi.)\]

\[This figure uses French leagues, which were standard when the author wrote. Twenty years later, in 1850, the area of the United States had grown to 3,306,865 square miles, about the same as Europe.\]

p
\[See “Malte Brun,” liv. 116, vol. vi.\]

Centuries may pass before the various branches of the British race in America lose their similar character, and it's impossible to foresee when any lasting inequality of conditions will arise in the New World. No matter what differences emerge—whether from peace or war, freedom or oppression, prosperity or hardship—among the destinies of the different descendants of the great Anglo-American family, they will at least keep a comparable social condition, sharing the same customs and opinions born from that society.

In the Middle Ages, the bond of religion was strong enough to give a shared civilization to the different peoples of Europe. The British people of the New World have many more ties with each other, and they live in an age when the tendency toward equality is widespread. The Middle Ages were a time of fragmentation; each nation, province, city, and even family wanted to preserve its own uniqueness. Today, an opposite trend dominates, and nations seem to move toward unity. Our modern ways of communication connect the farthest corners of the globe; it's no longer possible for people to stay strangers to one another, or not know what’s happening anywhere in the world. As a result, there is less difference now between Europeans and their descendants in the New World than there was, in the thirteenth century, between two towns separated only by a river. If this tendency toward similarity brings foreign nations closer, it all the more keeps the descendants of the same people from becoming strangers.

The time will come when one hundred and fifty million people will live in North America,*q in similar conditions, all descended from the same race, owing their origin to the same causes, and maintaining the same civilization, language, religion, habits, customs, and opinions, spread in the same way. All else remains uncertain, but this is certain; and it is an unprecedented fact in world history—one with consequences so vast they challenge even imagination.

q
\[This would match Europe’s population, using an average of 410 inhabitants per square league.\]

Today, there are two great nations in the world which appear headed for the same destination, though they started from opposite points: the Russians and the Americans. Both developed unnoticed; and while the world looked elsewhere, they suddenly rose to a most prominent position among nations; the world learned of their existence and their power almost at the same moment.

All other nations seem to have mostly reached their natural boundaries, charged only with maintaining their power; but these two are still growing;*r all the others are checked, or can advance only with great difficulty; these two move easily and quickly down a path with no apparent end. The American struggles against the natural obstacles before him; the Russian's opponents are other people; the American conquers the wilderness and savage life; the Russian opposes civilization, with all its weapons and arts: one wins by the plow, the other by the sword. The Anglo-American depends on personal interest to achieve his aims, giving free rein to the independent efforts and common sense of all citizens; the Russian concentrates all authority in one hand: the main tool of the former is freedom, of the latter, servitude. Their starting-points differ, and their paths are not the same, yet both seem marked out by fate to decide the future of half the world.

r
\[Russia is the country in the Old World where population grows most rapidly in proportion.\]

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## Volume 2

# DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA

## By Alexis De Tocqueville

## Book Two: Influence Of Democracy On Progress Of Opinion in The United States

## De Tocqueville’s Preface To The Second Part

Americans live in a democratic society, which has naturally led them to create certain laws and a distinct political character. This same society has also given rise among them to numerous feelings and ideas that were unknown in the older aristocratic societies of Europe: it has destroyed or changed all the relationships that once existed, and established entirely new ones. The structure of civil society has been just as affected by these changes as the political sphere. The former was addressed in my earlier work, *Democracy in America*, which I published five years ago; the current book is an examination of the latter. Yet, these two parts complete each other and together form one unified work.

I must warn the reader from the outset against a serious misunderstanding. If he finds that I attribute many different outcomes to the principle of equality, he might think I believe this principle is the only cause for everything happening in our time. That would be to accuse me of a very narrow perspective. Many opinions, emotions, and tendencies that exist now originate from circumstances unrelated or even opposed to the principle of equality. For example, if I were to look at the United States, I could easily show that the nature of the country, the origin of its people, the religion of the founders, their knowledge, and their earlier customs have all had, and still have, a significant influence on the thoughts and feelings of Americans—independently of democracy. Likewise, different causes unrelated to the equality of conditions could be found in Europe to explain much of what happens there.

I recognize all these factors and their influence, but my subject does not require me to address them. I have not set out to explore the reason for all our preferences and beliefs; my only aim is to show how the principle of equality has changed both past and present beliefs and tendencies.

Some readers might be surprised that—though I am firmly convinced the democratic revolution we are witnessing is unstoppable and that resisting it would be neither desirable nor wise—I often speak quite critically of those democratic societies that this revolution has created. My answer is simple: it is precisely because I am not an opponent of democracy that I have chosen to speak honestly about it.

People will not accept the truth from their enemies, and rarely is the truth offered by their friends. For this reason, I have spoken it. I was convinced that many would readily proclaim the new benefits the principle of equality offers humanity, but few would warn about the dangers it brings. Therefore, I have focused on those hazards, and, believing I saw them clearly, I have not been afraid to point them out.

I hope my readers will find in this Second Part the same impartiality that was noticed in my earlier book. Standing among the conflicting views that divide us, I have tried to set aside, at least for a time, the positive or negative feelings each view inspires in me. If anyone reading this book finds even one sentence written to flatter any of the major parties that have shaken my country, or any of the small factions now troubling and weakening it, let them speak out against me.

The subject I set out to cover is vast, since it includes most of the feelings and ideas created by the new social order. Such a topic surely exceeds my abilities, and in writing about it, I have not managed to satisfy myself. But if I have failed to reach the goal I intended, I hope my readers will at least recognize that I have undertaken and pursued this work in a spirit worthy of success.

A. De T.

## Section I: Influence of Democracy on the Action of Intellect in The United States.

## Chapter I: Philosophical Method Among the Americans

I believe that nowhere in the civilized world is less attention given to philosophy than in the United States. Americans have no distinct philosophical school of their own, and they care little for the various schools that divide Europe, the very names of which are barely known to them. Nevertheless, it is clear that almost all Americans approach reasoning in the same way and follow the same guiding principles. Without the effort of formalizing a philosophical method, they possess one that is common to the whole people. To escape the confines of systems and habits, family traditions, class opinions, and, to some extent, national biases; to treat tradition mainly as a source of information, and existing facts as lessons to guide improvement; to seek reasons independently and solely within oneself; to focus on outcomes rather than methods, and to pursue substance through form—these are the key features of what I call the American philosophical method. If I look even deeper for the dominant characteristic, I see that in most intellectual endeavors, each American relies on the individual use of his own understanding alone. America is thus among the places where philosophy is least studied, yet where Descartes's principles are best put into practice. This is not surprising. Americans do not read Descartes’s works, as their social environment discourages speculative study; but they follow his maxims because their social state naturally prepares their thinking to receive them. Amid the ongoing flux of a democratic society, the link binding one generation to the next is loosened or broken; every individual quickly loses track of ancestral ideas or disregards them altogether. Nor do people in this society derive their beliefs from the opinions of a particular class, for there are virtually no remaining classes, or those that exist are so fluid that they exert no real control over their members. As for the influence of one individual’s intellect over another’s, it must be very limited in a nation where citizens, standing on the same level, closely observe one another; and as no one stands out as having undeniable greatness or superiority, people are always brought back to their own reason as the most readily available and apparent source of truth. It is not just confidence in any specific person that is diminished, but the very inclination to accept the authority of anyone at all. Each person retreats into his own mind and judges the world from that viewpoint.

This habit among Americans—of measuring everything by their own judgment—leads to other mental attitudes. Since they see they can solve the practical challenges of daily life on their own, they come to believe everything in the world can be explained, and that nothing exceeds the grasp of human understanding. Thus, they are quick to deny whatever they cannot comprehend, making them skeptical toward the extraordinary and almost entirely averse to the supernatural. Relying on their own senses, they prefer to examine what interests them with full clarity. They strip away as much as they can that might hide or distance the subject, removing anything that obstructs their view, so they can examine matters up close and in the clear light of day. This mental habit soon makes them dismissive of forms, which they see as unnecessary and bothersome barriers to truth.

Thus, Americans did not need to learn their method from books; they discovered it within themselves. A similar pattern can be seen in Europe. This approach only gained a wide following and became popular in Europe as society grew more equal and people became more similar to one another. Let’s take a moment to consider how this progression unfolded. In the sixteenth century, the Reformers allowed certain sacred doctrines to be questioned by individual judgment, yet they still withheld that right for the rest. In the seventeenth century, Bacon in natural science and Descartes in philosophy properly abandoned established formulas, challenged the reign of tradition, and toppled the authority of the schools. Eighteenth-century philosophers, expanding the same idea, sought to subject all beliefs to individual scrutiny.

Who does not see that Luther, Descartes, and Voltaire all used the same method, differing only in how widely they thought it should be applied? Why did the Reformers limit private judgment to religious ideas? Why did Descartes, although he made his method fit for all realms, choose to apply it only to some and declare that individuals might judge for themselves about philosophy, but not politics? How did it happen that, in the eighteenth century, broad new applications sprang up from this same method—applications that Descartes and his predecessors had either not noticed or dismissed? What explains that this method, after long being confined to schools, suddenly moved into society and became the accepted intellectual standard, and, after the French popularized it, has since been either openly or quietly adopted across Europe?

This philosophical method may have originated in the sixteenth century and been refined and more fully applied in the seventeenth; but it could not spread widely in either period. Political laws, society's structure, and the mental habits drawn from these were still obstacles. The method was found at a time when social equality was beginning to emerge. It could become common only in eras where conditions have grown nearly equal, and people more alike.

The philosophical method of the eighteenth century is thus not simply French, but also democratic; this explains why it gained such ready acceptance across Europe and so powerfully changed society. The French did not transform the world by changing their beliefs or customs, but by generalizing and promoting a method that made it easier to challenge what was old and make way for what was new.

If it is asked why, today, the French follow this method more stringently and frequently than Americans, despite the fact that equality is no less full and has an older history in the latter, the answer lies in two important facts that must be plainly understood. First, religion founded Anglo-American society. In the United States, religion is intertwined with all national habits and patriotic feelings, giving it exceptional influence. To this strong reason another should be added: in America, religion has clearly defined its own boundaries. Religious and political institutions have remained entirely separate, allowing former laws to be changed while former faith remains stable. Christianity has thus held strong sway in the American mind; more specifically, its influence is not only as a reasoned doctrine but as a faith accepted without debate. Christian sects in America are numerous and constantly changing; but Christianity is such an established reality that no one tries to attack or even defend it. Since Americans accept the main principles of Christianity without scrutiny, they also must accept many connected moral truths. As a result, individual critical analysis is greatly limited, and many key beliefs are kept outside its reach.

The second factor is this: while American society and government are democratic, Americans have not experienced a democratic revolution. They arrived on their territory already in a state very much like the present, which is quite significant.

Every revolution unsettles accepted belief, undermines authority, and casts doubt on what is commonly held. The effect of revolutions is, therefore, to leave people more dependent on themselves, providing almost endless room for speculation. When equality arrives after a long struggle among different classes of older society, envy, resentment, and conceit tend to take root, sometimes dominating hearts and sowing division. This, apart from equality itself, deepens mistrust and drives each person to seek truth only for themselves. Each individual makes it a point of pride to form his own opinion on everything, binding together with others not by shared ideas but by interests. It is as if public opinion is broken into intellectual dust—diffused everywhere, unable to collect or stick together.

Therefore, the independence of thought that equality envisions is never so intense as when equality is just being established, or during the difficult process by which it is created. This intellectual freedom that equality can offer should be carefully distinguished from the chaos that revolution brings. Each should be separately considered, so one does not hold exaggerated hopes or fears for the future.

I believe that people living under the new democratic orders will often use their private judgment; but I do not think they will frequently abuse it. This comes from a more general cause common to all democracies, and over time this cause naturally limits excessive independence of individual thought. I will explain this further in the next chapter.

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

At different times, dogmatic belief is more or less widespread. It starts in different ways, and its subject and form may change; but dogmatic belief will never disappear. In other words, people will always hold some unquestioned opinions, never debating them. If everyone tried to form all their opinions from scratch by their own unique methods, it is unlikely that any significant number of people would share beliefs. But obviously, without shared beliefs, no society can flourish—or, more basically, even exist; for without common ideas, there can be no collective action, and with no collective action, there may still be individuals, but no society. For society to exist, and even more, for it to prosper, all citizens' minds must be unified and held together by certain dominant ideas; and this cannot happen unless each person occasionally accepts some shared beliefs and is willing to receive certain opinions from the community.

Looking at the individual, dogmatic belief is just as necessary for solitary life as for living and cooperating with others. If a person had to prove every truth he uses every day, his work would never be done. He would tire himself with endless preliminaries and never move forward. Given life’s limited time and the mind’s limitations, he must accept many facts and opinions he has not verified, relying on those discovered by abler people or generally accepted by the world. On this foundation he builds his own thoughts—not by preference so much as necessity. There is not a thinker on earth who does not believe a million things on the authority of others, and who does not assume countless facts that he has never proven. This is not only necessary but beneficial. Someone who tries to investigate everything himself can only give each matter a little attention. His inquiry would keep his mind forever unsettled, preventing him from penetrating the depth of any truth or committing to any strong conviction. His mind would be both free and helpless. He must therefore select which things to question, accepting many unexamined opinions so he can focus his attention more effectively on those he chooses to investigate. It is true that believing something just on someone else’s word does restrict the mind; but this is a healthy discipline, enabling him to use his freedom well.

A principle of authority must, therefore, always exist in some area of the moral and intellectual world. Its place may shift, but it must always be present. The independence of individual minds may be greater or less, but it can never be unlimited. So the question is not whether intellectual authority will exist in more democratic ages, but simply where it will reside and how it will be measured.

In the previous chapter I showed how equality tends to breed an instinctive distrust of the supernatural, and a high, sometimes exaggerated, confidence in human reason. Those living in socially equal times are not inclined to locate intellectual authority above or outside humanity. Instead, they look for truth within themselves or among their peers. This alone suggests that in such times no new religion could be founded, and that any plan for such would be not just irreverent but misguided and unreasonable. We can foresee that a democratic people will not easily believe in divine missions; they will quickly joke about modern prophets and will look for the chief authority of belief within, not beyond, humanity.

When societies are unequal and people of varying ranks, there are individuals set above the rest, possessing more intelligence, education, and insight, while the masses remain in ignorance and prejudice. In these aristocratic times, people naturally direct their opinions by the superior judgment of certain persons or classes and are hesitant to trust the wisdom of the majority.

The reverse is true in times of equality. As citizens become more similar in condition, each person becomes less likely to place blind faith in any single individual or class, while his willingness to trust the majority grows, and public opinion gains unprecedented power. During such times, not only does common opinion remain the only guide for private judgment, but it also wields much more influence. Equal societies have little faith in individual wisdom, due to everyone’s similarity; but that very likeness causes nearly unbounded faith in the majority’s judgment, since people endowed with equal abilities to judge believe that the larger group is almost certainly closer to the truth.

An American, comparing himself to those around him, feels proud that he is anyone’s equal; but facing the entirety of his community, he suddenly feels small and powerless. The same equality that frees him from dependence on each neighbor makes him susceptible to the influence of the majority. The public, in democratic societies, has a unique power that aristocratic peoples could never conceive; it not only persuades but enforces beliefs, pressing them upon individuals by the massive weight of collective opinion.

In the United States, the majority provides a vast number of ready-made opinions for people, freeing individuals from forming their own. Nearly everyone there adopts a host of philosophies, moral views, and political beliefs without questioning, simply on public trust; and, upon close inspection, even religion’s dominance there comes less from revealed truth than from commonly held opinion. The Americans’ laws, placing supreme authority in the majority, only strengthen the natural influence of majority opinion. For nothing is more human than to credit the judgment of one’s controller. This political dominance of the majority in the United States certainly boosts the power of public opinion; but the real roots of that influence lie in equality itself, not in specific institutions that people under that condition may create. The intellectual rule of the many would likely be less absolute in a democracy with a king than in a pure democracy, but it will always be extremely strong; and whatever government democratic societies adopt, faith in public opinion will likely become a sort of religion, with the majority as its prophet.

Thus, intellectual authority will change, but not weaken; rather than disappearing, it may grow even stronger and confine private judgment within boundaries that are too tight for humanity’s greatness or happiness. In the principle of equality I clearly see two tendencies: one pushes every mind toward new ideas, the other just as strongly discourages independent thought. I also see how, under some laws, democracy could put out the intellectual freedom it naturally favors, so that after breaking all old restraints by rank or individual, the mind could become tightly bound by the will of the many.

If, in democratic countries, the unchecked power of the majority replaces the various old constraints on individual creativity, the problem will merely take a new form. People would not become truly independent; instead, they would invent—no small feat—a new type of servitude. There is much here for reflection by those who cherish liberty and who despise not only tyrants but tyranny itself. For my part, when I feel authority weighing down on me, I care little about who wields it; and I am no more willing to accept the yoke because it’s offered by millions rather than by one.

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

God does not look at humanity as a whole. He sees each individual and notices both the similarities that unite humans and the differences that distinguish them. Therefore, God has no need for general ideas; that is, He does not ever feel the necessity of grouping many similar objects under the same category for convenience in thinking. This, however, is not the case for humans. If the human mind tried to examine and judge every individual case, the sheer mass of details would soon overwhelm and confuse it. In response, humans rely on an imperfect but necessary method that both serves and reveals their limitations. After briefly observing a number of objects and noting their resemblance, humans give them a shared name, set them apart as a group, and move forward.

General ideas do not prove the strength of the human intellect; rather, they show its limitations. In nature, no two beings are exactly alike, no things precisely identical, and no rules perfectly fit multiple objects at once. The main benefit of general ideas is that they allow the mind to make quick judgments about many things at once. However, these ideas are always incomplete, sacrificing accuracy for breadth. As societies advance in civilization, they learn more facts and, almost unconsciously, grasp some particular truths each day. The more of these truths someone understands, the more general ideas they naturally develop. Seeing many individual facts at once inevitably reveals the common threads connecting them. Several individuals lead us to notice the species; several species point to the genus. As a result, the habit and preference for general ideas will always be greatest among people with a long history of learning and broad knowledge.

Yet, other factors push people either to generalize their ideas or to restrain them.

Americans are much more prone to using general ideas than the English and enjoy them much more. This seems surprising at first, considering both nations share the same origin, lived for centuries under the same laws, and continue to exchange opinions and customs. The contrast becomes even starker if we look at Europe and compare the two most enlightened nations there. It seems as though the English mind leaves the world of particular facts only reluctantly, rising to consider causes almost against its own inclination, and only forms general ideas from necessity. Among the French, however, the passion for general ideas appears so fervent that it must be indulged at every opportunity. Every morning I am told that a new, universal law has been discovered, one I’d never heard about before. There is not even a minor writer who doesn’t attempt to uncover truths applicable to an entire nation, and who is dissatisfied if he hasn’t managed to contain the human race within a single article. Such a stark difference between two highly enlightened peoples surprises me. Looking again at events in England over the last fifty years, I believe I can say that the taste for general ideas grows there as its old constitution weakens.

Therefore, the level of civilization alone cannot explain why people are drawn to general ideas or shy away from them. When social conditions are highly unequal and inequality is a permanent state, individuals gradually become so different that each class takes on the character of a separate race. Only one class is visible at any moment, and people lose sight of the universal thread linking all within humanity. Their attention rests not on humanity, but on certain individuals. Those living in aristocratic societies rarely form broad ideas about themselves, and this tendency shapes an instinctive distrust or even aversion to general ideas. In contrast, someone in a democratic country sees people around them who are not very different from one another. Any observation about one person naturally expands to include all. Any truth he learns about himself seems equally relevant to each fellow citizen and fellow human being. After developing the habit of generalizing his ideas in matters that most engage and interest him, he applies that habit in all pursuits; thus, the drive to discover general laws, to group many things under one formula, and to explain numerous facts with a single cause, becomes a deep and sometimes careless passion in the human mind.

Nothing proves this more than how the ancients viewed their slaves. Even the most thoughtful minds of Rome and Greece could not grasp the simple, general idea of human likeness and the right of all to freedom. They attempted to prove that slavery was natural and would always exist. In fact, evidence shows that even former slaves who rose to freedom and wrote excellent works still saw servitude in no other light.

All great writers of antiquity came from the master class or witnessed its unquestioned authority. Even after stretching their minds in many directions, they were blocked from progressing further in one area; it took the coming of Jesus Christ to teach that all humans are innately equal and alike.

In times of equality, people become independent, isolated, and weak. The masses are not guided by the will of a few; instead, society seems to move on its own. To understand these events, people must look for broad causes that operate on everyone, pushing them all down the same path. This again naturally leads to conceiving general ideas and developing a preference for them.

I have already explained how equality of conditions encourages each individual to search for truth personally. It can be seen that this approach leads the human mind toward general ideas. When I reject the constraints of social rank, profession, and heritage, and act independently of example to find my own way by pure reason, I am forced to look to human nature itself for guidance. This, inevitably and almost unconsciously, causes me to adopt many very general notions.

All this explains why the English show much less readiness and appreciation for general ideas than their American descendants, and even less than their French neighbors; and why modern English people develop these qualities more than their ancestors did. The English have long been both very enlightened and highly aristocratic; enlightenment encouraged them to generalize, but aristocratic habits forced them to focus on particulars. Thus emerged English philosophy—both bold and cautious, broad and narrow—which still shapes and slows intellectual progress in that country.

Aside from the causes I have already pointed out, there are others less obvious but just as effective, which cause almost every democratic people to develop a taste, and often a passion, for general ideas. It is important to distinguish between different kinds of general ideas. Some come from slow, careful, and diligent thought; these expand human knowledge. Others arise quickly from a brief flash of wit and lead only to shallow and uncertain notions. People living in times of equality are very curious but have little leisure; their lives are so practical, confused, fast-paced, and active, that they have little time to think deeply. Such individuals lean toward general ideas because these save them the trouble of studying specifics. General ideas pack a lot into a small space and provide significant insight in a short time. So, if a person believes they've found a common link among certain things after a fast and careless review, they rarely explore further. Without examining in detail how things differ or agree, they quickly group them under one heading and move on.

A defining trait of democratic times is the taste for easy success and instant reward. This appears in intellectual pursuits as much as in any others. Most living in an age of equality are ambitious, but their ambition is both eager and lazy: they want quick, impressive results, but they hope to avoid serious effort. These conflicting desires lead them straight to general ideas, for they hope to appear important at little cost and attract public attention with little work. And they may not be wrong, since their audience is just as unwilling to examine anything in depth. Most readers seek easy pleasure and quick information, not hard-earned insight.

If aristocratic societies neglect and sometimes scorn general ideas, democratic societies are always prepared to take such ideas to excess and embrace them with misguided enthusiasm.

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

As noted in the last chapter, Americans have less of a taste for general ideas than the French; this is especially true in politics. Although Americans work many more general ideas into their laws than the English and spend more effort ensuring practice matches theory, no American political bodies have ever shown the intense commitment to general ideas seen in France's Constituent Assembly and the Convention. The American people have never seized such ideas with the passionate fervor of the French eighteenth century, nor displayed the same blind confidence in the absolute truth of any one theory. There are several reasons for this difference, but it stems mainly from this: Americans are a democratic people who have always managed their own public affairs. The French are democratic in nature, but for a long time could only imagine the best ways to run their government. France's social conditions encouraged very general ideas about government, but its political constitution prevented those ideas from being tested in practice or proven insufficient. In America, these factors constantly balance and correct each other.

At first, this might seem the opposite of what I said before—that democratic nations are drawn to theory because of the excitement of active life. A closer look shows these points aren't contradictory. People in democratic countries latch onto general ideas mainly because they have little time and those ideas help them avoid studying details. This is true, but it only applies to topics that aren't their daily preoccupation. Businesspeople, for instance, will readily and uncritically accept general ideas about philosophy, politics, science, or the arts, but when it comes to commerce, they are discerning and won’t adopt general ideas without careful examination. The same holds for statesmen with political ideas. So, if there is any area in which a democratic people might abandon themselves to grand theories, the best remedy is to make that area part of their daily practical affairs. Daily involvement in details will reveal the weaknesses of theory. Although this process might sometimes be difficult, it always works.

Therefore, the democratic institutions that force every citizen to take part in government also moderate the excessive passion for grand political theories that is otherwise sparked by the principle of equality.

## Chapter V: Of The Manner In Which Religion In The United States Avails Itself Of Democratic Tendencies

In an earlier chapter, I stated that people cannot live without dogmatic beliefs, and that it is very desirable for such beliefs to exist among them. Now, I add that, of all types of dogmatic belief, religious belief seems to me the most desirable—even simply from the perspective of worldly interests. Almost every human action, no matter how individual, has its roots in very broad ideas that people hold about God, about His relationship to humanity, about the nature of their own souls, and about their duties to others. Nothing stops these ideas from being the common source from which everything else flows. People, therefore, have a vast interest in acquiring fixed ideas about God, the soul, and their common duties to both their Creator and fellow humans; for to doubt these basic principles would leave all human actions at the mercy of chance, condemning them to live, at least partially, powerless and undisciplined.

This is, then, the subject on which it is most crucial for each of us to have fixed ideas. Unfortunately, it is also the subject on which it is hardest for anyone, left to their own reasoning, to form solid opinions. Only minds exceptionally free from common worries—penetrating, subtle minds, trained by deep thought—can, even with much time and effort, reach any depth in these essential truths. In fact, even these philosophers are nearly always shrouded in uncertainty; at each step, the natural light guiding them fades; and despite their efforts, they have so far discovered only a handful of conflicting notions that have tossed the human mind about for thousands of years, without gaining a firmer hold on truth—or even novelty in error. Most people are ill-equipped for such studies; and even if the majority had the capacity, they would lack the leisure to pursue them. Fixed ideas about God and human nature are essential for daily life, but the demands of daily life prevent people from acquiring such ideas.

The difficulty seems to me unparalleled. Among the sciences, there are some useful and accessible to the masses, while others are within reach of just a few, and the many rely only on their indirect applications. But the "science" I speak of is one that is indispensable to everyone in daily practice, though the study of it is inaccessible to almost all.

General ideas about God and human nature, therefore, are the very ideas most proper to remove from the constant influence of private judgment, where there is the most to gain and the least to lose by recognizing a principle of authority. The first goal—and a major benefit—of religion is to offer clear, precise, and comprehensible answers to these fundamental questions that are accessible to all and enduring. There are religions that are very false and very absurd; but it can be said that any religion remaining within these limits (without seeking to go beyond them, as many have tried to do by attempting to shut in every side of human progress) imposes a healthy check on the intellect. Even if it doesn't save people in the next world, such religion is at least highly useful for their happiness and greatness in this one. This is especially true for those living in free countries. When a people's religion is destroyed, doubt seizes control of the highest faculties of the mind and half-paralyzes all others. People get used to having only vague and shifting opinions on the matters most important to themselves and their fellows. Their opinions are poorly defended and easily abandoned; and, desperate to resolve by themselves the hardest questions of human destiny, they come to think of them no more. Such a state can only weaken the soul, sap the will, and prepare a people for servitude. They do not just let others take their freedom—they often surrender it themselves. With neither religious nor political authority, people are soon frightened by the sight of boundless independence. The constant motion of everything around them distresses and exhausts them. As all is uncertain in the realm of thought, they seek at least to make the mechanisms of society stable and firm; and since they cannot recover old beliefs, they look for a master instead.

For my part, I doubt that people can support both complete religious independence and complete public freedom at the same time. I tend to think that if someone lacks faith, they must submit; and if they are free, they must believe.

Yet perhaps the immense value of religion is even more noticeable in nations where social equality prevails. Equality, for all the great benefits it brings, also instills, as will be later shown, some dangerous tendencies. It tends to isolate people from one another, focus everyone's attention on themselves, and expose their souls to an overwhelming love of material comforts. The greatest benefit of religion is to instill principles that are completely opposed to these. Every religion places the object of human desire above the treasures of earth, naturally raising people’s souls to higher realms, well above the senses. Every religion also imposes duties towards others and draws people, at times, out of self-absorption—even those that are false and dangerous. Religious nations are thus naturally strong exactly where democratic nations are weak, making it clear how vital it is for people to preserve religion as their condition becomes more equal.

I have neither the right nor the intention to examine the supernatural methods God uses to instill religious belief in human hearts. Here, I am considering religions solely in human terms: my goal is to understand how they can best maintain their influence in the democratic times we are entering. It has already been shown that, in times of widespread education and equality, the human mind is reluctant to adopt dogmatic opinions, feeling their necessity only in spiritual matters. This proves, first, that at such times, religions should be even more careful than ever to stay within their own sphere; if they attempt to expand their power beyond spiritual matters, they risk not being believed at all. The boundaries they set for the human mind need to be drawn with care; beyond them, the mind should be entirely free to follow its own path. Muhammad claimed to receive—not only a body of religious doctrine—but also political, civil, and criminal laws, and scientific theories, divinely from Heaven, and they are all included in the Koran. The gospel, on the other hand, speaks only of humanity’s relationship to God and to each other; it imposes no other articles of faith. This alone—without mentioning a thousand other reasons—would prove that the former religion could never long endure in an educated and democratic age, while the latter is destined to retain its influence in every epoch.

Further, I find that for religions to retain their power in democratic times, they must not only restrict themselves to spiritual matters: their influence also very much depends on the nature of the beliefs they teach, the external forms they assume, and the obligations they require. My earlier observation—that equality leads people to favor broad and extensive notions—applies especially to religion. People living under similar, equal conditions readily conceive of one God, who rules all by the same laws and grants future happiness on the same terms to all. The idea of human unity constantly returns them to the idea of the unity of God; while in societies divided into many unequal ranks, people tend to invent as many gods as there are nations, castes, classes, or families, and to imagine many private routes to heaven.

Even Christianity itself has felt, to some extent, the influence that social and political conditions exert on religious beliefs. When Christianity emerged, Providence—undoubtedly preparing the world for it—had gathered much of humanity, like one vast flock, under Caesar’s rule. People were very different, but shared this: they all obeyed the same laws, and every individual was so insignificant compared to the emperor, that all seemed equal by comparison. This unique social state naturally prepared people to accept the general truths Christianity brought, helping explain the ease and speed of its spread. After the empire’s destruction, society splintered into countless pieces, each group reclaiming its unique identity. An endless series of ranks quickly developed, races were more sharply defined, and within each nation, castes made separate peoples. Even as society seemed to fragment as much as possible, Christianity did not forget the broad general ideas it had introduced. Still, it accommodated itself, when possible, to the new impulses that fragmentation inspired. People continued to worship one God, Creator and Sustainer of everything; but every tribe, city, and even individual tried to obtain a special privilege or the favor of a personal patron before the Throne of Grace. Unable to divide God Himself, people multiplied and exaggerated the importance of secondary divine agents. The honor due to saints and angels almost became idolatrous in the Christian world, and there was a brief worry that Christianity could slip back toward the superstitions it had overcome. Evidently, the more the barriers separating nations and citizens are removed, the more the human mind is drawn toward the idea of one all-powerful Being, ruling all by the same laws. Therefore, in democratic times, it is particularly important not to confuse veneration for intermediaries with the true worship due only to the Creator.

Another clear truth is that religions should have fewer external observances in democratic times than in any other. Earlier, I mentioned that nothing is more disagreeable to people in an age of equality than being subject to ritual forms. People living in such times are impatient with symbolism; to their minds, symbols seem childish devices meant to hide or embellish truths that should be plainly visible; they are unmoved by ceremonial rites and are naturally inclined to downplay the details of public worship. Those overseeing religious practices in a democratic age should pay attention to these tendencies in order to avoid unnecessary conflict. I firmly believe in the necessity of some forms to focus the mind on abstract truths, to encourage pursuit of them, and to help people remember them. Nor do I think religion can be sustained without some public observances; however, in our times, I am convinced that multiplying them would be especially dangerous. Instead, they should be limited to what is absolutely necessary to preserve doctrine, which is the substance of religion, of which ritual is only the form. \*a A religion that became more exacting, rigid, and overloaded with small rules just as people become more equal would soon reduce itself to a clique of zealots surrounded by an unbelieving population.

a  
\[ In all religions, some ceremonies are inherent in the belief itself and should never be changed. This is especially the case with Roman Catholicism, where doctrine and ritual are often so closely linked as to be inseparable.\]

I anticipate the objection that since all religions aim at universal and eternal truths, they cannot adapt to the spirit of every age without undermining their authority. My reply is this: the chief beliefs, or articles of faith, must be strictly upheld, regardless of the spirit of the age; but religions should not tie themselves equally tightly to secondary things during times of rapid change. When the mind, used to the constant movement of events, resists being fixed on anything secondary, the permanence of these external things becomes risky—unless society itself is stable, which it rarely is in democratic ages.

We will see that, of all the passions that equality incites or strengthens, the most intense and the one it plants most deeply in everyone is the love of well-being. The search for well-being is the defining trait of democratic times. A religion that tried to eliminate this drive would ultimately destroy itself; and if it sought to turn people entirely away from material comfort to devote themselves only to the next life, eventually their spirits would escape entirely into the exclusive pursuit of present, tangible pleasure. Religions should seek to purify, regulate, and restrain the excessive focus on well-being in democratic times—not to suppress or eradicate it. They will not cure people of the love of wealth, but can persuade them to seek it only by honest means.

This leads to my final, and perhaps most important, point: as people’s conditions become more equal, it is all the more essential that religions—while avoiding interference in day-to-day worldly affairs—do not unnecessarily oppose the dominant ideas or lasting interests of the general population. As public opinion becomes more clearly the foremost and most irresistible power, the religious principle has no external aid strong enough to hold out against its attacks for long. This is true whether the democratic people are ruled by a sovereign or live in a republic. In ages of equality, kings may command obedience, but the majority always commands belief. Religions, therefore, must defer to the majority in all things not contrary to faith.

In my previous volumes, I showed how the American clergy keep themselves apart from worldly affairs. This is their most obvious example of restraint, but not the only one. In America, religion is a separate sphere where the priest is sovereign—but he never oversteps its limits. Within those boundaries, he leads the mind; outside them, he leaves people to their own devices, surrendering them to the independence and uncertainty of their times and natures. I have seen no country where Christianity is expressed with fewer forms, devices, or rituals than in the United States, or where it presents clearer, simpler, or more general ideas. Although Americans are divided into countless religious sects, they all see religion in the same light. This is as true of Roman Catholicism as of other beliefs. There are no Catholic priests with less interest in minute observances or special paths to salvation, or who are more attached to the spirit than to the letter of the law, than those in the United States. Nowhere is the doctrine that worship reserved for God alone should not be offered to saints more clearly taught or more widely accepted. Yet the Catholic population of America is both devout and sincere.

One more observation applies to clergy of all denominations. American ministers do not try to focus all thoughts exclusively on the afterlife; they willingly allow a share of people’s attention for the present, treating the good things of this world as important, though secondary. If they do not work themselves, they show genuine interest in progress and applaud its achievements. While they never stop reminding people that the next world is the real focus of hope and fear, they do not bar anyone from honestly pursuing prosperity in this one. Instead of opposing temporal and eternal concerns, they look for ways to connect them.

All American clergy know and respect the intellectual authority of the majority. They only challenge it when absolutely necessary, never take sides in party disputes, readily adopt the general opinions of their era, and let themselves be carried along by prevailing sentiment. They seek to improve their own era, but do not separate themselves from it. Public opinion is never their enemy; rather, it supports and protects them, and their faith derives authority both from its own vigor and from the support of the majority’s views. Thus, by respecting every democratic tendency not absolutely at odds with its own teachings, and by wisely utilizing many of them, religion manages to contend successfully with that spirit of individual independence which is otherwise its greatest adversary.

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

America is the most democratic nation in the world, and at the same time (according to credible reports) the country where Roman Catholicism is making the most progress. At first glance, this is surprising. Two points must be distinguished: equality encourages people to form their own opinions, but it also gives them a taste and a desire for unity, simplicity, and impartiality in society's governing powers. People in democratic times are therefore very inclined to cast off all religious authority; but if they do accept such authority, they prefer that it be singular and uniform. Religious authorities not derived from a central source are automatically suspect to them; and they almost as easily imagine there being no religion at all as many competing religions. Today, more than in the past, Catholics turn to unbelief, and Protestants convert to Catholicism. Within the Church, Catholicism seems to be losing members; outside it, gaining them. This is not hard to explain. People today are naturally inclined to believe; but the moment they accept any religion, a hidden tendency pushes them instinctively toward Catholicism. They may be surprised by some doctrines and practices of the Church, but they are secretly drawn to its discipline, and its unity appeals to them. If Catholicism could, at last, separate itself from the political disputes it has stirred up, I believe that the very spirit of the age, which seems opposed to it, would become so favorable as to allow it great and rapid progress. A common failing of people’s thinking is the desire to reconcile contradictory principles and buy peace at the expense of consistency. Thus there have always been, and always will be, those who, after submitting part of their faith to authority, try to exempt other parts, keeping their minds wavering between liberty and obedience. But I believe that there will be fewer of these in democratic times than in others; that future generations will be increasingly divided into just two groups—some abandoning Christianity entirely, and others returning to the Church of Rome.

## Chapter VII: Of The Cause Of A Leaning To Pantheism Amongst Democratic Nations

I will later show how a democratic people’s preference for very broad ideas affects politics. For now, I want to point out its main effect in philosophy. Pantheism has clearly gained ground in our age. Many works from parts of Europe reflect it: the Germans put it into philosophy, the French into literature. Most imaginative works published in France contain at least a hint of pantheistic doctrine, or show that their authors lean that way. I see this as stemming not only from passing trends, but from a permanent cause.

As social conditions grow more equal and every individual becomes similar to all the rest—more powerless and insignificant—people develop the habit of ignoring individual citizens and thinking only of the whole population. They tend to overlook individuals to focus on humanity as a whole. At such times, the mind tries to comprehend many things at once and seeks to connect a great number of effects to a single cause. The idea of unity so captivates them that, once they believe they have found it, they take comfort in that belief. Nor are they satisfied with the idea that all creation rests on the distinction between Creator and created; still unsettled by this primary division, they expand and simplify further, seeking to merge God and the universe into one vast reality. When a philosophical system teaches that all things—material or immaterial, visible or invisible—are only parts of an immense Being who alone remains unchanged amidst the flux of everything else, that system—although it destroys individuality—will appeal to democrats precisely for that reason. Their habits of thought and imagination prepare them for and draw them toward it; pantheism flatters their pride while soothing their laziness. Among philosophies claiming to explain the universe, I believe pantheism is one of the most tempting to the human mind in democratic ages. Those who value true human greatness must join forces to resist it.

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

Equality inspires human minds with ideas that no other cause would, and it reshapes almost every previously held notion. Take the idea of human perfectibility, for example—it is among the most fundamental thoughts people can have, and it forms the basis of a sweeping philosophical theory, constantly influencing practical affairs. While humans share many traits with animals, one characteristic is unique: we improve, while animals do not. People surely noticed this difference from the dawn of time. The idea of perfectibility is as old as humanity; equality did not invent it, but it gave it a new character.

When a community’s citizens are divided by rank, profession, or birth, and all are forced to follow the path fate opens before them, everyone assumes that the true limits of human achievement lie close at hand, and no one tries to resist destiny’s rule. Aristocratic peoples do not deny human improvement, but they don't think it is unlimited; they imagine progress, but not transformation. They think the future might be better, but not fundamentally different; and although they agree mankind has progressed—and can progress a little more—they set boundaries that cannot be crossed. They do not suppose they have reached ultimate happiness or absolute truth (no people or individual ever did), but they are sure they are very close to the maximum possible greatness and knowledge human imperfection allows. Because nothing changes around them, they easily believe everything is in its right place. In such periods, lawmakers issue eternal laws, kings and nations build everlasting monuments, and the present tries to relieve the future from regulating its own fate.

As castes vanish and social classes merge, as manners, customs, and laws shift with people’s ever-changing contact, as new facts arise, new truths become known, and old opinions fade away, the vision of endless perfection appears before the mind. Constant change happens in everyone’s sight; some people’s fortunes fall, and they learn that no group or individual—even the most enlightened—can claim infallibility; others rise, and they see that humanity is capable of unlimited progress. Their setbacks teach them that no one has found the absolute good; their successes urge them to keep seeking. So people are always seeking, always falling—yet rising again; disappointed, but undiscouraged—constantly striving toward the faintly visible greatness at the end of humanity’s long path. The consequences of this theory of endless perfectibility are surprising and far-reaching, shaping actions even among those with no interest in or knowledge of the theory itself. If I ask an American sailor why his country’s ships are built to last only a short time, he quickly explains that navigation is progressing so fast that even the best ship would soon be outdated if it lasted longer. In these simple words, coming from a practical man about a specific subject, I recognize the deep, systematic idea behind so many American achievements.

Aristocratic nations tend to limit the scope of human improvement—democratic nations to broaden it too far.

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

It must be admitted that among the civilized nations of our time, few have made less progress in the higher sciences than the United States; and in few places have great artists, renowned poets, or celebrated writers been more uncommon. Many Europeans, noticing this fact, have viewed it as a natural and inevitable result of equality, believing that if a democratic society and democratic institutions ever spread worldwide, the human mind would see its guiding lights grow dim and people would fall back into a period of darkness. To argue this way, I think, is to confuse several ideas that must be separated and examined individually: it is to unintentionally mix what is democratic with what is uniquely American.

The religion practiced by the first settlers and passed down to their descendants—simple in its worship, strict and almost severe in its principles, and opposed to external symbols and ceremonial pageantry—is naturally unfriendly to the fine arts and only reluctantly tolerates the pleasures of literature. The Americans are an ancient and highly educated people who found themselves in a new and vast country, where they could expand at will and cultivate the land with ease. This situation is unparalleled in world history. In America, everyone finds opportunities, unknown elsewhere, for making or increasing their fortune. The spirit of gain is always active, and the human mind, constantly distracted from the pleasures of imagination and intellectual work, is driven mainly by the pursuit of wealth. Not only are there manufacturing and commercial classes in the United States, as in all other countries; but uniquely, the entire community is engaged at once in productive industry and commerce. I am convinced that if the Americans were alone in the world, with the freedom and knowledge gained from their ancestors and their own passions, they would have quickly realized that progress cannot last in applied sciences without cultivating the underlying theories; that all arts refine one another; and, however much they may have focused on their main desires, they would soon admit that it is necessary to occasionally step aside from those pursuits to better achieve them in the long run.

The taste for intellectual pleasures is so natural to the civilized person that even among the nations least inclined to pursue them, there is always a certain number of citizens who engage in them. This intellectual craving, once felt, would soon have found fulfillment. But just as Americans found themselves naturally satisfied with nothing from science except its practical uses and what makes life comfortable, learned and literary Europe was deeply engaged in exploring universal truths and advancing everything that can serve human pleasure or need. At the head of these advanced nations, the Americans primarily noticed one nation, closely connected to them by shared origins and values. Among this people they found leading scientists, skilled artists, and prominent writers, allowing them to enjoy intellectual riches without the need to create them. I cannot agree to separating America from Europe despite the ocean between them. I see the people of the United States as that part of the English nation assigned to explore the New World's wilderness, while the rest, with more leisure and less struggle, can devote itself to thought and expand in all directions the empire of the mind. The Americans' situation is therefore unique, and it is likely that no other democratic people will ever be placed similarly. Their strict Puritanical roots, their completely commercial habits, even the very land they inhabit—which draws their minds away from science, literature, and the arts—the nearness of Europe, which allows them to neglect these fields without reverting to barbarism—a thousand specific reasons, of which I can mention only the most important—have combined remarkably to keep the American mind focused on practical matters. His wants, passions, education, and whole way of life seem to unite in drawing the American towards the earth: only his religion occasionally prompts him to lift a distracted and fleeting look toward heaven. Let us therefore stop viewing all democratic nations through the example of the Americans, and try instead to consider them in their own light.

It is possible to imagine a society without castes or ranks, where the law recognizes no privileges and divides inherited property equally, but where the people are nonetheless without knowledge and without freedom. This is not just a theory: a despot may find it useful to keep his subjects equal and ignorant to more easily enslave them. Not only would a democratic people like this lack both the ability and the taste for science, literature, or art, they would probably never achieve any progress in these areas. The law of inheritance alone would ensure the destruction of fortunes each generation, and no new fortunes would be made. The poor, ignorant and unfree, would never even imagine rising from poverty; and the rich would fall into poverty without knowing how to resist. Between them, a complete and unbreakable equality would soon be established.

No one would then have time or inclination for intellectual pursuits or pleasures; all would remain paralyzed in common ignorance and universal servitude. When I imagine such a democratic society, I picture myself in one of those low, dark, suffocating rooms, where the meager light from outside soon disappears. A sudden heaviness overcomes me, and I fumble through the darkness, searching for the opening that will restore to me the daylight.

But all this does not apply to people who are already educated and remain free after abolishing the special and inherited rights that kept property in the hands of a privileged few. When people in a democratic society are educated, they quickly realize they are not limited by their present circumstances. They all think of improving their situation; if they are free, they all try, though not all succeed. The law no longer gives special rights, but nature does. Since natural inequality is great, fortunes become unequal as soon as each person uses all his talents to get rich. The law of inheritance prevents the rise of lasting wealthy families but does not prevent the existence of wealthy individuals. It brings members of the community back to a common level, from which they constantly break away: and as knowledge and liberty spread, fortunes grow more unequal.

A certain sect in our time, famous for its talents and oddities, proposed to concentrate all property in the hands of a central power, which would then distribute it according to individual ability. This was their idea for escaping the complete and eternal equality that seems to threaten democratic society. But a simpler and safer solution would be to withhold privileges, give everyone equal education and independence, and allow each to determine his own position. Natural inequality will assert itself, and wealth will flow to the most able.

Free and democratic societies, then, will always have many people enjoying comfort or wealth. These wealthy individuals will not be as closely knit as aristocrats of the past; their habits will be different, and they will rarely enjoy such secure or complete leisure; but they will far outnumber the members of the former upper class. These people will not be strictly tied to practical concerns, and will still be able, to varying degrees, to enjoy intellectual pursuits and pleasures. And they will do so; for if the human mind is drawn toward what is narrow, useful, and practical, it also naturally aspires to what is infinite, spiritual, and beautiful. Physical needs keep it connected to the earth; but, when freed, it soon soars once more.

Not only is the number of those who appreciate and participate in intellectual production expanded, but the enjoyment of it spreads downward, step by step, even to those who, in aristocratic societies, seemed neither to have the time nor the capacity to enjoy them. When hereditary wealth, privileges of rank, and the prerogatives of birth are gone, and everyone must rely on themselves, it is clear that the chief source of inequality in people's fortunes becomes the mind. Anything that improves, expands, or beautifies the mind becomes instantly valuable. The usefulness of knowledge becomes especially apparent to the majority: even those who lack taste for its delights value its results and try to gain some of it. In free and enlightened democratic times, nothing separates people or keeps them confined; they rise or fall quickly. All social classes mix constantly due to their closeness. They interact, communicate, and mix every day—they imitate and envy each other: this gives many people ideas, thoughts, and desires they would never have if classes were fixed and society unchanging. In such nations, servants never see themselves as complete strangers to the lives of their masters, nor do the poor view themselves as completely apart from the rich; rural people become more like city dwellers, and provinces grow closer to the capital. No one willingly reduces themselves solely to practical matters; even the humblest worker sometimes casts a quick, longing glance toward the higher realms of the intellect. People do not read with the same ideas or in the same way as in aristocratic communities; but the group of readers keeps growing until it includes all citizens.

As soon as the general public becomes interested in intellectual achievement, it realizes that excelling in these areas is a powerful way to gain fame, influence, or wealth. The restless ambition bred by equality quickly moves in this direction as it does in all others. The number of people engaged in science, literature, and the arts becomes enormous. The intellectual world bursts into activity: everyone tries to blaze their own trail and attract attention. Something similar happens politically in the United States: what is achieved is often imperfect, but the efforts are countless; and although individual results are usually small, the total is always impressive.

Therefore, it is not correct to claim that people in democratic times are naturally indifferent to science, literature, and the arts; rather, they pursue them in their own way and bring their unique strengths and weaknesses to the task.

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

If a democratic society and democratic institutions do not stop the progress of the human mind, they clearly guide it in some directions over others. Even with these limits, their effects are significant; and I hope to be pardoned if I pause to consider them further. While discussing the philosophical approach of Americans, we made some remarks which are now relevant.

Equality gives people a desire to judge everything for themselves: it gives them, in all things, a taste for what is concrete and real, and a disregard for tradition and formalities. These general tendencies are especially apparent in the subject of this chapter. Those who study the sciences among democratic peoples are always wary of getting lost in abstract speculation. They mistrust systems; they stick closely to facts and direct observation. As they do not easily defer to another's name, they are never inclined to trust anyone's authority; instead, they constantly look for flaws in their peers' ideas. Scientific precedents carry little weight with them; they are not held up long by academic complexities, nor do they often accept impressive words for solid arguments; they dive, as far as they can, into essential areas of the subject that interests them, and they explain them in plain language. Scientific pursuits follow a freer, safer path, but it is a less elevated one.

To my mind, science can be divided into three parts. The first includes the most theoretical principles and abstract ideas whose uses are either unknown or very remote. The second consists of general truths that still belong to theory, but which lead rapidly to practical results. Methods of application and execution make up the third. Each part of science can be studied separately, although reason and experience show that none can thrive long if cut off entirely from the others.

In America, the practical side of science is well understood, and careful attention is paid to the theoretical part needed for application. On this point, Americans always show a clear, creative, and inventive mind. But hardly anyone in the United States devotes themselves to the most theoretical and abstract areas of human knowledge. In this, Americans take to an extreme a tendency found, though to a lesser degree, among all democratic nations.

Nothing is more necessary for cultivating the highest sciences, or the most advanced fields of science, than reflection; and nothing is less suited to reflection than the structure of democratic society. There, unlike in aristocratic societies, we do not find a class that remains still because it is comfortable, or another group that is stuck because it has no hope of bettering itself. Everyone is moving: some seeking power, others profit. Amid this constant activity—this endless clash of competing interests—this steady drive for fortune—where can one find the peace and calm required for deep intellectual work? How can the mind focus on a single idea, when all is whirling around it and people are swept along by the powerful current that moves everything forward? But the constant agitation found in a stable democracy differs from the tumultuous and revolutionary change that often comes with the rise of democratic society. When a violent revolution occurs among a highly civilized people, it cannot fail to give a sudden push to their feelings and opinions. This is especially true of democratic revolutions, which stir up all social classes and inspire extreme ambition in every member. The French made remarkable progress in the exact sciences just as they were dismantling their feudal past; but this sudden creativity was not due to democracy, but to the unprecedented revolution accompanying its rise. What happened then was exceptional, and it would be a mistake to see it as a rule. Major revolutions are not more frequent among democratic nations than elsewhere: I am even inclined to believe they are less so. But there is among those nations a small, constant disturbance—a kind of non-stop jostling—that irritates and distracts the mind without energizing or elevating it. People living in democratic communities not only rarely allow themselves time for reflection, but instinctively have little respect for it. A democratic society and institutions keep most people in continuous activity, and the habits of active life do not always suit a meditative one. The active person often must make do with what is good enough, for he would never complete anything if he sought to perfect every detail. He frequently relies on ideas he has not deeply examined; for chances of opportunity often help him more than careful reasoning; and, over time, he risks less by using some flawed concepts than by using up his time proving every principle. The world is not governed by long and rigorous proofs; a quick look at specific events, an understanding of the crowd’s fleeting moods, and the timing to use these for advantage, decide everything.

In times when everyone’s life is active, people tend to value fast thinking and quick solutions too highly, and undervalue the slower, deeper work of the mind. This public attitude affects how scientists themselves judge things; they believe they can succeed in science without deep thought, or they avoid fields that require meditation.

There are different ways to approach the sciences. Among many people, you will find a practical, commercial, and businesslike taste for discoveries of the mind, which should not be confused with that selfless passion that flames up in the few. The desire to use knowledge is one thing; the pure desire to know is another. I do not doubt that, in rare minds, an instinctive, endless love of truth springs up, supported only within itself, never finding perfect satisfaction. This is the passionate love—the proud, selfless passion for truth—that raises a person to the highest sources of knowledge. If Pascal had only sought gain, or even fame, I doubt he could have rallied all his powers to uncover the hidden workings of the Creator. Seeing him withdraw from life's concerns to devote himself entirely to this pursuit, and, breaking the ties of life, dying old before forty—this amazes me, and shows there must be extraordinary causes at work.

The future will reveal whether talents so rare and productive can appear as easily in democratic communities as in aristocratic ones. For myself, I admit I doubt it. In aristocratic society, the class that sets the tone and leads is permanently and hereditarily above the rest, and naturally forms high ideas of itself and of humanity. It loves to invent noble pleasures for itself, and create great ambitions. Aristocracies may commit very tyrannical or cruel deeds, but they rarely harbor trivial thoughts; even when they indulge in small pleasures, they do so with a form of contempt. The result is to elevate the spirit of society. In aristocratic times, grand notions of people’s greatness, power, and dignity are widespread. These views shape those who study science as well as others. They make it easier for the mind to reach the highest thoughts and naturally prepare it for a sublime, almost divine love of truth. Scientists at such times are drawn to theory; sometimes, they even dismiss the practical side. “Archimedes,” says Plutarch, “was of so lofty a spirit, that he never condescended to write any treatise on the manner of constructing all these engines of offence and defence. And as he held this science of inventing and putting together engines, and all arts generally speaking which tended to any useful end in practice, to be vile, low, and mercenary, he spent his talents and his studious hours in writing of those things only whose beauty and subtilty had in them no admixture of necessity.” Such is the aristocratic aim of science; for democratic nations it cannot be the same.

Most men in democratic nations are extremely focused on achieving material and physical satisfaction. Since they are dissatisfied with their current position and always free to change it, they think above all of improving or increasing their fortune. To such people, every new method that leads faster to wealth, every machine that saves labor, every tool that reduces production costs, every discovery that increases or intensifies pleasures seems the greatest achievement of the human mind. It is mostly for these reasons that democratic people take to science—that is how they understand and value it. In aristocratic times, science is mostly for satisfying the mind; in democracies, the body. The more democratic, enlightened, and free a nation is, the more there will be these practical promoters of scientific progress, and the more discoveries immediately useful for industry will bring their authors gain, fame, and even political influence. Since workers are involved in public life, they may get public honors and rewards if they earn them. In such a society, it is easy to see how the human mind may be led to disregard theory and instead focus intensely on practical applications, or at least on that part of science needed for practical use. Even if people have an inner tendency to reach for higher intellectual achievement, personal interest pulls them to the middle. There, all their energy and activity are developed, all wonders are produced. These very Americans, who have not discovered one of the general laws of mechanics, have introduced into navigation an engine that changes the world.

Of course, I do not claim that the democratic nations of our time are destined to see the disappearance of the greatest lights of human intelligence, or even that new geniuses may never arise. At this stage of the world, among so many advanced nations, always stirred by the drive for productivity, the links between different branches of science are too visible for people not to notice; and an advanced taste for practical science, if it is thoughtful, should prevent them from neglecting theory. Amid countless practical experiments and applications attempted every day, it is almost inevitable that general laws should emerge regularly; so great discoveries could be frequent, even if truly original inventors are rare. I further have faith in the high calling of scientific minds. If democracy does not, on one hand, inspire people to study science for its own sake, on the other it greatly increases the number of those who do study it. And it is not likely that among so many, no purely speculative genius will appear, inspired only by the love of truth. Such a person, we may be certain, will probe the deepest mysteries of nature, whatever the spirit of his country or time. He does not need help on his journey—just not to be prevented from continuing it.

All I mean to say is this: enduring inequality of conditions leads men to confine themselves to proud and barren pursuits of abstract truths; whereas democratic social conditions and institutions prepare them to seek immediate and useful results from science. This tendency is natural and unavoidable: it is worthwhile to notice it, and perhaps necessary to acknowledge it. If those who guide today’s nations clearly saw these new inclinations, soon to be overwhelming, they would realize that people with education and freedom, living in democratic times, cannot help but improve the industrial side of science; and that from now on, governments should focus on supporting the highest branches of learning, and cultivating the nobler love of science for its own sake. Today, the mind must be encouraged toward theoretical study; it turns to practical application on its own; and, instead of always directing it to the careful study of effects, it is wise to sometimes turn it to contemplating fundamental causes. Because ancient Roman civilization was destroyed by barbarians, we may be too ready to believe that civilization can perish in no other way. If our guiding light ever goes out, it will gradually shrink and disappear on its own. By focusing exclusively on applications, principles would be forgotten; and, once forgotten, the methods based on them would be badly practiced. No new methods would be invented, and people would keep using scientific techniques they no longer understand.

When Europeans first came to China three hundred years ago, they found that almost all the arts had reached a certain level of perfection there; they were amazed that a people who had advanced so far had not gone further. Later, they found traces of lost higher science. The nation was absorbed in productive work: most technical processes survived, but science itself was gone. This explained the strangely stagnant mindset they found in the people. The Chinese, following their ancestors’ steps, had forgotten the original reasons; they still used established formulas, without knowing what they meant; they kept the instruments, but had lost the art of modification. The Chinese, then, had lost the power to change; for them, improvement was impossible. They had to always, in all things, imitate their forefathers, fearing that even a brief diversion from the old path would leave them in total darkness. The source of knowledge was almost dry; though the stream still flowed, it could no longer grow or alter course. Yet, China remained peaceful for centuries. Invaders who conquered it took up local customs, and order continued. A kind of material prosperity was everywhere; revolutions were rare, and war was nearly unknown.

So, it is a mistake to comfort ourselves that the barbarians are still far away; for while some nations lose civilization to force, others destroy it themselves.

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

It would be a waste of both my readers' time and my own if I were to try to prove how the general mediocrity of fortunes, the absence of surplus wealth, the universal desire for comfort, and the constant efforts everyone makes to obtain it, cause the useful to prevail over the beautiful in people's hearts. Democratic nations, in which all these factors exist, will therefore develop the arts that make life easier, rather than those aimed just at decoration. They will usually prefer the useful to the beautiful and will expect the beautiful to also be useful. But I intend to go further; and after highlighting this first characteristic, I will outline several others.

It often happens during ages of privilege that almost every art becomes the exclusive province of certain people; that every profession is a separate field, closed to most. Even when productive industry is free, the fixed character of aristocratic societies gradually isolates the practitioners of any given art until they form a distinct class—always of the same families, known to each other, and quickly developing their own public opinion and professional pride. In such a class or guild, each artisan has not just his fortune to make, but his reputation to preserve. He is driven not just by his own interests, or even those of his customer, but by those of his guild; and the guild’s interest is for each artisan to produce the best possible work. In aristocratic times, the aim of the arts is thus to produce the best quality—not with the greatest speed or at the lowest cost.

Conversely, when every profession is open to all—when countless people are constantly entering and leaving it, and when the practitioners are strangers, indifferent, and hardly visible among their own ranks—the social bond is broken, and each worker, left on his own, tries simply to make as much money as he can with the least possible effort. The customer's wishes are his only limit. At the same time, a similar shift occurs in the customer. In countries where wealth and power are concentrated in a few hands, the use of most worldly goods belongs to a small group, always the same individuals. Necessity, public opinion, or modest aspirations exclude everyone else from enjoying such goods. As this aristocratic class remains permanently at the top, always affected by the same needs, they naturally develop, from their secure and inherited status, a taste for what is finely made and durable. This shapes the nation's general approach to the arts. It is often the case in such societies that even the peasant would rather go without something he wants than settle for an imperfect version. In aristocracies, then, craftsmen work for only a small group of highly demanding customers: their main hope for profit comes from the perfection of their work.

This is no longer true when, once all privileges are gone, ranks are mixed and people constantly move up and down the social ladder. In a democracy, many citizens find their inheritances shrinking and divided. They keep up tastes they acquired in better days, but have lost the means to satisfy them; so they look for some underhanded way to provide for their wants. On the other hand, many have rising fortunes, but their desires outgrow their means—they long for the benefits of wealth long before they can afford them. Such people are eager for shortcuts to the pleasures that seem almost within their reach. Because of this, democracies always have many people whose wants are above their means, and who prefer an imperfect version of what they want rather than giving it up altogether.

The artisan understands these feelings, as he shares them himself: in an aristocracy he would sell his wares at high prices to the few; but now he sees the quickest way to get rich is to sell cheaply to everyone. There are only two ways to lower the price of goods. The first is to find a better, shorter, and more ingenious method of making them; the second is to produce a larger quantity of items, nearly identical, but of less value. In a democratic society, all the worker's intelligence is focused on these two aims: he tries to invent ways to work not just better, but quicker and more cheaply—or, if that fails, to reduce the quality of what he produces as much as possible without making it completely unusable. When only the wealthy had watches, nearly all were of high quality; now, few are worth much, but nearly everyone owns one. Thus the democratic spirit not only favors the useful arts, but also pushes artisans to produce more quickly a mass of inferior products, while consumers settle for these goods.

This does not mean that, in democracies, the arts cannot produce excellent work when there is a demand. This sometimes happens if customers are willing to pay for extra time and effort. In the competitive chaos of industry, among countless experiments and rivals, some master craftsmen arise who reach the highest level of their art. But they rarely get the opportunity to show their full capabilities; they are extremely cautious with their talent, and while they could exceed expectations, they purposely aim no higher than they must. In aristocracies, on the other hand, craftsmen always do their best; when they stop, it is because they have reached the limits of their abilities.

If I visit a country and find some of the finest artistic creations, this alone tells me nothing about its social structure or political system. But if I find that most works of art are generally of lower quality, very plentiful, and very cheap, I am convinced that privilege is fading, and social ranks are merging and will soon be indistinguishable.

The craftsmen of democratic times try not only to make their useful products accessible to the whole community, but also strive to give their goods an appearance they don't really possess. In the confusion of social ranks, everyone hopes to appear as more than they are and puts great effort into achieving this. This feeling, though natural to human nature, does not originate in democracy; but democracy applies it to material things. Imitating virtue is universal, but the pretense of luxury is especially a feature of democratic times.

To satisfy this new kind of vanity, the arts resort to all kinds of imitation, sometimes to the point where it defeats its own purpose. Imitation diamonds can now so closely resemble the real thing that they can be mistaken for genuine gems. When the manufacture of fake diamonds becomes so perfect that they are indistinguishable from real diamonds, it is likely that both will be abandoned as nothing more than pebbles.

This brings me to speak of the arts we call the “fine arts.” I do not believe it is an inevitable result of democratic society or institutions to reduce the number of people engaged in the fine arts; but these factors have a powerful effect on how the fine arts are practiced. Many people who developed a taste for fine arts are now impoverished; meanwhile, many who are not yet wealthy are beginning to develop such a taste, at least by imitation; so the number of consumers goes up, but truly wealthy and discerning consumers become fewer. Something similar to what I mentioned of the useful arts also happens in the fine arts; artists’ works become more numerous, but the quality of each one is less. Incapable of striving for greatness, they favor the pretty and elegant, focusing more on appearance than substance. In aristocracies, a few great masterpieces are created; in democracies, countless trivial works. In the former, statues are cast in bronze; in the latter, they are made of plaster.

When I first arrived at New York by the part of the Atlantic known as the Narrows, I was surprised to see, along the shore some distance from the city, a number of small white marble palaces, many built in the style of ancient architecture. When I went the next day to look more closely at the building that had caught my eye, I found its walls were whitewashed brick and its columns were painted wood. All the buildings I had admired the night before were of the same type.

The social conditions and institutions of democracy also give distinctive tendencies to the imitative arts, which are easy to recognize. They frequently shift the focus from expressing the soul to focusing exclusively on the body; they replace the portrayal of emotion and thought with that of movement and feeling: in short, they substitute the real for the ideal. I doubt whether Raphael studied the fine details of human anatomy as thoroughly as the artists of our own time do. He did not value strict accuracy in this regard as highly as they do, because he aimed to surpass nature. He sought to make humanity into something even greater, to idealize beauty itself. David and his followers, on the other hand, were as much anatomists as painters. They skillfully represented the models before them, but rarely imagined beyond: they copied nature faithfully, while Raphael aimed for something higher. They have left us exact images of humanity; he offers in his work a glimpse of the divine. This comment about their artistic approach is just as true when it comes to their choice of subject. Medieval painters often looked far above their own time and selves for great subjects that allowed their imagination unlimited space. Our current painters often use their skills to precisely reproduce the small details of everyday life always before them; they are forever copying trivial objects, naturally plentiful.

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

I have just noted that in democratic times, works of art tend to multiply in number but decrease in importance. I now wish to point out an exception to this rule. In a democracy, individuals have very little power; but the State, representing them all and uniting them in its control, is extremely powerful. Nowhere do individual citizens seem as insignificant as in a democracy; nowhere does the nation as a whole appear greater, or is it easier to grasp its full scope. In democratic societies, people’s imagination is confined when thinking of themselves, but it expands without limit when thinking of the State. That is why people who live on a small scale in modest homes often dream of great magnificence in their public monuments.

The Americans laid out the plan for a huge city on the site that was to be their capital, which, to this day, is barely more densely populated than Pontoise—though, according to them, it will one day hold a million people. They have already cleared trees for ten miles around, lest they block the future residents of this imagined metropolis. In its center, they have erected a grand hall for Congress, giving it the grand name “the Capitol.” Every day, the states of the Union undertake immense projects that would amaze the engineers of Europe. Thus, democracy not only leads to the creation of many insignificant works; it also encourages the construction of monumental undertakings: but between these two extremes, there is a gap. A few remnants of colossal buildings tell us nothing about the social condition or institutions of the people who built them. I should also mention—though it goes a bit beyond my subject—that these monuments do not provide deeper insight into a nation’s greatness, civilization, or real prosperity. Whenever any power can unite an entire people toward a single project, that power—with a little knowledge and a lot of time—will achieve something remarkable through sheer combined effort. But that does not mean that the people were particularly happy, enlightened, or even powerful.

The Spaniards found Mexico City filled with splendid temples and vast palaces; yet this did not stop Cortes from conquering the Mexican Empire with 600 infantry and 16 horses. If the Romans had known more about hydraulics, they wouldn’t have built all the aqueducts surrounding their ruined cities—they would have used their resources more wisely. If they had invented the steam engine, maybe they would never have built all those long Roman roads. Such monuments are at once grand memorials of both their ignorance and their greatness. A people who left only a few lead pipes underground and a few iron rails on the surface might actually have commanded nature more completely than the Romans did.

## Chapter XIII: Literary Characteristics Of Democratic Ages

When a traveler visits a bookseller’s shop in the United States and looks over the American books on the shelves, the quantity of works appears extremely large; but the number of well-known authors seems, in contrast, to be extremely small. He will first encounter many elementary treatises intended to teach the basics of human knowledge. Most of these books are initially written in Europe; Americans simply reprint them, adapting them for local use. Next, he will find a huge array of religious works—Bibles, sermons, edifying anecdotes, theological debates, and reports from charitable societies. Finally, there is the long catalogue of political pamphlets. In America, political parties do not write books to oppose each other’s opinions; they produce pamphlets that spread rapidly for a day and then disappear. Amidst all these obscure intellectual productions are the more notable works by the handful of authors whose names are, or should be, known in Europe.

Although America is perhaps, in our time, the most civilized country in which literature receives the least attention, there are nonetheless a considerable number of people who take an interest in intellectual works. These individuals may not dedicate their lives to such pursuits, but they certainly enjoy them in their leisure hours. Yet England provides these readers with most of the books they desire. Nearly all significant English books are republished in the United States. The literary influence of Great Britain extends even into the remote forests of the New World. There is hardly a pioneer’s cabin without a few odd volumes of Shakespeare; I remember first reading the feudal play of Henry V in a log house.

Not only do Americans draw constantly from the riches of English literature, but it is fair to say that they see English literature springing up on their own soil. Most of the small number of Americans engaged in producing literary works are English in content and even more so in style. Thus, they bring into the heart of democracy the ideas and literary fashions of the aristocratic nation they take as their model. They use colors borrowed from foreign customs, and, since they rarely depict their own country as it truly is, their writings seldom become popular at home. Americans are themselves so convinced that books are not written for them that they generally wait for English validation before judging the merit of one of their own authors, just as we assume the creator of an original painting is best suited to judge a copy. The people of the United States truly have, at present, no national literature. The only authors I recognize as distinctly American are the journalists. They may not be great writers, but they speak the language of their countrymen and are heard by them. All other authors are, in effect, outsiders: to Americans, they are like the imitators of Greek and Roman literature were to us during the Renaissance—objects of curiosity rather than popular feeling. Their works may entertain the mind, but they do not influence the manners of the population.

I have already said that this state of affairs does not arise from democracy alone, and that its causes must be found in several peculiar circumstances independent of democratic principles. If, with the same laws and social conditions, Americans had a different origin or had settled in another country, I believe they would have developed a national literature. Even as things stand, I am convinced they will ultimately form one; but its character will differ from that of current American literary productions and will be distinctly its own. It is even possible to trace what this character will be in advance.

Suppose there is an aristocratic people for whom literature is cultivated; intellectual pursuits, as well as political affairs, are managed by the ruling class. The literary and political careers are almost entirely limited to this upper class or those nearest it in rank. These circumstances provide a clue to everything else. When a small, similar group focuses on the same activities, they can easily coordinate and agree upon certain major rules to guide them all. If literature is what interests this group, their intellectual works will soon be governed by clear standards they all follow. If these men hold hereditary positions in their society, they will naturally be inclined not only to set rules for themselves but to observe the traditions established by their ancestors; their code will become strict and traditional. Free from the daily struggles of life—as their fathers were before them—they have, through generations, learned to appreciate intellectual labor. They come to see literature as an art, love it for its own sake, and feel scholarly satisfaction when others conform to its standards. Furthermore, these men are born and live in comfort or affluence; consequently, they develop a taste for sophisticated pleasures and a love of refined, delicate enjoyments. Additionally, a certain laziness of mind and heart, which they often acquire during their long and peaceful enjoyment of prosperity, makes them avoid anything in their pleasures that might be too intense or disturbing. They prefer amusement to deep excitement; they wish to be interested but not overwhelmed.

Now, imagine a collection of literary works produced by or for these people, and it is easy to envision a style of literature where everything is regular and planned. Even the shortest work will be carefully finished down to its smallest details; art and effort will be evident everywhere; each literary form will have its own set of strict rules that distinguish it from all others. Style will be valued almost as highly as thought itself, and form will be as important as content: the language will be polished, balanced, and consistent. The tone will always be dignified, rarely very lively; writers will focus more on perfecting their work than on increasing their output. Sometimes these literary elites, always living among themselves and writing only for one another, may lose touch with the outside world, which can result in an artificial and forced style; they may settle on minute rules that pull them away from common sense and finally beyond the limits of natural expression. By pursuing language that differs from everyday speech, they may arrive at a kind of aristocratic jargon, which is hardly closer to pure language than the common dialect of the masses. These are the natural pitfalls of literature among aristocracies. Any aristocracy that remains completely separate from the people becomes powerless—a truth as valid in literature as it is in politics. \*a

a
\[ All this is especially true of aristocratic countries long and peacefully under monarchical rule. Where liberty exists in an aristocracy, the upper classes are constantly forced to deal with the lower classes; and through such dealings, they move closer together. This often introduces some democratic spirit into an aristocratic society. Moreover, a privileged class, governing boldly and energetically, develops a taste for excitement that inevitably affects all literary works.\]

Let’s now look at the reverse: let us place ourselves in a democracy that is not unfamiliar with traditional and contemporary culture, and is able to take pleasure in intellectual life. Social ranks are mingled; knowledge and power are both widely divided and, so to speak, scattered everywhere. Here we find a diverse crowd, whose intellectual needs must be met. This new group of seekers after intellectual enjoyment have not all had the same education; they do not share their ancestors’ degree of culture, nor have any real resemblance to them—and, indeed, they continually change themselves, living in constant motion, with shifting feelings and fortunes. Each person’s mind is not bound to others by tradition or custom; they have never had the ability, inclination, or time to coordinate with their neighbors. Still, it is from this turbulent, ever-changing mass that writers and their rewards and reputations emerge. It is easy to understand, then, why literature in such a society will lack those strict conventions accepted by readers and writers in aristocratic times. If at any point in a democracy, people do agree upon such rules, that means nothing for the next generation; in democracies, each new generation is like a new people. Therefore, literature will rarely be bound by lasting rules, and it is impossible that such conventions ever become permanent.

In democracies, not all those engaging with literature have received a literary education; most who have some familiarity with fine writing are either involved in politics or in professions that let them experience the pleasures of the mind only occasionally and in secret. Consequently, these pleasures are not the central delight of their lives; rather, they are a necessary and passing recreation amidst serious life pursuits. Such people seldom gain enough expertise in literature to appreciate its subtle beauties; small nuances of expression are lost on them. With so little time available for reading, they want to make the most of it. They prefer books that are easy to find, quick to read, and free from the need for deep scholarship. They want accessible, instantly enjoyable beauty, and above all, novelty and surprise. Accustomed to the struggles, setbacks, and routines of practical life, they need rapid stimulation, striking passages—truths or errors vivid enough to jolt them directly into a subject.

Why continue? Who does not grasp what follows before I even say it? Generally speaking, literature in democratic ages can never achieve, as in aristocratic periods, the same order, discipline, scholarship, and artistry; its form instead is often neglected, sometimes even scorned. Style is likely to be fanciful, flawed, overdone, and loose—nearly always energetic and bold. Writers aim more for speed than perfection. Brief works will be more common than large volumes; there will be more wit than learning, more imagination than depth; literary works will show a certain untamed, vigorous thought—often displaying a great variety and remarkable fertility. Writers aim to surprise rather than merely please, to arouse emotion more than to gratify taste. Of course, here and there, writers may take another path and, if especially gifted, succeed in finding readers despite (or because of) their peculiar traits; but these cases will be rare, and even these writers will usually revert to the general style in minor ways.

The two extremes I have described are connected by a gradual transition, with many intermediate shades. As a people moves from an aristocratic to a democratic literary culture, there is almost always a period when the literary genius of democracy and aristocracy blend, both seeking influence over the mind. Such periods are brief but brilliant: they are productive without disorder and lively without confusion. French literature of the eighteenth century is an example.

I would overstate my meaning if I claimed that a nation’s literature is always shaped by its social and political structure. There are other factors, beyond these, that give literature its features. Still, I believe these factors are most important. The ties between a people’s society, politics, and literary genius are always numerous: whoever understands one will never be ignorant of the other.

## Chapter XIV: The Trade Of Literature

Democracy not only inspires the commercial classes with an interest in literature but also brings a commercial spirit into literature itself. In aristocracies, readers are selective and few; in democracies, they are much more numerous and far less demanding. The result is that in aristocratic nations, no one can succeed without great effort; these efforts may bring fame, but rarely wealth. In contrast, in democratic societies, a writer may hope for a modest reputation and substantial income at little cost. He need not be admired; it is enough to be liked. The ever-growing crowd of readers, always desiring something new, guarantees sales for books that few genuinely value.

In democratic times, the public often treats writers as kings treat their courtiers: they make them rich and yet look down on them. What more could the mercenary spirits, whether born in courts or suited for them, desire? Democratic literature is always plagued by a swarm of writers who see literature only as a business: for each respected author, there are thousands of idea-merchants.

## Chapter XV: The Study Of Greek And Latin Literature Peculiarly Useful In Democratic Communities

What the ancients called “the People” in even the most democratic republics differed greatly from what we mean today. In Athens, all citizens could participate in public life, but there were only 20,000 citizens out of over 350,000 residents. The rest were slaves, handling most duties now assigned to the lower or even middle classes. Therefore, Athens, with its universal suffrage, was still essentially an aristocratic republic where all nobles shared a right to govern. The conflict between patricians and plebeians in Rome was similar: it was just an inner struggle between branches of the same family. All citizens belonged to the aristocracy and shared its nature.

It should also be noted that in ancient times books were rare and expensive, and great difficulties hindered their production and distribution. These factors confined literary tastes to a select few, forming a small literary aristocracy from the best of the political elite. Thus, nothing suggests that literature was ever a profession among the Greeks and Romans.

These societies, which were both aristocratic and highly civilized and free, naturally gave their literary works both the faults and the virtues typical of aristocratic eras. Even a brief look at ancient literature shows that if those writers sometimes lacked variety or imagination or boldness, their works always displayed exquisite care and craftsmanship. Nothing in their writings seems rushed or careless; every line is crafted for the expert’s eye, reflecting an ideal of beauty. No literature highlights the qualities in which writers of democracies usually fall short better than that of the ancients; for that reason, no literature should be studied more in democratic times. Such study is the best way to correct the typical literary shortcomings of democracies; as for the literary virtues of democracy, these will develop on their own without special cultivation.

It is important that this be clearly understood. A specific course of study can benefit a people’s literature even if it does not fit its social or political needs. If one insists on teaching nothing but classical literature in a society where everyone is engaged in intense efforts to improve or preserve their fortune, the result would be a very cultured but also a very dangerous class of citizens. Their society and politics would create needs their education could not address, and they would end up disturbing the state in the name of Greece and Rome rather than improving it with productive work.

Clearly, in democratic societies, the interests of individuals and the common good both require that most people’s education be scientific, commercial, or industrial rather than purely literary. Greek and Latin should not be taught in every school; but it is essential that those whose nature or fortune prepares them for literary pursuits, or to appreciate literature, should find schools where they can gain a thorough knowledge of ancient works and become genuine scholars. A few excellent universities would do more for this purpose than many inferior grammar schools where unnecessary subjects are badly taught and prevent proper instruction in essential studies.

All who seek literary excellence in democratic nations ought to return often to the fountain of classical literature; there is no better exercise for the mind. I do not say that the works of the ancients are flawless; but I am convinced they possess qualities especially suited to correcting our particular weaknesses. They support us just where we are most likely to fall.

## Chapter XVI: The Effect Of Democracy On Language

If you have understood what I’ve already said about literature in general, you’ll easily grasp how a democratic society and its institutions can influence language itself, which is the main instrument of thought.

American authors may truly be said to dwell more in England than in their own country, since they constantly study English writers and take them as their models every day. But this does not hold true for the majority of the population, who are more directly shaped by the specific forces at work in the United States. Therefore, if we want to observe the changes that the language of an aristocratic people may undergo when it becomes the language of a democracy, we should focus not on the written but on the spoken language.

Educated Englishmen—far more qualified than I am to judge the subtle nuances of expression—have often told me that the language of educated people in the United States is noticeably different from that of the educated classes in Great Britain. They complain not only that Americans have introduced a number of new words—which would be understandable, given the distance and differences between the two countries—but also that these new words mostly come from the jargon of politics, the mechanical arts, or business. They also claim that Americans often assign new meanings to old English words, and finally, that people in the United States frequently mix their phrases in odd ways and combine words that are always kept separate in their mother country’s language. These remarks, made to me at different times by credible individuals, caused me to reflect on the subject; and through my own reasoning, I arrived at the same conclusions my informants had reached through observation.

In aristocracies, language naturally reflects the stability where everything seems settled. Few new words are created, because few new things are invented; and even if something new appears, it’s usually described with established words, whose meaning is defined by tradition. If the human mind eventually awakens or is stimulated by new ideas from outside, the new expressions brought into use show a degree of learning, intelligence, and philosophy that reveals they do not originate in a democracy. After the fall of Constantinople redirected science and literature to the West, the French language was quickly flooded by many new words, almost all with Greek or Latin roots. An educated neologism then appeared in France, limited to the learned classes, and barely affected the general public, if at all. All the nations of Europe saw similar changes. Milton alone introduced more than six hundred words into English, almost all drawn from Latin, Greek, or Hebrew. By contrast, the constant activity that pervades a democratic society continually changes its language, just as it does social life. Amid all this general movement and competition of minds, many new ideas are formed, old ideas are lost, revived, or split into countless small variations. Consequently, many words become obsolete, and others come into use.

Democratic nations love change for its own sake, and this is visible in their language just as much as in their politics. Even when they don't need to alter words, they sometimes feel a need to transform them. The distinctive trait of a democratic people is not just the large number of words they invent, but also the nature of the ideas these new words capture. In such societies, the majority dictates language as it does everything else; its overall spirit is evident there as well. But this majority is focused more on business than on study—more on political and commercial matters than on philosophical or literary pursuits. So, most new or borrowed words serve to express practical needs, party passions, or administrative details. The language continually expands in these areas, while it gradually declines in metaphysics and theology.

As for where democratic nations get their new expressions and how they create them, this can easily be described. People in democratic countries generally know little about the languages of Athens and Rome and aren’t interested in digging into ancient learning for a word they need. If they sometimes use learned etymologies, vanity—rather than scholarship—leads them to seek prestige by looking to classical roots; indeed, the most ignorant sometimes use them the most. The particularly democratic desire to rise above one’s station often tempts people to dignify a humble job with a Greek or Latin name. The lower and further from learning a profession is, the grander and more erudite its title becomes. So, for example, French rope-dancers have called themselves acrobates and funambules.

Lacking familiarity with dead languages, democratic nations tend to borrow words from living languages; their constant interactions make borrowing easy, and people imitate each other more as they grow increasingly alike.

But mainly, democratic nations try to innovate within their own language. Sometimes, they revive obsolete expressions, restoring them to use; or they take terms from specific social classes and introduce them, often with a figurative sense, into everyday speech. Many words that started as technical jargon from a profession or a party eventually become common.

The most common way democratic societies change language is by assigning new meanings to existing words. This is very easy, quick, and convenient; it requires no learning, and ignorance can even help it along. However, this practice is very dangerous to the language. When a democratic people doubles the meaning of a word like this, both the original and new meanings can become muddled. An author may start by slightly altering a familiar word to fit his subject. A second writer bends it differently; a third uses it for another idea. With no stable authority to settle a word's meaning, it remains ambiguous. The result is that writers rarely stick to a single idea; instead, they appear to aim at a bundle of ideas, leaving the reader to guess what was meant. This is an unfortunate result of democracy. I would prefer our language be filled with foreign words from Chinese, Tartar, or Huron, than have the definitions of our own words become uncertain. Elegance and uniformity in writing are only secondary virtues—many conventions can be set aside. But without clarity, there is no good language.

The principle of equality brings about other changes in language. In aristocratic eras, when each nation seeks to be distinct, even peoples with a common origin can drift apart, so that although they still understand each other, they no longer speak exactly the same language. During these periods, each nation is split into several classes, which rarely interact. Each class develops and consistently preserves unique ways of thinking, choosing specific words and expressions which are handed down like family estates. Thus, the same language has a speech for the poor and another for the rich—a tongue of commoners, one of nobility—a learned dialect and a vulgar one. The deeper and more rigid the social divisions, the truer this becomes. I would bet that among India’s castes, the language differences are astonishing, almost as great as the differences in dress between the pariah and the Brahmin. Conversely, when barriers of rank are removed, and people mingle constantly—when casts are destroyed and classes blend—all words mix together. Unsuitable words are discarded; the remaining words pool into a shared reserve from which everyone chooses almost at random. Nearly all the dialects that once fragmented European languages are clearly fading; there are no dialects in the New World, and they are disappearing from the old countries as well.

This social transformation influences style just as much as it does vocabulary. Not only does everyone use the same words, but people also tend to do so without much discrimination. The stylistic rules that once prevailed are almost gone: distinctions vanish between terms considered naturally vulgar and those seen as refined. People from different backgrounds bring their habitual words with them wherever they go; the origins of words become as obscure as the origins of individuals, creating as much confusion in language as in society.

I recognize that some rules about word classification come from the nature of things themselves, not from social structures—some words are vulgar because their meanings are inherently low, others are exalted because their subjects are naturally elevated. No mingling of classes can erase these natural distinctions. Still, the principle of equality inevitably eliminates what is merely conventional or arbitrary in language. Perhaps, though, democratic people will always show less regard for even natural divisions among words, since among them there are no permanently established men of education, leisure, and culture who would be inclined to study and uphold the genuine laws of language.

Before leaving this topic, I want to mention another aspect of democratic languages that perhaps defines them most strongly. I have already shown that democratic nations are drawn to general ideas, due to both their unique strengths and weaknesses. This tendency appears in their languages through constant use of generic or abstract terms, and by how they use these words. This is both the chief merit and chief flaw of these languages. Democratic nations are fond of generic and abstract terms because they give scope to thought and help the mind by letting it group many things together. A French democratic writer might use capacities in the abstract for talented men, without specifying what those talents are; he might say actualities to describe whatever is happening before him; and he would use eventualities to refer to anything that might possibly happen. Democratic writers are ever coining such words, further abstracting already abstract expressions. Often, to make their prose more concise, they personify the subject and make it act like a person. For example, they might say in French, “La force des choses veut que les capacités gouvernent.”

The best way to illustrate what I mean is with my own example. I have often used the word “equality” in an absolute sense—in fact, I have personified equality in several places: I say equality does certain things, or refrains from others. Writers in Louis XIV’s age would not have used such expressions: they would never refer to “equality” without tying it to something specific, and would sooner drop the word than turn it into a character.

Such abstract terms, common in democratic languages and used freely without connecting them to particular facts, both expand and obscure the thoughts they carry; they make language more succinct, but the ideas less clear. Still, when it comes to language, democratic nations prefer vagueness over effort. I am not sure whether this loose manner of speaking doesn't have a secret appeal for speakers and writers in these societies. Since people there often rely on their private abilities, they're frequently subject to doubt; and as their social situation is always shifting, they rarely hold any opinions with deep certainty. People in democracies, then, tend to have unsettled ideas and need vague expressions to match. Since they can never be sure if an idea they're expressing today will suit their situation tomorrow, they naturally grow fond of abstract terms. An abstract term is like a box with a false bottom: you can put in whatever ideas you like and take them out without being noticed.

Everywhere, generic and abstract terms form the foundation of language. I do not pretend, therefore, to banish these terms from democratic languages; I simply observe that, in democratic times, people especially tend to multiply such words, to take them always in their most abstract sense, and to use them constantly, even when the topic doesn’t call for it.

## Chapter XVII: Of Some Of The Sources Of Poetry Amongst Democratic Nations

Many different meanings have been given to the word “poetry.” I won’t burden my readers with a debate over which definition is best; I’ll simply say which I have chosen. In my view, poetry is the search for and portrayal of the ideal. A poet omits part of what really exists, adds some imaginary details, and combines certain real elements (which don’t actually occur together) to complete and expand on nature’s work. Thus, the aim of poetry isn’t to show the truth as it is, but to embellish it and present higher images to the mind. Verse, as the ideal beauty of language, can be highly poetic; but verse alone does not make poetry.

Now, let us consider whether the actions, feelings, and ideas of democratic nations produce notions of ideal beauty that might serve as natural sources of poetry. First, it must be acknowledged that the taste for the ideal—and the enjoyment gained from expressing it—are never as intense or widespread in democratic societies as in aristocratic ones. In aristocratic nations, sometimes, the body is active on its own, while the mind is kept idle by a life of ease. Among such people, you often see a taste for poetry and a willingness to let their imaginations go beyond their surroundings. But in democracies, the love of physical pleasure, the desire to improve one’s lot, the energy of competition, and the draw of anticipated success all push men into pursuits that keep them focused on the path they’ve chosen, never letting them wander from it, even briefly. Effort is centered here. The imagination is not dead, but its main use becomes inventing what is useful, and representing what is real.

The principle of equality not only deflects men from depicting ideal beauty, it also limits the number of things to describe. Aristocracy keeps society fixed, which favors the durability of established religions and stable political systems. It both confines the mind to a certain area of belief and tends to direct it toward particular faiths. An aristocratic people will always be inclined to insert intermediate beings between God and man. In this respect, the aristocratic influence is favorable to poetry. When the universe teems with supernatural beings—unseen by the senses but discovered by the mind—the imagination is set free, and poets, with endless subjects to explore, find a vast public eager for their works. In democratic times, by contrast, people may be as uncertain about beliefs as they are about laws. Scepticism then pulls poets’ imaginations down to earth, confining them to the real and visible. Even if equality does not disrupt religion, it tends to simplify it and shifts the attention mainly to the Supreme Power. Aristocracy pushes the mind toward the past and keeps it there. Democracy, on the other hand, gives people a natural aversion to what is old. In this respect, aristocracy is much more favorable to poetry: things seem larger and more mysterious the further back they are, making them ideal for the world of the imagination.

After denying poetry access to the past, equality also takes away part of the present. In aristocratic nations, there are privileged individuals whose status is, figuratively, above and beyond ordinary humanity; these people seem to monopolize power, wealth, fame, wit, refinement, and distinction. The masses never see them up close or observe their day-to-day lives, and therefore little is needed to make their descriptions poetic. Meanwhile, within the same society, there exist classes that are so ignorant, poor, and oppressed that they, too, become poetic subjects because of their very misery and simplicity. In addition, since the different classes of an aristocratic community are so separate and unfamiliar with each other, poets can always portray them with embellishments or omissions. By contrast, in democratic societies where everyone is relatively insignificant and similar, each man sees all his peers when he looks at himself. The poets of democratic societies can never make any single man the subject of a poem; for something unimportant and thoroughly seen from all sides will never inspire the ideal. So, as equality spreads across the world, most of the old sources of poetry dry up. We should now see if it offers any new ones.

When scepticism emptied heaven of its figures, and equality reduced men to smaller, more familiar dimensions, poets—still unsure what to use in place of the great departed themes—turned to inanimate nature. Losing sight of gods and heroes, they began to describe landscapes and mountains. This is where the so-called “descriptive” poetry of the last century originated. Some have thought this kind of poetry, based on the physical world, belongs especially to democratic ages; but I believe that’s mistaken, and that it is only characteristic of periods of transition.

I am convinced that, eventually, democracy turns the imagination away from everything outside of man and directs it toward man himself. Democratic societies may entertain themselves for a while by observing nature’s works, but it’s really the contemplation of themselves that excites them. Here, and only here, are the real sources of poetry for such nations. It's likely that any poet who ignores this will lose influence over the audience he wishes to enchant, and will ultimately be left with only indifferent listeners. I’ve already shown how ideas of progress and the endless perfectibility of mankind are unique to democratic ages. Democratic peoples care little for the past, but are obsessed with what lies ahead; their imagination, in this direction, grows without bounds. This gives poets a vast field to explore, far enough from immediate perception. Democracy closes the past for the poet, but opens up the future. Since everyone in a democratic society is nearly equal and alike, the poet can’t focus on any one person; but the society itself offers an object grand enough for his talents. The general similarity among individuals—which makes each of them unsuitable as a poetic subject—allows poets to group all into a collective image and to consider the people as a whole. Democratic nations see themselves more clearly than others do, and their collective look is especially suited to the ideal.

I agree that Americans have no poets; but I disagree that they have no poetic ideas. In Europe, people talk a lot about America’s wilderness, but Americans don’t think about it: they are blind to the wonders of nature and don’t notice the forests until they are cut down. They are focused elsewhere: Americans see themselves advancing across this wilderness—draining swamps, diverting rivers, settling empty lands, and conquering nature. This grand image of self is not apparent to Americans only at special moments; it’s present to each of them at nearly every instant, haunting their minds. Nothing could be more trivial, more ordinary, more full of mundane concerns, and more devoid of poetry, than everyday American life. Yet, amid these thoughts, there always remains a spark of poetry, which is the secret force that gives it strength.

In aristocratic times, each people and each person tends to remain separate and apart from others. In democratic times, constant movement and restless desires keep everyone shifting, so people from different lands mix, observe, and borrow from each other. Not only do individuals become more alike, but entire communities resemble one another, and, collectively, the world appears as a single vast democracy—each national citizen, in a way, like a people unto himself. All the events of humanity as a whole—their ups and downs and their future—become a rich source of poetry. The great poets of aristocratic times succeeded in capturing special episodes in the life of a nation or a person; but none ever dared to include in a single poem the history of all humanity—a challenge suitable for poets in democratic ages. At the moment when each person, looking beyond his own country, finally glimpses all mankind, the notion of the divine becomes clearer in the human mind. Even if faith in particular religions is often shaken, and belief in intermediaries is fading, people are still likely to form a much broader view of Providence, and its role in human affairs takes on new grandeur. Envisioning the human race as a whole, it's easy to see its fate as guided by a single plan, and in every action of every individual, they recognize a trace of an eternal and universal order by which God rules. This thought opens another deep source of poetry in democratic times. Democratic poets will seem trivial and lifeless if they try to depict gods, demons, or angels in bodily form, or bring them down to contest humans on earth. But if they instead connect great events to the overarching designs of Providence, and, without directly showing the hand of the Supreme Being, reveal his thoughts, their works will find appreciation, for that's where their contemporaries’ imaginations naturally turn.

Likewise, poets in democratic times will likely focus more on emotions and ideas than on individual people or deeds. The speech, dress, and daily habits of democratic people are unsuited to anything ideal—they aren’t poetic themselves, and if they were, their sheer familiarity would make them unfit for poetic use. Thus, the poet is always pushed to look beneath the surface, into the human soul; and nothing is better suited to the ideal than exploring the depths of human nature. I do not need to search the earth and sky for something both magnificent and wretched, full of darkness and brilliance, inspiring at once pity, admiration, terror, and contempt. I find this subject within myself. Man springs from nothing, crosses time, and disappears forever into God’s presence; he is seen for just a brief moment, teetering between two abysses, then lost from sight. If man were totally ignorant of himself, there would be no poetry in him, since it’s impossible to describe what one cannot conceive. If he fully understood himself, his imagination would have nothing to invent. But human nature is just revealed enough to spark self-awareness, yet obscure enough so that the rest remains shrouded in mystery, always tempting us to seek a fuller understanding—always in vain.

In democratic societies, poetry will not draw strength from ancient tales or traditions. The poet will not populate the universe with supernatural beings whom neither he nor his readers believe in; nor will he depict virtues and vices as stiff personifications—they are better shown honestly. All these resources are gone; but Humanity remains, and the poet needs nothing else. The destiny of mankind—man himself, isolated from his period and country, standing before Nature and God, with all his passions, doubts, rare joys, and unimaginable sorrows—will become the chief, if not the only, subject for poetry among such nations. Experience supports this claim if we consider the greatest poets since the rise of democracy. The authors who so beautifully depicted Faust, Childe Harold, Rene, and Jocelyn did not aim to recount the actions of any one person, but to illuminate the more hidden corners of the human heart. Such is the poetry of democracy. Equality does not destroy every subject for poetry: it makes them fewer, but much greater in scope.

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

I have often noticed that Americans, who usually handle business matters in a clear, straightforward way—using language so simple that it can verge on the coarse—tend to become pompous when they try to adopt a more poetic style. Their speeches then overflow with grandiose language from start to finish; and hearing them pile on imagery at every turn, you might think they were never capable of speaking plainly. The English fall into this error much less frequently. The reason is not hard to find. In democratic societies, each citizen is generally focused on a very small object: himself. When he manages to look beyond that, he sees only either the vast shape of society as a whole, or the even more overwhelming presence of mankind itself. His thoughts are thus either very specific and clear, or very broad and vague: there is a void in between. So, when he is drawn out of his own sphere, he expects something amazing to capture his attention; and he will only consent to leave the little distractions that fill his life if something striking is offered him. This, I think, explains why, in democracies—where people’s daily concerns are usually so trivial—they demand such enormous ideas and limitless descriptions from their poets.

Writers, in turn, follow this tendency, which they themselves feel. They continually puff up their imaginations, stretching them beyond all limits, and often forsake what is genuinely great in favor of the simply gigantic. By doing so, they hope to attract the public’s notice and easily hold its attention. Nor are their hopes misplaced; for since the public wants only matters of grand scale in poetry, it has neither the time to judge the real proportion of what it is shown, nor refined enough taste to immediately see how these things might be out of proportion. Authors and public thus corrupt each other.

We have just seen that in democracies, the sources of poetry are grand, but not plentiful. They are quickly exhausted: and when poets cannot find ideal elements in what is real and true, they give up on those entirely and create monstrosities. I do not fear that the poetry of democracies will be dull or too down to earth; rather, I worry that it will always lose itself in lofty abstractions, eventually living solely in realms of pure imagination. I fear that the works of democratic poets will often be overloaded with immense and incoherent images, exaggerated descriptions, and bizarre inventions—and that their fanciful creations may sometimes make us long for real life.

## Chapter XIX: Some Observations On The Drama Amongst Democratic Nations

When a revolution upends the social and political structure of an aristocratic people and begins to influence literature, its effects usually show up first in the theater, and always remain clearly visible there. The theater audience, to some extent, is caught off guard by the impact of a play. They have no time to consult memory or get advice from experts. They do not think to resist these new literary trends; instead, they give in before they realize what is happening. Authors are quick to sense which way the public’s taste is trending, and adapt their work accordingly. The literature of the stage thus signals the coming literary revolution, and soon brings it about. If you want to judge the literature of a people drifting toward democracy, study their plays.

Even among aristocratic nations, theatrical literature is the most democratic form of literature. No other kind of literary enjoyment is so accessible to the masses as theater. No preparation or study is needed to enjoy it: it captures you, prejudices and ignorance included. As soon as a new class starts to take an interest in intellectual pleasures, the first thing it seeks out is the theater. Theaters in aristocratic societies have always been full of spectators who were not aristocrats. It’s at the theater that the upper classes mix with the middle and lower classes; there alone do the elite listen to, or at least tolerate, the opinions of those beneath them. Cultivated and literary people have always found it harder to impose their tastes at the theater than anywhere else; the crowd in the cheap seats often sets the rules for the fancy boxes.

If it’s difficult for an aristocracy to keep control of the theater, it’s easy to see that once democratic principles pervade the laws and customs—once the classes become mixed, minds and fortunes draw closer together, and the upper class loses both its wealth and its authority—the public will be in charge. Democratic tastes in literature first appear in drama, and will show themselves there strongly. In written works, the authority of aristocratic tastes will be gradually, gently, almost legally eroded; but in theater, those standards will be openly and abruptly cast aside. The theater showcases both the best and the worst qualities of democratic literature. People in democracies value learning less, and don’t care much about what happened in ancient Rome and Athens; they want to hear about things that concern them personally, and they demand plays about their own time.

When ancient heroes and customs are often shown on stage, and playwrights closely follow old rules, it means that democratic classes have not taken over the theater yet. Racine offers a humble apology in his preface to “Britannicus” for having placed Junia among the Vestals, who, according to Aulus Gellius, “admitted no one below six years of age nor above ten.” We can be sure he would not have criticized or excused himself for this if he had been writing for today’s audiences. Such examples reflect not just the state of literature, but of society itself. A democratic stage is not proof that a nation is democratic, for, as we’ve seen, even aristocracies can have dramas shaped by democratic tastes; but when the spirit of aristocracy still rules the stage, it’s clear that the entire society is aristocratic, and that the learned elite dictate to both the writers and the public.

The sophisticated taste and haughty ways of an aristocracy usually lead, when they control the theater, to a certain selectiveness about what aspects of human life deserve attention. Some social ranks get the spotlight, and plays about their customs are preferred. Certain virtues—and even certain vices—are considered especially worthy of stage time, while others are ignored. On stage, as elsewhere, aristocratic audiences want to see only people of high status, sharing the emotions of kings. The same goes for style: the aristocracy often makes playwrights use certain ways of speaking that set the tone for the whole drama. In this way, the theater ends up depicting only one side of human nature—or even things not really found in real life, raising and going beyond mere nature.

Democratic audiences, in contrast, have no such biases. They like to see a mix of classes, emotions, and opinions that reflects real life. The drama becomes more vivid, more commonplace, and truer to life. Still, sometimes playwrights in democracies go beyond the limits of human nature—but from another direction. In trying to portray in extreme detail the quirks of the present day or of certain individuals, they forget to capture what is general and universal in humanity.

When democratic classes rule the theater, they make subject matter and style as free and unregulated as possible. Love of theater is, of all literary tastes, the most natural to democracies, so the number of writers, spectators, and performances is always growing. With such a diverse crowd, scattered far and wide, it’s impossible to have any common rules or standards. No agreement is possible among so many judges, who might never meet again; and so each makes up his own mind about the play. If democracy tends to question all literary rules elsewhere, at the theater it sweeps them away and leaves only whatever pleases each writer and each audience.

The theater also especially shows the truth of what I have said elsewhere about style and art in democratic literature. When you read the reviews of plays from the age of Louis XIV, you are struck by how much the audience cared about how likely the plot was, and how consistent the characters’ behavior seemed—never doing anything that couldn’t be easily explained. The attention paid to language and the petty arguments over words faced by playwrights then are just as remarkable. You’d think that people of that era cared far too much about details that might be considered in private study, but are lost during a performance. After all, the point of a play is to be acted, and its chief virtue is to move the audience. But in those days, theatergoers and readers were the same people: after leaving the theater, they would judge the writer privately at home. In democracies, plays are heard, not read. Most theatergoers aren’t looking for intellectual pleasure, but emotional excitement. They aren’t expecting a great literary work, but a good show; if the playwright uses correct language and their characters are interesting and moving, that’s enough for the audience. They demand no more from fiction, and return immediately to real life. Accuracy of style thus becomes less important, since its careful observance is hardly noticed on stage. As for how likely the plot is, it clashes with the constant novelty, surprise, and rapid invention expected; so it’s often neglected, and the public forgives that. If you succeed in making your audience feel something, they don’t care how you got them there, and will never blame you for thrilling them in defiance of dramatic rules.

Americans, when they do go to the theater, show all the trends described above very clearly—but it must be admitted that only a small number of them attend the theater at all. Even though both the number of plays and playgoers in the U.S. have grown rapidly over the past forty years, Americans still indulge in this form of entertainment with great restraint. Special reasons, which the reader already knows—and which I’ll briefly remind him of—explain this. The Puritans who founded the American republics were not only against amusements in general, but had a special hatred for the theater. They saw it as a wicked diversion, and as long as their views had full sway, plays were completely unknown in their communities. The opinions of these early colonists have left deep marks on their descendants’ minds. The strict regularity of habits and rigorous morals in the U.S. have also posed extra obstacles to developing a dramatic culture. A country without major political crises, and where love almost always leads easily to marriage, offers few dramatic subjects. People who spend every weekday making money and every Sunday going to church hardly invite the muse of Comedy.

One fact alone shows that the theater is not very popular in the U.S.: although American laws allow the most liberal—even reckless—speech in other areas, they impose a sort of censorship on playwrights. Theater performances can only be held with municipal approval. This shows how much communities resemble individuals: they eagerly give in to their dominant passions, and then take great care not to surrender too much to impulses they don’t really feel.

No area of literature is connected more closely or by more ties to a society’s present condition than drama. A play from one era can never truly fit a later age, if a major revolution has changed the nation’s customs and laws in between. The great playwrights of the past may still be read, but plays written for a different audience will not succeed on stage. The playwrights of old live only in books. Personal taste, tradition, vanity, fashion, or a famous actor may briefly sustain the aristocratic drama in a democracy, but it will soon decline—not overthrown, but simply abandoned.

## Chapter XX: Characteristics Of Historians In Democratic Ages

Historians writing in aristocratic times tend to attribute everything to the personal will or temperament of certain individuals, and often ascribe the biggest shifts to trivial incidents. They cleverly tease out tiny causes while often overlooking the larger ones. Historians in democratic times, on the other hand, display the exact opposite traits. Most of them see barely any individual influence on the course of nations or citizens on the fate of a people; instead, they explain even minor happenings by great, sweeping causes. These opposite tendencies help explain each other.

For the historian in aristocratic times, the stage of the world is mostly occupied by a few commanding figures, who seem to run everything. These towering personalities draw all the attention, so the historian tries to uncover the private motives behind their actions, while the rest slip from memory. The importance of what some individuals do gives him an inflated view of what any one person can accomplish; so, to explain the behavior of the crowd, he looks for the influence of some leading character.

But in a society where everyone is independent and individually weak, no one seems able to exert major, lasting influence. Individuals at first glance seem to have no effect, and society seems to move forward by the voluntary agreement of all its members. Naturally, this leads the mind to look for the general reason at work behind so many people acting alike at once.

I am certain that even in democratic societies, the talents, vices, or virtues of individuals can slow down or speed up the natural course of history. But these random and secondary causes are far more numerous, concealed, complex, weaker, and thus harder to trace than in aristocratic times, when it’s easier for the historian to separate out the actions of a single person. In democratic times, the historian soon gets lost searching for these influences; unable to spot or single them out, he denies they exist. He prefers to discuss characteristics of race, geographic features, or the spirit of civilization, which makes his job easier and satisfies the reader just as well.

M. de Lafayette once wrote in his “Memoirs” that the overuse of grand general causes provides great comfort to second-rate politicians. I would add that it serves similar purposes for mediocre historians: it always gives them a few grand explanations to fall back on, reduces their workload, and gives an appearance of deep thoughtfulness.

I personally believe that at all times, some events are due to broad trends, others to specific influences. Both types of cause are always at work—the ratio just shifts. General trends explain more in democracies than in aristocracies, and fewer things result from individual actions. The reverse holds in elitist societies, unless you count the very inequality of social conditions, which lets some disrupt the tendencies of all. So historians focusing on democracies are right to emphasize broad causes, but wrong to deny the effects of individuals just because they are hard to spot or trace.

Historians of democratic times not only look for grand explanations for every event, but also try to link events into systems. Since they focus more on what happens than on specific actors, it is easy to invent some order or sequence among them. The ancient world, though rich in fine histories, produced hardly any systematic historical theories, while even lesser modern literatures are full of them. The ancients did not use general theories as much as our historians eagerly do.

Democratic-era historians have another, more dangerous habit: when traces of individual action fade, the world seems to move on its own—though the mover is unseen. As it becomes nearly impossible to analyze the specific choices of every person that add up to collective change, people start to believe that this movement is automatic, that societies are ruled by some overpowering external force. Even if the general cause that guides everyone is found on earth, human free will is not safe. A cause broad enough to affect millions at once, and strong enough to carry them all in one direction, may soon seem irresistible: when we have watched mankind fall in line, it is easy to conclude they could not have helped themselves.

Thus, historians in democratic times not only deny that a few can shape a nation’s destiny, but also suggest that the people themselves are powerless to alter their fate, attributing everything to an unbending Providence or a blind necessity. In their view, every nation is bound by its geography, origins, customs, and temperament to a certain destiny, which no effort can break. Generation after generation, age after age, they see only necessity until history itself becomes a heavy chain dragging us onward. They want not just to show what happened, but to prove that nothing else could possibly have happened. They take a people at a certain point, and declare that nothing could have turned them from their path. It is easier to say this than to show how they might have chosen better.

Reading historians of aristocratic periods, especially of antiquity, one would think that to rule one’s fate and command others, a person needs only self-mastery. Reading the historians of today, on the other hand, you would think humans are utterly powerless over themselves and everything else. Ancient historians taught us to rule; today’s only teach us how to obey. In their works the author may seem great, but humanity is always made small. If this doctrine of necessity—which appeals so much to modern historians—spreads to their readers and infects the public mind, society’s energy will be paralyzed, and Christians could be reduced to the fate of the Turks. I would add that such thinking is especially dangerous in our own time. People today are already too inclined to doubt human free will, for each one feels trapped by his own limitations; but still, people are willing to believe in the collective strength and freedom of people united by society. We must not lose sight of this principle; for our age’s goal should be raising human potential, not completely crushing it.

## Chapter XXI: Of Parliamentary Eloquence In The United States

In aristocratic societies, all members are linked and dependent on one another; the hierarchy of ranks acts as a bond, keeping each person in their place and the entire society in order. Something similar appears in their political assemblies. Parties naturally align under certain leaders, whom they follow almost instinctively—an instinct shaped by habits formed in broader society. The decorum of society at large is carried into these smaller gatherings.

In democratic countries, it's often the case that many citizens are moving toward the same goal; yet each one believes, or flatters himself that he believes, he is moving independently. Used to acting according to personal impulse, he dislikes taking orders from others. This taste for and habit of independence follows him into national councils. If he agrees to join with others toward a common aim, he insists on contributing to success in his own way. That is why, in democracies, parties are so impatient with control and can only rarely be managed—usually in times of major public crisis. Even then, a leader's authority may be enough to make people act or speak, but hardly ever enough to keep them silent.

In aristocratic countries, members of political assemblies are aristocrats as well. Each enjoys high, well-established rank in their own right, and the role they play in the assembly may seem less important to them than their status in society at large. This comforts them if they play no part in public debates and restrains them from desperately seeking a minor role.

In America, a Representative typically only becomes notable through his position in the Assembly. He is therefore constantly driven by the need to be prominent there and feels a restless urge to continuously present his views to the House. It is not just his own vanity pressing him to this, but also the vanity of his constituents and the ongoing need to gain their favor. In aristocratic countries, a legislator is rarely strictly dependent on his constituents: he may be seen as an inevitable representative, and sometimes the constituents are more dependent on him. If they eventually reject him, he might easily be elected elsewhere, or, retiring from public life, still enjoy the leisure of high society. In a democracy like the United States, a Representative almost never forms a lasting attachment with his constituents. However small the electoral district may be, democracy's changes constantly shift its character, so ongoing effort is required to maintain support. He is never sure of his base; if they abandon him, he is left with no fallback, as his personal status is not high enough to be widely recognized. With the prevailing independence among the people, he cannot count on friends or the government to secure him a seat from voters who do not know him. The roots of his fortune are thus local; from his own neighborhood, he must begin, seeking to rise to national command and influence world affairs. Thus, members of democratic political assemblies naturally focus more on their constituents than on their party, while in aristocracies the reverse is true.

However, what pleases constituents is not always what serves the interest of the party the Representative claims to support. The broader needs of a party may require its members to refrain from speaking on issues they do not understand well, to speak little on minor matters that distract from major issues, or often, not to speak at all. Silence can be the greatest contribution a mediocre orator can make to the nation. But constituents do not see it that way. An electoral district sends a representative to participate in government because they have a high opinion of his talents. Since people seem greater compared to the smallness of those around them, it often happens that the fewer the talents among his constituents, the higher their opinion of their delegate. So, the less they can genuinely expect from him, the more they will anticipate, and however incapable, he will be pressed to excel in line with the honor they have given him.

Beyond his role as state legislator, electors also view their Representative as the natural patron of their district in the legislature; they almost see him as the delegate of every supporter and expect him to defend their private interests with as much passion as those of the nation. Thus, voters confidently expect their Representative to be an orator—to speak often if he can, and if he must remain silent, to, at least, in every rare speech, cover both major state issues and every petty local grievance they have. If he cannot speak frequently, he must, in each speech, prove his capability by making it a brilliant summary of both constituent concerns and his own worth. Only by this performance can he hope to keep their votes at the next election. These demands drive modest, capable men to despair—knowing their limitations, they would not put themselves forward, but when compelled, the Representative begins to speak, much to the concern of his friends, and, recklessly joining celebrated orators, confuses debate and tires the House.

Any law that makes the Representative more dependent on voters not only influences how legislators act, as I noted elsewhere, but also changes how they speak. These laws affect both public affairs themselves and the style in which affairs are debated.

There are few members of Congress willing to go home without having made at least one speech for their constituents; few who will tolerate interruption until they've added to their speech whatever useful points they can about the Union’s twenty-four states, and especially their own district. The result is an assortment of lofty generalities (which he grasps and communicates only fuzzily) and trivial details, which he is only too ready to spot and highlight. Thus, the debates in the great assembly are often unclear and cumbersome—they often drag on, rather than move forward to clear aims. I believe some form of this will always appear in democratic assemblies.

Favorable circumstances and wise laws might bring to a democratic legislature people far more capable than those typically sent by American voters to Congress; but nothing will ever stop less able members from eagerly putting themselves forward and monopolizing the public's attention. This problem, in my view, cannot be entirely remedied, since it arises from the nature not just of the assembly’s strategy but its structure and the wider society. Americans seem to agree with this; their long experience with parliamentary life is evident not because they avoid bad speeches, but because they stoically listen to them. They accept it as an unavoidable downside.

Having discussed the petty side of democratic political debate, let us now consider its more impressive aspect. Debates in the English Parliament over a century and a half have rarely created a stir outside Britain; the points and feelings expressed never sparked much sympathy, even among nearby nations. In contrast, Europe was riveted by the earliest debates in the small colonial assemblies of America during the Revolution, not just due to special circumstances but to lasting and general reasons. I can imagine nothing more inspiring or powerful than a great orator addressing major state issues in a democratic assembly. Since no particular class is represented by people chosen to defend only its interests, the orator always speaks for and to the entire nation. His thoughts become grander, and his language more powerful. Precedents carry little weight; there are no special rights tied to certain properties, institutions, or individuals—so the discussion must appeal to universal truths from human nature. This gives political debates among democracies, even small ones, a breadth that makes them attractive to humanity at large. Everyone is interested, because they are about people, who are the same everywhere. Among larger aristocratic nations, even the most general matters are often debated on grounds specific to a particular era or class, and so mainly interest that class or, at best, the society where it exists. This explains, as much as France’s stature and the world’s openness to it, the global impact French political debate sometimes achieves. French orators often speak to all humanity, even when addressing their fellow countrymen alone.

## Section 2: Influence of Democracy on the Feelings of Americans

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

The first and deepest passion produced by equality of conditions is, obviously, a love of equality itself. So, my readers will not be surprised that I discuss it before all others. Everyone has noticed that today, especially in France, this passion is growing daily. It has been said many times that people now care more deeply and tenaciously about equality than about liberty; but since its causes haven't been thoroughly analyzed, I will try to lay them out.

It is possible to imagine an extreme where liberty and equality merge and become indistinguishable. Suppose all people take part in government and all have the same rights; since none is different from others, none can dominate, and all are perfectly free precisely because they are equal, and perfectly equal because they are free. Democratic nations strive for this ideal state—the fullest form of equality possible on earth, and yet there are a thousand lesser forms, still deeply cherished even if they fall short of perfection.

Equality can be achieved in society without necessarily extending to politics. Rights may exist to indulge in the same pleasures, enter the same careers, access the same places—in short, to live similarly and pursue wealth by the same means—even if not everyone has a say in the government. There may even be some equality in politics without genuine political freedom: a man may be the equal of every citizen except one, who is master of all and freely chooses his agents from among them. Many other arrangements could be imagined that mix broad equality with more or less free, or even totally unfree, institutions. Although men can only become absolutely equal by being completely free, so that ultimately full equality would merge with liberty, there is good reason to distinguish the two. The desire for liberty and the love of equality are, in fact, two different things; and I am not afraid to say that, among democratic peoples, they are not equally powerful.

On closer look, every era revolves around a particular crucial fact; this fact nearly always produces a central idea or ruling passion that pulls every feeling and opinion along with it, like a great river drawing in its tributaries. Liberty has appeared in history at different times and forms; it isn't linked solely to any one society and isn't exclusive to democracies. Freedom, therefore, isn't what defines democratic ages. The defining reality of those times is equality of conditions; their ruling passion is the love of equality. Don’t ask what draws people so strongly to equality or why they cling to it more than to other advantages society offers. Equality is the distinctive badge of their era; that alone explains their preference.

Beyond this, there are several reasons why people nearly always prefer equality to liberty. If it were possible for a people to undo or reduce the equality within their society, it would require protracted and demanding effort: their social structure would have to change, their laws abolished, their opinions overhauled, their habits altered, and their manners corrupted. But political liberty is more easily lost: merely failing to hold onto it is enough to let it slip away. So people cherish equality not just because they love it, but also because they think it's more enduring.

The dangers of excessive political freedom—disrupted peace, property loss, even lives—are clear to the most unimaginative. In contrast, only attentive and discerning minds spot the threats that equality brings, and they are usually reluctant to say so. The dangers they foresee are remote and likely to affect only future generations—something the present rarely worries about. The harms liberty sometimes causes are immediate; everyone sees and feels them. Harms produced by extreme equality appear slowly, gradually infiltrating society; they're only noticed now and then, and even when they peak, habit often makes us ignore them. The benefits of liberty only become clear over time, and it's easy to confuse their source. The benefits of equality are felt instantly and can always be traced. Political liberty offers occasional, high rewards to a select few; equality offers countless small pleasures to everyone, every day. The appeal of equality is continually felt and accessible to all; nobler souls aren't immune, and the most common people delight in it. This makes equality's pull both strong and widespread. Political liberty requires effort and sacrifice, but equality's pleasures are offered up freely: daily life seems to provide them at every turn and all you need to do is live.

Democratic nations always love equality, but sometimes this passion becomes almost uncontrollable. This happens when an old social system, after long decay, collapses in a final internal struggle and all barriers of rank are demolished. At such times, people seize equality as a prize and guard it like a treasure they might lose. The passion for equality fills every heart completely. Don't try to warn them that blind devotion to this passion might put their best interests at risk—they won’t listen. Don’t point out that liberty is slipping away while they are busy elsewhere—they can see only equality.

What I’ve said applies to all democracies; what I’ll say now concerns only the French. For most modern nations—especially on the European continent—the idea and taste for liberty emerged only when social conditions were shifting toward equality, as a result of that very movement. Absolute monarchs were the greatest levelers in their realms. Among these peoples, equality came before liberty; equality was established before freedom ever took root: customs, opinions, and laws reflecting equality existed before people had ever truly experienced liberty. So liberty remained just an idea and a taste, while equality had already become everyday habit, shaped manners, and colored every detail of life. It's no wonder then that people of our day prefer equality to liberty.

I believe democratic peoples naturally love freedom: left alone, they seek it and treasure it, and any loss of it makes them uneasy. But their passion for equality is intense, insatiable, persistent, and irresistible: they long for equality in freedom, but if that can't be had, they still want equality under tyranny. They will accept poverty, servitude, even barbarism, but will not tolerate social hierarchy. This is always true, especially now. Anyone and anything trying to resist this overwhelming desire will be defeated by it. In our era, liberty can't be established without it, and even despotism can't endure without its support.

## Chapter II: Of Individualism In Democratic Countries

I have explained how, in times of equality, people look within themselves for opinions; now I will show how, in these times, they also turn their feelings inward. "Individualism"* is a new word for a new idea. Our ancestors only knew "selfishness." Egotism is a passionate and extreme self-love that makes a man relate everything back to himself, putting his own interest above everything else. Individualism is a calm and reasoned tendency that leads each person to detach from the larger community, drawing away with family and friends; once he has formed this smaller circle, he willingly leaves the wider society alone. Egotism is a blind instinct; individualism comes more from flawed judgment than corrupt feelings—it springs as much from limitations of mind as from defects of heart. Egotism destroys the seed of every virtue; individualism at first only undermines public virtue, but over time, it erodes all virtues and eventually absorbs into outright egotism. Egotism is an age-old vice found in every society; individualism is a product of democracy, and it threatens to grow as equality grows.

*a
[ I use the original expression, strange as it may sound to English readers, partly to show how general terms enter democratic vocabularies as discussed earlier, and partly because there is no exact English equivalent. The chapter itself explains what the author means.—Translator’s Note.]

In aristocratic nations, where families often stay in the same position, sometimes on the same land, for centuries, all generations seem to overlap. People typically know and respect their ancestors; they are aware of their distant descendants and care about them. They impose duties on themselves toward both groups, often sacrificing personal pleasures for those who came before and those yet to come. Aristocratic systems also closely tie every individual to several fellow citizens. As the classes in such societies are sharply defined and permanent, members of each see their class as a kind of homeland—more concrete and cherished than the nation. As everyone has a set place in a hierarchy, each always looks up to someone they rely on and down to someone whose help they may claim. So, people in aristocratic times are generally connected to something beyond themselves and are often ready to forget themselves. It’s true that people then don’t usually think of sacrificing for humanity as a whole—but they often do so for others. In democratic eras, though everyone’s duties to humanity are clearer, deep loyalty to any one person is rarer; the bonds of human affection are wider but looser.

In democratic societies, new families constantly appear as old ones fade away, and those remaining are always changing status; the thread of history is constantly broken, and generational connections vanish. The past is quickly forgotten; no one has much thought for descendants. A person’s concern is limited to those immediately around him. As classes blend and mix, their members grow indifferent and almost strangers to one another. Aristocracy connected every member of society in a chain from peasant to king; democracy breaks that chain and severs every link. As conditions grow more equal, more people, though not rich or powerful enough to greatly affect others, have enough education and resources to care for themselves. They owe nothing to anyone else and expect nothing in return; they get used to thinking they stand alone, and to believe their fate is entirely their own business. So democracy makes people forget their ancestors, hides their descendants, and separates contemporaries—it leaves them isolated, each alone within their own heart.

## Chapter III: Individualism Stronger At The Close Of A Democratic Revolution Than At Other Periods

The period just after a democratic society is built upon the ruins of an aristocracy is especially when the separation of individuals and the resulting self-centeredness most forcefully draws attention. Democratic communities not only have a large number of independent citizens, but they are also filled with people who, having only recently gained their independence, are elated by their new power. They have an overconfident belief in their strength, and, thinking they will never again need the help of others, they openly show that they care about no one but themselves.

An aristocracy rarely gives up without a long struggle, during which deep animosities are created between different classes of society. These passions outlast the victory and their traces can be seen amid the democratic confusion that follows. Those at the top of the former hierarchy cannot immediately forget their past prominence; for a long time they view themselves as strangers in the new society. They see everyone whom this new society has made their equal as oppressors, for whom they have no sympathy. They have lost connection with their former equals and no longer feel bound by shared interests; each stands apart, thinking he must now fend for himself alone. Conversely, those who were previously at the bottom and have been catapulted to equality by revolution, cannot enjoy their new independence without hidden anxiety; if they encounter some of their former superiors now on equal footing, they avoid them with a sense of both triumph and fear. Thus, it is usually at the beginning of democratic society that citizens are most inclined to isolate themselves. Democracy, by nature, does not cause people to draw closer; rather, democratic revolutions cause people to avoid each other and continue, in a state of equality, the hostilities created by a former state of inequality. The great advantage the Americans have is that they reached democracy without enduring a democratic revolution; they are born equal, rather than becoming so.

## Chapter IV: That The Americans Combat The Effects Of Individualism By Free Institutions

Despotism, by its very cautious nature, is most secure when it can keep people apart; and it almost always works toward that goal. No vice of the human heart is as accommodating to it as selfishness: a despot easily forgives his subjects for not loving him, as long as they do not love each other. He does not want them to help him govern the State; it is enough for him that they do not seek to govern it themselves. He labels as unruly and disruptive those who work together to promote community prosperity, and, twisting words, he praises as good citizens those who care only for themselves. Thus, the vices that despotism creates are exactly those that equality fosters. These two forces reinforce and worsen each other's effects. Equality puts people side by side, unconnected by any real ties; despotism builds barriers to keep them apart; the first makes them uninterested in others, the second turns general indifference into a public virtue.

Despotism is always dangerous, but especially so in democratic times. It is clear that people need freedom most in these ages. When members of a community are forced to pay attention to public affairs, they are necessarily drawn out of their personal interests and distracted from self-absorption. As soon as a person begins to discuss public matters in public, he realizes that he is not as independent of others as he once thought, and that to gain their support, he must often cooperate with them.

When the public reigns supreme, everyone values public approval, and seeks it by earning the esteem and affection of those around them. Many of the passions that freeze people’s hearts and keep them apart must then retreat and hide below the surface. Pride must be concealed; disdain dares not appear; egotism fears its own consequences. In a free government, since most public offices are elective, men whose ambitions outgrow private life realize they must depend on the people around them. They learn to consider others out of ambition; they often find it in their interest, in a sense, to forget themselves.

Some may object, citing campaign schemes, the pettiness of candidates, and slander from their rivals—conflicts that become more frequent as elections multiply. Without a doubt, these are problems, but they are temporary; while the benefits remain. The desire to be elected may lead some to fierce hostility for a time, but, ultimately, this same desire leads people to support each other; if an election sometimes separates two friends, the system draws many strangers together for good. Freedom may breed personal conflicts, but despotism breeds general apathy.

Americans have fought back against the isolating tendency of equality with free institutions, and they have succeeded. American lawmakers did not believe that merely having a national representative government would be enough to prevent this dangerous and natural problem in democratic society. They thought it was wise to inject political life even into the smallest parts of the country, multiplying chances for everyone to work together and constantly reminding them of their mutual dependence. This was a wise strategy. National affairs only concern leading politicians who gather occasionally and often lose contact again, preventing lasting bonds. But if local affairs are managed by residents, the same people are in constant contact and must know and adapt to each other.

It is hard to interest a man in the fate of the State, since he may not see how it affects him. But if, for example, a road is to be built across his land, he immediately recognizes its connection with his concerns, and he cannot help but see the link between private and public interests. In this way, giving citizens the management of small, local matters engages them more in the public welfare than letting them control only major national affairs, and convinces them that they always need each other to meet the community's needs. A single great accomplishment can win a people's favor quickly, but to earn the love and respect of neighbors, many small acts of kindness, a long habit of helpfulness, and a reputation for selflessness are needed. Local freedom, which gets many citizens to value the goodwill of neighbors and family, constantly brings people together and forces cooperation despite their natural inclination to be apart.

In the United States, the wealthier citizens take care not to separate themselves from the rest; instead, they maintain easy relations with the lower classes—talking and listening to them daily. They know that the rich in democracies always need the poor, and that in democratic times, you win a poor man’s attachment more through your manner than benefits. A big gift, which accentuates social differences, secretly irritates its recipient; but true simplicity of behavior is almost irresistible. The kindness of their demeanor wins people over, and even a lack of refinement can be appealing. This truth is not instantly understood by the rich. They often resist it during a democratic revolution and do not quickly accept it once the revolution is over. They are willing to do good for the people, but still prefer to keep their distance; thinking money alone will suffice—but they are wrong. They might spend fortunes yet fail to gain the population’s affection; the people do not ask for gifts, but for their pride to be set aside.

It seems as if every mind in the United States is focused on finding ways to increase prosperity and satisfy public needs. The most knowledgeable in each community constantly look for new truths to improve general well-being, and, once found, eagerly share them with everyone.

When you examine the flaws and weaknesses of public officials in America, you might be surprised at the people’s prosperity—but this reaction, in a sense, is misplaced. Elected officials do not make American democracy flourish; democracy flourishes because the officials are elected.

It would be unfair to say that American patriotism and enthusiasm for each other's welfare are simply faked. Though self-interest drives most actions in the United States as everywhere, it does not control all actions. I can say I have often seen Americans make significant, real sacrifices for the public good; I have noticed many examples where they hardly ever fail to give each other genuine help. The free institutions and political rights Americans enjoy constantly remind every citizen, in countless ways, that he lives in society. They repeatedly impress upon him the idea that it is both a duty and an advantage to help others; and because he has no particular reason to resent them—since he is never their master or their slave—he is genuinely inclined to be kind. At first, people serve the public because they must, then because they choose to: what started as intention becomes instinct, and by working for their fellow citizens, the habit and even the taste for such service is eventually developed.

Many in France see equality of conditions as one evil and political freedom as another. When forced to accept equality, they at least try to escape freedom. But I insist that the only real remedy against the dangers of equality is political liberty.

## Chapter V: Of The Use Which The Americans Make Of Public Associations In Civil Life

I am not speaking of those political associations formed to defend against the tyranny of the majority or the aggression of regal power—I have already addressed that. If citizens did not learn, as their individual strength declines and they become less able to defend their freedom alone, to join together for its defense, tyranny would surely grow alongside equality.

Here, I mean the associations formed in civil life, without political aims. Political associations in the United States are just one feature among many kinds of associations there. Americans of all ages, backgrounds, and personalities constantly form associations. They have not only commercial and manufacturing companies, in which everyone participates, but also associations of all sorts—religious, moral, serious, trivial, large or small, vast or intimate. Americans form associations to host social events, found schools, build hotels, construct churches, publish books, send missionaries to distant lands; and thus, they establish hospitals, prisons, and schools. If they want to promote a truth or spread a positive feeling by public example, they form a society. Wherever, in France, you find the government leading a new project, or in England, a single nobleman, in the United States you are sure to find an association. I encountered several types of associations in America that I had never imagined, and I have often admired how skillfully Americans propose a common aim to a large group and persuade them to pursue it voluntarily. Later, traveling in England, where Americans have borrowed many laws and customs, I found that the spirit of association is not nearly as constant or adeptly used there. The English often accomplish great things individually; Americans create associations even for the smallest tasks. For the English, association is a powerful means; for Americans, it seems almost the only one.

Thus, the most democratic country in the world is also the one where the art of working together to achieve shared goals is most perfected and most widely applied. Is this by chance? Or is there a necessary link between democracy and the principle of association? Aristocratic societies always include, among many powerless individuals, a few powerful, wealthy people who can achieve great deeds alone. In aristocracies, cooperation is not essential because everyone is already connected through strong social bonds. Each wealthy, influential person presides over a permanent, compulsory association made up of those dependent on him or serving his interests. In democracies, conversely, all citizens are independent and weak; they can hardly do anything alone and none can force others to help. They all become helpless unless they voluntarily learn to help each other. If people in democracies lacked the right and desire to associate for political ends, their independence would be at great risk, though they might preserve wealth and learning for a while; but if they never developed habits of association in everyday life, civilization itself would be at risk. A people who cannot accomplish great things alone, and never learn to accomplish them together, would soon slip back into barbarism.

Unfortunately, the very social condition that makes associations essential in democracies also makes forming them harder than in any other setting. When a few aristocrats combine their efforts, success comes easily—each brings significant influence, so the group can be small; a small group can get acquainted, understand each other, and set reliable rules. Such circumstances rarely exist in democratic societies, where powerful associations must have large numbers to be effective.

I know that many of my countrymen are untroubled by this difficulty. They argue that as citizens grow weaker and less capable, government should become stronger and more active, taking over functions that individuals can no longer manage. They think this solves everything, but I disagree. Government may act as some of the largest American companies do—a path some U.S. states have tried; but what political authority could handle the huge number of small projects that Americans achieve every day through associations? It is clear that, in the future, people will become less and less able to provide even basic necessities for themselves. The government’s workload will always rise, and its very efforts will only make it grow larger. The more the government replaces associations, the more people, having lost the habit of working together, will depend on it: causes and effects that perpetually reinforce one another. Will government handle all business enterprises that no citizen can undertake alone? And if a time comes when, because land has been divided so minutely, it can only be farmed by collectives of workers, will the head of state have to leave government business to take up farm work? Both the morals and intelligence of democratic people, as well as their business and industry, would be threatened if government ever fully replaced private associations.

People’s feelings, convictions, hearts, and minds develop only through the mutual influence of society. As I have shown, these influences are nearly absent in democratic countries; so they must be consciously created—and this can only be done through associations.

When members of an aristocratic society adopt a new idea or feeling, they place it, as it were, next to themselves, on the elevated level where they stand; such opinions or feelings, highly visible, are easily spread to those below. In democracies, only government is in a position to do this, but its influence is always inadequate and often harmful. No government can keep alive and circulate new ideas and sentiments among a vast people as effectively as individuals can. The moment government ventures beyond politics into this new territory, it imposes, even unintentionally, an unbearable sort of tyranny—for a government can only issue strict rules, and the beliefs it encourages are rigidly enforced; it is hard to tell advice from orders. It is even worse if the government is genuinely invested in suppressing new ideas; it will then be paralyzed by willful stagnation. Governments, therefore, should not be the only active force: in democratic societies, associations must replace those powerful individuals equality has eliminated.

As soon as a group of Americans take up an idea or cause they want to advance, they look for others to help; as soon as they find each other, they unite. From that point on, they are no longer isolated individuals but a visible force, whose example influences others and whose words are heard. When I first learned in the United States that 100,000 people had pledged publicly to abstain from liquor, it seemed more like a joke than a serious pledge; I didn’t understand why these sober citizens could not simply drink water privately at home. I finally understood that 300,000 Americans, alarmed by growing drunkenness, resolved to promote temperance in society. They acted like a nobleman who dresses simply to encourage the lower classes to embrace simplicity. If those 100,000 people had lived in France, each would have simply sent requests to the government to monitor pubs nationwide.

Nothing is more worthy of attention, in my view, than the intellectual and moral associations in America. The political and economic associations are obvious; but the others are easy to overlook, or if seen, are poorly understood, as we have little experience with them. Yet it must be acknowledged that these are just as essential to Americans as the political and economic ones—perhaps even more so. In democratic societies, the science of association is the foundation of all the others; the progress of everything else depends on its improvement. Among the laws governing societies, one seems clearer than all the rest: if people wish to remain civilized, or become so, the art of association must grow, advancing equally with the growth of equality.

## Chapter VI: Of The Relation Between Public Associations And Newspapers

When people are no longer connected by strong and lasting ties, it becomes impossible to get many of them to cooperate, unless each individual you need to convince feels his own personal interest compels him to voluntarily join his efforts with everyone else’s. This can only be habitually and conveniently accomplished through a newspaper; only a newspaper can introduce the same idea to thousands of minds simultaneously. A newspaper is an advisor who need not be sought out; it approaches you on its own, and speaks to you briefly each day about public matters, without distracting you from your personal affairs.

Newspapers therefore become more essential as people become more equal, and as individualism becomes a greater concern. To think that newspapers solely protect freedom would be to underestimate their significance—they maintain civilization itself. I will not deny that in democratic countries, newspapers often lead citizens into poorly thought-out ventures; but without newspapers, there would be no collective action. The harm newspapers might sometimes produce is, therefore, much less than the harm they cure.

A newspaper’s effect is not just to propose the same objective to many people, but also to provide the means for carrying out, together, plans that they may have conceived individually. In aristocratic countries, the leading citizens recognize each other from afar; and if they wish to unite, they move toward each other, bringing many others in their wake. Often, in contrast, in democratic countries, a large group of people who want or need to unite cannot manage to do so, because they feel insignificant and lost in the crowd—they cannot see each other, nor do they know where to find one another. A newspaper then takes up the idea or feeling that had occurred separately to each person. All are soon guided toward this beacon; these wandering minds, which had long sought one another in the dark, finally meet and unite.

It was the newspaper that brought them together, and it is still necessary to keep them united. For an association in a democratic society to have any power, it must encompass many people. Those involved are therefore scattered over a wide area, each kept near home by limited means or by the constant effort needed to earn a living. There must then be ways to converse daily without seeing each other and to act together without meetings. Thus, almost no democratic association can exist without newspapers. There is, therefore, an essential connection between public associations and newspapers: newspapers create associations, and associations create newspapers; and if it has been rightly said that associations multiply as people become more equal, it is just as certain that newspapers multiply along with associations. Thus, America has both the greatest number of associations and the greatest number of newspapers.

This link between the number of newspapers and associations leads us to see another connection, this time between the state of the periodical press and the structure of a country's government; and it shows that the number of newspapers must rise or fall among a democratic people according to how centralized the administration is. In democracies, local powers cannot be entrusted to just the prominent citizens, as in aristocracies. These powers must either be eliminated or given to large numbers of people, who then, by law, form an ongoing association for managing the affairs of a given area; and they need a newspaper to bring them daily, in the midst of their own concerns, news of their collective wellbeing. The more numerous the local authorities, and the more people hold these powers by law, the greater the need felt each day—and the more newspapers proliferate.

It is the extraordinary subdivision of administrative power that accounts for the huge number of American newspapers, even more than the country’s great political freedom or its total liberty of the press. If all Americans could vote, but only for their Congress members, few newspapers would be needed, since they’d only need to act together for a few significant but rare events. Yet, within that national association, laws have established smaller associations in every county, city, and even every village for local governance. By law, each American must cooperate almost daily with some of his fellow citizens for common goals, and each needs a newspaper to know what the others are doing.

I believe that a democratic society, *a without any national legislature but possessing many small local governments, would eventually have more newspapers than another nation run by a centralized government and elected legislature. What explains to me the massive reach of the American daily press is that in America, I find both the broadest national freedom and every kind of local freedom. In France and England, many believe that abolishing taxes on the press would vastly increase newspaper circulation. This is a huge overestimation. Newspaper numbers grow not mainly because they are cheap, but because so many people frequently feel the need for communication and cooperation.

a
\[ By a "democratic people," I mean that an aristocratic society's administration may also be decentralized, but the need for newspapers is minimal, because local powers reside in the hands of very few, who work alone or know each other already and can easily meet and decide matters.\]

Likewise, I would attribute the rising influence of daily newspapers to much broader causes than those most often named. A newspaper can only survive if it publishes ideas or principles shared by many people. A newspaper always represents an association made up of its regular readers. This association might be more or less distinct, large, or small; but the mere fact that the newspaper keeps going proves that such an association, at least in embryo, exists within its readership.

This brings me to one final observation. The more equal people’s conditions become, and the less power they have as individuals, the more likely they are to follow the crowd, and the harder it is for them to hold to their own opinion if the majority rejects it. A newspaper represents an association; it could be said to speak to every reader in the name of all the others, and its influence grows stronger as individuals become weaker on their own. The power of the press will therefore increase as society becomes more equal.

## Chapter VII: Connection Of Civil And Political Associations

There is only one country on earth where citizens have unlimited freedom to associate for political purposes. This same country is the only place where constant exercise of the right of association exists in daily life, and where all the benefits of civilization come through it. In all the countries where forming political associations is outlawed, civil associations are also rare. It is hardly likely that this is by chance; instead, it suggests a natural, and perhaps necessary, link between these two types of association. Certain people may share an interest in some matter—whether a business venture or a manufacturing experiment; they meet, combine, and gradually become familiar with the principle of association. The more minor matters exist, the more people—even without realizing it—gain experience cooperating on major undertakings. Civil associations thus help pave the way for political associations; but, in turn, political associations greatly strengthen and improve those for civil purposes. In everyday life, one might imagine he can take care of his own needs; but in politics, this illusion vanishes. When people know anything about public life, the idea and the desire to join forces appear daily in everyone’s thoughts: no matter how naturally resistant they may be to acting together, they will still unite for the sake of a political group. In this way, political life spreads the love and practice of association; it gives a desire for unity, and teaches the mechanics of cooperation to people who would otherwise have remained apart.

Politics not only creates many associations, but also large ones. In civil life, rarely does one goal bring together a huge number of people; it takes skill even to create such a shared interest. In politics, though, these opportunities come up daily. It is precisely in large associations that the full value of the principle of association is shown. People who feel powerless on their own cannot easily imagine the strength they might gain in unity; it must be demonstrated to them. Thus, it is sometimes easier to gather a crowd for a public cause than to get a few people together; a thousand citizens may not see their interest in uniting—ten thousand will. In politics, people join forces for big endeavors; using association for such matters teaches them its usefulness, even in smaller concerns. A political association brings together individuals from different backgrounds, ages, and fortunes; it draws them closer and helps them interact. Once they have met, it is easy for them to meet again.

People rarely enter into civil partnerships without risking some property; this is the case with all manufacturing and trading companies. When people are unfamiliar with the mechanics and rules of association, they fear, in starting such ventures, that they might have to pay dearly to learn from their mistakes. They would rather forego a powerful tool for success than take risks with it. However, they are less hesitant to join political associations, thinking these are risk-free, since no money is involved. But once they belong to such associations for any length of time, they learn how order is kept in large groups, and how to coordinate everyone harmoniously towards a common goal. Thus, they learn to submit their wills to the group, and to make their efforts serve the overall direction—skills just as necessary in civil as in political associations. Political associations, then, can be seen as large, freely accessible schools where the entire community learns the essentials of working together.

Even if political associations did not directly promote civil associations, destroying the former would still undermine the latter. When people are allowed to meet publicly only for certain purposes, such meetings seem odd and rare, and people seldom consider holding them. When they can meet freely for any purpose, public association gradually seems the normal—or even the only—way for people to accomplish their varied goals. Every new need immediately rekindles the idea. The art of association then becomes, as I have said before, the engine of action—studied and practiced by all.

If certain kinds of associations are banned and others allowed, it is hard for people to distinguish which are forbidden beforehand. In this uncertainty, people avoid all associations, and a kind of public mindset grows up that treats any association as daring, perhaps even illegal. *a

a
\[ This is especially true when the executive government can choose which associations to allow or ban. When some associations are specifically banned by law, and the courts enforce these bans, the problem is much less serious. Each citizen knows in advance, more or less, what to expect. He judges himself before being judged by the law. Avoiding banned associations, he joins those that are legal. By these restrictions, all free nations have always accepted that the right of association may be limited. Yet if law allows a single official to decide which associations are dangerous and which are useful—giving him power to destroy or allow any group as he wishes—no one can predict which associations will be permitted, so the very spirit of association is killed. The first kind of law only targets some groups; the second threatens the life of society itself. I can imagine a properly run government using the first restriction, but I cannot admit that any government has the right to enact the second.\]

It is unrealistic to expect that the spirit of association, once suppressed in one area, will remain strong in all others; and that if people may join in certain endeavors, that alone will cause them to do so enthusiastically. Allow the people to unite for everything, and they will do so for little as well as great causes. Restrict them to small things, and they will not. No matter if you let them form all the business partnerships they want: they will hardly take advantage of these rights, and after all your failed efforts to suppress forbidden associations, you will be surprised that you cannot manage to encourage those you actually support.

I do not claim that there can be no civil associations where political ones are banned; people cannot live together without cooperating in some way. But in such countries, civil associations will always be sparse, poorly designed, poorly managed, and will never undertake great projects—or, if they do, they will fail.

This leads me to believe that political freedom of association is not as threatening to public order as many think; and that, after causing some commotion at first, it may ultimately strengthen the State. In democracies, political associations are, so to speak, the only powerful forces that aim to govern the State. Thus, modern governments view them almost as medieval monarchs looked at their great vassals: with a sort of instinctive suspicion, fighting them at every turn. But they favor civil associations—these divert citizens from thinking about public affairs, engaging them in goals that require public order, making them less likely to seek out revolution. What such governments overlook, however, is that political associations greatly increase and facilitate civil ones—and by avoiding one risk, they lose a powerful remedy.

If you witness Americans often forming associations to champion a political principle, to elect a leader, or to challenge a rival, you may wonder how such independent people do not continuously abuse their freedom. Yet, if you look at the countless American business enterprises and see that Americans everywhere are involved in difficult, important projects—a slight upheaval could ruin them—you quickly realize that people so occupied have every reason to maintain order rather than disturb it.

Is it enough to regard these things separately, or should we uncover their deeper connection? In their political associations, Americans of every class, background, and age daily gain a general taste for association and get used to using it. There, they meet in crowds, talk, listen, and spur each other on to all sorts of undertakings. They then carry these habits into civil life and apply them to countless goals. America thus learns, through bold and dangerous freedom, how to make such freedom less harmful.

It is easy, by focusing on just one moment, to show that political associations can disturb public order and halt industry; but if you consider the whole life of a nation, it may be just as easy to show that freedom of political association actually favors both prosperity and peace.

I wrote earlier, “The unrestrained liberty of political association cannot be completely equated with freedom of the press. The former is both less essential and more dangerous. A nation can set limits on it and still remain its own master; sometimes it will be forced to do so to preserve order.” And further on: “It cannot be denied that unlimited political association is the last degree of liberty a people is ready for. If it does not plunge them into anarchy, it keeps them as if always on its brink.” So I do not think a nation is always entitled to give absolute freedom of political association; and I doubt if it is ever wise, in any time or place, to set no limits at all. In some countries, it is claimed, society could not stay peaceful or law-abiding, nor could lasting government be secured, without tightly restricting the right of association. Such blessings are precious, and I understand that a people may choose severe but temporary limits to achieve or preserve them. Still, it is important they realize what that costs. I can understand amputating a man’s arm to save his life; but it would be wrong to claim that he is just as skillful as before.

## Chapter VIII: The Americans Combat Individualism By The Principle Of Interest Rightly Understood

When the world was ruled by a few wealthy and powerful individuals, these people liked to talk about the lofty duties of humanity. They claimed it was admirable to forget oneself and to do good with no hope of reward, as the Deity does. Such were the common moral ideals of that time. I doubt whether people were actually more virtuous in aristocratic eras than in others; but they constantly praised virtue, while secretly considering its usefulness. Now that people's imaginations soar less and each person’s focus is more self-centered, moralists are alarmed by the idea of self-sacrifice and scarcely dare present it as a goal. Instead, they ask if every individual’s personal advantage might lie in working for the good of all, and whenever private interest matches the public good, they hasten to draw attention to it. Such observations are increasingly repeated; what began as a single point becomes a guiding principle, and it comes to be accepted as a truth that a man serves himself by serving others, and that his best interest is found in doing good.

I have already shown in previous parts of this work how Americans usually manage to align their own interests with those of their fellow citizens; my current aim is to point out the general principle that allows them to do this. In the United States, few discuss the beauty of virtue; instead, they insist that virtue is useful, and they show this daily. American moralists do not claim that people should sacrifice themselves for others simply because it is noble; instead, they assert that such sacrifices are as necessary for the one making them as for the one benefitting from them. They have noticed that, in their country and time, people are irresistibly drawn back to themselves, and seeing no hope of resisting this force, they try instead to direct it. Thus, they do not deny that everyone may follow their self-interest; but they strive to prove that it is in each person’s interest to be virtuous. I will not now go into the reasoning they use, as it would take me from my subject: it is enough to say their fellow countrymen have been convinced.

Montaigne wrote long ago: “Were I not to follow the straight road for its straightness, I should follow it for having found by experience that in the end it is commonly the happiest and most useful track.” The doctrine of rightly understood interest is therefore not new, but among the Americans of our age it has gained universal acceptance; it has become common knowledge. You can see it in all their actions, and you hear it in all their conversations. Both poor and rich speak about it frequently. In Europe, the idea of self-interest is cruder than in America, yet it is also less common and above all, less openly acknowledged; here, people still pretend to have feelings of selflessness that they no longer actually possess. The Americans, by contrast, are eager to explain almost all their actions by the principle of rightly understood interest; they show with satisfaction how a smart pursuit of self-interest leads them continually to help one another, prompting them to willingly sacrifice time and property for the welfare of the state. In this, I think they often do themselves a disservice: for in the United States, as elsewhere, people are sometimes motivated by genuinely unselfish impulses, but Americans seldom admit to acting from such feelings; they are more eager to credit their philosophy than themselves.

I could stop here without offering a judgment on what I have described. The topic is extremely difficult, so I would be excused, but I prefer that my readers see my intent clearly, even if they refuse to agree, than that they are left in doubt. The principle of rightly understood interest is not lofty, but it is clear and reliable. It does not aim for grand objectives, but it achieves those it pursues without too much effort. Since it is within everyone’s grasp, all can easily understand and remember it. Its close alignment with human weaknesses gives it wide influence, and this influence is stable, because the principle balances one’s personal interests against another’s, using the very passions it aims to guide. The principle of rightly understood interest does not produce great acts of heroism, but it fosters regular small acts of self-restraint. Alone it cannot make a person truly virtuous, but it encourages citizens to adopt habits of order, moderation, self-control, and foresight; if it does not bring men directly to virtue through intention, it gradually leads them there through habits. If this principle were the dominant moral guide, extraordinary virtues might indeed become rare; but I think flagrant wickedness would be less common too. The principle perhaps keeps some people from becoming exceptional, but lifts many others from falling below the norm. Looking at individuals, it may lower some; looking at humanity as a whole, it lifts everyone. I am not afraid to say that the principle of rightly understood self-interest seems to me the best-fitted of all philosophical systems for people today, and I see it as their chief defense against themselves. Moralists of our age should therefore turn to it; even if they find it incomplete, they must accept it as necessary.

I do not believe there is more selfishness among us than in America; the main difference is that there, it is enlightened—here, it is not. Every American is willing to give up part of his private interest to save the rest; we try to preserve everything, and often lose it all. Everyone I see seems determined to teach others that what is useful is never wrong. Will no one try to show that what is right can also be useful? Nothing on earth can prevent rising equality from leading each mind to seek what is useful, nor from making each community member self-absorbed. We must expect self-interest to become more than ever the main or only driver of people’s actions; but how each one understands their own interest is what matters. If equality brings ignorance and coarseness, it is impossible to predict what foolish extremes selfishness may lead to, or the disgrace and misery that will follow when people refuse to give up anything for others' prosperity. I do not think America’s “interest rightly understood” is completely self-evident; but it contains so many clear truths that, if people are educated, they cannot help but see them. So at least, educate; for the time of unexamined self-sacrifice and instinctive virtue is slipping away, and soon, without education, liberty, peace, and social order themselves cannot survive.

## Chapter IX: That The Americans Apply The Principle Of Interest Rightly Understood To Religious Matters

If the principle of rightly understood interest only concerned this present life, it would be a weak guide; for there are some sacrifices whose rewards can only be found in the next world. No matter how cleverly people try to show that virtue is practical, it will never be easy to make a person live well who does not think of dying. So we must consider whether rightly understood interest can be easily combined with religious belief. Philosophers teaching this morality tell people that to be happy in this life, they must watch their own passions and steadily rein in their excesses; that lasting happiness comes only by denying countless fleeting pleasures, and that a person must regularly overcome himself to secure his long-term benefit. Almost all religions teach the same. The path pointed out is the same; only the reward is placed farther off—religions promise it in a future world. Still, I cannot believe that all those who act virtuously from religious motives do so just in hope of a reward. I have known sincere Christians who constantly forgot themselves to work harder for others’ happiness, yet declared all they did was simply to win blessings in an afterlife. I cannot help feeling they deceive themselves; I respect them too much to truly believe it.

Christianity indeed commands people to put their neighbor before themselves to gain eternal life; but it also teaches them to do good for the love of God. A sublime idea! Humanity, using its mind to inquire into the divine purpose, recognizes that order is God's aim and freely joins in that grand design; sacrificing personal gain for the perfect harmony of creation, expecting no reward but the satisfaction of contemplating it. I do not believe interest is the only motive for religious people, but I do think interest is the main means religions use to guide the public, and I have no doubt this is how they reach wide influence and popularity. There is no clear reason why rightly understood interest should be hostile to religious belief; if anything, it seems to support it. Suppose a person, seeking happiness in this life, learns to resist first impulses, to think through every action, and habitually gives up brief pleasures for greater, lasting benefit. If he then professes a religion, obeying its restraints will be easy; reason advises him to, and habit has prepared him for it. Even if he doubts his future hopes, he will be reluctant to let doubts stop him, and will think it wise to risk some present advantage to hold on to his promised future inheritance. “To be mistaken in believing that the Christian religion is true,” says Pascal, “is no great loss to anyone; but how dreadful to be mistaken in believing it to be false!”

Americans do not display crude indifference to the afterlife; nor do they take childish pride in ignoring risks they hope to escape. They practice their religion without shame or weakness; but even in their devotion, there is something remarkably calm, methodical, and deliberate, as if reason, not emotion, brings them to the altar. Americans not only follow their faith out of self-interest, they often see the self-interest realized in this world. In the Middle Ages, the clergy spoke almost exclusively of the next life; they hardly bothered to show that a sincere Christian could be happy in this world. But American preachers constantly talk about earthly matters; it is hard for them to look beyond. To impress their congregations, they always point out how religious beliefs support freedom and public order; often it is hard to tell, from their sermons, whether religion’s true aim is eternal happiness or prosperity right now.

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

In America, the passion for physical comfort is not always exclusive, but it is universal; if not everyone feels it the same way, still, all are touched by it. Carefully satisfying even the smallest bodily wants and ensuring life’s little conveniences is a primary concern for everyone. Something similar is more and more visible in Europe as well. Among the reasons why this happens in both hemispheres, some are closely tied to my subject and deserve mention.

When wealth is passed down through families, many enjoy life’s comforts without developing a strong taste for them. People are not so captivated by unquestioned possession, but rather by the desire for it, or by the fear of losing it. In aristocratic societies, the rich, used to their lives, fear no change; they can hardly imagine other conditions. For them, comfort is not an end but simply their way of life; they enjoy it as existence itself, hardly thinking about it. Their natural desire for well-being is easily satisfied, so their minds are free to seek greater, more demanding ambitions—which capture their attention and drive them on. So it is that among the pleasures of aristocratic life, people often show disdain for these comforts, and they can even endure their absence with remarkable strength. Every revolution that has shaken or destroyed aristocracies has shown how easily the privileged can do without even the necessities of life; while those who have worked to gain comfort struggle bitterly if they lose it.

Turning to the lower classes, I see parallel effects from opposite causes. In a country dominated by aristocracy, society remains stagnant, and ordinary people eventually grow as accustomed to poverty as the rich are to luxury. The wealthy worry little about physical needs, having them without effort; the poor do not even think of what they cannot hope to achieve, or know too little of comfort to desire it. In such societies, the poor turn their imagination elsewhere; real life's hardships enclose them, so they seek happiness only in the next world. In contrast, when social ranks are blurred, privileges abolished, property divided, and education and freedom widespread, then the desire for comfort haunts the poor, and the fear of losing it haunts the rich. Many people gain modest fortunes; those who have them experience enough pleasure to want more—but never enough to be satisfied. They only get comfort through effort, and they never enjoy it without anxiety. They are always striving, either to get or to keep pleasures so delightful, yet so incomplete and fleeting.

If I asked what passion best fits men whose humble birth or modest wealth holds them back, I could find none more fitting than the love of physical well-being. This is above all a passion of the middle class: it grows and spreads among them, and from there moves up and down the social scale. I never met an American so poor he didn’t cast a hopeful glance at the rich or who didn’t imagine himself enjoying the things that fate still kept from him. On the other hand, I never found among rich Americans that proud contempt of comfort found in the most privileged aristocracies. Most wealthy Americans were once poor; they know what want is, they struggled for years, and now, having succeeded, they still cling to the pleasures they so long pursued. Even those who inherit their wealth are no less devoted to life’s material pleasures. The taste for comfort is now the nation’s dominant passion; the main current of human ambition flows in that direction, sweeping everything with it.

## Chapter XI: Peculiar Effects Of The Love Of Physical Gratifications In Democratic Ages

It may be thought, after what I have just said, that the American pursuit of physical pleasure should lead to moral lapses, family discord, and social disorder. But this is not so: the desire for comfort has effects in democracies quite different from those it produces in aristocratic societies. Sometimes, when weighed down by politics or wealth, suffering the collapse of religion and the state, an aristocracy may slowly turn to pure sensual pleasure. Or, when the ruling class keeps its wealth but is driven out of public affairs—by a monarch’s power or by the people’s weakness—members find themselves locked out of great ambition and left alone with their desires; then they invest all their old energy in the search for pleasure. Such men need more than comfort: they want extravagant vice and showy corruption. Their sensual indulgence is grandiose; they almost compete to degrade themselves. And the stronger, freer, and more respected an aristocracy was, the more corrupt it can become; whatever its virtues once were, its vices will ultimately outshine them.

The longing for physical comfort steers democratic people toward much different outcomes. The passion is universal, exclusive, but moderate in its scope. No one thinks of building fabulous palaces, conquering nature, or scouring the globe for pleasure; but everyone tries to add a little land, plant an orchard, improve the home, make life ever more comfortable, minimize effort, and cheaply satisfy the smallest wants. The ambitions are small, but people cling to them; they dwell on them daily, sometimes until these concerns block out the whole world—even overshadowing thoughts of heaven.

It may be said that this only describes poorer members of society, not the rich, who maintain aristocratic tastes. I disagree: even the richest in a democracy generally share the common tastes regarding comfort, either because they come from the people, or because they feel obliged to blend in. In democracy, public taste for pleasure is steady and moderate, with everyone required to conform. Vice is as hard to indulge in past a certain point as virtue. Rich people focus more on satisfying small daily desires than on wild indulgences; they pursue many minor pleasures, not great excess. So they become more likely to grow soft than to become depraved. The typical taste for comfort in democratic times does not conflict with public order; in fact, it often depends on order for its satisfaction. Nor does it naturally oppose morality, as sound morals support peace and prosperity. It can even coexist with a kind of religious morality: people want to enjoy the world without sacrificing the next. Some pleasures require sin—they strictly abstain; others are allowed— and these get their heart, imagination, and life. But, in reaching for lesser goods, people risk losing sight of the nobler ones that make mankind great. My criticism of equality is not that it drives people to forbidden pleasures, but that it absorbs them in allowed ones. Thus, a kind of mild, virtuous materialism might gradually arise: not corrupting the soul, but weakening it quietly.

## Chapter XII: Causes Of Fanatical Enthusiasm In Some Americans

Though the dominant passion in America is the pursuit of material prosperity, there are moments when people appear to break free from their bodily bonds and reach instead for the divine. Throughout all states—especially the sparsely populated Far West—itinerant preachers carry the word of God from place to place. Whole families—old men, women, and children—travel long, hard distances to attend camp meetings, forgetting for several days and nights all business and even their most basic bodily needs while listening to sermons. Scattered across American society are people full of a fanatical and almost wild enthusiasm rarely seen in Europe. Occasionally, strange sects form, seeking extraordinary, unconventional paths to salvation. Religious frenzy is not uncommon in the United States.

None of this should surprise us. Humanity did not create in itself the longing for what is infinite, or the love of the immortal: these high instincts are not the result of passing whims, but are grounded in human nature and endure despite efforts to suppress them. A person may obstruct or twist these instincts, but he cannot destroy them. The soul has needs that must be met; however hard we try to divert it, it soon becomes weary, restless, and dissatisfied amidst physical pleasures. If ever most people focused exclusively on material gain, a dramatic reaction would likely occur in a few souls. They would rush into spirituality for fear of remaining trapped in the flesh.

So, it is not surprising if, amidst a people focused on the earth, a few are found gazing toward heaven. I would be surprised if mysticism did not find some foothold in a society devoted only to worldly success. It is said the deserts of the Thebaid became crowded because of Roman persecution and gladiator massacres; I say it happened more because of Rome's luxury and the Greek devotion to pleasure. If Americans’ society, circumstances, and laws didn’t so strictly confine minds to material pursuit, they would likely show more restraint and experience when turning to spiritual concerns, and would easily check themselves. But, feeling hemmed in by limits they think never to cross, when they finally do break free, their minds sometimes wander without bounds, even beyond reason.

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

In some out-of-the-way corners of Europe, you can still find districts seemingly untouched by national change, stuck in place as the world races by. The people there are mostly poor and uneducated; they have no influence, and are often oppressed by government; yet their faces are generally calm, their spirits cheerful. In America, I have seen the freest, most informed people, in the best situations the world can offer; yet they seemed to have a perpetual cloud over them, serious and almost sad even at play. The main reason for this paradox is that the people in the former places do not dwell on their misery-- the Americans are forever absorbed by thoughts of what they lack. It is remarkable how feverishly Americans chase their own welfare, haunted always by the fear that they have missed the shortest path to it. Americans cling to this world's goods as if certain never to die; yet are so anxious to seize them all, as if they feared time would run out too soon. They grasp at everything without ever holding it tightly, soon dropping it and chasing something else.

In the United States, a man builds a house for his old age, only to sell it before it is even finished; he plants a garden and rents it as soon as the trees begin to bear; he clears a field but leaves others to bring in the crop; he takes up a profession, only to leave it; he settles somewhere, then moves again to chase his restless desires elsewhere. If his work leaves any free time, he dives into politics; if he gets a rare vacation, his restless curiosity drives him to travel thousands of miles, as if to escape his own contentment. Death finally arrives, but before he can tire of his endless chase for a happiness always out of reach.

At first, this restlessness among so many prosperous people is astonishing. The sight is as old as humanity; what is new is to see a whole nation modeling it. The main source of this restlessness in America is their craving for material pleasure, a craving revealed daily by their acts and constant shifting. A person fixed solely on worldly happiness is always in a hurry, knowing time is short to gain, hold, and use it. Remembering life’s brevity spurs him on. Besides what he has, he constantly pictures a thousand other things death may snatch from him if he does not try them soon. This anxiety fills his mind, making him change his plans and homes over and over. Add to this the democratic state of society, where no position is permanent, and the restlessness only grows. People continually change course, fearing a better route to happiness is passing them by. Men set on material comforts want quick, easy rewards, or the trouble outweighs the pleasure. Their minds are eager but easily worn out, energetic yet quickly drained. Death is often less feared than the prospect of steady, patient effort toward a single aim.

The equality of social conditions reinforces the same effects. Once birth and fortune's privileges are removed, every career is open, and anyone can hope to reach the top, it seems any ambition is possible, and people think themselves born for great things. Yet this is a mistake—the same equality that encourages high hopes also makes them much less achievable: it narrows abilities while expanding desires. Not only is each person limited, but new obstacles appear at every step. Though old privileges are gone, universal competition replaces them: the barrier changes shape, not position. When everyone is alike and pursues similar ambitions, it is very hard for anyone to break free from the crowd. The conflict between the hopes bred by equality and the means it provides for fulfilling them wears people out.

One can imagine people reaching a level of freedom that actually satisfies them; then they might enjoy independence calmly and without impatience. But men will never achieve any equality that satisfies them. Whatever they do, they cannot fully flatten the terrain of society, and if they ever unfortunate succeeded, nature will still ensure the inequality of minds—a gift from God that laws cannot touch. However democratic the society or constitution, every person will notice certain people above him, and fixate on getting there. When inequality is wide, glaring inequalities don’t bother people; but when everything is nearly equal, even the smallest differences are painfully obvious. So the desire for equality grows more insatiable as equality increases.

Among democratic people, equal conditions are easily reached; perfect equality never will be. It is always just out of reach, always luring people on. They think each moment they are about to grasp it, but it slips from their hold. They see its beauty, but never enjoy it fully; they die before they have tasted its delights. This causes the strange melancholy that sometimes haunts people in democratic societies surrounded by abundance, and the life-weariness that sometimes seizes them amid peace and comfort. In France, suicide is said to be rising; in America, suicide is rare—but insanity is reportedly more common than anywhere else. These are all different symptoms of the same problem. Americans rarely end their lives, no matter how uneasy they are, because religion forbids it; materialism hardly exists, despite the passion for material comfort. Will never fails—reason often does. In democratic times, pleasure is more intense and more widely shared than in aristocratic ones; but hopes and expectations are more likely to be disappointed, souls more disturbed and weary, and worry sharper.

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

When a democratic state shifts to an absolute monarchy, the energy once directed toward both public and private affairs suddenly centers solely on private interests. The immediate result is often a period of great material prosperity, but this momentum soon slows, and productive industry declines. I know of no trading or manufacturing people—from the Tyrians to the Florentines and the English—who were not also a free people. Therefore, there is a close and necessary link between freedom and productive industry. This statement generally holds true for all nations, but it is especially so for democratic ones. I have already shown that people living in times of equality constantly need to form associations to obtain what they desire; I have also shown how political freedom improves and spreads the ability to associate. Freedom, especially in these ages, is thus highly favorable to wealth production, while despotism is particularly harmful to the same end. The nature of despotic power in democratic eras is not generally fierce or cruel, but rather detailed and meddlesome. Despotism of this sort, though it may not be inhumane, stands in direct opposition to the spirit of commerce and industry.

People in democratic ages need freedom if they are to more easily obtain the physical comforts they constantly crave. Sometimes, however, their overwhelming desire for these pleasures makes them surrender to the first master who appears. Their passion for personal well-being ends up defeating itself, and, without even realizing it, they push their goals further out of reach.

There is, in fact, a very dangerous phase in the history of a democratic people. When their appetite for physical pleasures grows faster than their education and experience with free institutions, a time comes when individuals are swept away and lose all self-restraint before the new riches they can almost grasp. In their intense and exclusive drive to make money, they forget how closely their personal fortunes are tied to the prosperity of all. No violence is needed to strip these people of their rights; they willingly let go. Political responsibilities seem like a bothersome nuisance that distracts from business. If asked to elect representatives, support the government with public service, or to gather for civic matters, they claim they have no time—they can’t waste precious hours on what they see as pointless activities. Such “idle amusements” are, in their eyes, not for serious people engaged with the important business of life. While they think they are following their self-interest, they have only a very crude idea of what that means; in trying to focus on their personal affairs, they ignore their more important concern—to remain in control of themselves.

While the working citizens ignore public business, and the leisure class has disappeared, government comes to be, in effect, unfilled. If at such a critical time an intelligent and ambitious person seizes supreme power, every kind of usurpation is open to him. If he just pays some attention to the country’s material prosperity, nothing more will be expected. Above all, he must guarantee public tranquility: people consumed by the pursuit of pleasure soon come to view the unrest of freedom as a threat to their comfort—often before they realize how freedom actually supports it. If even the smallest disturbance disrupts their private pleasures, they are alarmed and ready to sacrifice their liberty at the first sign of trouble.

I freely admit that public peace is an important good; but I cannot forget that all nations have been enslaved by being kept in order. Certainly, nations should not despise public order; but they should not be satisfied with only that. A nation that asks nothing of its government except the maintenance of order is already enslaved at heart—enslaved for its own comfort, simply waiting for someone to place it in chains. For such a nation, factional despotism is as much to be feared as individual despotism. When most people are obsessed with their private affairs, even the smallest political groups can hope to dominate public life. At such times, it is not uncommon to see, on the world’s great stage as in our theaters, a vast multitude represented by a few actors who alone speak for an absent or inattentive crowd. These few direct everything according to their whims, changing the laws and tyrannizing over national customs; and thus one sees how easily a great people can end up ruled by a handful of weak and unworthy individuals.

So far, Americans have fortunately avoided all the dangers I have just described, and in this they truly deserve admiration. Perhaps there is no nation in the world where fewer idle people are found, or where workers are more eager to improve their own welfare. But if Americans’ quest for physical comfort is intense, at least it is not unthinking; and reason, though it may not restrain them, still guides their efforts. An American handles his personal affairs as if he were alone in the world, but readily devotes himself to the common good as if he had forgotten them entirely. At one moment, he seems driven by selfish greed; at another, by sincere patriotism. The human heart cannot really be so divided. Americans display such strong and similar passions for both personal welfare and liberty that it seems these desires are connected and mixed within their very nature. In fact, Americans believe that freedom is the best tool and the surest safeguard for their well-being: they love the one because of the other. They believe, far from neglecting the public good, that their main task is to secure for themselves a government that enables them to gain what they want and not be deprived of the peaceful enjoyment of what they have achieved.

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

In the United States, on the seventh day of each week, the nation’s busy commercial and working life seems to come to a halt; all noise stops; a profound tranquility, or rather the solemn calm of reflection, replaces the week’s turmoil, and the soul regains its hold over itself. On this day, marketplaces are deserted. Every community member and his children go to church, where they listen to messages that might seem out of place for their usual concerns. They hear about the countless harms caused by pride and greed, are reminded of the need to restrain desires, are told of the finer pleasures found only in virtue, and of virtue’s attendant true happiness. Afterward, he does not return to bookkeeping, but opens the Bible; there he encounters moving or awe-inspiring descriptions of the Creator’s greatness and goodness, the vast magnificence of God’s work, humanity’s noble destiny, its duties, and immortal privileges. Thus, the American sometimes steals an hour from himself; setting aside for a while the trivial passions and temporary interests that fill his life, he wanders into an ideal world where all is grand, everlasting, and pure.

Elsewhere in this book, I have tried to explain the reasons for the endurance of American political institutions, and found that religion is among the chief ones. Now, considering Americans as individuals, I again see that religion benefits individuals as much as the nation as a whole. Americans show through their actions that they recognize the necessity of using religion to bring morality to democratic communities. What they believe about themselves in this respect is a truth every democratic society would do well to accept.

It is clear that the social and political structure of a people predisposes them toward certain beliefs and preferences, which then grow easily among them; likewise, these structures may divert them from certain views and habits, often without any conscious intent or even awareness. The legislator’s main task is to perceive these natural community inclinations beforehand, in order to know whether to encourage or restrain them. The legislator’s duty changes at different times; only the ultimate goal of humanity remains constant, while the way to reach it must continually change.

If I had been born in an aristocratic era, among people whose inherited wealth or unchangeable poverty shut out hopes of improving their lot—keeping all souls fixed on the next world—I would want to awaken in them an awareness of their needs. I would look for quicker and easier ways to satisfy the new desires I inspired, and would drive their keenest efforts into physical pursuits, always trying to improve humanity’s material life. If some people seemed too obsessed with the pursuit of wealth and physical pleasures, I would not be alarmed; their excesses would soon be absorbed by the overall character of the society.

But legislators of democracies face other concerns. Give democratic peoples education and liberty, and leave them to themselves. They will soon learn to reap all the rewards this world can offer, improve every useful art, and make life more comfortable, more convenient, and easier each day. Their social condition pushes them in this direction; I do not fear they will slacken the pace.

But while people take honest and lawful pleasure in pursuing well-being, there is a real risk that they could lose their highest faculties; that, even as they improve everything around them, they may end up degrading themselves. Here—and only here—lies the danger. It should therefore be the constant aim of legislators in democracies, and of all virtuous and wise citizens, to lift the souls of their countrymen and keep them aimed at a higher existence. All who care about the future of democratic society should join together, making united and persistent efforts to promote love for the infinite, a sense of greatness, and a taste for higher pleasures not of this earth. If any democratic nation holds destructive theories teaching that all ends with the body, those who openly embrace such ideas should be regarded as the people’s natural foes.

I find materialists objectionable in many ways; their teaching is dangerous, and their arrogance is unpleasant. If their system had any benefit for humanity, it might be in encouraging modesty; yet these thinkers, after arguing we are mere brutes, act as proud as if they had proven themselves gods. Materialism is a dangerous sickness of the human mind everywhere, but especially worrisome in a democracy, because it blends easily with the society’s typical vice. Democracy encourages a taste for physical pleasures; if this taste becomes too strong, people soon start to believe that everything is just matter. Materialism, in turn, drives them with reckless urgency back toward those same pleasures: such is the fatal cycle democratic peoples may be trapped in. They would do well to recognize the danger and avoid it.

Most religions serve as general, practical ways to teach the immortality of the soul. This is the greatest benefit democracies get from faith, so religion is more necessary for them than for others. Therefore, if any faith takes deep root in a democracy, do not disturb it; instead, protect it carefully, as the most valuable inheritance from aristocratic times. Do not try to replace people’s old religious beliefs with new ones; for during the transition, while the soul is left naked of any faith, love for material pleasure may swell up and fill every corner.

The theory of metempsychosis (reincarnation) is assuredly no more rational than materialism; but, if a democracy had to choose one, I would say it faces less risk of being degraded by believing a man’s soul might inhabit the body of a pig, than by believing the soul is nothing at all. Belief in a spiritual and immortal principle, temporarily joined to matter, is essential for human greatness—even if not connected to ideas of reward or punishment after death, and even if it teaches only that the divine principle in man goes to the Deity or another living being after death. People with such imperfect faith will still see the body as a lesser part of their nature, and disdain it even as they indulge it; at the same time, they will admire the non-material side of humanity, even if they sometimes refuse to follow its lead. That is enough to lift their opinions and tastes, making them naturally inclined to pure feelings and noble thoughts.

It is uncertain whether Socrates and his followers had clear, specific beliefs about what happens after death; but their one central conviction—that the soul is distinct from the body and survives it—was enough to give the Platonic philosophy its uniquely noble flavor. Plato’s writings make it clear that many earlier or contemporary philosophers were materialists; but their works have either been lost or survive only in fragments. The same trend appears throughout history; the most renowned minds in literature have usually supported a spiritual philosophy. Human instinct and taste keep these ideas alive—sometimes even in spite of their defenders—and lift them above the flow of time. Do not suppose that, at any era or under any system, the passion for material pleasure and the ideas that flow from it can satisfy an entire people. The heart of man is made for more: it can harbor both a taste for earthly assets and a love of heavenly things. At times, one may seem to dominate, but the other is never absent for long.

If it is easy to see that spiritual beliefs are particularly needed in democratic eras, it is hard to say how those who govern should give them prominence. I do not believe in the success or durability of state-sponsored philosophies, nor do I think official religions, even if occasionally useful to political power, avoid harming the church in the long run. I disagree with those who argue that, to elevate religion in public opinion, it is wise to give the clergy a political influence the laws have withheld. I am so deeply aware of the nearly inevitable risks to faith when the clergy meddle in civil affairs, and so convinced that Christianity must be preserved in modern democracies at all costs, that I would rather see the ministry confined to their spiritual roles than let them step outside it.

So, what means remain for those in power to bring people back to spiritual ideas, or keep them attached to the religion that fosters those ideas? My answer may make me unpopular among politicians: I believe the only truly effective method is for governments to act as if they themselves believe in the soul’s immortality; only by rigorously adhering to religious morality in major matters can they hope to teach society at large to respect, cherish, and follow it in daily life.

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

There is a stronger connection than most people realize between improvement of the soul and the advancement of material well-being. A person may focus on each separately, but cannot entirely separate them without eventually losing touch with both. Animals have the same senses and nearly the same cravings that we do; all our physical desires exist in at least rudimentary form in dogs as well as in humans. Why, then, can animals provide only for their lowest needs, while we can endlessly vary and increase our enjoyments?

It is because, unlike beasts, we use our minds to discover the material benefits that animals only seek out by instinct. In humans, the intellect guides the body in satisfying its desires. Our ability to rise above our physical nature—and even disregard life itself, which animals do not understand—enables us to multiply these same physical blessings to an unimaginable degree. Whatever elevates, enlarges, and expands the mind also makes it more successful even in pursuits that are not spiritual. By contrast, whatever weakens or degrades the soul, weakens it for all purposes, major and minor alike, until it is nearly powerless for both. Thus, the soul must stay strong and sublime, even if only to lend that strength and greatness to serving the body on occasion. If people ever settled for purely material ends, they would likely lose, bit by bit, the skill to create them and in the end would enjoy them only like animals—with neither discrimination nor progress.

## Chapter XVII: That In Times Marked By Equality Of Conditions And Sceptical Opinions, It Is Important To Remove To A Distance The Objects Of Human Actions

In eras of faith, the true aim of life is believed to lie beyond it. Therefore, people in those times naturally, almost unconsciously, train themselves to fix their hopes for many years on a fixed, distant goal to which they continually strive; they learn over time to deny countless small, fleeting desires to better satisfy the great and lasting desire that motivates them. When these people become involved in worldly affairs, the same habits are evident: they tend to seek a broad, certain goal for their actions on earth, toward which all efforts are directed. They do not chase after every new and fashionable aim, but establish long-term plans which they never tire of pursuing. This explains why religious peoples often accomplish such lasting things: while busy thinking of the life to come, they discover the key to success in this world, too. Religion teaches people the habit of acting with an eye toward the future: in this respect, it is as valuable to present happiness as to eternal bliss, and this is one of its main political advantages.

But as the light of faith dims, people’s vision narrows, as if the goal of life seemed every day closer and more attainable. Once people stop thinking about what comes after death, they easily fall into a brutal indifference to the future, a tendency all too natural in humanity. As soon as they lose the habit of investing their main hopes in distant prospects, they focus on satisfying their smallest desires without delay; and as soon as they lose hope of living forever, they start acting as if their entire existence is a single day. In skeptical ages, therefore, we must fear that people will continually give in to their immediate whims, giving up anything that takes patience or effort to achieve, and will create nothing great, stable, or quietly enduring.

If a people’s social organization is also democratic, the danger only grows. When everyone is constantly trying to advance, and huge opportunities for competition are open to all—when wealth appears and disappears overnight amidst the bustle of democracy—the mind is haunted by visions of instant riches, easy fortunes, and luck in all its forms. The instability of society matches the natural restlessness of human desire. Amidst these constant upheavals, the present becomes so overwhelming that it blocks the future from view, and few look beyond tomorrow.

In countries, unfortunately, where irreligion and democracy coexist, the urgent duty of leaders and philosophers is to keep people’s eyes on distant goals. Shaped by their times and nations, moralists must learn to defend their principles from this position. They must always try to show their contemporaries that even during periods of endless commotion it is easier than they might think to plan and achieve long-term projects. They must emphasize that although society has changed, the ways to ensure prosperity remain the same; that, even among democracies, only by controlling countless small selfish passions can the deeper and ceaseless desire for happiness be fulfilled.

The duties of those in power are just as clear. At all times, it is important for national leaders to act with an eye to the future; but this is especially necessary in democratic and skeptical eras. By doing so, democratic leaders not only ensure public prosperity, but also model for individuals the approach to private affairs. Above all, they should try to eliminate chance from political life as much as possible. Sudden, unearned promotion of a courtier is hardly noticed in an aristocracy because longstanding customs and attitudes force people to rise slowly along predetermined paths. But nothing is more harmful in a democracy: such favoritism drives public opinion even further toward rashness. In times of skepticism and equality, the favor of the masses or of the ruler—gained or lost by pure chance—should never replace merit or service. Every advancement should be seen as earned by effort, so that greatness is never too easy to reach, and ambition is forced to look steadily on a goal before reaching it. Governments should help revive hope in the future, which neither religion nor the social order inspires any longer; without saying as much, they must show the public every day that only through effort are wealth, fame, and power gained—that great success comes at the furthest edge of long hopes, and that nothing lasting is achieved except through work. When people have learned to keep their eyes fixed on distant prospects, they can hardly be restricted to thinking only of this life, and are ready to look beyond it. I do not doubt that by training citizens to plan for their future condition here, they will be brought—gradually, and often unknowingly—closer to religious convictions. Thus, the methods that might let people get along without religion in the short run may, after all, be the very path by which we lead humanity back, in a roundabout way, to faith.

## Chapter XVIII: That Amongst The Americans All Honest Callings Are Honorable

In a democratic society, where there is no hereditary wealth, every man works to earn a living, has worked in the past, or is the child of parents who have worked. Thus, the idea of labor is presented everywhere as the necessary, natural, and honorable condition of human existence. Not only is labor not dishonorable in such a society, but it is held in high regard: the bias is not against labor, but in its favor. In the United States, a wealthy man feels obliged by public opinion to devote his leisure time to some kind of industrial or commercial pursuit, or to public service. He would consider it disreputable to spend his life purely in leisure. It is often to escape this obligation to work that so many wealthy Americans travel to Europe, where remnants of aristocratic society remain and idleness is still respected.

Equality of conditions not only elevates the idea of labor, but also enhances the concept of labor as a source of profit. In aristocracies, it is not labor itself that is looked down upon, but rather labor motivated by profit. Labor is esteemed when undertaken solely for ambition or virtue. Yet even in aristocratic society, those who work for honor are not immune to the allure of profit. These two motives often mingle deep within the soul: the connection is carefully hidden, sometimes even from oneself. In aristocratic countries, few public officials fail to pretend they serve their country disinterestedly. They claim their salary is incidental, hardly thought of or not thought of at all. Thus, the idea of profit is kept separate from the notion of labor; even when they are combined in reality, they are not consciously associated.

In democratic societies, however, these two concepts are unavoidably joined. Because the desire for comfort is universal and fortunes are often small or changeable, as everyone seeks to improve their lot or secure a future for their children, people clearly see that profit is at least part of what motivates their work. Even those most driven by the love of fame are aware that the wish to make a living is mingled with their ambition for distinction.

When labor is universally regarded as an honorable requirement, and when it is performed openly or partly for remuneration, the great gulf that separated different occupations in aristocratic societies vanishes. If not all occupations are the same, they all share at least one common trait. No profession exists in which people do not work for pay; this universal element makes all callings resemble each other. This helps explain American attitudes toward various professions. In America, no one is looked down upon for working, since everyone works; nor is anyone ashamed of being paid, as even the President works for a salary. He is paid to lead, just as others are paid to follow. In the United States, professions vary in difficulty and pay, but none are considered inherently high or low: every honest occupation is honorable.

## Chapter XIX: That Almost All The Americans Follow Industrial Callings

Agriculture is perhaps the most slowly advancing of all useful arts in democratic nations. Often it appears stationary only because other arts are making rapid progress. On the other hand, nearly all the habits and preferences that equality of condition fosters naturally lead people toward commercial and industrial pursuits.

Imagine an active, enlightened, and free man who is financially secure but full of desires: he is too poor to live in idleness, but rich enough to be shielded from immediate poverty, so he considers how he can improve his situation. He has developed a taste for physical pleasures, which thousands around him enjoy; he too has started to enjoy these things and longs to increase his means of enjoyment. But time is short—what should he do? Farming promises a steady but slow reward; it rarely brings wealth without patience and hard work. Agriculture, then, suits either those already wealthy or those who must work simply to survive. The choice for a person like this is clear; he sells his land, leaves home, and takes up a risky yet lucrative occupation. Democratic societies are full of such people, and as equality increases, so does their number. Thus, democracy not only increases the number of working people, but leads individuals to prefer certain types of work over others, steering them away from agriculture and toward commerce and manufacturing.  
*a*

a  
\[ It is often noted that those in manufacturing and commerce are particularly drawn to physical pleasures, and this has been credited to the nature of their work; but I think this confuses cause and effect. The desire for physical enjoyment does not come from commerce or industry, but rather pushes people into those fields as careers that promise faster gratification. If commerce and industry seem to spur the desire for comfort, it is simply because any desire becomes stronger the more it is indulged. All factors that increase the love of material well-being encourage trade and manufacturing. Equality is one such factor: it promotes commerce and industry, not by directly causing people to prefer business careers, but by strengthening their hunger for prosperity.\]

This spirit can even be seen among the wealthiest citizens. In democratic countries, regardless of a person's fortune, he almost always feels dissatisfied: he finds himself less wealthy than his father, and worries his sons will be poorer still. Most rich men in democracies are therefore haunted by the urge to acquire more wealth, and naturally turn to trade and manufacturing, which seem to promise the quickest and most significant gains. In this, they share the instincts of the poor, but without the same necessity; indeed, they experience perhaps the strongest necessity of all—not to lose their place in society.

In aristocracies, the rich also rule. Their constant involvement in public affairs distracts them from the details required by trade and industry. If an individual is drawn to business, his group quickly shuts him out; for, despite claims to the contrary, no one fully escapes majority rule—even among aristocrats who resist popular influence, there forms a majority opinion within their own circles that governs behavior.  
*b*

b  
\[ Some aristocracies have indeed excelled in commerce and manufacturing. History provides notable examples. But generally, the aristocratic principle does not encourage the development of trade and industry. Only moneyed aristocracies are exceptions. In these, almost all desires require wealth, making the pursuit of riches the main avenue for human ambition, intersecting all other desires. The love of wealth and the craving for distinction blur together, to the point where one cannot tell if people pursue wealth out of ambition, or ambition out of a desire for riches. This is what occurs in England, where people seek wealth to attain distinction, and seek distinction to showcase their wealth. This double drive pulls them into trade and industry, the quickest paths to opulence.

Still, this is a temporary and exceptional situation. Once wealth becomes the sole symbol of aristocracy, it becomes hard for the rich to keep exclusive political power. Birth-based aristocracy and pure democracy are at the extremes; moneyed aristocracy lies between, granting privileges to a few, but allowing those privileges to be won by anyone. It often serves as a bridge between historical aristocracy and democracy, and it's unclear whether it marks the end of one era or the start of another.\]

In democracies, where money does not grant—indeed often hinders—political power, the rich are unsure how to spend their downtime. Urged by their ambitions, resources, and desire for unusual achievements, they are drawn to active pursuits. Commerce becomes their major field. In democracies, nothing is greater or more brilliant than commerce: it attracts public attention and inspires imagination; all strong passions focus on it. Neither their own nor others' prejudices can keep the rich from industry. The wealthy in democracies never form a separate body with its own customs; their class opinions do not constrain them, and general public sentiment urges them forward. Furthermore, because all significant fortunes in a democratic community have commercial origins, it takes generations before their owners shed business habits.

With their opportunities for public affairs limited, wealthy men in democracies throw themselves into commerce, where they can use their advantages. In fact, the scope and ambition of their industrial ventures reveal just how little they would have valued productive labor, had they been born in an aristocracy.

This observation applies to all men in democracies, rich or poor. Those living amid democratic change are always captivated by the lure of luck, and eventually come to enjoy all ventures involving risk. They are drawn to commerce not only for the profit it promises, but for the ongoing excitement it provides.

The United States have only been independent from Great Britain for about fifty years \[as of 1840\]; there are few large fortunes and capital is scarce. Yet nowhere has commerce and industry advanced so quickly: Americans are the world’s second maritime power, and though their manufacturing faces huge natural obstacles, they still make rapid progress daily. In the United States, large projects and speculations go forward easily, because the entire population is engaged in productive work and both rich and poor readily cooperate. The foreign visitor is constantly amazed at the vast public works accomplished by a nation with very few truly wealthy individuals. The Americans arrived only recently in their land and have already transformed it for their benefit. They have connected the Hudson and Mississippi, allowed the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico to communicate across more than five hundred leagues of land. The world's longest railroads up to now are in America. But what astonishes me most is not just the scale of certain projects, but the sheer number of small ones. Nearly all American farmers combine a trade with agriculture, and many treat farming itself as a business. Rarely does an American farmer stay permanently on his land; especially in the Far West, the land is improved to sell, not to farm long-term, and farmhouses are built speculatively in anticipation that they will become valuable when the population grows. Every year, a wave of settlers from the North heads south to the cotton and sugar regions, working the land to build a fortune before returning home to enjoy it. Thus, Americans bring their commercial instincts even into agriculture; their trading spirit is evident everywhere.

Americans make tremendous strides in industry because everyone participates; for the same reason, they also face unexpected and serious difficulties. As all are involved in trade, their commercial affairs are influenced by many complex factors, making trouble hard to predict. With everyone engaged in production, the slightest economic disturbance endangers all private fortunes simultaneously, and the whole nation feels the shock. I believe that repeated commercial panics are an endemic disorder of the democratic nations of our time. They might be made less severe, but cannot be eliminated; for they arise not from chance events, but from the very nature of these societies.

## Chapter XX: That Aristocracy May Be Engendered By Manufactures

I’ve shown that democracy fosters the growth of manufacturing and increases the number of workers without limit; now let’s see how manufacturing can, in turn, bring about a form of aristocracy. It’s established that when a worker performs the same specific task every day, the end product is made more easily, quickly, and cheaply. It's also recognized that production costs go down as the size of the operation and the capital invested grow. While these truths were once only partly known, they are now well established and widely applied. They govern many large industries already, and will soon influence even the smallest. In politics, I know of nothing more deserving of a legislator’s attention than these two new manufacturing principles.

When a worker is repeatedly and exclusively engaged in producing one item, he eventually gains great skill; yet at the same time, he loses the general ability to direct the work. With each passing day, he becomes more skilled but less versatile; as the worker improves, the person diminishes. What future awaits someone who has spent twenty years making pinheads? To what use can his once-powerful human intelligence be put, except to refine pinhead production? After enough time, a worker’s thoughts are fixed on his daily task; his body forms habits he cannot abandon; in short, he no longer belongs to himself but to his occupation. Laws and customs may try to open society’s doors, but the logic of manufacturing is stronger, keeping him tied to a trade and often a place. He is locked into society, immobile amid general movement.

The wider the principle of the division of labor spreads, the weaker, narrower, and more dependent workers become. Industry advances, the worker falls behind. Meanwhile, as it becomes clear that larger, better-funded factories produce cheaper goods, wealthy and educated people start to invest in manufacturing formerly left to poor or unskilled workers. The scale of the effort and the promise of results attract them. And so, as manufacturing science lowers the status of workers, it raises that of employers.

As workers focus ever more on narrow tasks, their employers manage ever larger concerns, expanding their outlooks as their workers’ skills shrink. Soon, one class requires only physical effort, the other needs science and even genius to succeed. One more closely resembles an administrator of an empire, the other approaches brute labor. The employer and worker share little—linked only by the chain of production, each filling his preordained place. One is bound to obey, the other to direct. Is this not a form of aristocracy?

As society grows more equal, the demand for manufactured goods increases and low prices become essential. This draws more wealthy and educated people into manufacturing, who respond by forming large companies and strictly dividing labor. Thus, as the greater society turns democratic, manufacturing classes become more aristocratic. People grow more similar in society at large, but more different within industry; inequality grows among the few even as it lessens among the many. It would seem that aristocracy might naturally arise from the heart of democracy.

But this aristocracy is unlike those of old. It is limited to manufacturing and certain trades—a strange departure in an otherwise democratic landscape. These small manufacturing elites resemble pre-modern aristocracies in having a few very rich individuals and many poor, with the poor rarely escaping their condition, while the rich often lose their status or quit after getting wealthy. Thus, while individual rich people exist, there is no cohesive class of rich people—no shared purpose, tradition, or hope; there are members, but no body.

Nor is there a solid connection between rich and poor in this system. Their relative positions shift with their changing interests. The worker depends on his employer, just not any specific employer; they meet only at work, and are otherwise strangers. The employer offers work, the worker expects pay; neither has further obligations. Unlike aristocracies of the past, where owners lived among and felt responsible for those who served them, the business elite seeks simply to use its workers rather than govern or care for them. Such an aristocracy rarely roots itself among those it employs; even if it manages to hold the workforce together for a time, it is fragile and prone to break apart. In earlier times, landowners felt obligated by law or tradition to help those they employed; today’s industrial elite impoverishes and degrades its workers, then abandons them to public charity. This is the natural result of a system based only on hire and labor, not partnership or shared fate.

All considered, I believe that the new manufacturing aristocracy developing before us is one of the harshest ever, but also the narrowest and least dangerous. Still, those who care about democracy should watch developments in this field carefully: for if lasting inequality and aristocracy are to return, this is the likely path they will follow.

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

## Chapter I: That Manners Are Softened As Social Conditions Become More Equal

We see that for several ages, social conditions have moved toward equality, and during this same period, society’s manners have become more refined. Are these two developments merely coincidental, or is there some deeper connection, so that one cannot progress without also advancing the other? Several factors can contribute to making a people's manners less harsh; but, among them all, the most influential seems to me to be the equality of conditions. To my mind, equality of conditions and increasing civility in manners are not only simultaneous happenings, but are directly related. When storytellers want to engage us in the actions of animals, they give them human thoughts and feelings; poets who write about spirits and angels do the same; there is no misery so deep, nor any happiness so pure, as to stir the human mind and touch the heart, unless we see ourselves reflected in these others.

This idea applies directly to our topic. When all people are firmly ordered in an aristocratic society based on their professions, property, and birth, each class’s members, considering themselves part of a single family, feel a steady and vibrant sympathy toward each other—a feeling never matched by the citizens of a democracy. However, this sympathy doesn’t exist between the different classes themselves. In an aristocratic society, each caste has its own opinions, feelings, rights, manners, and ways of life. The men within each caste don’t resemble the rest of their fellow citizens; they don’t think or feel in the same way, and may barely believe they belong to the same human race. As a result, they can’t really understand what others experience, nor can they judge others by comparing them to themselves. Still, sometimes they’re eager to help each other; but this doesn’t contradict my earlier point. These aristocratic systems, which made people so different despite being of the same race, nevertheless entwined them with strong political bonds. Although the serf had no inherent interest in the fate of the nobles, he still felt obliged to serve the noble who was his lord; and although the noble saw himself as a different kind of being from his serfs, he still believed duty and honor required him to defend, even at the risk of his life, those on his land.

Clearly, these mutual obligations didn’t come from nature’s law, but from society’s law; and the sense of social duty was stronger than that of common humanity. These services weren’t thought to be owed from one person to another, but rather from vassal to lord, or vice versa. Feudal institutions created strong sympathy for the suffering of certain people, but not for humanity in general. They encouraged generosity more than kindness in the manners of the time. So, though people performed great acts of self-sacrifice, they did not develop genuine sympathies; for real sympathy can only exist among those who are alike. In aristocratic times, people recognized only members of their own class as being like themselves.

When chroniclers of the Middle Ages, all of whom came from the aristocracy by birth or education, recount the tragic deaths of nobles, their grief is deep; yet they mention, with barely a pause and no concern, massacres and tortures inflicted on common people. This isn’t because these writers hated or despised the people in general—open conflict between classes had not yet begun. Rather, they acted more from instinct than from passion; having little understanding of a poor man's suffering, they cared little about his fate. The lower classes felt the same way when feudal bonds were broken. The same era that saw vassals perform heroic acts of loyalty for their lords, also saw horrible atrocities, at times, carried out by the lower classes against their superiors. Don’t think this mutual lack of feeling came just from the lack of order or education; it persisted in later, more peaceful and enlightened centuries that remained aristocratic. In 1675, for example, the lower classes in Brittany revolted against a new tax, and the uprising was crushed with unheard-of brutality. Notice how Madame de Sévigné, an eyewitness, describes these events to her daughter:

“Aux Rochers, 30 October, 1675.

“Good heavens, my daughter, how delightful your Aix letter is! At least re-read your letters before sending them; let yourself be surprised by their wit, and let that pleasure console you for the trouble of writing so much. You say you have kissed all of Provence? It wouldn’t be satisfying to kiss all of Brittany, unless one liked the smell of wine. ... Would you like news from Rennes? A tax of a hundred thousand écus has been levied on the middle class; if the sum isn’t raised in twenty-four hours, it will be doubled and collected by soldiers. An entire long street has been driven out and banished, and it’s forbidden to shelter those people on pain of death; so all these poor souls, old men, women who have just given birth, and children, were seen wandering in tears as they left the city, not knowing where to go. The other day, a fiddler who started the riot and the theft of stamped paper was broken on the wheel; after he died, his body was quartered and his limbs displayed at the four corners of the city. Sixty citizens have been arrested, and the punishments begin tomorrow. This province is a fine example for the rest—to respect governors and governesses and not to throw stones into their gardens.”\*a

a  
\[To understand this joke, recall that Madame de Grignan was Gouvernante de Provence.\]  
“Madame de Tarente was in these woods yesterday in enchanting weather: no talk of rooms or refreshments; she comes in at one gate and leaves by another. ...”

In another letter she adds:

“You speak so amusingly about our troubles; we are no longer broken on the wheel so often; just one in eight days, for the sake of justice. In fact, to me, hanging now seems like a refreshment. I have a completely different idea of justice since being in this region. Your galley slaves seem to me like a society of decent people who have withdrawn from the world to live a quiet life.”

It would be wrong to think that Madame de Sévigné was selfish or cruel; she loved her children deeply and sympathized with her friends’ sorrows. Her letters show she treated her vassals and servants with kindness and tolerance. But Madame de Sévigné could hardly imagine suffering in anyone who was not a person of high rank.

Today, even the hardest man, writing to the coldest friend, wouldn’t dare make light of cruelty the way she did; even if his own manners allowed it, society’s standards would stop him. Why is this? Are we more sensitive than our ancestors? I don’t know that we are, but I’m sure that our insensitivity now extends to many more matters. When everyone in a society is nearly equal, and everyone thinks and feels much the same, each person can quickly imagine what others feel, just by looking at himself. No misery is foreign to him, and he instinctively understands its depth. Even if the sufferers are strangers or enemies, imagination puts him in their place, and his pity includes a personal element—he practically suffers as his fellow’s body is in pain. In democratic times, people rarely sacrifice themselves for each other; but they show widespread compassion for the human race generally. They don’t inflict needless suffering, and are quick to relieve others’ griefs—when they can do so without great cost to themselves; they may not be selfless, but they are humane.

Even though Americans have almost turned self-interest into a social and philosophical principle, they are still extremely open to compassion. Nowhere is criminal justice administered more mildly than in the United States. While the English seem intent on preserving the bloody legacies of the dark ages in their penal laws, the Americans have almost eliminated capital punishment from theirs. North America is, I believe, the only country in the world where no citizen has been executed for a political crime in the past fifty years. What conclusively proves that this unusual mildness comes mostly from their social structure is how they treat their slaves. Perhaps, overall, there’s no European colony in the New World where the physical condition of the blacks is less severe than in the United States; yet even there, slaves still endure terrible suffering and are exposed to harsh punishments. Clearly, their situation inspires little compassion in their masters, who see slavery not just as profitable, but as an evil that doesn’t touch them personally. So, the same man who is full of humanity toward those he considers his equals becomes indifferent to suffering as soon as such equality vanishes. Therefore, his gentleness is owed more to equality of conditions than to culture and education.

What I’ve said about individuals applies, to some extent, to nations. When each nation has its own beliefs, laws, and customs, it sees itself as the whole of humanity, caring only about its own sorrows. In wars between such nations, cruelty is inevitable. The Romans, at their most cultured, killed their enemy generals after parading them in captivity, and threw prisoners to wild animals for public entertainment. Cicero, who thundered against crucifying a Roman citizen, said nothing against these horrific abuses toward foreigners. Clearly, to him, a barbarian did not belong to the same human family as a Roman. By contrast, as nations grow more alike, they become more compassionate, and the laws of war are softened.

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

Democracy doesn’t bind people closely together, but it does make their everyday interactions easier. If two Englishmen meet far from home, surrounded by strangers whose language and customs are unfamiliar, they begin by observing each other with unease and curiosity; after that, they often turn away—or if they speak, it is in a restrained, distant manner on trivial subjects. They feel no enmity—they don’t know each other, and each assumes the other is a respectable person. So, why do they keep such distance? We must look back at England for the answer.

When birth alone, regardless of wealth, determines social standing, everyone knows their place on the social ladder; they don’t hope to rise or fear falling. In such a society, classes rarely interact, but if they do meet, they can converse, knowing their respective stations are safe. Their engagement isn’t on equal terms, but it’s not awkward either. But when aristocracy of wealth replaces aristocracy of birth, things change. Some privileges are still vast, but now anyone might gain them; so those who have them are always afraid of losing them, or that others might get them. Those without them strive desperately to obtain them, or at least to appear to have them—which is possible. Since social importance is no longer defined by blood but by the shifting fortunes of wealth, it’s hard to tell at a glance who belongs to which rank. This creates secret hostilities: some try by every trick to get among those above them, or at least seem to; others resist these intrusions. In fact, the same person is often both aggressively climbing and defensively keeping others out at the same time.

This describes modern England, and I believe it explains the peculiarity mentioned above. Since aristocratic pride is still strong but its boundaries are unclear, everyone lives in constant fear of being taken advantage of by someone else’s familiarity. Unsure of others' status, an Englishman avoids contact. They’re anxious that even small favors could lead to unwelcome acquaintances; they avoid giving or receiving obvious thanks as much as they avoid hatred. Many people blame these anti-social tendencies, and the English’s reserved, silent manners, on physical temperament alone. I allow that race plays a role, but social condition is a much bigger factor, as you can see by comparing them to Americans.

In America, where there never were privileges by birth and wealth gives its owners no special rights, strangers are far more likely to visit the same places and risk nothing by freely exchanging thoughts. If they meet by chance, they neither seek nor shun conversation. Their manner is open, direct, and natural: it’s clear they expect nothing special from each other and have no reason to hide or show off their place in society. If they seem cold and serious, it’s not out of arrogance or stiffness; if they don’t converse, it’s because they don’t feel like talking, not because they think it benefits them to keep silent. In a foreign country, two Americans instantly become friends simply for being Americans—they’re not repelled by class prejudice, but drawn by shared nationality. For Englishmen, shared blood isn’t enough—they must belong to the same rank. Americans themselves notice the English lack of sociability, as much as the French do, and are equally surprised by it. Yet Americans and the English share the same origins, religion, language, and, to an extent, manners; what really differs is their social condition. Therefore, you can see that the Englishman’s reserve is more a result of his country’s structure than of his own character.

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

Americans have a vengeful streak, like all serious and thoughtful peoples. They rarely forget an insult, but are not easily insulted; their anger is slow to start and slow to fade. In aristocratic societies, where a small elite manages everything, social interactions follow very specific conventions. Everyone knows exactly what level of respect or condescension to show, and everyone is expected to know the rules of etiquette. The manners of the upper classes become a model for all others, and each group then defines its own code for members to follow. Thus, rules of politeness become a complex system, hard to master and dangerous to violate, so everyone risks accidentally offending or being offended. But as rank distinctions disappear, and people of different backgrounds mix together, it becomes nearly impossible to agree on rules of good manners. Where etiquette is uncertain, even etiquette experts forgive small mistakes; people care more about intent than form, becoming less refined, but also less quarrelsome. Americans don’t concern themselves much with minor courtesies—they don’t expect them, or assume others even know they are due, so either miss the slight or forgive it. Their manners thus become more direct, and their character more straightforward and robust.

The mutual tolerance and straightforwardness Americans show comes partly from another, broader reason already mentioned. In the United States, civil distinctions of rank are slight and politically non-existent. An American does not think he owes special attention to any fellow citizen, nor that he should expect any in return. He does not see it as to his advantage to pursue anyone’s company, so he does not think his own company is refused; he despises no one for their station, and does not imagine being despised for his. Unless a slight is obvious, he assumes no offence was meant. American social life thus trains people not to be quick to take offense; and their democratic freedoms translate this easygoing spirit to the whole national character. The country’s political system constantly brings all sorts together to work on big projects, so they don’t have time for etiquette and have a strong interest in getting along. Therefore, they focus less on minor social details and more on each other’s feelings, and are not easily annoyed by little things.

I have noticed in America that it’s not easy to make someone realize their presence is unwanted; hints are not enough to rid yourself of an unwelcome companion. I might contradict an American at every turn to show I’m bored, but he just tries harder to persuade me; if I fall silent, he thinks I am reflecting on his arguments; if I finally rush off, he assumes I have urgent business. He will never understand he’s exhausting me unless I say so outright; and in doing so, I’d make him a lifelong enemy.

It may seem odd that once in Europe, the same person suddenly becomes so touchy and prickly that it’s difficult not to offend him, unlike his composure at home. But both reactions come from the same root cause. Democratic institutions give people a high opinion of their country and themselves. An American leaves home with pride; on arriving in Europe, he quickly discovers we do not think as much about the United States, or its people, as he imagined—and this grates on him. He has heard that European society isn’t as equal; seeing lingering marks of rank, and privileges of birth and wealth, he notices them without understanding their details. He has little idea where he ought to stand within this crumbling hierarchy—too distinct to be ignored, too similar to avoid confusion. He worries about placing himself too high, but even more about appearing too low; this makes him anxious and awkward. He remembers hearing that Europe once had many elaborate rules based on class; this idea adds to his confusion, and he’s even more worried about missing marks of respect he thinks he’s due, though he can’t define them. He’s like a man surrounded by traps—social life feels like work, not pleasure. He analyzes every action and word for possible offense. I doubt whether any rural gentleman of the old order was ever so punctilious; he tries to follow every tiny rule of etiquette, allowing none to be overlooked toward himself. He’s at once full of scruples and pride—wishing to do enough, worried about doing too much, and ends up appearing both proud and uneasy.

But there’s yet another side: An American constantly talks about the admirable equality that prevails in the United States; he openly boasts of it, but secretly regrets it in his private situation, and wants to prove he’s an exception to what he publicly praises. There’s hardly an American who doesn’t claim distant kinship with the first colonists; and as for descendants of English nobility, I found America to be full of them. When a wealthy American arrives in Europe, his first goal is to surround himself with every kind of luxury; he’s so afraid of being seen as just another citizen of a democracy that he tries, in countless ways, to show off his riches daily. His house is in the most fashionable part of town; he’s always surrounded by servants. I’ve heard an American complain that even the finest society in Paris was too mixed for his taste; he found the tone lacking, the manners too plain, and couldn’t accept cleverness hidden under unpretentious behavior.

These contrasts shouldn’t surprise us. If the traces of aristocratic differences weren’t mostly erased in the United States, Americans would be both less simple and less tolerant at home—they’d expect less, and have less craving for borrowed customs abroad.

## Chapter IV: Consequences Of The Three Preceding Chapters

When people feel a natural sympathy for each other’s suffering—when they meet easily and often, with no sensitive pride keeping them apart—it is reasonable to expect that they’ll help each other when needed. When an American asks his fellow citizens for help, it’s seldom refused, and I’ve often seen it given eagerly and freely. If an accident happens on the road, everyone rushes to help; if sudden disaster strikes a family, thousands of strangers quickly offer financial aid, with numerous small donations arriving to ease their trouble. In some of the most advanced nations, a poor wretch may be as alone in a crowd as a savage in the wilderness—but this is rare in the United States. Americans, often cold and sometimes blunt in their manners, rarely show indifference—and even if they don’t go out of their way to offer help, they don’t refuse if asked.

This isn’t at odds with my earlier comments on individualism. Far from conflicting, the two actually reinforce each other. Equality of conditions helps people feel independent, but also makes them aware of their own vulnerability. They know they are free, but also open to endless misfortunes; experience teaches them that, while they may not always need others’ help, a time usually comes when they can’t manage without it. In Europe, we often see members of the same profession helping each other, since they all face similar risks. This makes them form mutual agreements, even if they are otherwise selfish or cold. When one faces a danger the rest can solve by a small or brief sacrifice, they don’t hesitate to help—not from deep personal concern, but as an almost unconscious arrangement by which everyone owes temporary support, knowing they can expect the same in return. Apply this observation to a whole nation, and you see my point. In democracies, this kind of informal agreement exists among all citizens: they all know they share similar weaknesses and dangers, so both their interests and feelings lead them to support one another as needed. The more equal society becomes, the more people show this mutual tendency to help. In democracies, great acts of heroism are rare, but small kindnesses are constant; people seldom show self-sacrifice, but everyone is ready to offer help to others.

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

An American who had traveled in Europe for a long time once remarked to me, “The English treat their servants with a formality and commanding manner that surprises us; but, on the other hand, the French sometimes treat their attendants with a degree of familiarity or politeness we can hardly imagine. It seems as though they’re afraid to give orders—the distinction between superior and subordinate is poorly maintained.” This observation is quite accurate, one I’ve noticed myself. I’ve always considered England the country where, in our time, the bond of domestic service is strictest, and France where it is most relaxed. Nowhere have I seen masters stand so high or so low as in these two nations. The Americans can be placed somewhere between these two extremes. This is apparent on the surface; to understand why, we must examine the matter more deeply.

No society has ever existed where social conditions are so equal that there are neither rich nor poor, and therefore, neither masters nor servants. Democracy does not eliminate these two classes, but it does change their attitudes and alters their mutual relations. In aristocratic nations, servants make up a separate class, no less distinctly formed than the class of masters. A stable order forms; in each class, a hierarchy appears, with many gradations of rank, and generations pass with little change in position. These classes are layered one above the other, always separate, but governed by similar principles. This aristocratic structure influences the attitudes and manners of both masters and servants; although the effects differ, the cause is the same. Both classes become small communities within the nation, developing lasting ideas of right and wrong among themselves. Every act of life is viewed through a specific and constant lens. Among servants, as among masters, people greatly influence each other: they recognize rules, and in absence of law, are guided by a kind of public opinion. Their habits are fixed, and their actions are regulated by social control.

These men, destined to obey, certainly do not understand fame, virtue, honesty, or honor in the same way as their masters; but they have their own pride, virtue, and honesty that fits their station—a sense, you could say, of a kind of servile honor. \*a Because a class is humble, we mustn’t assume everyone within it is small-minded; to do so would be a serious error. However low their status, those at the top of their class, who have no thought of leaving it, have an aristocratic position that inspires elevated feelings, pride, and self-respect, preparing them for higher virtues and uncommon actions. In aristocratic nations, it was not rare to find men of noble and energetic minds in service to the great, who did not feel their servitude, and who submitted to their masters’ will without fear of their displeasure. But this was hardly ever true among the lowest domestic servants. One might think that the lowest rank among servants must be very base indeed. The French even invented a word for the aristocracy’s servants—they called them lackeys. The term “lackey” became the most pointed insult to express human baseness. Under the old French monarchy, to describe someone contemptible and base-spirited, one would simply say he had the “soul of a lackey”—the term said it all. \[Footnote a: If you closely examine the main opinions by which people are guided, the analogy is even clearer, and one is surprised to find, just as among the proudest nobles, a pride of birth, respect for ancestors and descendants, disdain for those beneath them, fear of association, love of etiquette, precedent, and antiquity.\]

The permanent inequality of conditions not only gives servants certain distinct virtues and vices, but it shapes their relationship with their masters. In aristocratic nations, the poor are used to being commanded from childhood: wherever they look, the social hierarchy and obedience are evident. Thus, in these countries, masters easily get prompt, thorough, respectful, and easy obedience from their servants, who revere not just their individual masters, but the master class. The master dominates their will with the weight of the aristocracy behind him. He orders their actions—even, to a point, directs their thoughts. Masters in aristocracies often exercise, perhaps unknowingly, great influence over the opinions, habits, and manners of their servants—his influence even goes beyond his authority.

Aristocratic societies not only have hereditary master and servant families, but often the same families of servants serve the same masters for generations (like two parallel lines, neither meeting nor separating); this significantly alters their relationship. So, even though masters and servants in aristocratic society are naturally very different—separated widely by wealth, education, opinions—time unites them. They are linked by generations of shared memories, and although different, they grow alike; while in democracies, where they are naturally almost the same, they always remain strangers to each other. Among aristocrats, masters may see their servants as an inferior extension of themselves and take an interest in them, motivated by a final stretch of self-interest.

Servants also see things this way, sometimes identifying with their masters as if becoming a part of them, in their own eyes as well as in their masters’. In aristocracies, a servant holds a position he cannot escape; above him stands a man of higher rank who cannot fall. On one side, for life, are obscurity, poverty, and obedience; on the other, also for life, fame, wealth, and command. These conditions remain separate, yet side by side; the bond between them is as lasting as the classes themselves. In this setting, the servant ultimately detaches his self-interest from his own person, leaving himself behind, or instead projecting himself into his master’s character, thus adopting an imaginary identity. He invests himself in the wealth of those he serves, shares their reputation, elevates himself with their status, and feeds on borrowed grandeur, valuing it more than the masters who truly possess it. There is something both moving and faintly absurd in this confusion of two different stations. These passions of masters, once absorbed by their servants, shrink and lose their dignity. Pride in the master becomes trivial vanity and petty showiness in the servant. The servants of a great man are often the most insistent about the respect due to him, and place more weight on his privileges than he does himself. In France, a few remnants of these old aristocratic servants remain, who will soon vanish along with their class. In the United States, I never encountered anyone like them. Americans don’t just lack such people—they can barely comprehend that they ever existed. It’s almost as hard for them to imagine as for us to understand what a slave was among the Romans, or a serf in the Middle Ages. All these people, though shaped differently, came from the same cause: they are all fading from view, vanishing into history along with the society from which they came.

Equal conditions transform masters and servants into new kinds of people and reshape their relationship. When social conditions are nearly equal, people constantly change their position in life: while there are still classes of servants and masters, these aren’t fixed groups of individuals or families; and those who give orders are not guaranteed to always do so. Since servants don’t form a separate community, they have no distinctive habits, prejudices, or manners. They lack special mental traits or feelings, and have no vices or virtues peculiar to their role—they share in the education, opinions, feelings, virtues, and vices of society at large; they are honest or dishonest in the same way their employers are. The conditions of servant and master are equally fluid. Without marked ranks or permanent subordination among them, servants do not display the degradation or the elevation that characterizes an aristocracy of servants or any other aristocracy. In the United States, I never met anyone who reminded me of Europe’s old class of confidential servants, nor did I ever see a lackey: all trace of both has vanished.

In democracies, servants are not only equal among themselves, but, in a sense, equal to their masters. This needs further explanation. At any moment, a servant may become a master, and he aspires to that condition: so, he is not a different person than his master. Why, then, does the one have the right to command, and the other to obey? The answer: both freely and temporarily agree to it. Neither is innately inferior; they take on their roles by contract, for a limited time. During that period, one is the servant, the other the master; outside it, they are simply citizens—two individuals. It’s important to stress that this is not just how the servants view their own condition; masters in democracies see it the same way. The boundaries of authority and obedience are clear to both sides.

When most people in a country have similar conditions, and equality has long been established, public opinion—which is never swayed by outliers—sets certain limits to a person’s worth, above or below which no one stays for long. Even if wealth and poverty, authority and obedience, temporarily separate people, public opinion—based on the usual order—draws them together, creating a kind of imagined equality, despite real differences in status. This powerful opinion eventually affects even those whose interests might lead them to resist—it influences their judgments as well as their wills. Deep down, both master and servant no longer see any fundamental difference between themselves, and neither expects to discover one, ever. So neither holds the other in disdain or resentment; neither sees the other as inherently humble or proud. The master believes the contract of service is his only basis for authority; the servant sees his own obligation as coming only from the same agreement. There is no argument about their relative positions; each knows and maintains his place.

In the French army, common soldiers and officers often come from the same social classes—and may even hold the same commissions; off duty, a soldier sees himself as fully equal to his superiors, and in fact, he is; but when in uniform, he obeys without hesitation, and his obedience is just as prompt and complete for being voluntary and well-defined. This is a good example of how relations between masters and servants work in democratic societies.

It would be unreasonable to expect the strong, deep affections seen in aristocratic domestic service to develop between these men, or to expect examples of self-sacrifice. In aristocracies, masters and servants live apart and often interact only through intermediaries; yet they usually are loyal to each other. In democratic countries, master and servant are in daily contact, close physically, but their minds remain separate; they have shared work but almost never shared interests. The servant always sees himself as a temporary guest in his master’s home. He knows nothing of their ancestors, will see nothing of their descendants, and expects nothing lasting from his employer. Why, then, would he join his life to theirs, or surrender himself in that way? The fundamental relationship has changed, and so must their interactions.

I would like to illustrate these remarks with American examples, but it’s important to specify people and places. In the Southern United States, slavery remains;, so what I’ve described does not apply there. In the North, most servants are freedmen or the children of freedmen, who occupy an uncertain place in public opinion: legally, they are equal to their employers, but social customs keep them down. They do not know their proper place and tend to be either insolent or timid. But in the Northern States, especially New England, there are a number of white servants, who agree to temporary obedience for wages. I’ve heard that these servants usually perform their tasks punctually and capably; not considering themselves naturally beneath their employers, they obey willingly. They appear to bring into service some of the self-respect that independence and equality produce. Having chosen a hard life, they do not try to escape it by underhanded means; they have enough self-respect not to refuse their employers the obedience they’ve promised. Masters, on their side, expect nothing but faithful and strict performance of the contract: they don’t ask for personal respect or affection or loyalty; they only require servants to be exact and honest. Therefore, it is not accurate to say that, in democratic society, the relationship between servant and master is disorganized: it is simply organized differently; the rules have changed, but there are still rules.

I don’t mean to debate whether this new arrangement is inferior to the one before it, or simply different. All I need to point out is that it is clear and stable: and what’s most important to find among people is not any particular system, but order. But what can be said of the sad, troubled times when equality is being established in the chaos of revolution—when democracy, once introduced, has not yet overcome the old prejudices and customs? The laws, and to some degree public opinion, now declare no natural or lasting inferiority between master and servant. But this new belief hasn’t yet reached the master’s most private convictions; in his heart, he still believes he is of a special, superior race; he won’t say so, but he recoils as he is forced to the same level. His authority becomes hesitant and also harsh: he no longer feels the benevolent kind of superiority produced by long-held power, and is surprised that since he has changed, his servant has changed as well. He wants his servants to develop regular and lasting habits in jobs that are only temporary; he expects them to take pride in—and be content with—a condition they can easily leave, and to sacrifice themselves for a man who can neither greatly help nor harm them, and, in short, to bind themselves to someone no different from themselves, and who will not exist any longer than they do.

In aristocratic societies, domestic service often does not degrade those who enter it, because they neither know nor imagine any other condition; the great inequality between them and the master seems like the inevitable result of some hidden law of Providence. In democracies, domestic service does not degrade those who enter it, because it is a freely chosen, temporary condition; because it isn’t stigmatized by society, and doesn’t create any lasting inequality. But during the transition from one system to the other, there is often a period when people are caught between the old notion of subordination and the new, democratic idea of obedience. Obedience then loses its moral value for the subordinate; he no longer sees it as a divine duty, nor does he yet see it as a purely human matter; obedience seems lacking in sanctity or fairness, and he submits to it as a low but profitable job. In this moment, a confused idea of equality haunts servants’ minds; they aren’t sure if their new equality is within or outside domestic service; they resent the subordination they’ve agreed to, and from which they benefit. They accept service, but are ashamed of obeying; they like the benefits, but not the master; or rather, they're unsure if they themselves shouldn't be the master, and tend to see their employer as an unjust usurper of their rights. At such times, every household shows a scene much like the darker side of the political sphere. A hidden internal conflict exists there between competing powers, each suspicious of the other: the master becomes irritable and weak, the servant unfriendly and stubborn; the master tries to escape his duties to protect and pay, the servant his duty to obey. The reins of authority dangle between them, to be snatched by either. The lines separating authority from tyranny, liberty from license, and right from might are so blurred that no one knows exactly what he is, what he might become, or what he ought to be. This is not democracy, but revolution.

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

Much of what has been said about masters and servants also applies, in some ways, to landowners and tenants; but this topic warrants its own discussion. In America, there are, strictly speaking, no tenant farmers; almost everyone owns the land they work. It’s true that democratic laws help increase the number of landowners and reduce tenant farmers. Still, what happens in the United States is less due to its institutions than to its unique circumstances. Land in America is cheap, and anyone can easily become an owner; its yield is low, so it’s difficult to divide profit between owner and tenant. America, in this again, is an exception, and should not be seen as a model for others.

I believe that both in democratic and aristocratic countries there will be both landowners and tenants, but the relationships between them will differ. In aristocracies, the farmer pays his landlord not only in rent, but also in respect, deference, and duty; in democracies, everything is paid in cash. When estates are divided and frequently change hands, and the long-term tie between family and land is broken, the landowner and the tenant meet only briefly to settle terms and then part ways; they're simply two strangers conducting business, whose only goal is profit.

As property becomes more divided and wealth spreads more evenly, society is filled with people whose family wealth is declining, and others whose new fortunes and needs grow faster than their resources. For all of them, the smallest profit matters, and none are willing to let income slip away. As social ranks blend and both great and tiny fortunes become rare, the owners' status approaches that of the tenant; neither has any undisputed precedence; between two men who are equal and neither wealthy nor secure, renting land is purely a financial matter. Someone who owns a large estate with many tenants sees value in gaining the favor of thousands—so he may make sacrifices for this reason. But someone who owns a small plot doesn’t care to win his tenant’s personal regard.

Aristocracy does not vanish in a day; its principles fade from opinion before they disappear from law. Long before it is openly overthrown, the bonds that held the upper and lower classes together slowly release. The upper class shows indifference and contempt; the lower class, jealousy and resentment; relations between rich and poor become less close and amiable, and rents begin to rise. This is not the result of democratic revolution, but its sure sign; for an aristocracy that has lost popular affection is like a tree dead at the root—easily toppled by the winds that once made its branches spread.

Over the last fifty years, farm rents have risen sharply, not only in France but throughout most of Europe. Improvements in agriculture and manufacturing do not entirely explain this; a deeper and more powerful cause is at work. I believe that cause is found in democratic institutions many European nations have adopted, and in the democratic spirit at work everywhere else. I’ve often heard major English landlords boast that their estates yield more today than in their fathers’ time. They may have reason to rejoice, but they’re mistaken about the source. They think it’s profit, but it is actually an exchange; they are trading influence for money, and what they gain in wealth, they will soon lose in power.

There is another clear sign that a major democratic change is happening or about to happen. In the Middle Ages, land leases almost always covered a lifetime or very long terms; ninety-nine-year leases were more common then than twelve-year leases are now. People thought families would last forever; positions seemed fixed, and society so stable that nothing would ever change. In ages of equality, the prevailing idea is that nothing lasts, and people are obsessed by constant change. Under this feeling, owners and tenants alike avoid long-term commitments; both fear being bound tomorrow by contracts that are convenient today. Both suspect that their circumstances or tastes will change, and that they’ll regret not being able to undo what they desired; and in democratic times, wisely so, for man’s heart is the most unstable part of an ever-changing world.

## Chapter VII: Influence Of Democracy On Wages

Most points I've made about masters and servants also apply to employers and workers. As social divisions fade, the high lose some status and the low rise, hereditary poverty and wealth become rare, and the real and perceived distance between worker and employer grows smaller. The worker forms a loftier opinion of his rights, his prospects, and himself; new ambitions and wants fill his mind, new needs press upon him. He covets his employer's profits; to get a larger share, he tries to raise the price of his labor, and typically succeeds eventually. In democratic societies, as elsewhere, most kinds of industry are run on a small scale by men who are little above their workers in wealth or education. These employers are many; their interests vary widely, so they rarely work together. By contrast, workers nearly always have some resources, allowing them to refuse work if not offered a fair wage. In this ongoing wage struggle, strength is divided, and victory shifts from side to side. It’s likely that ultimately workers will win out; as wages rise, workers become less dependent, and greater independence gives them more power to obtain still higher wages.

Take, for example, agriculture, which is still the most common industry in France and much of the world. In France, most farm laborers own small plots of land they can live on without working for others. When such a laborer offers his services to a large landowner or farmer, and is refused decent pay, he retreats to his own plot and waits for another chance.

On the whole, it seems fair to conclude that a slow, steady increase in wages is a general law of democratic societies. As equality rises, so do wages; and as wages climb, equality advances further. But in our time, there is a major and troubling exception. As previously discussed, aristocracy—driven from political power—has taken shelter in some branches of industry, where it reigns under a new form; this has a major effect on wages. Large investments are needed for major manufacturing ventures; very few can enter, and because they are so few, they can easily agree among themselves and control wages as they wish. The workers, on the other hand, are very numerous, and their numbers keep growing, because from time to time there is a business boom, during which wages soar and draw in the nearby population. But once someone enters factory life, we've seen they can seldom leave, for they soon pick up habits and skills that make other kinds of work difficult. These people generally have little education or adaptability, with few alternatives; they are therefore almost entirely at the employer’s mercy. When competition or other forces cut the employer’s profits, he can easily lower wages to make up his losses. If workers strike, the owner—being wealthy—can wait until necessity brings them back; but workers live by the day, with nothing but their labor to support them. Long impoverished by exploitation, the poorer they become, the easier they are to exploit: a vicious cycle with no escape. So, it’s not surprising that in this industry, wages—after wild increases—usually end up lower than before; while, in other trades, labor prices keep rising little by little.

This situation of dependence and poverty, in which much of the present manufacturing class lives, is an exception to the general rule, unlike the position of the rest of society; but for this reason, it is a situation deserving the special concern of lawmakers—because when all of society is moving ahead, it is hard to keep one class standing still; and when most gain new paths to prosperity, it is equally hard to make a few accept their needs and frustrations in peace.

## Chapter VIII: Influence Of Democracy On Kindred

I have just examined the changes that equality of conditions brings about in the mutual relationships between members of the community among democratic nations, especially among Americans. Now, I would like to look more closely at the ties of kinship—not to seek out new truths, but to show how well-known facts are connected to my topic.

It is now generally observed that family members today relate to each other in a completely new way; the gap that once separated a father from his sons has narrowed, and paternal authority, if not completely destroyed, is at least weakened. Something similar, but even more striking, can be seen in the United States. In America, the family, in its Roman and aristocratic sense, simply does not exist. All that remains are a few traces during the early years of childhood, when the father wields unquestioned domestic authority due to his children’s weakness and for their benefit, as well as because of his own clear superiority. But as soon as the young American nears adulthood, the bonds of filial obedience loosen day by day: he is soon master of his thoughts and, therefore, his actions. In America, there is, strictly speaking, no adolescence: as soon as boyhood ends, the man steps forward and begins to forge his own way. One might assume that such independence is only reached after a domestic struggle, where the son gains by moral force the freedom his father withheld. However, the same habits and principles that push the son to assert his independence prepare the father to see this independence as a certainty, a right that cannot be denied. The son does not harbor those bitter or rebellious passions that haunt men long after they have shaken off authority; the father feels none of the anger or regret that lingers after lost power. The father knows the limits of his authority well in advance, and when the moment comes, he yields it without resistance: the son looks forward eagerly to the day he is his own master, and claims his freedom calmly and naturally, as something that belongs to him and that no one contests. \*a

a
\[The Americans, however, have not yet gone so far as the French, stripping the parent of one of the main elements of parental authority by depriving him of the right to dispose of his property at death. In the United States, testators have full power in this respect. In this, as in nearly all things, it is evident that American political legislation is far more democratic than that of France; but French civil law is much more democratic than that of the Americans. This is easily explained. France’s civil law was orchestrated by a man who saw advantage in satisfying his contemporaries' democratic passions, so long as those passions didn’t threaten his own power. He was willing to let popular principles guide inheritance and family affairs, so long as they didn’t touch the machinery of government. While democracy swept over France’s civil laws, he hoped to hide behind political institutions. This policy was both clever and self-serving; but such a compromise cannot last, for eventually political institutions become a reflection of civil society. In this sense, nothing is more political in a nation than its civil laws.\]

It may be helpful to show how these changes in family relations are closely connected to the social and political revolution now approaching its peak before our eyes. Some fundamental social principles must be applied everywhere or not at all. In aristocratic societies, with their rigid ranks, the government never appeals directly to the masses: since people are connected through hierarchy, leading the highest means the rest follow. This applies as much to families as it does to all aristocracies with a leader. Among such nations, social institutions recognize only the father within the family; children receive everything from society via him; society governs him, he governs them. So, the parent not only has a natural right to command, but also gains a political one: he is both the founder and governor of his family. In democracies, where government singles out each person and submits him directly to society’s laws, there is no need for an intermediary: before the law, a father is simply a member of society, older and wealthier than his sons.

When the conditions of life are extremely unequal and stable, the idea of superiors takes hold in people’s minds: if not granted by law, custom and opinion provide privileges. Conversely, when people differ little and conditions are changeable, the very idea of a superior weakens: even if laws try to set one man much above another, prevailing social customs pull them closer together. So, even if an aristocratic country’s laws grant no special rights to family heads, I remain certain their power will be stronger and more respected than in democracies, for I know that social standing is always relatively higher for superiors and lower for inferiors in aristocracy compared to democracy, regardless of the law.

When people dwell more on the past than on the present, when they attend more to what their ancestors thought rather than thinking for themselves, the father becomes the living link between past and present—the tie that connects the generations. Thus, in aristocracies, the father is not only the legal head of the family, but also the guardian of its traditions, its customs, and its manners. He is listened to with deference, approached with respect; love for him is always mingled with awe. As society grows democratic and people adopt the principle that it is good and right to judge everything for themselves—using tradition as information but never as doctrine—the influence of a father’s opinions over his sons declines just like his legal power.

Perhaps the division of estates that democracy causes does more than anything else to change father-child relations. If the father’s fortune is small, he and his son are always together, sharing the same home and work: habit and necessity keep them close, and constant contact breeds a familiar intimacy that weakens authority and is hard to match with formal respect. In democratic societies, the class of small property-owners is precisely the one that shapes opinions and customs. Their views and habits set the pattern for the whole society, and even those who want to resist eventually follow their lead. I have known strong opponents of democracy who allowed their children to speak to them almost as equals.

So, as aristocratic power fades, so does the rigid, legal side of parental authority; in its place, a kind of equality appears in the home. I do not know whether society as a whole loses from this change, but I tend to think each person gains. As laws and practices grow more democratic, the relationship between father and son grows more intimate and affectionate; there is less talk of rules and authority; confidence and tenderness often multiply; the natural bond tightens even as the social bond loosens. In a democratic family, the father has only the power that affection and experience can grant to age; his orders might be ignored, but his advice is generally respected. Even if he isn’t surrounded by formality and deference, his sons still approach him openly; they have no set language for addressing him, but they speak to him often and consult him whenever needed. The master and ruler have disappeared—the father remains. Nothing more is needed to understand the difference between the two systems than a look at family letters from aristocratic times. The tone is always formal, stiff, even cold, so that honest affection is hard to detect. By contrast, the tone used by sons towards fathers in democratic societies is usually marked by freedom, familiarity, and warmth, which shows that new relationships have arisen within the family.

A parallel revolution happens in how siblings relate. In aristocratic families, as in aristocratic society overall, roles are decided in advance. Not only does the father have his privileged place, but even the children are not equals among themselves. Age and sex secure certain privileges: democracy abolishes or reduces most of these distinctions. In aristocratic families, the eldest son, inheriting most of the wealth and rights, becomes in some ways the chief and master of his brothers. Greatness and authority belong to him, while the others are left with dependency and mediocrity. But it would be incorrect to say these privileges benefit just the eldest son or inspire only envy in his siblings. Often, he looks to advance them because the family’s splendor reflects on its chief; the younger sons support their elder brother in all his endeavors, since his power enables him to help the rest. The members of such families are therefore tightly bound by shared interests and aligned thinking, but rarely by true harmony of feeling.

Democracy also connects brothers, but in a completely different fashion. Under democratic laws, all the children are fully equal and thus independent; nothing forces them together—but nothing pushes them apart either. Since they share the same origin, upbringing, and care, and lack any special privilege to distinguish them, the natural youthful intimacy easily grows. Few opportunities ever break their childhood bond, for their relationship brings them together often without tension. Thus, democracy unites siblings not by interest, but by shared experience and by natural sympathy of habit and thought. Their inheritance is divided, but their minds and hearts are united. Such is the attraction of these democratic manners that even supporters of aristocracy find themselves won over; after experiencing this closeness, they don’t feel tempted to return to the formal, distant customs of aristocratic families. They wish they could keep the family warmth of democracy while discarding its laws and society—but those things cannot be separated. What I have said about love between parents and children, and among siblings, applies to all feelings that arise spontaneously from human nature. If a feeling comes from a specific condition of life, once that condition changes, the feeling vanishes. For example, the feudal tie between vassal and lord was once strict, but today the two hardly even recognize each other; the respect and affection that previously connected them have disappeared entirely. This disappearance, however, does not affect feelings natural to all humans. Whenever a law tries to mold these feelings in a particular way, it usually only weakens them; attempts to make such feelings stronger in fact take something away from them, for they never have more force than when left uninfluenced.

Democracy, which destroys or clouds almost all the old social codes and prevents men from easily accepting new ones, completely erases most of the feelings those codes created; but it merely modifies others, sometimes giving them a tenderness and intensity previously unknown. Perhaps it is possible to sum up this chapter, and some of the preceding ones, with a single phrase: Democracy loosens social bonds but tightens natural ones; it draws families closer together, even as it causes members of society to drift farther apart.

## Chapter IX: Education Of Young Women In The United States

No free communities have ever survived without morals; and, as I noted earlier, morals are mainly shaped by women. So, anything that affects women’s status, habits, or beliefs is, for me, of enormous political importance. In nearly all Protestant countries, young women control their own actions much more than in Catholic ones. This independence is even greater in Protestant countries like England, which have developed or retained self-government; political habits and religious beliefs bring a spirit of freedom into the home. In the United States, the principles of Protestantism combine with political freedom and a highly democratic social structure; nowhere are young women so early and so completely trusted to guide themselves. Long before an American girl reaches marriageable age, she begins to be independent of her mother; she has hardly left childhood behind before she thinks for herself, speaks freely, and acts on her own initiative. The world is constantly open before her; not hidden, but revealed to her more each day, and she is taught to view it confidently and calmly. Thus, society’s vices and dangers are openly shown to her; because she sees them clearly, she sees them without illusion and faces them without fear, relying on her own strength—a reliance everyone around her seems to share as well. An American girl rarely shows that innocent bloom or that naïve charm which are often seen in the European woman as she moves from childhood into adolescence. At almost no age does an American woman appear awkwardly shy or uninformed. Like European girls, she wishes to be liked, but she knows exactly what that means. If she does not fall into wrongdoing, at least she knows wrong exists; she is better known for her purity of conduct than for innocence of thought. I have often been amazed, and at times unsettled, by the skill and boldness with which young women in America navigate their thoughts and speech through challenging conversation—a philosopher would have stumbled, but they glide along, unscathed and effortless. It is easy to see that, even with all her independence, an American woman is always in control of herself; she enjoys every permitted pleasure without surrendering herself to any, and her reason never lets go the reins of self-mastery, even if it sometimes seems simply to hold them lightly.

In France, where old customs from every era still mingle in public attitudes and tastes, girls receive a reserved and almost cloistered upbringing like those of aristocratic times; then, suddenly and without guidance or help, they are thrust into the irregularities that come with democracy. Americans are more logical. Understanding that democracy makes individual independence great, youth early, tastes unrestrained, customs changeable, public opinion unsettled, paternal authority weak, and marital authority challenged, they realized it was no use trying to suppress woman’s passions by force. Instead, they chose to train her to fight those passions herself. Since her virtue would be exposed to many dangers, they decided her best defense was her own willpower. Rather than teaching her to mistrust herself, they focus on strengthening her self-confidence. Since it was neither possible nor desirable to keep a young woman ignorant, they hurried to give her early knowledge of all things. Instead of hiding the corruptions of the world, they preferred for her to see it all and learn to avoid temptations, believing it more important to guide her behavior than overly protect her innocence.

Although Americans are very religious, they do not rely only on religion to safeguard women’s virtue; they rely on reason, too. In this, they are consistent: first striving to make the individual able to control themselves, and calling on religion only after human strength has been fully tested. I realize that such an education is risky; it may strengthen reason at the expense of imagination, producing cold but virtuous women rather than affectionate wives and pleasant companions. Society may become more orderly, but private life is less charming. Yet these are secondary problems, which one may face for the sake of higher interests. At this point, we are left with no real choice; a democratic education for women has become absolutely necessary under democratic societies and customs.

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

In America, a woman’s independence is irreversibly lost once she is married: if the unmarried woman is less restricted than elsewhere, the wife lives under heightened obligations. As a daughter, her father’s house is filled with freedom and enjoyment; in her husband’s home, she lives almost as in a convent. But these two conditions are perhaps not as opposite as they seem, and it is natural that an American woman should pass through one to arrive at the other.

Religious societies and commercial nations have particularly serious ideas of marriage: the former see a woman’s orderly life as the surest sign and safeguard of her virtue; the latter, as the best guarantee for the stability and prosperity of the household. The Americans, being both puritanical and commercial, require significant self-denial from women and expect her to sacrifice her pleasures to her duties more than is common in Europe. So, in the United States, strict public opinion precisely confines women to the narrow realm of domestic duties and interests, and absolutely forbids them to step beyond.

When a young American woman enters the world, she finds these expectations fully formed; she observes the rules that result from them, and quickly realizes she cannot depart from her contemporaries’ customs, even for an instant, without risking her happiness, reputation, or even her social standing. She finds the strength for such submission in the firmness and masculine habits her upbringing gave her. It could be said that by learning to use her freedom, she also learns to surrender it without struggle or complaint when the time comes. But no American woman enters marriage like an innocent or naïve victim. She knows what is expected of her well beforehand, and freely chooses this path herself. She accepts her new role bravely because it is her choice. With weak paternal discipline and very strong marital bonds in America, a young woman enters marriage only after careful thought and mature judgment. Thus, early marriages are rare in the United States. Unlike in other countries, where most women only begin to develop judgment after marriage, American women do not marry until their minds have matured.

Yet I do not believe the transformation that occurs for American women at marriage is only due to public opinion: they frequently impose it on themselves by their own will. When it is time to choose a husband, American women, whose judgment has developed through active observation of the world, know full well that independence and frivolity in marriage bring only annoyance, not happiness; they understand that the amusements of youth must give way to the interests of marriage, and that the roots of a married woman’s happiness lie within her husband’s home. Seeing clearly the only path to domestic happiness, she takes it boldly and sticks to it, never looking back.

The same strength that American wives show in taking on their new austere duties is just as obvious in the great trials of their lives. Nowhere else are personal fortunes less stable than in the United States. It is common for the same person to move, over a lifetime, from wealth to poverty and back again, through all social ranks. American women face these constant changes with a calm and tireless courage: it seems their desires shrink or grow as easily as their fortunes. \*a

a
\[See Appendix S.\]

As I mentioned earlier, most of the adventurers settling the western wilderness every year are from the old Anglo-American stock of the northern states. Many of these men, who eagerly chase after new wealth, leave behind secure lives at home. Their wives follow them, sharing in the countless dangers and hardships of founding new settlements. Even on the edge of the frontier, I have met young women who, after growing up amid all the comforts of New England cities, moved almost overnight from the luxury of their parents’ home to a rough cabin in the forest. Disease, isolation, and monotonous hardship had not broken their spirit. Their appearance had suffered, but their expressions remained firm: they looked both saddened and resolute. I am sure these young women had built up, during their upbringing, the inner strength displayed at such times. So, in America, you can still see how a woman’s early education shapes her as a wife: her role changes, her habits differ, but her character remains the same.

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

Some philosophers and historians have claimed, or at least suggested, that female morality is stricter or looser simply depending on how far a country is from the equator. This was an easy answer to a complicated question; all one needed was a globe and a compass to seemingly solve one of humanity's toughest problems. But I don’t think the materialists’ theory is actually supported by fact. Nations have been strict or lax in their morals at different times in their history; this shift must be caused by something changeable, not by the natural features of the country, which do not change. I don’t deny that, in some climates, the passions resulting from attraction between the sexes may be unusually strong; but I believe this natural intensity can always be influenced or restrained by the state of society and political institutions.

Though travelers who have visited North America disagree on many things, they all agree that morals there are much stricter than elsewhere. On this issue, Americans are clearly superior to their English ancestors. A quick comparison of the two nations proves the point. In England, as in all European countries, public scorn is frequently aimed at women’s weaknesses. Philosophers and political leaders lament that morals aren’t strict enough, and the country’s literature frequently gives the same impression. In America, all books—including novels—assume women are chaste, and no one thinks of telling tales of romantic indiscretions. There’s no doubt that this high standard of American morals is partly due to the country, its people’s heritage, and their religion—but those same factors exist elsewhere and aren’t enough to explain it. A special reason must be found. In my view, this reason is the principle of equality and the institutions built upon it. Equality of conditions doesn’t automatically create strict morals, but it definitely makes them easier to achieve.  
\*a \[Footnote a: See Appendix T.\]

In aristocratic societies, differences of birth and wealth often make such different creatures of men and women that they can never truly unite. Their passions bring them together, but society and its conventions prevent them from forming permanent, open ties. The result is many fleeting and secret relationships. Nature quietly takes revenge for being restricted by manmade rules. Things are different when the equality of conditions has erased all the real or imagined barriers between men and women. No girl believes she cannot become the wife of a man who loves her; for this reason, breaches of morality before marriage are very rare. For, however trusting passion may be, a woman will find it hard to believe she is truly loved if her admirer is free to marry her but chooses not to.

The same effect, though in a more indirect way, shapes married life. Nothing more efficiently excuses an illicit affair—whether in the minds of those involved or in the judgment of society—than marriages forced or arranged by circumstance. \*b In a country where every woman truly has the freedom to choose, and her education has prepared her for wise decisions, public opinion is merciless towards errors. Some of Americans’ strictness comes from this: they see marriage as a binding contract, one that can be burdensome, but whose terms both parties knew in advance and could have refused.

b  
\[ European literature proves this point. When a European writer wants to portray a major marital catastrophe in fiction, he usually seeks the reader’s sympathy by highlighting a forced or unhappy marriage. Even though customary tolerance has long relaxed our morals, a writer rarely interests us in his characters’ misfortunes without first excusing their faults. This trick almost always works: our daily lives have prepared us to be forgiving. But American writers could not make these excuses believable for their readers; their customs and laws prevent it, and since they see no way to make irresponsibility seem attractive, they simply stop depicting it. This is one reason for the small number of novels published in the United States.\]

The very factors that make fidelity in marriage more obligatory also make it easier. In aristocratic countries, marriage is more about uniting property than uniting individuals; thus, the husband might still be at school and the wife just out of the nursery when they are first engaged. It’s no surprise if the marriage tie that binds their fortunes leaves their hearts free to wander; it’s a natural result of how the partnership was arranged. Conversely, when a man always selects his own wife, with no external pressure or even advice, it is usually similarity of taste and opinion that brings a couple together and then keeps them closely bound.

Our ancestors had a peculiar idea about marriage. Having noticed that the rare “love matches” of their time often ended badly, they concluded it was dangerous to follow one’s heart. They thought accident was a better guide than choice. Yet it wasn’t hard to see that those cases proved nothing. For one thing, democratic societies give women the liberty to choose their husbands, while also giving them enough knowledge and strength of will to make an important choice. But young women in aristocratic societies who secretly run away from parental authority to marry men they don’t know well—and are unprepared to judge—lack those protections. It’s no wonder they misuse their freedom the first time they exercise it, or that they make painful mistakes when, unprepared by a democratic education, they choose marriage as if they were in a democratic society. But that’s not all. When a man and a woman insist on marrying despite the obstacles in an aristocratic society, they face enormous challenges: after defying their parents, they must also break free from conventions and public opinion; even if they manage, they find themselves cut off from friends and kin. The prejudice they challenged isolates them and eventually sours their spirits. If such a couple ends up first miserable and then perhaps immoral, we shouldn’t blame their freedom but rather the environment that doesn’t respect freedom of choice.

Also, one should remember that the same determination that enables someone to reject a prevailing error often pushes them to extremes; to oppose the opinion of one’s era or country, especially for a just cause, requires a bold and restless spirit, and such people rarely attain happiness or virtue—no matter their intentions. That’s partly why we seldom find truly virtuous or moderate leaders in the most necessary and just revolutions. So, we should not be surprised if someone in an aristocratic age who follows only their own heart in choosing a wife soon encounters domestic misery or moral failings. But when personal choice is normal, sanctioned by one’s family, and supported by public opinion, it is likely to increase family peace and make faithfulness in marriage more strictly observed.

Nearly all men in democracies are engaged in public or professional life. At the same time, limited incomes mean that wives must manage the home themselves and closely oversee household affairs. These distinct and necessary roles naturally keep the sexes apart, reducing both the frequency and intensity of temptation for one and making resistance easier for the other.

It’s true that equality of conditions can never make anyone perfectly chaste, but it does make lapses less dangerous. With everyone pressed for time and opportunity, virtue that’s guarded is seldom truly challenged—so you find both many prostitutes and many virtuous women. This arrangement may bring individual hardship, but it doesn’t weaken society as a whole: it doesn’t destroy families or corrupt national morals. Society is threatened not by a few people’s extreme behavior, but by general looseness in morals. For a lawmaker, prostitution is less alarming than widespread intrigue.

The hectic life that equality produces doesn’t just distract people from passion by denying them time—it also diverts them through another, subtler route. People living in democratic societies tend to adopt the mindset of commerce and industry; they become practical, measured, grounded. They tend to abandon the imaginary for the immediate and achievable. Equality doesn’t kill imagination, but it does keep it earthbound. Citizens in a democracy are not usually given to daydreaming or to the solitary pondering that sparks great emotion. They do care about finding deep, consistent affection, which gives life comfort and safety, but are less likely to chase thrill-seeking passions that disrupt or shorten life.

I realize that this only fully applies in America right now, and not yet in Europe. Over the last fifty years, many European nations have been pushed rapidly toward democracy by laws and customs, but there’s little sign that relations between men and women have become more orderly or chaste. In some places the opposite is true: some classes are stricter, but overall, public morality seems more lenient. I say this honestly, intending neither to flatter nor insult. It’s a disappointing fact, but not a surprising one. The positive influence democracy can have on morals only becomes clear with time. If equality encourages purity, the very process that equalizes society briefly has the opposite effect. Over the last fifty years, while France has transformed, there’s been ongoing disorder. Amidst all this confusion and turmoil—truth and error, justice and force all mixed together—public and private morals have both wavered. But every revolution, no matter its cause or leaders, at first brings the same outcome: even revolutions that eventually tighten moral standards begin by loosening them. France’s current moral uncertainty doesn’t appear permanent, and some promising trends already point to change.

Nothing is so thoroughly corrupt as an aristocracy that keeps its riches after losing its power—one that still has plenty of spare time but only shallow pursuits. The passions and ambitions that once gave it energy are gone, leaving behind only trivial vices, which cling to it like parasites on a corpse. No one denies that the French aristocracy of the last century was extremely immoral; meanwhile, habit and old beliefs still enforced some respect for morality among the other classes. Nor would anyone argue that today, what remains of that aristocracy is more upright, while looser morals are found among the middle and lower classes. The same families notorious for vice fifty years ago are now models of virtue, and democracy appears to have strengthened aristocratic morals. The French Revolution, by dividing noble fortunes, forcing attention to business and home, making aristocrats live with their children, and turning their minds toward order and family life, gave them—sometimes without their realizing it—a new respect for religion, order, quiet pleasures, domestic happiness, and comfort. Meanwhile, the rest of the nation, with similar natural tastes, was swept into excess by the effort needed to overthrow old laws and habits. The old aristocracy experienced the results of revolution, but did not participate in its passions or chaos; it’s no surprise that they have, earlier than others, benefited in their behavior from the discipline the Revolution imposed. Paradoxically, at this moment in France, it’s often the classes most opposed to democracy that show the sort of morality we might expect from democracy. I think that as the democratic revolution’s changes settle in, and the chaos it caused fades, these observations will become true for everyone, not just a few.

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

I have explained how democracy removes or alters the various inequalities found in society; but is that all? Or does it also affect the big difference between men and women, which has always seemed firmly rooted in nature? I believe that when society brings fathers and sons, masters and servants, and superiors and inferiors closer to the same level, it will also raise women and make them increasingly equal to men. But I must be clear here, because no subject has been more misunderstood or subject to wild ideas in our time.

There are people in Europe who, by confusing the unique qualities of the sexes, want to make men and women not only equal, but identical. They would give both the same roles, duties, and rights; they would make them share everything: work, recreation, business. It’s easy to see that in forcing one sex to be the same as the other, both are degraded; such a mix of nature’s designs would only create weak men and unruly women. This is not the American view of democratic equality between the sexes. Americans accept that nature created men and women very differently, physically and morally, and intended their abilities for different purposes; to them, progress means helping each to accomplish their intended roles in the best possible way. The Americans have applied the same principle to the sexes as to modern industry: they separate the tasks of men from those of women, so that the work of society as a whole can run more smoothly.

Nowhere has as much effort been made as in America to outline two clearly separate lines of action for the sexes, and to have them move in tandem, but along distinct paths. American women never handle the family’s outward affairs or run a business, nor do they take part in political life. Likewise, they are never forced to do farm labor or heavy manual work. No family is ever too poor to break this rule. So, while an American woman cannot escape the circle of domestic work, she also is not forced to step outside it. For this reason, the women of America, who often have strong minds and energy equal to men, generally maintain a delicate appearance and always act as women, even if they sometimes show a man’s spirit and character.

Nor have Americans ever seen democratic principles as a reason to overthrow marital authority or to confuse the natural order within families. They believe that every group needs a leader to function, and that in marriage, the natural leader is the man. So, they don’t deny the husband’s right to direct his partner; they believe that, both in marriage and in society at large, the goal of democracy is to regulate and legitimize necessary powers, not to abolish all authority. This is not only a male opinion: I never saw American women call a husband’s authority a wrongful takeover of their rights, or feel degraded by accepting it. On the contrary, they seemed to take pride in willingly submitting, boasting about their ability to accept the “yoke” rather than remove it. At least, this is how the most virtuous women feel; those who disagree remain quiet, and in the U.S. it’s not common for an unfaithful wife to demand women’s rights while ignoring her own most important duties.

It’s often noted that in Europe, even men’s flattery of women hides a level of contempt: although a European may pretend to be his lady’s servant, it’s clear he never actually considers her his equal. In America, men rarely flatter women, but they constantly show their respect and trust. They openly have full confidence in a wife’s judgment and deepest respect for her freedom; they believe her mind is just as able as a man’s at recognizing truth, and her heart just as capable of embracing it. They never try to shield her virtue, any more than a man’s, by means of prejudice, ignorance, or fear. In Europe, where men easily submit to women’s influence, women are nevertheless treated as charming but incomplete, and—strangely—end up seeing themselves the same way, almost viewing it as a privilege to be silly or timid. American women claim no such status.

Also, it could be said that we have set up a double standard: one virtue for men, another for their partners; the same act might be condemned as a crime or excused as a slip, simply depending on the perpetrator’s sex. Americans reject this unfair split in rights and duties; for them, the seducer is as disgraced as the one seduced. Americans may not shower women with attention as Europeans do, but their behavior always assumes women are virtuous and refined. Such is their respect for women’s moral autonomy that, in female company, the most careful language is used, so as not to offend. In America, a young, unmarried woman can safely travel alone on a long journey.

Lawmakers in the United States have softened nearly all criminal sentences, except for rape, which remains a capital crime, and public opinion condemns it most severely. The Americans value a woman’s honor and autonomy above almost anything else, and think no punishment too harsh for someone who violates these. In France, where punishment for the same crime is much lighter, it’s even hard to get a jury to convict. Is this disrespect for decency, or for women? I must believe it’s both.

So, Americans do not think that men and women should share all roles and rights, but they respect each for their unique contributions; and even though their lives take different paths, both are seen as equally valuable. They give women’s courage a different expression than men’s, but never doubt it; and while mental abilities aren’t always exercised in the same way, they consider women’s minds just as sound and clear as men’s. So, even if social inferiority for women persists, Americans have done all they can to raise women morally and intellectually to the same level as men—and in this, I think, they understand well the real principle of democratic progress. For my part, I don’t hesitate to say: though women in the United States may be limited to home life and are, in certain ways, deeply dependent, nowhere have I seen women occupying a higher position. If I were asked, now at the end of this work in which I have discussed so many important American achievements, what is the main source of this people’s remarkable growth and success, I would answer: it is due to the superiority of their women.

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

One might suppose that the ultimate effect of democratic institutions would be to blur all distinctions among members of the community, both in public and in private life, forcing everyone to live together. But that would mean misunderstanding equality as something crude and oppressive. No society or law will ever make people so similar that differences of education, wealth, and taste don’t set them apart; and even if their interests sometimes align, people will never necessarily enjoy being together for its own sake. Thus, people will always look for ways—whatever laws exist—to step outside the boundaries, and will form, alongside the larger political community, smaller circles based on similar backgrounds, habits, or lifestyles.

In the U.S., citizens have no special status over one another; they owe nobody particular obedience or deference. All meet to administer justice, run the government, or handle other matters that affect the general good; but I’ve never heard of attempts to make them all share the same entertainments or socialize in the same places. The Americans, who mix easily in public affairs, are careful to separate themselves into small, distinct groups for private life. Each recognizes all others as equals, but only invites a few into his home or social circle. That is quite natural. As the public sphere grows larger, it’s likely the private sphere will shrink; and rather than expecting members of modern society to ultimately live all together, I suspect society could end up as a collection of isolated coteries.

In aristocracies, society divides into great chambers rigidly closed to all but those born into them. There is no interaction between these classes, but inside each, people are constantly together—even if they aren’t naturally suited, the uniformity of their position draws them closer. But where neither law nor custom creates obligatory or routine meetings, interactions arise from chance similarities in taste or opinion: thus, private society becomes endlessly varied. In democracies, where differences between citizens are small and all are so close they could easily blend together, artificial distinctions arise, each person hoping to stand apart from the masses. This is inevitable; for human institutions can be changed, but human nature always works to set oneself above others and to create new inequalities.

Aristocracies separate people with high, unmoving barriers; in democracies, people are divided by countless small, almost invisible threads, easily broken or shifted. No matter how far equality advances, democratic societies will always form a multitude of little social groups within the wider national society—none of them, though, will ever quite resemble the grand elite class of old aristocracies.

## Chapter XIV: Some Reflections On American Manners

At first glance, nothing seems less important than the outward form of human actions, yet there is nothing to which people attach more value: they grow accustomed to everything except living in a society without their own manners. The influence of a country’s social and political state on manners is therefore worthy of serious consideration. Manners are generally a product of the core character of a people, but can also result from arbitrary conventions set by certain individuals; thus, they are at once natural and acquired. When certain people see themselves as the leading members of society, with little challenge or effort—when they are continually preoccupied with major concerns, delegating the minor details to others—and when they enjoy wealth they did not create and do not fear losing, it may be assumed they develop a certain lofty disdain for the small practical cares of life, and their thoughts naturally take on a grandeur that is reflected in both their language and their manners. In democratic countries, manners are generally lacking in dignity, because private life is often trivial; they are frequently unrefined, because daily life offers few chances to rise above the pressing cares of domestic interests. True dignity in manners means always occupying one’s proper place, neither too high nor too low; this is as attainable for a peasant as for a prince. In democracies, all positions are uncertain; thus, the manners of democracies, though often tinged with arrogance, typically lack dignity and are seldom well disciplined or accomplished.

People living in democracies are too unsettled for a group among them ever to establish and enforce a consistent code of good manners. Each individual behaves in their own way, and there is always a certain inconsistency in the manners of such times, shaped more by the feelings and ideas of individuals than by any ideal example meant for general imitation. This effect is especially noticeable just after an aristocracy has been overthrown: new political institutions and social groups bring together, and often force into close contact, people whose education and habits are still remarkably different, making the varied composition of society particularly apparent. The existence of a strict former code of good manners is still remembered, but its specifics or whereabouts are already forgotten. People have lost the shared rules of manners and have not yet decided to do without them; everyone tries to patch together some sort of arbitrary and shifting standard from the leftovers of past customs. Thus, manners lack both the orderliness and dignity they displayed among aristocratic nations and the simplicity and freedom they may take on in democracies; they are at once constrained and yet lack constraint.

However, this state is not permanent. When social equality has been established and becomes complete, as all individuals have roughly the same ideas and do roughly the same things, they do not need to agree or imitate each other to act or speak similarly: their manners consistently show many minor differences, but not any fundamental ones. They are never exactly the same, as they do not copy from a common model; nor are they wildly different, because their social circumstances are identical. At first, a traveler might think all Americans’ manners are identical; only on close inspection do differences emerge.

The English often mock American manners; yet it is curious that many writers making such caricatures come from England’s middle classes, to whom the caricatures apply just as well. These harsh critics usually provide examples of what they mock in the United States; they do not realize that in deriding Americans, they are actually deriding themselves, to the amusement of their own country’s aristocracy.

Nothing harms democracy more than its outward forms of behavior: many people could endure its faults, but not its manners. Still, I cannot conclude that there is nothing to praise in the manners of a democratic people. In aristocratic nations, all who live near the upper class typically strive to resemble it, leading to ridiculous imitations. A democratic people, lacking any high-breeding models, at least avoid the endless sight of poor copies. Their manners are never as refined as those in aristocracies, but are also never as coarse; neither the rough language of the lower classes nor the polished speech of the nobility is heard—such manners are often plain, but not brutal or degrading. As stated, a formal code of etiquette cannot be established in democracies; this brings both drawbacks and benefits. In aristocracies, rules of propriety impose a uniform conduct, making everyone in the same class appear alike despite their private tendencies; they decorate and obscure the true self. In democracies, manners are less trained and uniform but are often more genuine. They act as a thin, loosely woven veil through which the true feelings and private opinions of individuals are easily seen. The appearance and substance of actions are, therefore, more closely related; and if the overall picture of life is less elegant, it is more truthful. So, one might say that democracy does not so much give people any particular manners as prevent them from having any at all.

The feelings, passions, virtues, and vices of an aristocracy can sometimes resurface in a democracy, but not its manners; they are lost and disappear completely after the democratic revolution is done. It might seem that aristocratic manners are the most enduring, for a class will maintain them for a while after losing its wealth and power—but they are also the most fleeting, for once gone, no trace remains and soon it is as if they had never existed. Social change brings this about swiftly; a few generations suffice. The main features of aristocracy are remembered by history after the class is destroyed, but the subtle refinements of its manners vanish from memory almost at once. Once people stop seeing them, they can scarcely imagine what those manners were; their departure is neither noticed nor missed. In order to enjoy and value refined manners, one must be prepared by habit and education, and the taste for them is lost almost as easily as the practice. Thus, not only do democratic people lack aristocratic manners, but they neither understand nor desire them; having never considered them, it is as if such things never existed. This loss should not be overemphasized, but it is still regrettable.

I am aware that people have often had exceptionally high-class manners yet low-born feelings; the inner workings of courts have shown how impressive exteriors can hide the basest of intentions. But although aristocratic manners did not constitute virtue, they sometimes enhanced virtue itself. It was something rare to see a large and powerful class whose every external action appeared dictated by natural nobility of thought and feeling, by refinement and moderation of taste, and by courteous behavior. Those manners gave a pleasing but illusory charm to human nature; even when the picture was false, it could still be admired with noble satisfaction.

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

People living in democratic countries do not value the simple, rowdy, or rough amusements common among the people in aristocratic communities: such entertainments seem childish or dull to them. Nor do they find greater appeal in the intellectual and refined pleasures enjoyed by the aristocratic classes. They seek something productive and lasting in their pleasures; they want to combine real fulfillment with their enjoyment. Among aristocracies, the masses readily indulge in wild and boisterous fun, quickly forgetting their deprivation; people in democracies, by contrast, dislike being so disrupted and never lose track of themselves without regret. They favor more serious, quiet pastimes that are similar to work and don’t fully distract them from business. An American, rather than going out to dance cheerfully in public as his European counterparts do, often stays home to drink. In this way, he enjoys two pleasures: he can keep thinking about his work and he can get drunk quietly by his own fireside.

I once thought the English were the world’s most serious people, but after meeting Americans, I changed my mind. Temperament certainly plays a role, but I believe the political system is a greater influence. I think Americans’ seriousness partly grows out of their pride. In democracies, even poor people have a high sense of personal importance: they look at themselves with satisfaction and tend to think others are watching them, too. With this feeling, they watch their words and actions closely, and avoid exposing their weaknesses; to protect their dignity, they feel it necessary to maintain their gravity.

But I see another, deeper and more powerful cause for Americans’ remarkable seriousness. Under a despotism, societies may at times burst out in wild joy, but are generally gloomy because they are afraid. Under absolute monarchies, tempered by local customs, people’s spirits are often even and cheerful, since they have some freedom and security and are spared the chief worries of life. All free people are serious, as their minds are habitually occupied with difficult or risky objectives. This is especially true among free nations with democratic systems. In these societies, many people in all classes are constantly occupied with important public matters; those not engaged in government are entirely focused on building a private fortune. In such societies, a serious demeanor is no longer unique to certain individuals, but becomes national habit.

Ancient small democracies are described, in which citizens met in public adorned with roses, spending most of their time dancing and at plays. I do not believe such republics existed, any more than Plato’s; or, if these things really happened, I am convinced those democracies were made of very different elements from ours, sharing nothing but the name. Still, it would be wrong to think that, in the midst of all their labors, the people of democracies feel sorry for themselves; the opposite is true. No one is more attached to their situation. Life would be bland for them if freed from the worries that hound them, and they cling more closely to those concerns than aristocratic nations do to pleasures.

Next, I ask why these same democratic societies, though so serious, sometimes act so impulsively. Americans, who almost always maintain a composed and stiff manner, frequently let themselves be carried way past reason by sudden passions or hasty opinions, sometimes seriously committing strange blunders. This contrast shouldn’t surprise us. There is an ignorance that comes from too much information. In despotic States, people do not know what to do because nothing is told to them; in democracies, people often act blindly because nothing is left unsaid. The first are ignorant—the latter forget; the main points of every issue are lost in a swirl of details.

It is amazing what reckless language a public figure can use in free countries—and especially in democratic States—without facing consequences; whereas, under absolute monarchies, a slip of the tongue can permanently ruin a career. This is explained by what I said above. In a large crowd, much of what is said goes unheard or quickly forgotten; while in the silence of a quiet audience, even the faintest sound stands out.

In democracies, people are never stationary; countless opportunities toss them to and fro, and their lives are subject to unpredictable circumstances. They are often forced to do things they have only half-learned, to talk about topics they barely understand, and to take up work they haven’t spent years preparing for. In aristocracies, everyone pursues a single goal relentlessly; in democracies, life is more complicated—people usually pursue several goals at once, and these may be unrelated: unable to master them all, they are satisfied with superficial knowledge. 

Whether driven by need or by desire, democratic people are rarely content, for nothing they see is completely out of reach. As a result, they do everything quickly, are happy with “good enough,” and rarely look back at what they’ve done. Their curiosity is both endless and easily satisfied; they would rather learn a lot superficially than know anything deeply: they have little time or inclination for in-depth inquiry. Therefore, democratic people are serious because their social and political condition leads them into important occupations; but they act rashly, because they devote little time or thought to each pursuit. Habitual inattention must be considered the greatest flaw of the democratic character.

## Chapter XVI: Why The National Vanity Of The Americans Is More Restless And Captious Than That Of The English

All free nations are proud, but their national pride is not displayed in the same way. Americans, when dealing with outsiders, seem unable to bear the slightest criticism and are never satisfied with praise. The faintest compliment pleases them; the highest often does not satisfy them; they continually press you for praise, and if resisted, they turn to praising themselves. It’s as if, being uncertain of their own worth, they want it always put before them. Their vanity is greedy, restless, and jealous; it gives nothing while demanding everything, and will beg and quarrel at the same time. If I tell an American his country is beautiful, he replies, “Yes, there’s no equal to it in the world.” If I praise its freedom, he answers, “Freedom is wonderful, but few nations deserve it.” If I comment on the morality distinguishing the United States, he says, “I can see how a foreigner, struck by the corruption everywhere else, is impressed by the difference.” Eventually, I leave him to contemplate himself, but he returns, prompting me to repeat all I said before. It’s hard to imagine a more persistent or talkative patriotism; it wearies even those inclined to honor it. \*a

a  
\[ See Appendix U.\]

This is not so for the English. An Englishman quietly enjoys his country’s real or imagined advantages. He grants nothing to other nations, and asks nothing for his own. The criticism of outsiders does not upset him, and their praise hardly moves him; his position is one of aloof and ignorant detachment: his pride needs no feeding, it sustains itself. It’s striking that two nations descended from the same roots are so opposite in temperament and conversation.

In aristocratic countries, the powerful enjoy great privileges on which their pride relies, not on the small, everyday advantages they may have. Since these privileges are inherited, they regard them almost as part of themselves, or as a birthright. This gives them a quiet sense of superiority; they see no need to boast about what is obvious and uncontested, and such things are not novel enough to discuss. They remain unmoved in their exclusive positions, confident that everyone sees them without effort, and that none will try to dislodge them. When an aristocracy runs public life, its national pride naturally adopts this aloof, reserved, and proud form, which is mimicked by other classes in society.

On the other hand, where social positions are similar, even small privileges matter: as each person sees a million others enjoying the same or similar privileges, his pride grows restless and jealous, clinging to small things and defending them fiercely. In democracies, since social positions are unstable, people have usually only recently gained what they possess; as a result, they take extreme pleasure in showing these off, to convince others and themselves they really have them. Since what they have might be lost at any moment, they are constantly on guard, eager to prove they still possess their privileges. People in democracies love their nation just as they love themselves, transferring their personal vanity to national pride. The restless and insatiable vanity of a democratic people is rooted so much in the equality and instability of their social status that even people from the proudest nobility display similar behavior in those parts of their lives where status is temporary or uncertain. An aristocracy is always clearly distinguished from the rest of society by the extent and permanence of its advantages; but it often happens that the only differences among members of that class are small, temporary privileges, liable to be gained or lost quickly. The most powerful aristocrats, gathered in a capital or court, have been known to fiercely compete over trivial privileges that depend on fashion or a ruler’s whims. In these matters, they show the same childish jealousies as people in democracies: the same urge to grab even the smallest advantage from their equals, the same desire to show off what they have. If national pride took root among courtiers, I do not doubt it would appear in exactly the same way as it does among democratic people.

## Chapter XVII: That The Aspect Of Society In The United States Is At Once Excited And Monotonous

At first, nothing seems better suited to stimulate and intrigue than the scene in the United States. Fortunes, opinions, and laws change constantly: it seems even unchanging nature itself is being transformed by human hands. Yet, after some time, the excitement of this moving show turns monotonous; and once the spectacle is watched for a while, the viewer becomes tired of it. In aristocratic nations, each person is more or less fixed in their place; yet individuals are surprisingly dissimilar—their passions, views, habits, and tastes are fundamentally different: nothing changes, but everything differs. In democracies, on the other hand, everyone is similar and acts in roughly the same way. Though they experience many and frequent changes, the same good or bad fortune happens over and over—it’s only the names of the people that change, while the story remains the same. American society appears lively because people and things are always altering, but it is monotonous because all these changes are essentially alike.

Those living in democratic ages have many passions, but most end with, or are motivated by, a love of wealth. This is not because they are more narrow-minded, but because money’s importance is increased at these times. When everyone is independent or indifferent to others, cooperation is only achieved by paying for it: this vastly increases the uses for wealth and its value. When reverence for the past disappears, when birth, status, and profession no longer mark people as special or hardly distinguish them at all, little remains to create significant differences except money, which alone now serves to differentiate people and raise some above others. The collapse of other distinctions amplifies the importance of wealth. In aristocracies, money addresses just a few of man’s needs; in democracies, it opens every door. Thus, the drive for riches underlies almost everything Americans do: this gives their passions a kind of family resemblance, and soon makes observing them rather tiresome. The endless return of the same passion is monotonous, as are the similar ways people pursue it.

In a stable, well-ordered democracy like the United States, where wealth can’t be gained by war, public office, or political seizure, the love of riches channels people into business and manufacturing. These occupations may sometimes cause turmoil and crises, but they cannot succeed without solid routines and repeated small, identical tasks. The stronger the passion, the more regular the habits, the more uniform the actions. You could say it’s the force of their desires which makes Americans so methodical; these desires disturb their minds, but organize their lives.

What I note about America may apply to almost everyone today. Variety is vanishing from the human race; the same behavior, thought, and feeling are found everywhere. This happens not only because nations imitate and influence each other more closely, but because, as people give up the unique traditions of class, occupation, or family, they draw closer to the basic human condition, which is universal. In this way, they become more alike, even without deliberately copying. Like travelers scattered through a forest, all keeping their eyes on a single goal and making their way towards it, they wind up gathering in the same place—even if they didn’t seek one another out or even know each other; they are surprised, at last, to find themselves all together. All nations turning their gaze—not to particular individuals, but to humanity as a whole—are moving steadily towards a similar society, like those travelers converging on the center of the woods.

## Chapter XVIII: Of Honor In The United States And In Democratic Communities

It seems that people use two very distinct standards when judging the actions of others: sometimes they rely on simple ideas of right and wrong that are found everywhere, and other times they rely on very specific ideas unique to a certain era or country. These two standards often differ and may even conflict, but they never completely replace or cancel each other out. At the height of its influence, honor guides people's actions more than it shapes their beliefs. Even while people obey it without question, they still sense—however faintly—the existence of a broader, more ancient, and more sacred law that they don’t always follow but never deny. There have been actions considered both virtuous and dishonorable at the same time, such as refusing to fight a duel.

a  
\[ The word “honor” is not always used in the same sense in French or English. 1. It first means the dignity, glory, or respect that a man receives from others; in this sense, a man is said to acquire honor. 2. Honor also refers to the collection of rules that bring about this dignity, glory, or respect. Thus, we say that a man has always strictly followed the laws of honor; or that a man has violated his honor. In this chapter, the word is always used in the latter sense.\]

I believe these peculiarities can be explained by more than just the quirks of individuals and nations, which was the usual explanation. Humanity shares broad, lasting needs that have produced moral laws, the breach of which has always and everywhere brought shame. To break them was to “do wrong”—“to do right” was to keep them. Within the great human association, smaller groups have formed called nations, and within these, further divisions called classes or castes. Each of these forms, as it were, its own variety of humanity: while not essentially different from everyone else, it stands somewhat apart and develops needs unique to itself. The various ways of judging actions, and the values placed on them in different societies, come from these particular needs. For example, while it is generally in the interest of humanity to prevent murder, it might serve the temporary interests of a people or a class to excuse or even praise homicide.

Honor is simply the particular rule, shaped by a unique social situation, by which people or classes assign praise or blame. Abstract ideas lead to nothing, so I will quickly use facts and examples to make my point clear.

I have chosen the most extraordinary form of honor we know—the aristocratic honor that grew from feudal society. I will explain it using the earlier principles, and illustrate those principles through this example. I am not concerned here with how or why the Middle Ages developed an aristocracy that was so separated from the rest of society, or how its power was established. I take its existence as given, and aim to explain its unusual ways of judging most human actions. The first thing to notice is that, in feudal times, actions were often praised or condemned not for what they were, but for who performed them or who they affected—a view foreign to common human conscience. Some actions that were unremarkable for a commoner were shameful for a noble. Some rules changed entirely depending on whether the victim was of noble rank. When these opinions began, the nobility formed a distinct group above the people it ruled from an inaccessible position. To keep this power, the aristocracy needed not only political privileges but also a unique moral code. Whether a certain virtue or vice “belonged” to nobles or to commoners, or whether some actions were allowed when directed at a serf but forbidden against a noble, was often arbitrary—but the principle of attaching honor or shame to one's actions based on social rank flowed directly from the structure of aristocratic society. This was true of all countries with aristocracies; so long as any of that principle remains, its effects persist. For example, seducing a woman of color barely affects an American’s reputation—marrying her, however, is considered disgraceful.

Sometimes feudal honor demanded revenge and saw the forgiveness of insults as shameful; in other cases, it required men to control or forget their own feelings. It did not make humanity or kindness its rule, but praised generosity; it valued liberality more than benevolence, allowed wealth gained through gambling or war but not through labor, preferred grand crimes to modest earnings; greed was less distasteful than miserliness, and while violence was often excused, cunning and betrayal were always considered contemptible. These oddities didn’t stem only from personal whims. A class that has managed to elevate itself above all others and continually strives to stay there must especially value those virtues most associated with dignity and grandeur—the virtues most compatible with pride and love of power. Such a class might even reverse ordinary morality to place those virtues first, and even bold and flamboyant vices could come to be valued more than humble, quiet virtues. The mere existence of a class like this makes such things unavoidable.

The nobility of the Middle Ages placed military courage foremost, sometimes above everything else. This too can be explained by their social realities. Feudal aristocracy existed by and for war; power was gained and held by arms, so military bravery was needed most and therefore held up above all other virtues. Anything that demonstrated it, even at the cost of reason or humanity, was approved and often required by the customs of the time. The essential principle was fixed; smaller details could be attributed to personal whim. That a light slap in the face was the greatest insult, demanding satisfaction in a duel, was an arbitrary convention; but that a noble could not accept an insult without fighting was a direct result of feudal society’s needs.

In this sense, it is not wrong to say that codes of honor can be arbitrary; but the whims of honor always stayed under certain necessary limits. The rules called honor by our ancestors were, in my view, not arbitrary at all; I could easily connect even their strangest or wildest requirements to a few constant needs inherent in feudal society.

If I look at feudal honor in politics, its rules are just as explainable. In the Middle Ages, society and government did not act directly on people’s lives—the authority of the nation was barely visible; every man owed obedience to some individual, and it was through this man that he was linked to the rest. Loyalty to one's lord was the backbone of feudal society; to destroy that bond was to unleash anarchy. Every member of the aristocracy had frequent reminders of this, since each was both a lord and a vassal, commanding and obeying at once. So, to stay loyal to one’s lord, to sacrifice oneself for the lord if necessary, to share his fate and support his ventures, was the first rule feudal honor dictated in politics. Betrayal by a vassal earned unique and severe condemnation, and “felony”—the name for this betrayal—became infamous.

In contrast, the strong patriotic feeling of ancient societies—the love of one's country—was almost entirely missing in the Middle Ages; even the word “patrie” was slow to appear in the language. \*b Feudal customs hid the nation from sight and made love for it less necessary. Loyalty for people replaced loyalty for country. Feudal honor did not require patriotism. Not that love of country did not exist, but it was a faint instinct, which only grew stronger as aristocracies faded and national government took their place. This is clear in how Europeans have judged historical figures across the centuries. What most disgraced the Constable de Bourbon in his time was that he fought against his king; what we now blame him for is fighting against his country. We condemn him as strongly as our ancestors, but for different reasons.

b  
\[ Even the term “patrie” was not used by French writers until the sixteenth century.\]

I have chosen feudal honor to illustrate my argument because it is better known to us than honor from other eras—but any other society could have served the same purpose. Even though we know less about the Romans, it’s still clear that they too had unique ideas about glory and shame, different from general moral rules. Many actions were judged differently depending on whether they affected a Roman or a foreigner, a freeman or a slave; certain vices were publicized, and some virtues praised above all. “In that age,” says Plutarch in the life of Coriolanus, “martial prowess was more honored and prized in Rome than all the other virtues, insomuch that it was called virtus, the name of virtue itself, by applying the name of the kind to this particular species; so that virtue in Latin was as much as to say valor.” Who could fail to see the particular need motivating a society built for conquest?

Any nation provides such examples; as I said, whenever people form a distinct group, a notion of honor appears: a set of opinions unique to them about what is praiseworthy or shameful. These rules always arise from the habits and interests particular to the group. This is true, to a degree, even in democratic societies, as can be seen in America. \*c Some traces of old European aristocratic honor remain in American beliefs, but there are few, they have little impact, and are more like the remnants of a religion in which belief has faded but a few temples stand. At the same time, new ideas have developed—what could now be called American honor. I’ve already explained how Americans are driven towards commerce and industry by their origins, social status, political institutions, and the nature of their land. Their current situation is that of a nearly pure commercial and manufacturing society, in a vast and mostly undeveloped land that they aim to exploit for profit. This is what most sets Americans apart in our time. Thus, all those steady virtues that make society productive and foster business are especially honored, and failing to display them brings public contempt. On the other hand, the more restless virtues—those that dazzle but often disrupt society—rank lower: ignoring them is tolerated, while displaying them too much could even be frowned upon.

c  
\[ I speak here of Americans living in States without slavery; only they offer a full example of democratic society.\]

Americans make an equally arbitrary distinction among vices. Some habits are blamed by everyone, everywhere, but happen to suit America’s special, temporary needs—those habits may be excused or even encouraged. Love of wealth, for instance, and related desires, fits this description. To clear, cultivate, and develop their huge, empty continent, Americans need constant motivation, which in this case is the pursuit of wealth; such passion is not frowned upon but celebrated—as long as it doesn’t threaten public security. What our medieval ancestors condemned as low greed, Americans today prize as noble ambition, and what was once revered martial spirit is now seen as senseless, even barbaric. In the United States, fortunes are lost and made again with ease, the country is vast, and the resources seem limitless. The nation has the appetite of a growing child—no matter their efforts, they are always surrounded by more than they can use. Individual bankruptcies are soon repaired; it is not the loss of a few, but the inactivity of the many that would be disastrous. Bold enterprise is the main driver of progress, national strength, and greatness. Business there is like a giant lottery, where a few individuals lose, but the country gains overall; the people therefore honor risk-taking in commerce. Since bold speculation puts both the entrepreneur’s fortune and others’ at risk, those who admire commercial daring must not stigmatize those who take such risks. This explains the remarkable tolerance shown to bankrupts in the United States; bankruptcy does not stain one’s honor there. In this, Americans differ not just from Europeans but from all present-day commercial nations—they are unique in their situation and needs.

In America, moral laxity and actions that threaten marriage or family are treated with useverely—more so than in much of the world. At first glance this seems at odds with the indulgence shown on other points, and it is surprising to find so strict and so relaxed a society at the same time. But these things are less inconsistent than they appear. Public opinion there gently restrains the love of wealth, which drives national prosperity, but strongly condemns any looseness of morals that distracts from business or disrupts the internal order of home life that is so vital to success. To earn respect in America, people must lead orderly lives—it is fair to say they make honor out of living chastely.

In one area, American honor matches that of Europe: it puts courage above all other virtues, as one of life’s highest moral necessities. But the idea of courage itself is different. In the United States, military bravery means little; the most admired courage is that which leads someone to brave the dangers of the sea for a quicker voyage, to endure the hardships and loneliness of the wilderness without complaint, or to lose a hard-earned fortune and immediately start again. This kind of courage is especially necessary for maintaining and growing American society, and is given particular respect; lacking it brings certain disgrace.

Another illustrative point: in a democratic society like the United States, where wealth is modest and uncertain, everyone works, and work leads to everything—this has reversed the sense of honor so that it now opposes idleness. I have met young Americans with wealth and no inclination for toil, forced by society to take up a profession. Their means allowed them to be idle, but public opinion would not allow it. In European countries, where aristocracy still struggles for survival, I have often seen people remain idle out of pride, enduring boredom and even hardship rather than take up work. These opposing obligations are both dictated by concepts of honor—even if their forms are quite different.

What our ancestors called “honor” absolutely was really only one of its forms—they gave a general name to what was really only a kind. Honor exists in democratic times as well as aristocratic ages, but it’s easy to see that it takes a different shape in democracies. Not only are its commands different, but, as we shall soon see, they are fewer and less precise, and they are followed with less firmness. The position of a class is always more unique than that of a whole people. Nowhere is there a situation as unusual as a small community always made up of the same families—like the Middle Age aristocracy—focused on keeping education, wealth, and power exclusively within their group. The more unique a group’s position, the more needs it has, and the more detailed its code of honor becomes. So, among peoples not divided into castes, the rules of honor are always fewer. In nations where there are barely any distinct social classes, the concept of honor will be limited to just a few principles that are close to the moral standards shared by humanity. Thus, codes of honor will be less peculiar and more limited in democracies than in aristocracies. They will also be harder to define—since the marks of honor are fewer and less obvious, it will be harder to identify them. There are other reasons, too. In Middle Age aristocracies, one generation followed another without change, and families were like unchanging institutions, with ideas hardly more mutable than status. Everyone constantly saw the same examples from the same point of view, gradually noticing the smallest details, and eventually opinions about honor became very clear and precise. Not only did people in feudal society have extraordinary opinions on honor, but each of those opinions was sharply defined in their minds.

This can never be the case in America, where people are always on the move, and society is transformed daily—its opinions change along with its needs. In such a country, people only glimpse the rules of honor, rarely focusing on them long enough to define them.

Even in a society that never changed, it would still be hard to fix the exact meaning of honor. In the Middle Ages, every class had its own code of honor, shared only by a minority. This made it possible to give these codes a concrete, precise form—especially because everyone under them shared the same life and could easily agree on rules designed only for them. Thus, the code of honor could become a detailed, complete system in which every eventuality was covered and a consistent standard could be applied to behavior. In a democracy like America, where the whole society is more or less undivided, made up of similar but not identical elements, it is impossible to settle in advance what the code of honor should be. Some national needs create shared opinions on certain points of honor, but these ideas don’t appear all at once, in the same way, or with the same strength. The law of honor exists, but it has no clear source to declare it.

The situation is even more confused in a democracy like France, where the old classes, now brought together but not yet fused, keep dragging contrasting and often clashing notions of honor into each other’s circles. Everyone now abandons some parts of their inherited beliefs and keeps others, so that, amid all these inconsistencies, no common rule can be created, and it is nearly impossible to predict what will be respected or condemned. These are troubled times, but they do not last long.

Because honor in democracies is so ill defined, its influence is necessarily weaker; it is difficult to enforce a law that is not clearly known. Public opinion, the natural and final judge of the laws of honor, cannot clearly see which way to lean, so it passes only uncertain judgment. Sometimes public opinion contradicts itself; more often, it does nothing and lets actions slide.

Other causes combine to weaken honor in democracies. In aristocracies, honor is always shared by a small, exclusive group, separated from others. They easily confuse honor with everything that singles out their status; it appears to them as the symbol of their rank. They enforce their ideas of honor with great personal passion, and (so to speak) feel a deep attachment to its rules. This is plain in the old legal books about trial by battle. Nobles settled disputes with lance and sword, while commoners used only sticks “inasmuch as,” as the old books put it, “villains have no honor.” This did not mean, as we might think today, that commoners were contemptible, but simply that their actions were judged by different standards from those applied to the aristocracy.

It is curious that where honor is most powerful, its rules are usually most strange; in fact, the farther removed from ordinary reason, the more strictly they are followed. This has led some to think that honor grows stronger by being extreme. Actually, both the force and the oddity of honor arise from the same source, but do not cause each other. Honor becomes more fantastical as it reflects more exclusive needs, and as those needs are felt by fewer people; and this exclusivity is what gives honor its force. So, honor is not strong because it is odd; it is odd and strong for the same reasons.

Additionally, among aristocracies, each class is distinct, but all are stable: everyone holds a fixed place and lives among others equally bound. No man is too low to escape public view, and none can avoid judgment by hiding in obscurity. In democratic states, on the other hand, society is a restless crowd in constant motion; public opinion cannot get a hold on individuals, who are always vanishing and reappearing somewhere else. Thus, the rules of honor are weaker, because honor needs public observation to work—unlike pure virtue, which is satisfied with its own private approval.

If the reader has followed my argument, they will see a close and necessary connection between social inequality and what is here called honor—a relationship, I think, not previously made clear. I will try one more comparison. Suppose a nation sets itself apart from all others; alongside basic human needs, it will develop particular needs and interests. Unique codes of praise and blame will arise—what its members will call “honor.” Now suppose a caste forms within that society, and, in turn, stands apart from everyone else, with its own peculiar interests and needs. This caste’s honor, a mix of the nation’s views and its own sharper ones, will be as remote as possible from the basic views shared by humanity.

Having taken this reasoning to its furthest point, let me return. Once ranks are dissolved and privileges ended, when a nation’s people are equal and similar once more, their interests and needs are the same, and all the special codes of honor developed by each class disappear. Honor then reflects only the needs unique to the whole nation, and shows their character to the world. Finally, if we imagine all the world’s peoples blended into one, with the same interests and needs, no special values would be attached to anyone’s actions; all would be judged in the same way by everyone. The basic, universal sense of right and wrong would be the only measure, and praise or blame would simply follow conscience. In short, to sum it up: human differences gave rise to the idea of honor; as these differences fade, so does honor, until it would finally vanish altogether.

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

The first thing that strikes a traveler in the United States is the countless number of people who strive to escape their original circumstances; the second is the rarity of high ambition amidst the widespread, energetic restlessness of society. No American lacks the desire to advance, yet few seem to entertain truly grand hopes or pursue lofty goals. Everyone is always seeking property, power, and reputation—but few aim for these things on a grand scale. This is all the more remarkable since nothing in American manners or laws appears to restrict desire or stop its impulses from spreading in any direction. It seems hard to attribute this unusual situation purely to equality of social conditions; for just when social equality was established in France, ambition surged without bounds. Nonetheless, I think the main cause for this phenomenon lies in the social conditions and democratic habits of the Americans.

All revolutions widen men’s ambitions: this is especially true of those revolutions that overthrow an aristocracy. When the old barriers that kept the masses from fame and power suddenly fall, a rapid and universal rise occurs toward the long-coveted, now attainable heights. In this initial burst of triumph, nothing seems impossible: not only are people's desires boundless, but the means of satisfying them seem nearly limitless as well. Amid the broad and sudden renewal of laws and customs, in the swirling confusion of men and institutions, members of the community rise and fall rapidly, and power shifts hands so quickly that no one despairs of catching it in time. Moreover, a people who destroy an aristocracy have lived under its laws; they have seen its splendor and unconsciously absorbed its attitudes and ideas. So, at the very moment the aristocracy is gone, its spirit still lingers in society, its habits remain long after its fall. Thus, ambition is always exceedingly great as long as a democratic revolution lasts, and continues for some time after the revolution ends. Memories of the extraordinary events men have witnessed are not erased in a day. The passions the revolution woke do not disappear when it's over. A sense of instability follows even after order returns: a sense that success is easy survives the strange turns of fate that inspired it; desires remain immense, though the means to satisfy them shrink every day. The appetite for great fortunes persists, even though few fortunes are great; and everywhere are the scars of wild and frustrated ambition burning secretly and pointlessly in men’s hearts.

Eventually, the last signs of struggle fade away; the remnants of aristocracy vanish completely; the great events marking its downfall are forgotten; peace replaces war, and order regains control in the newly stable society; desires again match the means for fulfilling them; men’s needs, opinions, and feelings align once more; the communal level is fixed and democratic society established. A democratic nation that has reached this steady, regular state presents a very different picture from the previous one; and we may easily conclude that, while ambition grows enormous as society moves toward equality, it diminishes once full equality is reached. As wealth spreads and knowledge is shared, no one is truly uneducated or powerless; caste privileges and handicaps are gone, and since the ties that held men in place are broken, the notion of advancement occurs to all, the desire to rise stirs in every heart, and everyone wants to climb the social ladder: ambition is universal.

But if equality of conditions supplies every member of society with some resources, it also prevents any from possessing great resources, which automatically limits their desires within relatively narrow bounds. Thus, in democratic nations, ambition is intense and ongoing, but rarely aspires to grand things; life is usually spent eagerly pursuing modest goals that are within reach. What especially prevents people in democracies from aspiring to lofty ambitions is not their moderate wealth, but the intensity of effort required each day to improve their lot. They direct all their energy toward small gains, a focus that inevitably limits their judgment and restricts their capacity. They could be much poorer and yet more substantial. The small group of rich citizens within a democracy are not exceptions. A man who slowly climbs to wealth and power acquires during this lengthy labor habits of caution and restraint that he can't easily shake off. A man can expand his house, but not his mind, in the same way. The same is true of his sons; though born to prominence, their parents came from humble origins; they grow up surrounded by attitudes and views they can’t easily leave behind, and it’s likely they inherit their father’s tendencies as well as his wealth. By contrast, the poorest member of a powerful aristocracy may possess immense ambition, because his family’s longstanding beliefs and the spirit of his class buoy him above his present state for a while. Another obstacle to lofty ambition in democracies is the long wait before anyone can hope to reach such heights. “It is a great advantage,” says Pascal, “to be a man of quality, since it brings one man as forward at eighteen or twenty as another man would be at fifty, which is a clear gain of thirty years.” Those thirty years are usually missing for the ambitious in democracies. The principle of equality, which gives everyone access to everything, also stops anyone from rising too quickly.

In a democracy, just as elsewhere, the number of great fortunes is limited. As the paths to success are open to all, advancement for all is naturally slower. Since the candidates are more or less alike, and it’s hard to make choices without violating equality—the highest law in democracies—the instinct is to make everyone progress at the same rate and submit to the same tests. Thus, as men become more alike, and as equality is more quietly and deeply woven into the country's institutions and customs, the rules of advancement get more rigid, advancement itself slows, and reaching the top quickly is harder. Out of dislike for privilege and the confusion of choosing, everyone, whatever their abilities, must undergo the same trials. Everyone goes through numerous petty preliminaries, wasting their youth and stifling their ambition, so that they lose hope of ever reaching what they desire; and by the time they are prepared for extraordinary things, the taste for such things has left them.

In China, where equality is both deep and ancient, no one moves from one public post to another without passing a test. Such tests happen at every stage of their career; the idea is so ingrained that I remember reading a Chinese novel in which the hero, after endless trials, finally wins over his beloved by passing his exams. High ambition suffocates in such an atmosphere.

What I say about politics applies elsewhere: equality has the same effects everywhere. Where the law doesn’t regulate and slow men’s advancement, competition accomplishes the same end. In a well-established democracy, great and rapid success is rare—it’s the exception. The rarity of such events is what makes people forget how seldom they occur. People in democracies eventually realize these facts; they understand that the laws of their land seem to open an infinite field to them, but that no one can cross it quickly. Instead, between them and their goal, they see a mass of minor obstacles that must be slowly, one by one, overcome: this prospect tires and discourages their ambition. So, they abandon such uncertain and distant hopes and look for easier, smaller pleasures close at hand. Their horizon is not limited by law, but narrowed by themselves.

I have noted that high ambitions are rarer in democracies than under aristocracies; I will add that when, despite all obstacles, ambitious men do arise, they are of a different kind. Ambition in an aristocracy can reach far, but its boundaries are fixed. In democracies, ambition may operate in a smaller field, but once it escapes these narrow confines, it is almost impossible to set any limit to it. People are individually weak, live apart, and are always in motion—precedent is little respected, laws are short-lived, resistance to new things is weak, and society's structure is never fully upright or solid. So when an ambitious person gains power, there is nothing he may not dare; and if he loses power, he might even seek to overthrow the state to return to office. This gives great political ambition in democracies a revolutionary quality rarely seen in aristocracies. Generally, democratic societies will show many modest and reasonable ambitions, with the occasional emergence of uncontrolled, exceptional desires—but you won't find ambition plotted on a vast scale.

I have shown elsewhere how equality subtly encourages a focus on physical pleasures and an exclusive preoccupation with the present; these traits merge with ambition and shape it. I believe that ambitious men in democracies are less concerned with the interests and judgment of future generations than any others; only the present moment attracts and occupies them. They are more inclined to finish many projects quickly than to establish lasting monuments to their achievements; they care more for immediate success than enduring fame. What they most want from others is obedience—what they most crave is power. Almost always, their manners fall below the dignity of their status; as a result, they often bring coarse or trivial tastes to their high office, and seem to have reached supreme power only to indulge their base or petty pleasures.

In our era, I think it very important to channel, adjust, and shape ambition, but extremely dangerous to try to weaken or repress it too much. We should try to establish some firm boundaries that it must not cross; but within those limits, it should be allowed to flourish. Honestly, I fear less from the boldness of desires than from their mediocrity in democratic society. What seems most dangerous to me is that, amid the endless distractions of private life, ambition might lose both its intensity and grandeur—that human passions might subside, yet also grow shallow, causing society to move forward with increasing calm and decreasing aspiration. I therefore think modern leaders would make a mistake by trying to lull society into too bland or contented a happiness; it is better to present it from time to time with challenges and dangers, to awaken ambition and offer it an arena for growth. Moralist writers always complain that pride is the ruling vice of today. This is true in one sense, for indeed no one thinks himself inferior to his neighbor, or willingly obeys his superior. Yet it is false in another sense; for the same man who can't stand to be subordinated or considered equal also thinks so little of himself that he believes he is fit only for petty pleasures. He easily accepts low aims, and does not dare to attempt grand undertakings he hardly even dreams of. So, instead of urging humility on our generation, I would advise efforts to broaden their sense of self and humanity. Humility is poor medicine for them; in my view, they most need pride. I would gladly trade several minor virtues of our time for this single vice.

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

In the United States, as soon as a man gains a little education and financial resources, he either tries to become rich through trade or industry, or buys land in the wilderness and becomes a pioneer. All he wants from the state is to be left alone in his work, and to have his earnings protected. Among most European nations, when a man discovers his strength and begins to want more, his first thought is to obtain a government position. These different effects, springing from the same cause, deserve our notice.

When public jobs are few, poorly paid, and uncertain, while businesses abound and are profitable, then the ambitions unleashed by equality turn toward business, not bureaucracy. But if, while society becomes more equal, the people’s education remains incomplete, or their spirit timid—if trade and industry, stunted in their growth, offer only slow and difficult paths to wealth—the various members of society, frustrated in improving their own condition, flock to the government and demand its help. To address their own needs at public expense seems the easiest, most straightforward, and possibly only way to rise above an unsatisfying position; office-seeking becomes the most widespread of all vocations. This is especially the case in great centralized monarchies, where countless paid positions exist and are fairly stable, so that no one despairs of securing a job and enjoying it as undisturbed as inherited property.

I won’t point out that the universal, excessive desire for office is a major social evil: that it kills independence in the citizen, and spreads a corrupt and servile spirit through society; that it chokes out sturdier virtues; nor will I bother to show that this kind of pursuit only creates useless activity, agitating the nation without increasing its wealth: all these things are obvious. But I will say that a government that feeds this tendency risks its own peace and even its existence. I realize that in our era, as people’s traditional respect for authority fades, those in power may think it essential to win everyone by appealing to self-interest, and to keep men order and quiet by using their own passions; but this can’t work for long, and what may seem a temporary strength will certainly prove a source of trouble and weakness in the end.

In democracies as elsewhere, the number of public jobs is ultimately limited; but in democracies, the number of applicants is limitless. It increases steadily and inevitably as society becomes more equal, and only stops at the limit of the population. So, when public jobs become the only outlet for ambition, government inevitably faces continuous opposition; for it is asked to satisfy unlimited desires with limited means. Above all, the most difficult people to control and pacify are persistent job-seekers. No matter what rulers do, such a people will never be satisfied; and there is always a risk they will eventually overthrow the nation’s constitution and change the state, just to clear out official posts for themselves. The rulers of our era who try to claim for themselves all the new ambitions stirred by equality, and to satisfy them, will, I believe, regret it. They may one day see that they put their own power in jeopardy by making it so essential, and that a safer, wiser course would have been to show their people how to provide for themselves. \*a

a
\[ Recent experience shows that place-hunting is just as intense in the United States as in any European country. Americans themselves see it as one of the major ills of their social condition, and it strongly affects their political institutions. But the American who seeks public office is after not just a means of living, but the prestige that office brings. With no real aristocracy, the public service creates a counterfeit one, pursued with just as much ambition as the distinctions of rank in aristocratic societies.—Translator’s Note.\]

## Chapter XXI: Why Great Revolutions Will Become More Rare

A people that has lived for centuries under a system of castes and classes can only reach a democratic society by going through a long series of critical transformations, carried out through violent efforts and many ups and downs. During this process, property, opinions, and power are quickly passed from one group to another. Even after the major revolution is complete, the habits formed during that period may linger, and deep unrest follows. Because this all happens at a time when social conditions are becoming more equal, it’s often assumed there is some hidden connection between equality itself and revolution, as if one cannot exist without creating the other.

On this point, logic may appear to reach the same conclusion as experience. In a society where most people are nearly equal, there is no visible bond linking them or keeping them in their place. No one has a permanent right or power to command, and no one is bound by their status to obey. Instead, each person, with some education and resources, can choose his own path apart from the rest. The same forces that make people independent also drive them to restless desires and keep pushing them forward. So, it seems natural that in a democracy, people, things, and opinions should constantly be changing, and that these ages are ones of rapid and endless transformation.

But is this really true? Does equality of social conditions always and necessarily lead people to revolution? Is there something in such societies that constantly disturbs the calm, causing citizens to constantly change their laws, principles, and manners? I do not think so; and as the issue is important, I ask the reader’s careful attention. Almost every revolution that’s changed the world has aimed to secure or to destroy social inequality. If you take away the secondary causes of the great upheavals in history, you almost always find the principle of inequality at their root. Either the poor have tried to take from the rich, or the rich have tried to subjugate the poor. If there can ever be a society where each person has something to protect, but little to take from others, much will be done for peace. I know that in any large democracy, some will be very poor and others quite wealthy; but the poor, instead of being the vast majority (as in aristocracies), are relatively few, and the laws do not bind them together in inescapable, hereditary poverty. The rich, too, are scarce and powerless; they have no privileges drawing public attention. Even their wealth is no longer tied to the land and is almost intangible, almost invisible. There is no longer a permanent class of poor or of rich; the rich rise daily from the masses and sink back into them. They do not form a distinct class easily targeted or robbed, and since they are connected to the rest of their fellow citizens by countless subtle ties, attacking them would injure everyone. Between the two extremes is a vast number of people who, without being truly rich or poor, have enough property to want to keep order, but not so much as to create envy. Such people are the natural enemies of violent upheavals: their stability keeps everyone above and below them steady and maintains social balance. Not that these people are satisfied with what they have, or are naturally horrified by a revolution if they might profit without suffering from it; on the contrary, they passionately want to get richer, but they don’t know whom they could take riches from. The same society that stirs up desire also restrains those desires within limits: it gives people more freedom to change but less reason to want dramatic change.

Not only are people in democracies not naturally inclined toward revolution, they are actually afraid of it. All revolutions to some degree threaten property, and in democratic countries, most people own some property. Not only do they possess property, but they greatly value it. If you consider all the different classes in society, it becomes clear that property-related passions are strongest and most persistent among the middle class. The poor often care little for what they have, feeling the lack of what they don’t have more than the enjoyment of what little they own. The rich have other interests besides wealth, and sometimes, after a long period of luxury, become numb to wealth’s pleasures. But those who have modest means, far from both riches and poverty, value their property highly. Because they’re almost within reach of poverty, they see hardship close by and fear it. All that separates them from poverty is a thin fortune, which draws both their hopes and fears. Their constant care for their property increases their attachment to it, and their continuous effort to grow it only ties them more. The idea of losing any of it is unbearable, and losing it all is their worst nightmare. These anxious and diligent small-property owners are the very group that equality of conditions keeps growing. So, in democratic societies, most people don’t see clearly what they would gain from a revolution, but can think of countless ways they might lose from one.

Earlier, I have shown that equality of conditions naturally pushes people toward trade and industry, increasing and spreading the ownership of real property, and inspiring everyone with a keen, constant desire to improve their lives. Nothing could be more contrary to revolutionary passions. A revolution might ultimately help commerce and manufacturing, but its first effect is nearly always to ruin manufacturers and merchants, since it suddenly changes consumption patterns and disrupts the balance between supply and demand. Nothing is more unlike revolutionary manners than commercial manners. Commerce dislikes violent emotions, prefers compromise, avoids conflict, is patient, subtle, adaptable, and resorts to extremes only when absolutely necessary. Commerce makes people independent, gives them a strong sense of their own importance, encourages them to handle their own business, and teaches them to do it well; it prepares people for freedom, but protects them against revolution. In a revolution, owners of personal property have more to fear than any, because their property is both easy to seize and may entirely disappear without warning—something less likely with real estate, whose owners may lose revenue but hope to keep their land. For this reason, owners of personal property are far more alarmed at hints of revolution than landowners. Thus, as personal property spreads and the number of people owning it grows, nations become less likely to have revolutions. Moreover, regardless of occupation or property type, one thing is common: no one is ever fully satisfied with their current fortune—all are constantly pursuing improvement. Take anyone at any point in life and you’ll find him working on some new plan to grow his wealth. Speak to him about broad public issues, and he is absorbed in his private concerns, preferring to postpone political excitement. This not only stops people from making revolutions, but also from wanting them. Strong political passions rarely take hold of those entirely absorbed in the pursuit of their own well-being. The zeal they show in little things calms their enthusiasm for great risks.

Now and then, ambitious men do appear in democracies, with such boundless aspirations that they cannot accept ordinary paths. Such people embrace revolutions and even welcome them; but it is hard for them to bring about change without unusual outside help. No one succeeds by fighting the spirit of their era and country; no matter how strong, it is hard for anyone to make their peers share feelings and opinions opposed to their society’s deepest biases.

It is mistaken to think that, once equality of conditions is the unchallenged norm and has shaped a nation’s culture, people will let themselves be dragged into danger by a reckless leader or bold innovator. They do not resist him energetically, or by clever schemes, or even by a planned resistance. They don’t fight him hard; sometimes they even cheer him on—but they don’t follow him. His energy is quietly met with their inertia; his revolutionary drive with their conservative interests; their simple habits balance his passionate ambitions; their common sense tempers his flights of genius; his poetry is answered with their prose. With huge effort, he stirs them for a moment, but they quickly slip away and settle back under their own weight. He tries to rouse the indifferent masses, but in the end, finds himself powerless—not because he was beaten, but because he is alone.

I do not claim that people in democracies are naturally stationary; in fact, a constant stir fills these societies, and rest is unknown. But I believe that people’s activity stays within limits they rarely cross. They are always tweaking, changing, or restoring lesser matters, but take pains to avoid touching what is fundamental. They love change, but fear revolution. Although Americans are always amending or repealing laws, they lack revolutionary fervor. This is plain from how quickly they check themselves when public excitement becomes dangerous. At the very moment emotions seem highest, they fear revolution as the greatest calamity and silently resolve to make real sacrifices to avoid it. Nowhere in the world is the love of property more energetic and anxious than in America; nowhere does the majority so firmly resist ideas that threaten property rights. I’ve often noticed that theories of a revolutionary nature—those which require sudden and complete changes in property or status—are less welcomed in America than in the major monarchies of Europe. If a few preach them, most people reject them instinctively. I would not hesitate to say that most maxims called “democratic” in France would be condemned by the democracy of the United States. This is easily understood: in America, people have the opinions and passions of democracy, in Europe we still have the opinions and passions of revolution. If America ever has a major revolution, it will be due to the presence of the black race in the United States—that is, it will come not from equality, but from inequality, of conditions.

When social conditions are equal, every man tends to live alone, focused on himself and forgetful of the public. If the leaders of democratic nations fail to correct this harmful tendency, or, worse, encourage it just to distract people from politics and stave off revolution, they may cause exactly what they hope to avoid—until one day, the wild ambitions of a few, aided by the selfishness or cowardice of the many, force society through great upheavals. In democracies, only a minority usually wants revolutions; but still, a minority can cause them. I’m not saying democratic nations are immune to revolutions; I am only saying their social structure discourages them. A democratic people on its own won’t willingly take great risks; they are only drawn unwittingly into revolutions—they may experience them, but they don’t make them; and as they gain more education and experience, they won’t let them be made. Of course, public institutions can push tendencies from the social structure one way or another. So, I’m not claiming that such a society is safe from revolutions just because conditions are equal; but I do believe that, whatever institutions exist, great revolutions will always be far less frequent and less violent than suggested, and I can easily imagine a political structure which, combined with equality, would make society more stable than it has ever been in the West.

What I have observed about events also partially applies to opinions. Two things are striking in the United States—the constant change in day-to-day life, and the remarkable stability of certain core principles. People are always in motion, but the nation’s mind seems almost unmoved. Once an idea takes hold and takes root, it appears nothing can uproot it. In the U.S., major religious, philosophical, moral, and even political opinions change little, or only shift through subtle and often invisible processes. Even strong prejudices fade away only slowly despite constant social friction. Some claim it is in the nature of democracies to be always changing beliefs and attitudes. That may be true of small ancient democracies, where the population could be gathered together and moved at will by an orator. But I did not see that among the great American democracy. What struck me there was how hard it is to shake the majority from an established opinion or to turn it from a chosen leader. Neither speech nor writing can do it; only repeated experience works. This may seem surprising, but a closer look explains it. I do not think it as easy as people think to uproot a democratic people’s prejudices, change their beliefs, or replace well-established principles with new ones—in short, to bring about major and frequent changes in the public’s mind. The mind in democracy is not resting—it is constantly seeking new consequences of established principles, varying them in infinite ways instead of searching for entirely new foundations. Its motion is like rapid spinning, not straightforward leaps. It circles out by small, ceaseless movements, but does not quickly shift positions.

People who are equal in rights, education, and wealth—in other words, in social status—naturally share similar needs, habits, and preferences. Seeing things similarly, their minds lean toward similar conclusions. So even if each person sometimes deviates or holds unique opinions, collectively they end up sharing many beliefs by habit. The more I reflect on equality’s effect on the mind, the more convinced I am that the intellectual anarchy we see now is not the natural state of democracy. Rather, it is a temporary effect belonging to its youth, a period of transition when old ties are gone but people are still amazingly diverse in origins, education, and customs, retaining very different tastes and beliefs. As equality progresses, leading opinions become alike proportionally. This, I believe, is the rule—everything else is secondary and fleeting.

I think it will be rare for someone in a democratic society to suddenly develop beliefs very different from those of his peers; and should such an innovator appear, he would struggle to find an audience—let alone believers. When people’s conditions are nearly equal, they don’t easily decide to trust another citizen as a guide. Living closely together, having learned the same things, and leading similar lives, they’re not disposed to follow anyone blindly. People rarely take advice from someone just like themselves. Not only is respect for special individual knowledge weakened in democracies, as I’ve said elsewhere, but the idea of intellectual superiority itself is soon overshadowed. As people grow more similar, the doctrine of intellectual equality seeps in; it gets harder for any innovator to win public influence. This means sudden intellectual revolutions become rare. History shows that great, rapid changes in thought come more from the authority of a person’s name than through argument. Keep in mind too, democratic societies don’t have strong social ties; each person must be persuaded individually, while in aristocracies, persuading a few leaders brings the rest along. Had Luther lived during equality, without princes and powers to address, he might have struggled to change Europe as he did. Not that people in democracies are deeply certain of their beliefs or never waver; they often entertain doubts that nobody can resolve for them. Sometimes, the mind wants to move, but with nothing to push or show the way, it wavers without progress. \*a

a
\[ If I consider which social structure best encourages great intellectual revolutions, I find that it lies between complete community equality and absolute separation of ranks. Under a caste system, generations pass without moving positions; some people have nothing to hope for, others nothing better. Imagination sleeps in this universal stillness, and even the idea of change fades from people’s minds. When ranks are gone and conditions are nearly equal, everyone is restlessly excited, but each stands alone—independent and weak. This latter situation, quite unlike the former, does share one trait: great intellectual revolutions rarely happen in it. But between these two extremes is an intermediate moment—both glorious and agitated—when men’s conditions are unsettled enough that the mind is not lulled, but unequal enough that a few can deeply influence the rest, and perhaps change everyone’s beliefs. It is then that great reformers rise up, and new opinions transform the world.\]

Even if a democratic people’s trust is secured, just getting their attention is difficult. It is very hard to gain an audience in a democratic society, unless you talk about subjects directly concerning them. They don’t listen to what is being said, because they’re always wrapped up in what they’re doing. Few are idle in democratic nations; lives are lived amid noise and excitement, with people so busy with action that little time is left for thought. They are not just occupied, but passionately absorbed in their work. Each action fills their energy; their business-minded drive leaves little enthusiasm for ideas. I think it is very difficult to rouse excitement in a democratic society for any theory not immediately connected to their daily lives. So they will not easily drift from their entrenched beliefs; it is enthusiasm that leads minds out of routine and enables both major intellectual and political revolutions. Thus, democratic nations have neither the time nor the inclination to seek out new ideas. Even when old beliefs are questioned, they keep them out of habit, because change would require too much time and effort—they keep them, not as certainties, but as established truths.

There are other, even stronger, reasons that make profound change in the principles of a democratic people difficult. I mentioned some of these at the start of this part of my book. If in democratic societies individual influence is weak and barely noticeable, the power of the majority over each person’s mind is overwhelming, for reasons I’ve already explained. It is wrong to think this arises only from government structure, or that the majority would lose its mental power if it lost political power. In aristocracies, people often have much personal independence and strength: when at odds with the majority, they retreat to their own circles for support. Not so in democracies: public approval feels as essential as air, and being at odds with the masses feels like not living at all. The crowd needs no laws to control nonconformists—public disapproval is enough. Isolation and helplessness weigh people down, pushing them into submission.

Wherever social conditions are equal, public opinion weighs greatly on each mind: it surrounds, guides, and dominates each person. This is due far more to the makeup of society than to political laws. As people become more alike, each feels weaker compared to everyone else; seeing nothing to set himself above or apart, he doubts himself whenever he’s challenged. He not only loses confidence in his strength, but even his rights, nearly admitting he is wrong when the majority claims it. The majority need not force him; they persuade him. No matter how democratic communities are structured, it will always be very difficult to believe what the majority rejects or say what the majority condemns.

This makes opinions stable. Once an idea takes root in a democratic nation, and spreads through most of the community, it sustains itself easily, because no one challenges it. Those who first rejected it end up joining in. Those who still quietly disagree hide it—they won’t start a risky and fruitless argument. It is true that if the majority changes its views, it can at once create dramatic mental shifts; but their views change only with difficulty, and even then, it’s hard to prove they have done so.

Sometimes time, events, or even people’s own thinking will undermine or destroy an idea quietly, without visible struggle. No one attacks; there is no conspiracy, but gradually supporters drop away until only a few remain—yet the opinion still seems to dominate. As dissenters keep quiet, even among themselves, they don’t realize for a long while that a major shift has happened; so they wait silently. The majority has stopped believing its old opinion, but still pretends to, and the empty shell of public opinion is strong enough to keep innovators away. Our era has seen the fastest changes of mind in history; yet, it might well be that soon, society’s core opinions could be steadier than they’ve been in centuries. That time has not yet come, but may be approaching. The more I study the needs and tendencies of democratic societies, the more I am convinced that if social equality becomes truly widespread and permanent, great intellectual and political revolutions will be rarer and harder than supposed. People in democracies may appear excitable, restless, and eager for change, jumping from one position to another, so it is assumed they will suddenly throw out their laws and adopt new ideas and habits. But if equality predisposes people toward change, it also ties them to interests and desires that require stability; equality urges them forward, but also holds them back; it pushes them, but anchors them; it awakens their hopes, but limits their power. This is not obvious at first; the forces that separate people in a democracy are clear enough, but the unseen power that restrains and unites them takes longer to perceive.

Among the ruins surrounding me, should I dare say that revolutions are not my greatest fear for future generations? If people continue to close themselves in their private circles and feed only on that sort of excitement, I fear they may eventually shut themselves off from the grand public passions that unsettle but also expand and renew nations. As property becomes less secure, and the appetite for it more anxious and intense, I worry that people may come to see every new idea as a threat, every change as a painful effort, every improvement as a step toward revolution—and so do nothing for fear of going too far. I confess I fear most of all that they might, in the end, surrender to a timid love of immediate enjoyment, lose sight of their future interests and those of their descendants, and prefer to drift along comfortably rather than to make a serious effort for higher goals. Some say modern society will always be changing; for myself, I fear that it could become fixed in unchanging institutions, prejudices, and customs, leaving humanity restrained and confined, thought swinging endlessly back and forth, generating no new ideas; that people might waste their energy in trivial, solitary pursuits, and that, though in perpetual motion, humanity would eventually stop advancing.

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

The same interests, fears, and passions that discourage democratic nations from revolutions also deter them from war; the spirit of military glory and the spirit of revolution are both weakened by the same factors. The ever-growing number of people with property—who favor peace—the increase in personal wealth that war quickly destroys, the gentle manners and kindness fostered by social equality, and the cool rationality that makes people less susceptible to the emotional appeal of combat—all help extinguish the warlike spirit. I believe it can be taken as a general rule that, among civilized nations, warlike passions become more rare and less intense as social conditions become more equal. Still, war is a possibility for every nation, democratic or otherwise. No matter how much they prefer peace, democratic nations must stay prepared to defend themselves from aggression—in other words, they must maintain an army.

Fortune has given the United States many unique advantages, placing them in a vast wilderness with virtually no neighbors. For their needs, a few thousand soldiers suffice; but this situation is unique to America, not democracy itself. Social equality, and the customs and institutions that stem from it, do not free democratic peoples from the need for standing armies, and these armies always hold significant sway over a nation's destiny. It is therefore especially important to consider the natural tendencies of those who make up these armies.

In aristocratic nations, especially where birth determines rank, the same inequalities prevalent in society extend to the army; officers are nobles, soldiers often serfs—one born to command, the other to obey. An aristocratic army thus sharply limits the ambitions of its common soldiers. Even officers’ ambitions are restricted. The aristocratic hierarchy extends to the army itself: its members are ordered in a rigid, unchanging way. One man is born to command a regiment, another a company; once they reach their expected position, they stop striving and accept their status. There’s another strong reason why, in aristocracies, officers are less hungry for promotion. In those societies, an officer already has social rank outside of the army; military rank adds little to it. A nobleman might join the army more out of duty to his lineage than out of ambition. He sees it as an honorable way to spend his youth and collect memories and stories, not as a route to property, distinction, or power—he already possesses those, at home.

In democratic armies, however, all soldiers can potentially become officers, making aspirations to promotion widespread and greatly expanding military ambition. Officers themselves see nothing inherently stopping them from advancing to ever-higher ranks, and each promotion becomes extremely significant, as their standing in society often depends on their rank in the army. In democratic societies, officers often have nothing but their pay and military honors; whenever their duties change, so does their fortune—they in effect become new men. What was once an accessory to their social standings in aristocratic armies now becomes the foundation of their status. Under the old French monarchy, officers were addressed by titles of nobility; now they are addressed by their military rank. This small change shows a great shift in society and the army. In democratic armies, nearly everyone seeks promotion; this desire is intense, persistent, and lifelong. But of all armies, promotion happens slowest—in peacetime—in democratic armies. The number of commissions is naturally limited, but the number of competitors is vast, and strict equality prevails. Rapid advancement is rare; many never advance. So, ambition is more widespread, but opportunities disappointingly scarce. Ambitious people in democratic armies therefore yearn for war above all, because war creates vacancies and justifies breaking the rule of seniority, democracy’s only natural privilege.

This leads to an odd conclusion: of all armies, those most eager for war are democratic armies, while among all nations, those most devoted to peace are democratic nations. What’s more, both these opposing effects arise simultaneously from the principle of equality.

Because everyone in a democratic society is equal, people constantly dream of changing their circumstances and improving their lives—so they cherish peace, which fosters industry and allows everyone to pursue their own goals. Yet, that same equality makes soldiers eager for battle, increasing the value of military honor among those in arms and making that honor available to all. In both cases, restless ambition and a thirst for happiness are ever-present, only the means to satisfy it differ.

These conflicting tendencies put democratic societies at risk. If a people lose their military spirit, the military profession immediately ceases to be respected, and soldiers fall to the lowest rung of public service: they are looked down upon and misunderstood. The reverse of what happens in aristocratic times occurs; those who join the army no longer belong to society's upper tiers, but its lower ones. The desire for military distinction becomes a last resort when other ambitions fail. This creates a vicious cycle: the most talented avoid the military because it lacks honor, and the profession is not held in honor because the best have abandoned it. It's no wonder, then, that democratic armies can be restless, discontented, and dissatisfied with their rank, even though their material conditions are often better and their discipline less harsh than elsewhere. The soldier recognizes his lower status, and his wounded pride might either fuel a longing for war, which would make his service essential, or drive him toward revolution, hoping to gain the social influence and personal importance denied him. The composition of democratic armies makes this last danger particularly threatening. In democratic societies, most people have something to lose, but army leaders are typically men without property, who risk little in civil unrest. The nation itself fears revolution more than in aristocratic times, but the army’s leaders fear it less.

Moreover, since democratic nations’ wealthiest, best-educated, and most capable citizens rarely choose military life, the army as a group eventually becomes almost a separate, smaller nation—less educated, rougher in its habits than the balance of society. This smaller, less civilized nation is armed and alone knows how to use those arms: for the peacefulness of the larger society increases the threat posed by the army’s turbulent spirit. Nothing is as dangerous as an army in the midst of an unwarlike people; the nation’s passion for peace leaves its very constitution at the mercy of the military. Thus, generally speaking, if democratic nations naturally seek peace due to their interests and desires, they are constantly pulled towards war and revolution by their armies. Military coups—almost unthinkable in aristocracies—are always to be feared in democracies. These threats must be counted among the greatest dangers to their future, and statesmen must be constantly vigilant for ways to mitigate them.

When a nation senses that its army is growing restlessly ambitious, its first instinct is to channel that ambition into war. I'm not condemning war: it often broadens the character of a people, challenging destructive tendencies that come with social equality, and may serve as a necessary corrective to democracy’s particular ills. But while war brings advantages, we should not deceive ourselves that it resolves the danger described above. War only postpones it, returning with greater force once the war ends. Armies grow even less content with peace after having tasted military life. War would only solve the problem if the people were perpetually hungry for military glory. I predict that all future military rulers in great democracies will find it easier to achieve victories than to keep their armies content in peacetime after conquest. For a democratic people, two things will always be difficult: to begin a war and to end one.

Furthermore, war brings particular dangers to democratic nations that aristocracies do not face as acutely. Only two will be mentioned here. Although war may satisfy the army, it disturbs and can infuriate the vast majority of people whose daily lives require peace for their small ambitions to be fulfilled. Therefore, there is a risk that war could cause, in another form, the very instability it was meant to prevent. Any prolonged war threatens the freedom of a democracy—not because victorious generals might seize power forcibly as Sylla or Caesar did, but in another way. War does not always deliver democracies into military rule, but it invariably expands and concentrates the power of the civil government; centralized authority in times of war is nearly always an unavoidable result. If war does not quickly lead to despotism, it gently prepares people for it through habit. Anyone wishing to undermine democratic freedoms should know: war is the surest and quickest way to do it. That is the first rule of the science.

One apparent solution, when officers' and soldiers' ambitions seem dangerous, is to increase the number of commissions by expanding the army. This offers short-term relief but worsens problems later. Army growth might have a lasting impact in an aristocracy because military ambition is confined to a class whose personal ambitions have a natural limit; thus, it may be possible to satisfy all. In a democracy, however, increasing the size of the army only increases the number of aspirants to promotion. As soon as new positions are created, new crowds appear who demand advancement; those satisfied soon want more, for the fever for promotion in the army mirrors that of the larger democratic society—it is endless, not about reaching a particular rank, but about constant progress. These demands are unending. Thus, expanding the army only briefly soothes ambition before it flares up more strongly, as the pool of the ambitious grows larger. I believe the restless, turbulent spirit is an inherent flaw in democratic armies, and cannot be cured. Lawmakers in democracies should not expect to design military structures capable of truly restraining the military spirit; they would wear themselves out before making real progress.

The solution to the army's problems is not within the army, but in the society itself. Democratic peoples, by nature, fear unrest and tyranny; this natural instinct should be fostered into solid, healthy habits. Once people learn to use their freedom peacefully and profitably, appreciating its benefits—once they have matured into a love of order and voluntarily accept discipline—these same qualities will be brought, consciously or not, into army life by those who join the military. The larger spirit of the nation will temper or suppress destructive military passions through the influence of public opinion. When citizens are educated, orderly, strong, and free, the soldiers will become disciplined and obedient. Any law that tries to calm the military by weakening the nation’s free spirit or undermining faith in law and rights will fail: it would do more to encourage military tyranny than to prevent it.

Despite every precaution, a large army in a democracy will always be a serious threat. The best way to reduce that danger is simply to make the army smaller, but not every nation has the luxury of doing so.

## Chapter XXIII: Which Is The Most Warlike And Most Revolutionary Class In Democratic Armies?

A democratic army is, by its very nature, very large in relation to the nation it serves, as I will explain later. Yet, in democratic times, people rarely choose a military life, so democratic nations almost inevitably abandon voluntary enlistment for conscription. Their social conditions demand this, and it is easy to see that eventually all will adopt it. With compulsory service, the burden falls equally and indiscriminately on everyone—a necessary result of their social outlook and principles. The government can generally do whatever it wants if it applies rules to everyone equally; resistance arises far more from unfairness than from the weight of obligations themselves. But because military service is required of every citizen, each person typically serves only a few years. Thus, in democracies, soldiers only pass briefly through military life, whereas, in aristocracies, military service is often a lifelong profession.

This brings important consequences. Some in a democratic army grow to like military life, but the majority, drafted against their will and eager to return home, do not fully commit to it, always looking forward to leaving. They adapt to army duties, but their minds remain attached to civilian interests and obligations. These soldiers don’t fully adopt an army mindset—rather, they bring the spirit of the larger community into the army and keep it alive. Among democratic peoples, private soldiers remain most like civilians: civilian habits and public opinion shape them strongly. Through the private soldiers especially, it may become possible to instill a love of freedom and respect for rights into a democratic army—if these values have been successfully taught to the nation as a whole. The opposite occurs in aristocratic regimes: the soldiers gradually become outsiders, almost enemies, to their countrymen. In aristocratic armies, officers are the conservative force because they maintain close links with civil society and ultimately mean to return to it; in democratic armies, private soldiers play that role, for the same reasons.

On the other hand, officers in democratic armies often develop desires and habits quite removed from those of the wider society—a fact explainable as follows. In democracies, entering the officer ranks typically means severing all social ties to civilian life; the officer leaves civil society for good without interest in returning. The army becomes his real homeland; he owes all that he is to his position there, and pins his hopes on its fortunes alone. Since his interests differ from those of civilians, he may deeply wish for war or even help stir up revolution just when the nation desires peace and stability most. Still, some forces restrain this urge. While ambition is widespread and persistent in democracies, it is rarely extreme. A man born into the lower classes who rises to officer rank has already achieved a remarkable advancement. He has entered a world above what he knew in civilian life, winning rights that most democracies will regard as permanent. \*a This huge victory makes him slow down and enjoy his success. Fear of risking what he has already won tempers his hunger for more. Having cleared the biggest hurdle to advancement, he is less troubled by slow further progress. The higher his rank, the more cautious his ambitions become as he realizes how much he could lose. If I'm correct, the upper commanders of a democratic army will always be its least warlike, least revolutionary segment.  
\[Footnote a: The position of officers is indeed much more secure amongst democratic nations than elsewhere; the lower the personal standing of the man, the greater is the comparative importance of his military grade, and the more just and necessary is it that the enjoyment of that rank should be secured by the laws.\]

However, what I have said about officers and soldiers does not hold true for the large group that lies between them—non-commissioned officers. This class, which had little historical impact before the present century, is now destined, I believe, to play a major role. Like officers, non-commissioned officers cut all mental ties to civilian life; they are wholly committed to the service, sometimes even more than officers. But non-commissioned officers haven't yet reached a steady rank where they can relax and enjoy their achievements: their career is still in an uncertain phase. By the nature of their constant, lowly duties, a non-commissioned officer leads an obscure, restricted, uncomfortable, and unstable life; he sees only the dangers of military life, feels only its hardships and disciplines—which are harder to bear than dangers themselves. His suffering is sharpened by knowing that both society and the army allow him to rise, but he hasn’t yet succeeded; at any moment, he could win his commission and step into the world of command, honor, independence, and rights. This goal seems immensely important, but he can never be certain of reaching it until it’s achieved; his current rank is not permanent—he is always at the mercy of his superiors, with discipline making him vulnerable: a small mistake or the whim of an officer can erase years of effort in an instant; until he reaches the desired grade, he has achieved nothing, and only upon attaining it does his career feel like it truly begins. Young, needy, full of hopes and fears—influenced by the spirit of his time—a non-commissioned officer naturally develops a deeply ambitious drive. Non-commissioned officers, therefore, are eagerly bent on war—always, at any cost; if war is denied, they may desire revolution, hoping that chaos and popular unrest will let them displace their superiors and rise. And they have real power to influence such events, as their common origins and experience connect them closely with the rank and file, even if their desires differ.

It's a mistake to think these patterns for officers, non-commissioned officers, and soldiers only appear at certain times or in specific countries; they will always exist in all democracies. In every democratic army, non-commissioned officers will be the least peaceful and least orderly group, while private soldiers will be the most peaceful and orderly. Private soldiers carry all the strengths and weaknesses of their society into military life; if their community is ignorant and weak, they will be easily swayed into disorder; if it is enlightened and strong, the community itself will keep them within the law.

## Chapter XXIV: Causes Which Render Democratic Armies Weaker Than Other Armies At The Outset Of A Campaign, And More Formidable In Protracted Warfare

Any army is at risk of being defeated at the beginning of a campaign after a long period of peace; any army engaged in extended warfare has strong chances of victory: this truth is particularly applicable to democratic armies. In aristocracies, the military profession is a privileged and highly respected career, even in times of peace. Men of great talent, education, and ambition choose it; the army is on par with, if not above, the rest of the nation. By contrast, as we have seen, in democratic societies the most distinguished minds are gradually drawn away from military careers, pursuing other routes to distinction, power, and especially wealth. After a lengthy peace—and in democratic times, peace often lasts for decades—the army is always inferior to civil society. In this condition, it is called to active duty; and until war changes its nature, both the country and its army are at risk.

I have demonstrated that in democratic armies during peacetime, seniority becomes the supreme, inflexible rule for advancement. This results not only from the structure of these armies but also from the makeup of the society itself, and it is bound to persist. Moreover, since an officer’s social standing in these nations relies entirely upon his military rank—and since his wealth and recognition come from this profession—he does not retire until he is quite advanced in age. The result of these two factors is that, when a democratic nation goes to war after a long peace, all the senior officers are old men. I don't mean just the generals, but also the non-commissioned officers, most of whom have remained stagnant or advanced only slowly. It is noteworthy—and surprising—that in a democratic army after prolonged peace, the soldiers are mostly mere youths while the senior officers are of advanced years; in effect, the soldiers lack experience, and the leaders lack vitality. This is a weakness that leads to defeat, for youth is essential for effective generalship: I would not have dared state this, had not the greatest captain of modern times made this very observation. These factors do not affect aristocratic armies in the same way: as positions are obtained more by birth than seniority, there are young men in every rank, bringing the vigor of youth to their profession. Also, those who pursue military honors in aristocratic societies have an established position in civil society, so they rarely remain in the army until old age. After spending their youth in the military, they willingly retire and live out their mature years at home.

A long peace not only fills democratic armies with older officers but also cultivates in all officers personal and mental habits that make them unfit for active service. A person long accustomed to the easy, tepid atmosphere of democratic society finds it difficult at first to adapt to the rigors and strict demands of war; and even if he has not lost his taste for arms entirely, he will have developed a lifestyle incompatible with victory.

In aristocratic countries, civil comforts have less influence on the military, because the aristocracy commands the military: and an aristocracy, no matter how indulgent, always has other passions beyond comfort, and to fulfill those passions, they are willing to sacrifice their comfort. *a

a
\[ See Appendix V.\]

I have shown that advancement within democratic armies during peace is extremely slow. Officers, at first, bear this with impatience, grow agitated, restless, and frustrated, but most eventually accept it. The most ambitious and resourceful leave the service; others adapt their desires to their limited means, and come to see military life in civil terms. What they value most in the career is its stability and reliability: their future depends on the certainty of this modest provision, and all they want is to enjoy it in peace. So, a long peace not only fills the army with old men but often imparts an old man’s outlook to those still in their physical prime.

I have also noted that, among democratic peoples during peacetime, the military profession is held in low regard and followed with little enthusiasm. This lack of public esteem is a major discouragement; it dampens morale throughout the ranks, and when war finally comes, the army cannot immediately recover its vigor and spirit. No such psychological weakness exists in aristocratic armies: officers’ status is never diminished in their own eyes or in those of the nation, since they are personally significant apart from their military rank. But even if peace affected both systems equally, the results would still differ. When aristocratic officers lose their fighting spirit and ambition, they retain a respect for their class honor and the habit of leading by example. But when democratic officers have lost their love of war and ambition, nothing is left to them.

Therefore, I believe that when a democratic nation goes to war after a long peace, it faces greater risks of early defeat than other nations; but it should not be easily discouraged by setbacks, since the likelihood of later success grows the longer the war continues. When a prolonged war pulls the entire community out of peaceful pursuits and destroys smaller interests, the same passions that once favored peace shift toward war. War, once it has wiped out other possibilities for advancement, becomes society’s greatest and only avenue for ambition and energy. This explains why democratic nations, so reluctant to go to war, can achieve astonishing feats once committed. As war draws increasing public attention and proves able to create reputation and wealth rapidly, the brightest minds turn to military service: all the ambitious and martial, not just of the aristocracy but of the entire country, move in that direction. As the competition for military honors swells and war elevates everyone according to merit, outstanding generals are bound to appear. A long war acts on a democratic army as a revolution does on a nation: it breaks the rules and allows extraordinary individuals to rise. The officers who have grown old in peace are replaced or die off. In their place rush in young men, their bodies toughened and their ambitions emboldened by active service. They are determined to advance at any cost, and they are followed by endless others with the same passion, limited only by the size of the army itself. Equality opens opportunities to all, and death regularly creates vacancies for ambition.

Furthermore, there is a hidden link between a democracy’s military and its broader character, which war exposes. People in democracies are naturally eager to gain what they desire and to enjoy it with the least difficulty. They tend to worship chance and are less afraid of death than of hard work. This spirit drives them in commerce and manufacturing, and, on the battlefield, prompts them to risk their lives for instant rewards. No kind of greatness excites the democratic imagination more than military glory—a brilliant, sudden achievement earned through risk rather than toil. Thus, although members of a democratic society tend to avoid war, their mentality equips them to fight effectively when stirred from their routines. If peace harms democratic armies especially, war grants them advantages no other armies have; and though these advantages may not be immediately felt, they guarantee victory in the end. In a war with a democratic nation, if an aristocratic society does not defeat it quickly, it risks ultimate defeat at its hands.

## Chapter XXV: Of Discipline In Democratic Armies

It is widely believed, especially in aristocratic societies, that social equality in democracies makes the rank-and-file soldier independent of his officer, thus destroying discipline. This is mistaken, because there are two kinds of discipline that should not be confused. Where the officer is noble and the soldier is nearly a vassal—one rich, the other poor; one educated and strong, the other ignorant and weak—the strictest discipline forms easily between them. The soldier is molded for military subordination before ever joining the army; military discipline is an extension of social submission. In aristocratic armies, the soldier soon becomes oblivious to all but his officers’ orders; he acts without thought, fights without enthusiasm, and dies without complaint: he’s no longer quite a man, but he’s a formidable war machine.

A democratic nation must not hope to produce soldiers who display the blind, meticulous, submissive, and unchanging obedience so common in aristocracies. Social life does not prepare them for this, and trying to create such traits unnaturally could cost the nation its unique strengths. Among democratic peoples, military discipline should aim not to smother personal initiative but to channel it; the obedience thus produced is less precise but more engaged and intelligent. It springs from the will of the one obeying; it relies not only on instinct but on reason, and often grows stricter as danger intensifies. The discipline of aristocratic armies tends to weaken during war, since it is based on habits that war disrupts. Democratic armies, conversely, become more disciplined facing the enemy, because each soldier recognizes that survival and victory demand order and obedience.

The greatest military achievements in history have come from armies with this style of discipline. Among the ancients, armies consisted only of free men and citizens, not radically different from each other and accustomed to treating each other as equals. In this sense, ancient armies were democratic, even if emerging from aristocratic societies; the result was a sort of brotherly familiarity between rulers and troops. Plutarch’s accounts of great commanders give ample evidence: soldiers freely addressed their generals, who listened and responded; order was maintained by words and example as much as by punishment or compulsion; the general was as much a peer as a superior. I do not know whether Greek and Roman armies ever attained the extreme precision in discipline seen among the Russians, but this did not stop Alexander from conquering Asia or Rome from conquering the world.

## Chapter XXVI: Some Considerations On War In Democratic Communities

When equality becomes established not only within one nation, but also among several neighboring nations at once, as is currently happening in Europe, the people of those countries—despite differences in language, customs, and laws—begin to resemble each other in their shared fear of war and their mutual love of peace. *a Ambition or anger may put weapons in the hands of rulers, but their aggression is calmed in spite of themselves by a kind of general apathy and goodwill that makes wars less frequent. As equality spreads, coinciding with the development of manufacturing and commerce, people’s tastes and interests become so similar and intertwined that no nation can harm another without harming itself; all ultimately view war as a disaster, nearly as bad for the winner as for the loser. So, while it is extremely hard in democratic times to provoke war, it is almost impossible for any two such nations to fight without involving others. Their interests and priorities are so interlinked, their opinions and needs so similar, that none can stay neutral if the others mobilize. Wars become less frequent, but when they do occur, they spread wider. Neighboring democratic nations not only share some qualities; soon they resemble each other in nearly every respect. *b Such homogeneity has major implications for warfare.

a
\[ It goes without saying that the fear of war seen in Europe is not just the result of growing equality; aside from this ongoing cause, several other important accidental factors can be named—most notably, the extreme exhaustion left by the wars of the Revolution and the Empire.\]

b
\[ This similarity among nations arises not merely from their shared social conditions, but from the very nature of that condition, which leads people to imitate and identify with one another. In societies divided into castes and classes, people not only differ but do not wish to be alike; in fact, they try even harder to keep their differences, to preserve unique opinions and habits, to remain distinct individuals. Individual characteristics are strongly marked. In a democratic society—where there are no castes or classes, and nearly all members share similar education and property—people tend to move in the opposite direction. They are much alike, and are even uncomfortable with differences; rather than preserve personal quirks, they seek to merge into the general population, which in their eyes is the only source of legitimacy and power. Individual distinctions fade. Under aristocracy, even those who are similar strive to create imaginary differences; in democracies, even the unlike strive to become alike, carried along by the universal current. This logic extends to nations: two aristocratic countries could remain distinct because of their devotion to individuality, but if two neighboring countries share democracy, they can hardly help adopting the same opinions and customs.\]

Look at the Helvetic Confederacy: in the fifteenth century, it made Europe's most powerful nations tremble; today, its influence is directly tied to its population. The Swiss have become like their neighbors, and their neighbors like them—so when numbers are the only difference, victory goes to the largest force. Thus, a major effect of the democratic revolution in Europe is to make sheer numerical strength decisive in war, pushing small states to merge with larger ones or at least to adopt their strategies. Since numbers decide victory, every nation is compelled to put as many men in the field as possible. When it was possible to create elite troops—like Swiss infantry or French cavalry in the sixteenth century—large armies weren’t needed; but when each soldier is as effective as any other, the logic changes.

The same circumstances that create this new need also provide the means to satisfy it. As I’ve previously pointed out, when all men are alike, all are weak, and the central authority naturally becomes stronger among democracies than anywhere else. Thus, when such nations wish to enroll their entire male population in the army, they have the power to do so: in democratic times, armies grow ever larger even as the appetite for war declines. In the same era, warfare tactics also change. Machiavelli notes in “The Prince” that it is much harder to subdue a nation led by a prince and barons than one led by a prince and his servants. To avoid offense, substitute “public officials” for “servants,” and this applies perfectly to our age.

A great aristocratic nation cannot easily conquer or be conquered. It cannot conquer, since it can never mobilize and sustain all its resources; it cannot be conquered, as an invader faces constant local resistance. War with an aristocracy is like fighting in mountains: the defeated side is always able to regroup and take a new position. Among democratic nations, it is the opposite: they can quickly bring their entire force to bear, and if rich and populous, thereafter achieve victory; but if conquered and invaded, they have few options for defense, and if the capital falls, the nation is lost. This is easy to explain: since every citizen is isolated and relatively powerless, none can defend themselves or give others a center to rally around. Only the State is strong; once the State’s military is destroyed and its civil power falls with the capital, only a disorganized mass is left, unable to resist a well-organized invader. This danger can be lessened by granting regional liberties—and thus regional powers—but this will never be totally effective. Not only are the people unable to keep fighting, but they may altogether lack the will to try. According to modern international law, wars aim not to seize individuals' property, but simply to achieve political control; property destruction is rare, used as a means to that end. When an aristocratic nation’s army is beaten and its lands invaded, the nobles—who are also the wealthiest—will defend themselves before surrendering, since the conqueror would take away their political privileges, which they value even more than their wealth. They choose resistance over submission, their greatest fear; and the people, accustomed to their leadership and having little to lose, readily join them. In a society built on equality, however, each citizen has little political power, and often none at all; yet all are independent, and all have something to lose, making them less afraid of foreign conquest and more afraid of war itself than in aristocracies. It is always extremely hard to motivate a democratic public to resist when the war reaches their own soil. Thus, it is essential to give such a nation the rights and political engagement that allow every citizen to develop the same public-spirited interests that drive nobles to fight for the public good in aristocracies.

Leaders of democratic nations must always remember: only the passion and habit of freedom can counterbalance the passion and habit for physical comfort. Nothing is more prepared for subjugation after defeat than a democratic people without free institutions.

Previously, wars were fought with small armies, in limited skirmishes, through extended, methodical sieges. Now, decisive battles are the standard, and armies rush directly toward the capital to try to end the conflict instantly. It is said that Napoleon invented this new way of warfare; but its emergence had little to do with any single individual. Napoleon’s style arose out of the social realities of his time; his methods succeeded because they matched society, and because he was the first to use them. He was the first to march an army from capital to capital, but this path was made possible by the collapse of feudal society. Had Napoleon been born three centuries earlier, he would have either failed with this approach or developed a different one.

Let me close with a few words on civil wars, so as not to try the reader’s patience. Most of what I have said about foreign wars applies even more to civil wars. People in democracies do not naturally take on the military spirit; they do so only under pressure, and to spontaneously rise together and brave the horrors of war—especially civil war—is something they rarely do. Only the boldest in the community are willing to take such risks; the majority remains passive. But even if the people were willing, they face great obstacles: there is no established authority they want to follow, no renowned leaders to rally and train them, no strong regional powers to support resistance against national government. In democratic countries, the power of the majority is tremendous, and the physical resources it controls are overwhelming compared to any that can be mobilized in opposition. The group that holds the majority, speaks in its name, and directs its resources, triumphs instantly and irresistibly over any private resistance; it snuffs out opposition before it can take root. Those in such societies who attempt revolution by force have no choice but to swiftly seize the entire apparatus of government as it is; a regular war would just as surely see the side representing the State win. The only circumstance in which a civil war could emerge is if the army splits in two, with one side rebelling and the other remaining loyal. But an army is a tight-knit body, able to sustain itself for a time. Such a war might be violent, but it would not last: either the rebellious army would sway the government or secure victory and swiftly end the conflict, or else it would be defeated and disbanded or destroyed. Thus, as a general rule, periods of equality will see civil wars much less often and for much shorter durations. *c

c
\[ Remember, I refer here to sovereign, independent democratic nations—not federal confederacies. In these, the real power still lies in the state governments rather than in the federal one, so civil wars there are in fact disguised foreign wars.\]

## Book Four: Influence Of Democratic Opinions On Political Society

## Chapter I: That Equality Naturally Gives Men A Taste For Free Institutions

I would not properly fulfill the purpose of this book if, after showing what opinions and sentiments arise from the principle of equality, I did not also explain, before concluding, the broader influence these same opinions and sentiments may have on the government of human societies. To accomplish this, I will often need to revisit earlier points; but I hope the reader will not hesitate to follow me down these familiar paths if they may lead to some new insights.

The principle of equality, which makes people independent from one another, gives them a habit and a preference for following no other guide in their private actions but their own will. This constant independence, which they enjoy among their equals and in private life, tends to make them view all authority with suspicion, and soon leads them to value and desire political freedom. People living in such times naturally favor free institutions. Pick any one at random and examine his deepest instincts; you will find that of all forms of government, he will most readily understand and most highly value the one whose leader he has elected himself and whose administration he may influence. Among all the political effects produced by the equality of conditions, this love of independence is the first to catch the observer's attention and to alarm the cautious; nor is that alarm entirely unfounded, for anarchy often appears more threatening in democratic societies than anywhere else. Since citizens do not have direct influence over each other, as soon as the nation's supreme power fails to keep them in their proper places, it seems as if disorder must immediately reach its peak, with each person pulling in a different direction, causing society itself to quickly fall apart.

Nevertheless, I am convinced that anarchy is not the main problem facing democratic ages—it is the lesser evil. The principle of equality produces two tendencies: one leads people straight to independence and may suddenly plunge them into anarchy; the other takes them, by a slower, more hidden, but far more certain route, toward servitude. Nations easily recognize the first tendency and are prepared to resist it; they are drawn along by the second without noticing where it leads. Therefore, it is especially important to draw attention to it. For my part, I am not at all inclined to blame the principle of equality for making people unmanageable. In fact, this is the very thing I most admire about it. I am pleased to see how it plants in both mind and heart the vague idea and instinctive love of political independence, thus providing the remedy for the very problem it creates; for this reason, I am particularly attached to it.

## Chapter II: That The Notions Of Democratic Nations On Government Are Naturally Favorable To The Concentration Of Power

The idea of secondary powers, positioned between the sovereign and his subjects, came naturally to the minds of aristocratic nations because those societies had families or individuals raised above the general level, seemingly destined to lead by their birth, education, and wealth. For the opposite reason, this idea is generally missing in the minds of people in democratic times: it can only be introduced artificially and is hard to maintain; whereas, they naturally conceive the idea of a single, central authority governing the whole community through its direct influence. Furthermore, in politics, as in philosophy and religion, the minds of democratic peoples are especially drawn to simple and general ideas. They reject complex systems, and their favorite vision is that of a great nation made up of citizens who all resemble one another, governed by one central power.

Closely related to this idea of a single, central power, is the idea of uniform laws, which quickly arises in times of equality. When every person sees he differs little from those around him, he cannot understand why a rule that applies to one should not apply to all. Thus, even the smallest privileges seem unreasonable to him; the smallest differences in the political institutions of their nation offend him, and legal uniformity appears to be the first sign of good government. By contrast, this idea of a uniform rule applied equally to all was almost unknown or outright rejected in the aristocratic ages. These opposite tendencies in opinion become such deep-seated habits and instincts on each side, that they continue to shape people's actions, despite particular exceptions. Despite the immense variation in social conditions during the Middle Ages, there were always some people in exactly the same circumstances, and yet the laws assigned each distinct duties and different rights. Now, in our time, all the powers of government work to impose the same customs and laws on populations that may still have many differences. As people’s conditions become more equal, individuals seem to matter less, and society seems larger— in fact, every citizen, being similar to all the rest, disappears into the crowd and only the grand image of the people as a whole stands out. This naturally leads democratic people to have a high opinion of the rights of society and a very small view of individual rights; they are willing to say the interests of society are everything, and those of the individual are nothing. They are quick to agree that the power representing the community has much more wisdom and information than any of the individuals, and that it should not only govern but also guide every single citizen.

If we look closely at our contemporaries and examine their political convictions, we will detect the very notions I have just described, and we may be surprised to find so much agreement among people who so often disagree otherwise. Americans believe that in every state the supreme power ought to come from the people; but once that power is established, they can imagine almost no limits to it and accept that it can do whatever it wants. They have no concept of special privileges granted to cities, families, or individuals: they seem never to have considered that it might be right not to apply the same laws everywhere and to everyone. The same opinions are spreading more and more throughout Europe, even among those nations that most strongly reject the principle of popular sovereignty. These countries assign a different origin to supreme power, but give it the same qualities. Among them all, the idea of intermediate powers is fading away, the idea of rights inherent in certain individuals is quickly disappearing, and the concept of the omnipotence and sole authority of society at large rises to take its place. These ideas grow and spread as social conditions become more equal and people become more alike; they are generated by equality and, in turn, speed its progress.

In France, where the changes I describe have gone further than anywhere else in Europe, these ideas have completely taken hold of the public mind. If we listen closely to the language of all the various parties in France, we will see that they all have adopted them. Most of these parties criticize the government’s actions, but all agree that the government should act and intervene constantly in all matters. Even parties most at odds agree on this point. The unity, ubiquity, and absolute power of the state, as well as the uniformity of its rules, are the main features of all the political systems proposed in our time. They even appear in the wilder dreams of political regeneration; the mind follows them in its wildest flights. If these beliefs naturally appear in the ordinary citizen, they influence rulers even more. While the old European society structure is being transformed and dissolved, rulers develop new ideas about both their opportunities and their responsibilities; for the first time, they come to realize that the central power they embody should and can manage, by its own means and to a uniform plan, all the matters of the whole population. This idea, which I dare say was never before entertained by European monarchs, now sinks deep into the minds of kings, enduring through all the turbulence of changing times.

Our contemporaries are far less divided than commonly thought; they constantly debate who should hold supreme power, but they agree on what that power's rights and duties are. Their shared concept of government is of a sole, simple, all-providing, and creative force. All other political opinions are uncertain; this one remains fixed and consistent. It is adopted by politicians and theorists alike; it is eagerly embraced by the masses; both the rulers and the ruled pursue it with equal zeal: it is the foremost idea in people’s minds, almost inborn. Therefore, it is not just a whim of the mind, but a necessary feature of our present age.

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

If it is true that, in times of equality, people easily adopt the idea of a powerful central authority, there is also no doubt that their habits and feelings make them willing to recognize and support such a power. This can be shown briefly, as most of the reasons for this have already been discussed. \*a Since people in democratic societies have no superiors, inferiors, or habitual partners in their endeavors, they easily retreat into themselves and think of themselves as separate from others. I have discussed this at length when talking about individualism. As a result, such people can never become involved in public matters without effort; their natural tendency is to leave these matters to the only visible and permanent representative of the community’s interests—that is, the State. Not only do they lack an inclination for public business, but they often have no time for it. Private life in democratic times is so busy, so restless, so full of desires and work, that hardly any energy or free time is left for public affairs. I am the last to argue these tendencies are irresistible—countering them is a main goal of this book. I merely maintain that today, a hidden force is nurturing them in people’s hearts, and unless checked, these tendencies will take over completely.

a
\[ See Appendix W.\]

I've also shown how the growing desire for comfort and the unstable nature of property lead democratic peoples to fear any violent upheaval. The love of public peace is often the only passion these nations retain, and it becomes stronger as other passions fade away. This naturally causes members of such a society to keep giving or yielding more rights to the central power, which alone appears interested in defending them—and itself—using the same means. Since no one is required to help his fellow men, and no one has much right to expect help from others, everyone is at the same time independent and powerless. These two qualities, which must always be considered together, inspire the democratic citizen with opposite tendencies. His independence fills him with self-reliance and pride among his peers, but his weakness makes him, from time to time, feel the need for help that he cannot expect from them, since they also are powerless and unsympathetic. In this situation, he instinctively turns to that imposing power which alone stands above the general level of insignificance. His needs, and especially his desires, keep reminding him of that power, until he finally sees it as the only necessary support for his own weakness. \*b This helps explain what we often see in democratic countries, where the very people who hate having superiors often submit calmly to a master, showing both their pride and their inclination to servitude.

b
\[ In democratic communities, only the central power is stable in its position and persistent in its actions. All members of society are constantly moving and changing. It is in the nature of all governments to try to expand their influence; thus, it is almost impossible for such a government not to succeed, because it acts with purpose and consistency on people whose situations, ideas, and desires are constantly shifting. Often, people themselves unknowingly strengthen the central power. Democratic times are full of experimentation, innovation, and risk-taking. In such periods, many individuals are involved in challenging or new ventures, pursued alone without concern for others. They may accept, as a principle, that public authority should not interfere in private matters, but, as an exception, each wants government help for his specific project, even though he wishes to limit it at all other times. If many people make an exception for a wide variety of purposes, the reach of central power grows in all directions, even as each person wants it restricted. In this way, a democratic government expands simply because it endures. Time is on its side; every event favors it; individual passions unknowingly help it. We can say that the older a democratic society is, the more centralized its government will become.\]

The dislike of privilege increases the rarer and less significant privileges become, so that democratic passions seem to burn brightest just when they have the least fuel. I have already explained this phenomenon. When all conditions are unequal, no single inequality is so obvious as to offend; but the slightest difference is offensive amid general uniformity. The more complete this uniformity, the more unbearable even a small difference becomes. So, it's natural that the desire for equality keeps increasing together with equality itself, feeding and growing stronger from its own progress. This never-ending, ever-renewed hostility, which turns a democratic people against the smallest privileges, is especially conducive to gradually concentrating all political rights in the hands of the state’s representative. The sovereign, being clearly and indisputably above all citizens, awakens no envy; each person feels he is only taking away from his equals what he gives to the ruler. A person in a democratic age is very reluctant to obey a neighbor who is his equal; he refuses to admit that such a person could be more capable than himself; he distrusts his neighbor’s fairness, envies his power, and likes to remind him often that they are both equally subject to the same authority. Every central power that follows its natural inclination supports the principle of equality, because equality makes it easier to extend, strengthen, and secure the influence of a central power.

Similarly, every central government favors uniformity: uniformity saves it from examining countless small details, which would need attention if rules had to fit people, rather than just fitting people to the rules. Thus, government likes what the citizens like and naturally dislikes what they dislike. These shared feelings, which unite the sovereign and every person in the community in the same conviction, create a quiet and enduring sympathy among them. The government's mistakes are forgiven because of its agreeable preferences; public trust is slow to disappear even when the government is excessive or mistaken, and returns with the slightest encouragement. Democratic nations often hate those who hold central power, but they always love the power itself.

So, through two different paths, I have arrived at the same outcome. I have shown that the principle of equality gives people the idea of a single, strong, uniform government, and that it also gives them a preference for such a government. Toward this sort of government, the nations of our era are moving. They are driven by a natural tendency in both mind and heart—and to reach this condition, it is enough that they do not actively resist. I believe that, in the coming democratic ages, individual independence and local freedom will only exist by artificial means, while centralization will be the natural form of government. \*c

c
\[ See Appendix X.\]

## Chapter IV: Of Certain Peculiar And Accidental Causes Which Either Lead A People To Complete Centralization Of Government, Or Which Divert Them From It

If all democratic nations are naturally inclined toward the centralization of government, they move toward this outcome in varying ways. This depends on particular circumstances that can either encourage or prevent the natural consequences of such a society—circumstances that are extremely numerous, though I will only discuss a few of them here. Among people who have long enjoyed freedom before gaining equality, the habits formed under free institutions somewhat resist the tendencies introduced by the principle of equality; and although the central government may expand its powers among such people, the individuals within that society will never entirely lose their independence. However, when equality of conditions arises among a people who have never known, or have long ceased to know, what freedom is (as is the case in much of continental Europe), the old habits of the nation are suddenly combined, by a kind of natural attraction, with the new attitudes and principles created by the new social state, and all powers seem to flow spontaneously to the center. These powers gather there with astonishing speed, and the State quickly reaches the height of its authority, while individuals allow themselves to fall just as quickly into weakness.

The English who emigrated three hundred years ago to establish a democratic commonwealth in the New World had all taken part in public affairs back in England; they were used to the jury system, freedom of speech and the press, personal liberty, the idea of rights, and the practice of asserting those rights. They brought to America these free institutions and strong customs, and these institutions shielded them against State overreach. Thus, for Americans, freedom is the ancient custom—equality is comparatively new. In Europe, it is the opposite: equality, introduced by absolute power and under the rule of monarchs, had already become embedded in the habits of nations long before the idea of freedom had even appeared.

I have stated that among democratic nations, the idea of government naturally appears as a single, central authority, and the idea of intermediate powers is unfamiliar to them. This is especially true for democratic nations that have achieved equality through violent revolution. When the classes that used to manage local affairs are suddenly swept away, and the confused mass that remains is not yet organized or experienced enough to handle these matters, the State alone seems capable of administering all details of government, and centralization becomes, so to speak, the unavoidable state of affairs. Napoleon is neither to be praised nor blamed for having concentrated nearly all administrative power in his own hands in France; after the abrupt fall of the nobility and the upper middle classes, these powers naturally ended up with him: it would have been nearly as hard for him to refuse them as to accept them. But the Americans never experienced similar necessities, having avoided revolution and governed themselves from the beginning, so they never needed to ask the State to act as their guardian, even temporarily. Thus, the growth of centralization in a democratic nation depends not just on the spread of equality, but on how that equality was established.

At the beginning of a major democratic revolution, when conflicts have just begun between the different social classes, the people try to centralize public administration in the government's hands to take local affairs away from the aristocracy. By the end of such a revolution, on the other hand, it is often the defeated aristocracy that tries to transfer all administration to the State, because they fear the tyranny of an equal and sometimes dominating people. So it is not always the same social class that seeks to expand government power; but as long as the democratic revolution continues, there is always a class—whether powerful in numbers or in wealth—that is driven, by particular passions or interests, to centralize public administration, apart from the general and permanent hatred among democratic peoples of being governed by their neighbors. It can currently be observed in England that the lower orders are working hard to destroy local independence and shift administration from all corners to the center, while the upper classes are trying to preserve administration within its traditional bounds. I dare to predict that, in time, the opposite will happen.

These observations help explain why the central authority is always stronger and individuals weaker in a democratic nation that has fought a long, difficult battle to achieve equality than in a democratic society where citizens have always been equal. The example of the Americans clearly demonstrates this. The people of the United States were never divided by legal privileges; they never knew the relationship of master and servant, and since they neither fear nor hate each other, they have never needed to call on a central power to manage their affairs. The American situation is unique: from England’s aristocracy, they inherited the idea of private rights and a taste for local freedom, and they have managed to keep both, because they have never had an aristocracy to oppose.

If education always helps people defend their independence, this is especially true in democratic ages. When everyone is equal, it is easy to establish a single, all-powerful government through mere instinct. But it requires much intelligence, knowledge, and skill to build and sustain secondary powers in such circumstances, and to create free associations amid individual independence and weakness—associations capable of resisting tyranny without undermining public order.

Therefore, the concentration of power and the weakening of individuals will rise in democratic nations not just as their equality increases, but also as their ignorance does. It’s true that in less developed societies, the government may also lack the sophistication necessary for despotism, just as the people lack the knowledge to resist it; but this does not have the same effect on both sides. However unsophisticated a democratic people may be, the central power that rules them is never completely lacking in education, because it quickly attracts to itself whatever learning exists in the country and, if needed, can look to other regions for help. Thus, in an ignorant and democratic nation, a striking difference soon develops between the ruler’s intellect and each subject’s. This makes it even easier for all power to be concentrated in the ruler’s hands: the State’s administrative reach is constantly expanding because only the State is seen as competent to manage national affairs. Aristocratic nations, no matter how unenlightened they may be, never produce this same situation, since learning is more equally shared between monarch and leading citizens.

The pacha who now rules Egypt found a population that was both very ignorant and very equal, and has used European science and expertise to govern them. As the ruler’s own capabilities are combined with the ignorance and democratic weakness of the subjects, complete centralization has been easily established, and the pacha has turned the country into his factory, and the people into his workers.

I believe extreme centralization ultimately weakens society, and over time, undermines the government itself; however, I do not deny that a centralized power can more easily accomplish major projects at a particular time and place. This is especially true of war, where success relies more on a nation’s ability to direct all its resources to a single goal than on how abundant those resources are. For this reason, it is mainly during wartime that nations wish—or need—to increase central government powers. All military geniuses prefer centralization, since it boosts their strength; and all who favor centralization are drawn to war, since it forces nations to place all their power in the government’s hands. Thus, the democratic tendency to constantly expand State privileges and reduce individual rights is much more rapid and consistent in democratic nations that, because of their situation, face frequent wars, than elsewhere.

I have shown how the fear of turbulence and the love of comfort gradually cause democratic nations to enhance the central government’s functions, as it seems the only power strong, enlightened, and safe enough to protect against anarchy. I would add that every factor that makes a democratic society unstable or uneasy increases this tendency, driving individuals to trade even more of their rights for peace. A people is never more willing to hand more functions to the central government than after a long, bloody revolution has stripped property from its owners, shaken faith, and filled the nation with strong hatreds, clashing interests, and warring factions. At such times, the passion for public tranquility becomes overwhelming, and people develop an excessive devotion to order.

I have already discussed several incidents that may encourage the centralization of power, but the main cause remains to be mentioned. The chief incidental factor that may draw all matters into the ruler’s hands in democratic countries is the background and disposition of the ruler himself. People who live in times of equality are naturally fond of central power and anxious to expand its privileges; but if that power clearly represents their interests and closely reflects their views, their confidence in it is limitless, and they feel that whatever they give to it, they are giving to themselves.

It is always harder and slower for administrative powers to flow to the center under monarchs still linked to the old aristocratic order than under new leaders, the products of popular achievement, whose origins, biases, and habits seem firmly tied to equality. I do not mean that monarchs of aristocratic background living in democratic times do not try to centralize; I believe they work toward it as much as anyone else. For them, equality’s main benefit is in that direction; but their chances are smaller, since the people usually obey only with reluctance, not eagerness. In democratic societies, centralization typically grows as the sovereign becomes less aristocratic. When an old royal family leads an aristocracy, their natural biases match those of the nobility, and the usual faults of aristocratic societies flourish unchecked. The opposite happens when a descendant of the nobility leads a democratic nation. By his upbringing and habits, the sovereign is always inclined toward ideas shaped by inequality, while the people always lean toward those formed by equality. In such times, citizens often attempt to restrain central power less out of fear of tyranny than to oppose aristocratic dominance, and defend their independence not just because they desire liberty, but especially because they are determined to protect equality. A revolution that overthrows an old royal house to elevate men of common origin at the head of a democratic people may temporarily weaken the central authority; but however chaotic such a revolution may first appear, its inevitable final outcome will be to strengthen and secure that authority. The most important requirement for successfully centralizing supreme power in a democratic community is to love equality—or at least convince others that you do. Thus, the art of despotism, once so complex, has been simplified, and is now reduced, in a sense, to a single principle.

## Chapter V: That Amongst The European Nations Of Our Time The Power Of Governments Is Increasing, Although The Persons Who Govern Are Less Stable

Reflecting on what has already been said, the reader may be surprised and concerned to realize that, in Europe, everything seems to contribute to the continuous expansion of government powers, while everything that possessed private independence has become weaker, more subordinate, and more insecure. The democratic nations of Europe possess all the broad and lasting tendencies that encourage Americans towards centralized government, and in addition, they face various secondary and occasional causes unfamiliar to Americans. It almost seems that every step towards equality leads them closer to despotism. And indeed, if we look around us, we will be convinced this is true. During the aristocratic ages that preceded our time, the sovereigns of Europe were deprived of or relinquished many of the inherent rights of their power. Less than a hundred years ago, in most European nations, many private individuals and corporations were independent enough to administer justice, raise and maintain troops, levy taxes, and sometimes even make or interpret the law. Now, the State has reclaimed these attributes as its own: in all affairs of government, the State allows no intermediary between itself and the people and generally manages people by its direct influence. I do not criticize this centralization of power; I merely point it out.

At the same time, Europe had many secondary authorities that represented local interests and managed local affairs. Most of these local bodies have already vanished; all are quickly heading either towards disappearance or total dependence. Across Europe, the privileges of the nobility, urban liberties, and the powers of provincial bodies are either destroyed or on the brink of destruction. In the last half-century, Europe has endured many revolutions and counter-revolutions, driving it in opposing directions. Yet all these upheavals share one result—they have shaken or eliminated secondary powers of government. The local privileges the French left intact in conquered territories ultimately fell to the policy of the princes who defeated the French. Those princes rejected all the innovations of the French Revolution except for centralization—that was the one principle they were willing to adopt. My point is that all these various rights, one by one taken from classes, corporations, and individuals in our time, have not led to new secondary powers formed on a more democratic foundation, but have always been concentrated in the hands of the sovereign. Everywhere, the State gains more direct control over even the lowest members of society, and a more exclusive authority to govern every detail of their lives. \*a Almost all charitable establishments in Europe were once managed by private people or corporations; now, almost all depend on the central government, and in many places, are administered by it directly. The State almost entirely undertakes to provide food for the hungry, help and shelter for the sick, work for the jobless, and takes upon itself the relief of every kind of suffering. Education, like charity, has in most countries become a national concern. The State receives, and often takes, the child from its mother's arms to place it in the care of officials: the State seeks to form the heart and mind of each generation. Uniformity dominates public education, as in everything else; diversity, and thus freedom, are vanishing daily. Nor do I hesitate to say that among nearly all Christian nations of our time, Catholic and Protestant alike, religion risks falling under government control. Not that rulers are eager to settle theological debates, but they increasingly take control over those who explain doctrine; they strip clergy of their property, pay them salaries, turn the influence of the priesthood to their own use, make clergy into their ministers and often their servants, and through alliance with religion, reach the very depths of the human soul. \*b

a
\[ This gradual weakening of individuals in relation to society at large can be observed in countless ways. As an example, consider the law of wills. In aristocracies, great respect was paid to a man's last wishes; this at times became almost superstitious among older European nations: the State's power, far from interfering with a dying man's whims, enforced even his slightest wishes, granting him continuing influence after death. But when the living weaken, the wishes of the dead lose respect: the scope is narrowed, and laws can override or limit them. In the Middle Ages, testamentary power was almost unlimited; among the present French, a man cannot even divide his fortune among his children without State intervention; having dictated a whole lifetime, the law insists on controlling its very final act.\]

b
\[ As the duties of central power grow, the number of public officials to carry out that power also increases. They form a nation within each nation, and since they share the government's stability, they increasingly take the place of an aristocracy.

Throughout most of Europe, the government rules in two ways: governing some people through their fear of its agents, and others through their hope of becoming agents themselves.\]

But this is only one side of the picture. Government authority has not only spread throughout existing sources of power, until those sources are unable to contain it, but it now encroaches on areas previously reserved for private independence. Many actions that once lay completely outside public administration's control are now subject to it, with their number steadily rising. In aristocratic nations, the supreme government usually limited itself to managing and overseeing matters directly connected to national honor; in all others, people were left to exercise free will. Such governments often ignored the point where the difficulties of private individuals threaten the community's well-being, or where preventing someone's ruin may sometimes be a matter of public importance. Democratic nations today lean toward the opposite extreme. Most rulers are not satisfied with governing people collectively: they seem to believe they are responsible for the individual actions and circumstances of every subject, as if they had promised to guide and instruct each one in the daily events of life, and to secure their happiness regardless of their consent. On the other hand, private persons increasingly view the supreme authority in the same way; they seek its help for every need and look to the administration as their mentor and guide.

I claim there is no country in Europe where public administration has not become not only more centralized, but also more intrusive and detailed: it interferes more in private matters than ever; it regulates more enterprises, even the smaller ones, and it obtains a firmer grip on, above, and around every private citizen—to help, to advise, and to compel them. Once, a sovereign lived off his land or tax revenue; today, his needs—and his power—have increased. What once called for a new tax now calls for a loan. Thus, the State gradually becomes the debtor of most wealthy citizens, centralizing huge sums of capital in its hands. Small fortunes are drawn in by another route. As social mixing and equality spread, the poor have more resources, education, and desires; they begin to think about improving their condition and, so, learn to save. These savings create countless small fortunes, slowly built from labor, that keep growing. But if left scattered, much of this money would earn no return. So, a philanthropic institution arose, which I believe will soon become one of our main political institutions. Well-meaning people began pooling the savings of the poor and investing them for interest. In some places, these organizations are still separate from the State; but almost everywhere they are tending to merge with government, and in some cases, government has taken over, handling the massive job of collecting in one place and investing, on its own responsibility, the daily savings of countless workers. So the State attracts the rich's wealth by loans, and the poor man's small savings through savings banks. The nation's wealth continuously circulates through government hands; the total increases along with equality, for in a democracy, people trust the State alone because it alone seems strong and permanent. \*c As a result, the government is no longer just managing the public treasury; it intervenes in private finances; it is superior, even master, over all members of society, and, beyond that, becomes their caretaker and paymaster.

c
\[ On one side, the desire for material well-being keeps growing; on the other, the government takes more and more control of the sources of that well-being. Thus, people follow two paths to servitude: their concern for their own welfare keeps them from participating in government, and their love of well-being binds them more tightly to their rulers.\]

The central power not only assumes all the functions once discharged by various authorities—expanding and even exceeding them—but it also performs its tasks with greater speed, strength, and independence than ever before. The governments of Europe have greatly improved administrative science: they tackle more tasks and perform all with greater order, swiftness, and lower cost; apparently, they are enriched by pouring into themselves all the experience previously belonging to private persons. Each day, Europe's rulers exercise stricter control over subordinates, finding new ways to command and monitor them with less effort. Not content with simply having agents execute its will, government strives to control everything those agents do; so public administration depends not just on a single power but increasingly resides in one place and one set of hands. Government centralizes its administration as it broadens its powers—resulting in a twofold increase in strength.

If we look at the old judicial systems in most European nations, two things stand out—the independence of the judiciary and the breadth of its authority. Not only did the courts settle most disputes between private people, but in many cases they also acted as arbitrators between private citizens and the State. I am not speaking here of political and administrative powers that some courts usurped, but of the regular judicial role common to all. In most European countries, there were, and there still are, many private rights—mostly tied to property—that were protected by the courts and could not be violated by the State without their approval. This semi-political authority distinguished European judiciary from the courts of other nations: all countries have judges, but not all grant judges such powers. Now, among the free, as well as the other, democratic European nations, new, more dependent courts appear alongside the old, specifically to handle, via special jurisdiction, cases between government and private persons. The older judiciary keeps its independence, but its authority shrinks; and there is a growing movement to make it judge only private interests. The number and jurisdiction of these special courts steadily grow. Thus, the government is more and more free from having its policies and claims scrutinized by another authority. Judges cannot be entirely eliminated, so at least the State appoints them and always keeps them under control; so, between government and individuals, they place the image of justice rather than justice itself. The State isn't satisfied with absorbing all affairs; it also gains more power to decide everything, without oversight or appeal. \*d

d
\[ A peculiar argument has cropped up in France. When a dispute arises between the government and a private person, they should not be judged by an ordinary court—so it's said—in order not to mix administrative and judicial authority; as if this isn't precisely the most dangerous mixture, to let the government both administer and judge at the same time.\]

There is, among modern European nations, one major factor—apart from those already mentioned—that constantly works to strengthen the reach and authority of central power, though not often noted: I mean the growth of industry, encouraged by social equality. Manufacturing tends to bring many people together in one place, giving rise to new and complex relationships. Their work exposes them to wild swings between abundance and destitution, and this threatens public order. It also sometimes endangers the health and even lives of those in such trades and of those who depend upon them. Thus, manufacturing classes need more regulation and supervision than others, so it is only natural that as these classes expand, so does the power of government.

This is a general rule; what follows specifically concerns European nations. In earlier centuries, the aristocracy owned the land and could defend it: landed property was surrounded by strong protections, and landowners were highly independent. This produced laws and customs that have lasted, despite the breakup of estates and the decline of the nobility; even now, landowners and farmers still find it easy to escape government control. In those aristocratic times—the roots of our histories—personal property was insignificant, and its holders were despised and weak: the manufacturing class was an exception, a small, isolated group, without patrons—not well protected, and often unable to protect itself.

So, a tradition arose of viewing manufacturing property as somehow different, not deserving the same respect or the same protections as other property; and manufacturers were seen as a minor class whose independence mattered little, and who could be left to the disciplinary instincts of rulers. A look through medieval legal codes reveals this: it's surprising, in those times of personal independence, just how heavily royal regulations burdened even the small details of manufacturing: in this respect, centralization was already as vigorous and detailed as it could be. Since those days, a huge shift has occurred; manufacturing property, once just beginning, now covers Europe: the manufacturing class has grown, enriched by people from other ranks; it is growing and constantly growing in numbers, importance, and wealth. Almost everyone not in it is at least connected to it in some way; once an exception, it now threatens to become the primary, maybe the only, class. Still, the old attitudes and precedents persist. They remain, partly from their age, and partly because they fit perfectly with the new ways of thinking and living found among our contemporaries. In other words, manufacturing property does not gain more rights as it becomes more significant. As manufacturing classes grow, they do not become more independent but instead seem to foster despotism, which grows with them. \*e As nations become more involved in manufacturing, the need for roads, canals, ports, and other public or semi-public works—tools for accumulating wealth—becomes acute; and as people grow more democratic, individuals become less able, and the State more able, to undertake such vast projects. I confidently claim that the clear trend among all modern governments is to take these projects into their own hands alone; thereby, they daily draw the governed population into deeper dependence.

e
\[ A few examples back up this point. Mines are the natural source of manufacturing wealth: as manufacturing expands in Europe, as mines become more significant, and as mining gets harder because of property subdivision, a result of growing equality, most governments now claim the right to own the land containing mines and to supervise mining; this has never been true of other forms of property. Thus mines, which were once private, subject to the same obligations and protected by the same guarantees as land, now fall under State control. The government works or leases them; owners are mere tenants, deriving their rights from the State; the State, for its part, claims authority over mining itself: it sets rules, require certain techniques, keeps close watch over miners, and if they are disobedient, ejects them by judicial process and transfers their contract to others; the State thus not only controls the mines, but also those who work them. Nevertheless, as industry grows, more old mines are opened, new ones are dug, the mining population increases; daily, governments expand their “subterranean dominions” and fill them with their officials.\]

Also, as State power grows and its needs increase, the government itself consumes more manufactured goods, mostly produced in its own factories or arsenals. In every country, therefore, the ruler becomes the main manufacturer; he recruits and holds large numbers of engineers, architects, mechanics, and workers. Not only is he the chief manufacturer, but increasingly the master over all others. As individuals lose power by becoming more equal, they can accomplish little alone in industry; naturally, the government tries to control these necessary combinations.

It must be admitted that these collective bodies—these combinations—are indeed stronger and more formidable than any individual, and bear less personal responsibility; so it may seem reasonable that such large groups should not have as much independence from central authority as a private person might.

Rulers are all the more inclined to follow this policy because it matches their desires. In democratic nations, only through association can the people resist the government; so governments always distrust associations outside their power. It’s especially notable that in such nations, the people themselves often secretly fear or resent these associations, making them less likely to support even the institutions they need most. The longevity and stability of these smaller private groups, amid the general instability and weakness of the population, shock and alarm people; their very freedom in using their corporate powers seems, to some, a dangerous privilege. All associations that arise in our era are newly formed corporations without tradition; they are born at a time when belief in private rights is weak and governmental power is immense; it should not surprise us, then, that they lose their liberty at birth. All across Europe, the formation of some types of associations is not permitted unless the State examines and approves their statutes and authorizes their existence. In many other countries, this policy is being expanded to encompass all associations; if such a policy succeeded, the outcome is predictable. If the sovereign were once granted the general authority to approve any association on certain terms, soon he would also claim the right to supervise and manage them, to ensure that they follow his rules. In this way, having made all aspiring associations dependent, the State could then reduce to the same dependence everyone already belonging to existing associations—in effect, nearly all current citizens. Governments thereby seize and profit from much of the new power created by manufacturing interests in our era. Manufacturers govern us—they even govern the industry itself.

I consider these observations so important that I worry I may have sacrificed some clarity in trying to make my meaning plain. If the reader feels that my examples are weak or poorly chosen—or that I have overstated the growth of state power, while neglecting the remaining space for individual freedom—I urge him to put down the book for a moment and reflect on the issues I have raised. Let him carefully consider what is happening in France and elsewhere; let him speak with others; let him examine his own experiences, and I am sure he will, without my guidance and by his own path, reach the same conclusions I have tried to draw. He will see that, over the last half-century, centralization has increased everywhere in countless ways. War, revolution, conquest have all aided it: everyone, whatever their specific goals, has worked to advance it. Over the same period, leaders have changed rapidly, their ideas and passions have varied greatly—but all, in some form, have contributed to centralization. This instinctive centralization has been the only constant amid all of life's instability and mental restlessness.

If, after such close consideration of the details of society, the reader surveys the whole landscape, the outcome is striking. On one hand, the oldest dynasties have been shaken or toppled; everywhere, people rebel against their own rulers and laws—abolishing or limiting their authority; even in nations not in open revolution, unrest and agitation are the norm—all driven by the same spirit of rebellion. On the other hand, in this very period of disorder, among these untamable nations, government powers keep growing—becoming more centralized, more daring, more absolute, more encompassing; people slipping ever further under administrative control; gradually yielding up more of their individual liberty, until those who sometimes overthrow rulers and dynasties bow ever more humbly to the merest bureaucrat. Thus, we now see two apparently opposite revolutions; one continually weakening supreme power, the other continually strengthening it: there has never been a time when it was so feeble or so mighty. Yet, a closer look shows these two processes are closely linked, have the same origin, and, following diverging courses, end in the same place. I repeat what I have already stated or suggested in this book: take care not to confuse the principle of equality with the revolution that finally installs that principle in a nation's society and laws—this explains almost all the paradoxes that surprise us. All old European political institutions, from the greatest to the smallest, were created in aristocratic ages and, to some degree, represented and protected inequality and privilege. In order to bring the new demands and interests, inspired by equality, to power, our contemporaries had to overthrow or constrain established authorities. This led to revolutions and fed the harsh passion for unrest and independence typical of all revolutions. I doubt there is a European country where the advance of equality has not been either preceded or followed by violent upheavals in property or status; almost all such upheavals brought great disorder and license, because they were led by the least cultured parts of society against the most cultured. Hence come the two opposing tendencies I've described. While the democratic revolution was burning hot, those intent on destroying old, aristocratic powers stubbornly defended independence; but as equality advanced and prevailed, people gradually submitted to the impulses natural to such equality and consolidated government power. They sought freedom as a means to achieve equality; but as equality took hold through freedom, freedom itself became harder to obtain.

Sometimes, both states exist at once: the previous generation in France showed how a nation could set up overwhelming tyranny even as it broke the nobility and defied every monarch—teaching the world both how to gain freedom and how to lose it. In our time, people see established powers decaying everywhere—all ancient authority dying, all old barriers falling, and even the wisest are disturbed by this sight. They focus only on the spectacular revolution before their eyes and imagine the world to be on the brink of constant anarchy. But if they considered the lasting results of this revolution, their fears might take a new form. As for me, I admit I have no faith in the supposed spirit of liberty among my contemporaries. I see that nations in our age are unruly, but I do not clearly see they are free; and I fear that, when the upheavals that now shake thrones are over, sovereign power may be stronger than it has ever been.

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

During my time in the United States, I observed that a democratic society like America's could offer unique opportunities for establishing despotism. On returning to Europe, I saw how many of our rulers had already made use of the ideas, sentiments, and needs generated by this social condition to expand their own power. This led me to think that the nations of Christendom might eventually experience a kind of oppression similar to that which afflicted some ancient peoples. Further study and five more years of reflection have not lessened my concerns, but they have shifted my focus. No ruler in the past was ever so absolute or powerful as to attempt, on his own, to manage all parts of a great empire without relying on intermediary authorities. None ever tried to subject all his subjects indiscriminately to strict and uniform regulations, or personally to guide every aspect of their lives. The idea never occurred to anyone; and even if someone had thought of it, the lack of information, the limitations of administration, and, above all, the natural barriers created by social inequality, would quickly have made such a plan impossible. Even at the height of Roman imperial power, the empire’s various nations maintained a diversity of customs and manners. Despite common subjection to the emperor, most provinces were administered locally and had vibrant municipal governments. While the emperor held ultimate authority in all matters, the details of daily social and private life generally lay outside his control. The emperors certainly wielded huge and unchecked power, allowing them to indulge their whims by using the resources of the state. They often used this power arbitrarily, taking property or even life from their subjects. Their tyranny weighed heavily on a few, but rarely affected the majority; it was concentrated on a limited number of goals and overlooked the rest. It was violent, but its reach was confined.

Yet it seems that if despotism were to arise among modern democratic nations, it would take a different form: it would be more widespread, yet milder; it would degrade people without tormenting them. I do not doubt that in an age of education and equality like ours, rulers could more easily concentrate political power and interfere with private interests than any ruler of the past. But the very principle of equality that makes despotism easier also softens its harshness. As society becomes more equal and similar, manners also become gentler. When no one has much wealth or power, tyranny finds fewer opportunities or reasons to act. Limited fortunes naturally restrain people’s passions—their imaginations are checked, their pleasures are simple. This collective moderation tempers even the sovereign, restraining the excessive scope of his ambitions.

Besides these factors related to the social order itself, I could add other reasons beyond the scope of this discussion; but I will not go beyond my chosen limits. Democratic governments may act violently, even cruelly, at certain times of extreme emotion or grave danger—but such episodes are rare and brief. When I consider the tame passions of our era, the politeness of contemporary manners, widespread education, sincere religion, an ethical morality, steady industriousness, and the restraint most people exercise in all things, I do not fear tyrants among our rulers so much as I fear guardians. \*a I think the kind of oppression democratic nations face is entirely new: our contemporaries will find nothing quite like it in their collective memory. I have searched for a term that precisely captures what I mean, but the old words “despotism” and “tyranny” don't quite fit—the thing itself is new; since I cannot name it, I must define it.

a
\[ See Appendix Y.\]

I want to describe the new form that despotism might take in our world. The first thing I notice is a countless number of people, all equal and similar, constantly seeking small comforts to fill their lives. Each lives alone, essentially indifferent to the fate of others—his family and close friends are his whole world; as for the rest of his countrymen, though he is near, he neither sees nor feels them—he exists for himself and only himself; and if he has not lost his family, he has at least lost his sense of country. Above this population stands a vast, protective power that alone assumes responsibility for their happiness and looks after their fate. This power is absolute, detailed, orderly, providential, and gentle. It would resemble parental authority, if its purpose were to prepare people for adulthood; but instead, it seeks to keep them in everlasting childhood: it is satisfied as long as the people are happy, as long as they think about nothing but being happy. This government works for their happiness, but insists on being its only agent and judge—it ensures their safety, foresees and satisfies their needs, enables their pleasures, manages their main affairs, directs their industries, controls the inheritance of property, and divides their estates—what’s left but to relieve them of the burden of thought and of living? Step by step, it makes the exercise of human free will less necessary and less common; it narrows each person's will, slowly robbing individuals of the habit of using themselves. The idea of equality prepares people for all this—it readies them to endure it, and often to see such interference as a benefit.

After having firmly taken hold of each person and shaped them at will, this supreme power extends itself over the entire society. It blankets society in a web of complicated, uniform, detailed rules, through which even the most original minds and energetic spirits cannot break free or rise above the crowd. Human will isn’t crushed, but softened, bent, and guided: people are rarely forced to act, but regularly prevented from acting. This power doesn't destroy, but prevents life itself from flourishing; it does not tyrannize, but suppresses, weakens, stifles, and dulls a people, until each nation comes to resemble a herd of timid, industrious animals—with the government as their shepherd. I have always believed that the kind of regular, peaceful, and gentle servitude I describe could easily coexist with some outward forms of liberty; indeed, it could even grow alongside popular sovereignty. People today are forever torn between two opposing feelings: they want guidance, but they also want freedom. Unable to destroy either tendency, they try to satisfy both at once. They invent a sole, protective, immensely powerful government, elected by the people. They combine centralization with popular sovereignty, comforting themselves during their tutelage with the thought that they chose their guardians. Every man accepts being led, because it's the people, not a person or a class, who holds his leash. By doing so, people shake off their dependency just long enough to pick their leader, and then fall back into it again. Many today are satisfied with this compromise between administrative despotism and popular sovereignty; they believe they have defended individual freedom simply by surrendering it to the nation as a whole. This does not satisfy me: it matters less to me whom I must obey than the fact that this obedience is forced.

I do not deny that such a constitution seems far better than one that, after concentrating all powers, places them in the hands of an unaccountable person or elite. Of all the possible forms of democratic despotism, that would be the worst. If the sovereign is elected, or closely monitored by a truly representative, independent legislature, his oppression of individuals may sometimes be greater, but it is always less degrading; when one is disarmed and subdued, one may at least imagine that in submitting, he is submitting to his own choice, and that it is one of his own motives that leads all the rest. Likewise, when the sovereign represents the nation and depends upon the people, the rights and power each person loses go not only to the state leader, but to the nation itself; private citizens receive something in return for sacrificing their independence to the public good. Creating representation in any centralized country, then, actually lessens—but does not eliminate—the harm extreme centralization may cause. I admit this gives people a say in the most important affairs; but not in the smaller, private ones. We must not forget: it is especially dangerous to enslave people in the small details of everyday life. Personally, I believe freedom is less necessary in important matters than in minor ones, if one could have the former without the latter. Submission in everyday matters appears constantly, and affects everyone equally. It does not provoke resistance, but hinders people at every step, until they simply give up using their will. Their spirit fades and their characters become weak; whereas obedience demanded only on rare, significant occasions merely highlights servitude and burdens only a few. It’s useless to ask a people, rendered dependent on a central power, to occasionally choose the representatives of that power; this rare and brief exercise of free choice, while important, will not stop them from gradually losing the capacity to think, feel, and act for themselves, and thus slowly falling below the standard of humanity. \*b I add, they will soon be unable even to exercise the last remaining privilege. Democratic nations that have embraced political freedom while expanding administrative despotism have fallen into strange contradictions. For minor tasks requiring only good sense, the people are considered unfit; but for governing the country, they are granted enormous powers. They are alternately treated as their ruler’s playthings and as rulers themselves—more than kings, less than men. After exhausting all their electoral systems without satisfaction, they remain bewildered and eager to try again, as if the flaw lay with the system of elections rather than the political structure itself. It's hard to imagine how people with no habit of self-government could effectively choose their rulers; and it will never be believed that a truly liberal, wise, and energetic government can spring from the votes of a subservient people. A constitution with a republican head and ultra-monarchical parts seems to me an unnatural hybrid soon doomed to fail. The rulers' vices and the people’s incompetence would quickly destroy it; and the nation, tired of both its representatives and itself, would soon seek freer institutions or accept again the rule of a single master.

b
\[ See Appendix Z.\]

## Chapter VII: Continuation Of The Preceding Chapters

I believe it's easier to establish absolute, despotic government among people whose society is equal than among any other, and that if such a government took root among them, it would not only oppress, but eventually rob them of many of the noblest human qualities. Despotism, therefore, seems especially to be feared in democratic times. I think I would have cherished liberty at all periods, but in our own time I almost revere it. Conversely, I am convinced that anyone who tries—now or in the coming age—to ground liberty on aristocratic privilege will fail; so will anyone who tries to keep authority within a single class. Today, no ruler is clever or strong enough to found a despotism by reintroducing permanent social ranks; no lawmaker is wise or powerful enough to preserve liberty unless he makes equality his first principle and primary goal. Anyone now seeking to establish or defend human dignity and independence must show themselves friends of equality—and the only true way to do so is to be such themselves: without this, their cause is lost. So the challenge is not how to rebuild aristocracy, but how to create liberty from within the democratic society in which God has placed us.

These two insights seem clear and full of consequences; they lead directly to considering what form of free government can be built among those who live in equality. The very nature of democratic nations and their needs require that their governments be more uniform, more centralized, more wide-reaching, more vigilant, and more vigorous than elsewhere. Society at large is stronger and more active, individuals more subordinate and weaker; this is inevitable. Therefore, private independence should not be expected to be as broad in democratic as in aristocratic societies—nor should it be. In aristocracies, the community is often sacrificed for the few, the many for the greatness of the few. In democracy, it’s both necessary and desirable that government be active and powerful; our aim should be not to weaken it, but merely to prevent abuse of its capability and strength.

What most protected personal independence in aristocratic times was that supreme power did not claim sole authority over all government and administration. Such duties were necessarily shared with members of the aristocracy, preventing government from pressing equally and wholly upon every individual. Not only did government not do everything directly, but most of the officials executing its functions derived their authority not from the state, but from birth—they could not instantly be removed or bent to the government’s every wish. This protected private independence. I agree we cannot use the same methods today, but I see democratic alternatives. Rather than giving all administrative power, taken from former corporations and nobles, to government alone, some can be entrusted to local public bodies, temporarily elected from among private citizens. In this way, private freedom will be safer, and equality sustained.

Americans, less attached to labels than the French, still call their largest administrative district a "county": yet the county’s previous noble or lord-like role is partly carried out by a local assembly. In our era of equality, hereditary officers would be unjust and irrational, but nothing prevents us from using elective offices as a substitute. Election is a democratic safeguard, ensuring the independence of officials from the government, equal to—or even greater than—hereditary rank among aristocrats. Aristocracies have many wealthy, powerful individuals capable of protecting themselves from oppression: their very presence moderates government. I know democratic countries lack such people by nature, but something like them can be artificially created. An aristocracy may not return, but private citizens can unite and form powerful associations with influence and wealth, much like the persons who composed the aristocracy. Such associations—formed for political, commercial, industrial, scientific, or literary purposes—are strong, informed members of the community, not easily suppressed, who defend their rights against government overreach, thus safeguarding everyone's liberty.

In aristocratic ages, every man was closely bound to many others, always able to count on their assistance when threatened. In democratic times, every person stands alone, without inherited allies or a class to rely on—easily isolated, easily trampled. Today, an oppressed individual has only one recourse: appeal to the nation; and if the nation won’t listen, appeal to humanity. The only way to do this is through a free press. This makes press freedom far more valuable in democracies than anywhere else; it's the only reliable remedy for the ills that equality creates. Equality isolates and weakens people; but the press gives even the weakest of them a powerful weapon. Equality breaks social ties; but the press lets every person call the nation—and humanity—to their aid. Printing sped the spread of equality, and is also its best corrective.

In aristocracies, people might get by without press freedom; but in democracies, this is impossible. To protect independence, I do not rely on legislative assemblies, parliamentary rights, or popular sovereignty. All these can, to some extent, coexist with personal servitude; but no servitude is complete where the press is free: the press is democracy’s chief instrument for preserving freedom.

Judicial power is similar. The essence of the judicial authority is to guard private interests and deal mainly with the detailed, personal cases brought before it; another core quality is that the courts respond only to those who appeal for help—however humble—ensuring even the weakest are heard and can demand justice. This kind of power is especially suited for freedom when government’s gaze and control reach into every detail of daily life, and private citizens are too weak and isolated to protect themselves. Judicial independence has always been a strong guarantee of personal freedom; even more so as equality spreads and puts private rights at greater risk.

Equality creates some impulses dangerous to freedom, which the legislator must always address. Let me mention the most important. People living in democracies instinctively dislike formalities; they have a natural disdain for them—I have discussed the reasons elsewhere. Their urge for immediate gratification makes them hate anything that delays, and this spills over into a dislike of political or legal forms. Yet this very impatience is why forms are useful for liberty; their main merit is as a barrier between strong and weak, government and people—to check the powerful and give the weak time to react. Forms become ever more necessary as government grows active and strong and private people become more idle and weak. So, democratic societies need forms more than other societies, but are also less likely to respect them. This is a grave problem. Nothing is sadder than the current dismissive attitude toward questions of form; today, even the smallest point of form has become vital, with enormous human interests at stake. Statesmen of aristocracies could sometimes ignore forms safely; leaders today must respect even the smallest, except in cases of real necessity. In earlier times, form was a superstition; now, it should be observed with rational and thoughtful care.

Another very natural and very dangerous tendency among democracies is to disregard the rights of individuals. The respect people have for a right usually matches its importance or how long they have enjoyed it. In democracies, individual rights are often minor, new, and fragile—so they are often sacrificed without regret and violated without remorse. Ironically, while people come to devalue private rights, the rights of the community are expanding and solidifying. Just when it matters most to defend private rights, people lose interest in what little remains. So, in these times, true friends of human liberty must always guard against government too readily sacrificing private rights to public projects. No person is so unimportant that it's safe to oppress them; no individual right so minor that it can be given up without risk. If a private right is violated when society highly values such rights, harm is limited to one person; but if such rights are undermined today, the national character is corrupted and everyone is put in danger, because the very idea of personal rights is always at risk of disappearing.

There are habits, ideas, and vices unique to times of revolution, and any prolonged revolution will breed and spread them, no matter its purpose, character, or location. When a nation frequently changes rulers, principles, and laws, the people develop a taste for change and a habit of seeing violent upheaval as normal. They soon despise forms that fail during such times and grow impatient with constraints they've often seen broken. As conventional morality and fairness seem inadequate to justify unending innovation, people turn to the concept of public utility and political necessity, accustoming themselves to sacrificing and violating private interests for the sake of public projects.

These revolutionary habits crop up just as much in aristocracies as in democracies, but in aristocracies they are usually less powerful and less enduring because they encounter counterbalancing habits and traditions; they tend to vanish once the revolution ends and normal political life resumes. In democratic societies, though, there is always the danger that such revolutionary habits, becoming more gentle and regular, will persist and turn into habits of submission to government authority. There is nowhere revolutions are more dangerous than in democracies; besides their immediate harm, they may create permanent evils. I believe there are times when resistance and even rebellion are justified; so I do not say people in democratic times should never revolt. But they should be especially cautious before doing so; it is usually better to bear many faults than to resort to such a dangerous cure.

I end with one general idea, which includes not only all those expressed in this chapter but most of what this book explores. In aristocratic ages, powerful private individuals existed and the authority of society as a whole was weak. Society’s boundaries were blurred, always mixed up with the various powers ruling it. The main efforts back then were to strengthen and secure central authority, and to restrict personal freedom for the public good. Other dangers await modern man. Among most contemporary nations, government—whatever its laws or origins—has grown almost all-powerful, while private citizens are becoming increasingly weak and dependent. In the past, society was fragmented—unity and uniformity were rare. Now, everything is in danger of becoming so alike that individual character will soon disappear entirely in the general sameness. Our predecessors overvalued the idea that private rights must be respected; we are naturally inclined, instead, to believe private rights must always yield to the community. The political world is transformed: new remedies are needed for new problems. The main goal for lawmakers now should be to set broad, clear limits on government; to guarantee individuals fixed rights and secure their free exercise; to help individuals maintain whatever independence and personality they still have; to raise them up alongside the larger society and help hold them there. Too often, today's rulers seem to use men only to make great things; I wish they would focus more on making great people—valuing the person above the collective work, never forgetting that a nation cannot remain strong unless its individual citizens are strong, and that no system has ever created a robust people from a mass of timid and weakened citizens.

Among our contemporaries I see two equally dangerous errors. Some see only anarchy in equality; they fear their own agency. Others—fewer, but more discerning—see another path: that equality can also lead to inevitable servitude. They prepare themselves in spirit for this doom, bowing inwardly to the coming master. The first abandon liberty because they fear it is dangerous; the second, because they believe it is impossible. If I shared the latter belief, I would not have written this book but mourned in secret for humanity. I have tried to expose the dangers equality poses for human independence because I truly believe these dangers are both the greatest and least obvious of all those ahead; but I do not think them unbeatable. People living in the coming democratic age naturally love independence, dislike regulation, and tire even of the conditions they themselves choose. They love power, but soon despise or even hate anyone who wields it, easily eluding control by their own unpredictability and insignificance. These instincts will persist, because they are rooted in unchanging social facts; for a long time, they will block the growth of despotism and provide future generations with new tools for defending liberty. So let us face the future with that healthy fear that keeps people vigilant for freedom—not with that hopeless, paralyzing dread that weakens the heart.

## Chapter VIII: General Survey Of The Subject

Before I bring to a close the subject that has held my attention for so long, I would like to take a final look at the various features of modern society, and try at last to evaluate the overall influence that the principle of equality will have on the fate of humanity. Yet, I am halted by the difficulty of this undertaking; confronted with such a vast subject, my vision becomes clouded and my reasoning falters. The society of the modern world that I have tried to describe, and that I wish to assess, has only just come into existence. Time has not yet formed it into its final shape: the great revolution that brought it about is still ongoing, and amid the events of our time, it is almost impossible to tell what will fade away with the revolution, and what will last beyond it. The emerging world remains half-burdened by the remnants of the old world fading into decay; amid this complex situation, no one can say how much of the old institutions and former customs will endure, or how much will vanish completely. Although the revolution in social structure, laws, opinions, and feelings is far from finished, its outcomes already have no comparison in history. If I look back through the ages to the most distant past, I find nothing akin to what is happening before me: the past no longer illuminates the future, and the mind wanders in darkness. Still, within a scene so broad, new, and unclear, some prominent features can be identified. The benefits and hardships of life are now more equally distributed: massive fortunes tend to disappear, while the number of modest ones grows; desires and satisfactions multiply, but both extreme wealth and hopeless poverty are rare. Ambition is universal, yet its scope is rarely vast. Each person stands alone in their weakness, but society as a whole is active, prudent, and powerful: individual achievements are minor, while those of the State are great. There is little strength of character; but customs are gentle, and laws are humane. If there are few cases of great heroism or the highest virtues, people live orderly lives, violence is rare, and cruelty is nearly absent. Lives are longer, property is safer: life is not adorned with dazzling achievements, but it is exceptionally comfortable and peaceful. Few pleasures are either highly refined or very crude; polished manners are as uncommon as brutal tastes. There are neither communities of great scholars nor entirely ignorant groups; genius is rarer, information more widespread. Progress is driven less by a few extraordinary individuals than by the collective efforts of all. There is less perfection but greater abundance in artistic creations. The bonds of ethnicity, status, and nationality are loosening; the great unifier is humanity itself. If I try to identify the most broad and striking feature among all these, I see that what happens in people’s fortunes echoes in many other ways. Nearly all extremes are softened or rounded off: all that once stood out is replaced by something more average—neither as high nor as low, as brilliant nor as obscure, as what previously existed.

When I see this countless mass of people, all resembling one another, among whom nothing stands out or falls behind, the vision of such widespread uniformity leaves me saddened, and I am tempted to long for the society that is gone. When the world abounded with those of great prominence and obscurity, of vast wealth and dire poverty, of great wisdom and profound ignorance, I would turn my eyes away from the latter and focus on the former alone who inspired my sympathies. But I know that this pleasure was rooted in my own limitations: I can only focus on a few objects at a time, choosing and separating what pleases me from everything else. This is not the perspective of the almighty and eternal Being whose gaze encompasses all creation and who sees clearly, all at once, both mankind and each individual. It is reasonable to believe that it is the increased well-being of everyone—not just the exceptional fortune of a few—that most delights the Creator and Sustainer of humanity. What looks like decline to me is, in His view, progress; what grieves me is welcomed by Him. A state of equality may be less lofty, yet it is more just; and its justice is its greatness and beauty. I will try, then, to elevate my perspective to this divine viewpoint, and from there judge human affairs.

No one on earth can yet conclusively declare that the new global order is better than the previous one; but it is already clear that it is different. Certain strengths and weaknesses belonged inherently to aristocratic societies and are completely opposed to the spirit of modern ones; these cannot be adopted by the latter. Likewise, some positive tendencies and negative inclinations that were unknown before are natural to today's world; certain ideas come easily to one group that are foreign to the other's mindset. These are two distinct orders of society, each with their own strengths and faults, benefits and harms. Therefore, we must not judge the new society by standards from the old society, as their structures are too different for a fair comparison. Nor would it be right to demand from our contemporaries the special virtues that arose from their ancestors’ social structure, now fallen, and which has dragged both its good and bad aspects down with it.

But this is not yet fully understood. Many of my contemporaries try to pick and choose from institutions, ideas, and opinions born in the aristocratic order; they would willingly give up some, and keep others, wishing to transplant them into their new world. I believe such efforts, though well-meant, are wasted and fruitless. The goal should not be to hold onto the unique benefits of inequality, but to secure the new gains brought by equality. Our aim should not be to make ourselves like our ancestors, but to pursue a kind of greatness and happiness that is our own. Standing now at the furthest point of my study, and seeing from a distance the various topics I have looked at closely along the way, I am filled with both concern and hope. I see great dangers that might be prevented—serious problems that might be avoided or eased; and I hold strongly to the belief that if democratic nations wish to be virtuous and successful, they need only choose it. I know many contemporaries insist that nations are never truly their own masters, that they inevitably submit to some irresistible, thoughtless force coming from their past, their origins, or their land and climate. Such ideas are false and defeatist; they produce only weak individuals and cowardly nations. Providence has not made humanity entirely independent or entirely free. Each of us is surrounded by an unavoidable boundary we cannot cross; but inside that boundary, we are strong and free: as with individuals, so with societies. The nations of our age cannot prevent social conditions from becoming equal; but it is up to them whether equality leads to tyranny or freedom, to enlightenment or ignorance, to prosperity or misery.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## APPENDIX TO PARTS I. AND II.

## Part I.

## Appendix A

For information about all the regions of the West not visited by Europeans, see the account of two expeditions sponsored by Congress under Major Long. This explorer specifically notes, regarding the great American desert, that a line can be drawn almost parallel to the 20th degree of longitude \*a (meridian of Washington), starting at the Red River and ending at the Platte River. Between this line and the Rocky Mountains—which border the Mississippi Valley on the west—stretch vast plains, nearly all of which are sandy, uncultivable, or dotted with masses of granite. In summer, these plains are almost waterless, inhabited only by herds of buffalo and wild horses. Some groups of Native Americans live there, but not in large numbers. Major Long was told that if you travel north from the Platte, this same desert stretches endlessly to your left, but he could not confirm this. However trustworthy Major Long’s account may be, it must be remembered that he merely passed through the region, sticking closely to his route.

a
\[ The 20th degree of longitude, according to the Washington meridian, is nearly the same as the 97th degree on the Greenwich meridian.\]

## Appendix B

South America, especially in the tropics, overflows with climbing plants, and the flora of the Antilles alone contains forty different species. One of the most beautiful is the passion-flower, which, according to Descourtiz, grows so abundantly in the Antilles that it winds itself up trees using its tendrils, forming moving arbors of rich, graceful garlands adorned with blue and purple flowers and filled with fragrance. The Mimosa scandens (Acacia à grandes gousses) is another fast-growing, immense creeper, climbing from tree to tree and sometimes covering more than half a league.

## Appendix C

The languages spoken by Native Americans from the Arctic to Cape Horn are said to be built on the same model and follow the same grammatical rules. This suggests that all these tribes came from a common origin. Each tribe speaks a different dialect, but the number of distinct languages is very small, which suggests the peoples of the New World are not very ancient. American languages are also highly regular, which makes it likely that the tribes using them have not experienced major upheavals or been absorbed, willingly or not, by outside peoples. It is usually the merging of languages that produces irregular grammar. Serious study of American languages—especially those of the North—began not long ago, leading to the discovery that the languages of these so-called “barbarous” peoples were the result of a sophisticated system of ideas and clever combinations. These languages are actually very rich, and their inventors tried hard to make them pleasing to the ear. The American grammatical system is unique in many ways, especially in the following: Some European languages, such as German, can freely combine different expressions to produce complex meanings in single words. The Native Americans have greatly expanded this ability, enabling them to express many ideas in a single term. This is clearly shown by an example given by Mr. Duponceau in the “Memoirs of the Philosophical Society of America”: A Delaware woman playing with a cat or young dog is heard to say kuligatschis, which is composed as follows: k is the marker for the second person, meaning “you” or “your”; uli comes from wulit, meaning “beautiful,” “pretty”; gat is from wichgat, meaning “paw”; and schis is a diminutive meaning smallness. So, in one word, the woman says, “Your pretty little paw.” Another example of this creativity: a Delaware youth is called pilape. This is from pilsit, “chaste,” “innocent,” and lenape, “man”—that is, “man in his purity and innocence.” This flexibility is even more obvious in their verbs, where a single verb can cover a highly complex action and all its subtleties through changes in construction. Readers interested in more detail can consult:

1. The correspondence of Mr. Duponceau and Rev. Mr. Hecwelder on Indian languages, found in the first volume of the “Memoirs of the Philosophical Society of America,” published at Philadelphia, 1819, by Abraham Small; vol. i.

2. The “Grammar of the Delaware or Lenape Language” by Geiberger, with a preface by Mr. Duponceau, also in the same series, vol. iii.

3. An excellent review of these works contained at the end of volume six of the American Encyclopaedia.

## Appendix D

See in Charlevoix, vol. i., the account of the first war fought by the French settlers of Canada in 1610 against the Iroquois. The Iroquois, armed only with bows and arrows, put up fierce resistance to the French and their allies. Charlevoix, not a particularly vivid writer, still makes clear in these accounts the contrast between European customs and those of the Native Americans, as well as the different ways the two groups understood honor. When the French seized the beaver pelts covering the bodies of slain Indians, their Huron allies were deeply offended; but then they themselves proceeded to torture the prisoners with awful cruelty and even ate the corpse of one enemy, shocking the French. The Hurons prided themselves on a scrupulousness they were surprised to find lacking in the French, unable to see that stripping the dead was less objectionable than eating their flesh like animals. In another passage (vol. i.), Charlevoix describes the first torture Champlain witnessed, and the Hurons’ return home. After traveling about eight leagues, our allies stopped and singled out a captive, taunting him with the cruelties he had inflicted on their fallen warriors, promising him similar treatment. They told him to show his courage by singing if he had any. He immediately sang his death song, his war song, and every song he knew—“but very mournfully,” notes Champlain, who had not realized that all Native music is somber. The following tortures, with all their horror (more detail comes later), terrified the French, who tried to stop them but could not. The next night, after one Huron dreamed they were being pursued, their retreat turned into a frantic flight, which did not stop until they were safe. As they neared their own village, they made long sticks, attached their enemy scalps, and paraded them in triumph. At this, their wives swam out to the canoes, took the bloody trophies, and tied them around their necks. The warriors presented Champlain with one of the scalps, as well as some bows and arrows—the only Iroquois spoils they dared to grab—urging him to show these to the King of France. Champlain spent an entire winter alone among these Natives, without fear for his life or property.

## Appendix E

Although the strict Puritan principles that guided the founding of the English colonies in America have mostly faded, traces remain in both their customs and their laws. In 1792, at the exact moment when France’s anti-Christian republic began its short-lived existence, Massachusetts passed the following law requiring citizens to observe the Sabbath. Here are the preamble and main articles of the law, which are noteworthy: “Whereas,” says the legislator, “keeping Sunday is a matter of public interest; as it guarantees a necessary break in labor, leading people to consider the duties and errors of life, and provides for public and private worship of God, the creator and ruler of the universe, as well as charitable acts that enhance and comfort Christian societies:—Whereas irreligious or frivolous people, forgetting their Sabbath duties and the benefits for society, profane it by pursuing pleasure or business; this is contrary to their interests as Christians, and disturbs those who do not imitate them; and is a general harm to society, encouraging disorder and loose morals; Therefore, it is enacted by the Governor, Council, and Representatives in General Court of Assembly, that everyone shall apply themselves diligently to religious and moral duties on that day, no tradesman or laborer shall work at his craft, and no gaming or recreation shall be allowed on the Lord’s Day, under penalty of a ten-shilling fine.

“No one shall travel that day, at any time, under penalty of twenty shillings; no vessel may leave any harbor; no one shall linger outside the meeting house during public worship or profane the time by playing or talking, under penalty of five shillings.

“Inns shall serve only travelers or boarders, with a penalty of five shillings for each person found drinking or staying there improperly.

“Any able-bodied person who, without good reason, skips public worship for three months will be fined ten shillings.

“Anyone who misbehaves in a place of worship shall be fined from five to forty shillings.

“These laws are to be enforced by the tything-men of each township, who have authority to inspect public houses on Sundays. Innkeepers who refuse them entry shall be fined forty shillings for each offense.

“The tything-men shall stop travelers and demand their reasons for traveling on Sunday; anyone who refuses to answer will be fined up to five pounds sterling. If the answer is unsatisfactory, the tything-man may bring the traveller before the local justice.” (Law of March 8, 1792; General Laws of Massachusetts, vol. i.) On March 11, 1797, a new law increased these fines, with half the amount going to the informant. (Same collection, vol. ii.) On February 16, 1816, a further law confirmed these measures. (Same collection, vol. ii.) Similar rules exist in the State of New York’s laws, revised in 1827 and 1828 (see Revised Statutes, Part I, chapter 20). Here, it is specified that no one may play, fish, gamble, or visit taverns on the Sabbath. No one may travel, except in the case of necessity. And this is not the only sign that the strict religious discipline and stern manners of the first settlers survive in American law. In the Revised Statutes of New York, vol. i., we find the following clause:

“Anyone who wins or loses twenty-five dollars or more in gambling or betting in any twenty-four-hour period is guilty of a misdemeanor and upon conviction must pay a fine of at least five times the sum lost or won, the money going to the township’s inspector of the poor. Losers of at least twenty-five dollars may sue to recover it; if they do not, the inspector may sue the winner to make him pay both the sum won and three times that amount besides, into the poor’s fund.”

The laws we quote are of recent origin, but they cannot be understood without tracing back to the very beginnings of the colonies. I am certain that, in our time, the penal portions of these laws are rarely enforced. Laws often retain their rigidity long after a nation's customs have adapted to the changing times. Still, it remains true that nothing strikes a foreign visitor to America more strongly than the seriousness with which the Sabbath is observed. There is one large American city, in particular, where all social activity begins to wind down as early as Saturday evening. Walking its streets at a time when you would expect adults to be busy with work, and young people with leisure, you find only solitude and silence. Not only has all work stopped, but people seem to have disappeared altogether. There are no sounds of industry, no joyful voices, not even the usual hum of a large city. Chains close off streets near the churches; half-closed shutters barely let a ray of sunlight enter the citizens’ homes. Occasionally, you might notice a solitary person moving quietly through deserted streets and alleys. The next day, at dawn, the sound of carriages, hammers, and the calls of the population gradually return. The city comes alive. A crowd rushes toward the centers of commerce and industry; everything around you signals motion, bustle, and urgency. A feverish energy replaces the previous day's stillness; you might almost think they have but one day to earn and enjoy their prosperity.

## Appendix F

It is unnecessary for me to say that, in the chapter just read, I did not intend to provide a full history of America. My only goal was to help readers appreciate the influence that the beliefs and customs of the first emigrants had on the fate of the different colonies and the Union as a whole. I have therefore limited myself to quoting a few selected extracts. I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that, by following the approach I have only pointed out, one could easily create portraits of the American republics that would deserve the public’s attention and give statesmen much to consider. Not being able to take on this task myself, I wish to make it easier for others. For this purpose, I include here a brief catalog and analysis of the works that seem to me the most important to consult.

At the top of the list of general documents worth examining is the work titled “An Historical Collection of State Papers, and other authentic Documents, intended as Materials for a History of the United States of America,” by Ebenezer Hasard. The first volume, printed in Philadelphia in 1792, contains an exact copy of every charter the English Crown granted to emigrants, as well as the main acts of the colonial governments in their earliest years. Among these authentic documents are many concerning New England and Virginia during that time. The second volume focuses almost entirely on the acts of the Confederation of 1643. This federal agreement, formed by the New England colonies to resist the Indians, was the first example of union among Anglo-Americans. There were also several other similar confederations before the famous one of 1776, which led to colonial independence.

Each colony also has its own historical records, some of which are extremely interesting; starting with Virginia, which was the first to be settled. Its earliest historian was its founder, Captain John Smith. Captain Smith produced an octavo volume titled “The Generall Historie of Virginia and New England, by Captain John Smith, sometymes Governor in those Countryes, and Admirall of New England,” printed in London in 1627. The book features fascinating maps and engravings from its time; its narrative includes the years from 1584 to 1626. Smith's work is highly valued. He was among the most renowned adventurers in an era full of adventure; his book exudes the drive for discovery and the spirit of enterprise that set his generation apart, when chivalrous manners were combined with commercial ambition to gain wealth. Yet Captain Smith stands out for combining those virtues with other qualities rare among his contemporaries: his style is straightforward and concise, his accounts ring true, and his descriptions avoid false embellishment. Smith’s writings shed important light on the state and condition of the Indians at the time North America was first discovered.

The next historian to consult is Beverley, whose narrative begins in 1585 and ends in 1700. The book’s first part contains proper historical documents about the colony’s early days. The second part offers a striking view of the Indians in those distant times. The third gives clear insight into the manners, society, laws, and political customs of the Virginians during Beverley’s life. Beverley was born in Virginia, and he admits at the beginning of his book that he asks readers not to judge it too harshly, since, having been born in the Indies, he does not claim to use pure language. Despite this colonial humility, Beverley often shows his impatience with England’s rule. His work also reveals the spirit of civil liberty that inspired the American colonies at his time. He discusses the conflicts that divided them and delayed their independence. Beverley detests his Catholic neighbors in Maryland even more than he dislikes the English government; his style is direct, his narrative engaging, and appears trustworthy.

In America, I saw another work worth consulting, called “The History of Virginia,” by William Stith. This book includes some interesting details, though I found it long and at times rambling. The oldest and best source for Carolina’s history is a small quarto called “The History of Carolina,” by John Lawson, published in London in 1718. The first part describes a journey into western Carolina, in journal form; it is generally confusing and superficial, but includes a vivid account of the diseases—particularly smallpox and excessive brandy use—that devastated the local tribes, and a picture of the moral corruption among them, worsened by contact with Europeans. The second part describes Carolina’s geography and natural resources. In the third, Lawson gives an engaging account of the Indians’ manners, customs, and government. This part of the book is quite original and insightful. Lawson ends his history with the full text of the charter granted to the Carolinas by Charles II. The book’s tone is light and often irreverent, contrasting perfectly with the solemn style common in contemporary New England works. Lawson’s history is extremely rare in America and unavailable in Europe, though there is a copy in the Royal Library in Paris.

From the southern tip of the United States I now turn to the far north, as the regions in between were settled later. I should point out a particularly interesting collection titled “Collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society,” first printed in Boston in 1792 and reprinted in 1806. This ongoing series contains a wealth of valuable documents related to the histories of various states in New England. These include unpublished letters and official records drawn from local archives, including the complete work of Gookin on the Indians.

I have mentioned several times in the chapter connected with this note the work by Nathaniel Norton titled “New England's Memorial”; probably enough to show that it is essential reading for anyone interested in New England history. This octavo volume was reprinted in Boston in 1826.

The most significant and valuable authority on New England history is the Rev. Cotton Mather’s work, “Magnalia Christi Americana, or the Ecclesiastical History of New England, 1620–1698,” 2 vols. 8vo, reprinted in Hartford, United States, in 1820. \*b Mather organized his work into seven books. The first covers the events leading up to the establishment of New England. The second tells of the early governors and chief magistrates. The third deals with the lives and work of the evangelical ministers who cared for souls during that period. In the fourth, Mather describes the founding and progress of the University of Cambridge (Massachusetts). The fifth discusses the principles and discipline of the New England Church. The sixth recounts certain events which, in Mather’s view, demonstrate the merciful hand of Providence on behalf of New England’s people. Finally, the seventh describes the heresies and turmoil the New England church faced. Cotton Mather was a Boston native and evangelical minister who spent his life there. His writing reflects the same zeal that inspired the founding of the New England colonies. Though his style sometimes shows poor taste, his enthusiasm carries the reader along. He is often intolerant, and even more often credulous, but he never aims to deceive. At times his book includes moving passages and deep insights, such as the following:

"Before the arrival of the Puritans," he says (vol. i. chap. iv.), "there were more than a few attempts of the English to people and improve the parts of New England which were to the northward of New Plymouth; but the designs of those attempts being aimed no higher than the advancement of some worldly interests, a constant series of disasters has confounded them, until there was a plantation erected upon the nobler designs of Christianity: and that plantation though it has had more adversaries than perhaps any one upon earth, yet, having obtained help from God, it continues to this day." Mather sometimes softens the seriousness of his writing with moments of genuine feeling: after describing an English lady whose faith brought her to America with her husband and who soon died from the hardships of exile, he adds, "As for her virtuous husband, Isaac Johnson,

         He tryed
         To live without her, liked it not, and dyed."

b
\[A folio edition of this work was published in London in 1702.\]

Mather’s work provides an outstanding portrait of the era and region it covers. In explaining the motives that caused the Puritans to seek refuge overseas, he writes: "The God of Heaven served, as it were, a summons upon the spirits of his people in the English nation, stirring up the spirits of thousands which never saw the faces of each other, with a most unanimous inclination to leave all the pleasant accommodations of their native country, and go over a terrible ocean, into a more terrible desert, for the pure enjoyment of all his ordinances. It is now reasonable that, before we pass any further, the reasons of his undertaking should be more exactly made known unto posterity, especially unto the posterity of those that were the undertakers, lest they come at length to forget and neglect the true interest of New England. Wherefore I shall now transcribe some of them from a manuscript, wherein they were then tendered unto consideration:

“General Considerations for the Plantation of New England

“First, It will be a work of great service to the Church to carry the Gospel into those parts of the world, raising a barrier against the kingdom of Antichrist, which the Jesuits strive to build everywhere.

“Secondly, All other Churches of Europe have suffered destruction; and it may be feared the same might befall us. Who knows if God has reserved this place as a refuge for many whom he intends to save from a general ruin?

“Thirdly, The land is weary of its people, so that man—the most valuable of beings—is here more degraded than the ground he walks on; children, neighbors, and friends, especially the poor, are counted the greatest burdens, though they should be life’s biggest blessings.

“Fourthly, We have become so excessive in every kind of waste that almost no reasonable income is enough to keep pace with others. Anyone who doesn’t keep up faces contempt and ridicule. Because of this, all businesses are run so dishonestly and unjustly that it is nearly impossible for an upright person to support their family and live comfortably.

“Fifthly, The schools for learning and religion are so corrupted that, aside from the overwhelming cost of education, most children—even those of the brightest promise—are ruined by the bad behavior and poor example so common in those schools.

“Sixthly, The whole earth is God’s garden, given to Adam’s children to be cultivated by them. Why, then, should we be hungry for living space here while whole countries—just as useful to people—are left untended and empty?

“Seventhly, What better or nobler project is there for a Christian than to start and sustain a reformed church as it takes its first steps, uniting our efforts with faithful people to help them flourish; otherwise, without timely support, the movement may falter or fail entirely?

“Eighthly, If some well-off and respected godly people here give up their comfortable lives to join this reformed Church, enduring hardship and poverty, it will powerfully encourage true believers to pray for the endeavor, remove any suspicion surrounding it, and inspire more eager participation.”

Later, outlining the Church of New England’s rules for moral conduct, Mather fiercely condemns the custom of toasting at meals as a pagan and wicked practice. He as strictly forbids all forms of hair decorations among women, as well as the fashion of leaving their arms and necks uncovered. In another part of his work, he recounts several cases of witchcraft that alarmed New England. It's clear Mather saw the devil’s direct influence as a real and obvious truth.

Cotton Mather’s book frequently displays the spirit of civil freedom and political independence that marked his era. Their beliefs about government appear throughout. For example, in 1630, just ten years after Plymouth’s founding, Massachusetts devoted £400 sterling to establish the University of Cambridge. Moving from general records about New England’s history to those concerning its various states, I should first mention “The History of the Colony of Massachusetts,” by Hutchinson, Lieutenant-Governor of Massachusetts, in 2 vols. 8vo. Hutchinson’s history, previously cited in the associated chapter, begins in 1628 and ends in 1750. The whole work stands out for its truthfulness and simple style and is full of detailed accounts. The best history for Connecticut is Benjamin Trumbull’s “A Complete History of Connecticut, Civil and Ecclesiastical, 1630–1764,” 2 vols. 8vo, printed in 1818 at New Haven. This work gives a clear, unbiased account of all Connecticut’s events during that period. Trumbull used only the best sources, and his story reads as entirely factual. Everything he writes about Connecticut’s early years is especially interesting. See in particular the Constitution of 1639 (vol. i, ch. vi) and the Connecticut Penal Laws (vol. i, ch. vii).

“The History of New Hampshire,” by Jeremy Belknap, is a work of well-deserved reputation, printed in Boston in 1792 in 2 vols. 8vo. The third chapter of the first volume is especially valuable for its details on the Puritans’ political and religious beliefs, the reasons for their emigration, and their laws. Belknap quotes from a sermon delivered in 1663: “It concerneth New England always to remember that they are a plantation religious, not a plantation of trade. The profession of the purity of doctrine, worship, and discipline, is written upon her forehead. Let merchants, and such as are increasing cent. per cent., remember this, that worldly gain was not the end and design of the people of New England, but religion. And if any man among us make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such an one hath not the spirit of a true New Englishman.” Belknap’s work offers broader ideas and greater depth of thought than one usually finds in American historians, even today.

Among the Central States with the longest history, New York and Pennsylvania stand foremost. The best history of New York is “A History of New York,” by William Smith, printed in London in 1757. Smith’s book gives important details of the wars between the French and English in America, and it is the best account of the great Iroquois confederacy.

For Pennsylvania, I particularly recommend Proud’s “The History of Pennsylvania, from the original Institution and Settlement of that Province, under the first Proprietor and Governor, William Penn, in 1681, till after the year 1742,” by Robert Proud, 2 vols. 8vo, printed in Philadelphia in 1797. This work especially deserves close reading for its wealth of material about Penn, the Quaker doctrine, and the character, customs, and lives of Pennsylvania's first settlers. I need not add that the writings of Penn himself, and those of Franklin, are among the most significant sources related to this state.

## Part II.

## Appendix G

### We read in Jefferson’s “Memoirs” as follows:—

“At the time of the first English settlements in Virginia, when land could be obtained for little or nothing, some prudent individuals secured large grants and, wishing to preserve the prestige of their families, entailed their property upon their descendants. Passing these estates down the generations to men who bore the same family name led to the rise of a distinct class of families. These families, by law, had the privilege of preserving their wealth, and in this way created a sort of patrician order, recognized for the grandeur and luxury of their homes. The King generally chose his councillors of state from this order.” *c

c  
\[ This passage is translated and excerpted from M. Conseil’s work about Jefferson, titled “Melanges Politiques et Philosophiques de Jefferson.” \]

In the United States, the key provisions of English inheritance law have been completely rejected. The first rule we observe, says Mr. Kent, regarding inheritance, is: if a person dies intestate, their property goes to their direct heirs. If there is only one heir or heiress, that person inherits everything. If there are multiple heirs of equal relation, they divide the inheritance equally, regardless of gender. This rule was first established in New York by a statute passed on February 23, 1786 (see Revised Statutes, vol. iii. Appendix). It was later adopted in the Revised Statutes of the same State. Today, this law is in effect throughout the United States, except for Vermont, where the male heir receives a double portion (Kent’s “Commentaries,” vol. iv.). In the same volume, Mr. Kent discusses the history of American legislation on entail: we learn that before the Revolution, the colonies followed English law regarding entail. Estates tail were abolished in Virginia in 1776 due to a motion by Mr. Jefferson. They were eliminated 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 adopted. States that chose to keep the English law of entail modified it so as to remove its most aristocratic features. “Our general principles on government,” says Mr. Kent, “favor the free circulation of property.”

A French reader studying the laws of inheritance may notice that French law is actually more democratic than American law in this respect. American law requires an equal division of a father’s property only if there is no will, since “every man,” the law states, “in the State of New York (Revised Statutes, vol. iii. Appendix), has complete freedom, power, and authority to dispose of his property by will, whether in whole or in parts, and can choose any persons as his heirs, provided he does not leave it to a political body or corporation.” French law, however, requires the testator to divide property equally, or nearly so, among the heirs. Most American republics still permit entails under certain restrictions, but French law forbids entail in all cases. If American society is in some ways more democratic than French, the laws of France on this point are the most democratic of the two. This can be explained more easily than it first appears: in France, democracy is still engaged in dismantling remnants of the past; in America, it reigns peacefully over what it has already transformed.

## Appendix H

Summary Of The Qualifications Of Voters In The United States As They Existed In 1832

All states agree to grant voting rights at age twenty-one. In every state, a person must have lived for a certain period in the district where the vote is cast. This period ranges from three months to two years.

As for property qualifications: in Massachusetts, voters must have an income of £3 or capital of £60. In Rhode Island, a man must have land worth \$133.

In Connecticut, he must have property yielding an income of \$17. One year of service in the militia also grants the right to vote.

In New Jersey, a voter must have property valued at £50 annually.

In South Carolina and Maryland, the voter must own fifty acres of land.

In Tennessee, the voter must own some property.

In Mississippi, Ohio, Georgia, Virginia, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and New York, the one requirement for voting is the payment of taxes; and in most of these states, serving in the militia is equivalent to paying taxes. In Maine and New Hampshire, any man may vote if he is not listed as a pauper.

Finally, in Missouri, Alabama, Illinois, Louisiana, Indiana, Kentucky, and Vermont, voting requirements are not related to the voter’s property.

I believe that only North Carolina applies different qualifications to voting for the Senate and for selecting members of the House of Representatives. For the former, a voter should possess fifty acres of land; for the latter, only payment of taxes is required.

## Appendix I

The small number of custom-house officers in the United States, given the length of the coastline, makes smuggling easy; yet, it occurs less frequently than elsewhere because the general public actively tries to stop it. In America, there is no specialized police force for fire prevention, so such accidents are more frequent than in Europe; but fires are typically extinguished more quickly, as the surrounding community is quick to offer help.

## Appendix K

It is incorrect to claim that centralization started with the French Revolution; the revolution only perfected it. The passion for centralization and government regulations began when legal professionals started participating in government, during the reign of Philippe le Bel, and has grown ever since. In 1775, M. de Malesherbes, on behalf of the Cour des Aides, said to Louis XIV: *d

d  
\[ See “Memoires pour servir a l’Histoire du Droit Public de la France en matiere d’impots,” p. 654, printed at Brussels in 1779. \]

“. . . Every organization and community of citizens retained the right to manage its own affairs; a right that is not only part of the kingdom’s original constitution, but also has an even higher source, being rooted in nature and reason. Yet your subjects, Sire, have been stripped of it; and we must point out that in this regard, your government has gone to childish extremes. Since powerful ministers made it a principle to avoid calling a national assembly, one result after another has followed, so that even the decisions of village residents are void unless authorized by the Intendant. If a community has a major project, it remains under the sub-delegate of the Intendant, and thus must follow his plan, hire his chosen workers, pay them as he wishes; and if legal action is needed, the Intendant’s approval is required. The case must start in this first tribunal before being brought to court; and if the Intendant disagrees with the people, or if their opponent is favored by him, the community loses the power to defend its rights. These are the methods, Sire, that have been used to suppress municipal spirit in France and stifle, as much as possible, the voice of citizens. The nation can be said to be under an interdict, under guardianship.” What more could be said today, when the Revolution has completed its so-called victories of centralization?

In 1789, Jefferson wrote from Paris to a friend: “There is no country where the obsession with over-governing has deeper roots than in France, or has caused greater harm.” (Letter to Madison, August 28, 1789.) For centuries, France’s central power has done all it can to expand central administration, acknowledging no limit but its own strength. The central government born from the Revolution advanced more rapidly than any before it, being stronger and more capable; Louis XIV left communities at the mercy of an intendant, while Napoleon left them to a Minister. The same principle applied in both cases, though the outcome varied in speed.

## Appendix L

The unchangeable nature of the French constitution results naturally from the laws of the country. Starting with the most important law—the rule of succession to the throne—what could be more permanent than a political system based on the natural inheritance from father to son? In 1814, Louis XVIII established a perpetual law of hereditary succession for his family. Those shaping the Revolution of 1830 did the same, merely continuing this perpetuity for a different family. They followed the example of Chancellor Meaupou, who, when creating the new Parliament on the ruins of the old, declared in the same ordinance that the rights of the new magistrates would be as inalienable as those of their predecessors. The laws of 1830, like those of 1814, do not provide any method for changing the constitution, and it is clear that the ordinary legislative process cannot do so. Since the King, the Peers, and the Deputies all derive their authority from the constitution, these three powers together cannot change the law that legitimizes their rule. Outside the constitution, they are nothing: so where and how could they change its rules? The situation is clear: either they have no power to alter the charter, which continues to exist regardless, leaving them to govern only in its name; or they manage to change the charter, but in doing so—they annul the law that gives them existence, and so they, too, cease to exist. By destroying the charter, they destroy themselves. This is even clearer in the laws of 1830 compared to those of 1814. In 1814, the royal prerogative was above and independent of the constitution; but in 1830, it was openly dependent on and created by the constitution itself. Therefore, some elements of the French constitution are unchangeable because they are tied to the fate of a family; and the rest of the constitution appears equally unchangeable, as there seem to be no legal means for its alteration. This does not apply to England. As that country has no written constitution, who could ever say for certain when it has been changed?

## Appendix M

The leading writers on the English Constitution all agree on the absolute power of Parliament. Delolme states: “It is a basic principle among English lawyers that Parliament can do anything except make a woman a man, or a man a woman.” Blackstone puts it this way, if not more forcefully: “The power and jurisdiction of Parliament,” quoting Sir Edward Coke (4 Inst. 36), “‘is so transcendent and absolute that it cannot be limited, for reasons or persons, within any boundaries.’ And of this High Court, he adds, it can truly be said, ‘If you consider its antiquity, it is the oldest; for its dignity, the most honorable; for its jurisdiction, the broadest.’ It has sovereign and unchecked power over the making, confirming, enlarging, restraining, repealing, reviving, and interpreting of laws, on every matter; ecclesiastical or temporal; civil, military, maritime, or criminal. This is the place where the absolute, despotic power, necessary in any government, is entrusted by the constitution of these kingdoms. All problems and solutions that go beyond the regular course of law fall under the reach of this extraordinary tribunal. It can regulate or redesign succession to the Crown, as was done under Henry VIII and William III. It can change the established religion, as was done repeatedly under Henry VIII and his children. It can change or remake even the constitution of the kingdom and of Parliaments themselves, as happened with the Act of Union and laws for triennial and septennial elections. In short, it can do anything that is not naturally impossible; thus, some have dared to call its power—perhaps too boldly—the omnipotence of Parliament.”

## Appendix N

There is no question on which the American constitutions agree more completely than on the matter of political jurisdiction. All the constitutions that address this issue give the House of Delegates the exclusive right of impeachment, except for the constitution of North Carolina, which grants the same privilege to grand juries (Article 23). Almost all the constitutions assign the exclusive right to pronounce sentence to the Senate, or to the assembly that acts in its stead.

The only punishments that political tribunals may impose are removal from office or the prohibition from holding public office in the future. Only the constitution of Virginia allows them to impose all kinds of punishment. The offenses subject to 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); and of Delaware (Art. 5), high treason, bribery, and other serious crimes or offenses. In the constitution of Massachusetts (Chap. I, Section 2); that of North Carolina (Art. 23); of Virginia, misconduct and maladministration. In the constitution of New Hampshire, 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 course of failing to perform official duties. In the States of Illinois, Georgia, Maine, and Connecticut, no specific offenses are listed.

## Appendix O

It is true that the European powers might carry out maritime wars with the Union; but it is always easier and less dangerous to support a maritime war than a continental one. Maritime warfare requires only one type of effort. A commercial nation that agrees to provide its government with the necessary funds is sure to have a fleet. It is much easier to persuade people to give up their money—almost without noticing it—than to make them accept the sacrifice of men and personal effort. Moreover, defeat at sea rarely endangers the existence or independence of the nation that suffers it. As for continental wars, it is clear that the countries of Europe cannot pose a serious threat to the American Union in this way. Transporting and maintaining more than 25,000 soldiers in America would be extremely difficult; such an army would represent a nation of about 2,000,000 men. Thus, even the largest European nation fighting the Union would be in the position of a nation with 2,000,000 people at war with one of 12,000,000. Furthermore, America has all its resources close at hand, while the European would be 4,000 miles from theirs, and the vastness of the American continent alone would be an insurmountable obstacle to conquest.

## Appendix P

The first American journal appeared in April, 1704, and was published in Boston. See “Collection of the Historical Society of Massachusetts,” vol. vi. It would be incorrect to assume the periodical press was always completely free in the American colonies: an attempt was made to establish something similar to censorship and prior restraint. See the Legislative Documents of Massachusetts, January 14, 1722. The Committee appointed by the General Assembly (the legislative body of the province) to examine a paper called “The New England Courier,” expressed the opinion that “the tendency of the said journal is to turn religion into derision and bring it into contempt; that it mentions the sacred writers in a profane and irreligious manner; that it puts malicious interpretations upon the conduct of the ministers of the Gospel; and that the Government of his Majesty is insulted, and the peace and tranquility of the province disturbed by the said journal.” The Committee therefore recommended that the printer and publisher, James Franklin, should be forbidden from publishing that journal, or any other work, in the future without first submitting it to the Secretary of the province; and that the justices of the peace for Suffolk County should be authorized to require bail from James Franklin for his good behavior over the next year. The Committee’s suggestion was adopted and became law, but it proved ineffective, since the journal evaded the prohibition by printing Benjamin Franklin’s name instead of James Franklin’s, and this move was supported by public opinion.

## Appendix Q

The Federal Constitution introduced the jury into Union courts just as the States had in their own courts; but since it did not set fixed rules for selecting jurors, the federal courts select them from the usual jury list prepared by each State. Thus, the theory of how juries are formed must be sought in state laws. See Story’s “Commentaries on the Constitution,” B. iii. chap. 38; Sergeant’s “Constitutional Law,” p. 165. Also, see the Federal Laws of 1789, 1800, and 1802. To better understand American principles regarding jury formation, I studied the laws of States far from each other, and my findings are as follows: In America, all citizens who have the right to vote may serve on a jury. The large State of New York, however, does make a slight distinction between the two privileges, but unlike the laws of France; in New York, there are fewer eligible jurymen than electors. Generally speaking, the right to serve on a jury, like that of voting, is open to all citizens; but its exercise is not left entirely to chance. Each year, a body of local or county officials—called “selectmen” in New England, “supervisors” in New York, “trustees” in Ohio, and “sheriffs of the parish” in Louisiana—select a certain number of citizens in each county eligible to be jurors and considered fit to carry out those duties. Since these officials are themselves elected, their choices raise no suspicion; like most republican officials, they have broad and sometimes arbitrary powers, and they often use them to remove unworthy or incompetent jurymen. The names of selected jurors are sent to the County Court, and the jury for any particular case is drawn by lot from the full list. The Americans have taken every measure to make jury service accessible to the common people and to make the service as easy as possible. Trials take place in the chief town of every county, and jurors are compensated for their time, either by the State or by the parties involved. They usually receive a dollar per day, plus travel expenses. In America, jury service is considered a duty, but it is a very manageable one. See Brevard’s “Digest of the Public Statute Law of South Carolina,” vol. i. p. 454, vol. ii. p. 338; “The General Laws of Massachusetts, revised and published by authority of the Legislature,” vol. ii. p. 331; “The Revised Statutes of the State of New York,” vol. ii. p. 643, 717, 720; “The Statute Law of the State of Tennessee,” vol. i.; “Acts of the State of Ohio,” pp. 95 and 210; and “Digeste général des Actes de la Législature de la Louisiane.”

## Appendix R

If we carefully examine the constitution of the jury as introduced into civil cases in England, we quickly see that jurors are under the immediate control of the judge. It is true that the verdict of the jury, in civil as well as criminal cases, includes both the question of fact and the question of law in the same answer. For example, a house is claimed by Peter as having been bought by him: that is the fact to be decided. The defendant pleads that the seller was not competent: this is the legal question to be resolved. But juries do not enjoy the same degree of infallibility in civil cases, according to English court practices, as they do in criminal cases. The judge may refuse to accept the verdict; and even after the first trial, a second or new trial may be granted by the Court. See Blackstone’s “Commentaries,” book iii. ch. 24.

## Appendix S

In my travel journal, I found a passage that helps convey a more complete sense of the hardships often faced by American women who follow their husbands into the wilderness. This account offers nothing but strict accuracy:

“. . . From time to time we encounter new clearings; all these places are alike; I will describe the one where we have stopped tonight, for it will remind me of all the others.

“The bell that pioneers hang around their cattle’s necks, to help find them again in the woods, signaled our approach to a clearing while we were still far off. Soon after, we heard the sound of an axe chopping down trees. As we got closer, signs of destruction showed the presence of civilized people; the road was littered with broken branches; tree trunks, half burned or split by wedges, still stood in our path. We kept on until we reached a wood where all the trees seemed to have died suddenly; in the height of summer, their branches were as bare as in winter; on closer look, we found that a deep ring had been cut around the bark, which, by stopping the flow of sap, quickly kills the tree. We learned that this is usually the first thing a pioneer does; unable to cut down all the trees on his new land in the first year, he plants Indian corn beneath their branches and kills the trees to keep them from harming his crop. Beyond this imperfectly marked field, we suddenly came upon the cabin of its owner, situated in the center of a plot more carefully cultivated than the rest, but where humans still fought a losing battle with the forest; here, the trees were cut down, but their roots remained, and their trunks still cluttered the ground they once shaded. Around the dead trunks, wheat, seedlings, and a tangle of plants grew in unchecked abundance. In the middle of this vigorous, wild growth stood the pioneer’s house, known as the log house. Like the land around it, this rough dwelling showed signs of recent and hurried work; it was about thirty feet long and fifteen feet high; its walls and roof were made of rough logs, with moss and clay stuffed between them to keep out cold and rain.

“As night approached, we decided to ask the owner for lodging. At our footsteps, the children playing among the tree limbs jumped up and ran toward the house, as if frightened by strangers; while two nearly wild dogs, ears up and noses outstretched, came growling to protect the children’s retreat. The pioneer appeared in the doorway; he glanced at us quickly and intently, gestured the dogs into the house, and followed them inside, showing neither curiosity nor fear at our arrival.

“We entered the log house: its inside was nothing like European peasants’ cottages. It holds more unnecessary things, fewer true necessities. One small window with a muslin curtain; an immense fire on a clay hearth lights the whole space; above the hearth are a good rifle, a deer skin, and eagle feathers; to the right of the chimney is a map of the United States, fluttering in the draft from cracks in the wall; nearby, a shelf of rough wood holds a few books—a Bible, the first six books of Milton, and two of Shakespeare’s plays; trunks stand in place of closets along the wall; in the center, a rough table with green-wood legs and bark still on them, giving the impression they grow from the floor, yet on this table are a British teapot, silver spoons, cracked teacups, and some newspapers.

“The master of this home has the angular features and lean build typical of New Englanders. It is clear he wasn’t born in this wilderness: his physique shows he spent his youth in civilized society and belongs to that restless, practical, adventurous group that with utmost composure do things explainable only by passionate energy, enduring the hardships of the frontier for a time in order to conquer and civilize it.

“When the pioneer saw us enter, he came to greet us and shake hands, as is their custom; his face was unmoved. He opened conversation by asking for news of the world; once satisfied, he became silent again, as if weary of human noise and demands. When we asked questions, he gave any information we wanted; he then took care of our comfort attentively but without enthusiasm. While he was thus kindly tending to us, why did we feel our gratitude fade? Because while our host fulfills the duties of hospitality, he seems to do so as a necessary burden of his situation, not as a pleasure. By the hearth sat a woman with a baby on her lap: she nodded at us without moving. Like the pioneer, she is in her prime; her appearance seems above her circumstances, and her clothing even suggests a lingering taste for dress. Yet her slender limbs are wasted, her features drawn, her expression mild and sorrowful; her whole look speaks of deep religious resignation, a serenity of feeling, and a natural, calm resolve to face any hardship, without fear or bravado. Her children cluster around her, strong, lively, and energetic—true children of the wilderness. She watches them now and then with mixed sadness and joy; to see their strength compared to her frailty, you might think that the life she gave them has drained her own, yet she does not regret her sacrifice. The house has no partition or attic. The whole family sleeps in this single chamber. Their dwelling is its own small world—an ark of civilization in a sea of trees: a hundred steps away, the primeval forest resumes its domain and solitude prevails again.”

## Appendix T

It is not equality of conditions that makes people immoral or irreligious; but when people are both equal and immoral or irreligious, the effects of such behavior quickly become visible, because individuals have little influence over one another and no class exists to help maintain social order. Equality of conditions never produces moral decay, but it sometimes allows it to become apparent.

## Appendix U

If we exclude those who do not think at all, and those who dare not speak their minds, the vast majority of Americans still seem content with the political institutions by which they are governed; and I believe this satisfaction is mostly sincere. I see this public opinion as a sign, but not proof, of the absolute excellence of American laws. National pride, the gratification of dominant passions by law, a mix of circumstances, overlooked flaws, and most of all, the influence of a majority that silences critics can sustain a people’s illusions just as much as an individual’s. Look at England in the eighteenth century. No nation was more self-praising or more self-satisfied; then every part of its constitution was deemed perfect—even its obvious flaws were considered beyond reproach. Today, many Englishmen seem to do nothing but prove that this constitution had many defects. Who is correct—the English of the last century or those of today?

The same thing happened in France. It is certain that during the reign of Louis XIV, most of the nation was deeply attached to the form of government in place at that time. But it is a great error to think there was anything degrading about the French character then. There may have been some political servitude in France, but certainly no servility of spirit. Writers of that era felt genuine enthusiasm in celebrating the king's power; and there was no peasant so poor that he did not take pride in his sovereign’s glory and would gladly die shouting “Vive le Roi!” Those very forms of loyalty are now hated by the French. Who is wrong—the French of Louis XIV’s time, or their modern descendants?

Therefore, our judgment of a people’s laws must not depend solely on the people’s inclinations, since those change with the times; instead, it should rest on higher principles and broader experience. The love a people shows for its own laws proves only this: that we should not be too eager to change them.

## Appendix V

In the chapter related to this note, I pointed out one source of danger. Now I will point out another kind of risk—more rare, but potentially far more serious. If a love of physical comfort and a desire for well-being, which naturally occur in a state of equality, were to take complete hold of the minds of a democratic people, filling them entirely, the national character would become so opposed to military values that even the army might come to prefer peace, despite its own inclination for war. Living amid general softness, the troops would rather advance slowly and comfortably in a peacetime career than seek faster promotion through the hardships and hazards of war. With this attitude, they would take up arms without enthusiasm and fight without energy; they would allow themselves to be led to the enemy instead of actively attacking them. Do not think this peace-loving attitude would make the army less likely to favor revolutions; for revolutions, especially military ones, are usually very swift, involving great danger but little hardship. They satisfy ambition at a lower cost than war; only life is at risk, and democratic men value physical comfort more than their lives. Nothing is more dangerous for freedom and tranquility than an army afraid of war, because such an army, no longer trying to prove itself on the battlefield, seeks influence elsewhere. Thus, it could happen that a democratic army lose the traits of citizens without acquiring the virtues of soldiers; the army would not be fit for war, but still be a source of unrest. Let me repeat what I stated in the main text: the cure for these dangers is not in the army, but in the nation; a democratic people that keeps its spirit strong will never lack military skill among its soldiers.

## Appendix W

People associate greatness in their idea of unity with the methods used, while God is associated with the ends. As a result, our human concept of greatness leads us to ultimate smallness. To force everyone to follow the same path toward the same goal is a human idea; to orchestrate countless forms of action, all converging by different routes toward one grand objective, is an idea of the Divine. Human unity tends to be barren; divine unity abounds in results. We think we show greatness by using simpler means, but God’s purposes are simple—his methods infinitely varied.

## Appendix X

A democratic people is not only inclined by its own preferences to centralize its government, but the ambitions of those in power drive the nation further in that direction. It is easy to foresee that almost all able and ambitious individuals in a democracy will work unceasingly to expand government powers, since each hopes to wield those powers someday. It is futile to try convincing them that extreme centralization may hurt the nation, because they build centralization for their own benefit. Among public men of democracies, few outside the disinterested or the mediocre try to resist centralization: the former are rare, the latter without influence.

## Appendix Y

I have often wondered what would occur if, amidst the loosening of democratic customs and the restlessness of the military, a military government were ever established among any nation of our time. I believe that even such a government would not look very different from the outline I described in the chapter this note refers to, and that it would no longer have the harsh traits of a military oligarchy. I am convinced that, in such a situation, there would be a sort of blending between the habits of civilian officials and those of the military. The administration would take on some military aspects, and the army would adopt some of the practices of civil administration. The result would be a system of government that is orderly, clear, precise, and absolute; the people would mirror the army, and society would be drilled much like a garrison.

## Appendix Z

It cannot be said absolutely or as a general rule that the greatest danger of our time is either lawlessness or tyranny, anarchy or despotism. Both are to be feared equally; and each can so easily arise from the same source, namely, that “general apathy,” which comes from what I have called “individualism.” Because this apathy exists, the executive branch, having gathered a few troops, can commit acts of oppression one day, and the next day a faction, with just thirty men, can also commit acts of oppression. Neither side can build anything lasting; and the same factors that allow them to take power easily also prevent them from keeping it for long: they rise because no one stands against them, and they fall because no one supports them. Therefore, the thing we must most strongly resist is not so much anarchy or despotism as the apathy that can equally produce either one.

## Constitution Of The United States Of America

We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, ensure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America:

## Article I

## Section 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a

Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives.

## Section 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members of

chosen every second year by the People of the several States, and the Electors in each State shall have the qualifications required for Electors of the most numerous branch of the State Legislature.

No person shall be a Representative who has not attained the age of twenty-five years, been a citizen of the United States for seven years, and, when elected, is not an inhabitant of the State from which he is chosen.

Representatives and direct taxes shall be apportioned among the several States that may be included in this Union, according to their respective populations, which shall be determined by adding to the total number of free persons, including those bound to service for a term of years, and excluding untaxed Indians, three-fifths of all other persons. The actual count shall be made within three years after the first meeting of Congress, and every ten years afterwards, in such manner as they shall by law direct. The number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty thousand, but each State shall have at least one Representative; and until such a count is made, the State of New Hampshire shall choose three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode Island and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six, New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six, Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.

When vacancies occur in the Representation from any State, the Executive Authority of that State shall issue writs of election to fill such vacancies.

The House of Representatives shall choose their Speaker and other Officers, and shall have the sole power of Impeachment.

## Section 3. The Senate of the United States shall be composed

of two Senators from each State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six years; and each Senator shall have one vote.

Immediately after they are assembled in consequence of the first election, they shall be divided as equally as possible into three classes. The Seats of the Senators of the first class shall be vacated at the end of the second year, of the second class at the end of the fourth year, and of the third class at the end of the sixth year, so that one-third may be chosen every second year; and if vacancies happen by resignation or otherwise during the recess of any State’s Legislature, the Executive of that State may make temporary appointments until the next meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such vacancies.

No person shall be a Senator who has not attained the age of thirty years, been a citizen of the United States for nine years, and, when elected, is not an inhabitant of the State for which he is chosen.

The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless the body is equally divided. The Senate shall choose their other Officers, as well as a President pro tempore, in the absence of the Vice President, or when he is acting as President of the United States.

The Senate shall have the sole power to try all Impeachments. When sitting for that purpose, they shall be under oath or affirmation. When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall preside: and no person shall be convicted without the agreement of two-thirds of the Members present. Judgment in cases of impeachment shall not extend further than removal from office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any office of honor, trust, or profit under the United States; but the convicted party shall still be liable to indictment, trial, judgment, and punishment according to law.

## Section 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for

Senators and Representatives shall be set in each State by the Legislature thereof; but Congress may at any time by law make or alter such regulations, except as to the places of choosing Senators.

Congress shall meet at least once every year, and such meeting shall be on the first Monday in December, unless by law a different day is appointed.

## Section 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returns

and Qualifications of its own Members, and a majority of each shall constitute a quorum to do business; but a smaller number may adjourn from day to day and may be authorized to compel the attendance of absent Members, in such manner, and with such penalties as each House may determine.

Each House may set the rules for its proceedings, punish its Members for disorderly conduct, and, with the agreement of two-thirds, expel a Member.

Each House shall keep a journal of its proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, except parts which may require secrecy in their judgment; and the Yeas and Nays of Members of either House on any question shall, at the request of one-fifth of those present, be entered into the journal.

Neither House, during the session of Congress, shall, without the consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any other place than where the two Houses are sitting.

## Section 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation

for their Services, to be determined by law, and paid from the Treasury of the United States. They shall, in all cases except Treason, Felony, and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from arrest during their attendance at the sessions of their respective Houses, and while traveling to and from those sessions; and for any speech or debate in either House, they shall not be questioned in any other place.

No Senator or Representative shall, during the time for which they were elected, be appointed to any civil office under the authority of the United States that has been created, or the salary of which has been increased during such time; and no person holding any office under the United States shall be a member of either House while continuing in office.

## Section 7. All Bills for Raising Revenue shall originate in the House of

Representatives; but the Senate may propose or agree with amendments as with other bills.

Every bill that passes the House of Representatives and the Senate shall, before becoming law, be presented to the President of the United States; if the President approves it, they shall sign it, but if not, they shall return it, with their objections, to the House where it originated. That House shall enter the objections in full in their Journal and reconsider the bill. If after reconsideration, two-thirds of that House agree to pass the bill, it shall be sent, along with the objections, to the other House, which shall also reconsider it. If approved by two-thirds of that House, it shall become law. In all such cases, the votes of both Houses shall be recorded as Yeas and Nays, and the names of those voting for and against the bill shall be entered in each House's Journal. If any bill is not returned by the President within ten days (excluding Sundays) after being presented, it shall become law as if the President had signed it, unless Congress, by adjourning, prevents its return, in which case it shall not become law.

Every order, resolution, or vote requiring the agreement of both the Senate and House of Representatives (except on a question of adjournment) must be presented to the President of the United States; and before it takes effect, must be approved by the President, or, if disapproved, be repassed by two-thirds of the Senate and House of Representatives, according to the rules and limitations provided in the case of a bill.

## Section 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes,

duties, imposts, and excises, to pay debts and provide for the common defense 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, among the several states, and with the Indian tribes;

To establish a uniform rule of naturalization, and uniform laws on the subject of bankruptcies throughout the United States; To coin money, regulate its value, and the value of foreign coin, and fix the standard of weights and measures;

To provide for the punishment of counterfeiting the securities and current coin of the United States;

To establish post offices and post roads;

To promote the progress of science and useful arts, by securing to authors and inventors, for limited times, the exclusive right to their respective writings and discoveries;

To constitute tribunals inferior to the Supreme Court; To define and punish piracies and felonies committed on the high seas, and offenses against the law of nations;

To declare war, grant letters of marque and reprisal, and establish rules concerning captures on land and water;

To raise and support armies, but no appropriation of money for that purpose shall be for a term longer than two years;

To provide and maintain a navy;

To make rules for the government and regulation of the land and naval forces.

To provide for calling forth the militia to execute the laws of the Union, suppress insurrections, and repel invasions.

To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining the militia, and for governing such parts of them as may be employed in the service of the United States, reserving to the states, respectively, the appointment of the officers and the authority to train the militia according to the discipline prescribed by Congress;

To exercise exclusive legislation in all cases whatsoever, over such District (not exceeding ten miles square) as may, by cession of particular states, and the acceptance of Congress, become the seat of the Government of the United States, and to have similar authority over all places purchased with the consent of the legislature of the state where the place is located, for the erection of forts, magazines, arsenals, dockyards, and other necessary buildings;—And to make all laws which are necessary and proper for carrying out the foregoing powers, and all other powers vested by this Constitution in the government of the United States, or in any department or officer thereof.

## Section 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any of the

states now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not be prohibited by Congress prior to the year 1808, but a tax or duty may be imposed on such importation, not exceeding ten dollars for each person.

The privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, except in cases of rebellion or invasion where public safety may require it.

No bill of attainder or ex post facto law shall be passed. No capitation or other direct tax shall be laid, unless in proportion to the census or enumeration previously 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 revenue to the ports of one state over those of another; nor shall vessels bound to or from one state be required to enter, clear, or pay duties in another.

No money shall be drawn from the Treasury except as a result of appropriations made by law; and a regular statement and account of the receipts and expenditures of all public money shall be published from time to time.

No title of nobility shall be granted by the United States; and no person holding any office of profit or trust under them shall, without the consent of Congress, accept 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, or

Confederation; grant Letters of Marque or Reprisal; coin Money; issue Bills of Credit; make anything except gold and silver coin a valid payment for debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law, or Law impairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.

No State shall, without the consent of Congress, impose any tariffs or duties on imports or exports, except what is absolutely necessary to enforce its inspection laws; and the net revenue from all duties and imposts imposed by any State on imports or exports shall be for the use of the Treasury of the United States; and all such laws shall be subject to the revision and control of Congress.

No State shall, without the consent of Congress, lay any duty of tonnage, keep troops, or warships in peacetime, enter into any agreement or compact with another State or with a foreign power, or engage in war, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent danger as will not allow for delay.

## Article II

## Section 1. The Executive Power shall be vested in a President of the

United States of America. He shall hold his office for a term of four years and, together with the Vice President, chosen for the same term, be elected as follows:

Each State shall appoint, in such manner as its Legislature may direct, a number of Electors equal to the total number of Senators and Representatives the State is entitled to in Congress. However, no Senator, Representative, or person holding an office of trust or profit under the United States shall be appointed as an Elector.

\[The Electors shall meet in their respective States and vote by ballot for two people, of whom at least one shall not be an inhabitant of the same State as themselves. They shall make a list of all the persons voted for, and the number of votes for each; which list they shall sign, certify, and send sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, addressed to the President of the Senate. The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates, and the votes shall be counted. The person with the greatest number of votes shall be the President, if that number is a majority of the total number of electors appointed; if more than one have such a majority and have an equal number of votes, then the House of Representatives shall immediately choose by ballot one of them as President; and if no person has a majority, then from the five highest on the list the House shall choose the President in the same manner. When choosing the President, the votes shall be taken by States, each State's representation having one vote; a quorum for this purpose shall consist of a member or members from two-thirds of the States, and a majority of all the States is necessary to choose. In every case, after the choice of President, the person with the next highest number of votes among the electors shall be the Vice President. But if there should remain two or more who have equal votes, the Senate shall choose from them by ballot for Vice President.\]*d

\*d
\[ This clause is superseded by Article XII, Amendments. See page 396.\]

Congress may determine the time for choosing the Electors, and the day on which they shall cast their votes; this day shall be the same throughout the United States.

No person except a natural born citizen, or a citizen of the United States at the time this Constitution was adopted, shall be eligible for the Office of President; nor shall anyone be eligible who has not reached the age of thirty-five years and been a resident within the United States for fourteen years.

In case the President is removed from office, or dies, resigns, or is unable to discharge the powers and duties of the office, these responsibilities shall pass to the Vice President, and Congress may by law provide for the case where both the President and Vice President are removed, die, resign, or are unable to serve, declaring what officer shall act as President, and such officer shall act accordingly until the disability is removed or a President is elected.

The President shall, at stated times, receive a salary for his services, which shall not be increased or decreased during the period for which he has been elected; and he shall not receive, during that period, any other payment from the United States or from any State.

Before he enters on the execution of his office, he shall take the following oath or affirmation: “I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

## Section 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army and

Navy of the United States, and of the militia of the several States, when called into the actual service of the United States. He may require the written opinion of the principal officer in each of the executive departments on any subject related to their duties, and he shall have the power to grant reprieves and pardons for offenses against the United States, except in cases of impeachment.

He shall have the power, by and with the advice and consent of the Senate, to make treaties, provided two-thirds of the Senators present agree; and he shall nominate, and by and with the advice and consent of the Senate, appoint Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the Supreme Court, and all other officers of the United States whose appointments are not otherwise provided for, and which shall be established by law. However, Congress may by law place the appointment of such inferior officers, as they see fit, in the President alone, in the courts of law, or in the heads of departments.

The President shall have the power to fill all vacancies that may happen during the recess of the Senate, by granting commissions that expire at the end of their next session.

## Section 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress Information

about the State of the Union, and recommend for their consideration such measures as he judges necessary and expedient; he may, on extraordinary occasions, convene both Houses or either of them, and in case of disagreement between them concerning the time of adjournment, he may adjourn them to such time as he thinks proper; he shall receive Ambassadors and other public Ministers; he shall ensure that the laws are faithfully executed, and shall commission all the Officers of the United States.

## Section 4. The President, Vice-President and all civil Officers of the

United States shall be removed from office on impeachment for, and conviction of, treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors.

## Article III

## Section 1. The judicial Power of the United States shall be vested in

one Supreme Court, and in such inferior courts as Congress may from time to time establish. The judges, both of the Supreme and inferior courts, shall hold their offices during good behavior, and shall, at stated times, receive for their services a compensation, which shall not be diminished while they remain in office.

## Section 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all cases, in Law and

equity, arising under this Constitution, the laws of the United States, and treaties made, or which shall be made, under their authority—to all cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls—to all cases of admiralty and maritime jurisdiction; to controversies to which the United States shall be a party; to controversies between two or more States; between a State and citizens of another State; between citizens of different States—between citizens of the same State claiming lands under grants from different States—and between a State, or its citizens, and foreign States, citizens, or subjects.

In all cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls, and those in which a State is a party, the Supreme Court shall have original jurisdiction. In all other cases above mentioned, the Supreme Court shall have appellate jurisdiction, both as to law and fact, with such exceptions and under such regulations as Congress shall make.

The trial of all crimes, except in cases of impeachment, shall be by jury. Such trials shall take place in the state where the crime was committed. However, if the crime was not committed within any state, the trial shall be held at such place or places as Congress may specify by law.

## Section 3. Treason against the United States shall consist only in

levying war against them, or in adhering to their enemies by giving them aid and comfort. No person shall be convicted of treason unless there are two witnesses to the same overt act, or upon confession in open court.

Congress shall have the power to declare the punishment for treason, but no conviction of treason shall cause corruption of blood or forfeiture except during the life of the person convicted.

## Article IV

## Section 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to the

public acts, records, and judicial proceedings of every other state. Congress may, by general laws, prescribe the manner in which such acts, records, and proceedings shall be proved, and what effect they will have.

## Section 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all

privileges and immunities of citizens in the various states. Any person charged in any state with treason, felony, or another crime who flees from justice and is found in another state, shall, upon request of the executive authority of the state from which they fled, be delivered up to be transferred to the state having jurisdiction of the crime.

No person held to service or labor in one state, under its laws, escaping into another state, shall, due to any law or regulation in that state, be discharged from such service or labor, but shall be delivered up upon claim of the party to whom such service or labor is owed.

## Section 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;

but no new state shall be formed or created within the jurisdiction of another state; nor any state be formed by the combination of two or more states, or parts of states, without the consent of the legislatures of the states involved as well as of Congress.

Congress shall have the power to manage and make any necessary rules and regulations regarding the territory or other property belonging to the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be interpreted to prejudice any claims of the United States or any particular state.

## Section 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in this

Union a republican form of government, and shall protect each of them against invasion; and, on application of the legislature, or of the executive (when the legislature cannot be convened), against domestic violence.

## Article V

Congress, whenever two-thirds of both houses deem it necessary, shall propose amendments to this Constitution, or, on application of the legislatures of two-thirds of the states, shall call a convention for proposing amendments. In either case, these amendments shall be valid for all intents and purposes as part of the Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of three-fourths of the states or by conventions in three-fourths of the states, depending on which mode of ratification Congress proposes; provided that no amendment made before the year 1808 shall in any way affect the first and fourth clauses in the ninth section of the first article; and that no state, without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal suffrage in the Senate.

## Article VI

All debts contracted and agreements entered into before the adoption of this Constitution shall be as valid against the United States under this Constitution as they were under the Confederation.

This Constitution, and the laws of the United States made under it, and all treaties made or to be made under the authority of the United States, shall be the supreme law of the land; and the judges in every state shall be bound by them, regardless of anything in the Constitution or laws of any state to the contrary.

The senators and representatives mentioned above, the members of the state legislatures, and all executive and judicial officers, both of the United States and of the several states, shall be bound by oath or affirmation to support this Constitution; but no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification for any office or public trust under the United States.

## Article VII

The ratification by the conventions of nine states shall be sufficient for the establishment of this Constitution among those states ratifying it.

Done in convention by the unanimous consent of the states present, the seventeenth day of September in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-seven and of the independence of the United States of America the twelfth. In witness whereof we have hereunto signed our names,

         Geo. Washington
         President 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 Jr. 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,’ was inserted between the seventh and eighth lines of the first page; the word ‘Thirty’ is partially written over an erasure in the fifteenth line of the first page; the words ‘is tried’ are interlined between the thirty-second and thirty-third lines of the first page; and the word ‘the’ is interlined between the forty-third and forty-fourth lines of the second page.

\[Note by the Department of State.—The above explanation in the original document is placed to the left of the paragraph starting with the words, ‘Done in Convention,’ and therefore comes before the signatures. The interlined and rewritten words mentioned here are printed in their proper places in the text in this edition.\]

## Bill Of Rights

In addition to, and as an amendment to, the Constitution of the United States of America, proposed by Congress and ratified by the Legislatures of the several States, pursuant to the Fifth Article of the original Constitution

Article I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people to peacefully assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Article II

A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.

Article III

No Soldier shall, in time of peace, be quartered in any house without the consent of the Owner; nor in time of war, except in a manner prescribed 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 not be violated, and no warrants shall issue but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or Affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Article V

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be put twice in jeopardy of life or limb; nor compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against themselves, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Article VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall have the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where the crime was committed, which district shall have been previously determined by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against them; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in their favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for their defense.

Article VII

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy exceeds twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of the United States, except according to the rules of the common law.

Article VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Article IX

The enumeration in the Constitution of certain rights shall not be interpreted to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Article X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited 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 interpreted to extend to any suit in law or equity, commenced or prosecuted against one of the United States by Citizens of another State, or by Citizens or Subjects of any Foreign State.

Article XII

The electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by ballot for President and Vice President, at least one of whom shall not be an inhabitant of the same State as themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in separate ballots the person voted for as Vice President; and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of all persons voted for as Vice President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, addressed to the President of the Senate;—The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates, and the votes shall then be counted;—The person having the greatest number of votes for President shall be the President, if that number is a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person has such a majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But when choosing the President, the votes shall be taken by States, the representation from each State having one vote; a quorum for this purpose shall consist of a member or members from two-thirds of the States, and a majority of all the States shall be necessary to a choice. And if the House of Representatives does not choose a President whenever the right of choice shall devolve upon them, before the fourth day of March next following, then the Vice President shall act as President, as in the case of the death or other constitutional disability of the President. The person having the greatest number of votes as Vice President shall be the Vice President if such a number is a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed, and if no person has a majority, then from the two highest numbers on the list, the Senate shall choose the Vice President; a quorum for the purpose shall consist of two-thirds of the whole number of Senators, and a majority of the whole number shall be necessary to a choice. But no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of Vice President of the United States.

Article XIII

Section 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime where the party has been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.

Section 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

Article XIV

Section 1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to its jurisdiction, are citizens of the United States and of the State in which they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law that abridges the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

Section 2. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective populations, counting the total number of persons in each State, excluding untaxed Native Americans. However, if the right to vote in any election for choosing electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, State executive or judicial officers, or members of the State Legislature is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such State, who are twenty-one years old and citizens of the United States, or is in any way restricted (except for participation in rebellion or other crimes), then that State’s representation shall be decreased in proportion to the number of such male citizens denied the right to vote compared to the total number of male citizens aged twenty-one in the State.

Section 3. No person shall serve as a Senator or Representative in Congress, elector of the President and Vice President, or hold any civil or military office under the United States or under any State, who, after having previously taken an oath as a member of Congress, as an officer of the United States, as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State to support the Constitution of the United States, has engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or given aid or comfort to its enemies. However, Congress may, by a two-thirds vote of each House, remove this restriction.

Section 4. The validity of the public debt of the United States, authorized by law—including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion—shall not be questioned. However, neither the United States nor any State shall assume or pay any debt or obligation incurred to support insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or any claim for the loss or emancipation of any slave. All such debts, obligations, and claims are illegal and void.

Section 5. Congress shall have the power to enforce the provisions of this article by appropriate legislation.

Article XV

Section 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or restricted by the United States or any State because of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Section 2. Congress shall have the power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.