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.