Montesquieu: The Spirit of the Laws. “Author’s Foreword” and “Preface.” Anne Cohler, Basia Miller, and Harold Stone translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.

 

The 1757 “Author’s Foreword” to The Spirit of the Laws constitutes a brief reply to his critics, the most formidable of these being the Vatican, which placed the book on its Index Librorum Prohibitorum in 1751, three years after its publication. The “Preface” appears in the first edition.

The “Author’s Foreword” consists of three paragraphs, the first of these beginning with the sentence:

In order to understand the first four books of this work, one must note that what I call virtue in a republic is love of the homeland, that is, love of equality.

What Montesquieu calls virtue is, then, not necessarily what Montesquieu’s reader calls virtue, although it resembles a sentiment Machiavelli invokes at the end of The Prince, when he praises Italy and calls for its redemption. (What Machiavelli calls redemption is not necessarily what the Vatican calls redemption.) But why is the love of the homeland the love of equality? It could be that although human beings are not equal in the classical virtues of justice, moderation, courage, and wisdom, nor in the Christian virtues of faith, hope, and charity, they are, or usually are, equally citizens of their country.

Why the first four books? In them Montesquieu addresses, respectively, “laws in general,” “laws deriving directly from the nature of the government,” republican or monarchic, “the principles of the three governments”—that is, the passions animating republicanism (love of country), monarchy (love of honor), and despotism (fear), and “the laws of education,” which “should be relative to the principles,” the passions, “of the government. (In the United States, educator and dictionary author Noah Webster would cite Montesquieu on this point.) [1] Understanding the definitions Montesquieu offers in these preliminary books, his use of old and new words, first and foremost virtue, may clarify his critics’ minds or, perhaps, lead them to think more carefully. Elsewhere, he will announce that he writes his long book not to make people read but to make them think.

It is not moral virtue or a Christian virtue; it is political virtue, and this is the spring that makes republican government move, as honor is the spring that makes monarchy move.

Montesquieu separates political virtue from moral and Christian virtue; in describing it as a spring, he implies a mechanism. Virtus in Latin means strength; love of the homeland strengthens republics physically, as honor strengthens monarchies physically. Montesquieu makes political science first and foremost a physical science, a form of physics, not of ethics. Political virtue is political strength or power. This enables him to separate both politics and knowledge of politics from the Church. Church and State had been distinct but not separate in the sense of, for example, the United States Constitution; European states, feudal and modern, featured established Christian churches. Montesquieu lays a foundation for disestablishment while defending himself against charges of impiety by the Vatican, ruler of the established church of France. I am speaking of a different sort of virtue than the type you uphold, he replies; hold me harmless. In politics, love is a mechanism, not spiritual; political love is not agapic love.

Therefore, I have called love of the homeland and of equality, political virtue.

The republican kind of virtue is political, Montesquieu writes in this central sentence of his first paragraph. This suggests that love of honor, the monarchic virtue, is not political, strictly speaking. In this, Montesquieu follows Aristotle, who defines the political as ruling and being ruled in turn, while identifying monarchic rule as either parent-child rule (kingship) or master-slave rule (tyranny). However, unlike Aristotle, Montesquieu identifies honor, often associated with the rule of the few, especially the aristocracy, with monarchy. Machiavelli denigrates the rule of the few, ‘the great,’ in favor of the regimes of the many (‘republics’) and the one (principalities). Montesquieu here simply ignores the few, silently accepting Machiavelli’s basic regime dichotomy, although he does add a refinement, alluded to above, between two types of the rule of the one: monarchy and despotism. In this, he also departs from Machiavelli’s admirer, Thomas Hobbes, who famously proclaims that tyranny is only “monarchy misliked.”

I have had new ideas; new words have had to be found or new meanings given to old ones.

Hence your confusion, my censors. But hence also a danger to you. If I replace the old meanings of old words with new meanings, I might brush aside the meanings you want those old words to have. And what are these new ideas? I have already suggested one: that one form of virtue, what I have called virtue, is a spring, a mechanism, quite distinct from your virtues, and that it is equally a spring in the republican and the monarchic regimes. More radically, what might this suggest regarding the human soul?

Those who have not understood this have made me say absurdities that would be outrageous in every country in the world, because in every country in the world morality is desired.

To use the word virtue in the mechanistic, political sense elides morality. In itself, love of homeland elides morality. In every country in the world, morality is desired (perhaps most of all by priests?), although this leaves open the question not only of the contents of morality (following Montaigne, Montesquieu will describe a great variety of moral code in a great variety of countries) but of whether those who desire morality desire it primarily for themselves, primarily for others, or both for themselves and for others. 

The second paragraph begins:

It should be observed that there is a very great difference between saying that a certain quality, modification of the soul, or virtue is not the spring that makes a government act and saying that it is not present in that government.

A spring is a cause. It is a mechanism that puts something in motion. The mechanism in which it is contained, or which it puts in motion from the outside, may have other features. A “certain quality,” “modification of the souls,” or “virtue” (in your sense of the word) might still be present in a republic or a monarchy, without being its spring, its motivating cause. This may imply that the moral and Christian virtues are less ‘effectual’ than the political virtue in a republic or than honor in a monarchy. 

If I were to say that a certain wheel, a certain gear, is not the spring that makes this watch move would one conclude that it is not present in the watch?

Surely not. But if I were to say that, would I also not say that the wheel or gear that you care about is not what makes the watch move, that neither moral virtue nor Christian spirit really motivates political movement? And would this not make both classical and Christian moralists, and classical-Christian moralists, profoundly uneasy about Montesquieu’s political science?

And centrally: Far from excluding moral and Christian virtues, monarchy does not even exclude political virtue.

Not at all, but monarchy, the regime of the regnant Bourbons, does exclude those virtues from the status of what Aristotle would call the ‘efficient’ cause of monarchic regimes, and of republican ones, too. They do not set regimes in motion.

In a word, honor is in the republic though political virtue is its spring; political virtue is in the monarchy though honor is it spring.

Christian virtue has disappeared with this sentence. It seems to have nothing to do with politics or with monarchy, in and of themselves. In this, Montesquieu concurs with Machiavelli. Honor in republics and love of homeland in monarchies are virtues set further down the causational chain than love of homeland in republics and honor in monarchies.

In conclusion, the third paragraph states:

Finally, the good man discussed in Book 3, chapter 5, is not the Christian good man, but the political good man, who has the political virtue I have mentioned.

The title of that chapter is “That virtue is not the principle of monarchical government.” There, Montesquieu “begs” his readers “not to be offended” by this claim. He wants to assure them that he simply means that because in a monarchic regime “the state continues to exist independently of love of homeland,” of virtue as he has defined it, “in a monarchy it is very difficult for the people to be virtuous.” Honor goes to the king (the “Sun King,” in Louis XIV’s formulation); “desire for true glory, self-renunciation, sacrifice of one’s dearest interests, and all those heroic virtues we find in the ancients and know only by hearsay” are replaced by laws fitted to the monarchic regime. This does not preclude good Christian men from existing among the people. In other words, Montesquieu gives and takes from his critics at the same time. He takes from them their charge of atheism or ‘Spinozism’ while silently indicating Machiavelli’s critique of Christianity—that it ruins politics in both republics and principalities by leaving no place for the spirit of the city, which Machiavelli redefines not as the ancient Roman’s virtus but as his own virtù—the desire to acquire made effectual. Montesquieu will refine Machiavelli’s teaching on this point, too, pointing republics and monarchies not to conquest, as in the ancient Rome of republican Cato and monarchic Caesars, but to commerce, the more effectual and lasting means of acquisition.

He is the man who loves the laws of his country and acts from love of the laws of his country.

It is the modern republic, the commercial republic with laws that support peaceful acquisition, that Montesquieu esteems the most. The passion of love for such laws is an effect of the love of peaceful acquisition.

The “Preface” to The Spirit of the Laws consists of sixteen paragraphs; consequently, there is no central paragraph. 

If, among the infinite number of things in this book, there is any that, contrary to my expectations might give offense, at least there is none that has been put here with ill intent.

An infinite number of things, indeed! Much information is provided in the course of it, through nearly 800 pages in the two-volume French edition I own and the 700 pages in one-volume the English translation. [2] The translator notes that he has translated espoir and its variants as “expectation” or, here, “expectations” rather than hope. Montesquieu is nothing if not a writer who prefers the concrete to the airy, in the case of espoir the expectation of something rather than some vague, idealized hope, mother of wishful thinking. On the other hand, it may also be that Montesquieu in this case does not really expect that he will not give offense but that he does hope that he won’t, given the malign consequences of offending the French regime and the Catholic Church. No “ill intent,” messieurs. It is quite possible that ill intent as defined by Montesquieu is quite different from ill intent as defined by the French regime and the Catholic Church, even as virtue means something quite different to him than it does to them.

By nature, I have not at all a censorious spirit.

The first mention of nature refers to Montesquieu himself, the individual. It is a Montaignian gesture, not Aristotelian and most assuredly not ‘churchy.’ This is also the first mention of spirit, again referring to Montesquieu the individual. Montesquieu’s “spirit” has a “nature.” What, then, is nature? Is it spiritual in the Christian sense? The references to nature and spirit, whatever they may mean, begin a bit of a joke and a jab. Those who take offense very often incline to censoriousness. I, Montesquieu, intend no ill to anyone. My critics, those honor-loving monarchists (or are they courtiers of a fear-inspiring despot?), those Christian-spiritual denizens of the Vatican, evidently do have censorious spirits. It is not I who acts with ill intent.

Plato thanked heaven that he was born in Socrates’ time, and as for me, I am grateful that heaven had me born in the government in which I live and that it wanted me to obey those whom it had me love.

That individual, Plato, piously thanked “heaven”—not exactly the gods said to dwell in that part of nature—that he was born in Socrates’ time, that is, in the time of the philosopher who brought philosophy down from the heavens, away from the cosmologically-centered philosophy that preceded him, to the polis, to consideration of human nature, a less speculative but crucially important topic for philosophers, since philosophers, being human themselves, must understand themselves, know themselves as one oracle famously put it, before they can soberly undertake the (then) necessarily speculative investigation of the heavens. Montesquieu’s gratitude (a passion neither ill-intended nor censorious) springs not from the presence of a philosopher in his time and place but from the government of France and those it wanted him to obey and love. This sentence might assuage any feelings, any passions or springs of offense that might have been taken by sensitive readers of the joke-jab immediately preceding.

I ask a favor that I fear will not be granted; it is that one not judge by a moment’s reading the work of twenty years, that one approve or condemn the books as a whole and not some few sentences.

Fear is the passion of despotism. Censorious men incline to, as one now says, ‘cherry-pick’ passages in building their case against authors. Censorious men have, by nature, a spirit of impatience as well as a certain libido dominandi. Don’t be that way, Montesquieu hopes without really expecting. At the same time, he offers sound and well-intended advice to serious judges: consider the argument I make as a whole argument. Just as Montesquieu will consider the laws not in isolation from one another but as they relate to one another, consider the words and sentences in my book as they relate to one another.

If one wants to seek the design of the author, one can find it only in the design of the work.

The Spirit of the Laws and other authorial works have a design, a design indicative of the (true) design of their authors. In this way, books resemble buildings; they are architectonic, designed with “design,” with intent. My book will tell you what my intent is, enabling you to come to a just judgment as to whether its design, a reflection of my design, is ill- or well-intended. It may even incline you to redefine what you mean by the words good and ill.

I began by examining men, and I believed that, amidst the infinite diversity of laws and mores, they were not led by their fancies alone.

Individuals have natures and it may be that human beings taken as a group, despite the infinite diversity they exhibit in their laws and mores, have certain commonalities. It may be that there is an underlying nature to human beings as such.

I have set down the principles, and I have seen particular cases conform to them as if by themselves, the histories of all nations being but their consequences, and each particular law connecting with another law or dependent on a more general one.

The principles are the passions, of which there is a finite number of politically relevant ones. The histories or stories of all, not some, nations follow from those passions. Laws do, too, and systems of laws, connections or relations among the laws which help to constitute a regime amount to such consequences, complicated by the complex relations among the particular laws so caused. It seems likely that the Montaignian/Montesquieuian individual also enters into complex relations with other individuals and the laws caused initially by the passions and to some extent sustain by them.

When I turned to antiquity, I sought to capture its spirit in order not to consider as similar those cases with real differences or to overlook differences in those that appear similar.

Spirit, again, still undefined, although a clue to its meaning may have been offered in the mention of relations. Laws have a spirit, according to the book’s title, and a period of time, antiquity, may have one, too. The way words change meaning anticipates the way the spirit of a set of laws or of a time may change and thereby deceive those who inquire into other systems and earlier times.

I did not draw my principles from my prejudices but from the nature of things.

“The nature of things”; a glance at Lucretius, that great counter-Roman Roman, that Roman philosopher? To identify passions as “principles” surely partakes of no ‘idealist’ philosophy, although philosophy of any kind will attempt to clear away prejudices, unexamined or unreasoned opinions. Lucretian Epicureanism finds no favor with Churchmen, at least in their public writings, or in the Bible.

Many of the truths will make themselves felt here only when one sees the chain connecting them with others.

More advice on how to read this book. The book itself is ‘relational,’ its elements related to one another in the manner of laws and mores. What is the “chain” connecting the truths to one another? What is the general principle or passion animating the book and its author, the forger of the chain? The truths, whatever they turn out to be, will be felt—a way of knowing distinct from sight (associated with knowing things that cannot be touched, ideas) and from hearing (associated with things that can be neither seen nor touched but revealed by speech). Machiavelli prefers knowledge by touch, felt knowledge, to either the philosophic knowledge offered by the ancients or the spiritual knowledge offered by the Bible. Montesquieu evidently concurs, to some extent, the reader will only feel the truths after seeing the chain, first. But what he means becomes clearer in the following sentence.

The more one reflects on the details, the more one will feel the certainty of the principles.

Reader, pay attention to the details, the particular truths. Then, reflect upon them, thinking rather than merely reading. See the chain that links those truths together. You will then feel those facts, really know them. And in such seeing and feeling, you then feel something beyond the particular truths, namely, the certainty of the principles of the nature of things that Montesquieu has discovered and now presents to you.

As for the details, I have not given them all, for who could say everything without being tedious?

You may be able to supply your own corroborating particular truths. You might even discover some principles of the nature of things not explicitly stated by the author but implied by him. To be too explicit with regard to principles might encourage unphilosophic thoughtlessness in readers, making them prey to prejudices, dogmas. And wouldn’t that, too, be tedious?

The salient traits that seem to characterize present-day works will not be found here.

The translators identify “salient traits” as a term from architecture. The architectonics of my book are not those of contemporary books. How so?

As soon as matters are seen from a certain distance, such salient traits vanish; they usually arise only because the mind attaches itself to a single point and forsakes all others.

The salient traits of present-day works—books to be sure, but perhaps others?—amount to mirages. Mirages emerge in the mind when it fixes on one point, rather as censorious persons fix on one or a few sentences, distorting an author’s intention. The principles drawn from the nature of things, too, might well be distorted by such fixations, a failure to consider the whole of nature because one has selected one or a few of the things. And to be sure, Montesquieu again eschews censoriousness:

I do not write to censure that which is established in any country whatsoever.

This, in marked contrast to the practice of Church-directed, Church-inspired conquests, inspired by censorious writings. Is the Bible itself censorious, in Montesquieu’s estimation?

Each nation will find here the reasons for its maxims, and the consequence will naturally be drawn from them that changes can be proposed only by those who are fortunate enough to fathom by a stroke of genius the whole of a state’s constitution.

Despite the infinite variety of laws and mores, which may find their abridged expression in the term “maxims,” all maxims have underlying “reasons,” which are, as Montesquieu has insisted, are passions. For the first time, Montesquieu suggests that one might wish not only to understand but to change laws and mores, redirect or even change the passions that underlie them. Not anyone can do this, however. Only those “fortunate enough” to “fathom”—to probe deeply—”the whole of a state’s constitution”—the system of its laws and mores but also its still-undefined “spirit”?—will be able to propose such changes—sensibly, at any rate. That is, the reformer or ‘founder’ of new modes and orders will need a mind capable of both probing deeply and ranging widely. A man like Montesquieu? Surely not men like his censors.

It is not a matter of indifference that the people be enlightened.

Surely not, given despotism’s preference for rule by fear, aided by ignorance, and republicanism’s need for an education that offers genuinely salient reasons for loving one’s country, for loving equality instead quailing in subservience.

The prejudices of magistrates began as the prejudices of the nation.

Censorious rule by fear arises not from rulers but from the people they rule. The spring of prejudice, so to speak, may be seen in the people, a particular people, whose prejudices then become the secondary springs of the rulers who keep them prejudiced, ruled by fear, censored. Enlightenment must then reach the people, spread among them first, perhaps by the means of a book written by one fortunate enough to fathom by a stroke of genius the whole of the existing, despotic state’s constitution, or whatever constitution may prevail in a given state.

In a time of ignorance, one has no doubts even while doing the greatest evils; in an enlightened age, one trembles even while doing the greatest goods.

An “age,” which might or might not be distinguishable from a “time,” but evidently has some relation to one. Antiquity, the age of republicanism or love of homeland, might or might not have been a time of ignorance. Neither is an age of enlightenment, an age in which the people lose many of their prejudices, a ‘democratic’ or republican age in which a people or perhaps many peoples love their homelands and equality. Montesquieu now ventures a moral contrast that differs sharply from the moral contrasts in the minds of the ignorant and censorious. In times (and, no doubt, regimes) of ignorance, of rule by fear, one may do “the greatest evils” with the certainty of those who fixate on one point in nature, obedient to the mirage that such fixation conjures. But in an age of enlightenment, one feels as it were a salutary fear, questioning one’s actions even when they bring great goods. What will eventually be called ‘liberalism’ should be animated by this hesitation.

One feels the old abuses and sees their correction, but one also sees the abuses of the correction itself.

The felt truths, the truth that the abuses are indeed abuses—very often felt as bruises and bleeding wounds—lead to a truth of sight, of perceiving the chains of a system that will end the felt abuses. But the reformer or founder of a new regime, a new set of laws, will see, perhaps even foresee, bruises and wounds inflicted by the new regime and especially those inflicted when the correction is being put in place. Montesquieu understands that if you want to make an omelet you must break some eggs; he is no ‘idealist.’ But neither is he a Jacobin (and much less a Stalinist) avant le lettre. He is a liberal, a liberator from regimes of fear, not a fomenter of regimes of ‘Terrors.’ He remains a liberal of mesure. Accordingly,

One lets an ill remain if one fears something worse; one lets a good remain if one is in doubt about a better.

Neither religious nor Cartesian certainty bodes well for political life. Thinking while you read is a habit well adapted to other kinds of action, as a measured caution leads to thoughtful moderation, away from fanaticism in thought or action.

One looks at the parts only in order to judge the whole; one examines all the causes in order to see the results.

There is a purpose to attending to the particular truth: to see the whole and only then to judge it. That goes for reading Montesquieu’s book and to reading regimes. Parts are related to other parts and the chain which draws them together makes them a whole. If philosophy means love of wisdom, then to philosophize will mean an ardent inquiry into the nature of felt things understood only when seen as parts of a whole. To philosophize requires the virtue of love of homeland understood as love of the whole, attention to the whole.

If I could make it so that everyone had new reasons for loving his duties, his prince, his homeland and his laws and that each could better feel his happiness in his own country, government, and position, I would consider myself the happiest of mortals.

“If”: it may not happen, the prudent philosopher acknowledges. The newness of the reasons means the replacement of the old meanings of words with new meanings, the virtues of the ancients and the Christians with new virtues, at least in the political realm, the realm of laws and the regimes constituted in part by laws. To introduce new reasons, especially in the political realm, endangers the one who introduces them. He must measure the risk and act, specifically write, with practical as well as with theoretical wisdom. 

If I could make it so that those who command increased their knowledge of what they should prescribe and that those who obey found a new pleasure in obeying, I would consider myself the happiest of mortals.

“If,” again. This too may not happen. The people may be the source of the magistrates’ prejudices but the magistrates, the ones who rule, who command, are the ones who read such books as The Spirit of the Laws, with its extensive descriptions and recommendations respecting laws and regimes. They are the ones capable of knowing, if secondarily, from reading works of philosophers. Those who obey do not often read such books, unless they are philosophers who obey out of practical wisdom and in a way that accords with that wisdom. The ruled are, however, capable of pleasure if not knowledge, and they, who most immediately feel the abuses of misrule, may find pleasure in obedience. That may be what Montesquieu means by the consent of the governed. Such consent surely would make the duties of rulers easier to perform. They would need to depend far less on fear.

I would consider myself the happiest of mortals if I could make it so that men were able to cure themselves of their prejudices.

Whether rulers or ruled, those who command or those who obey, men will be “able” to “cure themselves of their prejudices” only if they consent to understand what the philosopher, this philosopher among others, discovers for them. All must consent to be ruled by the new philosophers, Montesquieu very prominently among them, if they are to live happily, a condition that will itself make the new philosophers happy in their own way.

Here I call prejudices not what makes one unaware of certain things but what makes one unaware of oneself.

That is, as with Socrates, for whom Plato was grateful, one needs to know oneself, to know the nature of one’s spirit but also the nature of human beings as such and the nature of the spirit of interactions among individuals living together in their homelands and according to their laws, laws rightly framed by men enlightened by the new philosophers.

By seeking to instruct men one can practice the general virtue that includes love of all.

Montesquieu is such an instructor, soon to present his thoughts on the nature of education in the several regimes. But his book as a whole will resemble the love of all, the charitable or agapic love seen in Christianity, which attends both to Jew and to Greek. Yet this charity may differ from Christian charity in its foundation; we have seen the word “divine” in these pages but not the word “God.” When we do see it, Montesquieu will write “god,” more or less as Spinoza inclines to do. Charity will become ‘secularized.’

Man, that flexible being who adapts himself to the thoughts and impressions of others, is equally capable of knowing his own nature when it is shown to him, and of losing even the feeling of it when it is concealed from him.

Man’s nature (as distinguished from the natures of plants and of beasts), founded on passions, partakes of the flexibility of passions, by their nature not usually steadfast, even if sometimes quite stubborn. Man’s natural flexibility gives the philosopher and the ruler reason both to hope and to fear. Such men undertake a task which will require a sort of Sisyphean persistence combined with patient mesure. Censoriousness and violence will not prevail in the long run because they attempt to fix a nature that is not readily fixed, and never permanently fixed. The fixations that comport with attempts to fix the ‘unfixable’ are mirages, prejudices that cannot prevail forever.

Many times I began this work and many times abandoned it; a thousand times I cast to the wind the pages I had written; every day I felt my paternal hands drop; I followed my object without forming a design; I knew neither rules nor exceptions; I found the truth only to lose it.

Hesitation, despair, futility, aimlessness, ignorance, confusion: Montesquieu has shared the dilemma of all men so far. Casting pages to the wind, the editors note, alludes to the Aeneid 6.75, when Aeneas, having escaped Troy, having wandered Odysseus-like throughout the Mediterranean, seeking safe landing at Latium, implores the Sybil not to write her prophetic verses “on the leaves, lest they fly, disordered playthings of the rushing winds.” With no prophetess to guide him, Montaigne himself threw his preliminary work to the wind. The paternal hands that drop allude to the Aeneid 6.33, where Aeneas recounts the story of Daedalus, father of Icarus, builder of the labyrinth in which the monster, the Minotaur, is imprisoned, now seeking to escape the prison of the Cretan tyrant Minos, “attempts to fashion” wings for himself and his son, so that they may fly to freedom. Daedalus succeeds in making the wings, famously to see his son disobey his advice to “take the middle way” between the sun and the sea, fly too high, too close to the sun, fatally. In seeking to free men from tyranny, intending them to take the middle way, avoiding both soaring fanaticism and lowly subservience to despots, Montesquieu’s hands faltered. His labyrinthine work, intended to confine political and clerical monsters, his set of wings, intended to liberate humanity from the prison of prejudice, his philosophic quest, nearly failed.

But when I discovered my principles, all that I had sought came to me, and in the course of twenty years, I saw my work begin, grow, move ahead, and end.

Latium found. Pious Aeneus’ journey took seven years; it was Odysseus’ journey that took twenty. Guided by the Sybilline prophecy, Aeneus found the ‘principle’ that enabled him to discover and settle Latium in the golden fruit of the Golden Bough; guided by his intellect, Odysseus returned home. The way of the intellect takes longer than the way of prophecy. But it is steady, like nature, with its beginning, growth, progress, and culmination. 

If this work meets with success, I shall owe much of it to the majesty of my subject; still, I do not believe that I have totally lacked genius.

Montaigne does not wish to be thought lacking in humility, even if that humility is not thoroughgoing. The spirit of the laws has majesty; it rules the laws. It attracts the attention of readers because they want to understand such a majestic thing. Genius, too, attracts.

When I have seen what so many great men in France, England, and Germany have written before me, I have been filled with wonder, but I have not lost courage.

Who might these be? In France, Bodin? In England, Bacon, Locke? In Germany, Leibniz? That is, philosophers of the modern state, of commercial republicanism, of modern science? Wonder is the beginning of philosophy; nature as a whole and the philosophers who, each in his own way, seek to master nature, surely induce wonder, not the fear inspired by despotism. They strengthen one who would join them in philosophic inquiry, even if they might intimidate the one who seeks to philosophize, initially. 

“And I too am a painter,” have I said with Correggio.

So Correggio is said to have said, by the Correggio-obsessed art collector and historian Sebastiano Resta, in his Series of the Work of Eminent Painters, published in 1739. Correggio had been contemplating The Ecstasy of St. Cecilia by Raphael. In the painting, the martyr holds a lyre; of the five figures, she is the only one with her eyes fixed on Heaven. She is the saint who protects musicians. So, even in elevating himself to fellowship with philosophers, Montaigne strikes a faint note of piety, albeit piety toward a saint who loved the Muses along with God.

 

Notes

1. See “Educating the American Mind: The Founders’ View” on this website under the category “American Politics.”
2. De L’Esprit des lois. Two volumes. (Paris: Éditions Garnier Frères, 1949).

Alexis de Tocqueville: Democracy in America. Harvey C. Mansfield and Delba Winthrop translation. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2000.

 

Tocqueville’s Democracy in America likely rates as the ‘canonical’ work of political philosophy most esteemed by professional political scientists today. One often encounters those who have never read Aristotle’s Politics or Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws, and Marx remains a much-controverted figure, but Tocqueville enjoys a privileged place.

He does have his critics, however. They tend to be captious. Following are the principal objections to his book, with replies.

1. Tocqueville doesn’t understand the American founding, which was intended to secure the unalienable, natural rights to equality—equality of the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Tocqueville isn’t concerned with the American political founding as such, although he does devote substantial attention to the Constitution, offering what amounts to a good summary of The Federalist, a book seldom read in Europe, then or now. The ‘founding’ Tocqueville wants to understand is the founding of democracy in America—the establishment of a civil society in which there are no titled aristocrats, like himself, a society of civic equals—not equality of natural rights but “equality of conditions” (Introduction, p.3). Equality is the “primary fact,” “the generative fact” that influences American laws, the “maxims” of those who govern, and “the particular habits [of] the governed” (Introduction, p.3). The “social state” has “become democratic” (Introduction, p.9).

He wants to understand this because the aristocracies are in decline everywhere, but aristocrats continue to trouble European civic life. “A great democratic revolution is taking place among us,” among Europeans, and there are those “who hope to stop it” (Introduction, p.3, emphasis added). Europeans need to understand that “Equality can be established in civil society and not reign in the political world,” that political freedom can be lost under such conditions (II.ii.1). Political freedom is harder to maintain than civil-social equality. Without a strong aristocratic class located between central government and peoples, the regime choice now becomes that between “democratic freedom,” republicanism, and “the tyranny of the Ceasars,” “the unlimited power of one alone” (I.ii.9).  Tocqueville seeks to persuade his fellow aristocrats not to resist democracy but to guide it: “To instruct democracy, if possible to reanimate its beliefs, to purify its mores, to regulate its movements, to substitute little by little the science of affairs for its inexperience, and knowledge of its true interests for its blind instincts; to adapt its government to time and place; to modify it according to circumstances and men: such is the first duty imposed on those who direct society in our day” (Introduction, p.7). “The organization and establishment of democracies among Christians is the great political problem of our time” (I.ii.9). While Americans “furnish useful lessons in this,” Tocqueville’s adjuration has nothing to do with the American political founding, which Tocqueville admires; it is directed to Europeans, the French first of all.

This democratic or egalitarian civil society might support any number of regimes—rule of one, few or many, good or bad. The political history of France up to Tocqueville’s time, and of France and Europe for a century and a half, and of Europe again today, shows the urgency of his enterprise. “There is no question of reconstructing an aristocratic society, but of making freedom issue from the bosom of the democratic society in which god makes us live” (II.iv.7).

“I confess that in America I saw more than America; I sought there an image of democracy itself, of its penchants, its character, its prejudices, its passions. I wanted to become acquainted with it if only to know at least what we [Europeans] ought to hope or to fear from it, ” given the advance of democracy in Europe (Introduction, p.13). The failure to see that the democracy considered in Democracy in America is civil-social equality and neither a natural right nor a form of government is, one might say, the primary error, the generative error, that readily leads to a host of cognate errors. 

2. But the very feature you point to, Tocqueville’s emphasis on civil-social equality, denigrates the political, and especially denigrates the work of statesmen and of citizens generally because it focuses on the ‘given’ fact of the advance of that equality, downplaying the importance of the conscious, prudent choices made by political actors. That is, Tocqueville isn’t primarily a political scientist at all, despite his call for “a new political science for a world altogether new” (Introduction, 7). Unlike Publius in The Federalist, and despite his own extensive political career, he is really a mere sociologist, attempting to explain political life by attending to sub-political causes.

The fact that Tocqueville devotes one of his longest chapters to “The Federal Constitution of the United States” (I.i.8) should be sufficient to impress the contrary opinion upon even the dullest sensibilities. There, Tocqueville vigorously explicates and applauds the republican institutions designed by the Framers.

He also praises the jury system that long predated the founding. Juries are where the sovereign people meet law and “the idea of right,” here defined as “political virtue” or “duties toward society” which combat “individual selfishness” (I.ii.8). Juries put the people in contact with an “aristocracy” consonant with democracy: lawyers and judges, who teach them the nuances of law and how to apply the law.

But even earlier than that, one might notice his treatment of the importance of estate law. “I am astonished,” the exclaims, “that ancient and modern writers have not attributed to estate laws a greater influence on the course of human affairs. These laws belong, it is true, to the civil order; but they ought to be placed at the head of all political institutions, for they have an incredible influence on the social state of peoples, of which political laws are only the expression.” That is why “the legislator regulates the estates of citizen once and he rests for centuries; motion having been given to his work, he can withdraw his hand from it; the machine acts by its own force and is directed as if by itself toward a goal indicated in advance”—by the legislator. Estate law makes the difference between an aristocratic and a democratic civil society. (I.i.3). And, of course, it is to be noted that the Framers of the United States Constitution outlawed primogeniture, thereby preventing the kind of aristocracy then seen in Europe from arising in America. More generally, American legislators “oppose the idea of rights to sentiments of envy” (I.ii.9: “Would Laws on Mores Suffice to Maintain Democratic Institutions Elsewhere Than in America?”). 

The purpose of carefully describing and explaining democracy in civil society to Europeans is precisely to give them the basis for prudent and just legislation under modern conditions. Such democratic “penchants” as unpolitical “individualism” and statist centralization—the latter especially dangerous if animated by “the science of despotism,” which consists in satisfying the material desires of the people (II.iv.4)—are “not invincible”; “my principal goal in writing this book has been to combat them” (II.iv.3). “The whole art of the legislator consists in discerning well and in advance these natural inclinations of human societies in order to know when one must aid the efforts of citizens and when it would rather be necessary to slow them down. For these obligations differ according to the times. Only the goal toward which the human race should always tend is unmoving; the means of getting it there vary constantly.” (II.ii.15). 

3. But what exactly is that “goal”? Here, Tocqueville fails to acknowledge the importance of unalienable natural rights, fails even to mention the Declaration of Independence in this very long book, fails to understand the Founders’ moral conception of the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as rational. By failing to mention the Declaration of Independence, he takes no cognizance of the rightful goal of government, which is to secure unalienable natural rights for the citizens within a civil society.

It is true that Tocqueville never mentions the Declaration; he has no reason or need to do so, and some reason not to. The aristocratic statesmen of Europe in his day had seen enough of such declarations, particularly the French declaration of “The Rights of Man and the Citizen,” which had instigated a fair amount of violence against, well, aristocrats only a few decades earlier. 

But that is hardly to say that Tocqueville denies the existence of unalienable natural rights or provides no sense of what the “goal,” the purpose, the telos of the human race should “tend.” “I conceive a society…in which all, regarding the law as their work, would love and submit to it without trouble”—in the Declaration’s language, government by the consent of the governed; a society “in which the authority of government is respected as necessary, not divine, and love one would bear for a head of state would not be a passion, but a reasoned and tranquil sentiment. Each having rights and being assured of preserving his rights, a manly confidence and a sort of reciprocal condescension between the classes would be established, as far from haughtiness as from baseness. The people, instructed in their true interests, would understand that to profit from society’s benefits, one must submit to its burdens. The free association of citizens could then replace the individual power of nobles, and the state would be sheltered from both tyranny and license.” (Introduction, 8-9). 

That is, Tocqueville shares with Aristotle an understanding of the indispensable effect political life, ruling and being ruled in turn, produces in the cultivation of human nature. In political activity, “sentiments and ideas renew themselves, the heart is enlarged, and the human mind is developed only by the reciprocal action of men upon one another” (II.ii.5). At the same time, political right, the freedom to form political associations, is not the same as natural right; natural right begins with the recognition that men and women everywhere are of the same species (II.iii.1). Accordingly, “What one calls a republic in the United States is the tranquil reign of the majority…. But the majority itself is not all-powerful. Above it in the moral world are humanity, justice, and reason; in the political world, acquired rights”—both of these “barriers” to tyranny recognized by the majority (I.ii.10: “On Republican Institutions in the United States”). The exception to this is slavery, an instance of “the order of nature reversed” that was begun by Christians in the 16th century and imported to America in the 17th century (I.ii.10: “Position that the Black Race Occupies in the United States”). And even in “the America of the South, nature, sometimes recovering its rights, comes to establish equality between whites and blacks” (ibid.). Overall, however, Americans “believe that at birth each has received the ability to govern himself”; this ability owes its “moral authority” to “universal reason” among human beings by nature and its political power to “the universality of citizens” as distinguished from subjects (I.ii.10: “What Are the Chances That the American Union Will Last?”).

4. Tocqueville fails to recognize the Founders’ conception of morality, (e.g., the natural right to liberty) as rational, instead attributing morality to religion and liberty to the realm of political contestation. 

This again confuses the social manifestations of morality and liberty with their substantive content. In America, everything is not permitted “in the interest of society” (I.ii.9: “Indirect Influence the Religious Beliefs exert on Political Society in the United States”). Tocqueville finds religion to be the social guarantor and social source of morality and of rights, especially in democratic conditions. And it is necessary for political freedom. “How could society fail to perish if, while the political bond is relaxed, the moral bond is not tightened? And what makes a people master of itself if has not submitted to God?” (ibid.). He does not claim that morality and rights have no content beyond moeurs, only that moeurs embody morality and rights. As to rationality, Tocqueville maintains that “There are no great men without virtue; without respect for rights, there is no great people: one can almost say that there is no society; for, what is a union of rational and intelligent beings among whom force is the sole bond?” (I.ii.6: “On the Idea of Rights in America.” Emphasis added.). Further, “the means of inculcating in men the idea of rights and of making it, so to speak, fall upon their senses” is “to give the peaceful exercise of certain rights to all of them” (ibid.). That is, first, the idea of rights is distinct from making that idea ‘sensible’ to them; there is no reason to assume that the idea itself is irrational; second, religion is not the sole source of making rights felt and respected. Political life as Aristotle defined it, ruling and being ruled, also does that. While some of the harsh religious laws enacted by the Puritans “bring shame to the human mind,” more generally in America, the spirit of religion and the spirit of freedom “advance in accord and seem to lend each other a mutual support,” whereby “religion sees in civil freedom a noble exercise of the faculties of man” and freedom “considers religion as the safeguard of moeurs; and moeurs as the guarantee of laws and the pledge of its own duration” (I.i.2). And this is quite natural: “Religion is…only a particular form of hope, and it is as natural to the human heart as hope itself,” “one of the constituent principles of human nature” (I.ii.9: “On the Principal Causes That Make Religion Powerful in America”). The “taste for the infinite and the love of what is immortal” form part of human nature itself (II.ii.12). Further, religion rightly understood has rational content. “It submits the truths of the other world to individual reason” (I.ii.9: “On Republican Institutions in the United States”). Consequently, “one ordinarily sees even in the midst of [Americans’] zeal something so tranquil, so methodical, so calculated, that it seems to be reason much more than heart that leads them to the altar”—a Pascalian wager essayed by persons who for the most part have never read Pascal (ibid.). 

The tensions among equality and “human freedom” and religion exists not in America but in Europe. “Christianity, which has rendered all men equal before God, will not be loath to see all citizens equal before the law. But by a strange concurrence of events, religion finds itself enlisted for the moment among the powers democracy is overturning” because in France the republican revolutionaries were animated by Enlightenment rationalism, their monarchist and aristocratic enemies by traditional Catholic piety. Tocqueville would correct both sides. The non-religious and often irreligious “partisans of freedom” understand freedom as “the origin of the noblest virtues” and “the source of the greatest goods,” but they need to “call religion to their aid” for two reasons: “the reign of freedom cannot be established without that of moeurs“; and moeurs cannot be “founded without [religious] beliefs.” Tocqueville aims at an alliance between ‘secularists’ and the pious for freedom—reversing the coalitions seen in the French Revolution. (Introduction, 10-12). Against the materialism of the Enlightenment philosophes who inspired the French revolutionaries, Tocqueville insists that “the soul must remain great and strong, if only to be able from time to time to put its force and its greatness in the service of the body” (II.ii.16); paradoxically, if you want the benefits materialists promise, you had better not become a materialist yourself. Along with political freedom, religion “is the most precious bequest of aristocratic ages,” directing the egalitarian souls ‘upward’ under conditions that pull them ‘sideward’ and ‘downward.’

5. Because he fails to recognize equal natural rights, he only envisions a possible civil war between the white and black races in America, not between non-slaveholding and slaveholding whites.

This ignores the fact that the American Civil War did in fact mobilize black troops against the whites of the Confederacy. It also ignores the fact that Tocqueville does not consider wars within confederal democracies such as the United States to be civil wars but “only disguised foreign wars,” given the power of the state governments in confederacies (II.iii.26). Accordingly, “the only case in which a civil war could arise” in America “is one in which the army, being divided, one part would raise the standard of revolt and the other would remain faithful” (ibid.). And of course this is exactly what happened, as seen in the tragic case of General Robert E. Lee, among others. But more tellingly still, although Tocqueville doesn’t predict the American Civil War, he does predict disunion, due to the difference of moeurs between North and South—a difference he attributes to the effect of the presence of large numbers of slaves in the South on Southern slaveholders, whom he regards as examples of aristocracy within democracy (II.ii.10: “What Are the Chances That the American Union Will Last?”). And disunion did happen, if not de jure (as Lincoln insisted) then de facto, for four years.

6. Since Americans’ “destiny” is “singular” in that “they have taken from the English aristocracy the idea of individual rights and the taste for local freedoms” (II.iv.4), this means that he supposes that they derive the substance of those rights from a civil-social class.

This is an illogical inference. If, to oversimplify, one were to say that the American Founders took their ideas of rights from Hobbes and (even more) from Locke, would that not then mean that they took them from philosophers who lived in an aristocratic society, albeit one that was increasingly ’embourgeoised’? Yet, that has nothing to do with whether or not this conception of rights is right. Nor does Tocqueville suggest any such thing.

On the contrary. Tocqueville does indeed devote a section to “the idea of rights in the United States.” In it, he writes, “The idea of right is nothing other than the idea of virtue introduced into the political world. It is with the idea of rights that men have defined what license and tyranny are,” and idea by which men are “enlightened.” The right to property, for example, comes to be felt when the child who takes from others learns that others can take from him; politically, in America each individual owns property, and so does not advocate the expropriation of wealth from those who own more property than he. That is, rights are rational ideas, ideas of enlightened men, but that doesn’t mean that they will be respected simply because they are rational. (I.ii.6: “On the Idea of Rights in the United States”).

In modern, ‘democratic’ times, religion and morality will not serve as adequate sources of the respect for rights. “Do you not see that religions are weakening and that the divine notion of rights is disappearing? Do you not find that moeurs are being altered, and that with them the moral notion of rights is being effaced?” This is happening because religious “beliefs” now “give way to reasoning,” moral sentiments to “calculation.” “If in the midst of that universal disturbance you do not come to bind the idea of rights to the personal interest that offers itself as the only immobile point in the human heart, what will then remain to you go govern the world, except fear?” (I.ii.6: “On the Idea of Rights in the United States”). This is exactly what Publius inclines to say. That is, the ‘rational choice calculations‘ of individuals living in democratized and increasingly ‘secularized’ societies must be directed by prudent legislation aimed at securing rights. Neither Publius nor Tocqueville does it implies that rights are products of self-interest, any more than they are the products of religious beliefs or of moral sentiments.

Finally, while the Americans “took” the idea of individual rights—i.e., civil and political rights—and the taste for local freedoms from the aristocrats, they have transformed them into “that bourgeois and democratic freedom of which the history of the world had still not offered a complete picture” (I.i.2). The settlers were smallholders, not grandees. As to natural rights, Tocqueville quotes John Winthrop,” himself paraphrasing Aristotle, who wrote that “Liberty is not to do what you want: it must be good and just”—not only “civil” but “moral” (ibid.). From this has arisen (now glancing at one of Thomas Jefferson’s letters) a “natural aristocracy that flows from enlightenment and virtue” (ibid.). 

7. Tocqueville speaks of rights as if they were given by human beings to one another, not by the laws of nature and of nature’s God. And so, he writes, “I know only two manners of making equality reign in the political world: rights must be given to each citizen or to no one” (I.i.3).

Here, Tocqueville explicitly refers to the right to equality in politics, which he does not regard as divinely ordained, as he does not believe in ‘divine right’ of kings or of anyone else. He addresses a problem endemic to politics as conducted in democratic/egalitarian civil societies. In them, the passion for equality is stronger than the passion for liberty. The passion for liberty can be either “manly and legitimate” or “depraved,” dragging everyone down to the proverbial lowest common denominator. Political “absolutism”—in France, during the later decades of Old-Regime monarchism and more recently under the rule of Napoleon I—brought the people to “equality in servitude.” Even “inequality in freedom,” seen in feudalism, is preferable to that. Equality in freedom is better than both, but “when citizens are all nearly equal, it becomes difficult for them to defend their independence against the aggressions of power,” since they are no longer shielded from the centralized modern state by the aristocrats. (I.i.3). [1] To avoid this danger, Tocqueville famously proposes the substitution of civic associations for the now-vanished feudal estates.

8. Tocqueville followed Rousseau in rejecting natural law, regarding all general ideas as false and attributing the equality principle not to nature but to Christianity, as when he writes that “it was necessary that Jesus Christ come to earth to make it understood that all members of the human species are naturally alike and equal” (II.i.3). Insofar as he admits ‘generality’ into his argument, he endorses Rousseau’s General Will, not natural right or natural law.

The quotation itself suffices to show that Tocqueville regards Christianity as having made the equality principle understood, not that Christianity somehow invented it. He mentions this in reference to the doctrine of natural slavery, best known from a passage in Aristotle’s Politics. “The most profound and vast geniuses of Rome and Greece were never able to arrive at the idea, so general but at the same time so simple, of the similarity of men and of the equal right to freedom that each bears from birth” (II.i.3). But if human beings as a species bear an equal right to freedom from birth, then that can be nothing other than a natural right. Christianity impressed this truth upon Europeans when Europe was aristocratic and therefore disinclined to perceive it; it was the entering wedge of the principle of equality, leading over the centuries to the social condition of equality, as seen in Tocqueville’s history of France (Introduction, 3-6).

The claim that Tocqueville adheres to Rousseau’s doctrine of the General Will is based on an out-of-context misreading. The reference to “the sovereignty of the human race” comes in his discussion of majority tyranny. “I regard as impious and detestable the maxim that in matters of government the majority of a people has the right to do everything”—the maxim soon to be advanced in America by Senator Stephen A. Douglas of Illinois. “Nonetheless I place the origin of all powers in the will of the majority. Am I contradicting myself?” Obviously not, since might, “power,” is not right, but Tocqueville puts it differently: “A general law exists that has been made or at least adopted not only by the majority of this or that people, but by the majority of all men. This law is justice,” which “forms the boundary of each people’s right.” “Therefore, when I refuse to obey an unjust law, I do not deny to the majority the right to command; I only appeal from the majority of the people to the sovereignty of the human race.” (I.ii.7). No competent student of political philosophy can fail to see that Tocqueville here refers to the law of nations. The law of nations is not the same as the law of nature but it in no way contradicts that law; in fact, it can and did incorporate it, as seen in what was then the most important recent treatise on the subject, Emer de Vattel’s The Law of Nations, subtitled Or, Principles of the Law of Nature, Applied to the Conduct and Affairs by Nations and Sovereigns, with Three Early Essays on the Origin and Nature of Natural Law and on Luxury, originally published in 1776. As Tocqueville observes, “only God can be omnipotent without danger, because his wisdom and justice are always equal to his power” (I.ii.7).

Tocqueville makes this even more explicit in his chapter “On Honor in the United States and in Democratic Societies.” “The human race,” he writes, “feels permanent and general needs that have given birth to moral laws; all men have naturally attached in all places and all times the idea of blame and of shame to the nonobservance of them. Evading them they have called to do evil, submitting to them, to do good.” Evil “penchants” are “condemnable in the eyes of the general reason and the universal conscience of the human race,” although some of these might be condemned “only feebly” in a given civil society under certain circumstances; in the United States, “the love of wealth” is necessary in order “to transform the vast uninhabited continent” that Americans have come to possess (II.iii.18). This is only to recognize the adjustment of naturally derived moral laws to the variety of human conditions, as Aristotle commends in the Nicomachean Ethics.

9. Worse, Tocqueville doubts the truth of natural equality because he is a nominalist who rejects such a “general idea.” “God does not ponder the human race in general”; being omniscient, He “has no need of general ideas,” unlike mere humans. In reality, Tocqueville continues, “there are no beings in nature exactly alike”; ergo, there are no “identical facts” and “no rules generally applicable to several objects at once.” We humans are left with our “incomplete notions.” (II.i.3).

As Tocqueville good-humoredly acknowledges, his very “use of the word equality in an absolute sense” exemplifies this necessary human intellectual practice (II.i.16). The habit is especially strong among those who live in democratic conditions, partly because there really are more similarities among individuals in such societies. But this does not commit him to nominalism; it simply cautions his readers to pay attention to details, not to lose sight of individuals. There is a crucial political as well as a philosophic reason to do so: sweeping generalizations in political life can lead to tyranny. “To force all men to march in the same march, toward the same object—that is a human idea. To introduce an infinite variety into actions, but to combine them in a manner so that all these actions lead us by a thousand diverse ways toward the accomplishment of one great design—that is a divine idea” (Appendix XXIV, p.703).

10. If not a nominalist, then Tocqueville is a historicist, a sort of democratized Hegelian, propounding a claim that social equality is part of an inevitable ‘march of history.’ 

In his correspondence, Tocqueville mentioned Hegelians he had met in Germany, remarking shortly, “I detested the Hegelians.” [2] Hegelianism is a form of pantheism, and in the Democracy Tocqueville decries that doctrine. “Among the different systems with whose aid philosophy seeks to explain the universe, pantheism appears to me one of the most appropriate to seduce the human mind in democratic centuries; all who remain enamored of the genuine greatness of man should unite in combat against it” (II.i.8). In the same chapter, Tocqueville criticizes the immoderate perfectionism that democratic souls to which human souls in democracy so often succumb. Pantheism plus perfectionism equal historicism incline the soul of man under democracy to such historicist doctrines as ‘Progressivism,’ which Tocqueville’s discussion anticipates. Tocqueville also rejects the materialist historicism of Artur de Gobineau, with whom he engaged in extensive correspondence. [3]

Far from being a historicist, Tocqueville regards historicism as a danger endemic to democratic conditions, as seen in his critique of “historians who live in democratic times,” who “take away from peoples themselves the ability to modify their own fate…subject[ing] them either to an inflexible providence or to a sort of blind fatality” (II.i.20). “It is not enough for them to show how the facts have come about; they also take pleasure in making one see that it could not have happened otherwise” (ibid.). Aristocratic historians, by contrast, “particularly those of antiquity,” make it seem “that to become master of his fate and to govern those like him, a man has only to know how to subdue himself,” to subject his passions to his reason (ibid.). But while “historians of antiquity instruct on how to command, those of our day teach hardly anything than how to obey”; “if this doctrine of fatality, which has so many attractions for those who write history in democratic times, passed from writers to their readers, thus penetrating the entire mass of citizens and taking hold of the public mind, one can foresee that it would so paralyze the movement of the new societies and reduce Christians to Turks” (ibid.). Already incline to materialism, democrats “are only too inclined to doubt free will because each of them feels himself limited on all sides by his weakness,” pressured by a ‘mass’ society of equals, no longer the ‘vertical’ pressure from aristocrats above them but the ‘horizontal’ pressure of fellow democrats around them. Against this, one must “willingly grant force and independence to men united in a social body,” in civil and political associations, as “it is a question of elevating souls and not completing their prostration” (ibid.). 

The charge of historicism leveled against Tocqueville usually arises in response to his passages in the Introduction, emphasizing the “providential” advance of democracy since Jesus of Nazareth laid down the principle of the equality of men under God. By Providence, Tocqueville means “a thousand circumstances independent of the will of man” (I.ii.9: “On the Accidental or Providential Causes Contributing to the Maintenance of a Democratic Republic in the United States”). In America, such circumstances include the absence of formidable neighbors, the absence of a large capital city, ancestors who imported the “love of equality and freedom” to these shores, and the sheer size of the continent, which makes “nature itself” work “for the people” by giving them places from which to escape from the rule of any aristocratic class that might form ‘back East’ (ibid.). But he immediately observes that these “providential” causes are not politically decisive; French Canada, also an egalitarian civil society, rests under monarchy. 

Democracy has replaced aristocracy not because ‘History’ so dictates but because it is more natural. “One can change human institutions, but not men” (II.iii.13)—an observation that contradicts the Rousseauian doctrine of the malleability of human nature taken up soon thereafter by historicists. “The manners of aristocracy placed beautiful illusions over human nature,” illusions that could not withstand the slow workings of reality (II.iii.14), but “the constitution of man” is “everywhere the same” (II.iii.17). This goes right down to the most fundamental distinction among humans, the distinction between male and female: “The reason of one is as sure as the other, and her intelligence as clear” as his (II.ii.12).

 

In sum, to understand the American founding, the founding of a republic on a democratic civil-social base, one must go to the writings of the statesmen who effected it. They explained themselves, thoroughly and often eloquently. To understand democracy as a civil-social condition, its causes and effects, its advantages and its dangers, one must consult Tocqueville.

 

 

 

Notes

1. See also II.ii.1: “Why Democratic Peoples Show a More Ardent and More Lasting Love for Equality Than for Freedom.”
2. In a letter to Francisque de Corcelle from Bonn dated July 22, 1854, Tocqueville elaborates: “You are, of course, aware of the part played by philosophy during the past fifty years in Germany, and especially by the school of Hegel. He was protected, as, no doubt, you know, by the ruling powers, because his doctrines asserted that, in a political sense, all established facts ought to be submitted to as legitimate; and that the very circumstance of their existence was sufficient to make obedience to them a duty. This doctrine gave rise at length to the anti-Christian and anti-spiritual schools, which have been endeavoring to pervert Germany for the last twenty years, especially for the last ten; and finally to the socialist philosophy, which had so great a share in producing the confusion of 1848. Hegel exacted submission to the ancient established powers of his own time; which he held to be legitimate, not only from existence, but from their origin. His scholars wished to establish powers of another kind, which became, according to their views, equally legitimate and binding. This did not suit the official protectors of Hegel. Yet from this Pandora’s box [i.e., “this sensual and socialist philosophy’] have escaped all sorts of moral diseases from which the [German] people is still suffering.” That is, not only does Tocqueville detest Hegelianism, he also clearly sees that materialist historicism that derives from it (Marx being the preeminent example), as well as the denial of political liberty regimes established on the principles of historicism attempt to legitimate.
3. Alexis de Tocqueville: Correspondence with Gobineau. John Lukacs, editor and translator: The European Revolution and Correspondence with Gobineau. Garden City: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1959.

 

John W. Danford: Wittgenstein and Political Philosophy: A Reexamination of the Foundations of Social Science. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978.

 

For more than a century, doubts have arisen about modern science, despite its extraordinary achievements of discovery and invention. The conquest of nature has not uniformly relieved man’s estate, as Francis Bacon promised. Empowering man, it has not emended man himself, that mixed bag of a creature. And even if undertaken with good intentions, any such emendation might worsen him. Somehow, modern science is ‘missing something.’ And it isn’t simply a matter of the results of the enterprise. Its philosophic foundations give some philosophers pause, as seen in Edmond Husserl’s starkly titled The Crisis of the European Sciences. While, as Danford writes, “the reality which science presents is said to be the only reality,” is it? Social science in particular is open to question. Eschewing ‘value judgments,’ it “loses its connection with the prescientific world,” and to lose that connection “is precisely to lose its meaning for us.” Husserl remarks that modern science’s empiricism leads not to truth—now deemed a ‘metaphysical prejudice’—but to approximation or even mere acceptability. Such a culture-bound science stands “but a short step from…radical nihilism,” the claim that scientific theories “are actually creations of the human will.” Husserl wants to give an account of the whole, of that which transcends the empeiria. Danford rejects transcendental phenomenology as “a mysterious project,” seeking instead to look at the philosophic origins of modern science, especially modern political science, to see if they withstand scrutiny. 

“The monopolistic attitude toward knowledge which characterizes modern scientific method…emerged in the great intellectual revolution of the 17th century,” when Thomas Hobbes “proclaimed himself the founder of political science qua science.” Hobbes claims that “what is required to make knowledge scientific is nothing more than attention to method.” Previous political philosophers had emphasized the centrality of practical wisdom, prudence, to political life. The best elaboration of ‘ancient’ political science may be found in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and his Politics. Hobbes, Bacon’s most brilliant disciple, argued that analysis followed by systematic construction held much more real promise than unmethodical deliberation, however intelligent and upright its practitioners might be (but seldom were). Here is where Wittgenstein comes in. “Hobbes’s rejection of Aristotle is the very portion of Hobbes’s thought about which Wittgenstein’s philosophy raises questions,” specifically on the topic of language, which Hobbes and his own disciple, John Locke, address extensively. “According to Wittgenstein’s account, we must conclude that Hobbes and Locke were mistaken in their understanding of language,” and if so, they were also mistaken about “the proper method for political science.”

What, then “distinguishes modern science from early rationalism,” the rationalism of philosophers prior to Hobbes and his mentor, Francis Bacon? Hobbes writes that previous philosophers had “strangled” science “with snares of words.” Such philosophers as Plato, Aristotle, and Aquinas came only to uncertain conclusions; because uncertain, their philosophic doctrines led to subversive, disputatious, uncivil discourse, theoretically and practically unsatisfactory. Despite their vaunted reasonableness, philosophers have divided into factions, never achieving the wisdom they claim to love and seek, what Hobbes calls “the perfect knowledge of the truth in all matters whatsoever.” In this quest, geometers have done much better, having produced indisputable knowledge. Geometric knowledge is anything but high-flown, metaphysical, its theorems being based on ‘low’ or self-evident axioms that no one can disagree with, and its aim being not some beauteous vision but utility—the construction of buildings, roads, dams. Hobbes would make political science similarly low, self-evident, useful, based on sense perception and memory, by which means they can discover facts. The “experience of fact” is low but solid, indeed; we share it with the “brutes.” 

By contrast, prudence is merely “conjecture from experience,” uncertain. There are two kinds of knowledge: “knowledge original” or sense-knowledge and “knowledge of the truth of propositions,” which is science proper. Both are experiential, but science consists of “the experience men have of the proper use of names.” Truth is a true proposition, the human way of knowing. The truth of propositions, propositions rightly conceived in the brain of the proposer, distinguishes human knowledge from brutish knowledge. Science requires language; it is more than the purely phenomenal knowledge of brutes. Humanly understood evidence “always involves language.” A parrot speaks but forms no conception of what it is speaking; it might repeat a proposition, but it doesn’t know what it’s talking about. When it does know, it expresses itself not in language but in shrieks.

But if words are “arbitrary marks or signs, which ‘stand for’ our thoughts,” then one could use the wrong word to express a thought. Further, how can we know if “the thought which we use a word to signify is the same as someone else’s”? Truth cannot be “merely private or subjective” if science is to be a real thing, but how “to guarantee that words have meanings which are objective”? “Hobbes never, to our knowledge, satisfactorily resolves this problem.” Locke and Wittgenstein number among those who make the attempt.

Having reached this aporia, Danford turns to Hobbes’s critique of classical political philosophy. As noted, the “ancients'” offer only prudential knowledge, which in modern scientific terms isn’t really knowledge at all, being grounded on opinions, which are always dubious. Hobbes wants political truths based on a priori, necessary premisses, analogous to his social contract, the foundation upon which his political architecture rests. Philosophers thus need to agree upon these foundational definitions before they build their ‘republics’ or regimes. Philosophy aims at knowledge of causes. Modern scientific knowledge requires analysis, breaking down the thing you are examining into its “elements” (a term borrowed from Euclid). Elements consist not only of physical parts, right down to atoms, but such features as shape, motion, and visibility. That is, real science is founded upon an analogy to the only sure science hitherto conceived, geometry. We “understand the ‘wholes’ of geometry (squares, triangles, pentagons), because we see how they are constructed from, or can be reduced to, simple ‘parts.'” Admittedly, all science, including geometry, “rests on a foundation which is assumed or unprovable.” In Euclid, these are definitions, postulates, and axioms. Definitions, for example, “are not proven: what we mean by ‘square’ is explained by a definition, but that squares exist and what the properties of squares are, are what geometry demonstrates”; “the definitions require only to be understood,” whereas “the propositions must be demonstrated or proven.” Similarly, the postulates are “the assumptions necessary to the practice of geometry but in themselves unprovable” (e.g., all right angles are equal) and axioms or “the rules of logic.” “Within its own subject matter, geometry is absolutely certain because we construct, in full view and from principles accepted by all (who practice geometry), the propositions concerning the nature of triangles, circles, rectangles, and so on,” principles not arbitrary but based on empirical observation from which the propositions are ‘abstracted.’ Abstraction means to get the universal and necessary “out of the particular and unnecessary” or “accidental.” 

That works when we ‘do geometry.’ But can politics be treated that way—analyzed, broken down into simple elements? Hobbes answers with a characteristically resounding ‘yes’: individuals are the elements of political life, and they are composed of two basic impulses: appetite and aversion, motion toward and motion away. Political science rests on these elements, and definitions of them are the “first principles” of demonstration in political science, “the keystone of Hobbes’s epistemological archway.” That is, definition comes between analysis or “resolution” and constructive deduction, synthesis or “composition.” “The resolutive-compositive method itself is closely connected with an understanding of language according to which unambiguous definitions are in principle possible and which permit us to give a clear account of the nature of anything.” Under this method, words ‘stand for’ unambiguous concepts. Geometry issues in physics, physics in psychology, psychology in political science. [1] “Forthright and unidealistic observation of the political world, according to Hobbes, quickly teaches one that the central fact of politics is competition and the struggle of each individual to further his own interests.” Hobbes claims no originality in making that claim but he goes further, analyzing bodies politic into “individual, atomic men, each motivated by his own passions”; political motives are reducible “to a few simple passions.”  Viewed scientifically, without passion, these impassioned individuals may be sorted into the law-abiding and the law-breaking; law itself is only the “command of him or them that have coercive power.” The purpose of the political body is peaceful enjoyment of desired objects, avoidance of feared objects; desired objects are acquired by one means, power,” but in order to acquire desired objects and enjoy them, one needs to set self-preservation as the first goal of all individuals and bodies politic. Otherwise, bodies politics will dissolve into the “terrible state of nature,” that war of all against all, in which no law prevents the violent collision of the atomic men. A well-ordered body politic will channel the “permanent struggle for power” into “the peaceful struggle for power in the form of wealth,” which assuages man’s primal aversion, his fear of violent death.

Hobbes does not intend his account of the state of nature and the social contract that (precariously) puts an end to it as a ‘history lesson.’ “He is attempting to ‘reform’ language by showing what political terms can legitimately mean, what they necessarily mean”—showing that the word ‘justice’ rightly, necessarily means law-abidingness, not some grand ‘republic’ of the soul or of the polis. Not only previous philosophy but especially religion “prevented the rational development of language,” which Hobbes now undertakes to free from such “phantasms of the mind.” Hobbes’s quest for certitude may respond as much to Paul the Apostle’s derision of philosophers as “always seeking, never finding.” He more than implies that Christians, like the ancient philosophers, are at most certain about mere mental phantasms.

But if the geometrical/analytic method sets down definitions that are impossible to prove, definitions nonetheless necessary “in order, quite simply, to do science, how are we to understand the relation of science to the world?” The reason that Socrates’ regime (for example) is unlikely, perhaps impossible, to be realized in practice is that it ‘abstracts from’ concrete reality, even as the philosopher claims that his regime in speech is, in some sense, more true than concrete reality. Hobbes counters: the theoretical political science he practices against the political science of ‘the ancients’ “can be practical only because it orders, simplifies, abstracts, and so makes the world manageable.” In this, it resembles “the new natural science, which was based on a new understanding of that relationship between theoretical purity and practical utility.” Indeed, political philosophy actually can be more scientific than natural science because political institutions are constructed in accordance with the blueprint of the social contract. Bacon understands scientific experiments to torture nature in order to force her to reveal her secrets, but torture doesn’t always yield true confession; “we know only what we construct,” and in politics we construct things out of language: laws, states, monarchs—all of them man-made phenomena. Language itself is an invention. “It is the invention of language which permits man access to knowledge properly speaking,” to the framing of propositions. “By carefully observing human nature and history, and reducing it to the essential elements which must always have been present, we can reconstruct the situation in which the first terms of political discourse were needed and thus invented.” On that solid foundation, we can then erect a body politic (an “artificial man,” as Hobbes calls it) which really does secure our desire for self-preservation and the peaceful enjoyment of our desires that sustained self-preservation and the lawful competition for wealth make possible. 

Another problem then appears. If “the meanings of the political terms are the result of human construction,” if the world consists of many peoples with different languages, are such political terms as ‘justice’ not “merely conventional, with different meanings at different times” and places? And if that is so, Hobbesian political science itself “may be of only limited validity,” “historical” not natural. “Hobbes rejects the historicist conclusion, because he believes that meanings necessarily emerge in the same way everywhere because of man’s permanent nature.” Eventually, Rousseau would challenge that belief, and the apparently stable bedrock of modern natural right would erode. What, then, can modern natural rights philosophers say about language that will defend their foundational definitions, their use of language?

“Hobbes’s understanding of the possibility of a political science, including the resolutive-compositive method and the understanding of propositions, is connected with a particular attitude toward common speech. Behind that, in turn, lies a certain understanding of the nature of language,” to which Danford now turns. Hobbes claims to be “the first to see clearly the relation between language or words on the one hand and knowledge or science on the other.” Language, he asserts (in his characteristically anti-Biblical fashion) is a human invention, a too, a code invented to send messages. Words are first of all marks for remembrance, invented by an individual; they then become signs, signifying the same thing to more than one person, signs of human conceptions of things, not directly of the things themselves, arbitrary on both their individual and social manifestations. The conceptual character of language, the deployment of such universal terms as ‘Man,’ makes it likely that words may be equivocal. Hobbes isn’t clear on where we get our conceptions, but he does want to understand them, to clarify them, to make our agreements as to their meaning (crucially, when making an indispensable social contract) certain, reliable, understood by everyone. He never quite gets there.

Enter John Locke, with his conception of “simple ideas” or sense-impressions, which precede language in human understanding. The simple ideas are “the bedrock of our mental processes.” What makes them reliable is that the human mind is “entirely passive” in receiving them; they are the unanalyzable elements of experience, which consists of them and our reflections upon them. How can we communicate our experiences to others in order to frame a civil society? Words abstract from, represent, experience; “language is impossible without abstraction,” but since “the general ideas are the same for everyone,” communicating them from one person to another is possible. (One remarks, in passing, the homology between words that represent things and persons who ‘represent’ others in the body politic.) This abstraction distinguishes man from brutes, “permit[ting] men to think and speak.” “Only the fact that the mind is passive in receiving simple ideas guarantees that men share the same ideas simply.” Such complex ideas as “social” and “contract” are composed of simple ideas. Complex ideas can occur naturally in the mind, from outside the mind, via observation of things in the world—Locke calls these “substances”—or from within the mind itself, which can put simple ideas together “by its own power”—Locke calls these “mixed modes.” Against Aristotle, then, framing a definition, making someone else understand by a word what the word stands for, is analytic, an act of breaking down complex ideas into their simple elements, using simple language for simple ideas. 

Consequently, “our knowledge of the physical or natural world will necessarily be less perfect than our knowledge of the human world simply because the real essence of that natural world is inaccessible to us,” our knowledge of it approximate. Nature is best understood in terms of simple ideas, not in terms of arbitrary “mixed modes,” which admit of the combination of simple ideas of different kinds, human conventions. Human conventions, being self-generated, are quite understandable but less necessarily true to our own nature, arbitrary. Locke includes such ideas as incest, parricide, and justice as examples of such ideas, a classification which calls into question Biblical certainties, it must be remarked. “How is it, then, that Locke is also the most famous and influential theorist of natural law?”

Lockean natural law as it pertains to human beings consists of moral certainties. Because moral terms are entirely human (not divine, given from outside the human mind) and therefore understandable, we are “capable of a true moral science, of complete and perfect knowledge of moral matters and moral principles,” a systematic demonstrative science of morality and politics “more certain than natural philosophy.” But which of these laws, these mixed-mode complex ideas, can be shown to be free of arbitrariness? “It is reasonable to suspect that Locke could not have failed to grasp the relativist implications of this view of language. Nevertheless he, like Hobbes, rejected them,” going ahead with deriving “principles of natural right from the facts of the state of nature.” He would “discover in human nature a standard which tells us what the minimum content of moral and political terms should be,” joining Hobbes “in the claim that the starting point for this enterprise cannot be what men say in common speech.” Rather, the philosopher must “look directly at the nature of human beings uncomplicated by their beliefs and opinions about why they do what they do,” before they construct their mixed-mode complex ideas for their convenience. Convenience, utility, not the conventional words, is the window that permits him to look at human nature, unimpeded because “what is useful is connected with what one needs.” Find out what men really need by analyzing their words and you can construct a sound morality for them based upon “an empirical study of human psychology.” Obviously, “although Locke departs from Hobbes in the content of his political philosophy, his method—the approach of imagining the construction of society from the elements themselves, and ignoring what men say—is identical with Hobbes’s resolutive-compositive method” and “deriv[ing] all moral and political principles from one primary natural law,” a law discovered by the use of that method.

As does Hobbes, Locke attributes the failure of previous philosophers to find this method and to achieve these results not to ‘original sin’ but to an original misconception. “Men did not understand themselves or their true needs” because “their vision was obscured above all by their pride,” particularly in their belief that God initially provided for them, continues to provide for them, watch over them. In reality, men are needy; Locke’s state of nature is not Hobbes’s state of war, but it is a state of scarcity, neediness. All very well, but for one noticeable thing: the evidently conjectural character of any ‘state of nature’—Hobbes’s, Locke’s, Rousseau’s—lands modern philosophers back into the philosophic factionalism Hobbes deplores. It seems that both ‘ancient’ and ‘modern’ philosophy incur relativism, the first because there was an ‘outer’ standard of morality, the nature of which philosophers did not agree upon, the second because there was an ‘inner’ standard of morality, the nature of which philosophers did not agree upon.  Yet, “if Hobbes and Locke were unsuccessful in their hope, they nevertheless took the decisive step of establishing the split between the natural world and the world of human constructs on an epistemological footing,” a footing “inextricably linked with a certain understanding of the way language works.”

Danford describes and advantage the ‘ancients’ enjoy over the moderns. Their aporia are more promising of at least some tentative resolutions because “they understood there to be more kinds of knowledge than Hobbes accepts.” If knowledge comes in different kinds, it may not be certain, nor may it aspire to certainty, but it covers more ground, comprehends more, in both senses of the term. In thinking about justice, for example, they begin “not by denying common speech or what men say, but by considering various ordinary opinions about it, opinions reflecting a variety of situations in which justice is relevant.” Here is no “geometric certainty,” but here is no unrealistic expectation of geometric certainty masquerading as tough-minded realism. The problem with the ‘ancients,’ however, is that they provide no “systematic account of language” to go along with Aristotle’s comprehensive account of the kinds of knowledge. Hence Danford’s interest in Wittgenstein, who does give such an account without succumbing to the linguistic and epistemological simplism of Hobbes and Locke.

Initially, Wittgenstein held the Hobbes-Locke position, that words stand for things, representing objects. But he eventually concluded that the evocation of images is only one thing that language does. A word may also signify, point to a use. To say ‘No!’ is not to conjure up a mental picture of an object; words are not only “symbols in a communications code.” For example, if I call out “Slab!” I may mean ‘Bring me a slab!’ or ‘I want a slab!’ “Words function in numerous ways, often combining with activity in what Wittgenstein calls “language games.” Speaking, using language, is a human activity; his term, ‘game,’ does not imply ‘fun and games,’ although it includes fun and games. Language is often, even usually, undertaken with serious intent. Contra Hobbes and Locke, the multiple uses of language are not in themselves confusing; it is rather the reduction of language to “the method of science” that confuses us. “Wittgenstein tries to show why the reductionist method of natural science is not appropriate to the understanding of language: reducing language to a small number of ‘simples,’ or to one model, inevitably causes us to misunderstand it.” 

“Learning words means learning how to use them.” Learning a language, however, “means learning how to play many different language games, in which words are used in different ways,” for the purpose or purposes of those games. “Understanding a word, we may say, is like understanding a lever in the cab of a locomotive: fully understanding it requires in a sense an understanding of the whole mechanism, that is, of what the mechanism is for.” Understanding the whole “entails understanding what that human activity is, what it for, why it is played.” Human action is teleological, as Aristotle maintains. Unlike other teleological motions, such as plant growth, it involves speech, reason; at the same time, human speech differs from Hobbes’s parrot but also differs from Hobbes’s man, who has no good way to think of purposes outside of his own passions, his subjective desires and aversions. “It makes no sense to speak absolutely of the simple parts of something” because a word has no meaning outside “the language games it is used in,” games that are purposive. And so, for some purposes, in analyzing a chair I might consider it as composes of “pieces of wood and screw,” while for another purpose I might analyze it in terms of “the atoms which make up the materials themselves.” In each case, what you think of as the ‘real’ table “depends on what you are going to do” and the purpose you pursue in doing it.

In a political community, the meaning of the word ‘justice’ requires knowledge of the purposes of the political community. “In considering the vast range of political phenomena, from taxes to trials, our judgment proceeds not from the fact that they share or lack some simple element of ‘just-ness,’ but rather from their relationship to the goals we understand our political community to aim at.” Goals: “the whole,” political or other, “may be heterogeneous and not reducible” to its parts.

If there’s “no ‘core’ meaning common to all its forms,” how, then, to define language itself? That there is no clear-cut definition of the kind Hobbes and Locke seek may be seen in the notion of ‘games.’ “The activities we call games”—poker, chess, baseball, sometimes politics—are “related to each other not in any single way” to which they can be reduced and defined “but as members of a family, each of whom resembles others in some ways, but not in all.” Wittgenstein offers the metaphor of a thread, “the overlapping of many fibers.” Is such a blurred concept really a concept? Yes, in the same way as an indistinct photography a picture of a person. For some purposes (the obscuring of blemishes, for example), one might prefer the indistinct photo. Exactness, certainty isn’t always a solution; sometimes, it’s a problem. When considering what a game is, “we cannot really say what a concept means,” but then that doesn’t mean I don’t know it. I can know how a clarinet sounds without being able to say how it sounds. “Our knowledge is in many cases an inarticulable knowledge,” or only a partially articulable one. Ask not only ‘what’ the word means but how you learned its meaning because “an understanding of how human beings learn to participate in this activity will shed light on the activity itself.” Parents don’t teach their children the rules of grammar first; “as children, we learn by hearing words used by those around us, and used in the language games or contexts in which the words are customary.” The word by itself doesn’t tell you the substance of what it is. “The grammar of a word might be said to include all the various expressions win which we can use of the word, and the situations in which these are suitable”—not “simply a verbal matter,” but one that “encompasses situations, contexts, and activities in the world.” That is, in addition to an Aristotle-like teleology, language also registers an Aristotle-like attention to circumstances, an attention on full display in the Nicomachean Ethics. 

Why is this ‘grammatology’ not merely arbitrary, conventional, vulnerable to the same criticism leveled at the ‘moderns’? Wittgenstein does in fact say that our concepts “are natural, at least to some degree.” That is because language games and grammar “are grounded in or based on characteristic ways we human beings have of living and acting together, characteristics of human beings simply.” They are “natural conventions,” since by nature we may not settle upon any one language, grammar, or set of language games but that by nature we do settle on some language, grammar, or set of language games. Conventional, yes; arbitrary, no. Language registers natural human feelings—happiness, anger, pain, all of which “are indeed built into our grammar. More, these things are “based on natural characteristics of human life on this planet, on our forms of life.” Human life has a nature, heterogeneous but not reducible to its parts. As Wittgenstein puts it, there is no “agreement in opinions”—like regimes, languages differ—but “in forms of life.” “The grammatical conventions, the language, are grounded in form of life which human being share, which are somehow natural to them.” Ways of life are patterns of action, not patterns of images. “The crucial notion here is that these activities are not reducible to something simpler; the terms that we use in a language game are not necessarily constructed out of simpler elements.” The sharp, modern distinction between human nature, reduced to, say, fear of violent death, and mind-entangling conventions (beauty, truth) gives way in Wittgenstein to ways of life that must be understood on their “own terms.” Wittgenstein would “inquire into the relations among our forms of life without necessarily seeking to reduce complicated ones to more simple or basic ones.” How, then, might we rank these forms of life—very roughly, these regimes? Within a given regime, such ranking would take place with a view to the purpose of the regime. Within a language game, such ranking would take place with a view to the purpose of the game. But is it possible to rank one regime in relation to another, one game in relation to another? Or does Wittgenstein give us only a more sophisticated form of relativism, leading once again to nihilism? 

Danford suggests that “conceived in the above terms,” the modernity of Hobbes, Locke, and even of Wittgenstein, “the project of understanding justice is indeed hopeless.” “Once certainty is made the criterion of science, it is difficult to see how there can be a science of a practical matter such as politics.” Aristotle and Plato argue against certainty as the criterion of science, or at least of all science, and thus leave space for a workable science of politics. “Once certainty is made the criterion of science, it is difficult to see how there can be a science of a practical matter such as politics,” a difficulty Hobbes “circumvents” by “replacing the distinction between theoretical and practical sciences with the distinction between theoretical sciences and applied sciences” in an attempt to treat political purposes—for example, securing peace—as “no different from the application of geometry to solve a surveyor’s problem of measurement.” Science serves practice; the purpose of knowledge is power; political science seeks peace, seeks to conquer the state of nature, which is a state of war.” But “in order to be useful, a science must be indisputable”; in needs the authoritative certainty commanded by religion, and in order to vindicate that certainty it must bring the peace Christianity merely promises. It hasn’t, and that raises uncertainty about the utility of Hobbesian political science.

But it may be that the ‘ancients’ have a better way, if not a way that satisfies the human longing for certitude. Danford begins with “the place of classical social science” in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. In Aristotelian science, theoretical reason concerns matters of truth and falsity, while practical reasoning concerns matters of good and bad action. Aristotle elaborates five kinds of knowledge. Science, epistemē, concerns things that are necessarily so; it is teachable, either by induction (reasoning from particulars to universals) or, more strictly speaking, by deduction, syllogism. Because a syllogism cannot question its own ‘first principles,” a truth or truths that must be held as self-evident for the sake of making logical deductions, one also needs nous, intelligence, which discovers the first principles, the archai, of science. Sophia or theoretical wisdom understands both first principles and the results of science, beginnings and ‘ends’ or purposes. Art, technē, concerns the means to those ends; it is productive but neither discover first principles nor make logical deductions from them nor judge the worth of what it produces. Practical wisdom, phronēsis, which concerns action, involves deliberating about obtaining the good and the advantageous; it knows particulars, not principles. Being more vulnerable to the extremes of pleasure and pain than the other forms of knowledge, it should be associated with moderation, sophrosynē. A person of practical wisdom and moderation will practice these virtues, perhaps along with others, without necessarily knowing why they are virtues, an inquiry that requires theoretical wisdom. Practical wisdom points to political science and is most likely to be found among men and women of experience, not the young. Whereas science is teachable, political science is not; “it is not a science in the strict sense.” It differs from theoretical wisdom, too, in that theoretical wisdom concerns itself with the nature, including human nature, as such. Political science, which comprehends practical wisdom but is not restricted to it; it “not only explains what things are good for human beings, but also seeks to explain why, thus bridging the gap between an autonomous virtue which can be practiced by the man of prudence without knowing why, and the realm of philosophy which requires an account of everything that is.”

What, then, is the source of virtue? There are two types of virtue. The “lower sort” is “natural virtue,” a “kind of unthinking disposition to be virtuous, which is found even in children, but which is liable to be harmful if it is not combined with ‘intelligence’ (nous).” “Virtue in the full sense,” on the other hand, “has intelligence”; it knows the first principles and the ends of action. “The good which results from the ‘blind natural virtue is a matter of accident; virtue in the full sense requires the sight of intelligence, part of the rational faculty.” “It is a product of right reason (orthos logos); it is the true knowledge of what is good for human beings.” Political science, then, is architectonic. It directs human action, including the quest for scientific knowledge, toward good purposes, since “theoretical knowledge about virtue is a reliable goal in itself.” By contrast, Hobbes doubts that the higher virtues are really virtues at all, that they tend toward irresolvable disputes, war, and that it is the “lower sort” of virtue alone can deliver peace. While Aristotle finds human reason to be “at home in the world,” Hobbes finds it “in an alien world of matter and motion,” that it therefore it “can know for certain only what it constructs.” Aristotle considers dialectic, the rational examination of contradictory opinions, as the way to discover first principles, whereas Hobbes considers “resolution,” analysis, to be that way. Aristotle maintains that “wholes are not understandable strictly by understanding parts.” Further, “on Aristotle’s account, ‘opinions generally held’ (common speech) are necessarily the starting point for any inquiry,” Hobbes “insists that one who begins from ‘vulgar discourse’ or common speech will never reach the truth.” For Aristotle, definitions are the goals, the results of dialectical examination of common speech; for Hobbes, definitions are to be found in the axioms of the proof. Aristotelian dialectic “seeks a perspicuous understanding rather than a reductive understanding because it is not based on the idea that knowledge can only be secured by reconstructing the combinations of ideas which are added together to make a concept.” Accordingly, political science, knowledge of politics, will seldom if ever achieve the certainty Hobbes would have its practitioners strive for. Live with it. “We must…consider the possibility that the surface of things is the reality with which a truly political science must deal,” that “our access to the phenomena of the human world must necessarily be through an understanding of them which is contained in the way we think and speak about them.” It is true that Aristotle offers no “critique of language” and that Wittgenstein wrote nothing on political science. All the more reason, Danford suggests, to see whether Wittgenstein’s un-Hobbesian language-based ‘epistemology’ can supplement Aristotelian political science.

Before attempting to do that, Danford considers “the method of classical political science,” the means of inquiry into the nature of human things, especially the nature of virtue or excellence (aretē), exemplified by Plato’s Socrates in the Meno, “an encounter between a great teacher and an unteachable man.” [2] The name “Meno” derives from the Greek word for memory; if you know everything you need to know already, what need do you have for learning? When asked what virtue is, he replies with a mere list of virtues. Socrates sets up a contrast by pretending to have a poor memory, wondering how Meno’s listed virtues fit together and how they might fit into “a larger whole, which in the largest sense is our whole experience, our world.”  For this, he posits his famous theory of the Ideas or Forms. “Nothing seems further from the spirit of Wittgenstein than the Platonic doctrine of the Forms, at least on the conventional understanding of Plato.” Apparently, he contends, as his Socrates does here, “that to understand something like human excellence is to isolate and contemplate the essence underlying all particular manifestations,” although, as Danford remarks, in the dialogues he wrote Plato “never has his Socrates offer a clear definition of human excellence.” It may be “that Plato was himself aware of the issue Hobbes charged the classics with ignoring, the issue of method.” 

Under the pressure of the ‘Socratic method,’ dialectic, Socrates forces Meno “to see the inadequacy of his original approach”; he “takes refuge in a certain idea of scientific method,” geometry, even as Hobbes would do, albeit far more impressively. Socrates “appears to prefer an approach which sticks as closely as possible to ordinary nontechnical meanings,” which are heterogeneous, contradictory and susceptible to dialectical treatment, which is consistent with the idea that “the whole is heterogeneous,” not reducible to Hobbesian elements and therefore not understandable by the analytic method. Dialectic proceeds not by breaking things down but by discovering coherence, connections among the heterogeneous parts, discovering what makes them a whole, despite and often because of their heterogeneity. Dialectical argument, desirous of truth (“erotic”) and friendly, contrasts with something that looks very much like it: eristic argument, spirited and antagonistic, a bit like Hobbes’s state of nature but in speech only. These two ways of arguing from opinions find favor among two different characters, persons of two different “moral outlooks.” Meno sees no distinction between the noble, the spirited-antagonistic, and the good. Plato’s dialogue illustrates that character and philosophic inquiry are related: “what one thinks excellence or virtue is depends to a great extent on what one’s conception of knowledge is” and what one’s conception of knowledge is, along with how one attempts to inquire after it, depends to great extent on what one’s character is. “We are compelled to wonder whether Meno’s preoccupation with wealth, honor, and power as the goals does not somehow go along with what he will directly reveal to be his deeper conception of knowledge, which is that it does not exist,” with “a radical skepticism.” Similarly, Hobbes (following Machiavelli) “argues that since men cannot agree on any goals except avoiding the evil of violent death, all men seek power (in the form of wealth, or honor, because power allows them to pursue any good”; “skepticism about the goals most men claim to believe in…seems to be the natural accompaniment to both an unrestrained selfishness and a cynicism about our ability ever to know anything beyond the ‘truths’ which are ‘operational’ (what is true is what works).”

Socrates’ character leads him in a different direction. Originally, Meno had objected, eristically, to Socrates’ definition of human excellence because it used undefined terms. He demanded a scientific-geometric definition. The problem is that “there is no starting place for such an inquiry which will not be open to the objection of undefined terms.” Socrates thus prefers not to begin with a clear definition but “to proceed somewhat tentatively, ascending by means of connections from ignorance to a more comprehensive understanding.” His theory of latent knowledge, of anamnesis, which he claims to prove by his comic dialogue with the slave boy, who is supposed to have known geometry all along, ends in pointing to an irrational number, a number that is alogoi or unsayable. That is, the apparent certainty of geometric thought can lead to a certain uncertainty. This conversation is “an analog of the problem of defining excellence; in that case too, perhaps, no clear ‘answer ‘ is to be found, but something like an answer can be pointed to.”

Anamnesis or “recollection,” a “method of philosophizing about the human things,” requires questioning, repeated questioning, “many times” and in “many ways” about “the thing under investigation.” Danford remembers Wittgenstein’s claim that philosophic problems “are solved, not by giving new information, but by arranging what we have always known.” Like the irrational number, virtue or excellence is something we may not be able to define but nonetheless “feel we ‘somehow’ know.” “Wittgenstein suggests that knowledge is, in a way, contained in our language.” Plato’s Socrates begins with opinions, contradictory definitions of words, subjects them to dialectic and thereby eliminating the false opinions, the ones that cannot withstand logical scrutiny. “In some sense knowledge emerges in the process of inquiry and is revealed only to the active participant in the dialogue.” Meno is unteachable because he doesn’t really want to participate; he wants to be told, definitively, what virtue is. He is intellectually lazy. He doesn’t want to put things together, “to discover the whole by discovering how things fit together or by finding the place of each thing in the whole.” “The grammar of our language is the Wittgensteinian parallel to Socrates’ understanding of the relationship among the human phenomena.”

Virtue cannot be taught in any straightforward way. If it could be, Pericles could have taught it to his sons, as he did horseback riding. There are no teachers of virtue, and even the sophists, whom Meno admires, disagree among themselves about its teachability. How, then, is virtue related to knowledge? Scientific definitions in this realm “are open to a decisive objection,” namely, that “they distort the phenomena we seek to know about.” “Socrates’ method, to the extent to which it may be called scientific, is more like the sort of argument ‘by hypothesis.'” “We are not wholly ignorant” of the nature of virtue; “the dialogue has partly uncovered the outlines of human excellence, its eidos, or shape.” It may be seen in the ordinary man, the average citizen, while also in “the excellence of the leader, or best human being.” This latter form of excellence, at its apex, finds its embodiment in the philosopher, who “somehow combines wisdom and justice on an entirely new basis” than that of the citizen’s decent opinions, “a basis connected with the erotic, but noncompetitive,” non-eristic, “social character of the philosophic life rather than with the noble ambition of the life a statesman,” who embodies citizen virtue so long as virtue remains on the level of citizenship, within the polis. These “two poles of aretē are not simply different; they cannot be separated.” Rather, “each informs the other, and together they constitute the thing we call excellence; that grammar of this concept points in two partially contradictory directions is a result not of our failure to analyze it far enough, but of the nature of human language and human life simply.” Wittgenstein wants to understand “the grammar of a thing,” and this resembles “what Plato means by giving an account of a thing,” to “reveal the place of something in the whole, or to see ‘what kind of a thing anything is.'” Hobbes is right that this knowledge is uncertain. But when it comes to political things, it may be the best we can do.

Danford begins the conclusion to his book by asking himself, quite reasonably, whether these similarities between Plato, Aristotle, and Wittgenstein really amount to much. He begins with Plato and Aristotle, who, quite famously, do not agree with one another on a lot of things. For starters, Aristotle has more respect for “the natural appearance of phenomena” than Plato is, looking for “the fullest possible articulation of [each phenomenon] as we ordinarily understand it, “more inclined to leave complexity where complexity appears, and less inclined to pursue apparent contradictions.” This may be example of Aristotle’s prudence, his ‘politic’ philosophy: “He allows the simply good man to stand on his own ground without reasons.” The two classical philosophers nonetheless agree that certainty is “unnecessary, not to say impossible, in political science inquiry.” Like Hobbes, they eschew eristics but unlike Hobbes they distinguish it from genuine philosophic dialectic, which can lead not to war but to concurrence, albeit tentative. The tentativeness, the zetetic character, of classical philosophy reflects its erotic character. Hobbes finds the only justification of philosophy in its utility, which requires certainty, whereas the classics “understand that men may pursue the inquiry for its own sake,” erotically not thumotically. A philosopher might employ eristics in defense of philosophy—knowing, as Socrates knows, that he may thereby sacrifice his life for the sake of philosophy’s life. But he prefers friendly dialectic.

Danford has described the affinities between Plato and Wittgenstein, so he now turns to their disagreements. When it comes to language, “Wittgenstein is more tolerant of ordinary usage than Plato,” who exhibits “a certain impatience with the common opinions about meanings which he,” or rather his Socrates, “elicits from interlocutors at the beginning of a dialogue.” Both philosophers seek to draw out “contradictory implications” in ordinary speech, but Plato inclines more to remedy these defects, or perhaps to clarify our way of speaking, whereas Wittgenstein thinks that “language is ‘in order as it is.'” Once contradictions are uncovered, Wittgenstein has little more to do. He is not “just interested in language, or in words” because language “comprises also the circumstances of their use, the world in which the words appear, as it were.” This suggests that Wittgenstein might be quite interested in political philosophy insofar as it identifies regimes as substantial parts of those circumstances, as seen in Aristotle and, among moderns, Montesquieu and Tocqueville. Plato’s Socrates, however, wants to look not only at regimes but to look for the best regime, the regime according to nature, beyond conventions. For Plato, “politics and political orders [regimes] demand the attention of philosophy if philosophy is to survive,” even if philosophy cannot really be useful, as Hobbes wants it to be. “The philosophy of classical thinkers was public-spirited out of necessity.” For Wittgenstein, living in modern England, and for many American philosophy professors, the danger to philosophy seemed to have “disappeared”; “the private side of philosophy has emerged as the most important.” A moderate Hobbesianism, the Hobbesianism of John Locke, established its regime tolerably well. The regime conflicts that began elsewhere but at the same time—Lenin’s regime, Hitler’s regime—and the modern project of the conquest of nature itself have put this confidence into question. Today, ‘Lockean liberalism’ continues to attract formidable enemies, foreign and domestic.

For Wittgenstein, “there may not exist any natural horizon to which we can ascend by means of philosophy.” It’s caves, all the way down. At best, “philosophic inquiry can be concerned only with coming to understand better one’s own linguistic cave; and thus political philosophy, which is the name for the enterprise of comparison, is no longer a possibility.” Danford doesn’t go that far, calling rather for political scientists to “moderate our habitual skepticism about knowledge not secured by scientific method.” What Wittgenstein provides is warrant “to question what has to many of us seemed unquestionable, namely, that the only knowledge one should be willing to stand behind is scientific knowledge in the strict sense” and to avoid the reduction of political motives to safety, income, deference, the will to power, or some other apparently but not really all-explanatory theme. Sweeping generalizations won’t do. “While we do not have sufficient grounds to reject the side taken” in the controversy between the ancients and the moderns, Wittgenstein does give us “cause to reconsider the entire controversy.” 

 

Notes

1. The resemblance of the political science of Harold Lasswell, once of the most influential members of the American Political Science Association in the twentieth century, to the political science of Hobbes, has been carefully observed and described by Robert H. Horwitz: “Scientific Propaganda: Harold D. Lasswell.” In Herbert J. Storing, ed.: Essays on the Scientific Study of Politics. (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1962.
2. See “Teaching Virtue” on this website, under the category, “Philosophers.”