The Public Overshadowed

Optimism about democracy is to-day under a cloud. We are familiar with denunciation and criticism which, however, often reveal their emotional source in their peevish and undiscriminating tone. Many of them suffer from the same error into which earlier laudations fell. They assume that democracy is the product of an idea, of a single and consistent intent. Carlyle was no admirer of democracy, but in a lucid moment he said: “Invent the printing press and democracy is inevitable.” Add to this: Invent the railway, the telegraph, mass manufacture and concentration of population in urban centers, and some form of democratic government is, humanly speaking, inevitable. Political democracy as it exists to-day calls for adverse criticism in abundance. But the criticism is only an exhibition of querulousness and spleen or of a superiority complex, unless it takes cognizance of the conditions out of which popular government has issued. All intelligent political criticism is comparative. It deals not with all-or-none situations, but with practical alternatives; an absolutistic indiscriminate attitude, whether in praise or blame, testifies to the heat of feeling rather than the light of thought.

Optimism about democracy is under a cloud today. We are familiar with attacks and criticism, but their irritable, sweeping tone often reveals their emotional roots. Many of these attacks make the same mistake as earlier praise. They assume that democracy grew out of an idea, a single, consistent purpose. Carlyle was no admirer of democracy, but in a clearheaded moment he said: “Invent the printing press and democracy is inevitable.” Add railways, the telegraph, mass manufacturing, and the concentration of people in cities. Given these developments, some form of democratic government is, as far as human affairs allow us to say, inevitable. Political democracy as it exists today deserves plenty of criticism. But critics must recognize the conditions that gave rise to popular government. Otherwise, their criticism merely displays a habit of complaining, bitterness, or a superiority complex. All intelligent political criticism makes comparisons. It considers practical alternatives, not all-or-nothing situations. An absolute, sweeping attitude, whether of praise or blame, shows heated feelings rather than clear thinking.

American democratic polity was developed out of genuine community life, that is, association in local and small centers where industry was mainly agricultural and where production was carried on mainly with hand tools. It took form when English political habits and legal institutions worked under pioneer conditions. The forms of association were stable, even though their units were mobile and migratory. Pioneer conditions put a high premium upon personal work, skill, ingenuity, initiative and adaptability, and upon neighborly sociability. The township or some not much larger area was the political unit, the town meeting the political medium, and roads, schools, the peace of the community, were the political objectives. The state was a sum of such units, and the national state a federation—unless perchance a confederation—of states. The imagination of the founders did not travel far beyond what could be accomplished and understood in a congeries of self-governing communities. The machinery provided for the selection of the chief executive of the federal union is illustrative evidence. The electoral college assumed that citizens would choose men locally known for their high standing; and that these men when chosen would gather together for consultation to name some one known to them for his probity and public spirit and knowledge. The rapidity with which the scheme fell into disuse is evidence of the transitoriness of the state of affairs that was predicated. But at the outset there was no dream of the time when the very names of the presidential electors would be unknown to the mass of the voters, when they would plump for a “ticket” arranged in a more or less private caucus, and when the electoral college would be an impersonal registering machine, such that it would be treachery to employ the personal judgment which was originally contemplated as the essence of the affair.

American democratic government grew out of genuine community life, with people living and working together in small local centers. In these communities, work was mainly agricultural, and production relied mainly on hand tools. This government took shape as English political habits and legal institutions adapted to pioneer conditions. The forms of community life were stable, even though the people moved and migrated. Pioneer conditions placed great value on personal work, skill, resourcefulness, initiative, adaptability, and friendly relations among neighbors. The political unit was the township or an area not much larger. The town meeting was the means of political action. Roads, schools, and peace in the community were the goals of politics. The state was a collection of these local units. The nation was a federation of states, or perhaps a confederation. The founders imagined little beyond what a collection of self-governing communities could accomplish and understand. The system established for choosing the federal union’s chief executive illustrates this outlook. The electoral college assumed that citizens would choose men known locally for their high standing. These chosen men would then meet to discuss and select someone they knew for his integrity, public spirit, and knowledge. The system quickly fell out of use, showing how temporary the conditions behind its design were. But at first, no one imagined a time when most voters would not even know the presidential electors’ names. Nor did anyone imagine voters casting their votes for a “ticket” arranged in a more or less private caucus. No one imagined the electoral college becoming an impersonal machine for recording votes. Under that system, electors would be considered disloyal for exercising their own judgment, originally the very point of the arrangement.

The local conditions under which our institutions took shape is well indicated by our system, apparently so systemless, of public education. Any one who has tried to explain it to a European will understand what is meant. One is asked, say, what method of administration is followed, what is the course of study and what the authorized methods of teaching. The American member to the dialogue replies that in this state, or more likely county, or town, or even some section of a town called a district, matters stand thus and thus; somewhere else, so and so. The participant from this side is perhaps thought by the foreigner to be engaged in concealing his ignorance; and it would certainly take a veritable cyclopedic knowledge to state the matter in its entirety. The impossibility of making any moderately generalized reply renders it almost indispensable to resort to a historical account in order to be intelligible. A little colony, the members of which are probably mostly known to one another in advance, settle in what is almost, or quite, a wilderness. From belief in its benefits and by tradition, chiefly religious, they wish their children to know at least how to read, write and figure. Families can only rarely provide a tutor; the neighbors over a certain area, in New England an area smaller even than the township, combine in a “school district.” They get a schoolhouse built, perhaps by their own labor, and hire a teacher by means of a committee, and the teacher is paid from the taxes. Custom determines the limited course of study, and tradition the methods of the teacher, modified by whatever personal insight and skill he may bring to bear. The wilderness is gradually subdued; a network of highways, then of railways, unite the previously scattered communities. Large cities grow up; studies grow more numerous and methods more carefully scrutinized. The larger unit, the state, but not the federal state, provides schools for training teachers and their qualifications are more carefully looked into and tested. But subject to certain quite general conditions imposed by the state-legislature, but not the national state, local maintenance and control remain the rule. The community pattern is more complicated, but is not destroyed. The instance seems richly instructive as to the state of affairs under which our borrowed, English, political institutions were reshaped and forwarded.

Our seemingly disorganized public education system clearly shows the local conditions that shaped our institutions. Anyone who has tried to explain the system to a European will understand the point. The European asks, for example, how schools are administered, what subjects are taught, and what teaching methods are officially approved. The American replies that one state follows one approach, or more likely one county, town, or even a “district” within a town. Somewhere else, the approach is different. The European perhaps thinks the American is trying to hide his ignorance. Certainly, explaining the entire system would take truly encyclopedic knowledge. Even a moderately general answer is impossible. So a historical account becomes almost essential to making the system understandable. A small colony settles in an area that is almost or entirely wilderness. Most of its members probably already know one another. They believe in education’s benefits and follow traditions that are chiefly religious. For these reasons, they want their children to learn at least to read, write, and do arithmetic. Families can only rarely afford a tutor. So neighbors across a certain area join together in a “school district.” In New England, this area is even smaller than a township. They have a schoolhouse built, perhaps through their own labor. A committee hires a teacher, whose pay comes from taxes. Custom determines the limited range of subjects taught. Tradition determines the teacher’s methods, modified by whatever personal insight and skill he may bring to the work. The wilderness is gradually brought under control. A network of roads, followed by railways, connects the previously scattered communities. Large cities develop. Schools teach more subjects, and teaching methods receive closer scrutiny. The larger unit, the state rather than the federal government, establishes schools to train teachers. Teachers’ qualifications are also examined and tested more carefully. But local funding and control remain the rule, subject to certain broad conditions imposed by state legislatures, not the national government. The community pattern becomes more complicated, but survives. This example offers valuable insight into the circumstances in which our borrowed English political institutions were reshaped and carried forward.

We have inherited, in short, local town-meeting practices and ideas. But we live and act and have our being in a continental national state. We are held together by non-political bonds, and the political forms are stretched and legal institutions patched in an ad hoc and improvised manner to do the work they have to do. Political structures fix the channels in which non-political, industrialized currents flow. Railways, travel and transportation, commerce, the mails, telegraph and telephone, newspapers, create enough similarity of ideas and sentiments to keep the thing going as a whole, for they create interaction and interdependence. The unprecedented thing is that states, as distinguished from military empires, can exist over such a wide area. The notion of maintaining a unified state, even nominally self-governing, over a country as extended as the United States and consisting of a large and racially diversified population would once have seemed the wildest of fancies. It was assumed that such a state could be found only in territories hardly larger than a city-state and with a homogeneous population. It seemed almost self-evident to Plato—as to Rousseau later—that a genuine state could hardly be larger than the number of persons capable of personal acquaintance with one another. Our modern state-unity is due to the consequences of technology employed so as to facilitate the rapid and easy circulation of opinions and information, and so as to generate constant and intricate interaction far beyond the limits of face-to-face communities. Political and legal forms have only piece-meal and haltingly, with great lag, accommodated themselves to the industrial transformation. The elimination of distance, at the base of which are physical agencies, has called into being the new form of political association.

In short, we have inherited the practices and ideas of local town meetings. But we live and act within a nation-state that spans a continent. Non-political bonds hold us together. Political forms are stretched, and legal institutions are patched in an ad hoc, improvised way to meet their responsibilities. Political structures set the channels through which the non-political forces of industrial society flow. Railways, travel and transportation, commerce, the mails, telegraph and telephone, and newspapers create interaction and interdependence. These connections make ideas and feelings similar enough to keep the country functioning as a whole. What is unprecedented is that states, unlike military empires, can exist across such vast areas. Once, a unified state covering a country as large as the United States would have seemed the wildest fantasy. This would have seemed so even for a state that governed itself only in name. Such a state would also have a large and racially diverse population. People assumed that such states could exist only in territories hardly larger than a city-state, with a homogeneous population. To Plato, and later to Rousseau, the limit on a genuine state's size seemed almost obvious. A state could hardly include more people than could know one another personally. The unity of our modern state comes from the effects of technology used to circulate opinions and information quickly and easily. Technology also creates constant, complex interaction far beyond communities whose members meet face to face. Political and legal forms have adapted to the industrial transformation only in fragments, hesitantly, and with long delays. The overcoming of distance, made possible by physical means, has brought this new form of political association into being.

The wonder of the performance is the greater because of the odds against which it has been achieved. The stream of immigrants which has poured in is so large and heterogeneous that under conditions which formerly obtained it would have disrupted any semblance of unity as surely as the migratory invasion of alien hordes once upset the social equilibrium of the European continent. No deliberately adopted measures could have accomplished what has actually happened. Mechanical forces have operated, and it is no cause for surprise if the effect is more mechanical than vital. The reception of new elements of population in large number from heterogeneous peoples, often hostile to one another at home, and the welding them into even an outward show of unity is an extraordinary feat. In many respects, the consolidation has occurred so rapidly and ruthlessly that much of value has been lost which different peoples might have contributed. The creation of political unity has also promoted social and intellectual uniformity, a standardization favorable to mediocrity. Opinion has been regimented as well as outward behavior. The temper and flavor of the pioneer have evaporated with extraordinary rapidity; their precipitate, as is often noted, is apparent only in the wild-west romance and the movie. What Bagehot called the cake of custom formed with increasing acceleration, and the cake is too often flat and soggy. Mass production is not confined to the factory.

The achievement is all the more remarkable because of the odds against it. Immigrants have poured in, in such large numbers and from such varied backgrounds, that earlier conditions would have made unity impossible. Any appearance of unity would have collapsed as surely as invading foreign peoples once upset the social balance of Europe. No deliberately planned measures could have achieved what has actually happened. Mechanical forces have been at work, so it is no surprise if the result is more mechanical than alive. Taking in so many people from different backgrounds, often hostile to one another at home, is an extraordinary feat. So is welding these people into even an outward appearance of unity. In many ways, this unification has happened so quickly and ruthlessly that much of value has been lost. Different peoples might have contributed those valuable things. The creation of political unity has also encouraged social and intellectual uniformity, a standardization that favors mediocrity. Opinion has been regimented along with outward behavior. The spirit and distinctive character of the pioneer have evaporated with extraordinary speed. As people often note, the residue appears only in Wild West stories and movies. What Bagehot called the cake of custom formed faster and faster, and the cake is too often flat and soggy. Mass production is not limited to the factory.

The resulting political integration has confounded the expectations of earlier critics of popular government as much as it must surprise its early backers if they are gazing from on high upon the present scene. The critics predicted disintegration, instability. They foresaw the new society falling apart, dissolving into mutually repellent animated grains of sand. They, too, took seriously the theory of “Individualism” as the basis of democratic government. A stratification of society into immemorial classes within which each person performed his stated duties according to his fixed position seemed to them the only warrant of stability. They had no faith that human beings released from the pressure of this system could hold together in any unity. Hence they prophesied a flux of governmental régimes, as individuals formed factions, seized power, and then lost it as some newly improvised faction proved stronger. Had the facts conformed to the theory of Individualism, they would doubtless have been right. But, like the authors of the theory, they ignored the technological forces making for consolidation.

The resulting political unity has defied the expectations of earlier critics of popular government. It must equally surprise its early supporters, if they are looking down from heaven at the present scene. The critics predicted disintegration and instability. They expected the new society to fall apart, dissolving into living grains of sand that repelled one another. They, too, took seriously the theory of “Individualism” as the basis of democratic government. To these critics, stability depended entirely on society being divided into age-old classes. Within each class, everyone performed assigned duties according to a fixed position. The critics had no faith that people freed from the pressures of this system could remain united. So they predicted a succession of governments, as individuals formed factions, seized power, and then lost it. Each faction would fall when a newly formed faction proved stronger. If the facts had matched the theory of Individualism, the critics would undoubtedly have been right. But, like the theory’s authors, the critics ignored the technological forces that were drawing society together.

In spite of attained integration, or rather perhaps because of its nature, the Public seems to be lost; it is certainly bewildered.¹⁰ The government, officials and their activities, are plainly with us. Legislatures make laws with luxurious abandon; subordinate officials engage in a losing struggle to enforce some of them; judges on the bench deal as best they can with the steadily mounting pile of disputes that come before them. But where is the public which these officials are supposed to represent? How much more is it than geographical names and official titles? The United States, the state of Ohio or New York, the county of this and the city of that? Is the public much more than what a cynical diplomat once called Italy: a geographical expression? Just as philosophers once imputed a substance to qualities and traits in order that the latter might have something in which to inhere and thereby gain a conceptual solidity and consistency which they lacked on their face, so perhaps our political “common-sense” philosophy imputes a public only to support and substantiate the behavior of officials. How can the latter be public officers, we despairingly ask, unless there is a public? If a public exists, it is surely as uncertain about its own whereabouts as philosophers since Hume have been about the residence and make-up of the self. The number of voters who take advantage of their majestic right is steadily decreasing in proportion to those who might use it. The ratio of actual to eligible voters is now about one-half. In spite of somewhat frantic appeal and organized effort, the endeavor to bring voters to a sense of their privileges and duties has so far been noted for failure. A few preach the impotence of all politics; the many nonchalantly practice abstinence and indulge in indirect action. Skepticism regarding the efficacy of voting is openly expressed, not only in the theories of intellectuals, but in the words of lowbrow masses: “What difference does it make whether I vote or not? Things go on just the same anyway. My vote never changed anything.” Those somewhat more reflective add: “It is nothing but a fight between the ins and the outs. The only difference made by an election is as to who get the jobs, draw the salaries and shake down the plum tree.”

Despite the integration already achieved, or perhaps because of its nature, the Public seems lost. It is certainly bewildered.¹⁰ Government is plainly with us, along with its officials and their activities. Legislatures churn out laws with lavish abandon. Lower-ranking officials fight a losing battle to enforce some of those laws. Judges do their best to handle the steadily growing pile of disputes brought before them. But where is the public these officials are supposed to represent? How much more is the public than geographical names and official titles? The United States, the state of Ohio or New York, this county or that city? Is the public much more than what a cynical diplomat once called Italy: a geographical expression? Philosophers once assumed that qualities and traits belonged to an underlying substance. That substance gave those qualities something to exist in, lending them a conceptual solidity and consistency they otherwise lacked. So perhaps our political “common-sense” philosophy assumes a public exists only to support and give substance to officials’ behavior. How can these officials be public officers, we ask in despair, unless there is a public? If a public exists, it is surely uncertain about its own whereabouts. It is as uncertain as philosophers since Hume have been about where the self resides and what it consists of. The share of eligible voters who exercise their majestic right keeps declining. Only about half of eligible voters now actually vote. Despite somewhat frantic appeals and organized efforts, attempts to awaken voters to their privileges and duties have so far largely failed. A few preach that all politics is powerless. The many casually stay away from politics and pursue indirect action instead. Doubts about whether voting works are expressed openly, not just in intellectual theories but in the words of the uneducated masses: “What difference does it make whether I vote or not? Things go on just the same anyway. My vote never changed anything.” Those who reflect a little more add: “It is nothing but a fight between those in office and those seeking office. An election only changes who gets the jobs, collects the salaries, and helps themselves to the rewards.”

Those still more inclined to generalization assert that the whole apparatus of political activities is a kind of protective coloration to conceal the fact that big business rules the governmental roost in any case. Business is the order of the day, and the attempt to stop or deflect its course is as futile as Mrs. Partington essaying to sweep back the tides with a broom. Most of those who hold these opinions would profess to be shocked if the doctrine of economic determinism were argumentatively expounded to them, but they act upon a virtual belief in it. Nor is acceptance of the doctrine limited to radical socialists. It is implicit in the attitude of men of big business and financial interests, who revile the former as destructive “Bolshevists.” For it is their firm belief that “prosperity”—a word which has taken on religious color—is the great need of the country, that they are its authors and guardians, and hence by right the determiners of polity. Their denunciations of the “materialism” of socialists is based simply upon the fact that the latter want a different distribution of material force and well-being than that which satisfies those now in control.

Those even more inclined to generalize claim that the whole machinery of politics is a kind of camouflage. It hides the fact that big business controls the government no matter what. Business sets the agenda. Trying to stop or redirect its course is as futile as Mrs. Partington trying to sweep back the tides with a broom. Most people who hold these views would claim to be shocked if someone argued for the doctrine of economic determinism. Yet they act as though they believe in it. Nor is acceptance of this doctrine limited to radical socialists. The same belief underlies the attitudes of big business leaders and financial interests, who denounce radical socialists as destructive “Bolshevists.” These business leaders firmly believe that “prosperity” is the country’s greatest need. The word has taken on a religious coloring. They believe they create and protect prosperity, and therefore have the right to determine government policy. Their attacks on the “materialism” of socialists rest simply on one fact. Socialists want a different distribution of material power and well-being from the distribution that satisfies those now in control.

The unfitness of whatever public exists, with respect to the government which is nominally its organ, is made manifest in the extra-legal agencies which have grown up. Intermediary groups are closest to the political conduct of affairs. It is interesting to compare the English literature of the eighteenth century regarding factions with the status actually occupied by parties. Factionalism was decried by all thinkers as the chief enemy to political stability. Their voice of condemnation is reëchoed in the writing of early nineteenth-century American writers on politics. Extensive and consolidated factions under the name of parties are now not only a matter of course, but popular imagination can conceive of no other way by which officials may be selected and governmental affairs carried on. The centralizing movement has reached a point where even a third party can lead only a spasmodic and precarious existence. Instead of individuals who in the privacy of their consciousness make choices which are carried into effect by personal volition, there are citizens who have the blessed opportunity to vote for a ticket of men mostly unknown to them, and which is made up for them by an under-cover machine in a caucus whose operations constitute a kind of political predestination. There are those who speak as if ability to choose between two tickets were a high exercise of individual freedom. But it is hardly the kind of liberty contemplated by the authors of the individualistic doctrine. “Nature abhors a vacuum.” When the public is as uncertain and obscure as it is to-day, and hence as remote from government, bosses with their political machines fill the void between government and the public. Who pulls the strings which move the bosses and generates power to run the machines is a matter of surmise rather than of record, save for an occasional overt scandal.

Agencies operating outside the law have grown up, revealing how poorly whatever public exists fits its supposed instrument, government. Intermediary groups are closest to the actual conduct of political affairs. It is interesting to compare eighteenth-century English writing about factions with the position political parties actually hold. All thinkers condemned factionalism as the chief enemy of political stability. Early nineteenth-century American writers on politics echoed that condemnation. Today, large, unified factions called parties are not only taken for granted. People can imagine no other way to select officials and conduct government affairs. Power has become so centralized that even a third party can survive only intermittently and precariously. Instead of individuals making private choices and carrying them out through their own will, we have citizens blessed with another opportunity. They may vote for a slate of candidates mostly unknown to them. A political machine working behind the scenes chooses the slate for them in a caucus. The caucus operates through a kind of political predestination. Some speak as if choosing between two slates were a great exercise of individual freedom. But this is hardly the kind of liberty envisioned by the authors of the individualist doctrine. “Nature abhors a vacuum.” When the public is as uncertain and ill-defined as it is today, it is therefore just as distant from government. Political bosses and their machines fill the gap between government and the public. Who pulls the bosses’ strings and supplies the power to run the machines? Apart from an occasional public scandal, the answer is a matter of guesswork rather than documented fact.

Quite aside, however, from the allegation that “Big Business” plays the tune and pulls the strings to which bosses dance, it is true that parties are not creators of policies to any large extent at the present time. For parties yield in piece-meal accommodation to social currents, irrespective of professed principles. As these lines are written a weekly periodical remarks: “Since the end of the Civil War practically all the more important measures which have been embodied in federal legislation have been reached without a national election which turned upon the issue and which divided the two major parties.” Reform of civil service, regulation of railways, popular election of senators, national income tax, suffrage for women, and prohibition are supported to substantiate the statement. Hence its other remark appears justified: “American party politics seem at times to be a device for preventing issues which may excite popular feeling and involve bitter controversies from being put up to the American people.”

Set aside, however, the claim that “Big Business” calls the tune and pulls the strings that make political bosses dance. Even apart from that claim, political parties today do little to create policies. Instead, parties adapt bit by bit to social trends, regardless of their stated principles. As I write, a weekly magazine observes: “Since the end of the Civil War, practically all major federal laws have passed without a national election centered on them. These measures did not divide the two major parties in a national election.” The examples offered to support this statement are civil service reform, railroad regulation, and the direct election of senators. The list also includes the national income tax, voting rights for women, and prohibition. So the magazine’s further observation seems justified: “American party politics sometimes seem designed to keep certain issues from being put before the American people. These are issues that may stir public feeling and provoke bitter disputes.”

A negatively corroborating fact is seen in the fate of the Child Labor amendment. The need of giving to Congress power to regulate child labor, denied it by decisions of the Supreme Court, had been asserted in the platforms of all political parties; the idea was endorsed by the last three of the presidents belonging to the party in power. Yet so far, the proposed amendment to the constitution has not begun to secure the needed support. Political parties may rule, but they do not govern. The public is so confused and eclipsed that it cannot even use the organs through which it is supposed to mediate political action and polity.

The fate of the Child Labor amendment offers further support by showing what has failed. All political parties had stated in their platforms that Congress needed the power to regulate child labor. Supreme Court decisions had denied Congress that power. The last three presidents from the party in power had endorsed the idea. Yet so far, the proposed constitutional amendment has not even begun to gain the support needed. Political parties may rule, but they do not govern. The public is so confused and overshadowed that it cannot even use the institutions meant to channel its political action and shape policy.

The same lesson is taught by the breakdown of the theory of the responsibility of elected representatives to the electorate, to say nothing of their alleged liability to be called before the bar of the private judgment of individuals. It is at least suggestive that the terms of the theory are best met in legislation of the “pork-barrel” type. There a representative may be called to account for failure to meet local desire, or be rewarded for pertinacity and success in fulfilling its wishes. But only rarely is the theory borne out in important matters, although occasionally it works. But the instances are so infrequent that any skilled political observer could enumerate them by name. The reason for the lack of personal liability to the electorate is evident. The latter is composed of rather amorphous groups. Their political ideas and beliefs are mostly in abeyance between elections. Even in times of political excitement, artificially accelerated, their opinions are moved collectively by the current of the group rather than by independent personal judgment. As a rule, what decides the fate of a person who comes up for election is neither his political excellence nor his political defects. The current runs for or against the party in power and the individual candidate sinks or swims as runs the current. At times there is a general consensus of sentiment, a definite trend in favor of “progressive legislation” or a desire for a “return to normalcy.” But even then only exceptional candidates get by on any basis of personal responsibility to the electorate. The “tidal wave” swamps some; the “landslide” carries others into office. At other times, habit, party funds, the skill of managers of the machine, the portrait of a candidate with his firm jaw, his lovely wife and children, and a multitude of other irrelevancies, determine the issue.

The failure of the theory that elected representatives answer to voters teaches the same lesson. Still less does the theory hold that representatives must answer to each individual’s private judgment. It is at least telling that the theory works best with “pork-barrel” legislation. In such cases, a representative may be held accountable for failing to meet local wishes. Or he may be rewarded for persistence and success in meeting those wishes. But the theory rarely holds true on important matters, although it occasionally works. Such cases are so rare that any skilled political observer could list them by name. The reason representatives are not personally accountable to voters is clear. The electorate consists of groups with rather vague boundaries. Between elections, voters’ political ideas and beliefs are mostly inactive. Even during periods of artificially heightened political excitement, group currents shape voters’ opinions more than independent personal judgment does. As a rule, neither a candidate’s political strengths nor his political failings decide his electoral fate. The current runs for or against the party in power, and individual candidates sink or swim with that current. At times, there is broad agreement in public feeling. There may be a clear trend favoring “progressive legislation” or a desire for a “return to normalcy.” But even then, only exceptional candidates win because of their personal accountability to voters. The “tidal wave” overwhelms some, while the “landslide” carries others into office. At other times, habit, party funds, and the skill of political machine managers determine the outcome. So do portraits showing a candidate’s firm jaw, his lovely wife and children, and countless other irrelevant details.

These scattered comments are not made in the belief that they convey any novel truth. Such things are familiar; they are the common-places of the political scene. They could be extended indefinitely by any careful observer of the scene. The significant thing is that familiarity has bred indifference if not contempt. Indifference is the evidence of current apathy, and apathy is testimony to the fact that the public is so bewildered that it cannot find itself. The remarks are not made with a view to drawing a conclusion. They are offered with a view to outlining a problem: What is the public? If there is a public, what are the obstacles in the way of its recognizing and articulating itself? Is the public a myth? Or does it come into being only in periods of marked social transition when crucial alternative issues stand out, such as that between throwing one’s lot in with the conservation of established institutions or with forwarding new tendencies? In a reaction against dynastic rule which has come to be felt as despotically oppressive? In a transfer of social power from agrarian classes to industrial?

These scattered comments are not offered in the belief that they contain any new truth. Such observations are familiar. They are commonplace in politics. Any careful observer of politics could add to them indefinitely. What matters is that familiarity has bred indifference, if not contempt. Indifference is evidence of today’s apathy. That apathy shows that the public is so bewildered that it cannot find itself. These remarks are not meant to lead to a conclusion. They are meant to outline a problem: What is the public? If a public exists, what prevents it from recognizing itself and giving itself a voice? Is the public a myth? Or does the public emerge only during major social transitions, when crucial choices stand out clearly? One such choice is whether to support preserving established institutions or advancing new trends. Does the public emerge in a reaction against dynastic rule that people have come to see as oppressively despotic? Or when social power shifts from agricultural classes to industrial classes?

Is not the problem at the present time that of securing experts to manage administrative matters, other than the framing of policies? It may be urged that the present confusion and apathy are due to the fact that the real energy of society is now directed in all non-political matters by trained specialists who manage things, while politics are carried on with a machinery and ideas formed in the past to deal with quite another sort of situation. There is no particular public concerned in finding expert school instructors, competent doctors, or business managers. Nothing called a public intervenes to instruct physicians in the practice of the healing art or merchants in the art of salesmanship. The conduct of these callings and others characteristic of our time are decided by science and pseudo-science. The important governmental affairs at present, it may be argued, are also technically complicated matters to be conducted properly by experts. And if at present people are not educated to the recognition of the importance of finding experts and of entrusting administration to them, it may plausibly be asserted that the prime obstruction lies in the superstitious belief that there is a public concerned to determine the formation and execution of general social policies. Perhaps the apathy of the electorate is due to the irrelevant artificiality of the issues with which it is attempted to work up factitious excitement. Perhaps this artificiality is in turn mainly due to the survival of political beliefs and machinery from a period when science and technology were so immature as not to permit of a definite technique for handling definite social situations and meeting specific social needs. The attempt to decide by law that the legends of a primitive Hebrew people regarding the genesis of man are more authoritative than the results of scientific inquiry might be cited as a typical example of the sort of thing which is bound to happen when the accepted doctrine is that a public organized for political purposes, rather than experts guided by specialized inquiry, is the final umpire and arbiter of issues.

Isn’t the problem today how to find experts to manage administrative matters, apart from making policy? One might argue that today’s confusion and apathy have the following cause. Trained specialists now direct society’s real energy in all matters outside politics. Yet politics still uses systems and ideas developed in the past for quite different conditions. No particular public is concerned with finding expert teachers, competent doctors, or business managers. No body called a public steps in to teach physicians how to heal or merchants how to sell. Science and pseudoscience determine how these professions, and others typical of our time, are practiced. One might argue that today’s important government affairs are also technically complex matters that experts should handle. And perhaps people today have not learned the importance of finding experts and trusting them with administration. If so, one could plausibly argue that the main obstacle is a superstitious belief about the public. According to that belief, there is a public whose concern is to determine how general social policies are formed and carried out. Perhaps voters are apathetic because the issues used to stir up false excitement are artificial and irrelevant. Perhaps these artificial issues arise mainly because political beliefs and systems survive from an earlier period. At that time, science and technology were too undeveloped to provide clear methods for handling specific social situations and needs. Consider the attempt to settle a question by law: whether a primitive Hebrew people’s legends about human origins outweigh scientific findings. That attempt might serve as a typical example of what is bound to happen when a certain doctrine is accepted. According to that doctrine, a public organized for political purposes has the final say on issues. Experts guided by specialized research do not.

The questions of most concern at present may be said to be matters like sanitation, public health, healthful and adequate housing, transportation, planning of cities, regulation and distribution of immigrants, selection and management of personnel, right methods of instruction and preparation of competent teachers, scientific adjustment of taxation, efficient management of funds, and so on. These are technical matters, as much so as the construction of an efficient engine for purposes of traction or locomotion. Like it they are to be settled by inquiry into facts; and as the inquiry can be carried on only by those especially equipped, so the results of inquiry can be utilized only by trained technicians. What has counting heads, decision by majority and the whole apparatus of traditional government to do with such things? Given such considerations, and the public and its organization for political ends is not only a ghost, but a ghost which walks and talks, and obscures, confuses and misleads governmental action in a disastrous way.

Today’s most pressing questions may be said to concern sanitation, public health, healthy and adequate housing, transportation, and city planning. Other concerns include regulating and distributing immigrants, selecting and managing personnel, effective teaching methods, and preparing competent teachers. The list also includes setting taxes scientifically, managing funds efficiently, and so on. These are technical matters, just as much as building an efficient engine for pulling loads or moving vehicles. Like engine construction, these matters must be settled by investigating facts. Only people with specialized skills can conduct these investigations, and only trained technicians can put the findings to use. What do counting heads, majority rule, and the whole machinery of traditional government have to do with such matters? Given these considerations, the public and its political organization are not just a ghost. They are a ghost that walks and talks, disastrously obscuring, confusing, and misleading government action.

Personally I am far from thinking that such considerations, pertinent as they are to administrative activities, cover the entire political field. They ignore forces which have to be composed and resolved before technical and specialized action can come into play. But they aid in giving definiteness and point to a fundamental question: What, after all, is the public under present conditions? What are the reasons for its eclipse? What hinders it from finding and identifying itself? By what means shall its inchoate and amorphous estate be organized into effective political action relevant to present social needs and opportunities? What has happened to the Public in the century and a half since the theory of political democracy was urged with such assurance and hope?

Personally, I am far from believing that these considerations cover the whole field of politics, though they matter for administration. They ignore forces that must be brought together and reconciled before technical and specialized work can begin. But these considerations help make a fundamental question clearer and more focused: What, after all, is the public today? Why has the public faded from view? What keeps the public from finding and recognizing itself? How can the public, still unformed and without clear structure, be organized for effective political action? How can that action address today's social needs and opportunities? What has happened to the Public in the century and a half since political democracy was advocated so confidently and hopefully?

Previous discussion has brought to light some conditions out of which the public is generated. It has also set forth some of the causes through which a “new age of human relationships” has been brought into being. These two arguments form the premises which, when they are related to each other, will provide our answer to the questions just raised. Indirect, extensive, enduring and serious consequences of conjoint and interacting behavior call a public into existence having a common interest in controlling these consequences. But the machine age has so enormously expanded, multiplied, intensified and complicated the scope of the indirect consequences, have formed such immense and consolidated unions in action, on an impersonal rather than a community basis, that the resultant public cannot identify and distinguish itself. And this discovery is obviously an antecedent condition of any effective organization on its part. Such is our thesis regarding the eclipse which the public idea and interest have undergone. There are too many publics and too much of public concern for our existing resources to cope with. The problem of a democratically organized public is primarily and essentially an intellectual problem, in a degree to which the political affairs of prior ages offer no parallel.

The earlier discussion identified some conditions that bring a public into being. It also explained some causes that have created a “new age of human relationships”. These two arguments provide our starting points. When connected, they will answer the questions just raised. People acting together and affecting one another produce indirect consequences that are widespread, lasting, and serious. These consequences create a public with a common interest in controlling them. But the machine age has enormously expanded, multiplied, intensified, and complicated these indirect consequences. It has created immense, tightly connected networks of action based on impersonal relationships rather than community ties. As a result, the public cannot recognize itself or distinguish itself from other groups. Yet clearly, the public must recognize itself before it can organize effectively. This is our explanation for the eclipse of the idea of the public and its shared interests. There are too many publics and too many matters of public concern for our existing resources to handle. The problem of organizing a public democratically is first and foremost an intellectual problem. It is an intellectual problem to a degree unmatched in the political affairs of earlier ages.

Our concern at this time is to state how it is that the machine age in developing the Great Society has invaded and partially disintegrated the small communities of former times without generating a Great Community. The facts are familiar enough; our especial affair is to point out their connections with the difficulties under which the organization of a democratic public is laboring. For the very familiarity with the phenomena conceals their significance and blinds us to their relation to immediate political problems.

Our concern now is to explain how the machine age, in creating the Great Society, has invaded older, smaller communities. It has partly broken those communities apart without creating a Great Community. The facts are familiar enough. Our particular task is to show how those facts relate to the difficulties of organizing a democratic public. For the very familiarity of these developments hides their significance and blinds us to their connection with immediate political problems.

The scope of the Great War furnishes an urgent as well as convenient starting point for the discussion. The extent of that war is unparalleled, because the conditions involved in it are so new. The dynastic conflicts of the seventeenth century are called by the same name: we have only one word, “war.” The sameness of the word too easily conceals from us the difference in significance. We think of all wars as much the same thing, only the last one was horrible beyond others. Colonies were drawn in: self-governing ones entered voluntarily; possessions were levied upon for troops; alliances were formed with remote countries in spite of diversities of race and culture, as in the cases of Great Britain and Japan, Germany and Turkey. Literally every continent upon the globe was involved. Indirect effects were as broad as direct. Not merely soldiers, but finance, industry and opinion were mobilized and consolidated. Neutrality was a precarious affair. There was a critical epoch in the history of the world when the Roman Empire assembled in itself the lands and peoples of the Mediterranean basin. The World War stands out as an indubitable proof that what then happened for a region has now happened for the world, only there is now no comprehensive political organization to include the various divided yet interdependent countries. Any one who even partially visualizes the scene has a convincing reminder of the meaning of the Great Society: that it exists, and that it is not integrated.

The scope of the Great War offers an urgent and useful starting point for this discussion. The war’s reach was unmatched because the conditions involved were so new. The dynastic conflicts of the seventeenth century have the same name: we have only one word, “war.” Using the same word too easily hides the difference in significance. We think of all wars as much the same, except that the last was more horrible than the others. Colonies were drawn in. Self-governing colonies entered voluntarily, while colonial possessions were required to supply troops. Alliances formed with distant countries despite differences in race and culture. Great Britain and Japan, and Germany and Turkey, were examples. Literally every continent on the globe was involved. The indirect effects were as widespread as the direct effects. Not only soldiers but also finance, industry, and public opinion were mobilized and brought together. Remaining neutral was difficult and uncertain. At a critical point in world history, the Roman Empire brought together the lands and peoples around the Mediterranean. The World War provides undeniable proof that what happened then in one region has now happened across the world. But no overarching political organization now brings together the separate yet interdependent countries. Anyone who pictures even part of this situation has a convincing reminder of what the Great Society means. The Great Society exists, but it is not integrated.

Extensive, enduring, intricate and serious indirect consequences of the conjoint activity of a comparatively few persons traverse the globe. The similes of the stone cast into the pool, ninepins in a row, the spark which kindles a vast conflagration, are pale in comparison with the reality. The spread of the war seemed like the movement of an uncontrolled natural catastrophe. The consolidation of peoples in enclosed, nominally independent, national states has its counterpart in the fact that their acts affect groups and individuals in other states all over the world. The connections and ties which transferred energies set in motion in one spot to all parts of the earth were not tangible and visible; they do not stand out as do politically bounded states. But the war is there to show that they are as real, and to prove that they are not organized and regulated. It suggests that existing political and legal forms and arrangements are incompetent to deal with the situation. For the latter is the joint product of the existing constitution of the political state and the working of non-political forces not adjusted to political forms. We cannot expect the causes of a disease to combine effectually to cure the disease they create. The need is that the non-political forces organize themselves to transform existing political structures: that the divided and troubled publics integrate.

The combined actions of relatively few people have widespread, lasting, complex, and serious indirect effects across the globe. Images of a stone thrown into a pool, a row of falling ninepins, or a spark starting a huge fire pale beside the reality. The spread of the war seemed like an uncontrolled natural catastrophe. Peoples have been consolidated into separate, supposedly independent nation-states. At the same time, their actions affect groups and individuals in other states all over the world. Connections carried forces set in motion in one place to every part of the earth. These connections were not tangible or visible. They do not stand out as states with political boundaries do. But the war shows that these connections are just as real, and proves that they are neither organized nor regulated. The war suggests that existing political and legal structures and arrangements cannot deal with the situation. For this situation results from both the state's existing political structure and the operation of nonpolitical forces. These forces are not aligned with political structures. We cannot expect the causes of a disease to work together effectively to cure the disease they create. Nonpolitical forces need to organize themselves to transform existing political structures. The divided and troubled publics need to come together.

In general, the non-political forces are the expressions of a technological age injected into an inherited political scheme which operates to deflect and distort their normal operation. The industrial and commercial relations that created the situation of which the war is a manifestation are as evident in small things as great. They were exhibited, not only in the struggle for raw materials, for distant markets, and in staggering national debts, but in local and unimportant phenomena. Travelers finding themselves away from home could not get their letters of credit cashed even in countries not then at war. Stock-markets closed on one hand, and profiteers piled up their millions on the other. One instance may be cited from domestic affairs. The plight of the farmer since the war has created a domestic political issue. A great demand was generated for food and other agricultural products; prices rose. In addition to this economic stimulus, farmers were objects of constant political exhortation to increase their crops. Inflation and temporary prosperity followed. The end of active warfare came. Impoverished countries could not buy and pay for foodstuffs up to even a pre-war level. Taxes were enormously increased. Currencies were depreciated; the world’s gold supply centered here. The stimulus of war and of national extravagance piled up the inventories of factories and merchants. Wages and the prices of agricultural implements increased. When deflation came it found a restricted market, increased costs of production, and farmers burdened with mortgages lightly assumed during the period of frenzied expansion.

In general, nonpolitical forces express the technological age but have been forced into an inherited political framework. This framework redirects and distorts how those forces normally work. Industrial and commercial relations created the conditions reflected in the war. Those relations were as evident in small matters as in large ones. They appeared not only in struggles for raw materials and distant markets, and in staggering national debts. They also appeared in minor local events. Travelers away from home could not cash their letters of credit, even in countries not then at war. Stock markets closed, while profiteers piled up millions. One example may be drawn from domestic affairs. The farmers’ plight since the war has become a domestic political issue. A huge demand arose for food and other agricultural products, and prices rose. Beyond this economic incentive, farmers faced constant political pressure to increase their crops. Inflation and temporary prosperity followed. Active warfare ended. Impoverished countries could not buy and pay for food even at prewar levels. Taxes increased enormously. Currencies lost value, and the world’s gold supply became concentrated in this country. The stimulus from war and extravagant national spending left factories and merchants with growing inventories. Wages and the prices of farm equipment increased. When deflation came, markets were limited and production costs had risen. Farmers were also burdened with mortgages they had taken on casually during the period of frenzied expansion.

This instance is not cited because it is peculiarly important in comparison with other consequences which have happened, especially in Europe. It is relatively insignificant by contrast with them, and in contrast with the arousal of nationalistic sentiments which has everywhere taken place since the war in so-called backward countries. But it shows the ramifying consequences of our intricate and interdependent economic relations, and it shows how little prevision and regulation exist. The farming population could hardly have acted with knowledge of the consequences of the fundamental relations in which they were implicated. They could make a momentary and improvised response to them, but they could not manage their affairs in controlled adaptation to the course of events. They present themselves as hapless subjects of overwhelming operations with which they were hardly acquainted and over which they had no more control than over the vicissitudes of climate.

This example is not given because it is especially important compared with other consequences, particularly those in Europe. By comparison, it is relatively insignificant. It is also relatively insignificant compared with the rise of nationalist feelings everywhere in so-called backward countries since the war. But the example shows the far-reaching consequences of our complex, interdependent economic relationships. It also shows how little foresight and regulation there are. Farmers could hardly have understood the consequences of the basic relationships they were caught up in. They could improvise a short-term response to those consequences. But they could not manage their affairs by adjusting to events in a controlled way. These farmers appear as helpless subjects of overwhelming forces they barely understood. They had no more control over those forces than over changes in the climate.

The illustration cannot be objected to on the ground that it rests upon the abnormal situation of war. The war itself was a normal manifestation of the underlying unintegrated state of society. The local face-to-face community has been invaded by forces so vast, so remote in initiation, so far-reaching in scope and so complexly indirect in operation, that they are, from the standpoint of the members of local social units, unknown. Man, as has been often remarked, has difficulty in getting on either with or without his fellows, even in neighborhoods. He is not more successful in getting on with them when they act at a great distance in ways invisible to him. An inchoate public is capable of organization only when indirect consequences are perceived, and when it is possible to project agencies which order their occurrence. At present, many consequences are felt rather than perceived; they are suffered, but they cannot be said to be known, for they are not, by those who experience them, referred to their origins. It goes, then, without saying that agencies are not established which canalize the streams of social action and thereby regulate them. Hence the publics are amorphous and unarticulated.

This example cannot be dismissed on the grounds that it depends on the abnormal conditions of war. The war itself was a normal expression of society’s underlying lack of integration. Vast forces have invaded the local, face-to-face community. These forces originate so far away, reach so widely, and operate in such complex, indirect ways that local people do not understand them. As often noted, people have trouble getting along either with or without others, even in their own neighborhoods. They are no more successful when those others act far away in ways they cannot see. A public that is only beginning to form can organize only when people recognize the indirect consequences of actions. People must also be able to devise bodies that manage how those consequences occur. At present, many consequences are felt rather than understood. People suffer those consequences, but cannot be said to know them, because they do not connect them to their origins. It follows, then, that no bodies are established to channel and thereby regulate the flow of social action. As a result, these publics lack a definite shape or organized expression.

There was a time when a man might entertain a few general political principles and apply them with some confidence. A citizen believed in states’ rights or in a centralized federal government; in free trade or protection. It did not involve much mental strain to imagine that by throwing in his lot with one party or another he could so express his views that his belief would count in government. For the average voter to-day the tariff question is a complicated medley of infinite detail, schedules of rates specific and ad valorem on countless things, many of which he does not recognize by name, and with respect to which he can form no judgment. Probably not one voter in a thousand even reads the scores of pages in which the rates of toll are enumerated and he would not be much wiser if he did. The average man gives it up as a bad job. At election time, appeal to some time-worn slogan may galvanize him into a temporary notion that he has convictions on an important subject, but except for manufacturers and dealers who have some interest at stake in this or that schedule, belief lacks the qualities which attach to beliefs about matters of personal concern. Industry is too complex and intricate.

There was a time when a person could hold a few broad political principles and apply them with some confidence. A citizen believed in states’ rights or a strong central federal government, in free trade or protective tariffs. Voters could easily imagine that joining one party or another would express their views and give their beliefs influence in government. For the average voter today, the tariff question is a complicated jumble of endless details. There are lists of fixed rates and ad valorem rates, based on value, for countless goods. Many of these goods have names the voter does not recognize, and the voter cannot judge the rates on them. Probably not one voter in a thousand even reads the dozens of pages listing these charges. Even after reading them, the voter would not be much wiser. The average person gives up on the task as hopeless. At election time, an appeal to some worn-out slogan may briefly stir voters into thinking they have convictions on an important subject. But these beliefs lack the qualities of beliefs about matters of personal concern. The exceptions are manufacturers and dealers with an interest at stake in one rate schedule or another. Industry is too complex and intricate.

Again the voter may by personal predilection or inherited belief incline towards magnifying the scope of local governments and inveigh against the evils of centralization. But he is vehemently sure of social evils attending the liquor traffic. He finds that the prohibitory law of his locality, township, county or state, is largely nullified by the importation of liquor from outside, made easy by modern means of transportation. So he becomes an advocate of a national amendment giving the central government power to regulate the manufacture and sale of intoxicating drinks. This brings in its train a necessary extension of federal officials and powers. Thus to-day, the south, the traditional home of the states’ rights doctrine, is the chief supporter of national prohibition and Volstead Act. It would not be possible to say how many voters have thought of the relation between their professed general principle and their special position on the liquor question: probably not many. On the other hand, life-long Hamiltonians, proclaimers of the dangers of particularistic local autonomy, are opposed to prohibition. Hence they play a tune ad hoc on the Jeffersonian flute. Gibes at inconsistency are, however, as irrelevant as they are easy. The social situation has been so changed by the factors of an industrial age that traditional general principles have little practical meaning. They persist as emotional cries rather than as reasoned ideas.

Again, a voter may favor expanding local government’s role because of personal preference or inherited beliefs. He may denounce the evils of centralization. But he is firmly convinced that the liquor trade causes social harm. He finds that liquor brought in from outside largely defeats prohibition in his locality, township, county, or state. Modern transportation makes these imports easy. So he supports a national amendment empowering the central government to regulate the manufacture and sale of intoxicating drinks. Such an amendment necessarily increases the number of federal officials and expands federal powers. Thus today, the south, traditionally the home of the states’ rights doctrine, chiefly supports national prohibition and the Volstead Act. No one could say how many voters have considered how their stated general principle relates to their position on liquor. Probably not many have. On the other hand, lifelong Hamiltonians, who warn of the dangers of separate, self-governing localities, oppose prohibition. So they play an ad hoc tune on the Jeffersonian flute. Yet mocking such inconsistency is as irrelevant as it is easy. The forces of the industrial age have changed social conditions so much that traditional general principles have little practical meaning. These principles survive as emotional rallying cries rather than reasoned ideas.

The same criss-crossing occurs with reference to regulation of railways. The opponent of a strong federal government finds, being a farmer or shipper, that rates are too high; he also finds that railways pay little attention to state boundaries, that lines once local are parts of vast systems and that state legislation and administration are ineffectual for his purpose. He calls for national regulation. Some partisan of the powers of the central government, on the other hand, being an investor in stocks and bonds, finds that his income is likely to be unfavorably affected by federal action and he promptly protests against the vexatious tendency to appeal to national aid, which has now become in his eyes a foolish paternalism. The developments of industry and commerce have so complicated affairs that a clear-cut, generally applicable, standard of judgment becomes practically impossible. The forest cannot be seen for the trees nor the trees for the forest.

The same crossing of positions occurs in railway regulation. An opponent of a strong federal government, who is a farmer or shipper, finds that rates are too high. He also finds that railways pay little attention to state boundaries. Lines that were once local are now parts of vast systems. State laws and administration cannot achieve his purpose. So he calls for national regulation. On the other hand, a supporter of central government power owns stocks and bonds. He finds that federal action is likely to reduce his income. So he promptly protests against the troublesome habit of turning to the national government for help. In his eyes, such help has now become foolish paternalism. Developments in industry and commerce have made affairs so complicated that a clear, generally applicable standard of judgment becomes practically impossible. The forest cannot be seen for the trees, nor the trees for the forest.

A striking example of the shift of the actual tenor of doctrines—that is, of their consequences in application—is presented in the history of the doctrine of Individualism, interpreted to signify a minimum of governmental “interference” with industry and trade. At the outset, it was held by “progressives,” by those who were protesting against the inherited régime of rules of law and administration. Vested interests, on the contrary, were mainly in favor of the old status. To-day the industrial-property régime being established, the doctrine is the intellectual bulwark of the standpatter and reactionary. He it is that now wants to be let alone, and who utters the war-cry of liberty for private industry, thrift, contract and their pecuniary fruit. In the United States the name “liberal,” as a party designation, is still employed to designate a progressive in political matters. In most other countries, the “liberal” party is that which represents established and vested commercial and financial interests in protest against governmental regulation. The irony of history is nowhere more evident than in the reversal of the practical meaning of the term “liberalism” in spite of a literal continuity of theory.

The history of Individualism offers a striking example of how doctrines change in their practical consequences. Here, Individualism means keeping governmental “interference” with industry and trade to a minimum. At first, the doctrine was held by “progressives,” who protested against the inherited system of laws and administration. Established interests, by contrast, mostly supported the old system. Today, with the system of industrial property established, the doctrine provides intellectual support for opponents of change and reactionaries. The reactionary now wants to be left alone. He raises the battle cry of freedom for private industry, thrift, contracts, and the financial rewards they bring. In the United States, the party label “liberal” is still used to describe someone progressive in politics. In most other countries, the “liberal” party represents established commercial and financial interests protesting against government regulation. Nowhere is history’s irony clearer than in this reversal of the practical meaning of “liberalism,” despite its unchanged theory.

Political apathy, which is a natural product of the discrepancies between actual practices and traditional machinery, ensues from inability to identify one’s self with definite issues. These are hard to find and locate in the vast complexities of current life. When traditional war-cries have lost their import in practical policies which are consonant with them, they are readily dismissed as bunk. Only habit and tradition, rather than reasoned conviction, together with a vague faith in doing one’s civic duty, send to the polls a considerable percentage of the fifty per cent. who still vote. And of them it is a common remark that a large number vote against something or somebody rather than for anything or anybody, except when powerful agencies create a scare. The old principles do not fit contemporary life as it is lived, however well they may have expressed the vital interests of the times in which they arose. Thousands feel their hollowness even if they cannot make their feeling articulate. The confusion which has resulted from the size and ramifications of social activities has rendered men skeptical of the efficiency of political action. Who is sufficient unto these things? Men feel that they are caught in the sweep of forces too vast to understand or master. Thought is brought to a standstill and action paralyzed. Even the specialist finds it difficult to trace the chain of “cause and effect”; and even he operates only after the event, looking backward, while meantime social activities have moved on to effect a new state of affairs.

Political apathy is a natural result of the gap between actual practices and traditional political structures. Apathy arises because people cannot connect themselves to specific issues. Such issues are hard to identify amid the vast complexity of modern life. When old political rallying cries no longer translate into policies that reflect them, people readily dismiss those slogans as nonsense. Only half the population still votes. A considerable share of those voters go to the polls from habit and tradition rather than reasoned conviction. A vague faith in doing their civic duty also helps bring them out. People commonly say that many of these voters vote against something or someone rather than for anything or anyone. The exception comes when powerful organizations stir up fear. The old principles do not fit contemporary life as people live it. Yet those principles may have expressed the vital interests of the times when they arose. Thousands sense how hollow those principles are, even if they cannot put that feeling into words. The scale and far-reaching connections of social activities have created confusion. That confusion has made people doubt whether political action can work. Who is capable of dealing with all this? People feel swept along by forces too vast to understand or control. Thought comes to a standstill, and action is paralyzed. Even specialists struggle to trace the chain of “cause and effect”. And even specialists work only after events have happened, looking backward. Meanwhile, social activities have moved on and created a new situation.

Similar considerations account for depreciation of the machinery of democratic political action in contrast with a rising appreciation of the need of expert administrators. For example, one of the by-products of the war was the investment of the government at Muscle Shoals for the manufacture of nitrogen, a chemical product of great importance to the farmer, as well as to armies in the field. The disposition and utilization of the plant have become matters of political dispute. The questions involved, questions of science, agriculture, industry and finance, are highly technical. How many voters are competent to measure all the factors involved in arriving at a decision? And if they were competent after studying it, how many have the time to devote to it? It is true that this matter does not come before the electorate directly, but the technical difficulty of the problem is reflected in the confused paralysis of the legislators whose business it is to deal with it. The confused situation is further complicated by the invention of other and cheaper methods of producing nitrates. Again, the rapid development of hydro-electric and super-power is a matter of public concern. In the long run, few questions exceed it in importance. Aside from business corporations which have a direct interest in it and some engineers, how many citizens have the data or the ability to secure and estimate the facts involved in its settlement? One further illustration: Two things which intimately concern a local public are street-railway transportation and the marketing of food products. But the history of municipal politics shows in most cases a flare-up of intense interest followed by a period of indifference. Results come home to the masses of the people. But the very size, heterogeneity and nobility of urban populations, the vast capital required, the technical character of the engineering problems involved, soon tire the attention of the average voter. I think the three instances are fairly typical. The ramification of the issues before the public is so wide and intricate, the technical matters involved are so specialized, the details are so many and so shifting, that the public cannot for any length of time identify and hold itself. It is not that there is no public, no large body of persons having a common interest in the consequences of social transactions. There is too much public, a public too diffused and scattered and too intricate in composition. And there are too many publics, for conjoint actions which have indirect, serious and enduring consequences are multitudinous beyond comparison, and each one of them crosses the others and generates its own group of persons especially affected with little to hold these different publics together in an integrated whole.

Similar considerations explain why people value the machinery of democratic politics less and expert administrators more. For example, one by-product of the war was the government’s investment in a nitrogen manufacturing plant at Muscle Shoals. Nitrogen is a chemical product of great importance to farmers as well as armies in the field. What to do with the plant and how to use it have become matters of political dispute. The questions involve science, agriculture, industry, and finance, and are highly technical. How many voters can weigh all the factors needed to reach a decision? And even if studying the problem would make voters capable of deciding, how many have time for that study? True, the matter does not come directly before the voters. But the problem’s technical difficulty is reflected in the confused paralysis of the legislators responsible for addressing it. The invention of other, cheaper methods of producing nitrates further complicates the situation. Similarly, the rapid development of hydroelectric power and super-power is a matter of public concern. In the long run, few questions are more important. Business corporations with a direct interest and some engineers have the necessary information. But how many other citizens have that information, or the ability to obtain and assess the relevant facts? Consider one further example: Streetcar transportation and the marketing of food products both closely concern local communities. But the history of municipal politics usually shows a burst of intense interest followed by indifference. The results directly affect most people. But urban populations are so large, diverse, and noble, the capital required so vast, and the engineering problems so technical. These factors soon exhaust the average voter’s attention. I think these three examples are fairly typical. Public issues have such wide-ranging, intricate connections, involve such specialized technical matters, and contain so many constantly changing details. As a result, the public cannot recognize itself as a group or stay together for long. The problem is not that no public exists. There is a large body of people with a shared interest in the consequences of social interactions. Rather, there is too much public, spread too widely and made up of too many different elements. And there are too many publics. Joint actions with indirect, serious, and lasting consequences are more numerous than anything else. Each action overlaps with others and creates its own group of especially affected people. Yet little holds these different publics together as a unified whole.

The picture is not complete without taking into account the many competitors with effective political interest. Political concerns have, of course, always had strong rivals. Persons have always been, for the most part, taken up with their more immediate work and play. The power of “bread and the circus” to divert attention from public matters is an old story. But now the industrial conditions which have enlarged, complicated and multiplied public interests have also multiplied and intensified formidable rivals to them. In countries where political life has been most successfully conducted in the past, there was a class specially set aside, as it were, who made political affairs their special business. Aristotle could not conceive a body of citizens competent to carry on politics consisting of others than those who had leisure, that is, of those who were relieved from all other preoccupations, especially that of making a livelihood. Political life, till recent times, bore out his belief. Those who took an active part in politics were “gentlemen,” persons who had had property and money long enough, and enough of it, so that its further pursuit was vulgar and beneath their station. To-day, so great and powerful is the sweep of the industrial current, the person of leisure is usually an idle person. Persons have their own business to attend to, and “business” has its own precise and specialized meaning. Politics thus tends to become just another “business”: the especial concern of bosses and the managers of the machine.

The picture is incomplete without considering the many things competing with active interest in politics. Political concerns have, of course, always had strong rivals. People have always been mostly occupied with their more immediate work and play. The power of “bread and the circus” to distract people from public matters is an old story. But industrial conditions have now expanded, complicated, and multiplied public interests. Those same conditions have also multiplied and strengthened powerful rivals for public attention. In countries where political life was most successful in the past, a class was, in effect, set apart. Its members made political affairs their special occupation. Aristotle could not imagine citizens capable of conducting politics unless they had leisure. That meant being free from all other concerns, especially earning a living. Until recent times, political life supported his belief. Those who actively participated in politics were “gentlemen.” They had owned enough property and money for so long that pursuing more was considered vulgar and beneath their standing. Today, the force of industry is so great and powerful that a person with leisure is usually simply idle. People have their own business to attend to, and “business” has its own precise, specialized meaning. Politics thus tends to become just another “business”: the special concern of political bosses and political machine managers.

The increase in the number, variety and cheapness of amusements represents a powerful diversion from political concern. The members of an inchoate public have too many ways of enjoyment, as well as of work, to give much thought to organization into an effective public. Man is a consuming and sportive animal as well as a political one. What is significant is that access to means of amusement has been rendered easy and cheap beyond anything known in the past. The present era of “prosperity” may not be enduring. But the movie, radio, cheap reading matter and motor car with all they stand for have come to stay. That they did not originate in deliberate desire to divert attention from political interests does not lessen their effectiveness in that direction. The political elements in the constitution of the human being, those having to do with citizenship, are crowded to one side. In most circles it is hard work to sustain conversation on a political theme; and once initiated, it is quickly dismissed with a yawn. Let there be introduced the topic of the mechanism and accomplishment of various makes of motor cars or the respective merits of actresses, and the dialogue goes on at a lively pace. The thing to be remembered is that this cheapened and multiplied access to amusement is the product of the machine age, intensified by the business tradition which causes provision of means for an enjoyable passing of time to be one of the most profitable of occupations.

Entertainment has become more plentiful, varied, and affordable, creating a powerful distraction from politics. Members of a public that has not yet fully formed have too many ways to enjoy themselves and work. They give little thought to organizing themselves into an effective public. Humans are consumers and pleasure-seekers as well as political beings. The important point is that entertainment has become easier and cheaper to access than ever before. The current era of “prosperity” may not last. But movies, radio, cheap reading material, and cars, along with everything they represent, are here to stay. These developments did not arise from a deliberate desire to distract people from political concerns. But their origins do not make them any less effective at doing so. The political side of human nature, concerned with citizenship, gets pushed aside. In most circles, keeping a political conversation going takes hard work. Once started, the conversation is quickly dismissed with a yawn. But bring up how different makes of cars work and perform, or the relative merits of actresses. Then the conversation moves along at a lively pace. We should remember that this wider, cheaper access to entertainment is a product of the machine age. The business tradition strengthens this trend by making the provision of enjoyable ways to pass time among the most profitable occupations.

One phase of the workings of a technological age, with its unprecedented command of natural energies, while it is implied in what has been said, needs explicit attention. The older publics, in being local communities, largely homogeneous with one another, were also, as the phrase goes, static. They changed, of course, but barring war, catastrophe and great migrations, the modifications were gradual. They proceeded slowly and were largely unperceived by those undergoing them. The newer forces have created mobile and fluctuating associational forms. The common complaints of the disintegration of family life may be placed in evidence. The movement from rural to urban assemblies is also the result and proof of this mobility. Nothing stays long put, not even the associations by which business and industry are carried on. The mania for motion and speed is a symptom of the restless instability of social life, and it operates to intensify the causes from which it springs. Steel replaces wood and masonry for buildings; ferro-concrete modifies steel, and some invention may work a further revolution. Muscle Shoals was acquired to produce nitrogen, and new methods have already made antiquated the supposed need of great accumulation of water power. Any selected illustration suffers because of the heterogeneous mass of cases to select from. How can a public be organized, we may ask, when literally it does not stay in place? Only deep issues or those which can be made to appear such can find a common denominator among all the shifting and unstable relationships. Attachment is a very different function of life from affection. Affections will continue as long as the heart beats. But attachment requires something more than organic causes. The very things which stimulate and intensify affections may undermine attachments. For these are bred in tranquil stability; they are nourished in constant relationships. Acceleration of mobility disturbs them at their root. And without abiding attachments associations are too shifting and shaken to permit a public readily to locate and identify itself.

One aspect of life in a technological age needs direct attention, though the discussion so far has implied it. This age has unprecedented control over natural energies. The older publics were local communities, largely alike, and were also, as the saying goes, static. These communities changed, of course, but except for war, catastrophe, and major migrations, the changes were gradual. Change happened slowly, and those living through it largely failed to notice. The newer forces have created shifting and unstable forms of association. The common complaints about the breakdown of family life may serve as evidence. The movement from rural to urban communities is also a result and proof of this mobility. Nothing stays in place for long, not even the associations through which business and industry operate. The obsession with movement and speed is a symptom of the restless instability of social life. This obsession also strengthens the causes that produce it. Steel replaces wood and masonry in buildings. Reinforced concrete changes the use of steel, and some invention may bring another revolution. Muscle Shoals was acquired to produce nitrogen. Yet new methods have already made the supposed need to harness vast amounts of water power outdated. Any single example falls short because there are so many different cases to choose from. How, we may ask, can a public organize when it literally does not stay in place? Only fundamental issues, or issues made to seem fundamental, can provide common ground across all these shifting, unstable relationships. Attachment plays a very different role in life from affection. Affections will continue as long as the heart beats. But attachment requires more than biological causes. The very things that stir and strengthen affections may weaken attachments. Attachments grow in peaceful stability and are sustained by steady relationships. Increasing mobility disrupts attachments at their roots. And without lasting attachments, associations are too unstable and unsettled for a public to find and recognize itself easily.

The new era of human relationships in which we live is one marked by mass production for remote markets, by cable and telephone, by cheap printing, by railway and steam navigation. Only geographically did Columbus discover a new world. The actual new world has been generated in the last hundred years. Steam and electricity have done more to alter the conditions under which men associate together than all the agencies which affected human relationships before our time. There are those who lay the blame for all the evils of our lives on steam, electricity and machinery. It is always convenient to have a devil as well as a savior to bear the responsibilities of humanity. In reality, the trouble springs rather from the ideas and absence of ideas in connection with which technological factors operate. Mental and moral beliefs and ideals change more slowly than outward conditions. If the ideals associated with the higher life of our cultural past have been impaired, the fault is primarily with them. Ideals and standards formed without regard to the means by which they are to be achieved and incarnated in flesh are bound to be thin and wavering. Since the aims, desires and purposes created by a machine age do not connect with tradition, there are two sets of rival ideals, and those which have actual instrumentalities at their disposal have the advantage. Because the two are rivals and because the older ones retain their glamor and sentimental prestige in literature and religion, the newer ones are perforce harsh and narrow. For the older symbols of ideal life still engage thought and command loyalty. Conditions have changed, but every aspect of life, from religion and education to property and trade, shows that nothing approaching a transformation has taken place in ideas and ideals. Symbols control sentiment and thought, and the new age has no symbols consonant with its activities. Intellectual instrumentalities for the formation of an organized public are more inadequate than its overt means. The ties which hold men together in action are numerous, tough and subtle. But they are invisible and intangible. We have the physical tools of communication as never before. The thoughts and aspirations congruous with them are not communicated, and hence are not common. Without such communication the public will remain shadowy and formless, seeking spasmodically for itself, but seizing and holding its shadow rather than its substance. Till the Great Society is converted into a Great Community, the Public will remain in eclipse. Communication can alone create a great community. Our Babel is not one of tongues but of the signs and symbols without which shared experience is impossible.

We live in a new era of human relationships, shaped by mass production for distant markets. Cable and telephone, cheap printing, railways, and steam navigation also mark this era. Columbus discovered a new world only in a geographical sense. The truly new world has emerged in the last hundred years. Steam and electricity have changed the conditions of human association more than all earlier forces that shaped human relationships. Some people blame steam, electricity, and machinery for all the evils in our lives. It is always convenient to have a devil, as well as a savior, to bear humanity’s responsibilities. In reality, the trouble comes more from the ideas, and the lack of ideas, that guide how technology operates. Intellectual and moral beliefs and ideals change more slowly than external conditions. If the ideals associated with the higher life of our cultural past have weakened, those ideals are primarily at fault. Ideals and standards are bound to be weak and unstable when formed without considering how to achieve and embody them. The aims, desires, and purposes created by the machine age have no connection with tradition. As a result, two sets of ideals compete, and the ideals with practical means at their disposal have the advantage. Because these ideals compete, and because older ideals retain their glamour and emotional prestige in literature and religion, newer ideals are necessarily harsh and narrow. For the older symbols of an ideal life still occupy people’s thoughts and command their loyalty. Conditions have changed. But every part of life, from religion and education to property and trade, shows no comparable transformation in ideas and ideals. Symbols guide feelings and thought, and the new age has no symbols suited to its activities. The intellectual tools for forming an organized public are even less adequate than the practical means available. The ties that bind people together in action are many, strong, and subtle. But these ties are invisible and intangible. We have physical tools for communication as never before. Yet thoughts and aspirations suited to those tools are not communicated, and therefore are not shared. Without such communication, the public will remain vague and shapeless. The public will search for itself in fits and starts, but grasp and hold its shadow rather than its substance. Until the Great Society becomes a Great Community, the Public will remain in eclipse. Only communication can create a great community. Our Babel is not a confusion of languages. It is a confusion of the signs and symbols without which shared experience is impossible.