The Democratic State

Singular persons are the foci of action, mental and moral, as well as overt. They are subject to all kinds of social influences which determine what they can think of, plan and choose. The conflicting streams of social influence come to a single and conclusive issue only in personal consciousness and deed. When a public is generated, the same law holds. It arrives at decisions, makes terms and executes resolves only through the medium of individuals. They are officers; they represent a Public, but the Public acts only through them. We say in a country like our own that legislators and executives are elected by the public. The phrase might appear to indicate that the Public acts. But, after all, individual men and women exercise the franchise; the public is here a collective name for a multitude of persons each voting as an anonymous unit. As a citizen-voter each one of these persons is, however, an officer of the public. He expresses his will as a representative of the public interest as much so as does a senator or sheriff. His vote may express his hope to profit in private purse by the election of some man or the ratification of some proposed law. He may fail, in other words, in effort to represent the interest entrusted to him. But in this respect he does not differ from those explicitly designated public officials who have also been known to betray the interest committed to them instead of faithfully representing it.

Individuals are the centers of action, both in thought and moral judgment and in outward behavior. They are subject to all kinds of social influences that determine what they can think about, plan, and choose. Conflicting social influences reach a single, definite outcome only in an individual’s awareness and actions. When a public forms, the same principle applies. A public reaches decisions, makes agreements, and carries out decisions only through individuals. These individuals are officials who represent a Public, but the Public acts only through them. In a country like ours, we say that the public elects legislators and executives. This wording might suggest that the Public acts. But individual men and women are the ones who vote. Here, the public is a collective name for many people, each voting as an anonymous individual. As a citizen and voter, however, each person serves as an official of the public. Each voter expresses their will as a representative of the public interest, just as a senator or sheriff does. A voter’s vote may express a hope of personal financial gain from electing someone or approving a proposed law. In other words, the voter may fail in the effort to represent the interest entrusted to them. But in this respect, voters are no different from those formally named public officials. Public officials, too, have been known to betray the interest entrusted to them instead of faithfully representing it.

In other words, every officer of the public, whether he represents it as a voter or as a stated official, has a dual capacity. From this fact the most serious problem of government arises. We commonly speak of some governments as representative in contrast with others which are not. By our hypothesis all governments are representative in that they purport to stand for the interests which a public has in the behavior of individuals and groups. There is, however, no contradiction here. Those concerned in government are still human beings. They retain their share of the ordinary traits of human nature. They still have private interests to serve and interests of special groups, those of the family, clique or class to which they belong. Rarely can a person sink himself in his political function; the best which most men attain to is the domination by the public weal of their other desires. What is meant by “representative” government is that the public is definitely organized with the intent to secure this dominance. The dual capacity of every officer of the public leads to conflict in individuals between their genuinely political aims and acts and those which they possess in their non-political rôles. When the public adopts special measures to see to it that the conflict is minimized and that the representative function overrides the private one, political institutions are termed representative.

In other words, everyone acting for the public has two roles, whether as a voter or an appointed official. This dual role creates the most serious problem of government. We commonly describe some governments as representative, in contrast to others that are not. On our view, all governments are representative. All claim to represent the public’s interests in the behavior of individuals and groups. Yet there is no contradiction here. People involved in government are still human beings, with the usual traits of human nature. They still have private interests to serve, along with the interests of particular groups. These include the family, clique, or class they belong to. Rarely can people devote themselves entirely to their political role. The best most people achieve is to put the public good above their other desires. In “representative” government, the public is deliberately organized to ensure that the public good takes priority. Everyone acting for the public has two roles, and these roles create an inner conflict. Their genuinely political aims and actions conflict with their aims and actions outside politics. The public takes special steps to minimize this conflict and ensure that representing the public takes priority over private interests. When the public takes these steps, its political institutions are called representative.

It may be said that not until recently have publics been conscious that they were publics, so that it is absurd to speak of their organizing themselves to protect and secure their interests. Hence states are a recent development. The facts are, indeed, fatally against attribution of any long history to states provided we use a hard and fast conceptual definition of states. But our definition is founded on the exercise of a function, not on any inherent essence or structural nature. Hence it is more or less a verbal matter just what countries and peoples are called states. What is of importance is that the facts which significantly differentiate various forms from one another be recognized. The objection just urged points to a fact of great significance, whether the word “state” be used or not. It indicates that for long stretches of time the public rôle of rulers has been incidental to other ends for which they have used their powers. There has been a machinery of government, but it has been employed for purposes which in the strict sense are non-political, the deliberate advancement of dynastic interests. Thus we come upon the primary problem of the public: to achieve such recognition of itself as will give it weight in the selection of official representatives and in the definition of their responsibilities and rights. Consideration of this problem leads us, as we shall see, into the discussion of the democratic state.

One might argue that only recently have publics recognized themselves as publics. If so, speaking of publics organizing to protect and secure their interests is absurd. States, then, are a recent development. Indeed, the facts rule out any long history of states if we define states by a rigid concept. But our definition rests on the performance of a function, not on any essential quality or structure. So deciding which countries and peoples to call states is largely a matter of words. What matters is recognizing the facts that meaningfully distinguish different forms from one another. The objection just raised points to a very important fact, whether we use the word “state” or not. For long periods, rulers’ public role has been secondary to other purposes for which they have used their powers. Government machinery has existed, but rulers have used it for purposes that are not, strictly speaking, political. They have deliberately used it to advance dynastic interests. We thus reach the public’s central problem: recognizing itself enough to carry weight in choosing official representatives and defining their responsibilities and rights. As we shall see, considering this problem leads us to a discussion of the democratic state.

Taking history as a whole, the selection of rulers and equipment of them with powers has been a matter of political accident. Persons have been selected as judges, executives and administrators for reasons independent of capacity to serve public interests. Some of the Greek states of antiquity and the examination system of China stand out for the very reason that they are exceptions to this statement. History shows that, in the main, persons have ruled because of some prerogative and conspicuous place which was independent of their definitively public rôle. If we introduce the idea of the public at all, we are bound to say that it was assumed without question that certain persons were fit to be rulers because of traits independent of political considerations. Thus in many societies the male elders exercised such rule as obtained in virtue of the mere fact that they were old men. Gerontocracy is a familiar and widespread fact. Doubtless there was a presumption that age was a sign of knowledge of group traditions and of matured experience, but it can hardly be said that this presumption was consciously the influential factor in giving old men a monopoly of rule. Rather they had it ipso facto, because they had it. A principle of inertia, of least resistance and least action, operated. Those who were already conspicuous in some respect, were it only for long gray beards, had political powers conferred upon them.

Throughout history as a whole, choosing rulers and granting them powers has been a matter of political accident. People have been chosen as judges, executives, and administrators for reasons unrelated to their ability to serve public interests. Some ancient Greek states and China’s examination system stand out precisely because they are exceptions to this pattern. History shows that people have mostly ruled because of some special privilege or prominent position unrelated to their specifically public role. If we bring the idea of the public into this at all, we must reach a particular conclusion. People simply assumed that certain individuals were fit to rule because of traits unrelated to political considerations. Thus, in many societies, male elders exercised whatever rule existed simply because they were old men. Gerontocracy, or rule by the elderly, is familiar and widespread. Doubtless people presumed that age indicated knowledge of group traditions and mature experience. But we can hardly say that this presumption consciously influenced the decision to give old men exclusive control of government. Rather, old men held power by that very fact, because they held power. Inertia, the tendency to take the path of least resistance and least effort, was at work. Those already prominent in some way were given political powers, even if their only distinction was a long gray beard.

Success in military achievement is an irrelevant factor which has controlled the selection of men to rule. Whether or no “camps are the true mothers of cities,” whether or no Herbert Spencer was right in declaring that government originated in chieftainship for war purposes, there is no doubt that, in most communities, the ability of a man to win battles has seemed to mark him out as a predestined manager of the civil affairs of a community. There is no need to argue that the two positions demand different gifts, and that achievement in one is no proof of fitness for the other. The fact remains. Nor do we have to look at ancient states for evidence of its effective operation. States nominally democratic show the same tendency to assume that a winning general has some quasi-divine appointment to political office. Reason would teach that oftentimes even the politicians who are most successful in instigating the willingness of the civilian population to support a war are by that very fact incapacitated for the offices of making a just and enduring peace. But the treaty of Versailles is there to show how difficult it is to make a shift of personnel even when conditions radically alter so that there is need for men of a changed outlook and interests. To those who have, it shall be given. It is human nature to think along the easiest lines, and this induces men when they want conspicuous leaders in the civil function to fasten upon those who are already conspicuous, no matter what the reason.

Military success has determined who gets chosen to rule, even though it is irrelevant to governing. Perhaps “camps are the true mothers of cities,” or perhaps they are not. Herbert Spencer may or may not have been right that government began with chiefs chosen to lead in war. But in most communities, a man’s ability to win battles has undoubtedly seemed to mark him as destined for civil leadership. There is no need to argue that military and civil leadership require different abilities. Success in one does not prove fitness for the other. Yet military success still determines who gets chosen. Nor must we look to ancient states for evidence of this practice. Even supposedly democratic states tend to assume that a victorious general has some almost divine appointment to political office. Reason would suggest that politicians who are most successful at rallying civilian support for war are often, for that very reason, unfit to make a just and lasting peace. But the treaty of Versailles shows how difficult it is to replace leaders, even when conditions change radically. Such changes may call for people with different outlooks and interests. To those who have, more will be given. Human nature favors the easiest path of thought. So when people want prominent civil leaders, they turn to those who are already prominent, whatever the reason.

Aside from old men and warriors, medicine men and priests have had a ready-made, predestined vocation to rule. Where the community welfare is precarious and dependent upon the favor of supernatural beings, those skilled in the arts by which the wrath and jealousy of the gods are averted and their favor procured, have the marks of superior capacity to administer states. Success in living to an old age, in battle and in occult arts, have, however, been most signalized in the initiation of political régimes. What has counted most in the long run is the dynastic factor. Beati possidentes. The family from which a ruler has been taken occupies in virtue of that fact a conspicuous position and superior power. Preëminence in status is readily taken for excellence. Divine favor ex officio attends a family in which rule has been exercised for enough generations so that the memory of original exploits has grown dim or become legendary. The emoluments, pomp and power which go with rule are not thought to need justification. They not only embellish and dignify it, but are regarded as symbols of intrinsic worthiness to possess it. Custom consolidates what accident may have originated; established power has a way of legitimizing itself. Alliances with other potent families within and without the country, possession of large landed estates, a retinue of courtiers and access to revenues of the state, with a multitude of other things irrelevant to the public interest, establish a dynastic position at the same time that they divert the genuine political function to private ends.

Besides old men and warriors, medicine men and priests have had a ready-made role as rulers, seemingly destined for them. A community’s welfare may be uncertain and depend on the favor of supernatural beings. In such communities, those skilled at averting the gods’ anger and jealousy and gaining their favor seem especially fit to govern. Yet success in reaching old age, in battle, and in occult arts has mattered most in the beginnings of political systems. Over time, the dynastic factor has mattered most. Blessed are those who possess. The family from which a ruler comes gains prominence and greater power simply because of that connection. High status is easily mistaken for excellence. A ruling family is assumed to enjoy divine favor by virtue of its position once its rule spans enough generations. By then, memories of the family’s original achievements have faded or become legends. The financial rewards, ceremony, and power that come with rule are not thought to need justification. These benefits not only add splendor and dignity to rule. They are also seen as signs that rulers are inherently worthy of their position. Custom strengthens what chance may have started. Established power has a way of making itself seem legitimate. Alliances with other powerful families, both at home and abroad, help secure a dynasty’s position. So do large landed estates, a following of courtiers, and access to state revenues. These advantages, along with many others unrelated to the public interest, strengthen dynasties while turning government toward private ends.

An additional complication is introduced because the glory, wealth and power of rulers constitutes in itself an invitation to seize and exploit office. The causes which operate to induce men to strive for any shining object operate with increased appeal in the case of governmental power. The centralization and scope of functions which are needed in order to serve the interests of the public become, in other words, seductions to draw state officials into subserving private ends. All history shows how difficult it is for human beings to bear effectually in mind the objects for the nominal sake of which they are clothed with power and pomp; it shows the ease with which they employ their panoply to advance private and class interests. Were actual dishonesty the only, or even chief, foe, the problem would be much simpler. The ease of routine, the difficulty of ascertaining public needs, the intensity of the glare which attends the seat of the mighty, desire for immediate and visible results, play the larger part. One often hears it said by socialists justly impatient with the present economic régime that “industry should be taken out of private hands.” One recognizes what they intend: that it should cease to be regulated by desire for private profit and should function for the benefit of producers and consumers, instead of being sidetracked to the advantage of financiers and stockholders. But one wonders whether those who so readily utter this saying have asked themselves into whose hands industry is to pass? Into those of the public? But, alas, the public has no hands except those of individual human beings. The essential problem is that of transforming the action of such hands so that it will be animated by regard for social ends. There is no magic by which this result can be accomplished. The same causes which have led men to utilize concentrated political power to serve private purposes will continue to act to induce men to employ concentrated economic power in behalf of non-public aims. This fact does not imply the problem is insoluble. But it indicates where the problem resides, whatever guise it assumes. Since officers of the public have a dual make-up and capacity, what conditions and what technique are necessary in order that insight, loyalty and energy may be enlisted on the side of the public and political rôle?

Another complication arises because rulers’ glory, wealth, and power are themselves an invitation to seize and exploit public office. The motives that draw people toward any glittering prize become even stronger when the prize is government power. In other words, serving the public requires centralized power and a wide range of government functions. But these same features tempt public officials to serve private interests. All history shows how hard people find it to remember the purposes their power and splendor supposedly serve. History also shows how easily people use the trappings of office to advance private and class interests. If actual dishonesty were the only enemy, or even the chief one, the problem would be much simpler. Other factors play a larger part: the comfort of routine, the difficulty of identifying public needs, the intense spotlight on those in power, and the desire for immediate, visible results. One often hears socialists, justly impatient with the present economic system, say that “industry should be taken out of private hands.” Their meaning is clear: industry should no longer be governed by the desire for private profit. Industry should benefit producers and consumers instead of being diverted to serve financiers and stockholders. But have those who so readily repeat this saying asked themselves whose hands industry will pass into? The public’s hands? But, alas, the public has no hands except those of individual people. The essential problem is to change how those hands act so that concern for social goals guides their actions. No magic can bring about this change. The same forces that have led people to use concentrated political power for private purposes will continue to operate. These forces will encourage people to use concentrated economic power for goals other than the public good. This fact does not mean the problem cannot be solved. But the fact shows where the problem lies, whatever form the problem takes. Public officials have a dual character and capacity, as private individuals and as public servants. Given this dual role, what conditions and methods are needed to direct their insight, loyalty, and energy toward their public and political responsibilities?

These commonplace considerations have been adduced as a background for discussion of the problems and prospects of democratic government. Democracy is a word of many meanings. Some of them are of such a broad social and moral import as to be irrelevant to our immediate theme. But one of the meanings is distinctly political, for it denotes a mode of government, a specified practice in selecting officials and regulating their conduct as officials. This is not the most inspiring of the different meanings of democracy; it is comparatively special in character. But it contains about all that is relevant to political democracy. Now the theories and practices regarding the selection and behavior of public officials which constitute political democracy have been worked out against the historical background just alluded to. They represent an effort in the first place to counteract the forces that have so largely determined the possession of rule by accidental and irrelevant factors, and in the second place an effort to counteract the tendency to employ political power to serve private instead of public ends. To discuss democratic government at large apart from its historic background is to miss its point and to throw away all means for an intelligent criticism of it. In taking the distinctively historical point of view we do not derogate from the important and even superior claims of democracy as an ethical and social ideal. We limit the topic for discussion in such a way as to avoid “the great bad,” the mixing of things which need to be kept distinct.

These familiar points provide background for discussing the problems and prospects of democratic government. Democracy is a word with many meanings. Some have such broad social and moral significance that they fall outside our immediate subject. But one meaning is specifically political. Democracy, in this sense, means a form of government with defined procedures for choosing officials and regulating their official conduct. This is not the most inspiring meaning of democracy. Its scope is relatively narrow. But it includes about all that matters to political democracy. The theories and practices that make up political democracy developed against the historical background just described. These theories and practices concern how public officials are chosen and how they behave. They represent, first, an effort to resist forces that have largely determined who rules through chance and irrelevant factors. Second, they represent an effort to resist the tendency to use political power for private rather than public purposes. Discussing democratic government in general without its historical background misses the point of democratic government. It also discards all the tools needed to assess democratic government intelligently. By taking a specifically historical approach, we do not discount democracy’s important and even superior claims as an ethical and social ideal. We limit the discussion to avoid “the great bad,” mixing things that need to be kept separate.

Viewed as a historical tendency exhibited in a chain of movements which have affected the forms of government over almost the entire globe during the last century and a half, democracy is a complex affair. There is a current legend to the effect that the movement originated in a single clear-cut idea, and has proceeded by a single unbroken impetus to unfold itself to a predestined end, whether triumphantly glorious or fatally catastrophic. The myth is perhaps rarely held in so simple and unmixed a form. But something approaching it is found whenever men either praise or damn democratic government absolutely, that is, without comparing it with alternative polities. Even the least accidental, the most deliberately planned, political forms do not embody some absolute and unquestioned good. They represent a choice, amid a complex of contending forces, of that particular possibility which appears to promise the most good with the least attendant evil.

Democracy is complex when viewed as a historical trend expressed through a series of movements. These movements have changed forms of government across almost the entire globe over the past century and a half. A popular myth says the movement began with one clearly defined idea. According to this myth, a single, continuous driving force has carried democracy toward a predetermined end, either glorious triumph or fatal catastrophe. Perhaps the myth is rarely accepted in such a simple, pure form. But something like the myth appears whenever people praise or condemn democratic government unconditionally, without comparing it with other political systems. Even the least accidental, most carefully planned forms of government do not embody any absolute, unquestionable good. Instead, they reflect a choice among possibilities shaped by complex, competing forces. The chosen possibility is the one that seems to promise the most good with the least accompanying harm.

Such a statement, moreover, immensely oversimplifies. Political forms do not originate in a once for all way. The greatest change, once it is accomplished, is simply the outcome of a vast series of adaptations and responsive accommodations, each to its own particular situation. Looking back, it is possible to make out a trend of more or less steady change in a single direction. But it is, we repeat, mere mythology to attribute such unity of result as exists (which is always easy to exaggerate) to single force or principle. Political democracy has emerged as a kind of net consequence of a vast multitude of responsive adjustments to a vast number of situations, no two of which were alike, but which tended to converge to a common outcome. The democratic convergence, moreover, was not the result of distinctively political forces and agencies. Much less is democracy the product of democracy, of some inherent nisus, or immanent idea. The temperate generalization to the effect that the unity of the democratic movement is found in effort to remedy evils experienced in consequence of prior political institutions realizes that it proceeded step by step, and that each step was taken without foreknowledge of any ultimate result, and, for the most part, under the immediate influence of a number of differing impulses and slogans.

Such a statement also greatly oversimplifies matters. Political systems do not take shape once and for all. Even the greatest change, once completed, is simply the result of countless adjustments, each responding to a particular situation. Looking back, we can see a trend of more or less steady change in one direction. But, we repeat, attributing whatever unity the result has to a single force or principle is pure mythology. That unity is always easy to exaggerate. Political democracy emerged as the overall result of countless adjustments to countless situations. No two situations were alike, but the adjustments tended toward a common outcome. Moreover, this movement toward democracy did not result from specifically political forces and organizations. Still less is democracy the product of democracy, of some built-in drive or idea unfolding from within. A more measured generalization finds unity in the democratic movement's efforts to remedy harms caused by earlier political institutions. This view recognizes that the movement advanced step by step. Each step was taken without knowing the ultimate result. And most steps were taken under the immediate influence of several different impulses and slogans.

It is even more important to realize that the conditions out of which the efforts at remedy grew and which it made possible for them to succeed were primarily non-political in nature. For the evils were of long standing, and any account of the movement must raise two questions: Why were efforts at improvement not made earlier, and, when they were made, why did they take just the form which they did take? The answers to both questions will be found in distinctive religious, scientific and economic changes which finally took effect in the political field, being themselves primarily non-political and innocent of democratic intent. Large questions and far-ranging ideas and ideals arose during the course of the movement. But theories of the nature of the individual and his rights, of freedom and authority, progress and order, liberty and law, of the common good and a general will, of democracy itself, did not produce the movement. They reflected it in thought; after they emerged, they entered into subsequent strivings and had practical effect.

Even more importantly, we must recognize that the conditions behind the efforts at reform were mainly nonpolitical. Those same conditions also made the reforms possible. For the problems had existed for a long time, and any account of the movement must ask two questions. Why had efforts to improve things not come sooner? And when those efforts came, why did they take the particular form they did? The answers to both questions lie in specific religious, scientific, and economic changes that eventually affected politics. These changes were themselves mainly nonpolitical and had no democratic purpose. Major questions, wide-ranging ideas, and ideals arose as the movement developed. But theories about individuals and their rights, freedom and authority, progress and order, and liberty and law did not produce the movement. Nor did theories about the common good, a general will, or democracy itself. These theories reflected the movement in thought. Once the theories emerged, however, they became part of later efforts and had practical effects.

We have insisted that the development of political democracy represents the convergence of a great number of social movements, no one of which owed either its origin or its impetus to inspiration of democratic ideals or to planning for the eventual outcome. This fact makes irrelevant both pæans and condemnations based upon conceptual interpretations of democracy, which, whether true or false, good or bad, are reflections of facts in thought, not their causal authors. In any case, the complexity of the historic events which have operated is such as to preclude any thought of rehearsing them in these pages, even if I had a knowledge and competency which are lacking. Two general and obvious considerations need, however, to be mentioned. Born in revolt against established forms of government and the state, the events which finally culminated in democratic political forms were deeply tinged by fear of government, and were actuated by a desire to reduce it to a minimum so as to limit the evil it could do.

We have emphasized that political democracy developed through the coming together of many social movements. None of these movements began or gained momentum through democratic ideals or plans for the eventual outcome. This fact makes both praise and condemnation based on abstract interpretations of democracy irrelevant. Whether true or false, good or bad, these interpretations reflect facts in thought. They do not cause those facts. In any case, the historical events involved are too complex to recount in these pages. That would remain true even if I had the knowledge and ability to do so, which I lack. Still, two broad and obvious points need to be mentioned. The events that ultimately produced democratic political systems began in revolt against established forms of government and the state. These events were deeply shaped by fear of government. They were also driven by a desire to keep government to a minimum, to limit the harm it could do.

Since established political forms were tied up with other institutions, especially ecclesiastical, and with a solid body of tradition and inherited belief, the revolt also extended to the latter. Thus it happened that the intellectual terms in which the movement expressed itself had a negative import even when they seemed to be positive. Freedom presented itself as an end in itself, though it signified in fact liberation from oppression and tradition. Since it was necessary, upon the intellectual side, to find justification for the movements of revolt, and since established authority was upon the side of institutional life, the natural recourse was appeal to some inalienable sacred authority resident in the protesting individuals. Thus “individualism” was born, a theory which endowed singular persons in isolation from any associations, except those which they deliberately formed for their own ends, with native or natural rights. The revolt against old and limiting associations was converted, intellectually, into the doctrine of independence of any and all associations.

Established political systems were tied to other institutions, especially religious ones, and to deeply rooted traditions and inherited beliefs. Because of these ties, the revolt also challenged those institutions, traditions, and beliefs. So the movement’s ideas expressed opposition even when they seemed to affirm something positive. Freedom appeared to be a goal in itself, though freedom actually meant liberation from oppression and tradition. The movements of revolt needed an intellectual justification. And because established authority supported institutional life, the natural response was to appeal to a different authority within the protesters themselves. This inner authority was held to be sacred and impossible to take away. Thus “individualism” was born. This theory gave people rights by nature, viewing each person as separate from all associations except those deliberately formed for personal purposes. The revolt against old, restrictive associations thus became, in theory, a doctrine of independence from any and all associations.

Thus the practical movement for the limitation of the powers of government became associated, as in the influential philosophy of John Locke, with the doctrine that the ground and justification of the restriction was prior non-political rights inherent in the very structure of the individual. From these tenets, it was a short step to the conclusion that the sole end of government was the protection of individuals in the rights which were theirs by nature. The American revolution was a rebellion against an established government, and it naturally borrowed and expanded these ideas as the ideological interpretation of the effort to obtain independence of the colonies. It is now easy for the imagination to conceive circumstances under which revolts against prior governmental forms would have found its theoretical formulation in an assertion of the rights of groups, of other associations than those of a political nature. There was no logic which rendered necessary the appeal to the individual as an independent and isolated being. In abstract logic, it would have sufficed to assert that some primary groupings had claims which the state could not legitimately encroach upon. In that case, the celebrated modern antithesis of the Individual and Social, and the problem of their reconciliation, would not have arisen. The problem would have taken the form of defining the relationship which non-political groups bear to political union. But, as we have already remarked, the obnoxious state was closely bound up in fact and in tradition with other associations, ecclesiastic (and through its influence with the family), and economic, such as gilds and corporations, and, by means of the church-state, even with unions for scientific inquiry and with educational institutions. The easiest way out was to go back to the naked individual, to sweep away all associations as foreign to his nature and rights save as they proceeded from his own voluntary choice, and guaranteed his own private ends.

Thus, the practical movement to limit government power became linked to a doctrine found in John Locke’s influential philosophy. According to this doctrine, limits on government rested on rights that existed before political institutions, inherent in individuals themselves. From these beliefs, it was a short step to concluding that government’s sole purpose was to protect individuals’ natural rights. The American revolution was a rebellion against an established government. So it naturally adopted and expanded these ideas to explain the colonies’ struggle for independence. Today, we can easily imagine circumstances in which rebellions against existing governments would have drawn on a different theory. Such a theory would have asserted the rights of groups and associations other than political ones. Nothing in logic required an appeal to the individual as an independent, isolated being. In purely logical terms, asserting that some basic groups had claims the state could not legitimately infringe would have sufficed. In that case, the famous modern opposition between the Individual and Social, and the problem of reconciling them, would not have arisen. Instead, the problem would have been to define how non-political groups relate to political union. But, as we have already noted, the objectionable state was closely tied to other associations, both in practice and tradition. These included religious associations and, through religious influence, the family. They also included economic associations, such as guilds and corporations. Through the union of church and state, these ties extended even to associations for scientific inquiry and to educational institutions. The easiest escape was to return to the individual alone, stripped of all associations. All associations were to be rejected as foreign to the individual’s nature and rights, with one exception. Associations could be accepted if they arose from the individual’s own voluntary choice and guaranteed the individual’s own private aims.

Nothing better exhibits the scope of the movement than the fact that philosophic theories of knowledge made the same appeal to the self, or ego, in the form of personal consciousness identified with mind itself, that political theory made to the natural individual, as the court of ultimate resort. The schools of Locke and Descartes, however much they were opposed in other respects, agreed in this, differing only as to whether the sentient or rational nature of the individual was the fundamental thing. From philosophy the idea crept into psychology, which became an introspective and introverted account of isolated and ultimate private consciousness. Henceforth moral and political individualism could appeal to “scientific” warrant for its tenets and employ a vocabulary made current by psychology:—although in fact the psychology appealed to as its scientific foundation was its own offspring.

Nothing shows the movement’s reach better than the parallel between philosophical theories of knowledge and political theory. Philosophical theories appealed to the self, or ego, as the final authority, just as political theory appealed to the natural individual. These philosophical theories treated the self as personal consciousness and identified that consciousness with the mind itself. The schools of Locke and Descartes agreed on this point, however much they disagreed in other respects. They differed only over whether the individual’s capacity for sensation or reason was fundamental. From philosophy, the idea crept into psychology. Psychology became an inward-looking account of private consciousness, treated as isolated and as the ultimate foundation. From then on, moral and political individualism could claim “scientific” support for its principles and use psychology’s now-familiar vocabulary. Yet the psychology invoked as individualism’s scientific foundation was actually individualism’s own offspring.

The “individualistic” movement finds a classic expression in the great documents of the French Revolution, which at one stroke did away with all forms of association, leaving, in theory, the bare individual face to face with the state. It would hardly have reached this point, however, if it had not been for a second factor, which must be noted. A new scientific movement had been made possible by the invention and use of new mechanical appliances—the lens is typical—which focused attention upon tools like the lever and pendulum, which, although they had long been in use, had not formed points of departure for scientific theory. This new development in inquiry brought, as Bacon foretold, great economic changes in its wake. It more than paid its debt to tools by leading to the invention of machines. The use of machinery in production and commerce was followed by the creation of new powerful social conditions, personal opportunities and wants. Their adequate manifestation was limited by established political and legal practices. The legal regulations so affected every phase of life which was interested in taking advantage of the new economic agencies as to hamper and oppress the free play of manufacture and exchange. The established custom of states, expressed intellectually in the theory of mercantilism against which Adam Smith wrote his account of “The (True) Wealth of Nations,” prevented the expansion of trade between nations, a restriction which reacted to limit domestic industry. Internally, there was a network of restrictions inherited from feudalism. The prices of labor and staples were not framed in the market by higgling but were set by justices of the peace. The development of industry was hampered by laws regulating choice of a calling, apprenticeship, migration of workers from place to place,—and so on.

The “individualistic” movement found its classic expression in the great documents of the French Revolution. These documents swept away all forms of association at once, leaving, in theory, the individual alone before the state. Yet the movement would hardly have gone so far without a second factor that must be noted. The invention and use of new mechanical devices, such as the lens, had made a new scientific movement possible. This movement focused attention on tools like the lever and pendulum. Although these tools had long been used, they had not served as starting points for scientific theory. As Bacon predicted, this new approach to inquiry brought great economic changes. Science more than repaid its debt to tools by leading to the invention of machines. The use of machinery in production and commerce created powerful new social conditions, personal opportunities, and needs. Established political and legal practices limited how fully these developments could take shape. Legal regulations affected every part of life concerned with taking advantage of the new economic means. These regulations restricted and oppressed the free operation of manufacturing and trade. Established state practices found their theoretical expression in mercantilism. Adam Smith wrote his account of “The (True) Wealth of Nations” against this theory. These state practices prevented trade between nations from expanding, and that restriction in turn limited domestic industry. Within each country, a network of restrictions survived from feudalism. Wages and the prices of staple goods were not settled through bargaining in the market. Instead, justices of the peace set them. Laws regulating the choice of an occupation, apprenticeships, and workers’ movement from place to place also held back industrial development. And there were other such restrictions.

Thus fear of government and desire to limit its operations, because they were hostile to the development of the new agencies of production and distribution of services and commodities, received powerful reënforcement. The economic movement was perhaps the more influential because it operated, not in the name of the individual and his inherent rights, but in the name of Nature. Economic “laws,” that of labor springing from natural wants and leading to the creation of wealth, of present abstinence in behalf of future enjoyment leading to creation of capital effective in piling up still more wealth, the free play of competitive exchange, designated the law of supply and demand, were “natural” laws. They were set in opposition to political laws as artificial, man-made affairs. The inherited tradition which remained least questioned was a conception of Nature which made Nature something to conjure with. The older metaphysical conception of Natural Law was, however, changed into an economic conception; laws of nature, implanted in human nature, regulated the production and exchange of goods and services, and in such a way that when they were kept free from artificial, that is political, meddling, they resulted in the maximum possible social prosperity and progress. Popular opinion is little troubled by questions of logical consistency. The economic theory of laissez-faire, based upon belief in beneficent natural laws which brought about harmony of personal profit and social benefit, was readily fused with the doctrine of natural rights. They both had the same practical import, and what is logic between friends? Thus the protest of the utilitarian school, which sponsored the economic theory of natural law in economics, against natural right theories had no effect in preventing the popular amalgam of the two sides.

Fear of government and the desire to limit its activities thus gained powerful support. Government activities were hostile to the development of new ways to produce and distribute goods and services. The economic movement was perhaps more influential because it appealed not to individuals and their inherent rights, but to Nature. Economic “laws” were treated as “natural” laws. These included labor arising from natural wants and creating wealth. They also included giving up present enjoyment for future enjoyment, thereby creating capital that could build still more wealth. Another was freely competitive exchange, called the law of supply and demand. These laws were contrasted with political laws, dismissed as artificial, human-made arrangements. Among inherited traditions, one of the least questioned was a view of Nature that gave appeals to Nature special power. The older metaphysical idea of Natural Law, however, became an economic idea. Laws of nature, rooted in human nature, governed the production and exchange of goods and services. When kept free from artificial interference, meaning political interference, these laws produced the greatest possible social prosperity and progress. Popular opinion worries little about logical consistency. The economic theory of laissez-faire rested on belief in beneficial natural laws that harmonized personal profit with social benefit. This theory was readily combined with the doctrine of natural rights. Both had the same practical meaning, and what is logic between friends? The utilitarian school supported the economic theory of natural law but protested against theories of natural rights. Yet those protests did nothing to prevent the public from combining the two views.

The utilitarian economic theory was such an important factor in developing the theory, as distinct from the practice, of democratic government that it is worth while to expound it in outline. Each person naturally seeks the betterment of his own lot. This can be attained only by industry. Each person is naturally the best judge of his own interests, and, if left free from the influence of artificially imposed restrictions, will express his judgment in his choice of work and exchange of services and goods. Thus, barring accident, he will contribute to his own happiness in the measure of his energy in work, his shrewdness in exchange and his self-denying thrift. Wealth and security are the natural rewards of economic virtues. At the same time, the industry, commercial zeal, and ability of individuals contribute to the social good. Under the invisible hand of a beneficent providence which has framed natural laws, work, capital and trade operate harmoniously to the advantage and advance of men collectively and individually. The foe to be dreaded is interference of government. Political regulation is needed only because individuals accidentally and purposely—since the possession of property by the industrious and able is a temptation to the idle and shiftless—encroach upon one another’s activities and properties. This encroachment is the essence of injustice, and the function of government is to secure justice—which signifies chiefly the protection of property and of the contracts which attend commercial exchange. Without the existence of the state men might appropriate one another’s property. This appropriation is not only unfair to the laborious individual, but by making property insecure discourages the forthputting of energy at all and thus weakens or destroys the spring of social progress. On the other hand, this doctrine of the function of the state operates automatically as a limit imposed to governmental activities. The state is itself just only when it acts to secure justice—in the sense just defined.

Utilitarian economic theory played an important role in developing the theory of democratic government, as distinct from its practice. For that reason, it is worth outlining. Each person naturally seeks to improve their own situation. This improvement can come only through hard work. Each person is naturally the best judge of their own interests. If free from artificially imposed restrictions, each person will express that judgment through their choice of work and exchange of services and goods. Thus, barring accidents, each person will contribute to their own happiness according to their hard work, skill in trading, and self-denying thrift. Wealth and security are the natural rewards of economic virtues. At the same time, individuals’ hard work, enthusiasm for commerce, and ability contribute to the common good. A benevolent providence has established natural laws. Under its invisible hand, labor, capital, and trade work harmoniously for the benefit and advancement of people collectively and individually. The enemy to fear is government interference. Political regulation is needed only because individuals interfere with one another’s activities and property, both accidentally and deliberately. The property of hardworking and capable people tempts the idle and lazy. Such interference is the essence of injustice, and the government’s function is to secure justice. Justice chiefly means protecting property and the contracts involved in commercial exchange. Without the state, people might take one another’s property. Taking property is not only unfair to the hardworking individual. By making property insecure, it also discourages people from making any effort at all. It thus weakens or destroys the driving force of social progress. On the other hand, this doctrine of the state’s function automatically limits government activity. The state itself acts justly only when it acts to secure justice in the sense just defined.

The political problem thus conceived is essentially a problem of discovering and instating a technique which will confine the operations of government as far as may be to its legitimate business of protecting economic interests, of which the interest a man has in the integrity of his own life and body is a part. Rulers share the ordinary cupidity to possess property with a minimum of personal effort. Left to themselves they take advantage of the power with which their official position endows them to levy arbitrarily on the wealth of others. If they protect the industry and property of private citizens against the invasions of other private citizens, it is only that they may have more resources upon which to draw for their own ends. The essential problem of government thus reduces itself to this: What arrangements will prevent rulers from advancing their own interests at the expense of the ruled? Or, in positive terms, by what political means shall the interests of the governors be identified with those of the governed?

Understood this way, the political problem is essentially one of finding and establishing a method for limiting government. The method must keep government, as far as possible, within its legitimate role of protecting economic interests. These interests include a person’s interest in protecting their own life and body. Rulers share the common greed for property gained with as little personal effort as possible. Left to themselves, rulers use the power of their office to take wealth arbitrarily from others. If rulers protect private citizens’ work and property from other private citizens, they do so for only one reason. Such protection gives rulers more resources to draw on for their own purposes. The basic problem of government therefore comes down to this: What arrangements will prevent rulers from advancing their own interests at the expense of those they rule? Or, put positively, what political means can make the interests of rulers the same as those of the people they govern?

The answer was given, notably by James Mill, in a classic formulation of the nature of political democracy. Its significant features were popular election of officials, short terms of office and frequent elections. If public officials were dependent upon citizens for official position and its rewards, their personal interests would coincide with those of people at large—at least of industrious and property-owning persons. Officials chosen by popular vote would find their election to office dependent upon presenting evidence of their zeal and skill in protecting the interests of the populace. Short terms and frequent elections would ensure their being held to regular account; the polling-booth would constitute their day of judgment. The fear of it would operate as a constant check.

The answer came notably from James Mill, in a classic account of the nature of political democracy. Its main features were election of officials by popular vote, short terms in office, and frequent elections. If public officials depended on citizens for their positions and rewards, their personal interests would match those of the public. At least, this would hold for hardworking people who owned property. Officials elected by popular vote would have to show their dedication and skill in protecting the public’s interests to win office. Short terms and frequent elections would ensure that officials were regularly held accountable. The voting booth would be their day of judgment. Fear of that judgment would keep them constantly in check.

Of course in this account I have oversimplified what was already an oversimplification. The dissertation of James Mill was written before the passage of the Reform Bill of 1832. Taken pragmatically, it was an argument for the extension of the suffrage, then largely in the hands of hereditary landowners, to manufacturers and merchants. James Mill had nothing but dread of pure democracies. He opposed the extension of the franchise to women.⁸ He was interested in the new “middle-class” forming under the influence of the application of steam to manufacture and trade. His attitude is well expressed in his conviction that even if the suffrage were extended downwards, the middle-class “which gives to science, art and legislation itself its most distinguished ornaments, and which is the chief source of all that is refined and exalted in human nature, is that portion of the community of which the influence would ultimately decide.” In spite, however, of oversimplification, and of its special historic motivation, the doctrine claimed to rest upon universal psychological truth; it affords a fair picture of the principles which were supposed to justify the movement toward democratic government. It is unnecessary to indulge in extensive criticism. The differences between the conditions postulated by the theory and those which have actually obtained with the development of democratic governments speak for themselves. The discrepancy is a sufficient criticism. This disparity itself shows, however, that what has happened sprang from no theory but was inherent in what was going on not only without respect to theories but without regard to politics: because, generally speaking, of the use of steam applied to mechanical inventions.

Of course, in this account I have oversimplified something that was already an oversimplification. James Mill wrote his essay before the Reform Bill of 1832 passed. In practical terms, his essay argued for extending voting rights to manufacturers and merchants. Those rights were then largely held by hereditary landowners. James Mill felt nothing but dread toward pure democracies. He opposed extending voting rights to women.⁸ He was interested in the new “middle-class” emerging as steam power transformed manufacturing and trade. His conviction about this class clearly expresses his attitude. Even if voting rights reached the lower classes, he believed the middle class would ultimately have the deciding influence. This class, he said, “gives science, art, and legislation itself their most distinguished figures. It is the chief source of all that is refined and elevated in human nature.” Despite its oversimplification and its particular historical purpose, Mill's doctrine claimed to rest on universal psychological truth. The doctrine fairly represents the principles that were supposed to justify the movement toward democratic government. There is no need for extensive criticism. The theory assumed conditions that differed from those that actually emerged as democratic governments developed. Those differences speak for themselves. The gap is enough of a criticism. But that gap also shows that what happened did not arise from any theory. Instead, those developments were built into changes taking place independently of both theories and politics. Broadly speaking, those changes resulted from applying steam power to mechanical inventions.

It would be a great mistake, however, to regard the idea of the isolated individual possessed of inherent rights “by nature” apart from association, and the idea of economic laws as natural, in comparison with which political laws being artificial are injurious (save when carefully subordinated), as idle and impotent. The ideas were something more than flies on the turning wheels. They did not originate the movement toward popular government, but they did profoundly influence the forms which it assumed. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that persistent older conditions, to which the theories were more faithful than to the state of affairs they professed to report, were so reënforced by the professed philosophy of the democratic state, as to exercise a great influence. The result was a skew, a deflection and distortion, in democratic forms. Putting the “individualistic” matter in a gross statement, which has to be corrected by later qualifications, we may say that “the individual,” about which the new philosophy centered itself, was in process of complete submergence in fact at the very time in which he was being elevated on high in theory. As to the alleged subordination of political affairs to natural forces and laws, we may say that actual economic conditions were thoroughly artificial, in the sense in which the theory condemned the artificial. They supplied the man-made instrumentalities by which the new governmental agencies were grasped and used to suit the desires of the new class of business men.

However, it would be a great mistake to dismiss two ideas as idle and powerless. One was that isolated individuals possess rights “by nature,” apart from their ties to others. The other was that economic laws are natural, while political laws are artificial and therefore harmful unless carefully subordinated. These ideas were more than flies on turning wheels. They did not start the movement toward popular government, but they profoundly influenced the forms that movement took. Or perhaps a more accurate explanation would focus on older conditions that persisted. The theories reflected those conditions more faithfully than the current situation they claimed to describe. The democratic state’s declared philosophy reinforced those older conditions, allowing them to exert great influence. The result was to skew, divert, and distort democratic forms. We can put the “individualistic” issue in broad terms, though later qualifications must correct this account. The new philosophy centered on “the individual.” Yet the individual was actually being completely submerged at the very moment theory was raising him on high. Then there was the claim that political affairs were subordinate to natural forces and laws. Actual economic conditions were thoroughly artificial, in the very sense the theory condemned. Those conditions provided the human-made tools for taking control of the new government agencies. Those agencies were then used to serve the desires of the new class of businessmen.

Both of these statements are formal as well as sweeping. To acquire intelligible meaning they must be developed in some detail. Graham Wallas prefixed to the first chapter of his book entitled “The Great Society” the following words of Woodrow Wilson, taken from The New Freedom: “Yesterday and ever since history began, men were related to one another as individuals.... To-day, the everyday relationships of men are largely with great impersonal concerns, with organizations, not with other individuals. Now this is nothing short of a new social age, a new age of human relationships, a new stage-setting for the drama of life.” If we accept these words as containing even a moderate degree of truth, they indicate the enormous ineptitude of the individualistic philosophy to meet the needs and direct the factors of the new age. They suggest what is meant by saying the theory of an individual possessed of desires and claims and endued with foresight and prudence and love of bettering himself was framed at just the time when the individual was counting for less in the direction of social affairs, at a time when mechanical forces and vast impersonal organizations were determining the frame of things.

Both statements are abstract and far-reaching. They need to be explained in some detail before their meaning becomes clear. Graham Wallas opened the first chapter of his book “The Great Society” with these words from Woodrow Wilson’s The New Freedom: “Until yesterday, and throughout history, people related to one another as individuals.... Today, people’s everyday relationships are largely with large, impersonal businesses and organizations, not with other individuals. This is nothing less than a new social age, a new age of human relationships. The stage for the drama of life has been reset.” If we accept these words as even moderately true, they show how profoundly inadequate individualistic philosophy is for the new age. That philosophy cannot meet the new age’s needs or guide the forces shaping it. Wilson’s words also help explain a point about when the theory of the individual took shape. This theory described individuals as having desires and claims, foresight and good judgment, and a desire to improve their circumstances. Yet it emerged just when individuals were becoming less influential in directing social affairs. Mechanical forces and vast, impersonal organizations were then determining the structure of society.

The statement that “yesterday and even since history began, men were related to one another as individuals” is not true. Men have always been associated together in living, and association in conjoint behavior has affected their relations to one another as individuals. It is enough to recall how largely human relations have been permeated by patterns derived directly and indirectly from the family; even the state was a dynastic affair. But none the less the contrast which Mr. Wilson had in mind is a fact. The earlier associations were mostly of the type well termed by Cooley⁹ “face-to-face.” Those which were important, which really counted in forming emotional and intellectual dispositions, were local and contiguous and consequently visible. Human beings, if they shared in them at all, shared directly and in a way of which they were aware in both their affections and their beliefs. The state, even when it despotically interfered, was remote, an agency alien to daily life. Otherwise it entered men’s lives through custom and common law. No matter how widespread their operation might be, it was not their breadth and inclusiveness which counted but their immediate local presence. The church was indeed both a universal and an intimate affair. But it entered into the life of most human beings not through its universality, as far as their thoughts and habits were concerned, but through an immediate ministration of rites and sacraments. The new technology applied in production and commerce resulted in a social revolution. The local communities without intent or forecast found their affairs conditioned by remote and invisible organizations. The scope of the latter’s activities was so vast and their impact upon face-to-face associations so pervasive and unremitting that it is no exaggeration to speak of “a new age of human relations.” The Great Society created by steam and electricity may be a society, but it is no community. The invasion of the community by the new and relatively impersonal and mechanical modes of combined human behavior is the outstanding fact of modern life. In these ways of aggregate activity the community, in its strict sense, is not a conscious partner, and over them it has no direct control. They were, however, the chief factors in bringing into being national and territorial states. The need of some control over them was the chief agency in making the government of these states democratic or popular in the current sense of these words.

The claim that “yesterday and even since history began, men were related to one another as individuals” is not true. People have always lived together in groups. Their shared activities have shaped their relationships as individuals. Consider how deeply patterns drawn directly and indirectly from family life have shaped human relationships. Even the state was a matter of ruling families. Nevertheless, the contrast Mr. Wilson had in mind is real. Earlier associations were mostly what Cooley⁹ aptly called “face-to-face.” The associations that mattered, that truly shaped people's feelings and thinking, were local and close at hand, and therefore visible. If people participated in these associations at all, they did so directly. They were aware of their participation through both their feelings and their beliefs. The state, even when it interfered despotically, was distant, a power outside daily life. Otherwise, the state entered people's lives through custom and common law. However widely custom and common law operated, their breadth and reach were not what mattered. What mattered was their immediate presence in local life. The church was indeed both universal and intimate. But for most people, the church's universality was not how it entered their thoughts and habits. Instead, the church entered their lives through the direct administration of rites and sacraments. New technology used in production and trade brought about a social revolution. Without planning or foreseeing the change, local communities found their affairs shaped by distant, invisible organizations. These organizations operated on a vast scale. Their effects on face-to-face associations were so widespread and constant that “a new age of human relations” is no exaggeration. The Great Society created by steam and electricity may be a society, but it is no community. The defining fact of modern life is the invasion of community by new, relatively impersonal and mechanical forms of joint activity. The community, in the strict sense, is not a conscious partner in these forms of collective activity. Nor does the community have direct control over them. These forms of activity were, however, the main forces that brought national and territorial states into being. The need for some control over these activities was the main force making these states' governments democratic or popular. Those terms are used here in their current sense.

Why, then, was a movement, which involved so much submerging of personal action in the overflowing consequences of remote and inaccessible collective actions, reflected in a philosophy of individualism? A complete answer is out of the question. Two considerations are, however, obvious and significant. The new conditions involved a release of human potentialities previously dormant. While their impact was unsettling to the community, it was liberating with respect to single persons, while its oppressive phase was hidden in the impenetrable mists of the future. Speaking with greater correctness, the oppressive phase affected primarily the elements of the community which were also depressed in the older and semi-feudal conditions. Since they did not count for much anyway, being traditionally the drawers of water and hewers of wood, having emerged only in a legal sense from serfdom, the effect of new economic conditions upon the laboring masses went largely unnoted. Day laborers were still in effect, as openly in the classic philosophy, underlying conditions of community life rather than members of it. Only gradually did the effect upon them become apparent; by that time they had attained enough power—were sufficiently important factors in the new economic régime—to obtain political emancipation, and thus figure in the forms of the democratic state. Meanwhile the liberating effect was markedly conspicuous with respect to the members of the “middle-class,” the manufacturing and mercantile class. It would be short-sighted to limit the release of powers to opportunities to procure wealth and enjoy its fruits, although the creation of material wants and ability to satisfy them are not to be lightly passed over. Initiative, inventiveness, foresight and planning were also stimulated and confirmed. This manifestation of new powers was on a sufficiently large scale to strike and absorb attention. The result was formulated as the discovery of the individual. The customary is taken for granted; it operates subconsciously. Breach of wont and use is focal; it forms “consciousness.” The necessary and persistent modes of association went unnoticed. The new ones, which were voluntarily undertaken, occupied thought exclusively. They monopolized the observed horizon. “Individualism” was a doctrine which stated what was focal in thought and purpose.

Why, then, did this movement find expression in a philosophy of individualism? The movement had submerged personal action in the far-reaching consequences of collective actions that were remote and beyond reach. A complete answer is out of the question. But two points are obvious and important. The new conditions released human abilities that had previously lain dormant. Although these conditions unsettled the community, they freed individuals, while their oppressive effects remained hidden in an unknowable future. More precisely, the oppressive effects mainly fell on groups already held down under the older, semi-feudal conditions. These groups had traditionally done the menial work and had escaped serfdom only in a legal sense. Since they counted for little anyway, the effects of new economic conditions on the working masses went largely unnoticed. Day laborers were still treated as underlying conditions of community life rather than members of the community. Classical philosophy had openly treated them this way. Only gradually did the effects on these workers become clear. By then, the workers had gained enough power to secure political rights. They had become important enough in the new economic system to gain a place in the democratic state's formal structures. Meanwhile, the liberating effects were especially clear among the “middle-class,” the manufacturers and merchants. It would be shortsighted to limit this release of abilities to opportunities to gain wealth and enjoy its benefits. Still, the creation of material wants and the ability to satisfy them should not be dismissed. Initiative, inventiveness, foresight, and planning were also encouraged and strengthened. These new abilities appeared on a scale large enough to attract and absorb attention. The result was described as the discovery of the individual. We take the familiar for granted, and it operates outside our awareness. Departures from habit and custom become the focus of attention and form “consciousness.” The necessary and enduring forms of association went unnoticed. The new forms of association, entered into voluntarily, occupied people's thoughts exclusively. These new associations filled the entire field of what people noticed. “Individualism” was a doctrine that expressed what stood at the center of thought and purpose.

The other consideration is akin. In the release of new powers singular persons were emancipated from a mass of old habits, regulations and institutions. We have already noted how the methods of production and exchange made possible by the new technology were hampered by the rules and customs of the prior régime. The latter were then felt to be intolerably restrictive and oppressive. Since they hampered the free play of initiative and commercial activity, they were artificial and enslaving. The struggle for emancipation from their influence was identified with the liberty of the individual as such; in the intensity of the struggle, associations and institutions were condemned wholesale as foes of freedom save as they were products of personal agreement and voluntary choice. That many forms of association remained practically untouched was easily overlooked, just because they were matters of course. Indeed, any attempt to touch them, notably the established form of family association and the legal institution of property, were looked upon as subversive, as license, not liberty, in the sanctified phrase. The identification of democratic forms of government with this individualism was easy. The right of suffrage represented for the mass a release of hitherto dormant capacity and also, in appearance at least, a power to shape social relations on the basis of individual volition.

The other consideration is similar. As new powers were unleashed, individuals were freed from many old habits, regulations, and institutions. We have already noted how the previous system’s rules and customs hindered new methods of production and exchange. These methods had become possible through new technology. The old rules and customs then came to seem unbearably restrictive and oppressive. Because they hindered the free exercise of initiative and commercial activity, they were seen as artificial and enslaving. The struggle to escape their influence became identified with individual liberty itself. In the heat of that struggle, associations and institutions were condemned across the board as enemies of freedom. Only associations and institutions created through personal agreement and voluntary choice were exempt from this condemnation. Many forms of association remained practically untouched. This was easily overlooked precisely because those forms of association were taken for granted. Indeed, any attempt to change them was seen as subversive. This was especially true of the established family structure and the legal institution of property. In the sanctified phrase, such attempts were called license, not liberty. It was easy to identify democratic forms of government with this individualism. For the masses, the right to vote meant the release of abilities that had previously lain dormant. Voting also seemed, at least, to give people the power to shape social relations through individual choice.

Popular franchise and majority rule afforded the imagination a picture of individuals in their untrammeled individual sovereignty making the state. To adherents and opponents alike it presented the spectacle of a pulverizing of established associations into the desires and intentions of atomic individuals. The forces, springing from combination and institutional organization which controlled below the surface the acts which formally issued from individuals, went unnoted. It is the essence of ordinary thought to grasp the external scene and hold it as reality. The familiar eulogies of the spectacle of “free men” going to the polls to determine by their personal volitions the political forms under which they should live is a specimen of this tendency to take whatever is readily seen as the full reality of a situation. In physical matters natural science has successfully challenged this attitude. In human matters it remains in almost full force.

Popular voting rights and majority rule suggested a picture of individuals creating the state through their unrestricted individual sovereignty. To supporters and opponents alike, this picture showed established associations shattered into the desires and intentions of isolated individuals. Forces arising from collective action and institutional organization went unnoticed. Yet beneath the surface, these forces controlled actions that formally came from individuals. Ordinary thinking characteristically grasps what appears on the surface and treats that appearance as reality. Consider the familiar praise of “free men” going to the polls. Through their personal choices, these voters supposedly determine the political arrangements under which they will live. Such praise exemplifies the tendency to treat what is readily visible as the whole reality of a situation. In physical matters, natural science has successfully challenged this attitude. In human matters, the attitude remains almost fully intact.

The opponents of popular government were no more prescient than its supporters, although they showed more logical sense in following the assumed individualistic premise to its conclusion: the disintegration of society. Carlyle’s savage attacks upon the notion of a society held together only by a “cash-nexus” are well known. Its inevitable terminus to him was “anarchy plus a constable.” He did not see that the new industrial régime was forging social bonds as rigid as those which were disappearing and much more extensive—whether desirable ties or not is another matter. Macaulay, the intellectualist of the Whigs, asserted that the extension of suffrage to the masses would surely result in arousing the predatory impulses of the propertyless masses who would use their new political power to despoil the middle as well as upper class. He added that while there was no longer danger that the civilized portions of humanity would be overthrown by the savage and barbarous portions, it was possible that in the bosom of civilization would be engendered the malady which would destroy it.

Opponents of popular government saw no further into the future than its supporters did. But they were more logical in following the individualistic assumption to its conclusion: the breakdown of society. Carlyle’s fierce attacks on the idea of a society held together only by a “cash-nexus” are well known. To him, the inevitable outcome was “anarchy plus a constable.” He failed to see that the new industrial system was creating social bonds as rigid as those disappearing. The new bonds were also much more extensive. Whether these ties were desirable is another matter. Macaulay, the intellectual spokesman for the Whigs, claimed that extending voting rights to the masses would certainly awaken their predatory impulses. The propertyless masses would use their new political power to plunder the middle class as well as the upper class. He added that the civilized parts of humanity were no longer in danger of being overthrown by savage and barbarous peoples. But civilization itself could give rise to the disease that would destroy it.

Incidentally we have trenched upon the other doctrine, the idea that there is something inherently “natural” and amenable to “natural law” in the working of economic forces, in contrast with the man-made artificiality of political institutions. The idea of a natural individual in his isolation possessed of full-fledged wants, of energies to be expended according to his own volition, and of a ready-made faculty of foresight and prudent calculation is as much a fiction in psychology as the doctrine of the individual in possession of antecedent political rights is one in politics. The liberalist school made much of desires, but to them desire was a conscious matter deliberately directed upon a known goal of pleasures. Desire and pleasure were both open and above-board affairs. The mind was seen as if always in the bright sunlight, having no hidden recesses, no unexplorable nooks, nothing underground. Its operations were like the moves in a fair game of chess. They are in the open; the players have nothing up their sleeves; the changes of position take place by express intent and in plain sight; they take place according to rules all of which are known in advance. Calculation and skill, or dullness and inaptitude, determine the result. Mind was “consciousness,” and the latter was a clear, transparent, self-revealing medium in which wants, efforts and purposes were exposed without distortion.

Along the way, we have touched on the other doctrine. This holds that economic forces work in ways that are inherently “natural” and governed by “natural law.” Political institutions, by contrast, are artificial human creations. It imagines a natural individual who exists in isolation, with fully developed wants and energy to use as he chooses. This individual also comes equipped with foresight and the ability to calculate prudently. This picture is as much a fiction in psychology as the doctrine of individuals possessing prior political rights is in politics. The liberalist school placed great emphasis on desires. But its thinkers saw desire as conscious and deliberately aimed at a known goal of pleasure. Desire and pleasure were both open and aboveboard. The mind was viewed as if always in bright sunlight, with no hidden recesses, no unexplorable corners, nothing underground. Its workings were like the moves in a fair game of chess. The moves are out in the open. The players have nothing up their sleeves. Positions change through deliberate moves, in plain sight, according to rules that are all known in advance. Calculation and skill, or dullness and lack of ability, determine the result. Mind was “consciousness.” And consciousness was a clear, transparent medium that revealed itself, showing wants, efforts, and purposes without distortion.

To-day it is generally admitted that conduct proceeds from conditions which are largely out of focal attention, and which can be discovered and brought to light only by inquiries more exacting than those which teach us the concealed relationships involved in gross physical phenomena. What is not so generally acknowledged is that the underlying and generative conditions of concrete behavior are social as well as organic: much more social than organic as far as the manifestation of differential wants, purposes and methods of operation is concerned. To those who appreciate this fact, it is evident that the desires, aims and standards of satisfaction which the dogma of “natural” economic processes and laws assumes are themselves socially conditioned phenomena. They are reflections into the singular human being of customs and institutions; they are not natural, that is, “native,” organic propensities. They mirror a state of civilization. Even more true, if possible, is it that the form in which work is done, industry carried on, is the outcome of accumulated culture, not an original possession of persons in their own structure. There is little that can be called industry and still less that constitutes a store of wealth until tools exist, and tools are the results of slow processes of transmission. The development of tools into machines, the characteristic of the industrial age, was made possible only by taking advantage of science socially accumulated and transmitted. The technique of employing tools and machines was equally something which had to be learned; it was no natural endowment but something acquired by observing others, by instruction and communication.

Today, people generally agree that behavior arises from conditions largely outside our conscious attention. Discovering these conditions requires more demanding research than uncovering the hidden relationships in large-scale physical events. What is less widely recognized is that the conditions underlying and producing actual behavior are social as well as biological. Social conditions matter far more than biological ones in shaping differences in wants, purposes, and ways of acting. For those who recognize this fact, one conclusion is clear. The desires, aims, and standards of satisfaction assumed by the doctrine of “natural” economic processes and laws are themselves socially shaped. These desires, aims, and standards reflect customs and institutions within each individual. They are not natural, meaning “inborn,” biological tendencies. They reflect a civilization’s state of development. Even more clearly, if possible, the way people work and carry on industry results from accumulated culture. These ways of working are not part of people’s original physical makeup. Until tools exist, little can be called industry, and even less amounts to accumulated wealth. Tools result from slow processes of passing knowledge from one generation to another. The development of tools into machines, the defining feature of the industrial age, depended entirely on accumulated, socially transmitted science. The skills needed to use tools and machines also had to be learned. These skills were not natural gifts but abilities acquired by observing others, through instruction, and through communication.

These sentences are a poor and pallid way of conveying the outstanding fact. There are organic or native needs, of course, as for food, protection and mates. There are innate structures which facilitate them in securing the external objects through which they are met. But the only kind of industry they are capable of giving rise to is a precarious livelihood obtained by gathering such edible plants and animals as chance might throw in the way: the lowest type of savagery just emerging from a brute condition. Nor, strictly speaking, could they effect even this meager result. For because of the phenomenon of helpless infancy even such a primitive régime depends upon the assistance of associated action, including that most valuable form of assistance: learning from others. What would even savage industry be without the use of fire, of weapons, of woven articles, all of which involve communication and tradition? The industrial régime which the authors of “natural” economy contemplated presupposed wants, tools, materials, purposes, techniques and abilities in a thousand ways dependent upon associated behavior. Thus in the sense in which the authors of the doctrine employed the word “artificial,” these things were intensely and cumulatively artificial. What they were really after was a changed direction of custom and institutions. The outcome of the acts of those who were engaged in forwarding the new industry and commerce was a new set of customs and institutions. The latter were as much extensive and enduring conjoint modes of life as were those which they displaced; more so in their sweep and force.

These sentences are a weak and pale way to express the central fact. There are, of course, biological or inborn needs, such as food, protection, and mates. There are also inborn bodily structures that help people obtain the things needed to meet those needs. But these needs and structures alone can produce only a precarious livelihood. People would gather whatever edible plants and animals they happened to find. This would be the lowest level of savagery, barely above an animal existence. Strictly speaking, these needs and structures could not produce even this meager result. Because human infants are helpless, even such a primitive way of life depends on people acting together. That cooperation includes the most valuable kind of help: learning from others. What would even primitive industry be without fire, weapons, and woven goods, all of which involve communication and tradition? The industrial system envisioned by the advocates of “natural” economics assumed wants, tools, materials, purposes, techniques, and abilities. All depended in a thousand ways on people acting together. Thus, in the sense in which these thinkers used “artificial,” all these things were profoundly artificial, built up over time. What these thinkers really wanted was to redirect customs and institutions. The actions of those promoting the new industry and commerce produced a new set of customs and institutions. These new customs and institutions were just as widespread and lasting forms of shared life as those they replaced. In fact, their reach and power were greater.

The bearing of this fact upon political theory and practice is evident. Not only were the wants and intentions which actually operated functions of associated life, but they re-determined the forms and temper of this life. Athenians did not buy Sunday newspapers, make investments in stocks and bonds, nor want motor cars. Nor do we to-day want for the most part beautiful bodies and beauty of architectural surroundings. We are mostly satisfied with the result of cosmetics and with ugly slums, and oftentimes with equally ugly palaces. We do not “naturally” or organically need them, but we want them. If we do not demand them directly we demand them none the less effectively. For they are necessary consequences of the things upon which we have set our hearts. In other words, a community wants (in the only intelligible sense of wanting, effective demand) either education or ignorance, lovely or squalid surroundings, railway trains or ox-carts, stocks and bonds, pecuniary profit or constructive arts, according as associated activity presents these things to them habitually, esteems them, and supplies the means of attaining them. But that is only half the tale.

The importance of this fact for political theory and practice is clear. The wants and intentions that actually shaped behavior arose from shared life. In turn, those wants and intentions reshaped the forms and character of shared life. Athenians did not buy Sunday newspapers, invest in stocks and bonds, or want motor cars. Nor do most of us today want beautiful bodies or beautiful buildings around us. We are mostly satisfied with the results of cosmetics and with ugly slums, and often with equally ugly palaces. We do not “naturally” or biologically need these things, but we want them. If we do not demand them directly, we demand them just as effectively. For they are necessary consequences of the things we have set our hearts on. In other words, a community wants certain things according to the habits of its shared activities. Here, wanting means effective demand, the only understandable meaning of the word. A community wants either education or ignorance, beautiful or squalid surroundings, railway trains or ox-carts, stocks and bonds, financial profit or constructive arts. What the community wants depends on what its shared activities regularly present, value, and provide the means to obtain. But that is only half the story.

Associated behavior directed toward objects which fulfill wants not only produces those objects, but brings customs and institutions into being. The indirect and unthought-of consequences are usually more important than the direct. The fallacy of supposing that the new industrial régime would produce just and for the most part only the consequences consciously forecast and aimed at was the counterpart of the fallacy that the wants and efforts characteristic of it were functions of “natural” human beings. They arose out of institutionalized action and they resulted in institutionalized action. The disparity between the results of the industrial revolution and the conscious intentions of those engaged in it is a remarkable case of the extent to which indirect consequences of conjoint activity outweigh, beyond the possibility of reckoning, the results directly contemplated. Its outcome was the development of those extensive and invisible bonds, those “great impersonal concerns, organizations,” which now pervasively affect the thinking, willing and doing of everybody, and which have ushered in the “new era of human relationships.”

When people act together to produce things that meet their wants, they also create customs and institutions. The indirect and unforeseen consequences are usually more important than the direct ones. It was a mistake to suppose the new industrial system would produce exactly, and mostly only, the intended consequences. This mistake matched another: that the wants and efforts typical of the system came from “natural” human beings. Those wants and efforts arose from action shaped by institutions and led to further action shaped by institutions. The industrial revolution’s results differed greatly from the conscious intentions of those involved. This gap strikingly shows how the indirect consequences of joint activity outweigh the intended results by more than anyone can calculate. The industrial revolution created the vast, invisible ties, the “great impersonal concerns, organizations,” that now shape everyone’s thoughts, choices, and actions. These ties and organizations have brought about the “new era of human relationships.”

Equally undreamed of was the effect of the massive organizations and complicated interactions upon the state. Instead of the independent, self-moved individuals contemplated by the theory, we have standardized interchangeable units. Persons are joined together, not because they have voluntarily chosen to be united in these forms, but because vast currents are running which bring men together. Green and red lines, marking out political boundaries, are on the maps and affect legislation and jurisdiction of courts, but railways, mails and telegraph-wires disregard them. The consequences of the latter influence more profoundly those living within the legal local units than do boundary lines. The forms of associated action characteristic of the present economic order are so massive and extensive that they determine the most significant constituents of the public and the residence of power. Inevitably they reach out to grasp the agencies of government; they are controlling factors in legislation and administration. Not chiefly because of deliberate and planned self-interest, large as may be its rôle, but because they are the most potent and best organized of social forces. In a word, the new forms of combined action due to the modern economic régime control present politics, much as dynastic interests controlled those of two centuries ago. They affect thinking and desire more than did the interests which formerly moved the state.

Equally unforeseen was the effect of huge organizations and complex interactions on the state. Instead of the independent individuals acting on their own initiative imagined by the theory, we have standardized, interchangeable units. People are brought together not because they have freely chosen these forms of association. Rather, vast social currents bring them together. Green and red lines on maps mark political boundaries and affect legislation and the authority of courts. But railways, mail services, and telegraph wires ignore those boundaries. These networks affect people living within local legal boundaries more deeply than the boundaries do. The forms of joint action typical of today’s economic system operate on a vast scale and across great distances. As a result, these forms of action determine the most important elements of the public and where power lies. Inevitably, these organized forces reach out to take hold of government agencies. They are controlling forces in legislation and administration. This control does not arise chiefly from deliberate, planned self-interest, though self-interest may play a large role. Rather, these forces exercise control because they are the most powerful and best organized forces in society. In short, the new forms of joint action created by the modern economic system control politics today. Their control resembles the control that ruling families’ interests exercised over politics two centuries ago. These new forms of joint action shape thought and desire more than the interests that once drove the state did.

We have spoken as if the displacement of old legal and political institutions was all but complete. That is a gross exaggeration. Some of the most fundamental of traditions and habits have hardly been affected at all. It is enough to mention the institution of property. The naïveté with which the philosophy of “natural” economics ignored the effect upon industry and commerce of the legal status of property, the way in which it identified wealth and property in the legal form in which the latter had existed, is almost incredible to-day. But the simple fact is that technological industry has not operated with any great degree of freedom. It has been confined and deflected at every point; it has never taken its own course. The engineer has worked in subordination to the business manager whose primary concern is not with wealth but with the interests of property as worked out in the feudal and semi-feudal period. Thus the one point in which the philosophers of “Individualism” predicted truly was that in which they did not predict at all, but in which they merely clarified and simplified established wont and use: when, that is, they asserted that the main business of government is to make property interests secure.

We have spoken as if old legal and political institutions had been almost completely replaced. That is a gross exaggeration. Some of the most basic traditions and habits have hardly changed at all. We need only mention the institution of property. The philosophy of “natural” economics ignored how the legal status of property affected industry and commerce. It also treated wealth as identical to property in its existing legal form. Such naïveté is almost incredible today. But the simple fact is that technology-based industry has not operated with any great degree of freedom. Industry has been restricted and redirected at every point. It has never followed its own course. The engineer has worked under the business manager. The manager’s main concern is not wealth, but property interests shaped during the feudal and semi-feudal period. Thus, the philosophers of “Individualism” were right in their predictions on just one point. But on that point, they were not predicting at all. They were merely clarifying and simplifying established customs and practices. They did so when they declared that the main business of government is to protect property interests.

A large part of the indictments which are now drawn against technological industry are chargeable to the unchanged persistence of a legal institution inherited from the pre-industrial age. It is confusing, however, to identify in a wholesale way this issue with the question of private property. It is conceivable that private property may function socially. It does so even now to a considerable degree. Otherwise it could not be supported for a day. The extent of its social utility is what blinds us to the numerous and great social disutilities that attend its present working, or at least reconcile us to its continuation. The real issue or at least the issue to be first settled concerns the conditions under which the institution of private property legally and politically functions.

Much of the blame now directed at technological industry belongs to a legal institution inherited unchanged from the preindustrial age. But treating this issue as simply a question of private property creates confusion. Private property may serve society. Even now, private property serves society to a considerable degree. Otherwise, private property could not be sustained for even a day. Its usefulness to society blinds us to the many serious social harms caused by the way it currently operates. Or at least that usefulness makes us willing to accept its continuation. The real issue, or at least the first issue to settle, concerns the conditions under which private property operates. These are the legal and political conditions governing the institution of private property.

We thus reach our conclusion. The same forces which have brought about the forms of democratic government, general suffrage, executives and legislators chosen by majority vote, have also brought about conditions which halt the social and humane ideals that demand the utilization of government as the genuine instrumentality of an inclusive and fraternally associated public. “The new age of human relationships” has no political agencies worthy of it. The democratic public is still largely inchoate and unorganized.

We thus reach our conclusion. The same forces have created the forms of democratic government, universal voting rights, and executives and legislators elected by majority vote. But these forces have also created conditions that block social and humane ideals. These ideals call for government to serve as a genuine tool for an inclusive public united in fellowship. “The new age of human relationships” has no political institutions worthy of it. The democratic public is still largely unformed and unorganized.