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that attracted my attention during my stay in the United States, nothing struck me more forcibly than the general equality of conditions. I readily discovered the prodigious influence which this primary fact exercises on the whole course of society: it gives a certain direction to public opinion, and a certain character to the laws; it imparts new maxims to the governing powers, and peculiar habits to the governed. I speedily perceived that the influence of this fact extends far beyond the political character and the laws of the country, and that it has no less empire over private society than over the government: it creates opinions, engenders sentiments, suggests the ordinary practices of life, and modifies whatever it does not produce.

The more I advanced in the study of American society the more I perceived that the equality of conditions was the fundamental fact from which all others seemed to be derived, and the central point at which all my observations constantly terminated. I then turned my thoughts to our own hemisphere, and imagined that I discerned there also something analogous to the spectacle which the New World presented to me. I observed that the equality of conditions, though it has not yet reached, as in the United States, its extreme limits, is daily progressing towards them; and that the democracy which governs the American communities appears to be rapidly rising into power in Europe. From that moment I conceived the idea of the book which is now before the reader.^[*]

The Christian nations of our age seem to me to present a fearful spectacle; the impulse which is bearing them forward is so strong that it cannot be stopped, but it is not yet so rapid that it cannot be guided: their fate is in their own hands; yet a little while, and it may be so no longer.

The first duty which is at this time imposed upon those who direct our affairs is to educate the democracy; to reanimate its faith, if that be possible; to purify its morals; to regulate its energies; to substitute for its inexperience a knowledge of business, and for its blind instincts an acquaintance with its true interests; to adapt its government to time and place, and to modify it in compliance with circumstances and characters.

A new science of politics is indispensable to a world which has become new. This, however, is what we think of least, launched in the middle of a rapid stream, we obstinately fix our eyes on the ruins which may still be descried upon the shore we have left, whilst the current sweeps us along, and drives us toward an unseen abyss.

In no country in Europe has the great social revolution which I have been describing made such rapid progress as in France; but it has always been borne on by chance. The heads of the State have never thought of making any preparation for it, and its victories have been obtained in spite of their resistance, or without their knowledge. The most powerful, the most intelligent, and the most moral classes of the nation have never attempted to connect themselves with it in order to guide it. Democracy has consequently been abandoned to its untutored instincts, and it has grown up like those outcasts who receive their education in the public streets, and who are unacquainted with aught of society but its vices and its miseries. The existence of a democracy was seemingly unknown, when on a sudden it took possession of the supreme power. Everything then servilely submitted to its smallest wish; it was worshipped as the idol of strength; until, when it was enfeebled by its own excesses, the legislator conceived the rash project of annihilating it, instead of instructing it and correcting its bad tendencies. No attempt was made to fit it to govern; the sole thought was of excluding it from the government.

The consequence of this has been, that the democratic revolution has been effected only in the material parts of society, without that concomitant change in laws, ideas, habits, and manners which was necessary to render such a revolution beneficial. We have gotten a democracy, severed from whatever would lessen its vices and render its natural advantages more prominent; and although we already perceive the evils it brings, we are yet ignorant of the benefits it might confer.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. xxii-xxiv; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 10-12.)

While the power of the Crown, supported by the aristocracy, peaceably governed the nations of Europe, society possessed, in the midst of its wretchedness, several advantages which cannot easily be appreciated or conceived in our times.

The power of a part of his subjects set insurmountable barriers to the tyranny of the prince; and the monarch, who felt the almost divine character which he enjoyed in the eyes of the multitude, derived from the respect which he inspired, a motive for the just use of his power.

Although lifted so high above the people, the nobles, nevertheless, took that calm and kindly interest in its fate which the shepherd feels towards his flock; and without acknowledging the poor man as their equal, they watched over his destiny as a trust which Providence had confided to their care.

The people, never having conceived the idea of a state of society different from their own, and entertaining no expectation of ever becoming the rivals of their chiefs, accepted their benefits without discussing their rights. They felt attached to them when they were clement and just, and submitted without resistance or servility to their oppressions, as to inevitable visitations of the arm of God. Usages and manners had, moreover, created a species of law in the midst of violence, and established certain limits to oppression.

As the noble never suspected that any one would attempt to deprive him of privileges which he believed to be legitimate, and as the serf looked upon his own inferiority as a consequence of the immutable order of nature, it is easy to imagine that a sort of mutual good-will might arise between two classes so differently favoured by fate. Inequality and wretchedness were then to be found in society; but the souls of neither rank of men were degraded.

It is not by the exercise of power or by the habit of obedience that men are debased; it is by the exercise of a power which they believe to be illegitimate, and by obedience to a rule which they consider to be usurped and unjust.

On one side were wealth, strength, and leisure, accompanied by the refinements of luxury, the elegances of taste, the pleasures of intellect, and the culture of art. On the other were labour, rudeness, and ignorance; but in the midst of this coarse and ignorant multitude, it was not uncommon to meet with energetic passions, generous sentiments, profound religious convictions, and wild virtues. Society thus organized might possess stability, power, and, above all, glory.

But the scene is now changed, and gradually the two ranks mingle; the barriers which once severed mankind are lowered; properties are broken down, power is subdivided, the light of intelligence spreads, and the capacities of all classes are more equally cultivated; the state of society becomes democratic, and the empire of democracy is slowly and peaceably introduced into institutions and manners.

I can now conceive a society in which all, regarding the law as emanating from themselves, would give it their attachment and their ready submission; in which the authority of the State would be respected as necessary, though not as divine; and the loyalty of the subject to the chief magistrate would not be a passion, but a quiet and rational persuasion. Every individual being in the possession of rights, and feeling secure of retaining them, a kind of manly reliance and reciprocal courtesy would arise between all classes, alike removed from pride and meanness.

The people, well acquainted with their true interests, would allow, that, in order to profit by the advantages of society, it is necessary to submit to its burthens. In this state of things, the voluntary association of the citizens might supply the place of the individual power of the nobles, and the community would be alike protected from anarchy and from oppression.

I admit that, in a democratic state thus constituted, society will not be stationary; but the impulses of the social body may be duly regulated, and directed towards improvement. If there be less splendour than in the halls of an aristocracy, the contrast of misery will be less frequent also, enjoyments may be less intense, but comfort will be more general; the sciences may be less highly cultivated, but ignorance will be less common; the impetuosity of the feelings will be repressed, and the habits of the nation softened, there will be more vices, and fewer crimes.

In the absence of enthusiasm and of an ardent faith, great sacrifices may be obtained from the members of such a commonwealth by an appeal to their understandings and their experience. Each individual, being equally weak will feel an equal necessity for uniting with his fellow-citizens; and as he knows that he can obtain their good offices only by giving his, he will readily perceive that his personal interest is identified with the interest of the community.

The nation, taken as a whole, will be less brilliant, less glorious, and perhaps less powerful; but the majority of the citizens will enjoy a greater degree of prosperity, and the people will remain quiet, not because they despair of being better, but because they know that they are well.

If all the consequences of this state of things were not good or useful, society would at least have appropriated all such of them as were so; and having once and for ever renounced the social advantages of aristocracy, mankind would enter into possession of all the benefits which democracy can afford.

(Reeve. Vol. I, pp. xxiv-xxviii; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 12-15.)

But we—what have we adopted in the place of those institutions, those ideas, and those customs of our forefathers which we have abandoned? The spell of royalty is broken, but it has not been succeeded by the majesty of the laws; the people have learned to despise all authority, but fear now extorts a larger tribute of obedience than that which was formerly paid by reverence and by love.

I perceive that we have destroyed those independent existences which were able to cope with tyranny single-handed: but the government has alone inherited the privileges of which families, corporations, and individuals have been deprived: to the strength, sometimes oppressive, but often conservative, of a few, has succeeded the weakness of all.

The division of property has lessened the distance which separated the rich from the poor; but the nearer they draw to each other, the greater seems their mutual hatred, and the more vehement the envy and the dread with which they resist each other’s claims to power, the notion of right is alike a stranger to both classes, and force is, in the eyes of both, the only argument for the present, and the only resource for the future.

The poor man retains the prejudices of his forefathers without their faith, and their ignorance without their virtues, he has adopted the doctrine of self-interest as the rule of his actions, without having acquired the knowledge which enlightens it, and his selfishness is no less blind than his devotedness was formerly.

If society is tranquil, it is not because it is conscious of its strength and of its well-being, but, on the contrary, because it believes itself weak and infirm, and fears that a single effort may cost it its life. Everybody feels the evil, but no one has courage or energy enough to seek the cure; the desires, the regrets, the sorrows, and the joys of the time produce no visible or permanent fruits.

We have, then, abandoned whatever advantages the old state of things afforded, without receiving the compensations naturally belonging to our present condition; we have destroyed an aristocratic society, and we seem inclined to survey its ruins with complacency, and to fix our abode in the midst of them.

(Reeve. Vol. I, pp. xxviii-xxx; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 15-17.)

In New England the majority acts by representatives in the conduct of the public business of the state; but if such an arrangement be necessary in general affairs—in the townships, where the legislative and administrative action of the government is in more immediate contact with the governed, the system of representation is not adopted. There is no town-council; the body of electors, after having appointed its magistrates, directs them in everything that exceeds the mere execution of the laws.

This state of things is so contrary to our ideas, and so opposed to our habits, that it is necessary for me to adduce some examples to explain it thoroughly.

The public functions in the township are extremely numerous, and minutely divided, as we shall see further on; but the larger portion of the business of administration is vested in the hands of a small number of individuals, called the selectmen.

The general laws of the state impose a certain number of obligations on the selectmen, which they may fulfil without the authorization of the body they represent, and which if they neglect they are personally responsible. The law of the state obliges them, for instance, to draw up the list of electors in their townships; and if they omit this part of their functions, they are guilty of a misdemeanor. In all the affairs, however, which are left to be determined by the local authorities, the selectmen are the organs of the popular mandate, as in France the Maire executes the decree of the municipal council. They usually act upon their own responsibility, and merely put in practice principles which have been previously recognised by the majority. But if any change is to be introduced in the existing state of things, or if they wish to undertake any new enterprise, they are obliged to refer to the source of their power. If, for instance, a school is to be established, the selectmen convoke the whole body of electors on a certain day at an appointed place; they state the exigency of the case, they give their opinion on the means of satisfying it, on the probable expense, and the site which seems to be most favourable. The meeting is consulted on these several points; it adopts the principle, determines the site, votes the rate, and leaves the execution of its resolution to the selectmen.

The selectmen have alone the right of summoning a town-meeting; but they may be called upon to do so if ten landed proprietors are desirous of submitting a new project to the assent of the township, they may demand a general convocation of the inhabitants; the selectmen are obliged to comply, and retain only the right of presiding at the meeting.

The selectmen are elected every year, in the month of April or of May. The town-meeting chooses at the same time a number of other municipal officers, who are intrusted with important administrative functions. The assessors rate the township; the collectors receive the rate. A constable is appointed to keep the peace, to watch the streets, and to lend his personal aid to the execution of the laws, the town-clerk records the proceedings of the town-meetings, and keeps the register of births, deaths, and marriages, the treasurer keeps the funds; the overseer of the poor performs the difficult task of superintending the administration of the poor-laws; committee-men are appointed for the superintendence of the schools and public instruction; and the inspectors of roads, who take care of the greater and lesser thoroughfares of the township, complete the list of the principal functionaries. There are, however, still further subdivisions: amongst the municipal officers are to be found parish commissioners, who audit the expenses of public worship, different classes of inspectors, some of whom are to direct the efforts of the citizens in case of fire, tithing-men, listers, haywards, chimney-viewers, fence-viewers to maintain the bounds of property, timber-measurers, and inspectors of weights and measures.

There are nineteen principal offices in a township. Every inhabitant is constrained, under a pecuniary penalty, to undertake these different functions; which, however, are almost all paid, in order that the poorer citizens may be able to give up their time without loss. In general the American system is not to grant a fixed salary to public functionaries. Every service has its price, and they are remunerated in proportion to what they have done.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. 75-8; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 99-103.)

The commune is the only association which has so completely its foundation in nature, that wherever a number of human beings are collected, a commune arises of itself.

The commune, therefore, must necessarily exist in all nations, whatever may be their laws and customs; monarchies and republics are creations of man, the commune seems to issue directly from the hands of God. But although the existence of the commune is coeval with that of man communal freedom is rare, and difficult to be maintained. A nation is always able to establish great political assemblies, because it is sure to contain a certain number of persons whose intellectual cultivation stands them to a certain extent instead of practical experience. But the commune is composed of rude materials, which are often not to be fashioned by the legislator. The difficulty of introducing municipal freedom is apt to increase, instead of diminishing, with the increased enlightenment of the people. A highly civilized community can ill brook the first rude attempts of village independence; is disgusted at the multitude of blunders; and is apt to despair of success before the experiment is completed.

Again, no immunities are so ill protected against the encroachments of the supreme power, as those of municipal bodies. Left to themselves, these local liberties are ill able to maintain themselves against a strong or an enterprising government: to resist successfully, they must have attained their fullest development, and have become identified with the habits and ways of thinking of the people. Thus, until municipal freedom is amalgamated with the manners of a people, it is easily destroyed, and only after a long existence in the laws can it be thus amalgamated.

Municipal freedom, therefore, is not, if I may so express myself, the fruit of human device. Accordingly it is rarely created, but is, as it were, of spontaneous growth, developed almost in secret, in the midst of a semi-barbarous state of society. The long-continued action of laws and of manners, favourable circumstances, and, above all, time, can alone consolidate it. Of all the nations of the continent of Europe, we may affirm that there is not one which has any knowledge of it.

Nevertheless, it is in the commune that the strength of a free people resides. Municipal institutions are to liberty what primary schools are to knowledge; they bring it within the reach of the people, give them a taste for its peaceable exercise, and practice in its use. Without municipal institutions, a nation may give itself a free government, but it has not the spirit of freedom. Transient passions, momentary interests, or the chance of circumstances, may give it the outward forms of independence; but the despotic principle, which has been driven back into the interior of the body politic, will sooner or later re-appear at the surface.^*

The township of New England possesses two advantages which infallibly secure the attentive interest of mankind, namely, independence and power. Its sphere is indeed small and limited, but within that sphere its action is unrestrained: and its independence gives to it a real importance which its extent and population would not always insure.

It is to be remembered that the affections of men seldom attach themselves but where there is power. Patriotism is not durable in a conquered nation. The New Englander is attached to his township, not so much because he was born in it, as because it constitutes a free and powerful corporation, of which he is a member, and of which to influence the government is an object worth exerting himself for.

In Europe the absence of local public spirit is a frequent subject of regret even to governments themselves, for every one agrees that there is no surer guarantee of order and tranquillity, but nobody knows how to create it. They fear that if the localities were made powerful and independent, the authorities of the nation might be disunited, and the state exposed to anarchy. Yet, deprive the locality of power and independence, it may contain subjects, but it will have no citizens.

Another important fact is, that the township of New England is so constituted as to excite the warmest of human affections, without arousing strongly the ambitious passions of the heart of man. The officers of the county are not elective, and their authority is very limited. Even the state is only a second-rate community, whose tranquil and obscure administration offers no inducement to most men, sufficient to draw them away from the centre of their private interests into the turmoil of public affairs. The federal government confers power and honour on the men who conduct it; but these can never be very numerous. The high station of the Presidency can only be reached at an advanced period of life; and the other federal offices of a high order are generally attained, as it were accidentally, by persons who have already distinguished themselves in some other career. Their attainment cannot be the permanent aim of an ambitious life. In the township, therefore, in the centre of the ordinary relations of life, become concentrated the desire of public esteem, the thirst for the exercise of influence, and the taste for authority and popularity; and the passions which commonly embroil society, change their character when they find a vent so near the domestic hearth and the family circle.

In the American States power has been disseminated with admirable skill, for the purpose of interesting the greatest possible number of persons in the common weal. Independently of the electors, who are from time to time called to take a direct share in the government, there are innumerable functionaries who all, in their several spheres, represent the same powerful whole in whose name they act. The local administration thus affords an unfailing source of profit and interest to a vast number of individuals.

The American system, while it divides the local authority among so many citizens, does not scruple to multiply the obligations imposed by the township upon its members. For in the United States it is believed, and with truth, that patriotism is a kind of devotion which is strengthened by ritual observance.

In this manner, every person is continually reminded that he belongs to the community; his connexion with it is daily manifested in the fulfilment of a duty, or the exercise of a right; and a constant though gentle motion is thus kept up in society, which animates without disturbing it.

The American attaches himself to the state for the same reason which makes the mountaineer cling to his hills; because he finds in his country more marked features, a more decided physiognomy than elsewhere.

The existence of the townships of New England is in general a happy one. Their government is suited to their tastes and chosen by themselves. In the midst of the profound peace and general comfort which reign in America, the commotions of municipal discord are unfrequent. The conduct of local business is easy. Besides, the political education of the people has long been complete; say rather that it was complete when the people first set foot upon the soil. In New England the distinction of ranks does not exist even in memory, no portion of the community, therefore, is tempted to oppress the remainder, and acts of injustice which injure isolated individuals, are forgotten in the general contentment which prevails. If the government is defective, (and it would no doubt be easy to point out its deficiencies,) yet so long as it contrives to go on, the fact that it really emanates from those it governs, casts the protecting spell of a parental pride over its faults. Besides, they have nothing to compare it with. England formerly ruled over the aggregation of the colonies, but the people always managed their own local affairs. The sovereignty of the people is, in the commune, not only an ancient but a primitive state.

The native of New England is attached to his township, because it is independent and powerful, he feels interested in it, because he takes part in its management: the prosperity he enjoys in it makes it an object of his attention: he centres in it his ambition and his hopes. He takes a part in every occurrence in the place; he practises the art of government in the small sphere within his reach; he accustoms himself to those forms, without which liberty can only take the shape of revolution; he imbibes their spirit; he acquires a taste for order, comprehends the mutual play of concurrent authorities, and collects clear practical notions on the nature of his duties and the extent of his rights.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. 82-6; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 107-11.)

There are two methods of diminishing the force of the government in any country:—

The first is, to weaken the supreme power in its very principle, by forbidding or preventing society from acting in its own defence under certain circumstances. To weaken authority in this manner, is what is generally termed in Europe to establish political freedom.

The second manner of diminishing the influence of the government does not consist in stripping society of any of its rights, nor in paralysing its efforts, but in distributing the exercise of its privileges among various hands, and in multiplying functionaries, to each of whom all the power is intrusted which is necessary for the performance of the task specially imposed upon him. There may be nations whom this distribution of social powers might lead to anarchy, but in itself it is not anarchical. The power of government, thus divided, is indeed rendered less irresistible and less perilous, but it is not destroyed.

The revolution of the United States was the result of a calm and considerate love of freedom, and not of a vague and indefinite craving for independence. It contracted no alliance with the turbulent passions of anarchy; its course was marked, on the contrary, by an attachment to order and legality.

It was never assumed in the United States, that the citizen of a free country has a right to do whatever he pleases; on the contrary, social obligations were there imposed upon him, more various than anywhere else. No idea was entertained of calling in question or limiting the rights or powers of society; but the exercise of those powers was divided among many hands, to the end that the office might be powerful and the officer insignificant, and that the community should be at once regulated and free.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. 89-90; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 115-16.)

The Americans have retained, [says our author,] all the ordinary characteristics of judicial authority, and have carefully restricted its action to the ordinary circle of its functions.

The first characteristic of judicial power in all nations is, that its function is that of an arbitrator. To warrant the interference of a tribunal, there must be a dispute: before there can be a judgment, somebody must bring an action. As long, therefore, as an enactment gives rise to no lawsuit, the judicial authority is not called upon to discuss it, and it may exist without being perceived. When a judge, in a given case, attacks a law relating to that case, he extends the circle of his customary duties, without however stepping beyond it; since he is in some measure obliged to decide upon the law, in order to decide the case. But if he pronounces upon a law without resting upon a case, he clearly steps beyond his sphere, and invades that of the legislative authority.

The second characteristic of judicial power is, that it pronounces upon special cases, and not upon general principles. If a judge in deciding a particular case destroys a general principle, by showing that every other consequence of the principle will be annulled in a similar manner, he remains within the ordinary limits of his functions. But if he directly attacks a general principle, and sets it aside, without having a particular case in view, he quits the circle in which all nations have agreed to confine his authority, he assumes a more important, and perhaps a more useful part than that of the magistrate, but he ceases to be a representative of the judicial power.

The third characteristic of the judicial power is its inability to act until it is appealed to—until a case is brought before it. This characteristic is less universal than the other two: but notwithstanding the exceptions. I think it may be regarded as essential. The judicial power is in its own nature devoid of action, it cannot act without an impulse from without. When a criminal is brought before it to be tried, it will convict and punish him; when called upon to redress a wrong, it is ready to redress it, when an act requires interpretation, it is prepared to interpret it; but it does not pursue criminals hunt out wrongs, or inquire into facts, of its own accord. A judicial functionary who should take the initiative, and erect himself into a censor of the laws, would in some measure do violence to this passive nature of his authority.

The Americans have retained these three distinguishing characteristics of the judicial power. An American judge can only pronounce a decision when litigation has arisen: he can only pronounce upon an individual case, and he cannot act until the cause has been duly brought before the court.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. 136-8; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 164-6.)

The political power which the Americans have intrusted to their courts of justice is therefore immense, but the dangers of this power are considerably diminished by debarring them from the use of any except strictly judicial means. If the judge had been empowered to contest the laws in a sweeping and general way; if he had been enabled to take the initiative, and to pass a censure on the legislator, he would have played a prominent part in the political sphere, and as the champion or the antagonist of a party, he would have arrayed the hostile passions of the nation in the conflict. But when a judge contests a law, in an obscure proceeding, and in some particular application, the importance of his attack is partly concealed from the public gaze; his decision is aimed directly only at the interest of an individual, and if the law is wounded, it is only as it were by accident. Moreover, although it be censured it is not abolished; its moral force may be diminished, but its cogency is by no means suspended; and its final destruction can only be accomplished by the reiterated attacks of the tribunals. It will, moreover, be readily understood that by leaving it to private interests to call the veto of the tribunals into action, and by closely uniting the attack upon the law with a suit against an individual, the laws are protected from wanton assailants, and from the daily aggressions of party-spirit. The errors of the legislator are exposed only in obedience to an exigency which is actually felt; it is always a positive and appreciable fact which serves as the basis of a prosecution.

I am inclined to believe this practice of the American courts to be the most favourable to liberty as well as to public order.

If the judge could only attack the legislator openly and directly, he would sometimes be afraid to oppose any resistance to his will; and at other moments party spirit might encourage him to brave it at every turn. The laws would consequently be attacked when the power from which they emanate is weak, and obeyed when it is strong. That is to say, when it would be useful to respect them, they would be contested; and when it would be easy to convert them into an instrument of oppression, they would be respected. But the American judge is brought into the political arena independently of his own will. He only judges the law because he is obliged to judge a case. The political question which he is called upon to resolve is connected with the interest of the parties, and he cannot refuse to decide it without being guilty of a denial of justice. He performs his functions as a citizen by fulfilling the precise duties which belong to his profession as a magistrate. It is true that upon this system the judicial censorship which is exercised by the courts of justice over the acts of the legislature cannot extend to all laws indefinitely, inasmuch as some of them can never give rise to that formal species of contestation which is termed a lawsuit; and even when such a contestation is possible, it may happen that no one is inclined to carry it into a court of justice.

The Americans have often felt this disadvantage, but they have left the remedy incomplete, lest they should give it an efficacy which might in some cases prove dangerous.

Even within these limits, the power vested in the American courts of justice of pronouncing a statute to be unconstitutional, forms one of the most powerful barriers which has ever been devised against the tyranny of political assemblies.

(Reeve, Vol. I, pp. 142-4; Tocqueville, Vol. I, pp. 170-2.)

We ought carefully to distinguish between the end which the laws have in view, and the manner in which they pursue it; between their absolute goodness, and their goodness considered only as means to an end.

Suppose that the purpose of the legislator is to favour the interest of the few at the expense of the many; and that his measures are so taken as to attain the result he aims at, in the shortest time, and with the least effort possible. The law will be well made, but its purpose will be evil; and it will be dangerous in the direct ratio of its efficiency.

The laws of a democracy tend in general to the good of the greatest number; for they emanate from the majority of the entire people, which may be mistaken, but which cannot have an interest contrary to its own interest.

The laws of an aristocracy tend, on the contrary, to monopolize wealth and power in the hands of the small number; because an aristocracy is, in its very nature, a minority.

We may therefore lay it down as a maxim, that the intentions of a democracy, in its legislation, are more beneficial to mankind than those of an aristocracy.

There, however, its advantages terminate.

Aristocracy is infinitely more skilful in the art of legislation than democracy can be. She is not subject to passing entrainements; she forms distant projects, and matures them until the favourable opportunity arrives. Aristocracy proceeds scientifically; she understands the art of making the aggregate force of all her laws converge at the same time to one and the same point.

It is otherwise with democracy, her laws are almost always defective or ill-timed.

The means, therefore, employed by democracy are more imperfect than those of aristocracy; often, without intending it, she labours to defeat herself; but her ends are more useful.

Conceive a society which nature, or its own constitution, has so organized, that it can sustain the temporary agency of bad laws, and is able, without perishing, to await the result of the general tendency of the laws, and you will perceive that democratic government, in spite of its defects, is the fittest government to make that society prosperous.

This is precisely the case of the United States. As I have elsewhere observed, it is the great privilege of the Americans that they can commit reparable mistakes.

Something of the same sort may be said as to the appointment of public functionaries.

It is easy to see that the American democracy is often mistaken in choosing the men to whom it confides public trusts; but it is not so easy to say why the state prospers in their hands.

Observe, in the first place, that in a democratic state, if the governors are less honest or less able, the governed are more enlightened and more vigilant.

The people, in a democracy, being incessantly occupied with their affairs, and jealous of their rights, restrain their representatives from wandering out of a certain general direction, which the interest of the people points out.

Observe, moreover, that if the magistrate in a democracy uses his power worse than in another government, he generally possesses it a shorter time.

But there is a more general, and a more satisfactory, reason than this.

It is, no doubt, of importance to a nation that its rulers should have virtues or talents; but what is perhaps of still greater importance to them is, that the rulers shall not have interests contrary to those of the great mass of the governed. For, in that case, their virtues might become almost useless, and their talents fatal. . . .

Those who, in the United States, are appointed to the direction of public affairs, are often inferior in capacity and in morality to those whom aristocracy would raise to power. But their interest is blended and identified with that of the majority of their fellow-citizens. They may therefore commit frequent breaches of trust, and serious errors; but they will never systematically adopt a tendency hostile to the majority; and it can never happen to them to give an exclusive or a dangerous character to their measures of government.

Besides, the bad administration of a magistrate in a democracy is an insulated fact, which has influence only during his brief continuance in office. Corruption and incapacity are not common interests, capable of producing a permanent alliance among men. A corrupt or incapable functionary will not unite his efforts with another functionary, for no reason but because he too is incapable and corrupt, and for the purpose of making corruption and incapacity flourish in future generations. On the contrary, the ambition and the manœuvres of the one will serve to unmask the other. The vices of the magistrate in democracies are in general wholly personal to himself.

But under an aristocratic government, public men have a class interest, which, if sometimes in harmony with that of the multitude, is often distinct from it. That interest forms among them a permanent tie: it prompts them to ally themselves together, and combine their efforts, for a purpose which is not always the happiness of the many; and it not only binds the rulers to one another, it unites them also with a considerable portion of the governed; for many citizens, without holding any employment, form a part of the aristocracy. The aristocratic magistrate, therefore, meets with a constant support in society itself, as well as in the government.

This common object, which in aristocracies allies the magistrates with the interests of a portion of their cotemporaries, also identifies them with that of future generations. They labour for futurity as well as for the present. The aristocratic functionary is, therefore, pushed in one and the same direction by the passions of the governed, by his own, and I might almost say, by the passions of his posterity.

What wonder, if he does not withstand them? Accordingly, in aristocracies, we often see the class spirit governing even those whom it does not corrupt, and making them unconsciously strive to accommodate society to their use, and to leave it as a patrimony to their descendants. . . .

In the United States, where public functionaries have no class interest to give predominance to—the general and permanent working of the government is beneficial, although the governors are often unskilful, and sometimes despicable.

There is, therefore, in democratic institutions, a hidden tendency, which often makes men instrumental to the general prosperity in spite of their vices or their blunders; while in aristocratic institutions there is sometimes discovered a secret leaning, which, in spite of talents and virtues, draws them to contribute to the misery of their fellow-creatures. It is thus that in aristocracies public men sometimes do ill without meaning it; and in democracies they produce good without having any thought of it.

(Tocqueville, Vol. II, pp. 108-11.)

Many people in Europe believe without asserting, or assert without believing, that one of the great advantages of universal suffrage consists in calling to the direction of public affairs men worthy of public confidence. The people, it is affirmed, cannot themselves govern, but they always sincerely desire the public good; and they have an instinct which seldom fails to point out to them those who are actuated by a similar desire, and who are the best qualified for the possession of power.

For myself, I am obliged to say, what I have seen in America does not warrant me in believing this to be the case. On my arrival in America I was struck with surprise in discovering to what a degree merit is common among the governed, and how rare it is among the governors. It is an unquestionable fact that in our day, in the United States, the most distinguished men are seldom called to public functions, and one is forced to acknowledge that this has been more and more the case as democracy has more and more overstepped her ancient limits. It is manifest that the race of American statesmen has decidedly dwarted within the last half-century.

Several causes may be indicated for this phenomenon. It is impossible, do what we will, to raise the instruction of the people beyond a certain level. In vain do you facilitate the access to knowledge, improve the methods of teaching, and render science cheap, you will never enable persons to instruct themselves, and to develope their intelligence, without devoting time to it.

The greater or less facility which the people enjoy of living without labour, constitutes therefore the necessary limit of their intellectual advancement. That limit is placed higher in some countries, lower in others, but, for it not to exist, the people must no longer be under the necessity of occupying themselves with physical labour—that is, they must cease to be the people. It would be as difficult, therefore, to imagine a society in which all mankind were highly enlightened, as one in which they were all rich. I will readily admit that the mass of the people very sincerely desire the good of the country: I will go farther, and say that the interior classes appear to me generally to mix with that desire fewer schemes of personal interest than the higher ranks; but what is always more or less wanting to them, is the art of judging of the means, even while sincerely aiming at the end. How long a study, what a variety of ideas are necessary for forming an accurate conception of the character of a single person! The greatest geniuses commit mistakes in the attempt: can it be expected that the multitude should succeed? The people never have the time or the means to go through this labour. They are obliged always to judge in haste, and to fasten on the most salient points. Hence it is that charlatans of all sorts know so well the secret of pleasing them, while their real friends most frequently fail.

Besides, what prevents the democracy from choosing persons of merit is not always want of the capacity, but want of the desire and the inclination.

It cannot be dissembled that democratic institutions develope, to a very high degree, the feeling of envy in the human breast. This is not so much because those institutions offer to every one the means of rising to the level of others, but because those means are perpetually tried and found wanting Democratic institutions call forth and flatter the passion for equality, without ever being able to give it complete satisfaction.

Many persons imagine that the secret instinct which, with us, leads the interior classes to exclude the superior as much as they can from the direction of their affairs, is seen only in France. This is an error. The instinct is not a French, but a democratic instinct. Our political circumstances may have given it a peculiar character of bitterness, but they are not the cause of it.

In the United States the people have no hatred for the higher classes of society, but they feel little good-will towards those classes, and exclude them carefully from the government. They are not afraid of great talents, but they have little relish for them. In general it may be remarked, that whatever raises itself without the people’s assistance, finds little favour in their eyes.

I am satisfied that those who consider universal suffrage as a security for a good choice, are under a complete illusion. Universal suffrage has other advantages, but it has not that.

(Tocqueville, Vol. II, pp. 43-7.)

Hence it follows that in quiet times public functions offer little allurement to ambition. In the United States it is those who are moderate in their desires that engage in public business. The men of great talents and great passions usually abandon the pursuit of power, and engage in that of riches; and it often happens that the person who undertakes to direct the concerns of the public, is he who feels himself little capable of successfully conducting his own.

It is to these causes, as much as to the bad choice of the people, that we must ascribe the great number of inferior men who occupy public situations. I know not whether the people of the United States would choose superior men if they sought to be chosen, but it is certain that they do not seek it.

(Tocqueville, Vol. II, pp. 58-9.)

In New England, where education and liberty are the outgrowth of morality and religion—where society, already old and long-established, has been able to form habits and maxims—the people, while quite independent of all the superiorities which were ever created among mankind by riches or birth, have accustomed themselves to respect intellectual and moral superiorities, and to submit to them without reluctance. Accordingly we see that in New England the democracy makes a far better choice of public functionaries than any where else.

In proportion as we descend towards the south, and reach the states in which the bonds of society are less ancient and less strong—where instruction is less diffused—and where the principles of morality of religion and of liberty, are less happily combined, we may perceive that talents and virtues become more and more rare among public men.

When we penetrate at length to the new states in the south-west, where the social union is but of yesterday, and presents as yet only an agglomeration of adventurers or speculators, one is confounded at the sight of the hands in which the powers of government are placed: and one asks oneself by what force, independent of legislation and of the ruling power, the state is able to advance and the people to prosper.

(Tocqueville, Vol. II. pp. 49-50.)

When we come to examine in what condition, in the United States, is the exercise of thought, it is then that we see clearly how far the power of the majority surpasses any power which we know in Europe.

Thought is an invisible and almost unconfinable force, which laughs at all tyrannies. In our time, the most absolute princes of Europe cannot prevent certain ideas, hostile to their authority, from circulating underhand in their dominions, and even in the midst of their courts. It is otherwise in America: as long as the majority is in doubt, there is discussion; but as soon as it has irrevocably decided, all hold their peace; and friends and enemies seem equally to yoke themselves to its car. The reason is simple. No monarch, however absolute, can concentrate in his own hands all the influences of society, and vanquish all resistance, as a majority, invested with the power of making and executing the laws, can do.

A king, besides, wields only a physical power, which controls the actions but cannot influence the inclinations, but the majority is possessed of a power at once physical and moral, which acts upon the will as much as upon the conduct, and restrains at once the act and the desire to perform it.

I am acquainted with no country in which there reigns, in general, less independence of mind, and real freedom of discussion, than in America.

There is no theory, religious or political, which cannot be freely promulgated in the constitutional states of Europe, or which does not penetrate into the others; for there is no country in Europe so completely subjected to one power, that he who wishes to speak the truth may not find a support sufficient to protect him against the consequences of his independence. If he has the misfortune to live under an absolute monarchy, he often has the people with him; if he inhabits a free country, he can, in case of need, shelter himself under the royal authority. The aristocratic fraction of society sustains him in the democratic countries, and the democracy in the others. But in a democracy organized like that of the United States, there exists only one power, one single source of influence and success, and nothing beyond its limits.

In America, the majority traces a formidable circle around the province of thought. Within that boundary the writer is free, but woe to him if he dare to overstep it. He needs not indeed fear an auto-da-fe; but he is a mark for every-day persecutions, and subject to an infinity of chagrins. To him the career of politics is closed; he has offended the sole power which could admit him into it. All is refused to him, even glory. Before he published his opinions, he fancied that he had partisans; now, when he has discovered himself to all, he seems to have them no longer; for those who disapprove blame him openly, and those who think with him, without having his courage, are silent and keep aloof. He yields, he bends at last under the burden of daily efforts, and is again silent, as if he felt remorse for having spoken the truth. . . .

In the proudest nations of the old world, books have been published destined to depict faithfully the vices and the ridicules of the age. La Bruyère lived in the palace of Louis XIV when he composed his chapter sur les grands;^[*] and Molière satirized the court in pieces written to be represented before the courtiers. But the power which is predominant in the United States will not be thus trifled with. The slightest reproach offends it; the smallest trait of piquant truth excites its anger; everything must be lauded, from the turn of its phraseology to its most solid virtues. No writer, whatever his renown, is exempted from this obligation of offering incense to his countrymen. The majority, therefore, lives in a perpetual adoration of itself. Foreigners only, or experience, can make certain truths reach the ears of the Americans.

If America has not yet had great writers, we need not look farther for the reason. There is no literary genius but where there is freedom of thought, and there is no freedom of thought in America.

(Tocqueville, Vol. II, pp. 149-53.)

In free countries, where every one is called upon, more or less, to give his opinion on affairs of state; in democratic republics, where public and private life are intimately blended, where the sovereign is everywhere accessible, and to reach his ear one has only to raise one’s voice, many more persons are tempted to speculate upon the sovereign’s weaknesses, and live at the expense of his passions, than in absolute monarchies. It is not that men are naturally worse there than elsewhere; but the temptation is stronger, and offers itself to more persons at once. There results a much more general degradation of soul.

Democratic republics bring the courtier-spirit within the reach of almost everybody, and make it penetrate into all classes at once. This is one of their greatest inconveniences.

This is more particularly true in democratic states constituted like the American republics, where the majority possesses an empire so absolute and so irresistible, that whoever quits the path it has traced out must in a manner renounce the rights of citizenship, and almost those of humanity.

Among the immense multitude who, in the United States, crowd into the career of politics. I have seen very few who evinced that manly candour, that vigorous independence of thought, which has often distinguished the Americans of former times, and which, wherever it is found, is as it were the salient feature of a great character. At first sight one would say that in America all intellects have been cast in the same mould, so exactly do they all follow the same paths. A foreigner, indeed, occasionally encounters Americans who emancipate themselves from the yoke of the prescribed opinions, these sometimes deplore the defects of the laws, the versatility of the democracy, and its want of enlightened wisdom; they even go so far as to remark the faults of the national character, and point out the means which might be taken to correct them, but nobody, except yourself, is within hearing, and you, to whom they confide these secret thoughts, are but a foreigner, and about to depart. They willingly make you a present of truths which are to you of no use, and when they address the public they hold quite a