DEMOCRATIC GREATNESS IN THE AMERICAN FOUNDING

Harvey C. Mansfield

Democratic Greatness in the American Founding A

lexis de Tocqueville at the end of his great book Democracy in America says that in democratic times especially, “the true friends of freedom and human greatness” must be on their guard.1 Why is that? The danger he points to is that individual rights will be sacrificed to the achievement of some general social purpose. Yet “[n]o citizen is so obscure that it is not very dangerous to allow him to be oppressed.” Human greatness or grandeur, Tocqueville implies, is rooted in the importance of the individual, however obscure. Every individual has an identity—or let’s say more simply, has a name—that makes him an individual, and in which he takes pride. It is not that every individual is great—most are obscure— but human greatness begins from the individuality that appears in every individual. Humanity would not possess greatness if no particular human beings were great, and human beings cannot be great unless they are particular. So the most obscure citizen, provided he has a name, participates in human greatness. The greatness of a Napoleon arises from the individuality he shares with the subjects he oppresses, whose individuality he suppresses. The enemy of individuality is what Tocqueville earlier in his book called “individualism.” This was his own particular conception, used in a negative sense, of the 12

individual denying or foreswearing his individuality. Individualism is the withdrawal into one’s home, one’s friends, one’s self, in reaction to the belief—widespread in democratic times—that individuals do not matter because they are too weak to do anything on their own. This belief is cultivated by the philosophers and intellectuals in democracy, who argue that human life is ruled by vast impersonal forces: historical, economic, social, genetic, or whatever. Against these dominant forces no individual effort can avail. These arguments seem democratic, and they are given favor in democracies, because they give power to the mass or the multitude as opposed to the few or the individual. But in fact, according to Tocqueville, such arguments poison democracy because they make democratic individuals feel weak and incapable of ruling themselves. The true friends of freedom, contrary to the false ones, believe in the human greatness denied by those he calls “democratic historians” and promoters of “pantheism.” The true friends of freedom and the friends of human greatness must Harvey C. Mansfield is William R. Kenan, Jr., Professor of Government at Harvard University. Among many books, he is the author of A Student’s Guide to Political Philosophy (ISI Books, 2001).

THE INTERCOLLEGIATE REVIEW—Fall/Winter 2005

Democratic Greatness in the American Founding by Harvey C. Mansfield

work together. Democracy and greatness are not opposed, as one might suppose and as many democrats and many great individuals believe. Though they are not the same, they are connected. Democracy needs greatness, and greatness has its origin in ordinary individuality. The connection between democracy and greatness is shown on three levels by Tocqueville. The lowest is the level of the rights of obscure citizens. These rights are not secure if their exercise is merely handed over to the state, an “immense being” that saves you “the trouble of thinking and the pain of living.” Rights must be secured by political liberty, by the organization (we would say) or association (Tocqueville says) of citizens to accomplish some local benefit visible to them, like the building of a road, in which they can take pride. Associations engage the ambition of those citizens who take the lead in them; and this is the second level. It takes ambition to run for office, and the more numerous the offices, and the more frequent the elections, the better for political liberty. Association in the American township, which includes levels one and two, is spontaneous and natural. Above this is the political constitution which is a work of art, no longer spontaneous; and here, frequent elections will not always be beneficial. Greatness begins by relying on the rights of individuals, even on the intractability of ordinary human beings, their refusal to be governed. This refusal is counteracted by their interest and pride in accomplishing something within their capacity, like building a road. Both these contrary sentiments are natural, in the sense of spontaneous. Experience makes the spontaneous motives into habit, and then into an art that can be taught and learned—the art of association, as Tocqueville calls it. At the highest level of this progression is the deliberate art of constitution-making, which makes use of spon-

taneous motives but needs much thought from individuals capable of thinking. These are great individuals—in America, our founders—who craft and maintain a form of government that enables ordinary individuals to claim their rights without merely receiving benefits from the state, and that allows ambition to flourish yet keeps it from suppressing political liberty. Does a state have to be great to be free? Can a small backwater republic such as San Marino be great? Tocqueville remarks that “small nations have been cradles of political freedom,” and adds that “most of them have lost that freedom by becoming larger.”2 But there are advantages to being a great state as well. The love of glory is developed “in certain souls” who are elevated “in a way above themselves” by the opportunity to gain the applause of a “great people.” Why does Tocqueville call what you might think a merely large people great? It is great because ideas circulate more rapidly and powerfully in metropolises that are “like vast intellectual centers.” There is more “national force” to develop discoveries; the government has more general ideas, is less trammeled by routine, by parochial loyalties, and by petty ambitions. “There is more genius in its conceptions, more boldness in its style.” America’s federal system seeks to combine the advantages of both small republics and large states in order to enjoy liberty and greatness together. Though Tocqueville admires both the intention and the construction of the American founders, he doubts that their work could survive in a war against the “great military monarchies of Europe.”3 Those monarchies are great, too; and it is only because America is far distant from them that its choice to “fragment its sovereignty” in a federal system is viable. The combination of liberty and greatness requires the good fortune of being able to avoid a war


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with great powers—or perhaps the even better luck of winning such a war without losing one’s liberty. Nonetheless, it is clear that America, or Federalist America, wanted to be great. Let me turn now, inevitably, from Tocqueville to The Federalist, for these are the two transcendent authorities on American life. For any question of philosophy it is always necessary to check with Aristotle; and for America, one must first consult these two writings. In The Federalist, the union is presented as a necessity preceding republicanism; before America can have a republic, it must be united (though a new republicanism, one that is for the first time in history suitable for large republics, proves to be the agency of union). And one of the chief advantages of union is to fend off foreign force and influence. Moreover, at the end of Federalist 2, John Jay asserts: I sincerely wish that it may be foreseen by every good citizen that whenever the dissolution of the Union arrives, America will have reason to exclaim, in the words of the poet: “FAREWELL! A LONG FAREWELL TO ALL MY GREATNESS.”

The poet is Shakespeare, and the quotation is from King Henry VIII (II 2.351), a play apparently better known to John Jay than to most of us. It is interesting that the words in the play are spoken by Cardinal Wolsey, an adviser to the king. When quoted in The Federalist, Cardinal Wolsey’s reference to his own personal greatness in a monarchy is equated with something quite different: America, a republic with a collective greatness. What is the relationship between a great individual and a great republic? Tocqueville implies that a great individual owes his opportunity for greatness to the great state in which he resides since this provides him with an arena of action and an appreciative audience. In Plato’s Republic, Cephalus tells a story about Themistocles, 14

the mighty Athenian, who was once abused by a small-town Seriphian. When the Seriphian said that Themistocles was illustrious thanks to Athens and not thanks to himself, Themistocles answered that if he had been a Seriphian he would not have made a name, but if his Seriphian critic had been an Athenian, he too would not have made a name. Machiavelli says that a great man has an interest in founding a republic rather than a principality, for after he is dead the republic will revere him, but the new prince of his principality will kill his heirs and blacken his name. In his Lyceum speech on the perpetuation of our political institutions, Abraham Lincoln—for let us worship at every shrine—warns that although the great men who founded America had an interest in perpetuating the regime they founded, the great men who follow them will have an interest in overthrowing it so that they too can be revered as founders. These men belong to the family of the lion, the tribe of the eagle. “Towering genius disdains a beaten path.”4 What in a republic can stand up to the threat arising from the desire for distinction in a great man, since that desire can go so far as to demand that everything owed to some other human being than oneself be thrown out and replaced? “Shared honors are diminished,” says Thomas Hobbes, and the great man seeking honor wants to be compared with no one, or with only a few. Lincoln observes that popular passion on behalf of the American Revolution has faded after half a century, and he argues that only cold calculating reason can furnish materials for the future defense of the republic. These materials are general intelligence, sound morality, and in particular a reverence for the constitution and the laws. Such rational reverence would have to be spread among the people, and this has been interpreted as a civil religion for Americans, a faith to sustain their liberty.5



Let us focus not on the people but on the great men: what is their rational duty? As Lincoln presents the problem, it seems that for the future, the field of glory having been harvested, great men will be a danger and not a salvation to the rest of us; and for the past, since the great men of the founding had an interest in the success of their political experiment, their virtue was not sufficiently tested by being exposed to the temptation of destroying something good. Is there not some greater virtue that will bring great men to restrain themselves? Or more: can they not find glory in accepting, if not following, the beaten path? To awaken us to the danger, Lincoln does not rely on the virtue of great men. But somehow we think that virtue and greatness belong together, even though we Republican easily see how they are distinct in nature. Are not virtue and greatness together in noble condescension? I do not have the time or learning to explore all relevant cases, but I would like to offer two diverse examples of this virtue among our founders: in Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. Franklin wrote his Autobiography not to give an account of his life but to offer lessons in morality to Americans.6 As a private citizen he offers himself as an example—at first to his son and then later, we learn, rather immodestly, to everyone for the purpose of “bettering the whole race of men.” Does this mean he is vain? No, he says, because vanity is “often productive of good,” especially when it is concealed. He does not claim in his own name to be publicspirited; he lets a friend whom he quotes in the book make that claim for him. Franklin’s

public spirit consists in allowing others to express their vanity and in concealing his own. But he also advises others to conceal their vanity. It is unwise, he says, to present yourself as the proposer of any useful project; better to keep out of sight. “The present little sacrifice of your vanity will afterwards be amply repaid”—when people find out that the credit belongs to you. Let other people discover how meritorious you are; then you won’t become an object of their envy. Yet soon after saying this, Franklin presents as his own “the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection.” A great man does make a claim to his own greatness. He cannot really conceal it, and though it is usually good to conceal one’s merits, it is not good to leave the people without great Greatness men to admire. And what is it that the people admire? A great man who is no better than they are. Franklin puts us in wonderful confusion as to his modesty and immodesty, teaching modesty but allowing immodesty, and subtly claiming to be great in his very role as the teacher of modesty. Franklin’s project of arriving at moral perfection consists of a list of twelve or thirteen virtues that are virtues of sociability as opposed to virtues of nobility. They describe a person who gets along as opposed to one who is great: our notion of a “great guy” is some combination of the two. Compared to Aristotle’s list of eleven moral virtues, Franklin adds order and cleanliness, virtues that do not have enough elevation for Aristotle; and he replaces Aristotle’s generosity with frugality. Why does he do this? Franklin himself was not a frugal but


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a generous man, indeed a great man. But it is unsociable to appear or claim to be generous. Franklin generously teaches Americans that too much noble virtue makes one self-righteous, and self-righteous people are not good citizens of a republic. Here he addresses Lincoln’s problem. By omitting noble virtue he endorses by implication republican suspicion of noble virtue in great men. Franklin shows that the “sound morality” that Lincoln asked for does not include admiration for noble virtue. Republican morality may admire noble individuals, but these must not avow their nobility except as teachers of sociability. The seventh virtue in Franklin’s list is sincerity, which replaces Aristotle’s truthfulness. What is Franklin’s definition of sincerity? “Use no hurtful deceit.” Is that not a naughty redefinition of sincerity, an example of harmless or well-intended deceit on Franklin’s part? Is it not at the same time a putdown of those who like to say they are sincere? Lincoln at the end of his speech speaks not of revering the constitution and the laws but of revering the name of George Washington, revering it “to the last.” Lincoln ends a speech on the perpetuation of our political institutions with a reminder that they will come to an end with the Resurrection—or perhaps even before that. Our reverence for the law must abide together with our reverence for the man who made the law. How did George Washington make the law and the constitution? Having previously recommended Ralph Lerner on Franklin, I now defer to the excellent book on Washington by Richard Brookhiser, Founding Father.7 Brookhiser points out that at the age of sixteen Washington copied out a list of 110 precepts called “Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.” This list, like Franklin’s, aims at sociability; its first rule is: “Every action done in com16


pany ought to be done with some sign of respect to those that are present.” But the theme of Brookhiser’s book is Washington’s deliberately theatrical modesty, exercised on three great occasions when a great man would be most tempted to claim his due. When Washington retired as Commander in Chief of the Revolutionary Army he put on his spectacles and said, “I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.” His officers, it was said, “reciprocated his affectionate expressions with the greatest sincerity of which the human heart is capable.” Not Benjamin Franklin’s sincerity, we trust. When Washington retired from the presidency he gave a Farewell Address and refused the third term he easily could have had. Despite Hamilton’s argument in Federalist 71 and 72 for the advantages of duration in office in the presidency, Washington made his departure deliberate and exemplary. In his private life, which was never really private, he held himself apart, aloof, with a studied reserve; and he made himself impressive by knowing how to ride and how to dance. A great man should be great in his modesty too, and to do this he must be sure that both his greatness and his modesty are on show. In accordance with the title of his book, Founding Father, Brookhiser says nicely: “The kind of father Washington sought to be was the father who, when his children became adults, lets them go.” We can call this a republican or a democratic father, according to taste. In choosing the model of father, as in the phrase “Father of the Republic,” we imply that greatness must accept the discipline and spirit of a very ordinary office in which the great and the ordinary exchange goals. In fatherhood, the great individual finds the goals of perpetuation and protection, and the ordinary man gets a whiff of greatness.


1. Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, H. Mansfield and D. Winthrop trans. (Chicago, Ill.: University of Chicago Press, 2000) II 4.7:670.

Eerdmans, 1999).

2. Democracy in America I 1.8:150. 3. Democracy in America I 1.8:160-161. 4. Abraham Lincoln, “The Perpetuation of our Political Institutions; Address Before the Young Men’s Lyceum of Springfield, Illinois,” January 27, 1838. 5. Harry V. Jaffa, Crisis of the House Divided (New York: Doubleday, 1959); Glen Thurow, Abraham Lincoln and American Political Religion (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1976); Allen Guelzo, Abraham Lincoln: Redeemer President (Grand Rapids:

6. What follows on Franklin is based on my chapter, “Liberty and Virtue in the American Founding,” in Peter Berkowitz, ed., Never a Matter of Indifference (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press, 2003), 3-28. That chapter relies on Ralph Lerner, The Thinking Revolutionary: Principle and Practice in the New Republic (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987), 41-59, and on Revolutions Revisited: Two Faces of the Politics of Enlightenment (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1994), 3-18. 7. Richard Brookhiser, Founding Father: Rediscovering George Washington (New York: The Free Press, 1996).

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DEMOCRATIC GREATNESS IN THE AMERICAN FOUNDING

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