How Equality Suggests to the Americans the Idea of the Indefinite
Perfectibility of Man
Equality suggests to the human mind several ideas which would
not have originated from any other source, and it modifies almost
all those previously entertained. I take as an example the idea
of human perfectibility, because it is one of the principal notions
that the intellect can conceive, and because it constitutes of
itself a great philosophical theory, which is everywhere to be
traced by its consequences in the conduct of human affairs.
Although man has many points of resemblance with the brutes, one
trait is peculiar to himself,--he improves: they are incapable
of improvement. mankind could not fail to discover this difference
from the beginning. The idea of perfectibility is therefore as
old as the world; equality did not give birth to it, but has imparted
to it a new character.
When the citizens of a community are classed according to rank,
profession, or birth, and when all men are constrained to follow
the career which chance has opened before them, every one thinks
that the utmost limits of human power are to be discerned in proximity
to himself, and no one seeks any longer to resist the inevitable
law of his destiny. Not, indeed, that an aristocratic people absolutely
deny man's faculty of self-improvement, but they do not hold it
to be indefinite; they can conceive amelioration, but not change:
they imagine that the future condition of society may be better,
but not essentially different; and, whilst they admit that humanity
has made progress, and may still have some to make, they assign
to it beforehand certain impassable limits.
Thus, they do not presume that they have arrived at the supreme
good or at absolute truth, (what people or what man was ever wild
enough to imagine it?) but they cherish a persuasion that they
have pretty nearly reached that degree of greatness and knowledge
which our imperfect nature admits of; and, as nothing moves about
them, they are willing to fancy that everything is in its fit
place. Then it is that the legislator affects to lay down eternal
laws; that kings and nations will raise none but imperishable
monuments; and that the present generation undertakes to spare
generations to come the care of regulating their destinies.
In proportion as castes disappear and the classes of society approximate,--as
manners, customs, and laws vary, from the tumultuous intercourse
of men,--as new facts arise,--as new truths are brought to light,--as
ancient opinions are dissipated, and others take their place,--the
image of an ideal but always fugitive perfection presents itself
to the human mind. Continual changes are then every instant occurring
under the observation of every man: the position of some is rendered
worse; and he learns but too well that no people and no individual,
how enlightened soever they may be, can lay claim to infallibility:
the condition of others is improved; whence he infers that man
is endowed with an indefinite faculty of improvement. His reverses
teach him that none have discovered absolute good,--his success
stimulates him to the never-ending pursuit of it. Thus, forever
seeking, forever falling to rise again,--often disappointed, but
not discouraged,--he tends unceasingly towards that unmeasured
greatness so indistinctly visible at the end of the long track
which humanity has yet to tread.
It can hardly be believed how many facts naturally flow from the
philosophical theory of the indefinite perfectibility of man,
or how strong an influence it exercises even on those who, living
entirely for the purposes of action and not of thought, seem to
conform their actions to it, without knowing anything about it.
I accost an American sailor, and inquire why the ships of his
country are built so as to last but for a short time; he answers
without hesitation, that the art of navigation is every day making
such rapid progress, that the finest vessel would become almost
useless if it lasted beyond a few years. In these words, which
fell accidentally, and on a particular subject, from an uninstructed
man, I recognize the general and systematic idea upon which a
great people direct all their concerns.
Aristocratic nations are naturally too apt to narrow the scope
of human perfectibility; democratic nations, to expand it beyond
reason.
Of Individualism in Democratic Countries
I HAVE shown how it is that, in ages of equality, every man seeks
for his opinions within himself: I am now to show how it is that,
in the same ages, all his feelings are turned towards himself
alone. Individualism is a novel expression, to which a novel idea
has given birth. Our fathers were only acquainted with egotism
(selfishness). Selfishness is a passionate and exaggerated love
of self, which leads a man to connect everything with himself,
and to prefer himself to everything in the world. Individualism
is a mature and calm feeling, which disposes each member of the
community to sever himself from the mass of his fellows, and to
draw apart with his family and his friends; so that, after he
has thus formed a little circle of his own, he willingly leaves
society at large to itself. Selfishness originates in blind instinct:
individualism proceeds from erroneous judgment more than from
depraved feelings; it originates as much in deficiencies of mind
as in perversity of heart.
Selfishness blights the germ of all virtue: individualism, at
first, only saps the virtues of public life; but, in the long
run, it attacks and destroys all others, and is at length absorbed
in downright selfishness. Selfishness is a vice as old as the
world, which does not belong to one form of society more than
to another: individualism is of democratic origin, and it threatens
to spread in the same ratio as equality of condition.
Amongst aristocratic nations, as families remain for centuries
in the same condition, often on the same spot, all generations
become, as it were, contemporaneous. A man almost always knows
his forefathers, and respects them: he thinks he already sees
his remote descendants, and he loves them. he willingly imposes
duties on himself towards the former and the latter; and he will
frequently sacrifice his personal gratifications to those who
went before and to those who will come after him. Aristocratic
institutions have, moreover, the effect of closely binding every
man to several of his fellow-citizens. As the classes of an aristocratic
people are strongly marked and permanent, each of them is regarded
by its own members as a sort of lesser country, more tangible
and more cherished than the country at large. As, in aristocratic
communities, all the citizens occupy fixed positions, one above
the other, the result is, that each of them always sees a man
above himself whose patronage is necessary to him, and, below
himself, another man whose co-operation he may claim. Men living
in aristocratic ages are therefore almost always closely attached
to something placed out of their own sphere, and they are often
disposed to forget themselves. it is true that, in these ages,
the notion of human fellowship is faint, and that men seldom think
of sacrificing themselves for mankind; but they often sacrifice
themselves for other men. In democratic times, on the contrary,
when the duties of each individual to the race are much more clear,
devoted service to any one man becomes more rare; the bond of
human affection is extended, but it is relaxed.
Amongst democratic nations, new families are constantly springing
up, others are constantly falling away, and all that remain change
their condition; the woof of time is every instant broken, and
the track of generations effaced. Those who went before are soon
forgotten; of those who will come after, no one has any idea:
the interest of man is confined to those in close propinquity
to himself. As each class approximates to other classes, and intermingles
with them, its members become indifferent, and as strangers to
one another. Aristocracy had made a chain of all the members of
the community, from the peasant to the king: democracy breaks
that chain, and severs every link of it.
As social conditions become more equal, the number of persons
increases who, although they are neither rich nor powerful enough
to exercise any great influence over their fellows, have nevertheless
acquired or retained sufficient education and fortune to satisfy
their own wants. They owe nothing to any man, they expect nothing
from any man; they acquire the habit of always considering themselves
as standing alone, and they are apt to imagine that their whole
destiny is in their own hands.
Thus, not only does democracy make every man forget his ancestors,
but it hides his descendants and separates his contemporaries
from him; it throws him back forever upon himself alone, and threatens
in the end to confine him entirely within the solitude of his
own heart.
That The Americans Combat the Effects of Individualism by Free
Institutions
DESPOTISM, which is of a very timorous nature, is never more secure
of continuance than when it can keep men asunder; and all its
influence is commonly exerted for that purpose. No vice of the
human heart is so acceptable to it as selfishness: a despot easily
forgives his subjects for not loving him, provided they do not
love each other. He does not ask them to assist in governing the
state; it is enough that they do not aspire to govern it themselves.
He stigmatizes as turbulent and unruly spirits those who would
combine their exertions to promote the prosperity of the community;
and, perverting the natural meaning of words, he applauds as good
citizens those who have no sympathy for any but themselves.
Thus the vices which despotism produces are precisely those which
equality fosters. These two things mutually and perniciously complete
and assist each other. Equality places men side by side, unconnected
by any common tie; despotism raises barriers to keep them asunder:
the former predisposes them not to consider their fellow-creatures,
the latter makes general indifference a sort of public virtue.
Despotism, then, which is at all times dangerous, is more particularly
to be feared in democratic ages. It is easy to see that in those
same ages men stand most in need of freedom. When the members
of a community are forced to attend to public affairs, they are
necessarily drawn from the circle of their own interests, and
snatched at times from self-observation. As soon as a man begins
to treat of public affairs in public, he begins to perceive that
he is not so independent of his fellow-men as he had at first
imagined, and that, in order to obtain their support, he must
often lend them his co-operation.
When the public govern, there is no man who does not feel the
value of public good-will, or who does not endeavor to court it
by drawing to himself the esteem and affection of those amongst
whom he is to live. Many of the passions which congeal and keep
asunder human hearts, are then obliged to retire and hide below
the surface. Pride must be dissembled; disdain dares not break
out; selfishness fears its own self. Under a free government,
as most public offices are elective, the men whose elevated minds
or aspiring hopes are too closely circumscribed in private life
constantly feel that they cannot do without the people who surround
them. Men learn at such times to think of their fellow-men from
ambitious motives; and they frequently find it, in a manner, their
interest to forget themselves.
I may here be met by an objection derived from electioneering
intrigues, the meanness of candidates, and the calumnies of their
opponents. These are occasions of enmity which occur the oftener,
the more frequent elections become. Such evils are doubtless great,
but they are transient; whereas the benefits which attend them
remain. The desire of being elected may lead some men for a time
to violent hostility; but this same desire leads all men in the
long run mutually to support each other; and, if it happens that
an election accidentally severs two friends, the electoral system
brings a multitude of citizens permanently together, who would
otherwise always have remained unknown to each other. Freedom
produces private animosities, but despotism gives birth to general
indifference.
The Americans have combated by free institutions the tendency
of equality to keep men asunder, and they have subdued it The
legislators of America did not suppose that a general representation
of the whole nation would suffice to ward off a disorder at once
so natural to the frame of democratic society, and so fatal: they
also thought that it would be well to infuse political life into
each portion of the territory, in order to multiply to an infinite
extent opportunities of acting in concert for all the members
of the community, and to make them constantly feel their mutual
dependence on each other. The plan was a wise one. The general
affairs of a country only engage the attention of leading politicians,
who assemble from time to time in the same places; and, as they
often lose sight of each other afterwards, no lasting ties are
established between them. But if the object be to have the local
affairs of a district conducted by the men who reside there, the
same persons are always in contact, and they are, in a manner,
forced to be acquainted, and to adapt themselves to one another.
It is difficult to draw a man out of his own circle to interest
him in the destiny of the state, because he does not clearly understand
what influence the destiny of the state can have upon his own
lot. But if it be proposed to make a road cross the end of his
estate, he will see at a glance that there is a connection between
this small public affair and his greatest private affairs; and
he will discover, without its being shown to him, the close tie
which unites private to general interest. Thus far more may be
done by intrusting to the citizens the administration of minor
affairs than by surrendering to them the control off important
ones, towards interesting them in the public welfare, and convincing
them that they constantly stand in need one of another in order
to provide for it. A brilliant achievement may win for you the
favor of a people at one stroke; but to earn the love and respect
of the population which surrounds you, a long succession of little
services rendered and of obscure good deeds,--a constant habit
of kindness, and an established reputation for disinterestedness,--will
be required. Local freedom, then, which leads a great number of
citizens to value the affection of their neighbors and of their
kindred, perpetually brings men together, and forces them to help
one another, in spite of the propensities which sever them.
In the United States, the more opulent citizens take great care
not to stand aloof from the people; on the contrary, they constantly
keep on easy terms with the lower classes: they listen to them,
they speak to them every day. They know that the rich in democracies
always stand in need of the poor; and that, in democratic times,
you attach a poor man to you more by your manner than by benefits
conferred. The magnitude of such benefits, which sets off the
difference of condition, causes a secret irritation to those who
reap advantage from them; but the charm of simplicity of manners
is almost irresistible: affability carries men away, and even
want of polish is not always displeasing. This truth does not
take root at once in the minds of the rich. They generally resist
it as long as the democratic revolution lasts, and they do not
acknowledge it immediately after that revolution is accomplished.
They are very ready to do good to the people, but they still choose
to keep them at arm's length; they think that is sufficient, but
they are mistaken. They might spend fortunes thus without warming
the hearts of the population around them;--that population does
not ask them for the sacrifice of their money, but of their pride.
It would seem as if every imagination in the United States were
upon the stretch to invent means of increasing the wealth and
satisfying the wants of the public. The best-informed inhabitants
of each district constantly use their information to discover
new truths which may augment the general prosperity; and, if they
have made any such discoveries, they eagerly surrender them to
the mass of the people.
When the vices and weaknesses frequently exhibited by those who
govern in America are closely examined, the prosperity of the
people occasions, but improperly occasions, surprise. Elected
magistrates do not make the American democracy flourish, it flourishes
because the magistrates are elective.
It would be unjust to suppose that the patriotism and the zeal
which every American displays for the welfare of his fellow-citizens
are wholly insincere. Although private interest directs the greater
part of human actions in the United States, as well as elsewhere,
it does not regulate them all. I must say that I have often seen
Americans make great and real sacrifices to the public welfare;
and I have remarked a hundred instances in which they hardly ever
failed to lend faithful support to each other. The free institutions
which the inhabitants of the United States possess, and the political
rights of which they make so much use, remind every citizen, and
in a thousand ways, that he lives in society. They every instant
impress upon his mind the notion that it is the duty, as well
as the interest, of men to make themselves useful to their fellow-creatures;
and as he sees no particular ground of animosity to them, since
he is never either their master or their slave, his heart readily
leans to the side of kindness. Men attend to the interests of
the public, first by necessity, afterwards by choice: what was
intentional becomes an instinct; and by dint of working for the
good of one's fellow-citizens, the habit and the taste for serving
them is at length acquired.
Many people in France consider equality of condition as one evil,
and political freedom as a second. When they are obliged to yield
to the former, they strive at least to escape from the latter.
But I contend that, in order to combat the evils which equality
may produce, there is only one effectual remedy, namely, political
freedom.
Source:
From Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, volume
II, translated by Daniel Gilman (New York: Century Co., 1898),
pages 37-39, 119-121, 124-128
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(c)Paul Halsall Aug 1997
