American Institutions and Their Influence by Alexis de Tocqueville et al

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Has such been the fate of the centuries which have preceded our own? and
has man always inhabited a world, like the present, where nothing is
linked together, where virtue is without genius, and genius without
honor; where the love of order is confounded with a taste for
oppression, and the holy rites of freedom with a contempt of law; where
the light thrown by conscience on human actions is dim, and where
nothing seems to be any longer forbidden or allowed, honorable or
shameful, false or true?

I cannot, however, believe that the Creator made man to leave him in an
endless struggle with the intellectual miseries which surround us: God
destines a calmer and a more certain future to the communities of
Europe; I am unacquainted with his designs, but I shall not cease to
believe in them because I cannot fathom them, and I had rather mistrust
my own capacity than his justice.

There is a country in the world where the great revolution which I am
speaking of seems nearly to have reached its natural limits; it has been
effected with ease and simplicity, say rather that this country has
attained the consequences of the democratic revolution which we are
undergoing, without having experienced the revolution itself.

The emigrants who fixed themselves on the shores of America in the
beginning of the seventeenth century, severed the democratic principle
from all the principles which repressed it in the old communities of
Europe, and transplanted it unalloyed to the New World. It has there
been allowed to spread in perfect freedom, and to put forth its
consequences in the laws by influencing the manners of the country.

It appears to me beyond a doubt, that sooner or later we shall arrive,
like the Americans, at an almost complete equality of conditions. But I
do not conclude from this, that we shall ever be necessarily led to draw
the same political consequences which the Americans have derived from a
similar social organization. I am far from supposing that they have
chosen the only form of government which a democracy may adopt; but the
identity of the efficient cause of laws and manners in the two countries
is sufficient to account for the immense interest we have in becoming
acquainted with its effects in each of them.

It is not, then, merely to satisfy a legitimate curiosity that I have
examined America; my wish has been to find instruction by which we may
ourselves profit. Whoever should imagine that I have intended to write a
panegyric would be strangely mistaken, and on reading this book, he will
perceive that such was not my design: nor has it been my object to
advocate any form of government in particular, for I am of opinion that
absolute excellence is rarely to be found in any legislation; I have not
even affected to discuss whether the social revolution, which I believe
to be irresistible, is advantageous or prejudicial to mankind; I have
acknowledged this revolution as a fact already accomplished or on the
eve of its accomplishment; and I have selected the nation, from among
those which have undergone it, in which its development has been the
most peaceful and the most complete, in order to discern its natural
consequences, and, if it be possible, to distinguish the means by which
it may be rendered profitable. I confess that in America I saw more than
America; I sought the image of democracy itself, with its inclinations,
its character, its prejudices, and its passions, in order to learn what
we have to fear or to hope from its progress.

In the first part of this work I have attempted to show the tendency
given to the laws by the democracy of America, which is abandoned almost
without restraint to its instinctive propensities; and to exhibit the
course it prescribes to the government, and the influence it exercises
on affairs. I have sought to discover the evils and the advantages which
it produces. I have examined the precautions used by the Americans to
direct it, as well as those which they have not adopted, and I have
undertaken to point out the causes which enable it to govern society.

It was my intention to depict, in a second part, the influence which the
equality of conditions and the rule of democracy exercise on the civil
society, the habits, the ideas, and the manners of the Americans; I
begin, however, to feel less ardor for the accomplishment of this
project, since the excellent work of my friend and travelling companion
M. de Beaumont has been given to the world.[1] I do not know whether I
have succeeded in making known what I saw in America, but I am certain
that such has been my sincere desire, and that I have never, knowingly,
moulded facts to ideas, instead of ideas to facts.

Whenever a point could be established by the aid of written documents, I
have had recourse to the original text, and to the most authentic and
approved works.[2] I have cited my authorities in the notes, and any one
may refer to them. Whenever an opinion, a political custom, or a remark
on the manners of the country was concerned, I endeavored to consult the
most enlightened men I met with. If the point in question was important
or doubtful, I was not satisfied with one testimony, but I formed my
opinion on the evidence of several witnesses. Here the reader must
necessarily believe me upon my word. I could frequently have quoted
names which are either known to him, or which deserve to be so, in proof
of what I advance; but I have carefully abstained from this practice. A
stranger frequently hears important truths at the fireside of his host,
which the latter would perhaps conceal even from the ear of friendship;
he consoles himself with his guest, for the silence to which he is
restricted, and the shortness of the traveller's stay takes away all
fear of his indiscretion. I carefully noted every conversation of this
nature as soon as it occurred, but these notes will never leave my
writing-case; I had rather injure the success of my statements than add
my name to the list of those strangers who repay the generous
hospitality they have received by subsequent chagrin and annoyance.

I am aware that, notwithstanding my care, nothing will be easier than to
criticise this book, if any one ever chooses to criticise it.

Those readers who may examine it closely will discover the fundamental
idea which connects the several parts together. But the diversity of the
subjects I have had to treat is exceedingly great, and it will not be
difficult to oppose an isolated fact to the body of facts which I quote,
or an isolated idea to the body of ideas I put forth. I hope to be read
in the spirit which has guided my labors, and that my book may be judged
by the general impression it leaves, as I have formed my own judgment
not on any single reason, but upon the mass of evidence.

It must not be forgotten that the author who wishes to be understood is
obliged to push all his ideas to their utmost theoretical consequences,
and often to the verge of what is false or impracticable; for if it be
necessary sometimes to quit the rules of logic in active life, such is
not the case in discourse, and a man finds that almost as many
difficulties spring from inconsistency of language, as usually arise
from consistency of conduct.

I conclude by pointing out myself what many readers will consider the
principal defect of the work. This book is written to favor no
particular views, and in composing it I have entertained no design of
serving or attacking any party: I have undertaken not to see
differently, but to look farther than parties, and while they are busied
for the morrow, I have turned my thoughts to the future.

* * * * *

Notes:

[1] This work is entitled, Marie, ou l'Esclavage aux Etats-Unis.

[2] Legislative and administrative documents have been furnished me with
a degree of politeness which I shall always remember with gratitude.
Among the American functionaries who thus favored my inquiries I am
proud to name Mr. Edward Livingston, then Secretary of State and late
American minister at Paris. During my stay at the session of Congress,
Mr. Livingston was kind enough to furnish me with the greater part of
the documents I possess relative to the federal government. Mr.
Livingston is one of those rare individuals whom one loves, respects,
and admires, from their writings, and to whom one is happy to incur the
debt of gratitude on further acquaintance.

AMERICAN INSTITUTIONS.

CHAPTER I.

EXTERIOR FORM OF NORTH AMERICA.

North America divided into two vast regions, one inclining toward the
Pole, the other toward the Equator.--Valley of the Mississippi.--Traces
of the Revolutions of the Globe.--Shore of the Atlantic Ocean, where the
English Colonies were founded.--Difference in the Appearance of North
and of South America at the Time of their Discovery.--Forests of North
America.--Prairies.--Wandering Tribes of Natives.--Their outward
Appearance, Manners, and Language.--Traces of an Unknown People.

North America presents in its external form certain general features,
which it is easy to discriminate at the first glance.

A sort of methodical order seems to have regulated the separation of
land and water, mountains and valleys. A simple but grand arrangement is
discoverable amid the confusion of objects and the prodigious variety of
scenes.

This continent is divided, almost equally, into two vast regions, one of
which is bounded, on the north by the arctic pole, and by the two great
oceans on the east and west. It stretches toward the south, forming a
triangle, whose irregular sides meet at length below the great lakes of
Canada.

The second region begins where the other terminates, and includes all
the remainder of the continent.

The one slopes gently toward the pole, the other toward the equator.

The territory comprehended in the first regions descends toward the
north with so imperceptible a slope that it may almost be said to form a
level plain. Within the bounds of this immense tract of country there
are neither high mountains nor deep valleys. Streams meander through it
irregularly; great rivers mix their currents, separate and meet again,
disperse and form vast marshes, losing all trace of their channels in
the labyrinth of waters they have themselves created; and thus, at
length, after innumerable windings, fall into the polar seas. The great
lakes which bound this first region are not walled in, like most of
those in the Old World, between hills and rocks. Their banks are flat,
and rise but a few feet above the level of their waters; each of them
thus forming a vast bowl filled to the brim. The slightest change in the
structure of the globe would cause their waters to rush either toward
the pole or to the tropical sea.

The second region is more varied on its surface, and better suited for
the habitation of man. Two long chains of mountains divide it from one
extreme to the other; the Allegany ridge takes the form of the shores of
the Atlantic ocean; the other is parallel with the Pacific.

The space which lies between these two chains of mountains contains
1,341,649 square miles.[3] Its surface is therefore about six times as
great as that of France.

This vast territory, however, forms a single valley, one side of which
descends gradually from the rounded summits of the Alleganies, while the
other rises in an uninterrupted course toward the tops of the Rocky
mountains.

At the bottom of the valley flows an immense river, into which the
various streams issuing from the mountains fall from all parts. In
memory of their native land, the French formerly called this the river
St. Louis. The Indians, in their pompous language, have named it the
Father of Waters, or the Mississippi.

The Mississippi takes its source above the limit of the two great
regions of which I have spoken, not far from the highest point of the
table-land where they unite. Near the same spot rises another river,[4]
which empties itself into the polar seas. The course of the Mississippi
is at first devious: it winds several times toward the north, whence it
rose; and, at length, after having been delayed in lakes and marshes, it
flows slowly onward to the south.

Sometimes quietly gliding along the argillaceous bed which nature has
assigned to it, sometimes swollen by storms, the Mississippi waters
2,500 miles in its course.[5] At the distance of 1,364 miles from its
mouth this river attains an average depth of fifteen feet; and it is
navigated by vessels of 300 tons burden for a course of nearly 500
miles. Fifty-seven large navigable rivers contribute to swell the waters
of the Mississippi; among others the Missouri, which traverses a space
of 2,500 miles; the Arkansas of 1,300 miles; the Red river 1,000 miles;
four whose course is from 800 to 1000 miles in length, viz., the
Illinois, the St. Peter's, the St. Francis, and the Moingona; besides a
countless number of rivulets which unite from all parts their tributary
streams.

The valley which is watered by the Mississippi seems formed to be the
bed of this mighty river, which like a god of antiquity dispenses both
good and evil in its course. On the shores of the stream nature displays
an inexhaustible fertility; in proportion as you recede from its banks,
the powers of vegetation languish, the soil becomes poor, and the plants
that survive have a sickly growth. Nowhere have the great convulsions of
the globe left more evident traces than in the valley of the
Mississippi: the whole aspect of the country shows the powerful effects
of water, both by its fertility and by its barrenness. The waters of the
primeval ocean accumulated enormous beds of vegetable mould in the
valley, which they levelled as they retired. Upon the right shore of the
river are seen immense plains, as smooth as if the husbandman had passed
over them with his roller. As you approach the mountains, the soil
becomes more and more unequal and sterile; the ground is, as it were,
pierced in a thousand places by primitive rocks, which appear like the
bones of a skeleton whose flesh is partly consumed. The surface of the
earth is covered with a granitic sand, and huge irregular masses of
stone, among which a few plants force their growth, and give the
appearance of a green field covered with the ruins of a vast edifice.
These stones and this sand discover, on examination, a perfect analogy
with those which compose the arid and broken summits of the Rocky
mountains. The flood of waters which washed the soil to the bottom of
the valley, afterward carried away portions of the rocks themselves; and
these, dashed and bruised against the neighboring cliffs, were left
scattered like wrecks at their feet.[6]

The valley of the Mississippi is, upon the whole, the most magnificent
dwelling-place prepared by God for man's abode; and yet it may be said
that at present it is but a mighty desert.

On the eastern side of the Alleganies, between the base of these
mountains and the Atlantic ocean, lies a long ridge of rocks and sand,
which the sea appears to have left behind as it retired. The mean
breadth of this territory does not exceed one hundred miles; but it is
about nine hundred miles in length. This part of the American continent
has a soil which offers every obstacle to the husbandman, and its
vegetation is scanty and unvaried.

Upon this inhospitable coast the first united efforts of human industry
were made. This tongue of arid land was the cradle of those English
colonies which were destined one day to become the United States of
America. The centre of power still remains there; while in the backward
States the true elements of the great people, to whom the future control
of the continent belongs, are secretly springing up.

When the Europeans first landed on the shores of the Antilles, and
afterwards on the coast of South America, they thought themselves
transported into those fabulous regions of which poets had sung. The sea
sparkled with phosphoric light, and the extraordinary transparency of
its waters discovered to the view of the navigator all that had hitherto
been hidden in the deep abyss.[7] Here and there appeared little islands
perfumed with odoriferous plants, and resembling baskets of flowers,
floating on the tranquil surface of the ocean. Every object which met
the sight, in this enchanting region, seemed prepared to satisfy the
wants, or contribute to the pleasures of man. Almost all the trees were
loaded with nourishing fruits, and those which were useless as food,
delighted the eye by the brilliancy and variety of their colors. In
groves of fragrant lemon-trees, wild figs, flowering myrtles, acacias,
and oleanders, which were hung with festoons of various climbing-plants,
covered with flowers, a multitude of birds unknown in Europe displayed
their bright plumage, glittering with purple and azure, and mingled
their warbling in the harmony of a world teeming with life and
motion.[8]

Underneath this brilliant exterior death was concealed. The air of these
climates had so enervating an influence that man, completely absorbed by
the present enjoyment, was rendered regardless of the future.

North America appeared under a very different aspect; there, everything
was grave, serious, and solemn; it seemed created to be the domain of
intelligence, as the south was that of sensual delight. A turbulent and
foggy ocean washed its shores. It was girded round by a belt of granite
rocks, or by wide plains of sand. The foliage of its woods was dark and
gloomy; for they were composed of firs, larches, evergreen oaks, wild
olive-trees, and laurels.

Beyond this outer belt lay the thick shades of the central forests,
where the largest trees which are produced in the two hemispheres grow
side by side. The plane, the catalpa, the sugar-maple, and the Virginian
poplar, mingled their branches with those of the oak, the beech, and the
lime.

In these, as in the forests of the Old World, destruction was
perpetually going on. The ruins of vegetation were heaped upon each
other; but there was no laboring hand to remove them, and their decay
was not rapid enough to make room for the continual work of
reproduction. Climbing-plants, grasses and other herbs, forced their way
through the moss of dying trees; they crept along their bending trunks,
found nourishment in their dusty cavities, and a passage beneath the
lifeless bark. Thus decay gave its assistance to life, and their
respective productions were mingled together. The depths of these
forests were gloomy and obscure, and a thousand rivulets, undirected in
their course by human industry, preserved in them a constant moisture.
It was rare to meet with flowers, wild fruits, or birds, beneath their
shades. The fall of a tree overthrown by age, the rushing torrent of a
cataract, the lowing of the buffalo, and the howling of the wind, were
the only sounds which broke the silence of nature.

To the east of the great river the woods almost disappeared; in their
stead were seen prairies of immense extent. Whether nature in her
infinite variety had denied the germes of trees to these fertile plains,
or whether they had once been covered with forests, subsequently
destroyed by the hand of man, is a question which neither tradition nor
scientific research has been able to resolve.

These immense deserts were not, however, devoid of human inhabitants.
Some wandering tribes had been for ages scattered among the forest
shades or the green pastures of the prairie. From the mouth of the St.
Lawrence to the Delta of the Mississippi, and from the Atlantic to the
Pacific ocean, these savages possessed certain points of resemblance
which bore witness of their common origin: but at the same time they
differed from all other known races of men:[9] they were neither white
like the Europeans, nor yellow like most of the Asiatics, nor black like
the negroes. Their skin was reddish brown, their hair long and shining,
their lips thin, and their cheek-bones very prominent. The languages
spoken by the North American tribes were various as far as regarded
their words, but they were subject to the same grammatical rules. Those
rules differed in several points from such as had been observed to
govern the origin of language.

The idiom of the Americans seemed to be the product of new combinations,
and bespoke an effort of the understanding, of which the Indians of our
days would be incapable.[10]

The social state of these tribes differed also in many respects from all
that was seen in the Old World. They seemed to have multiplied freely in
the midst of their deserts, without coming in contact with other races
more civilized than their own.

Accordingly, they exhibited none of those indistinct, incoherent notions
of right and wrong, none of that deep corruption of manners that is
usually joined with ignorance and rudeness among nations which, after
advancing to civilisation, have relapsed into a state of barbarism. The
Indian was indebted to no one but himself; his virtues, his vices, and
his prejudices, were his own work; he had grown up in the wild
independence of his nature.

If, in polished countries, the lowest of the people are rude and
uncivil, it is not merely because they are poor and ignorant, but that,
being so, they are in daily contact with rich and enlightened men. The
sight of their own hard lot and of their weakness, which are daily
contrasted with the happiness and power of some of their fellow
creatures, excites in their hearts at the same time the sentiments of
anger and of fear: the consciousness of their inferiority and of their
dependence irritates while it humiliates them. This state of mind
displays itself in their manners and language; they are at once insolent
and servile. The truth of this is easily proved by observation; the
people are more rude in aristocratic countries than elsewhere; in
opulent cities than in rural districts. In those places where the rich
and powerful are assembled together, the weak and the indigent feel
themselves oppressed by their inferior condition. Unable to perceive a
single chance of regaining their equality, they give up to despair, and
allow themselves to fall below the dignity of human nature.

This unfortunate effect of the disparity of conditions is not observable
in savage life; the Indians, although they are ignorant and poor, are
equal and free.

At the period when Europeans first came among them, the natives of North
America were ignorant of the value of riches, and indifferent to the
enjoyments which civilized man procures to himself by their means.
Nevertheless there was nothing coarse in their demeanor; they practised
an habitual reserve, and a kind of aristocratic politeness.

Mild and hospitable when at peace, though merciless in war beyond any
known degree of human ferocity, the Indian would expose himself to die
of hunger in order to succor the stranger who asked admittance by night
at the door of his hut--yet he could tear in pieces with his hands the
still quivering limbs of his prisoner. The famous republics of antiquity
never gave examples of more unshaken courage, more haughty spirits, or
more intractable love of independence, than were hidden in former times
among the wild forests of the New World.[11] The Europeans produced no
great impression when they landed upon the shores of North America:
their presence engendered neither envy nor fear. What influence could
they possess over such men as we have described? The Indian could live
without wants, suffer without complaint, and pour out his death-song at
the stake.[12] Like all the other members of the great human family,
these savages believed in the existence of a better world, and adored,
under different names, God, the Creator of the universe. Their notions
on the great intellectual truths were, in general, simple and
philosophical.[13]

Although we have here traced the character of a primitive people, yet it
cannot be doubted that another people, more civilized and more advanced
in all respects, had preceded it in the same regions.

An obscure tradition, which prevailed among the Indians to the north of
the Atlantic, informs us that these very tribes formerly dwelt on the
west side of the Mississippi. Along the banks of the Ohio, and
throughout the central valley, there are frequently found, at this day,
_tumuli_ raised by the hands of men. On exploring these heaps of earth
to their centre, it is usual to meet with human bones, strange
instruments, arms and utensils of all kinds, made of a metal, or
destined for purposes, unknown to the present race.

The Indians of our time are unable to give any information relative to
the history of this unknown people. Neither did those who lived three
hundred years ago, when America was first discovered, leave any accounts
from which even an hypothesis could be formed. Tradition--that
perishable, yet ever-renewed monument of the pristine world--throws no
light upon the subject. It is an undoubted fact, however, that in this
part of the globe thousands of our fellow-beings had lived. When they
came hither, what was their origin, their destiny, their history, and
how they perished, no one can tell.