Democracy In America, Volume 2 (of 2)

A >> Alexis de Toqueville >> Democracy In America, Volume 2 (of 2)


The men who live in democracies are too fluctuating for a certain number
of them ever to succeed in laying down a code of good breeding, and in
forcing people to follow it. Every man therefore behaves after his own
fashion, and there is always a certain incoherence in the manners of
such times, because they are moulded upon the feelings and notions of
each individual, rather than upon an ideal model proposed for general
imitation. This, however, is much more perceptible at the time when
an aristocracy has just been overthrown than after it has long been
destroyed. New political institutions and new social elements then bring
to the same places of resort, and frequently compel to live in common,
men whose education and habits are still amazingly dissimilar, and
this renders the motley composition of society peculiarly visible. The
existence of a former strict code of good breeding is still remembered,
but what it contained or where it is to be found is already forgotten.
Men have lost the common law of manners, and they have not yet made up
their minds to do without it; but everyone endeavors to make to himself
some sort of arbitrary and variable rule, from the remnant of former
usages; so that manners have neither the regularity and the dignity
which they often display amongst aristocratic nations, nor the
simplicity and freedom which they sometimes assume in democracies; they
are at once constrained and without constraint.

This, however, is not the normal state of things. When the equality of
conditions is long established and complete, as all men entertain nearly
the same notions and do nearly the same things, they do not require to
agree or to copy from one another in order to speak or act in the same
manner: their manners are constantly characterized by a number of lesser
diversities, but not by any great differences. They are never perfectly
alike, because they do not copy from the same pattern; they are never
very unlike, because their social condition is the same. At first sight
a traveller would observe that the manners of all the Americans
are exactly similar; it is only upon close examination that the
peculiarities in which they differ may be detected.

The English make game of the manners of the Americans; but it is
singular that most of the writers who have drawn these ludicrous
delineations belonged themselves to the middle classes in England, to
whom the same delineations are exceedingly applicable: so that these
pitiless censors for the most part furnish an example of the very thing
they blame in the United States; they do not perceive that they are
deriding themselves, to the great amusement of the aristocracy of their
own country.

Nothing is more prejudicial to democracy than its outward forms of
behavior: many men would willingly endure its vices, who cannot support
its manners. I cannot, however, admit that there is nothing commendable
in the manners of a democratic people. Amongst aristocratic nations, all
who live within reach of the first class in society commonly strain to
be like it, which gives rise to ridiculous and insipid imitations. As a
democratic people does not possess any models of high breeding, at least
it escapes the daily necessity of seeing wretched copies of them.
In democracies manners are never so refined as amongst aristocratic
nations, but on the other hand they are never so coarse. Neither the
coarse oaths of the populace, nor the elegant and choice expressions
of the nobility are to be heard there: the manners of such a people
are often vulgar, but they are neither brutal nor mean. I have already
observed that in democracies no such thing as a regular code of good
breeding can be laid down; this has some inconveniences and some
advantages. In aristocracies the rules of propriety impose the same
demeanor on everyone; they make all the members of the same class appear
alike, in spite of their private inclinations; they adorn and they
conceal the natural man. Amongst a democratic people manners are neither
so tutored nor so uniform, but they are frequently more sincere. They
form, as it were, a light and loosely woven veil, through which the real
feelings and private opinions of each individual are easily discernible.
The form and the substance of human actions often, therefore, stand
in closer relation; and if the great picture of human life be less
embellished, it is more true. Thus it may be said, in one sense, that
the effect of democracy is not exactly to give men any particular
manners, but to prevent them from having manners at all.

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

I am aware that it has not unfrequently happened that the same men have
had very high-bred manners and very low-born feelings: the interior of
courts has sufficiently shown what imposing externals may conceal the
meanest hearts. But though the manners of aristocracy did not constitute
virtue, they sometimes embellish virtue itself. It was no ordinary sight
to see a numerous and powerful class of men, whose every outward action
seemed constantly to be dictated by a natural elevation of thought
and feeling, by delicacy and regularity of taste, and by urbanity
of manners. Those manners threw a pleasing illusory charm over human
nature; and though the picture was often a false one, it could not be
viewed without a noble satisfaction.




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

Men who live in democratic countries do not value the simple, turbulent,
or coarse diversions in which the people indulge in aristocratic
communities: such diversions are thought by them to be puerile or
insipid. Nor have they a greater inclination for the intellectual and
refined amusements of the aristocratic classes. They want something
productive and substantial in their pleasures; they want to mix actual
fruition with their joy. In aristocratic communities the people readily
give themselves up to bursts of tumultuous and boisterous gayety, which
shake off at once the recollection of their privations: the natives of
democracies are not fond of being thus violently broken in upon, and
they never lose sight of their own selves without regret. They prefer to
these frivolous delights those more serious and silent amusements which
are like business, and which do not drive business wholly from their
minds. An American, instead of going in a leisure hour to dance merrily
at some place of public resort, as the fellows of his calling continue
to do throughout the greater part of Europe, shuts himself up at home
to drink. He thus enjoys two pleasures; he can go on thinking of his
business, and he can get drunk decently by his own fireside.

I thought that the English constituted the most serious nation on the
face of the earth, but I have since seen the Americans and have changed
my opinion. I do not mean to say that temperament has not a great deal
to do with the character of the inhabitants of the United States, but
I think that their political institutions are a still more influential
cause. I believe the seriousness of the Americans arises partly from
their pride. In democratic countries even poor men entertain a lofty
notion of their personal importance: they look upon themselves with
complacency, and are apt to suppose that others are looking at them,
too. With this disposition they watch their language and their actions
with care, and do not lay themselves open so as to betray their
deficiencies; to preserve their dignity they think it necessary to
retain their gravity.

But I detect another more deep-seated and powerful cause which
instinctively produces amongst the Americans this astonishing gravity.
Under a despotism communities give way at times to bursts of vehement
joy; but they are generally gloomy and moody, because they are afraid.
Under absolute monarchies tempered by the customs and manners of the
country, their spirits are often cheerful and even, because as they have
some freedom and a good deal of security, they are exempted from the
most important cares of life; but all free peoples are serious, because
their minds are habitually absorbed by the contemplation of some
dangerous or difficult purpose. This is more especially the case amongst
those free nations which form democratic communities. Then there are
in all classes a very large number of men constantly occupied with the
serious affairs of the government; and those whose thoughts are not
engaged in the direction of the commonwealth are wholly engrossed by
the acquisition of a private fortune. Amongst such a people a serious
demeanor ceases to be peculiar to certain men, and becomes a habit of
the nation.

We are told of small democracies in the days of antiquity, in which the
citizens met upon the public places with garlands of roses, and spent
almost all their time in dancing and theatrical amusements. I do not
believe in such republics any more than in that of Plato; or, if the
things we read of really happened, I do not hesitate to affirm that
these supposed democracies were composed of very different elements from
ours, and that they had nothing in common with the latter except their
name. But it must not be supposed that, in the midst of all their toils,
the people who live in democracies think themselves to be pitied; the
contrary is remarked to be the case. No men are fonder of their own
condition. Life would have no relish for them if they were delivered
from the anxieties which harass them, and they show more attachment to
their cares than aristocratic nations to their pleasures.

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

It is astonishing what imprudent language a public man may sometimes use
in free countries, and especially in democratic States, without being
compromised; whereas in absolute monarchies a few words dropped by
accident are enough to unmask him forever, and ruin him without hope of
redemption. This is explained by what goes before. When a man speaks
in the midst of a great crowd, many of his words are not heard, or are
forthwith obliterated from the memories of those who hear them; but
amidst the silence of a mute and motionless throng the slightest whisper
strikes the ear.

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

When the inhabitant of democracies is not urged by his wants, he is so
at least by his desires; for of all the possessions which he sees around
him, none are wholly beyond his reach. He therefore does everything in a
hurry, he is always satisfied with "pretty well," and never pauses more
than an instant to consider what he has been doing. His curiosity is at
once insatiable and cheaply satisfied; for he cares more to know a great
deal quickly than to know anything well: he has no time and but little
taste to search things to the bottom. Thus then democratic peoples are
grave, because their social and political condition constantly leads
them to engage in serious occupations; and they act inconsiderately,
because they give but little time and attention to each of these
occupations. The habit of inattention must be considered as the greatest
bane 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 vainglorious, but national pride is not displayed
by all in the same manner. The Americans in their intercourse with
strangers appear impatient of the smallest censure and insatiable
of praise. The most slender eulogium is acceptable to them; the most
exalted seldom contents them; they unceasingly harass you to extort
praise, and if you resist their entreaties they fall to praising
themselves. It would seem as if, doubting their own merit, they wished
to have it constantly exhibited before their eyes. Their vanity is not
only greedy, but restless and jealous; it will grant nothing, whilst it
demands everything, but is ready to beg and to quarrel at the same time.
If I say to an American that the country he lives in is a fine one,
"Ay," he replies, "there is not its fellow in the world." If I applaud
the freedom which its inhabitants enjoy, he answers, "Freedom is a fine
thing, but few nations are worthy to enjoy it." If I remark the purity
of morals which distinguishes the United States, "I can imagine," says
he, "that a stranger, who has been struck by the corruption of all other
nations, is astonished at the difference." At length I leave him to the
contemplation of himself; but he returns to the charge, and does not
desist till he has got me to repeat all I had just been saying. It is
impossible to conceive a more troublesome or more garrulous patriotism;
it wearies even those who are disposed to respect it. *a

[Footnote a: See Appendix U.]

Such is not the case with the English. An Englishman calmly enjoys the
real or imaginary advantages which in his opinion his country possesses.
If he grants nothing to other nations, neither does he solicit anything
for his own. The censure of foreigners does not affect him, and their
praise hardly flatters him; his position with regard to the rest of the
world is one of disdainful and ignorant reserve: his pride requires no
sustenance, it nourishes itself. It is remarkable that two nations,
so recently sprung from the same stock, should be so opposite to one
another in their manner of feeling and conversing.

In aristocratic countries the great possess immense privileges, upon
which their pride rests, without seeking to rely upon the lesser
advantages which accrue to them. As these privileges came to them by
inheritance, they regard them in some sort as a portion of themselves,
or at least as a natural right inherent in their own persons. They
therefore entertain a calm sense of their superiority; they do not dream
of vaunting privileges which everyone perceives and no one contests,
and these things are not sufficiently new to them to be made topics
of conversation. They stand unmoved in their solitary greatness, well
assured that they are seen of all the world without any effort to show
themselves off, and that no one will attempt to drive them from that
position. When an aristocracy carries on the public affairs, its
national pride naturally assumes this reserved, indifferent, and haughty
form, which is imitated by all the other classes of the nation.

When, on the contrary, social conditions differ but little, the
slightest privileges are of some importance; as every man sees around
himself a million of people enjoying precisely similar or analogous
advantages, his pride becomes craving and jealous, he clings to mere
trifles, and doggedly defends them. In democracies, as the conditions of
life are very fluctuating, men have almost always recently acquired the
advantages which they possess; the consequence is that they feel extreme
pleasure in exhibiting them, to show others and convince themselves that
they really enjoy them. As at any instant these same advantages may be
lost, their possessors are constantly on the alert, and make a point
of showing that they still retain them. Men living in democracies love
their country just as they love themselves, and they transfer the habits
of their private vanity to their vanity as a nation. The restless and
insatiable vanity of a democratic people originates so entirely in the
equality and precariousness of social conditions, that the members of
the haughtiest nobility display the very same passion in those lesser
portions of their existence in which there is anything fluctuating or
contested. An aristocratic class always differs greatly from the other
classes of the nation, by the extent and perpetuity of its privileges;
but it often happens that the only differences between the members who
belong to it consist in small transient advantages, which may any day be
lost or acquired. The members of a powerful aristocracy, collected in
a capital or a court, have been known to contest with virulence those
frivolous privileges which depend on the caprice of fashion or the
will of their master. These persons then displayed towards each
other precisely the same puerile jealousies which animate the men of
democracies, the same eagerness to snatch the smallest advantages which
their equals contested, and the same desire to parade ostentatiously
those of which they were in possession. If national pride ever entered
into the minds of courtiers, I do not question that they would display
it in the same manner as the members of a democratic community.




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

It would seem that nothing can be more adapted to stimulate and to feed
curiosity than the aspect of the United States. Fortunes, opinions,
and laws are there in ceaseless variation: it is as if immutable nature
herself were mutable, such are the changes worked upon her by the hand
of man. Yet in the end the sight of this excited community becomes
monotonous, and after having watched the moving pageant for a time the
spectator is tired of it. Amongst aristocratic nations every man is
pretty nearly stationary in his own sphere; but men are astonishingly
unlike each other--their passions, their notions, their habits, and
their tastes are essentially different: nothing changey, but everything
differs. In democracies, on the contrary, all men are alike and do
things pretty nearly alike. It is true that they are subject to great
and frequent vicissitudes; but as the same events of good or adverse
fortune are continually recurring, the name of the actors only is
changed, the piece is always the same. The aspect of American society
is animated, because men and things are always changing; but it is
monotonous, because all these changes are alike.

Men living in democratic ages have many passions, but most of their
passions either end in the love of riches or proceed from it. The cause
of this is, not that their souls are narrower, but that the importance
of money is really greater at such times. When all the members of
a community are independent of or indifferent to each other, the
co-operation of each of them can only be obtained by paying for it: this
infinitely multiplies the purposes to which wealth may be applied, and
increases its value. When the reverence which belonged to what is old
has vanished, birth, condition, and profession no longer distinguish
men, or scarcely distinguish them at all: hardly anything but money
remains to create strongly marked differences between them, and to raise
some of them above the common level. The distinction originating in
wealth is increased by the disappearance and diminution of all other
distinctions. Amongst aristocratic nations money only reaches to a few
points on the vast circle of man's desires--in democracies it seems to
lead to all. The love of wealth is therefore to be traced, either as
a principal or an accessory motive, at the bottom of all that the
Americans do: this gives to all their passions a sort of family
likeness, and soon renders the survey of them exceedingly wearisome.
This perpetual recurrence of the same passion is monotonous; the
peculiar methods by which this passion seeks its own gratification are
no less so.

In an orderly and constituted democracy like the United States, where
men cannot enrich themselves by war, by public office, or by political
confiscation, the love of wealth mainly drives them into business and
manufactures. Although these pursuits often bring about great commotions
and disasters, they cannot prosper without strictly regular habits and
a long routine of petty uniform acts. The stronger the passion is, the
more regular are these habits, and the more uniform are these acts. It
may be said that it is the vehemence of their desires which makes the
Americans so methodical; it perturbs their minds, but it disciplines
their lives.

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




Chapter XVIII: Of Honor In The United States And In Democratic
Communities

It would seem that men employ two very distinct methods in the public
estimation *a of the actions of their fellowmen; at one time they judge
them by those simple notions of right and wrong which are diffused
all over the world; at another they refer their decision to a few very
special notions which belong exclusively to some particular age and
country. It often happens that these two rules differ; they sometimes
conflict: but they are never either entirely identified or entirely
annulled by one another. Honor, at the periods of its greatest power,
sways the will more than the belief of men; and even whilst they yield
without hesitation and without a murmur to its dictates, they feel
notwithstanding, by a dim but mighty instinct, the existence of a more
general, more ancient, and more holy law, which they sometimes disobey
although they cease not to acknowledge it. Some actions have been held
to be at the same time virtuous and dishonorable--a refusal to fight a
duel is a case in point.