Alexis de Tocqueville claimed that democracies tend to be averse to having persons of talent in positions of political leadership. The citizens of a democracy are more often fired with personal ambition than are people in non-democracies because the path to success is less impeded for them, and for this reason they tend to look with jealous disapproval on those who are more talented and successful than themselves. Also, the smartest people loath and avoid politics anyway, and in a democracy they can flee from their political obligations more easily than they can in traditional societies.
Moreover, democracy not only lacks that soundness of judgment which is necessary to select men really deserving of their confidence, but often have not the desire or the inclination to find them out. It cannot be denied that democratic institutions strongly tend to promote the feeling of envy in the human heart; not so much because they afford to everyone the means of rising to the same level with others as because those means perpetually disappoint the persons who employ them. Democratic institutions awaken and foster a passion for equality which they can never entirely satisfy. This complete equality eludes the grasp of the people at the very moment when they think they have grasped it, and "flies," as Pascal says, "with an eternal flight; the people are excited in the pursuit of an advantage, which is more precious because it is not sufficiently remote to be unknown or sufficiently near to be enjoyed. The lower orders are agitated by the chance of success, they are irritated by its uncertainty; and they pass from the enthusiasm of pursuit to the exhaustion of ill success, and lastly to the acrimony of disappointment. Whatever transcends their own limitations appears to be an obstacle to their desires, and there is no superiority, however legitimate it may be, which is not irksome in their sight.
It has been supposed that the secret instinct which leads the lower orders to remove their superiors as much as possible from the direction of public affairs is peculiar to France. This is an error, however; the instinct to which I allude is not French, it is democratic; it may have been heightened by peculiar political circumstances, but it owes its origin to a higher cause.
In the United States the people do not hate the higher classes of society, but are not favorably inclined towards them and carefully exclude them from the exercise of authority. They do not fear distinguished talents, but are rarely fond of them. In general, everyone who rises without their aid seldom obtains their favor.
While the natural instincts of democracy induce the people to reject distinguished citizens as their rulers, an instinct not less strong induces able men to retire from the political arena, in which it is so difficult to retain their independence, or to advance without becoming servile. This opinion has been candidly expressed by Chancellor Kent, who says, in speaking with high praise of that part of the Constitution which empowers the executive to nominate the judges: "It is indeed probable that the men who are best fitted to discharge the duties of this high office would have too much reserve in their manners, and too much austerity in their principles, for them to be returned by the majority at an election where universal suffrage is adopted."1 Such were the opinions which were printed without contradiction in America in the year 1830!
I hold it to be sufficiently demonstrated that universal suffrage is by no means a guarantee of the wisdom of the popular choice. Whatever its advantages may be, this is not one of them.
Tocqueville visited the US Congress and later wrote that in the US Senate one finds the noblest and wisest men, whereas the US House is populated by the least talented men. Tocqueville claims that the Senate contains excellent men because they were in his day selected not by the popular vote but by state legislatures. Not mentioned here is the observation that the populist House (direct democracy) is identified with patronage because members are required to run for office every two years and their constituents pay heed to federal funding, whereas the elitist Senate (representative democracy, or a republic) is linked with rational discussion and debate over the "big picture" issues of the day because their elections are less frequent and less contested, affording them the luxury of careful deliberation.
In New England, where education and liberty are the daughters of morality and religion, where society has acquired age and stability enough to enable it to form principles and hold fixed habits, the common people are accustomed to respect intellectual and moral superiority and to submit to it without complaint, although they set at naught all those privileges which wealth and birth have introduced among mankind. In New England, consequently, the democracy makes a more judicious choice than it does elsewhere.
But as we descend towards the South, to those states in which the constitution of society is more recent and less strong, where instruction is less general and the principles of morality, religion, and liberty are less happily combined, we perceive that talents and virtues become more rare among those who are in authority.
Lastly, when we arrive at the new Southwestern states, in which the constitution of society dates but from yesterday and presents only an agglomeration of adventurers and speculators, we are amazed at the persons who are invested with public authority, and we are led to ask by what force, independent of legislation and of the men who direct it, the state can be protected and society be made to flourish.
There are certain laws of a democratic nature which contribute, nevertheless, to correct in some measure these dangerous tendencies of democracy. On entering the House of Representatives at Washington, one is struck by the vulgar demeanor of that great assembly. Often there is not a distinguished man in the whole number. Its members are almost all obscure individuals, whose names bring no associations to mind. They are mostly village lawyers, men in trade, or even persons belonging to the lower classes of society. In a country in which education is very general, it is said that the representatives of the people do not always know how to write correctly.
At a few yards' distance is the door of the Senate, which contains within a small space a large proportion of the celebrated men of America. Scarcely an individual is to be seen in it who has not had an active and illustrious career: the Senate is composed of eloquent advocates, distinguished generals, wise magistrates, and statesmen of note, whose arguments would do honor to the most remarkable parliamentary debates of Europe.
How comes this strange contrast, and why are the ablest citizens found in one assembly rather than in the other? Why is the former body remarkable for its vulgar elements, while the latter seems to enjoy a monopoly of intelligence and talent? Both of these assemblies emanate from the people; both are chosen by universal suffrage; and no voice has hitherto been heard to assert in America that the Senate is hostile to the interests of the people. From what cause, then, does so startling a difference arise? The only reason which appears to me adequately to account for it is that the House of Representatives is elected by the people directly, while the Senate is elected by elected bodies. The whole body of the citizens name the legislature of each state, and the Federal Constitution converts these legislatures into so many electoral bodies, which return the members of the Senate. The Senators are elected by an indirect application of the popular vote; for the legislatures which appoint them are not aristocratic or privileged bodies, that elect in their own right, but they are chosen by the totality of the citizens; they are generally elected every year, and enough new members may be chosen every year to determine the senatorial appointments. But this transmission of the popular authority through an assembly of chosen men operates an important change in it by refining its discretion and improving its choice. Men who are chosen in this manner accurately represent the majority of the nation which governs them; but they represent only the elevated thoughts that are current in the community and the generous propensities that prompt its nobler actions rather than the petty passions that disturb or the vices that disgrace it.
The time must come when the American republics will be obliged more frequently to introduce the plan of election by an elected body into their system of representation or run the risk of perishing miserably among the shoals of democracy.
Here is a snippet of the 1854 memoir of US Senator Thomas Hart Benton that objects to Tocqueville's perspective, the author defending the ideal of direct democracy that is embodied in the House. Benton points out that the Senate was mostly comprised of former members of the House, so there is no real demographic difference between the two chambers aside from age. Benton's is a populist perspective, and very typical of the rural southeastern US.
Perhaps both perspectives are valid. There does seem to be a difference in character between the two chambers that reflects a dichotomy in what is meant by "democracy" -- the ideal of public rational discourse on public decision-making versus the reality of patronage and the "tyranny of the majority". But actual politicians are mixed in character. For example, the Presidents Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt both manifested the populist image of the frontiersman, but their political agendas represented a repudiation of populism.
The most intelligent president in American history might have been John Quincy Adams, and he supposedly played a crucial role in early American history. But he is not a greatly loved or even widely known figure because he was perhaps too smart for Americans (and too principled). Hence the fate of Al Gore, always the bridesmaid but never the bride. He always sounded like he was giving a lecture, and most people prefer entertainment.
The typical congressman probably exhibits a mixed record of patronage and principled legislation. There might be the occasional outlier like Alaskan Senator Ted Stevens, who was seemingly exclusively interested in patronage for his state or in legislation concerning his state, without any greater concern for or understanding of policy. To be fair, mid-century politicians like Stevens and Bob Dole saw themselves not in ideological terms, but as professionals who, like civil servants, engaged in the scutwork of making the government function; the ideological aspect of party affiliation during this time was largely illusory.
The Rural Working Class in particular, despite their resentment of government, might be drawn to a revered warrior patriarch who promises to protect them and shower them with patronage. Hence the paradox of Trump's strongest supporters, who loath entitlements and government largess -- yet demand precisely that for themselves.
There is a third kind of politician -- the fixer. One might think of the Chicago alderman who knows how to pull strings behind the scenes, but this figure is not necessarily an elected official, but rather a political operative who works in the shadows. This role was highlighted in the 2012 movie "Lincoln". Lincoln wanted to ban slavery just before the Civil War came to a close, so he mobilized fixers who would bribe congressmen with the promise of future federal jobs if they voted to abolish slavery. A contemporary image of a classic fixer is the TV character Ray Donovan, a man with roots in east-coast organized crime who thrives in California as a law firm's operative solving the secret problems of the rich and famous.
It would be strange to have a fixer as a congressman or governor, but it might happen now and then. Richard Nixon always seemed more like a shadowy fixer ("tricky Dick") than either a patron or an esteemed statesman, although he later presented himself as the latter.
