Crowds

1896

Kitchener
2001
Gustave Le Bon, The Crowd, 2
Table of Contents
Preface. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
Introduction. The Era of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Book I. The Mind of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Chapter I. General Characteristics of Crowds. — Psychological Law of
Their Mental Unity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Chapter II. The Sentiments and Morality of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Chapter III. The Ideas, Reasoning Power, and Imagination of Crowds.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Chapter IV. A Religious Shape Assumed by All the Convictions of
Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Book II. The Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Chapter I. Remote Factors of the Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Chapter II. The Immediate Factors of the Opinions of Crowds. . . . . . . . 59
Chapter III. The Leaders of Crowds and Their Means of Persuasion.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
Chapter IV. Limitations of the Variability of the Beliefs and Opinions of
Crowds.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Book III. The Classification and Description of the Different Kinds of Crowds.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Chapter I. The Classification of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Chapter II. Crowds Termed Criminal Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
Chapter III. Criminal Juries. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Chapter IV. Electoral Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Chapter V. Parliamentary Assemblies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Notes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
Preface.
The following work is devoted to an account of the characteristics of crowds.
The whole of the common characteristics with which heredity endows the
individuals of a race constitute the genius of the race. When, however, a
certain number of these individuals are gathered together in a crowd for
purposes of action, observation proves that, from the mere fact of their being
assembled, there result certain new psychological characteristics, which are
added to the racial characteristics and differ from them at times to a very
considerable degree.
Organised crowds have always played an important part in the life of peoples,
but this part has never been of such moment as at present. The substitution of
the unconscious action of crowds for the conscious activity of individuals is
one of the principal characteristics of the present age.
I have endeavoured to examine the difficult problem presented by crowds in
a purely scientific manner — that is, by making an effort to proceed with
method, and without being influenced by opinions, theories, and doctrines.
This, I believe, is the only mode of arriving at the discovery of some few
particles of truth, especially when dealing, as is the case here, with a question
that is the subject of impassioned controversy. A man of science bent on
verifying a phenomenon is not called upon to concern himself with the
interests his verifications may hurt. In a recent publication an eminent thinker,
M. Goblet d’Alviela, made the remark that, belonging to none of the
contemporary schools, I am occasionally found in opposition of sundry of the
conclusions of all of them. I hope this new work will merit a similar observa-
tion. To belong to a school is necessarily to espouse its prejudices and
preconceived opinions.
Still I should explain to the reader why he will find me draw conclusions
from my investigations which it might be thought at first sight they do not
bear; why, for instance, after noting the extreme mental inferiority of crowds,
picked assemblies included, I yet affirm it would be dangerous to meddle with
their organisation, notwithstanding this inferiority.
The reason is, that the most attentive observation of the facts of history has
invariably demonstrated to me that social organisms being every whit as

complicated as those of all beings, it is in no wise in our power to force them
to undergo on a sudden far-reaching transformations. Nature has recourse at
times to radical measures, but never after our fashion, which explains how it
is that nothing is more fatal to a people than the mania for great reforms,
however excellent these reforms may appear theoretically. They would only
be useful were it possible to change instantaneously the genius of nations. This
power, however, is only possessed by time. Men are ruled by ideas, sentiments,
and customs — matters which are of the essence of ourselves. Institutions and
laws are the outward manifestation of our character, the expression of its
needs. Being its outcome, institutions and laws cannot change this character.
The study of social phenomena cannot be separated from that of the peoples
among whom they have come into existence. From the philosophic point of
view these phenomena may have an absolute value; in practice they have only
a relative value.
It is necessary, in consequence, when studying a social phenomenon, to
consider it successively under two very different aspects. It will then be seen
that the teachings of pure reason are very often contrary to those of practical
reason. There are scarcely any data, even physical, to which this distinction is
not applicable. From the point of view of absolute truth a cube or a circle are
invariable geometrical figures, rigorously defined by certain formulas. From
the point of view of the impression they make on our eye these geometrical
figures may assume very varied shapes. By perspective the cube may be
transformed into a pyramid or a square, the circle into an ellipse or a straight
line. Moreover, the consideration of these fictitious shapes is far more
important than that of the real shapes, for it is they and they alone that we see
and that can be reproduced by photography or in pictures. In certain cases there
is more truth in the unreal than in the real. To present objects with their exact
geometrical forms would be to distort nature and render it unrecognisable. If
we imagine a world whose inhabitants could only copy or photograph objects,
but were unable to touch them, it would be very difficult for such persons to
attain to an exact idea of their form. Moreover, the knowledge of this form,
accessible only to a small number of learned men, would present but a very
minor interest.
The philosopher who studies social phenomena should bear in mind that side
by side with their theoretical value they possess a practical value, and that this
latter, so far as the evolution of civilisation is concerned, is alone of impor-
tance. The recognition of this fact should render him very circumspect with
regard to the conclusions that logic would seem at first to enforce upon him.
There are other motives that dictate to him a like reserve. The complexity of
social facts is such, that it is impossible to grasp them as a whole and to
foresee the effects of their reciprocal influence. It seems, too, that behind the
visible facts are hidden at times thousands of invisible causes. Visible social
phenomena appear to be the result of an immense, unconscious working, that
as a rule is beyond the reach of our analysis. Perceptible phenomena may be
compared to the waves, which are the expression on the surface of the ocean
of deep-lying disturbances of which we know nothing. So far as the majority
of their acts are considered, crowds display a singularly inferior mentality; yet
there are other acts in which they appear to be guided by those mysterious
forces which the ancients denominated destiny, nature, or providence, which
we call the voices of the dead, and whose power it is impossible to overlook,
although we ignore their essence. It would seem, at times, as if there were
latent forces in the inner being of nations which serve to guide them. What, for
instance, can be more complicated, more logical, more marvellous than a
language? Yet whence can this admirably organised production have arisen,
except it be the outcome of the unconscious genius of crowds? The most
learned academics, the most esteemed grammarians can do no more than note
down the laws that govern languages; they would be utterly incapable of
creating them. Even with respect to the ideas of great men are we certain that
they are exclusively the offspring of their brains? No doubt such ideas are
always created by solitary minds, but is it not the genius of crowds that has
furnished the thousands of grains of dust forming the soil in which they have
sprung up?
Crowds, doubtless, are always unconscious, but this very unconsciousness is
perhaps one of the secrets of their strength. In the natural world beings
exclusively governed by instinct accomplish acts whose marvellous complexity
astounds us. Reason is an attribute of humanity of too recent date and still too
imperfect to reveal to us the laws of the unconscious, and still more to take its
place. The part played by the unconscious in all our acts is immense, and that
played by reason very small. The unconscious acts like a force still unknown.
If we wish, then, to remain within the narrow but safe limits within which
science can attain to knowledge, and not to wander in the domain of vague
conjecture and vain hypothesis, all we must do is simply to take note of such
phenomena as are accessible to us, and confine ourselves to their consider-
ation. Every conclusion drawn from our observation is, as a rule, premature,
for behind the phenomena which we see clearly are other phenomena that we
see indistinctly, and perhaps behind these latter, yet others which we do not see
at all.
Introduction. The Era of Crowds.

The great upheavals which precede changes of civilisations such as the fall
of the Roman Empire and the foundation of the Arabian Empire, seem at first
sight determined more especially by political transformations, foreign
invasion, or the overthrow of dynasties. But a more attentive study of these
events shows that behind their apparent causes the real cause is generally seen
to be a profound modification in the ideas of the peoples. The true historical
upheavals are not those which astonish us by their grandeur and violence. The
only important changes whence the renewal of civilisations results, affect
ideas, conceptions, and beliefs. The memorable events of history are the
visible effects of the invisible changes of human thought. The reason these
great events are so rare is that there is nothing so stable in a race as the
inherited groundwork of its thoughts.
The present epoch is one of these critical moments in which the thought of
mankind is undergoing a process of transformation.
Two fundamental factors are at the base of this transformation. The first is
the destruction of those religious, political, and social beliefs in which all the
elements of our civilisation are rooted. The second is the creation of entirely
new conditions of existence and thought as the result of modern scientific and
industrial discoveries.
The ideas of the past, although half destroyed, being still very powerful, and
the ideas which are to replace them being still in process of formation, the
modern age represents a period of transition and anarchy.
It is not easy to say as yet what will one day be evolved from this necessarily
somewhat chaotic period. What will be the fundamental ideas on which the
societies that are to succeed our own will be built up? We do not at present
know. Still it is already clear that on whatever lines the societies of the future
are organised, they will have to count with a new power, with the last
surviving sovereign force of modern times, the power of crowds. On the ruins
of so many ideas formerly considered beyond discussion, and to-day decayed
or decaying, of so many sources of authority that successive revolutions have
destroyed, this power, which alone has arisen in their stead, seems soon
destined to absorb the others. While all our ancient beliefs are tottering and
disappearing, while the old pillars of society are giving way one by one, the
power of the crowd is the only force that nothing menaces, and of which the
prestige is continually on the increase. The age we are about to enter will in
truth be the Era of Crowds.
Scarcely a century ago the traditional policy of European states and the
rivalries of sovereigns were the principal factors that shaped events. The
opinion of the masses scarcely counted, and most frequently indeed did not
count at all. To-day it is the traditions which used to obtain in politics, and the
individual tendencies and rivalries of rulers which do not count; while, on the
contrary, the voice of the masses has become preponderant. It is this voice that
dictates their conduct to kings, whose endeavour is to take note of its
utterances. The destinies of nations are elaborated at present in the heart of the
masses, and no longer in the councils of princes.
The entry of the popular classes into political life — that is to say, in reality,
their progressive transformation into governing classes — is one of the most
striking characteristics of our epoch of transition. The introduction of universal
suffrage, which exercised for a long time but little influence, is not, as might
be thought, the distinguishing feature of this transference of political power.
The progressive growth of the power of the masses took place at first by the
propagation of certain ideas, which have slowly implanted themselves in
men’s minds, and afterwards by the gradual association of individuals bent on
bringing about the realisation of theoretical conceptions. It is by association
that crowds have come to procure ideas with respect to their interests which
are very clearly defined if not particularly just, and have arrived at a conscious-
ness of their strength. The masses are founding syndicates before which the
authorities capitulate one after the other; they are also founding labour unions,
which in spite of all economic laws tend to regulate the conditions of labour
and wages. They return to assemblies in which the Government is vested,

representatives utterly lacking initiative and independence, and reduced most
often to nothing else than the spokesmen of the committees that have chosen
them.
To-day the claims of the masses are becoming more and more sharply
defined, and amount to nothing less than a determination to utterly destroy
society as it now exists, with a view to making it hark back to that primitive
communism which was the normal condition of all human groups before the
dawn of civilisation. Limitations of the hours of labour, the nationalisation of
mines, railways, factories, and the soil, the equal distribution of all products,
the elimination of all the upper classes for the benefit of the popular classes,
&c., such are these claims.
Little adapted to reasoning, crowds, on the contrary, are quick to act. As the
result of their present organisation their strength has become immense. The
dogmas whose birth we are witnessing will soon have the force of the old
dogmas; that is to say, the tyrannical and sovereign force of being above
discussion. The divine right of the masses is about to replace the divine right
of kings.
The writers who enjoy the favour of our middle classes, those who best
represent their rather narrow ideas, their somewhat prescribed views, their
rather superficial scepticism, and their at times somewhat excessive egoism,
display profound alarm at this new power which they see growing; and to
combat the disorder in men’s minds they are addressing despairing appeals to
those moral forces of the Church for which they formerly professed so much
disdain. They talk to us of the bankruptcy of science, go back in penitence to
Rome, and remind us of the teachings of revealed truth. These new converts
forget that it is too late. Had they been really touched by grace, a like operation
could not have the same influence on minds less concerned with the preoccu-
pations which beset these recent adherents to religion. The masses repudiate
to-day the gods which their admonishers repudiated yesterday and helped to
destroy. There is no power, Divine or human, that can oblige a stream to flow
back to its source.
There has been no bankruptcy of science, and science has had no share in the
present intellectual anarchy, nor in the making of the new power which is
springing up in the midst of this anarchy. Science promised us truth, or at least
a knowledge of such relations as our intelligence can seize: it never promised
us peace or happiness. Sovereignly indifferent to our feelings, it is deaf to our
lamentations. It is for us to endeavour to live with science, since nothing can
bring back the illusions it has destroyed.
Universal symptoms, visible in all nations, show us the rapid growth of the
power of crowds, and do not admit of our supposing that it is destined to cease
growing at an early date. Whatever fate it may reserve for us, we shall have to
submit to it. All reasoning against it is a mere vain war of words. Certainly it
is possible that the advent to power of the masses marks one of the last stages
of Western civilisation, a complete return to those periods of confused anarchy
which seem always destined to precede the birth of every new society. But may
this result be prevented?
Up to now these thoroughgoing destructions of a worn-out civilisation have
constituted the most obvious task of the masses. It is not indeed to-day merely
that this can be traced. History tells us, that from the moment when the moral
forces on which a civilisation rested have lost their strength, its final
dissolution is brought about by those unconscious and brutal crowds known,
justifiably enough, as barbarians. Civilisations as yet have only been created
and directed by a small intellectual aristocracy, never by crowds. Crowds are
only powerful for destruction. Their rule is always tantamount to a barbarian
phase. A civilisation involves fixed rules, discipline, a passing from the
instinctive to the rational state, forethought for the future, an elevated degree
of culture — all of them conditions that crowds, left to themselves, have
invariably shown themselves incapable of realising. In consequence of the
purely destructive nature of their power crowds act like those microbes which
hasten the dissolution of enfeebled or dead bodies. When the structure of a
civilisation is rotten, it is always the masses that bring about its downfall. It is
at such a juncture that their chief mission is plainly visible, and that for a while
the philosophy of number seems the only philosophy of history.
Is the same fate in store for our civilisation? There is ground to fear that this
is the case, but we are not as yet in a position to be certain of it.
However this may be, we are bound to resign ourselves to the reign of the
masses, since want of foresight has in succession overthrown all the barriers
that might have kept the crowd in check.
We have a very slight knowledge of these crowds which are beginning to be
the object of so much discussion. Professional students of psychology, having
lived far from them, have always ignored them, and when, as of late, they have
turned their attention in this direction it has only been to consider the crimes
crowds are capable of committing. Without a doubt criminal crowds exist, but
virtuous and heroic crowds, and crowds of many other kinds, are also to be met
with. The crimes of crowds only constitute a particular phase of their
psychology. The mental constitution of crowds is not to be learnt merely by a
study of their crimes, any more than that of an individual by a mere description
of his vices.
However, in point of fact, all the world’s masters, all the founders of
religions or empires, the apostles of all beliefs, eminent statesmen, and, in a
more modest sphere, the mere chiefs of small groups of men have always been
unconscious psychologists, possessed of an instinctive and often very sure
knowledge of the character of crowds, and it is their accurate knowledge of
this character that has enabled them to so easily establish their mastery.
Napoleon had a marvellous insight into the psychology of the masses of the
country over which he reigned, but he, at times, completely misunderstood the
psychology of crowds belonging to other races;1 and it is because he thus
misunderstood it that he engaged in Spain, and notably in Russia, in conflicts
in which his power received blows which were destined within a brief space
of time to ruin it. A knowledge of the psychology of crowds is to-day the last
resource of the statesman who wishes not to govern them — that is becoming
a very difficult matter — but at any rate not to be too much governed by them.
It is only by obtaining some sort of insight into the psychology of crowds that
it can be understood how slight is the action upon them of laws and institu-
tions, how powerless they are to hold any opinions other than those which are
imposed upon them, and that it is not with rules based on theories of pure
equity that they are to be led, but by seeking what produces an impression on
them and what seduces them. For instance, should a legislator, wishing to
impose a new tax, choose that which would be theoretically the most just? By
no means. In practice the most unjust may be the best for the masses. Should
it at the same time be the least obvious, and apparently the least burdensome,
it will be the most easily tolerated. It is for this reason that an indirect tax,
however exorbitant it be, will always be accepted by the crowd, because, being
paid daily in fractions of a farthing on objects of consumption, it will not
interfere with the habits of the crowd, and will pass unperceived. Replace it by
a proportional tax on wages or income of any other kind, to be paid in a lump

sum, and were this new imposition theoretically ten times less burdensome
than the other, it would give rise to unanimous protest. This arises from the
fact that a sum relatively high, which will appear immense, and will in
consequence strike the imagination, has been substituted for the unperceived
fractions of a farthing. The new tax would only appear light had it been saved
farthing by farthing, but this economic proceeding involves an amount of
foresight of which the masses are incapable.
The example which precedes is of the simplest. Its appositeness will be easily
perceived. It did not escape the attention of such a psychologist as Napoleon,
but our modern legislators, ignorant as they are of the characteristics of a
crowd, are unable to appreciate it. Experience has not taught them as yet to a
sufficient degree that men never shape their conduct upon the teaching of pure
reason.
Many other practical applications might be made of the psychology of
crowds. A knowledge of this science throws the most vivid light on a great
number of historical and economic phenomena totally incomprehensible
without it. I shall have occasion to show that the reason why the most
remarkable of modern historians, Taine, has at times so imperfectly understood
the events of the great French Revolution is, that it never occurred to him to
study the genius of crowds. He took as his guide in the study of this compli-
cated period the descriptive method resorted to by naturalists; but the moral
forces are almost absent in the case of the phenomena which naturalists have
to study. Yet it is precisely these forces that constitute the true mainsprings of
history.
In consequence, merely looked at from its practical side, the study of the
psychology of crowds deserved to be attempted. Were its interest that resulting
from pure curiosity only, it would still merit attention. It is as interesting to
decipher the motives of the actions of men as to determine the characteristics
of a mineral or a plant. Our study of the genius of crowds can merely be a brief
synthesis, a simple summary of our investigations. Nothing more must be
demanded of it than a few suggestive views. Others will work the ground more
thoroughly. To-day we only touch the surface of a still almost virgin soil.
Book I. The Mind of Crowds.

Chapter I. General Characteristics of Crowds. — Psychological Law
of Their Mental Unity.
In its ordinary sense the word “crowd” means a gathering of individuals of
whatever nationality, profession, or sex, and whatever be the chances that have
brought them together. From the psychological point of view the expression
“crowd” assumes quite a different signification. Under certain given
circumstances, and only under those circumstances, an agglomeration of men
presents new characteristics very different from those of the individuals
composing it. The sentiments and ideas of all the persons in the gathering take
one and the same direction, and their conscious personality vanishes. A
collective mind is formed, doubtless transitory, but presenting very clearly
defined characteristics. The gathering has thus become what, in the absence of
a better expression, I will call an organised crowd, or, if the term is considered
preferable, a psychological crowd. It forms a single being, and is subjected to
the law of the mental unity of crowds.
It is evident that it is not by the mere fact of a number of individuals finding
themselves accidentally side by side that they acquire the character of an
organised crowd. A thousand individuals accidentally gathered in a public
place without any determined object in no way constitute a crowd from the
psychological point of view. To acquire the special characteristics of such a
crowd, the influence is necessary of certain predisposing causes of which we
shall have to determine the nature.
The disappearance of conscious personality and the turning of feelings and
thoughts in a definite direction, which are the primary characteristics of a
crowd about to become organised, do not always involve the simultaneous
presence of a number of individuals on one spot. Thousands of isolated
individuals may acquire at certain moments, and under the influence of certain
violent emotions — such, for example, as a great national event — the
characteristics of a psychological crowd. It will be sufficient in that case that

a mere chance should bring them together for their acts to at once assume the
characteristics peculiar to the acts of a crowd. At certain moments half a dozen
men might constitute a psychological crowd, which may not happen in the case
of hundreds of men gathered together by accident. On the other hand, an entire
nation, though there may be no visible agglomeration, may become a crowd
under the action of certain influences.
A psychological crowd once constituted, it acquires certain provisional but
determinable general characteristics. To these general characteristics there are
adjoined particular characteristics which vary according to the elements of
which the crowd is composed, and may modify its mental constitution.
Psychological crowds, then, are susceptible of classification; and when we
come to occupy ourselves with this matter, we shall see that a heterogeneous
crowd — that is, a crowd composed of dissimilar elements — presents certain
characteristics in common with homogeneous crowds — that is, with crowds
composed of elements more or less akin (sects, castes, and classes) — and side
by side with these common characteristics particularities which permit of the
two kinds of crowds being differentiated.
But before occupying ourselves with the different categories of crowds, we
must first of all examine the characteristics common to them all. We shall set
to work like the naturalist, who begins by describing the general characteristics
common to all the members of a family before concerning himself with the
particular characteristics which allow the differentiation of the genera and
species that the family includes.
It is not easy to describe the mind of crowds with exactness, because its
organisation varies not only according to race and composition, but also
according to the nature and intensity of the exciting causes to which crowds
are subjected. The same difficulty, however, presents itself in the psychologi-
cal study of an individual. It is only in novels that individuals are found to
traverse their whole life with an unvarying character. It is only the uniformity
of the environment that creates the apparent uniformity of characters. I have
shown elsewhere that all mental constitutions contain possibilities of character
which may be manifested in consequence of a sudden change of environment.
This explains how it was that among the most savage members of the French
Convention were to be found inoffensive citizens who, under ordinary
circumstances, would have been peaceable notaries or virtuous magistrates.

The storm past, they resumed their normal character of quiet, law-abiding
citizens. Napoleon found amongst them his most docile servants.
It being impossible to study here all the successive degrees of organisation
of crowds, we shall concern ourselves more especially with such crowds as
have attained to the phase of complete organisation. In this way we shall see
what crowds may become, but not what they invariably are. It is only in this
advanced phase of organisation that certain new and special characteristics are
superposed on the unvarying and dominant character of the race; then takes
place that turning already alluded to of all the feelings and thoughts of the
collectivity in an identical direction. It is only under such circumstances, too,
that what I have called above the psychological law of the mental unity of
crowds comes into play.
Among the psychological characteristics of crowds there are some that they
may present in common with isolated individuals, and others, on the contrary,
which are absolutely peculiar to them and are only to be met with in collectivi-
ties. It is these special characteristics that we shall study, first of all, in order
to show their importance.
The most striking peculiarity presented by a psychological crowd is the
following: Whoever be the individuals that compose it, however like or unlike
be their mode of life, their occupations, their character, or their intelligence,
the fact that they have been transformed into a crowd puts them in possession
of a sort of collective mind which makes them feel, think, and act in a manner
quite different from that in which each individual of them would feel, think,
and act were he in a state of isolation. There are certain ideas and feelings
which do not come into being, or do not transform themselves into acts except
in the case of individuals forming a crowd. The psychological crowd is a
provisional being formed of heterogeneous elements, which for a moment are
combined, exactly as the cells which constitute a living body form by their
reunion a new being which displays characteristics very different from those
possessed by each of the cells singly.
Contrary to an opinion which one is astonished to find coming from the pen
of so acute a philosopher as Herbert Spencer, in the aggregate which
constitutes a crowd there is in no sort a summing-up of or an average struck
between its elements. What really takes place is a combination followed by the
creation of new characteristics, just as in chemistry certain elements, when

brought into contact — bases and acids, for example — combine to form a
new body possessing properties quite different from those of the bodies that
have served to form it.
It is easy to prove how much the individual forming part of a crowd differs
from the isolated individual, but it is less easy to discover the causes of this
difference.
To obtain at any rate a glimpse of them it is necessary in the first place to call
to mind the truth established by modern psychology, that unconscious
phenomena play an altogether preponderating part not only in organic life, but
also in the operations of the intelligence. The conscious life of the mind is of
small importance in comparison with its unconscious life. The most subtle
analyst, the most acute observer, is scarcely successful in discovering more
than a very small number of the unconscious motives that determine his
conduct. Our conscious acts are the outcome of an unconscious substratum
created in the mind in the main by hereditary influences. This substratum
consists of the innumerable common characteristics handed down from
generation to generation, which constitute the genius of a race. Behind the
avowed causes of our acts there undoubtedly lie secret causes that we do not
avow, but behind these secret causes there are many others more secret still
which we ourselves ignore. The greater part of our daily actions are the result
of hidden motives which escape our observation.
It is more especially with respect to those unconscious elements which
constitute the genius of a race that all the individuals belonging to it resemble
each other, while it is principally in respect to the conscious elements of their
character — the fruit of education, and yet more of exceptional hereditary
conditions — that they differ from each other. Men the most unlike in the
matter of their intelligence possess instincts, passions, and feelings that are
very similar. In the case of every thing that belongs to the realm of sentiment
— religion, politics, morality, the affections and antipathies, &c. — the most
eminent men seldom surpass the standard of the most ordinary individuals.
From the intellectual point of view an abyss may exist between a great
mathematician and his boot maker, but from the point of view of character the
difference is most often slight or non-existent.
It is precisely these general qualities of character, governed by forces of
which we are unconscious, and possessed by the majority of the normal

individuals of a race in much the same degree — it is precisely these qualities,
I say, that in crowds become common property. In the collective mind the
intellectual aptitudes of the individuals, and in consequence their individuality,
are weakened. The heterogeneous is swamped by the homogeneous, and the
unconscious qualities obtain the upper hand.
This very fact that crowds possess in common ordinary qualities explains
why they can never accomplish acts demanding a high degree of intelligence.
The decisions affecting matters of general interest come to by an assembly of
men of distinction, but specialists in different walks of life, are not sensibly
superior to the decisions that would be adopted by a gathering of imbeciles.
The truth is, they can only bring to bear in common on the work in hand those
mediocre qualities which are the birthright of every average individual. In
crowds it is stupidity and not mother-wit that is accumulated. It is not all the
world, as is so often repeated, that has more wit than Voltaire, but assuredly
Voltaire that has more wit than all the world, if by “all the world” crowds are
to be understood.
If the individuals of a crowd confined themselves to putting in common the
ordinary qualities of which each of them has his share, there would merely
result the striking of an average, and not, as we have said is actually the case,
the creation of new characteristics. How is it that these new characteristics are
created? This is what we are now to investigate.
Different causes determine the appearance of these characteristics peculiar
to crowds, and not possessed by isolated individuals. The first is that the
individual forming part of a crowd acquires, solely from numerical consider-
ations, a sentiment of invincible power which allows him to yield to instincts
which, had he been alone, he would perforce have kept under restraint. He will
be the less disposed to check himself from the consideration that, a crowd
being anonymous, and in consequence irresponsible, the sentiment of
responsibility which always controls individuals disappears entirely.
The second cause, which is contagion, also intervenes to determine the
manifestation in crowds of their special characteristics, and at the same time
the trend they are to take. Contagion is a phenomenon of which it is easy to
establish the presence, but that it is not easy to explain. It must be classed
among those phenomena of a hypnotic order, which we shall shortly study. In
a crowd every sentiment and act is contagious, and contagious to such a degree
that an individual readily sacrifices his personal interest to the collective
interest. This is an aptitude very contrary to his nature, and of which a man is
scarcely capable, except when he makes part of a crowd.
A third cause, and by far the most important, determines in the individuals of
a crowd special characteristics which are quite contrary at times to those
presented by the isolated individual. I allude to that suggestibility of which,
moreover, the contagion mentioned above is neither more nor less than an
effect.
To understand this phenomenon it is necessary to bear in mind certain recent
physiological discoveries. We know to-day that by various processes an
individual may be brought into such a condition that, having entirely lost his
conscious personality, he obeys all the suggestions of the operator who has
deprived him of it, and commits acts in utter contradiction with his character
and habits. The most careful observations seem to prove that an individual
immerged for some length of time in a crowd in action soon finds himself —
either in consequence of the magnetic influence given out by the crowd, or
from some other cause of which we are ignorant — in a special state, which
much resembles the state of fascination in which the hypnotised individual
finds himself in the hands of the hypnotiser. The activity of the brain being
paralysed in the case of the hypnotised subject, the latter becomes the slave of
all the unconscious activities of his spinal cord, which the hypnotiser directs
at will. The conscious personality has entirely vanished; will and discernment
are lost. All feelings and thoughts are bent in the direction determined by the
hypnotiser.
Such also is approximately the state of the individual forming part of a
psychological crowd. He is no longer conscious of his acts. In his case, as in
the case of the hypnotised subject, at the same time that certain faculties are
destroyed, others may be brought to a high degree of exaltation. Under the
influence of a suggestion, he will undertake the accomplishment of certain acts
with irresistible impetuosity. This impetuosity is the more irresistible in the
case of crowds than in that of the hypnotised subject, from the fact that, the
suggestion being the same for all the individuals of the crowd, it gains in
strength by reciprocity. The individualities in the crowd who might possess a
personality sufficiently strong to resist the suggestion are too few in number
to struggle against the current. At the utmost, they may be able to attempt a
diversion by means of different suggestions. It is in this way, for instance, that
a happy expression, an image opportunely evoked, have occasionally deterred
crowds from the most bloodthirsty acts.
We see, then, that the disappearance of the conscious personality, the
predominance of the unconscious personality, the turning by means of
suggestion and contagion of feelings and ideas in an identical direction, the
tendency to immediately transform the suggested ideas into acts; these, we see,
are the principal characteristics of the individual forming part of a crowd. He
is no longer himself, but has become an automaton who has ceased to be
guided by his will.
Moreover, by the mere fact that he forms part of an organised crowd, a man
descends several rungs in the ladder of civilisation. Isolated, he may be a
cultivated individual; in a crowd, he is a barbarian — that is, a creature acting
by instinct. He possesses the spontaneity, the violence, the ferocity, and also
the enthusiasm and heroism of primitive beings, whom he further tends to
resemble by the facility with which he allows himself to be impressed by
words and images — which would be entirely without action on each of the
isolated individuals composing the crowd — and to be induced to commit acts
contrary to his most obvious interests and his best-known habits. An individual
in a crowd is a grain of sand amid other grains of sand, which the wind stirs
up at will.
It is for these reasons that juries are seen to deliver verdicts of which each
individual juror would disapprove, that parliamentary assemblies adopt laws
and measures of which each of their members would disapprove in his own
person. Taken separately, the men of the Convention were enlightened citizens
of peaceful habits. United in a crowd, they did not hesitate to give their
adhesion to the most savage proposals, to guillotine individuals most clearly
innocent, and, contrary to their interests, to renounce their inviolability and to
decimate themselves.
It is not only by his acts that the individual in a crowd differs essentially from
himself. Even before he has entirely lost his independence, his ideas and
feelings have undergone a transformation, and the transformation is so
profound as to change the miser into a spendthrift, the sceptic into a believer,
the honest man into a criminal, and the coward into a hero. The renunciation
of all its privileges which the nobility voted in a moment of enthusiasm during
the celebrated night of August 4, 1789, would certainly never have been
consented to by any of its members taken singly.
The conclusion to be drawn from what precedes is, that the crowd is always
intellectually inferior to the isolated individual, but that, from the point of view
of feelings and of the acts these feelings provoke, the crowd may, according
to circumstances, he better or worse than the individual. All depends on the
nature of the suggestion to which the crowd is exposed. This is the point that
has been completely misunderstood by writers who have only studied crowds
from the criminal point of view. Doubtless a crowd is often criminal, but also
it is often heroic. It is crowds rather than isolated individuals that may be
induced to run the risk of death to secure the triumph of a creed or an idea, that
may be fired with enthusiasm for glory and honour, that are led on — almost
without bread and without arms, as in the age of the Crusades — to deliver the
tomb of Christ from the infidel, or, as in ‘93, to defend the fatherland. Such
heroism is without doubt somewhat unconscious, but it is of such heroism that
history is made. Were peoples only to be credited with the great actions
performed in cold blood, the annals of the world would register but few of
them.
Chapter II. The Sentiments and Morality of Crowds.

Having indicated in a general way the principal characteristics of crowds, it
remains to study these characteristics in detail.
It will be remarked that among the special characteristics of crowds there are
several — such as impulsiveness, irritability, incapacity to reason, the absence
of judgment and of the critical spirit, the exaggeration of the sentiments, and
others besides — which are almost always observed in beings belonging to
inferior forms of evolution — in women, savages, and children, for instance.
However, I merely indicate this analogy in passing; its demonstration is
outside the scope of this work. It would, moreover, be useless for persons
acquainted with the psychology of primitive beings, and would scarcely carry
conviction to those in ignorance of this matter.
I now proceed to the successive consideration of the different characteristics
that may be observed in the majority of crowds.
1. Impulsiveness, Mobility, and Irritability of Crowds.
When studying the fundamental characteristics of a crowd we stated that it
is guided almost exclusively by unconscious motives. Its acts are far more
under the influence of the spinal cord than of the brain. In this respect a crowd
is closely akin to quite primitive beings. The acts performed may be perfect so
far as their execution is concerned, but as they are not directed by the brain, the
individual conducts himself according as the exciting causes to which he is
submitted may happen to decide. A crowd is at the mercy of all external
exciting causes, and reflects their incessant variations. It is the slave of the
impulses which it receives. The isolated individual may be submitted to the
same exciting causes as the man in a crowd, but as his brain shows him the
inadvisability of yielding to them, he refrains from yielding. This truth may be
physiologically expressed by saying that the isolated individual possesses the
capacity of dominating his reflex actions, while a crowd is devoid of this
capacity.
The varying impulses to which crowds obey may be, according to their
exciting causes, generous or cruel, heroic or cowardly, but they will always be
so imperious that the interest of the individual, even the interest of
self-preservation, will not dominate them. The exciting causes that may act on
crowds being so varied, and crowds always obeying them, crowds are in
consequence extremely mobile. This explains how it is that we see them pass
in a moment from the most bloodthirsty ferocity to the most extreme
generosity and heroism. A crowd may easily enact the part of an executioner,
but not less easily that of a martyr. It is crowds that have furnished the torrents
of blood requisite for the triumph of every belief. It is not necessary to go back
to the heroic ages to see what crowds are capable of in this latter direction.
They are never sparing of their life in an insurrection, and not long since a
general,2 becoming suddenly popular, might easily have found a hundred
thousand men ready to sacrifice their lives for his cause had he demanded it.
Any display of premeditation by crowds is in consequence out of the
question. They may be animated in succession by the most contrary sentiments,
but they will always be under the influence of the exciting causes of the
moment. They are like the leaves which a tempest whirls up and scatters in
every direction and then allows to fall. When studying later on certain
revolutionary crowds we shall give some examples of the variability of their
sentiments.
This mobility of crowds renders them very difficult to govern, especially
when a measure of public authority has fallen into their hands. Did not the
necessities of everyday life constitute a sort of invisible regulator of existence,
it would scarcely be possible for democracies to last. Still, though the wishes
of crowds are frenzied they are not durable. Crowds are as incapable of willing
as of thinking for any length of time.
A crowd is not merely impulsive and mobile. Like a savage, it is not prepared
to admit that anything can come between its desire and the realisation of its
desire. It is the less capable of understanding such an intervention, in
consequence of the feeling of irresistible power given it by its numerical
strength. The notion of impossibility disappears for the individual in a crowd.
An isolated individual knows well enough that alone he cannot set fire to a
palace or loot a shop, and should he be tempted to do so, he will easily resist
the temptation. Making part of a crowd, he is conscious of the power given
him by number, and it is sufficient to suggest to him ideas of murder or pillage
for him to yield immediately to temptation. An unexpected obstacle will be
destroyed with frenzied rage. Did the human organism allow of the perpetuity
of furious passion, it might be said that the normal condition of a crowd
baulked in its wishes is just such a state of furious passion.
The fundamental characteristics of the race, which constitute the unvarying
source from which all our sentiments spring, always exert an influence on the
irritability of crowds, their impulsiveness and their mobility, as on all the
popular sentiments we shall have to study. All crowds are doubtless always
irritable and impulsive, but with great variations of degree. For instance, the
difference between a Latin and an Anglo-Saxon crowd is striking. The most
recent facts in French history throw a vivid light on this point. The mere
publication, twenty-five years ago, of a telegram, relating an insult supposed
to have been offered an ambassador, was sufficient to determine an explosion
of fury, whence followed immediately a terrible war. Some years later the
telegraphic announcement of an insignificant reverse at Langson provoked a
fresh explosion which brought about the instantaneous overthrow of the
government. At the same moment a much more serious reverse undergone by
the English expedition to Khartoum produced only a slight emotion in
England, and no ministry was overturned. Crowds are everywhere distin-
guished by feminine characteristics, but Latin crowds are the most feminine
of all. Whoever trusts in them may rapidly attain a lofty destiny, but to do so
is to be perpetually skirting the brink of a Tarpeian rock, with the certainty of
one day being precipitated from it.
2. The Suggestibility and Credulity of Crowds.

When defining crowds, we said that one of their general characteristics was
an excessive suggestibility, and we have shown to what an extent suggestions
are contagious in every human agglomeration; a fact which explains the rapid
turning of the sentiments of a crowd in a definite direction. However
indifferent it may be supposed, a crowd, as a rule, is in a state of expectant
attention, which renders suggestion easy. The first suggestion formulated
which arises implants itself immediately by a process of contagion in the
brains of all assembled, and the identical bent of the sentiments of the crowd
is immediately an accomplished fact.
As is the case with all persons under the influence of suggestion, the idea
which has entered the brain tends to transform itself into an act. Whether the
act is that of setting fire to a palace, or involves self-sacrifice, a crowd lends
itself to it with equal facility. All will depend on the nature of the exciting
cause, and no longer, as in the case of the isolated individual, on the relations
existing between the act suggested and the sum total of the reasons which may
be urged against its realisation.
In consequence, a crowd perpetually hovering on the borderland of
unconsciousness, readily yielding to all suggestions, having all the violence of
feeling peculiar to beings who cannot appeal to the influence of reason,
deprived of all critical faculty, cannot be otherwise than excessively credulous.
The improbable does not exist for a crowd, and it is necessary to bear this
circumstance well in mind to understand the facility with which are created
and propagated the most improbable legends and stories.3
The creation of the legends which so easily obtain circulation in crowds is not
solely the consequence of their extreme credulity. It is also the result of the
prodigious perversions that events undergo in the imagination of a throng. The
simplest event that comes under the observation of a crowd is soon totally
transformed. A crowd thinks in images, and the image itself immediately calls
up a series of other images, having no logical connection with the first. We can
easily conceive this state by thinking of the fantastic succession of ideas to

which we are sometimes led by calling up in our minds any fact. Our reason
shows us the incoherence there is in these images, but a crowd is almost blind
to this truth, and confuses with the real event what the deforming action of its
imagination has superimposed thereon. A crowd scarcely distinguishes
between the subjective and the objective. It accepts as real the images evoked
in its mind, though they most often have only a very distant relation with the
observed fact.
The ways in which a crowd perverts any event of which it is a witness ought,
it would seem, to be innumerable and unlike each other, since the individuals
composing the gathering are of very different temperaments. But this is not the
case. As the result of contagion the perversions are of the same kind, and take
the same shape in the case of all the assembled individuals.
The first perversion of the truth effected by one of the individuals of the
gathering is the starting-point of the contagious suggestion. Before St. George
appeared on the walls of Jerusalem to all the Crusaders he was certainly
perceived in the first instance by one of those present. By dint of suggestion
and contagion the miracle signalised by a single person was immediately
accepted by all.
Such is always the mechanism of the collective hallucinations so frequent in
history — hallucinations which seem to have all the recognised characteristics
of authenticity, since they are phenomena observed by thousands of persons.
To combat what precedes, the mental quality of the individuals composing
a crowd must not be brought into consideration. This quality is without
importance. From the moment that they form part of a crowd the learned man
and the ignoramus are equally incapable of observation.
This thesis may seem paradoxical. To demonstrate it beyond doubt it would
be necessary to investigate a great number of historical facts, and several
volumes would be insufficient for the purpose.
Still, as I do not wish to leave the reader under the impression of unproved
assertions, I shall give him some examples taken at hazard from the immense
number of those that might be quoted.
The following fact is one of the most typical, because chosen from among
collective hallucinations of which a crowd is the victim, in which are to be
found individuals of every kind, from the most ignorant to the most highly
educated. It is related incidentally by Julian Felix, a naval lieutenant, in his
book on “Sea Currents,” and has been previously cited by the Revue Scien-
tique.
The frigate, the Belle Poule, was cruising in the open sea for the purpose of
finding the cruiser Le Berceau, from which she had been separated by a violent
storm. It was broad daylight and in full sunshine. Suddenly the watch signalled
a disabled vessel; the crew looked in the direction signalled, and every one,
officers and sailors, clearly perceived a raft covered with men towed by boats
which were displaying signals of distress. Yet this was nothing more than a
collective hallucination. Admiral Desfosses lowered a boat to go to the rescue
of the wrecked sailors. On nearing the object sighted, the sailors and officers
on board the boat saw “masses of men in motion, stretching out their hands,
and heard the dull and confused noise of a great number of voices.” When the
object was reached those in the boat found themselves simply and solely in the
presence of a few branches of trees covered with leaves that had been swept
out from the neighbouring coast. Before evidence so palpable the hallucination
vanished.
The mechanism of a collective hallucination of the kind we have explained
is clearly seen at work in this example. On the one hand we have a crowd in
a state of expectant attention, on the other a suggestion made by the watch
signalling a disabled vessel at sea, a suggestion which, by a process of
contagion, was accepted by all those present, both officers and sailors.
It is not necessary that a crowd should be numerous for the faculty of seeing
what is taking place before its eyes to be destroyed and for the real facts to be
replaced by hallucinations unrelated to them. As soon as a few individuals are
gathered together they constitute a crowd, and, though they should be
distinguished men of learning, they assume all the characteristics of crowds
with regard to matters outside their speciality. The faculty of observation and
the critical spirit possessed by each of them individually at once disappears.
An ingenious psychologist, Mr. Davey, supplies us with a very curious
example in point, recently cited in the Annales des Sciences Psychiques, and
deserving of relation here. Mr. Davey, having convoked a gathering of
distinguished observers, among them one of the most prominent of English
scientific men, Mr. Wallace, executed in their presence, and after having
allowed them to examine the objects and to place seals where they wished, all
the regulation spiritualistic phenomena, the materialisation of spirits, writing
on slates, &c. Having subsequently obtained from these distinguished
observers written reports admitting that the phenomena observed could only
have been obtained by supernatural means, he revealed to them that they were
the result of very simple tricks. “The most astonishing feature of Monsieur
Davey’s investigation,” writes the author of this account, “is not the marvel-
lousness of the tricks themselves, but the extreme weakness of the reports
made with respect to them by the non-initiated witnesses. It is clear, then,” he
says, “that witnesses even in number may give circumstantial relations which
are completely erroneous, but whose result is that, if their descriptions are
accepted as exact, the phenomena they describe are inexplicable by trickery.
The methods invented by Mr. Davey were so simple that one is astonished that
he should have had the boldness to employ them; but he had such a power over
the mind of the crowd that he could persuade it that it saw what it did not see.”
Here, as always, we have the power of the hypnotiser over the hypnotised.
Moreover, when this power is seen in action on minds of a superior order and
previously invited to be suspicious, it is understandable how easy it is to
deceive ordinary crowds.
Analogous examples are innumerable. As I write these lines the papers are
full of the story of two little girls found drowned in the Seine. These children,
to begin with, were recognised in the most unmistakable manner by half a
dozen witnesses. All the affirmations were in such entire concordance that no
doubt remained in the mind of the juge d’instruction. He had the certificate of
death drawn up, but just as the burial of the children was to have been
proceeded with, a mere chance brought about the discovery that the supposed
victims were alive, and had, moreover, but a remote resemblance to the
drowned girls. As in several of the examples previously cited, the affirmation
of the first witness, himself a victim of illusion, had sufficed to influence the
other witnesses.
In parallel cases the starting-point of the suggestion is always the illusion
produced in an individual by more or less vague reminiscences, contagion
following as the result of the affirmation of this initial illusion. If the first
observer be very impressionable, it will often be sufficient that the corpse he
believes he recognises should present — apart from all real resemblance —
some peculiarity, a scar, or some detail of toilet which may evoke the idea of
another person. The idea evoked may then become the nucleus of a sort of
crystallisation which invades the understanding and paralyses all critical
faculty. What the observer then sees is no longer the object itself, but the
image-evoked in his mind. In this way are to be explained erroneous
recognitions of the dead bodies of children by their own mother, as occurred
in the following case, already old, but which has been recently recalled by the
newspapers. In it are to be traced precisely the two kinds of suggestion of
which I have just pointed out the mechanism.
“The child was recognised by another child, who was mistaken. The series
of unwarranted recognitions then began.
“An extraordinary thing occurred. The day after a schoolboy had recognised
the corpse a woman exclaimed, `Good Heavens, it is my child!’
“She was taken up to the corpse; she examined the clothing, and noted a scar
on the forehead. Ìt is certainly,’ she said, `my son who disappeared last July.
He has been stolen from me and murdered.’
“The woman was concierge in the Rue du Four; her name was Chavandret.
Her brother-in-law was summoned, and when questioned he said, `That is the
little Filibert.’ Several persons living in the street recognised the child found
at La Villette as Filibert Chavandret, among them being the boy’s schoolmas-
ter, who based his opinion on a medal worn by the lad.
“Nevertheless, the neighbours, the brother-in-law, the schoolmaster, and the
mother were mistaken. Six weeks later the identity of the child was estab-
lished. The boy, belonging to Bordeaux, had been murdered there and brought
by a carrying company to Paris.”4
It will be remarked that these recognitions are most often made by women
and children — that is to say, by precisely the most impressionable persons.
They show us at the same time what is the worth in law courts of such
witnesses. As far as children, more especially, are concerned, their statements
ought never to be invoked. Magistrates are in the habit of repeating that
children do not lie. Did they possess a psychological culture a little less
rudimentary than is the case they would know that, on the contrary, children
invariably lie; the lie is doubtless innocent, but it is none the less a lie. It would
be better to decide the fate of an accused person by the toss of a coin than, as
has been so often done, by the evidence of a child.

To return to the faculty of observation possessed by crowds, our conclusion
is that their collective observations are as erroneous as possible, and that most
often they merely represent the illusion of an individual who, by a process of
contagion, has suggestioned his fellows. Facts proving that the most utter
mistrust of the evidence of crowds is advisable might be multiplied to any
extent. Thousands of men were present twenty-five years ago at the celebrated
cavalry charge during the battle of Sedan, and yet it is impossible, in the face
of the most contradictory ocular testimony, to decide by whom it was
commanded. The English general, Lord Wolseley, has proved in a recent book
that up to now the gravest errors of fact have been committed with regard to
the most important incidents of the battle of Waterloo — facts that hundreds
of witnesses had nevertheless attested.5
Such facts show us what is the value of the testimony of crowds. Treatises on
logic include the unanimity of numerous witnesses in the category of the
strongest proofs that can be invoked in support of the exactness of a fact. Yet
what we know of the psychology of crowds shows that treatises on logic need
on this point to be rewritten. The events with regard to which there exists the
most doubt are certainly those which have been observed by the greatest
number of persons. To say that a fact has been simultaneously verified by
thousands of witnesses is to say, as a rule, that the real fact is very different
from the accepted account of it.
It clearly results from what precedes that works of history must be considered
as works of pure imagination. They are fanciful accounts of ill-observed facts,
accompanied by explanations the result of reflection. To write such books is
the most absolute waste of time. Had not the past left us its literary, artistic,
and monumental works, we should know absolutely nothing in reality with
regard to bygone times. Are we in possession of a single word of truth
concerning the lives of the great men who have played preponderating parts
in the history of humanity — men such as Hercules, Buddha, or Mahomet? In
all probability we are not. In point of fact, moreover, their real lives are of
slight importance to us. Our interest is to know what our great men were as
they are presented by popular legend. It is legendary heroes, and not for a
moment real heroes, who have impressed the minds of crowds.
Unfortunately, legends — even although they have been definitely put on
record by books — have in themselves no stability. The imagination of the

crowd continually transforms them as the result of the lapse of time and
especially in consequence of racial causes. There is a great gulf fixed between
the sanguinary Jehovah of the Old Testament and the God of Love of Sainte
Thérèse, and the Buddha worshipped in China has no traits in common with
that venerated in India.
It is not even necessary that heroes should be separated from us by centuries
for their legend to be transformed by the imagination of the crowd. The
transformation occasionally takes place within a few years. In our own day we
have seen the legend of one of the greatest heroes of history modified several
times in less than fifty years. Under the Bourbons Napoleon became a sort of
idyllic and liberal philanthropist, a friend of the humble who, according to the
poets, was destined to be long remembered in the cottage. Thirty years
afterwards this easy-going hero had become a sanguinary despot, who, after
having usurped power and destroyed liberty, caused the slaughter of three
million men solely to satisfy his ambition. At present we are witnessing a fresh
transformation of the legend. When it has undergone the influence of some
dozens of centuries the learned men of the future, face to face with these
contradictory accounts, will perhaps doubt the very existence of the hero, as
some of them now doubt that of Buddha, and will see in him nothing more
than a solar myth or a development of the legend of Hercules. They will
doubtless console themselves easily for this uncertainty, for, better initiated
than we are to-day in the characteristics and psychology of crowds, they will
know that history is scarcely capable of preserving the memory of anything
except myths.
3. The Exaggeration and Ingenuousness of the Sentiments of Crowds.

Whether the feelings exhibited by a crowd be good or bad, they present the
double character of being very simple and very exaggerated. On this point, as
on so many others, an individual in a crowd resembles primitive beings.
Inaccessible to fine distinctions, he sees things as a whole, and is blind to their
intermediate phases. The exaggeration of the sentiments of a crowd is
heightened by the fact that any feeling when once it is exhibited communicat-
ing itself very quickly by a process of suggestion and contagion, the evident
approbation of which it is the object considerably increases its force.
The simplicity and exaggeration of the sentiments of crowds have for result
that a throng knows neither doubt nor uncertainty. Like women, it goes at once
to extremes. A suspicion transforms itself as soon as announced into
incontrovertible evidence. A commencement of antipathy or disapprobation,
which in the case of an isolated individual would not gain strength, becomes
at once furious hatred in the case of an individual in a crowd.
The violence of the feelings of crowds is also increased, especially in
heterogeneous crowds, by the absence of all sense of responsibility. The
certainty of impunity, a certainty the stronger as the crowd is more numerous,
and the notion of a considerable momentary force due to number, make
possible in the case of crowds sentiments and acts impossible for the isolated
individual. In crowds the foolish, ignorant, and envious persons are freed from
the sense of their insignificance and powerlessness, and are possessed instead
by the notion of brutal and temporary but immense strength.
Unfortunately, this tendency of crowds towards exaggeration is often brought
to bear upon bad sentiments. These sentiments are atavistic residuum of the
instincts of the primitive man, which the fear of punishment obliges the
isolated and responsible individual to curb. Thus it is that crowds are so easily
led into the worst excesses.
Still this does not mean that crowds, skilfully influenced, are not capable of
heroism and devotion and of evincing the loftiest virtues; they are even more
capable of showing these qualities than the isolated individual. We shall soon
have occasion to revert to this point when we come to study the morality of
crowds.
Given to exaggeration in its feelings, a crowd is only impressed by excessive
sentiments. An orator wishing to move a crowd must make an abusive use of
violent affirmations. To exaggerate, to affirm, to resort to repetitions, and
never to attempt to prove anything by reasoning are methods of argument well
known to speakers at public meetings.
Moreover, a crowd exacts a like exaggeration in the sentiments of its heroes.
Their apparent qualities and virtues must always be amplified. It has been
justly remarked that on the stage a crowd demands from the hero of the piece
a degree of courage, morality, and virtue that is never to be found in real life.
Quite rightly importance has been laid on the special standpoint from which
matters are viewed in the theatre. Such a standpoint exists no doubt, but its
rules for the most part have nothing to do with common sense and logic. The
art of appealing to crowds is no doubt of an inferior order, but it demands quite
special aptitudes. It is often impossible on reading plays to explain their
success. Managers of theatres when accepting pieces are themselves, as a rule,
very uncertain of their success, because to judge the matter it would be
necessary that they should be able to transform themselves into a crowd.6
Here, once more, were we able to embark on more extensive explanations,
we should show the preponderating influence of racial considerations. A play
which provokes the enthusiasm of the crowd in one country has sometimes no
success in another, or has only a partial and conventional success, because it
does not put in operation influences capable of working on an altered public.
I need not add that the tendency to exaggeration in crowds is only present in
the case of sentiments and not at all in the matter of intelligence. I have already
shown that, by the mere fact that an individual forms part of a crowd, his
intellectual standard is immediately and considerably lowered. A learned
magistrate, M. Tarde, has also verified this fact in his researches on the crimes
of crowds. It is only, then, with respect to sentiment that crowds can rise to a
very high or, on the contrary, descend to a very low level.
4. The Intolerance, Dictatorialness and Conservatism of Crowds.

Crowds are only cognizant of simple and extreme sentiments; the opinions,
ideas, and beliefs suggested to them are accepted or rejected as a whole, and
considered as absolute truths or as not less absolute errors. This is always the
case with beliefs induced by a process of suggestion instead of engendered by
reasoning. Every one is aware of the intolerance that accompanies religious
beliefs, and of the despotic empire they exercise on men’s minds.
Being in doubt as to what constitutes truth or error, and having, on the other
hand, a clear notion of its strength, a crowd is as disposed to give authoritative
effect to its inspirations as it is intolerant. An individual may accept contradic-
tion and discussion; a crowd will never do so. At public meetings the slightest
contradiction on the part of an orator is immediately received with howls of
fury and violent invective, soon followed by blows, and expulsion should the
orator stick to his point. Without the restraining presence of the representatives
of authority the contradictor, indeed, would often be done to death.
Dictatorialness and intolerance are common to all categories of crowds, but

they are met with in a varying degree of intensity. Here, once more, reappears
that fundamental notion of race which dominates all the feelings and all the
thoughts of men. It is more especially in Latin crowds that authoritativeness
and intolerance are found developed in the highest measure. In fact, their
development is such in crowds of Latin origin that they have entirely destroyed
that sentiment of the independence of the individual so powerful in the
Anglo-Saxon. Latin crowds are only concerned with the collective independ-
ence of the sect to which they belong, and the characteristic feature of their
conception of independence is the need they experience of bringing those who
are in disagreement with themselves into immediate and violent subjection to
their beliefs. Among the Latin races the Jacobins of every epoch, from those
of the Inquisition downwards, have never been able to attain to a different
conception of liberty.
Authoritativeness and intolerance are sentiments of which crowds have a
very clear notion, which they easily conceive and which they entertain as
readily as they put them in practice when once they are imposed upon them.
Crowds exhibit a docile respect for force, and are but slightly impressed by
kindness, which for them is scarcely other than a form of weakness. Their
sympathies have never been bestowed on easy-going masters, but on tyrants
who vigorously oppressed them. It is to these latter that they always erect the
loftiest statues. It is true that they willingly trample on the despot whom they
have stripped of his power, but it is because, having lost his strength, he has
resumed his place among the feeble, who are to be despised because they are
not to be feared. The type of hero dear to crowds will always have the
semblance of a Caesar. His insignia attracts them, his authority overawes them,
and his sword instils them with fear.
A crowd is always ready to revolt against a feeble, and to bow down servilely
before a strong authority. Should the strength of an authority be intermittent,
the crowd, always obedient to its extreme sentiments, passes alternately from
anarchy to servitude, and from servitude to anarchy.
However, to believe in the predominance among crowds of revolutionary
instincts would be to entirely misconstrue their psychology. It is merely their
tendency to violence that deceives us on this point. Their rebellious and
destructive outbursts are always very transitory. Crowds are too much
governed by unconscious considerations, and too much subject in consequence

to secular hereditary influences not to be extremely conservative. Abandoned
to themselves, they soon weary of disorder, and instinctively turn to servitude.
It was the proudest and most untractable of the Jacobins who acclaimed
Bonaparte with greatest energy when he suppressed all liberty and made his
hand of iron severely felt.
It is difficult to understand history, and popular revolutions in particular, if
one does not take sufficiently into account the profoundly conservative
instincts of crowds. They may be desirous, it is true, of changing the names of
their institutions, and to obtain these changes they accomplish at times even
violent revolutions, but the essence of these institutions is too much the
expression of the hereditary needs of the race for them not invariably to abide
by it. Their incessant mobility only exerts its influence on quite superficial
matters. In fact they possess conservative instincts as indestructible as those
of all primitive beings. Their fetish like respect for all traditions is absolute;
their unconscious horror of all novelty capable of changing the essential
conditions of their existence is very deeply rooted. Had democracies possessed
the power they wield to-day at the time of the invention of mechanical looms
or of the introduction of steam-power and of railways, the realisation of these
inventions would have been impossible, or would have been achieved at the
cost of revolutions and repeated massacres. It is fortunate for the progress of
civilisation that the power of crowds only began to exist when the great
discoveries of science and industry had already been effected.
5. The Morality of Crowds.

Taking the word “morality” to mean constant respect for certain social
conventions, and the permanent repression of selfish impulses, it is quite
evident that crowds are too impulsive and too mobile to be moral. If, however,
we include in the term morality the transitory display of certain qualities such
as abnegation, self-sacrifice, disinterestedness, devotion, and the need of
equity, we may say, on the contrary, that crowds may exhibit at times a very
lofty morality.
The few psychologists who have studied crowds have only considered them
from the point of view of their criminal acts, and noticing how frequent these
acts are, they have come to the conclusion that the moral standard of crowds
is very low.
Doubtless this is often the case; but why? Simply because our savage,
destructive instincts are the inheritance left dormant in all of us from the
primitive ages. In the life of the isolated individual it would be dangerous for
him to gratify these instincts, while his absorption in an irresponsible crowd,
in which in consequence he is assured of impunity, gives him entire liberty to
follow them. Being unable, in the ordinary course of events, to exercise these
destructive instincts on our fellow-men, we confine ourselves to exercising
them on animals. The passion, so widespread, for the chase and the acts of
ferocity of crowds proceed from one and the same source. A crowd which
slowly slaughters a defenceless victim displays a very cowardly ferocity; but
for the philosopher this ferocity is very closely related to that of the huntsmen
who gather in dozens for the pleasure of taking part in the pursuit and killing
of a luckless stag by their hounds.
A crowd may be guilty of murder, incendiarism, and every kind of crime, but
it is also capable of very lofty acts of devotion, sacrifice, and disinterestedness,
of acts much loftier indeed than those of which the isolated individual is
capable. Appeals to sentiments of glory, honour, and patriotism are particularly
likely to influence the individual forming part of a crowd, and often to the
extent of obtaining from him the sacrifice of his life. History is rich in
examples analogous to those furnished by the Crusaders and the volunteers of
1793. Collectivities alone are capable of great disinterestedness and great
devotion. How numerous are the crowds that have heroically faced death for
beliefs, ideas, and phrases that they scarcely understood! The crowds that go
on strike do so far more in obedience to an order than to obtain an increase of
the slender salary with which they make shift. Personal interest is very rarely
a powerful motive force with crowds, while it is almost the exclusive motive
of the conduct of the isolated individual. It is assuredly not self-interest that
has guided crowds in so many wars, incomprehensible as a rule to their
intelligence — wars in which they have allowed themselves to be massacred
as easily as the larks hypnotised by the mirror of the hunter.
Even in the case of absolute scoundrels it often happens that the mere fact of
their being in a crowd endows them for the moment with very strict principles
of morality. Taine calls attention to the fact that the perpetrators of the
September massacres deposited on the table of the committees the pocket-
-books and jewels they had found on their victims, and with which they could
easily have been able to make away. The howling, swarming, ragged crowd
which invaded the Tuileries during the revolution of 1848 did not lay hands on
any of the objects that excited its astonishment, and one of which would have
meant bread for many days.
This moralisation of the individual by the crowd is not certainly a constant
rule, but it is a rule frequently observed. It is even observed in circumstances
much less grave than those I have just cited. I have remarked that in the theatre
a crowd exacts from the hero of the piece exaggerated virtues, and it is a
commonplace observation that an assembly, even though composed of inferior
elements, shows itself as a rule very prudish. The debauchee, the souteneur,
the rough often break out into murmurs at a slightly risky scene or expression,
though they be very harmless in comparison with their customary conversa-
tion.
If, then, crowds often abandon themselves to low instincts, they also set the
example at times of acts of lofty morality. If disinterestedness, resignation, and
absolute devotion to a real or chimerical ideal are moral virtues, it may be said
that crowds often possess these virtues to a degree rarely attained by the wisest
philosophers. Doubtless they practice them unconsciously, but that is of small
import. We should not complain too much that crowds are more especially
guided by unconscious considerations and are not given to reasoning. Had
they, in certain cases, reasoned and consulted their immediate interests, it is
possible that no civilisation would have grown up on our planet and humanity
would have had no history.
Chapter III. The Ideas, Reasoning Power, and Imagination of

Crowds.
1. The Ideas of Crowds.
When studying in a preceding work the part played by ideas in the evolution
of nations, we showed that every civilisation is the outcome of a small number
of fundamental ideas that are very rarely renewed. We showed how these ideas
are implanted in the minds of crowds, with what difficulty the process is
effected, and the power possessed by the ideas in question when once it has
been accomplished. Finally we saw that great historical perturbations are the
result, as a rule, of changes in these fundamental ideas.
Having treated this subject at sufficient length, I shall not return to it now, but
shall confine myself to saying a few words on the subject of such ideas as are
accessible to crowds, and of the forms under which they conceive them.
They may be divided into two classes. In one we shall place accidental and
passing ideas created by the influences of the moment: infatuation for an
individual or a doctrine, for instance. In the other will be classed the funda-
mental ideas, to which the environment, the laws of heredity and public
opinion give a very great stability; such ideas are the religious beliefs of the
past and the social and democratic ideas of to-day.
These fundamental ideas resemble the volume of the water of a stream slowly
pursuing its course; the transitory ideas are like the small waves, for ever
changing, which agitate its surface, and are more visible than the progress of
the stream itself although without real importance.
At the present day the great fundamental ideas which were the mainstay of
our fathers are tottering more and more. They have lost all solidity, and at the
same time the institutions resting upon them are severely shaken. Every day
there are formed a great many of those transitory minor ideas of which I have
just been speaking; but very few of them to all appearance seem endowed with
vitality and destined to acquire a preponderating influence.
Whatever be the ideas suggested to crowds they can only exercise effective
influence on condition that they assume a very absolute, uncompromising, and
simple shape. They present themselves then in the guise of images, and are
only accessible to the masses under this form. These imagelike ideas are not
connected by any logical bond of analogy or succession, and may take each
other’s place like the slides of a magic-lantern which the operator withdraws
from the groove in which they were placed one above the other. This explains
how it is that the most contradictory ideas may be seen to be simultaneously
current in crowds. According to the chances of the moment, a crowd will come
under the influence of one of the various ideas stored up in its understanding,
and is capable, in consequence, of committing the most dissimilar acts. Its
complete lack of the critical spirit does not allow of its perceiving these
contradictions.
This phenomenon is not peculiar to crowds. It is to be observed in many
isolated individuals, not only among primitive beings, but in the case of all
those — the fervent sectaries of a religious faith, for instance — who by one
side or another of their intelligence are akin to primitive beings. I have

observed its presence to a curious extent in the case of educated Hindoos
brought up at our European universities and having taken their degree. A
number of Western ideas had been superposed on their unchangeable and
fundamental hereditary or social ideas. According to the chances of the
moment, the one or the other set of ideas showed themselves each with their
special accompaniment of acts or utterances, the same individual presenting
in this way the most flagrant contradictions. These contradictions are more
apparent than real, for it is only hereditary ideas that have sufficient influence
over the isolated individual to become motives of conduct. It is only when, as
the result of the intermingling of different races, a man is placed between
different hereditary tendencies that his acts from one moment to another may
be really entirely contradictory. It would be useless to insist here on these
phenomena, although their psychological importance is capital. I am of opinion
that at least ten years of travel and observation would be necessary to arrive at
a comprehension of them.
Ideas being only accessible to crowds after having assumed a very simple
shape must often undergo the most thoroughgoing transformations to become
popular. It is especially when we are dealing with somewhat lofty philosophic
or scientific ideas that we see how far-reaching are the modifications they
require in order to lower them to the level of the intelligence of crowds. These
modifications are dependent on the nature of the crowds, or of the race to
which the crowds belong, but their tendency is always belittling and in the
direction of simplification. This explains the fact that, from the social point of
view, there is in reality scarcely any such thing as a hierarchy of ideas — that
is to say, as ideas of greater or less elevation. However great or true an idea
may have been to begin with, it is deprived of almost all that which constituted
its elevation and its greatness by the mere fact that it has come within the
intellectual range of crowds and exerts an influence upon them.
Moreover, from the social point of view the hierarchical value of an idea, its
intrinsic worth, is without importance. The necessary point to consider is the
effects it produces. The Christian ideas of the Middle Ages, the democratic
ideas of the last century, or the social ideas of to-day are assuredly not very
elevated. Philosophically considered, they can only be regarded as somewhat
sorry errors, and yet their power has been and will be immense, and they will
count for a long time to come among the most essential factors that determine
the conduct of States.
Even when an idea has undergone the transformations which render it
accessible to crowds, it only exerts influence when, by various processes
which we shall examine elsewhere, it has entered the domain of the uncon-
scious, when indeed it has become a sentiment, for which much time is
required.
For it must not be supposed that merely because the justness of an idea has
been proved it can be productive of effective action even on cultivated minds.
This fact may be quickly appreciated by noting how slight is the influence of
the clearest demonstration on the majority of men. Evidence, if it be very plain,
may be accepted by an educated person, but the convert will be quickly
brought back by his unconscious self to his original conceptions. See him
again after the lapse of a few days and he will put forward afresh his old
arguments in exactly the same terms. He is in reality under the influence of
anterior ideas, that have become sentiments, and it is such ideas alone that
influence the more recondite motives of our acts and utterances. It cannot be
otherwise in the case of crowds.
When by various processes an idea has ended by penetrating into the minds
of crowds, it possesses an irresistible power, and brings about a series of
effects, opposition to which is bootless. The philosophical ideas which resulted
in the French Revolution took nearly a century to implant themselves in the
mind of the crowd. Their irresistible force, when once they had taken root, is
known. The striving of an entire nation towards the conquest of social equality,
and the realisation of abstract rights and ideal liberties, caused the tottering of
all thrones and profoundly disturbed the Western world. During twenty years
the nations were engaged in internecine conflict, and Europe witnessed
hecatombs that would have terrified Ghengis Khan and Tamerlane. The world
had never seen on such a scale what may result from the promulgation of an
idea.
A long time is necessary for ideas to establish themselves in the minds of
crowds, but just as long a time is needed for them to be eradicated. For this
reason crowds, as far as ideas are concerned, are always several generations
behind learned men and philosophers. All statesmen are well aware to-day of
the admixture of error contained in the fundamental ideas I referred to a short
while back, but as the influence of these ideas is still very powerful they are
obliged to govern in accordance with principles in the truth of which they have
ceased to believe.
2. The Reasoning Power of Crowds.

It cannot absolutely be said that crowds do not reason and are not to be
influenced by reasoning.
However, the arguments they employ and those which are capable of
influencing them are, from a logical point of view, of such an inferior kind that
it is only by way of analogy that they can be described as reasoning.
The inferior reasoning of crowds is based, just as is reasoning of a high order,
on the association of ideas, but between the ideas associated by crowds there
are only apparent bonds of analogy or succession. The mode of reasoning of
crowds resembles that of the Esquimaux who, knowing from experience that
ice, a transparent body, melts in the mouth, concludes that glass, also a
transparent body, should also melt in the mouth; or that of the savage who
imagines that by eating the heart of a courageous foe he acquires his bravery;
or of the workman who, having been exploited by one employer of labour,
immediately concludes that all employers exploit their men.
The characteristics of the reasoning of crowds are the association of
dissimilar things possessing a merely apparent connection between each other,
and the immediate generalisation of particular cases. It is arguments of this
kind that are always presented to crowds by those who know how to manage
them. They are the only arguments by which crowds are to be influenced. A
chain of logical argumentation is totally incomprehensible to crowds, and for
this reason it is permissible to say that they do not reason or that they reason
falsely and are not to be influenced by reasoning. Astonishment is felt at times
on reading certain speeches at their weakness, and yet they had an enormous
influence on the crowds which listened to them, but it is forgotten that they
were intended to persuade collectivities and not to be read by philosophers. An
orator in intimate communication with a crowd can evoke images by which it
will be seduced. If he is successful his object has been attained, and twenty
volumes of harangues — always the outcome of reflection — are not worth the
few phrases which appealed to the brains it was required to convince.
It would be superfluous to add that the powerlessness of crowds to reason

aright prevents them displaying any trace of the critical spirit, prevents them,
that is, from being capable of discerning truth from error, or of forming a
precise judgment on any matter. Judgments accepted by crowds are merely
judgments forced upon them and never judgments adopted after discussion. In
regard to this matter the individuals who do not rise above the level of a crowd
are numerous. The ease with which certain opinions obtain general acceptance
results more especially from the impossibility experienced by the majority of
men of forming an opinion peculiar to themselves and based on reasoning of
their own.
3. The Imagination of Crowds.

Just as is the case with respect to persons in whom the reasoning power is
absent, the figurative imagination of crowds is very powerful, very active and
very susceptible of being keenly impressed. The images evoked in their mind
by a personage, an event, an accident, are almost as lifelike as the reality.
Crowds are to some extent in the position of the sleeper whose reason,
suspended for the time being, allows the arousing in his mind of images of
extreme intensity which would quickly be dissipated could they be submitted
to the action of reflection. Crowds, being incapable both of reflection and of
reasoning, are devoid of the notion of improbability; and it is to be noted that
in a general way it is the most improbable things that are the most striking.
This is why it happens that it is always the marvellous and legendary side of
events that more specially strike crowds. When a civilisation is analysed it is
seen that, in reality, it is the marvellous and the legendary that are its true
supports. Appearances have always played a much more important part than
reality in history, where the unreal is always of greater moment than the real.
Crowds being only capable of thinking in images are only to be impressed by
images. It is only images that terrify or attract them and become motives of
action.
For this reason theatrical representations, in which the image is shown in its
most clearly visible shape, always have an enormous influence on crowds.
Bread and spectacular shows constituted for the plebeians of ancient Rome the
ideal of happiness, and they asked for nothing more. Throughout the
successive ages this ideal has scarcely varied. Nothing has a greater effect on
the imagination of crowds of every category than theatrical representations.

The entire audience experiences at the same time the same emotions, and if
these emotions are not at once transformed into acts, it is because the most
unconscious spectator cannot ignore that he is the victim of illusions, and that
he has laughed or wept over imaginary adventures. Sometimes, however, the
sentiments suggested by the images are so strong that they tend, like habitual
suggestions, to transform themselves into acts. The story has often been told
of the manager of a popular theatre who, in consequence of his only playing
sombre dramas, was obliged to have the actor who took the part of the traitor
protected on his leaving the theatre, to defend him against the violence of the
spectators, indignant at the crimes, imaginary though they were, which the
traitor had committed. We have here, in my opinion, one of the most
remarkable indications of the mental state of crowds, and especially of the
facility with which they are suggestioned. The unreal has almost as much
influence on them as the real. They have an evident tendency not to distinguish
between the two.
The power of conquerors and the strength of States is based on the popular
imagination. It is more particularly by working upon this imagination that
crowds are led. All great historical facts, the rise of Buddhism, of Christianity,
of Islamism, the Reformation, the French Revolution, and, in our own time, the
threatening invasion of Socialism are the direct or indirect consequences of
strong impressions produced on the imagination of the crowd.
Moreover, all the great statesmen of every age and every country, including
the most absolute despots, have regarded the popular imagination as the basis
of their power, and they have never attempted to govern in opposition to it “It
was by becoming a Catholic,” said Napoleon to the Council of State, “that I
terminated the Vendéen war. By becoming a Mussulman that I obtained a
footing in Egypt. By becoming an Ultramontane that I won over the Italian
priests, and had I to govern a nation of Jews I would rebuild Solomon’s
temple.” Never perhaps since Alexander and Caesar has any great man better
understood how the imagination of the crowd should be impressed. His
constant preoccupation was to strike it. He bore it in mind in his victories, in
his harangues, in his speeches, in all his acts. On his deathbed it was still in his
thoughts.
How is the imagination of crowds to be impressed? We shall soon see. Let
us confine ourselves for the moment to saying that the feat is never to be
achieved by attempting to work upon the intelligence or reasoning faculty, that
is to say, by way of demonstration. It was not by means of cunning rhetoric
that Antony succeeded in making the populace rise against the murderers of
Cæsar; it was by reading his will to the multitude and pointing to his corpse.
Whatever strikes the imagination of crowds presents itself under the shape
of a startling and very clear image, freed from all accessory explanation, or
merely having as accompaniment a few marvellous or mysterious facts:
examples in point are a great victory, a great miracle, a great crime, or a great
hope. Things must be laid before the crowd as a whole, and their genesis must
never be indicated. A hundred petty crimes or petty accidents will not strike
the imagination of crowds in the least, whereas a single great crime or a single
great accident will profoundly impress them, even though the results be
infinitely less disastrous than those of the hundred small accidents put
together. The epidemic of influenza, which caused the death but a few years
ago of five thousand persons in Paris alone, made very little impression on the
popular imagination. The reason was that this veritable hecatomb was not
embodied in any visible image, but was only learnt from statistical information
furnished weekly. An accident which should have caused the death of only five
hundred instead of five thousand persons, but on the same day and in public,
as the outcome of an accident appealing strongly to the eye, by the fall, for
instance, of the Eiffel Tower, would have produced, on the contrary, an
immense impression on the imagination of the crowd. The probable loss of a
transatlantic steamer that was supposed, in the absence of news, to have gone
down in mid-ocean profoundly impressed the imagination of the crowd for a
whole week. Yet official statistics show that 850 sailing vessels and 203
steamers were lost in the year 1894 alone. The crowd, however, was never for
a moment concerned by these successive losses, much more important though
they were as far as regards the destruction of life and property, than the loss of
the Atlantic liner in question could possibly have been.
It is not, then, the facts in themselves that strike the popular imagination, but
the way in which they take place and are brought under notice. It is necessary
that by their condensation, if I may thus express myself, they should produce
a startling image which fills and besets the mind. To know the art of impress-
ing the imagination of crowds is to know at the same time the art of governing
them.
Chapter IV. A Religious Shape Assumed by All the Convictions of

Crowds.
We have shown that crowds do not reason, that they accept or reject ideas as
a whole, that they tolerate neither discussion nor contradiction, and that the
suggestions brought to bear on them invade the entire field of their understand-
ing and tend at once to transform themselves into acts. We have shown that
crowds suitably influenced are ready to sacrifice themselves for the ideal with
which they have been inspired. We have also seen that they only entertain
violent and extreme sentiments, that in their case sympathy quickly becomes
adoration, and antipathy almost as soon as it is aroused is transformed into
hatred. These general indications furnish us already with a presentiment of the
nature of the convictions of crowds.
When these convictions are closely examined, whether at epochs marked by
fervent religious faith, or by great political upheavals such as those of the last
century, it is apparent that they always assume a peculiar form which I cannot
better define than by giving it the name of a religious sentiment.
This sentiment has very simple characteristics, such as worship of a being
supposed superior, fear of the power with which the being is credited, blind
submission to its commands, inability to discuss its dogmas, the desire to
spread them, and a tendency to consider as enemies all by whom they are not
accepted. Whether such a sentiment apply to an invisible God, to a wooden or
stone idol, to a hero or to a political conception, provided that it presents the
preceding characteristics, its essence always remains religious. The supernatu-
ral and the miraculous are found to be present to the same extent. Crowds
unconsciously accord a mysterious power to the political formula or the
victorious leader that for the moment arouses their enthusiasm.
A person is not religious solely when he worships a divinity, but when he
puts all the resources of his mind, the complete submission of his will, and the
whole-souled ardour of fanaticism at the service of a cause or an individual
who becomes the goal and guide of his thoughts and actions.
Intolerance and fanaticism are the necessary accompaniments of the religious
sentiment. They are inevitably displayed by those who believe themselves in
the possession of the secret of earthly or eternal happiness. These two
characteristics are to be found in all men grouped together when they are
inspired by a conviction of any kind. The Jacobins of the Reign of Terror were
at bottom as religious as the Catholics of the Inquisition, and their cruel ardour
proceeded from the same source.
The convictions of crowds assume those characteristics of blind submission,
fierce intolerance, and the need of violent propaganda which are inherent in
the religious sentiment, and it is for this reason that it may be said that all their
beliefs have a religious form. The hero acclaimed by a crowd is a veritable god
for that crowd. Napoleon was such a god for fifteen years, and a divinity never
had more fervent worshippers or sent men to their death with greater ease. The
Christian and Pagan Gods never exercised a more absolute empire over the
minds that had fallen under their sway.
All founders of religious or political creeds have established them solely
because they were successful in inspiring crowds with those fanatical
sentiments which have as result that men find their happiness in worship and
obedience and are ready to lay down their lives for their idol. This has been the
case at all epochs. Fustel de Coulanges, in his excellent work on Roman Gaul,
justly remarks that the Roman Empire was in no wise maintained by force, but
by the religious admiration it inspired. “It would be without a parallel in the
history of the world,” he observes rightly, “that a form of government held in
popular detestation should have lasted for five centuries.... It would be
inexplicable that the thirty legions of the Empire should have constrained a
hundred million men to obedience.” The reason of their obedience was that the
Emperor, who personified the greatness of Rome, was worshipped like a
divinity by unanimous consent. There were altars in honour of the Emperor in
the smallest townships of his realm. “From one end of the Empire to the other
a new religion was seen to arise in those days which had for its divinities the
emperors themselves. Some years before the Christian era the whole of Gaul,
represented by sixty cities, built in common a temple near the town of Lyons
in honour of Augustus.... Its priests, elected by the united Gallic cities, were
the principal personages in their country.... It is impossible to attribute all this
to fear and servility. Whole nations are not servile, and especially for three
centuries. It was not the courtiers who worshipped the prince, it was Rome,
and it was not Rome merely, but it was Gaul, it was Spain, it was Greece and
Asia.”
To-day the majority of the great men who have swayed men’s minds no
longer have altars, but they have statues, or their portraits are in the hands of
their admirers, and the cult of which they are the object is not notably different
from that accorded to their predecessors. An understanding of the philosophy
of history is only to be got by a thorough appreciation of this fundamental
point of the psychology of crowds. The crowd demands a god before
everything else.
It must not be supposed that these are the superstitions of a bygone age which
reason has definitely banished. Sentiment has never been vanquished in its
eternal conflict with reason. Crowds will hear no more of the words divinity
and religion, in whose name they were so long enslaved; but they have never
possessed so many fetishes as in the last hundred years, and the old divinities
have never had so many statues and altars raised in their honour. Those who
in recent years have studied the popular movement known under the name of
Boulangism have been able to see with what ease the religious instincts of
crowds are ready to revive. There was not a country inn that did not possess
the hero’s portrait. He was credited with the power of remedying all injustices
and all evils, and thousands of men would have given their lives for him. Great
might have been his place in history had his character been at all on a level
with his legendary reputation.
It is thus a very useless commonplace to assert that a religion is necessary for
the masses, because all political, divine, and social creeds only take root
among them on the condition of always assuming the religious shape — a
shape which obviates the danger of discussion. Were it possible to induce the
masses to adopt atheism, this belief would exhibit all the intolerant ardour of
a religious sentiment, and in its exterior forms would soon become a cult. The
evolution of the small Positivist sect furnishes us a curious proof in point.
What happened to the Nihilist whose story is related by that profound thinker
Dostoïewsky has quickly happened to the Positivists. Illumined one day by the
light of reason he broke the images of divinities and saints that adorned the
altar of a chapel, extinguished the candles, and, without losing a moment,
replaced the destroyed objects by the works of atheistic philosophers such as
Büchner and Moleschott, after which he piously relighted the candles. The
object of his religious beliefs had been transformed, but can it be truthfully
said that his religious sentiments had changed?
Certain historical events — and they are precisely the most important — I
again repeat, are not to be understood unless one has attained to an apprecia-
tion of the religious form which the convictions of crowds always assume in
the long run. There are social phenomena that need to be studied far more from
the point of view of the psychologist than from that of the naturalist. The great
historian Taine has only studied the Revolution as a naturalist, and on this
account the real genesis of events has often escaped him. He has perfectly
observed the facts, but from want of having studied the psychology of crowds
he has not always been able to trace their causes. The facts having appalled
him by their bloodthirsty, anarchic, and ferocious side, he has scarcely seen in
the heroes of the great drama anything more than a horde of epileptic savages
abandoning themselves without restraint to their instincts. The violence of the
Revolution, its massacres, its need of propaganda, its declarations of war upon
all things, are only to be properly explained by reflecting that the Revolution
was merely the establishment of a new religious belief in the mind of the
masses. The Reformation, the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, the French
religious wars, the Inquisition, the Reign of Terror are phenomena of an
identical kind, brought about by crowds animated by those religious sentiments
which necessarily lead those imbued with them to pitilessly extirpate by fire
and sword whoever is opposed to the establishment of the new faith. The
methods of the Inquisition are those of all whose convictions are genuine and
sturdy. Their convictions would not deserve these epithets did they resort to
other methods.
Upheavals analogous to those I have just cited are only possible when it is the
soul of the masses that brings them about. The most absolute despots could not
cause them. When historians tell us that the massacre of Saint Bartholomew
was the work of a king, they show themselves as ignorant of the psychology
of crowds as of that of sovereigns. Manifestations of this order can only
proceed from the soul of crowds. The most absolute power of the most
despotic monarch can scarcely do more than hasten or retard the moment of
their apparition. The massacre of Saint Bartholomew or the religious wars
were no more the work of kings than the Reign of Terror was the work of
Robespierre, Danton, or Saint Just. At the bottom of such events is always to
be found the working of the soul of the masses, and never the power of
potentates.
Book II. The Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds.

Chapter I. Remote Factors of the Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds.
Having studied the mental constitution of crowds and become acquainted
with their modes of feeling, thinking, and reasoning, we shall now proceed to
examine how their opinions and beliefs arise and become established.
The factors which determine these opinions and beliefs are of two kinds:
remote factors and immediate factors.
The remote factors are those which render crowds capable of adopting certain
convictions and absolutely refractory to the acceptance of others. These factors
prepare the ground in which are suddenly seen to germinate certain new ideas
whose force and consequences are a cause of astonishment, though they are
only spontaneous in appearance. The outburst and putting in practice of certain
ideas among crowds present at times a startling suddenness. This is only a
superficial effect, behind which must be sought a preliminary and preparatory
action of long duration.
The immediate factors are those which, coming on the top of this long,
preparatory working, in whose absence they would remain without effect,
serve as the source of active persuasion on crowds; that is, they are the factors
which cause the idea to take shape and set it loose with all its consequences.
The resolutions by which collectivities are suddenly carried away arise out of
these immediate factors; it is due to them that a riot breaks out or a strike is
decided upon, and to them that enormous majorities invest one man with
power to overthrow a government.
The successive action of these two kinds of factors is to be traced in all great
historical events. The French Revolution — to cite but one of the most striking
of such events — had among its remote factors the writings of the philoso-
phers, the exactions of the nobility, and the progress of scientific thought. The
mind of the masses, thus prepared, was then easily roused by such immediate
factors as the speeches of orators, and the resistance of the court party to
insignificant reforms.
Among the remote factors there are some of a general nature, which are
found to underlie all the beliefs and opinions of crowds. They are race,
traditions, time, institutions, and education.
We now proceed to study the influence of these different factors.
1. Race.
This factor, race, must be placed in the first rank, for in itself it far surpasses
in importance all the others. We have sufficiently studied it in another work;
it is therefore needless to deal with it again.
We showed, in a previous volume, what an historical race is, and how, its
character once formed, it possesses, as the result of the laws of heredity such
power that its beliefs, institutions, and arts — in a word, all the elements of its
civilisation — are merely the outward expression of its genius. We showed
that the power of the race is such that no element can pass from one people to
another without undergoing the most profound transformations.7
Environment, circumstances, and events represent the social suggestions of
the moment. They may have a considerable influence, but this influence is
always momentary if it be contrary to the suggestions of the race; that is, to
those which are inherited by a nation from the entire series of its ancestors.
We shall have occasion in several of the chapters of this work to touch again
upon racial influence, and to show that this influence is so great that it
dominates the characteristics peculiar to the genius of crowds. It follows from
this fact that the crowds of different countries offer very considerable
differences of beliefs and conduct and are not to be influenced in the same
manner.
2. Traditions.
Traditions represent the ideas, the needs, and the sentiments of the past. They
are the synthesis of the race, and weigh upon us with immense force.
The biological sciences have been transformed since embryology has shown
the immense influence of the past on the evolution of living beings; and the
historical sciences will not undergo a less change when this conception has
become more widespread. As yet it is not sufficiently general, and many
statesmen are still no further advanced than the theorists of the last century,
who believed that a society could break off with its past and be entirely recast
on lines suggested solely by the light of reason.
A people is an organism created by the past, and, like every other organism,
it can only be modified by slow hereditary accumulations.
It is tradition that guides men, and more especially so when they are in a
crowd. The changes they can effect in their traditions with any ease, merely
bear, as I have often repeated, upon names and outward forms.
This circumstance is not to be regretted. Neither a national genius nor
civilisation would be possible without traditions. In consequence man’s two
great concerns since he has existed have been to create a network of traditions
which he afterwards endeavours to destroy when their beneficial effects have
worn themselves out. Civilisation is impossible without traditions, and
progress impossible without the destruction of those traditions. The difficulty,
and it is an immense difficulty, is to find a proper equilibrium between stability
and variability. Should a people allow its customs to become too firmly rooted,
it can no longer change, and becomes, like China, incapable of improvement.
Violent revolutions are in this case of no avail; for what happens is that either
the broken fragments of the chain are pieced together again and the past
resumes its empire without change, or the fragments remain apart and
decadence soon succeeds anarchy.
The ideal for a people is in consequence to preserve the institutions of the
past, merely changing them insensibly and little by little. This ideal is difficult
to realise. The Romans in ancient and the English in modern times are almost
alone in having realised it.
It is precisely crowds that cling the most tenaciously to traditional ideas and
oppose their being changed with the most obstinacy. This is notably the case
with the category of crowds constituting castes. I have already insisted upon
the conservative spirit of crowds, and shown that the most violent rebellions
merely end in a changing of words and terms. At the end of the last century,
in the presence of destroyed churches, of priests expelled the country or
guillotined, it might have been thought that the old religious ideas had lost all
their strength, and yet a few years had barely lapsed before the abolished
system of public worship had to be re-established in deference to universal
demands.8
Blotted out for a moment, the old traditions had resumed their sway.
No example could better display the power of tradition on the mind of
crowds. The most redoubtable idols do not dwell in temples, nor the most
despotic tyrants in palaces; both the one and the other can be broken in an
instant. But the invisible masters that reign in our innermost selves are safe
from every effort at revolt, and only yield to the slow wearing away of
centuries.
3. Time.
In social as in biological problems time is one of the most energetic factors.
It is the sole real creator and the sole great destroyer. It is time that has made
mountains with grains of sand and raised the obscure cell of geological eras to
human dignity. The action of centuries is sufficient to transform any given
phenomenon. It has been justly observed that an ant with enough time at its
disposal could level Mount Blanc. A being possessed of the magical force of
varying time at his will would have the power attributed by believers to God.
In this place, however, we have only to concern ourselves with the influence
of time on the genesis of the opinions of crowds. Its action from this point of
view is still immense. Dependent upon it are the great forces such as race,
which cannot form themselves without it. It causes the birth, the growth, and
the death of all beliefs. It is by the aid of time that they acquire their strength
and also by its aid that they lose it.
It is time in particular that prepares the opinions and beliefs of crowds, or at
least the soil on which they will germinate. This is why certain ideas are
realisable at one epoch and not at another. It is time that accumulates that
immense detritus of beliefs and thoughts on which the ideas of a given period
spring up. They do not grow at hazard and by chance; the roots of each of them
strike down into a long past. When they blossom it is time that has prepared
their blooming; and to arrive at a notion of their genesis it is always back in the
past that it is necessary to search. They are the daughters of the past and the
mothers of the future, but throughout the slaves of time.
Time, in consequence, is our veritable master, and it suffices to leave it free
to act to see all things transformed. At the present day we are very uneasy with
regard to the threatening aspirations of the masses and the destructions and
upheavals foreboded thereby. Time, without other aid, will see to the
restoration of equilibrium. “No form of government,” M. Lavisse very
properly writes, “was founded in a day. Political and social organisations are
works that demand centuries. The feudal system existed for centuries in a
shapeless, chaotic state before it found its laws; absolute monarchy also
existed for centuries before arriving at regular methods of government, and
these periods of expectancy were extremely troubled.”
4. Political and Social Institutions.

The idea that institutions can remedy the defects of societies, that national
progress is the consequence of the improvement of institutions and govern-
ments, and that social changes can be effected by decrees — this idea, I say,
is still generally accepted. It was the starting-point of the French Revolution,
and the social theories of the present day are based upon it.
The most continuous experience has been unsuccessful in shaking this grave
delusion. Philosophers and historians have endeavoured in vain to prove its
absurdity, but yet they have had no difficulty in demonstrating that institutions
are the outcome of ideas, sentiments, and customs, and that ideas, sentiments,
and customs are not to be recast by recasting legislative codes. A nation does
not choose its institutions at will any more than it chooses the colour of its hair
or its eyes. Institutions and governments are the product of the race. They are
not the creators of an epoch, but are created by it. Peoples are not governed in
accordance with their caprices of the moment, but as their character determines
that they shall be governed. Centuries are required to form a political system
and centuries needed to change it. Institutions have no intrinsic virtue: in
themselves they are neither good nor bad. Those which are good at a given
moment for a given people may be harmful in the extreme for another nation.
Moreover, it is in no way in the power of a people to really change its
institutions. Undoubtedly, at the cost of violent revolutions, it can change their
name, but in their essence they remain unmodified. The names are mere futile
labels with which an historian who goes to the bottom of things need scarcely
concern himself. It is in this way, for instance, that England,9 the most
democratic country in the world, lives, nevertheless, under a monarchical
régime, whereas the countries in which the most oppressive despotism is
rampant are the Spanish-American Republics, in spite of their republican
constitutions. The destinies of peoples are determined by their character and
not by their government. I have endeavoured to establish this view in my
previous volume by setting forth categorical examples.
To lose time in the manufacture of cut-and-dried constitutions is, in
consequence, a puerile task, the useless labour of an ignorant rhetorician.
Necessity and time undertake the charge of elaborating constitutions when we
are wise enough to allow these two factors to act. This is the plan the
Anglo-Saxons have adopted, as their great historian, Macaulay, teaches us in

a passage that the politicians of all Latin countries ought to learn by heart.
After having shown all the good that can be accomplished by laws which
appear from the point of view of pure reason a chaos of absurdities and
contradictions, he compares the scores of constitutions that have been
engulphed in the convulsions of the Latin peoples with that of England, and
points out that the latter has only been very slowly changed part by part, under
the influence of immediate necessities and never of speculative reasoning.
“To think nothing of symmetry and much of convenience; never to remove
an anomaly merely because it is an anomaly; never to innovate except when
some grievance is felt; never to innovate except so far as to get rid of the
grievance; never to lay down any proposition of wider extent than the
particular case for which it is necessary to provide; these are the rules which
have, from the age of John to the age of Victoria, generally guided the
deliberations of our two hundred and fifty Parliaments.”
It would be necessary to take one by one the laws and institutions of each
people to show to what extent they are the expression of the needs of each race
and are incapable, for that reason, of being violently transformed. It is
possible, for, instance, to indulge in philosophical dissertations on the
advantages and disadvantages of centralisation; but when we see a people
composed of very different races devote a thousand years of efforts to attaining
to this centralisation; when we observe that a great revolution, having for
object the destruction of all the institutions of the past, has been forced to
respect this centralisation, and has even strengthened it; under these circum-
stances we should admit that it is the outcome of imperious needs, that it is a
condition of the existence of the nation in question, and we should pity the
poor mental range of politicians who talk of destroying it. Could they by
chance succeed in this attempt, their success would at once be the signal for
a frightful civil war,10 which, moreover, would immediately bring back a new
system of centralisation much more oppressive than the old.
The conclusion to be drawn from what precedes is, that it is not in institutions
that the means is to be sought of profoundly influencing the genius of the
masses. When we see certain countries, such as the United States, reach a high
degree of prosperity under democratic institutions, while others, such as the
Spanish-American Republics, are found existing in a pitiable state of anarchy
under absolutely similar institutions, we should admit that these institutions are
as foreign to the greatness of the one as to the decadence of the others. Peoples
are governed by their character, and all institutions which are not intimately
modelled on that character merely represent a borrowed garment, a transitory
disguise. No doubt sanguinary wars and violent revolutions have been
undertaken, and will continue to be undertaken, to impose institutions to which
is attributed, as to the relics of saints, the supernatural power of creating
welfare. It may be said, then, in one sense, that institutions react on the mind
of the crowd inasmuch as they engender such upheavals. But in reality it is not
the institutions that react in this manner, since we know that, whether
triumphant or vanquished, they possess in themselves no virtue. It is illusions
and words that have influenced the mind of the crowd, and especially words
— words which are as powerful as they are chimerical, and whose astonishing
sway we shall shortly demonstrate.
5. Instruction and Education.

Foremost among the dominant ideas of the present epoch is to be found the
notion that instruction is capable of considerably changing men, and has for
its unfailing consequence to improve them and even to make them equal. By
the mere fact of its being constantly repeated, this assertion has ended by
becoming one of the most steadfast democratic dogmas. It would be as
difficult now to attack it as it would have been formerly to have attacked the
dogmas of the Church.
On this point, however, as on many others, democratic ideas are in profound
disagreement with the results of psychology and experience. Many eminent
philosophers, among them Herbert Spencer, have had no difficulty in showing
that instruction neither renders a man more moral nor happier, that it changes
neither his instincts nor his hereditary passions, and that at times — for this to
happen it need only be badly directed — it is much more pernicious than
useful. Statisticians have brought confirmation of these views by telling us that
criminality increases with the generalisation of instruction, or at any rate of a
certain kind of instruction, and that the worst enemies of society, the
anarchists, are recruited among the prize-winners of schools; while in a recent
work a distinguished magistrate, M. Adolphe Guillot, made the observation
that at present 3,000 educated criminals are met with for every 1,000 illiterate
delinquents, and that in fifty years the criminal percentage of the population
has passed from 227 to 552 for every 100,000 inhabitants, an increase of 133
per cent. He has also noted in common with his colleagues that criminality is
particularly on the increase among young persons, for whom, as is known,
gratuitous and obligatory schooling has — in France — replaced apprentice-

ship.
It is not assuredly — and nobody has ever maintained this proposition — that
well-directed instruction may not give very useful practical results, if not in the
sense of raising the standard of morality, at least in that of developing
professional capacity. Unfortunately the Latin peoples, especially in the last
tweny-five years, have based their systems of instruction on very erroneous
principles, and in spite of the observations of the most eminent minds, such as
Bréal, Fustel de Coulanges, Taine, and many others, they persist in their
lamentable mistakes. I have myself shown, in a work published some time ago,
that the French system of education transforms the majority of those who have
undergone it into enemies of society, and recruits numerous disciples for the
worst forms of socialism.
The primary danger of this system of education — very properly qualified as
Latin — consists in the fact that it is based on the fundamental psychological
error that the intelligence is developed by the learning by heart of text-books.
Adopting this view, the endeavour has been made to enforce a knowledge of
as many hand-books as possible. From the primary school till he leaves the
university a young man does nothing but acquire books by heart without his
judgment or personal initiative being ever called into play. Education consists
for him in reciting by heart and obeying.
“Learning lessons, knowing by heart a grammar or a compendium, repeating
well and imitating well — that,” writes a former Minister of Public Instruction,
M. Jules Simon, “is a ludicrous form of education whose every effort is an act
of faith tacitly admitting the infallibility of the master, and whose only results
are a belittling of ourselves and a rendering of us impotent.”
Were this education merely useless, one might confine one’s self to
expressing compassion for the unhappy children who, instead of making
needful studies at the primary school, are instructed in the genealogy of the
sons of Clotaire, the conflicts between Neustria and Austrasia, or zoological
classifications. But the system presents a far more serious danger. It gives
those who have been submitted to it a violent dislike to the state of life in
which they were born, and an intense desire to escape from it. The working
man no longer wishes to remain a working man, or the peasant to continue a
peasant, while the most humble members of the middle classes admit of no
possible career for their sons except that of State-paid functionaries. Instead
of preparing men for life French schools solely prepare them to occupy public
functions, in which success can be attained without any necessity for
self-direction or the exhibition of the least glimmer of personal initiative. At
the bottom of the social ladder the system creates an army of proletarians
discontented with their lot and always ready to revolt, while at the summit it
brings into being a frivolous bourgeoisie, at once sceptical and credulous,
having a superstitious confidence in the State, whom it regards as a sort of
Providence, but without forgetting to display towards it a ceaseless hostility,
always laying its own faults to the door of the Government, and incapable of
the least enterprise without the intervention of the authorities.
The State, which manufactures by dint of textbooks all these persons
possessing diplomas, can only utilise a small number of them, and is forced to
leave the others without employment. It is obliged in consequence to resign
itself to feeding the first mentioned and to having the others as its enemies.
From the top to the bottom of the social pyramid, from the humblest clerk to
the professor and the prefect, the immense mass of persons boasting diplomas
besiege the professions. While a business man has the greatest difficulty in
finding an agent to represent him in the colonies, thousands of candidates
solicit the most modest official posts. There are 20,000 schoolmasters and
mistresses without employment in the department of the Seine alone, all of
them persons who, disdaining the fields or the workshops, look to the State for
their livelihood. The number of the chosen being restricted, that of the
discontented is perforce immense. The latter are ready for any revolution,
whoever be its chiefs and whatever the goal they aim at. The acquisition of
knowledge for which no use can be found is a sure method of driving a man
to revolt.11
It is evidently too late to retrace our steps. Experience alone, that supreme
educator of peoples, will be at pains to show us our mistake. It alone will be
powerful enough to prove the necessity of replacing our odious text-books and
our pitiable examinations by industrial instruction capable of inducing our
young men to return to the fields, to the workshop, and to the colonial
enterprise which they avoid to-day at all costs.
The professional instruction which all enlightened minds are now demanding
was the instruction received in the past by our forefathers. It is still in vigour
at the present day among the nations who rule the world by their force of will,
their initiative, and their spirit of enterprise. In a series of remarkable pages,
whose principal passages I reproduce further on, a great thinker, M. Taine, has
clearly shown that our former system of education was approximately that in
vogue to-day in England and America, and in a remarkable parallel between
the Latin and Anglo-Saxon systems he has plainly pointed out the conse-
quences of the two methods.
One might consent, perhaps, at a pinch, to continue to accept all the
disadvantages of our classical education, although it produced nothing but
discontented men, and men unfitted for their station in life, did the superficial
acquisition of so much knowledge, the faultless repeating by heart of so many
text-books, raise the level of intelligence. But does it really raise this level?
Alas, no! The conditions of success in life are the possession of judgment,
experience, initiative, and character — qualities which are not bestowed by
books. Books are dictionaries, which it is useful to consult, but of which it is
perfectly useless to have lengthy portions in one’s head.
How is it possible for professional instruction to develop the intelligence in
a measure quite beyond the reach of classical instruction? This has been well
shown by M. Taine.
“Ideas, he says, are only formed in their natural and normal surroundings; the
promotion of the growth is effected by the innumerable impressions appealing
to the senses which a young man receives daily in the workshop, the mine, the
law court, the study, the builder’s yard, the hospital; at the sight of tools,
materials, and operations; in the presence of customers, workers, and labour,
of work well or ill done, costly or lucrative. In such a way are obtained those
trifling perceptions of detail of the eyes, the ear, the hands, and even the sense
of smell, which, picked up involuntarily, and silently elaborated, take shape
within the learner, and suggest to him sooner or, later this or that new
combination, simplification, economy, improvement, or invention. The young
Frenchman is deprived, and precisely at the age when they are most fruitful,
of all these precious contacts, of all these indispensable elements of assimila-
tion. For seven or eight years on end he is shut up in a school, and is cut off
from that direct personal experience which would give him a keen and exact
notion of men and things and of the various ways of handling them.”
“... At least nine out of ten have wasted their time and pains during several
years of their life — telling, important, even decisive years. Among such are
to be counted, first of all, the half or two-thirds of those who present
themselves for examination — I refer to those who are rejected; and then
among those who are successful, who obtain a degree, a certificate, a diploma,
there is still a half or two-thirds — I refer to the overworked. Too much has
been demanded of them by exacting that on a given day, on a chair or before
a board, they should, for two hours in succession, and with respect to a group
of sciences, be living repertories of all human knowledge. In point of fact they
were that, or nearly so, for two hours on that particular day, but a month later
they are so no longer. They could not go through the examination again. Their
too numerous and too burdensome acquisitions slip incessantly from their
mind, and are not replaced. Their mental vigour has declined, their fertile
capacity for growth has dried up, the fully-developed man appears, and he is
often a used up man. Settled down, married, resigned to turning in a circle, and
indefinitely in the same circle, he shuts himself up in his confined function,
which he fulfils adequately, but nothing more. Such is the average yield:
assuredly the receipts do not balance the expenditure. In England or America,
where, as in France previous to 1789, the contrary proceeding is adopted, the
outcome obtained is equal or superior.”
The illustrious psychologist subsequently shows us the difference between
our system and that of the Anglo-Saxons. The latter do not possess our
innumerable special schools. With them instruction is not based on book-learn-
ing, but on object lessons. The engineer, for example, is trained in a workshop,
and never at a school; a method which allows of each individual reaching the
level his intelligence permits of. He becomes a workman or a foreman if he
can get no further, an engineer if his aptitudes take him as far. This manner of
proceeding is much more democratic and of much greater benefit to society
than that of making the whole career of an individual depend on an examina-
tion, lasting a few hours, and undergone at the age of nineteen or twenty.
“In the hospital, the mine, the factory, in the architect’s or the lawyer’s office,
the student, who makes a start while very young, goes through his apprentice-
ship, stage by stage, much as does with us a law clerk in his office, or an artist
in his studio. Previously, and before making a practical beginning, he has had
an opportunity of following some general and summary course of instruction,
so as to have a framework ready prepared in which to store the observations
he is shortly to make. Furthermore he is able, as a rule, to avail himself of
sundry technical courses which he can follow in his leisure hours, so as to
co-ordinate step by step the daily experience he is gathering. Under such a
system the practical capabilities increase and develop of themselves in exact
proportion to the faculties of the student, and in the direction requisite for his
future task and the special work for which from now onwards he desires to fit
himself. By this means in England or the United States a young man is quickly
in a position to develop his capacity to the utmost. At twenty-five years of age,
and much sooner if the material and the parts are there, he is not merely a
useful performer, he is capable also of spontaneous enterprise; he is not only
a part of a machine, but also a motor. In France, where the contrary system
prevails — in France, which with each succeeding generation is falling more
and more into line with China — the sum total of the wasted forces is
enormous.”
The great philosopher arrives at the following conclusion with respect to the
growing incongruity between our Latin system of education and the require-
ments of practical life: —
“In the three stages of instruction, those of childhood, adolescence and youth,
the theoretical and pedagogic preparation by books on the school benches has
lengthened out and become overcharged in view of the examination, the
degree, the diploma, and the certificate, and solely in this view, and by the
worst methods, by the application of an unnatural and anti-social régime, by
the excessive postponement of the practical apprenticeship, by our board-
ing-school system, by artificial training and mechanical cramming, by
overwork, without thought for the time that is to follow, for the adult age and
the functions of the man, without regard for the real world on which the young
man will shortly be thrown, for the society in which we move and to which he
must be adapted or be taught to resign himself in advance, for the struggle in
which humanity is engaged, and in which to defend himself and to keep his
footing he ought previously to have been equipped, armed, trained, and
hardened. This indispensable equipment, this acquisition of more importance
than any other, this sturdy common sense and nerve and will-power our
schools do not procure the young Frenchman; on the contrary, far from
qualifying him for his approaching and definite state, they disqualify him. In
consequence, his entry into the world and his first steps in the field of action
are most often merely a succession of painful falls, whose effect is that he long
remains wounded and bruised, and sometimes disabled for life. The test is
severe and dangerous. In the course of it the mental and moral equilibrium is
affected, and runs the risk of not being re-established. Too sudden and
complete disillusion has supervened. The deceptions have been too great, the
disappointments too keen.”12
Have we digressed in what precedes from the psychology of crowds?
Assuredly not. If we desire to understand the ideas and beliefs that are
germinating to-day in the masses, and will spring up to-morrow, it is necessary

to know how the ground has been prepared. The instruction given the youth of
a country allows of a knowledge of what that country will one day be. The
education accorded the present generation justifies the most gloomy previ-
sions. It is in part by instruction and education that the mind of the masses is
improved or deteriorated. It was necessary in consequence to show how this
mind has been fashioned by the system in vogue, and how the mass of the
indifferent and the neutral has become progressively an army of the discon-
tented ready to obey all the suggestions of utopians and rhetoricians. It is in the
schoolroom that socialists and anarchists are found nowadays, and that the way
is being paved for the approaching period of decadence for the Latin peoples.
Chapter II. The Immediate Factors of the Opinions of Crowds.

We have just investigated the remote and preparatory factors which give the
mind of crowds a special receptivity, and make possible therein the growth of
certain sentiments and certain ideas. It now remains for us to study the factors
capable of acting in a direct manner. We shall see in a forthcoming chapter
how these factors should be put in force in order that they may produce their
full effect.
In the first part of this work we studied the sentiments, ideas, and methods of
reasoning of collective bodies, and from the knowledge thus acquired it would
evidently be possible to deduce in a general way the means of making an
impression on their mind. We already know what strikes the imagination of
crowds, and are acquainted with the power and contagiousness of suggestions,
of those especially that are presented under the form of images. However, as
suggestions may proceed from very different sources, the factors capable of
acting on the minds of crowds may differ considerably. It is necessary, then,
to study them separately. This is not a useless study. Crowds are somewhat like
the sphinx of ancient fable: it is necessary to arrive at a solution of the
problems offered by their psychology or to resign ourselves to being devoured
by them.
1. Images, Words, and Formulas.

When studying the imagination of crowds we saw that it is particularly open
to the impressions produced by images. These images do not always lie ready
to hand, but it is possible to evoke them by the judicious employment of words
and formulas. Handled with art, they possess in sober truth the mysterious
power formerly attributed to them by the adepts of magic. They cause the birth
in the minds of crowds of the most formidable tempests, which in turn they are
capable of stilling. A pyramid far loftier than that of old Cheops could be
raised merely with the bones of men who have been victims of the power of
words and formulas.
The power of words is bound up with the images they evoke, and is quite
independent of their real significance. Words whose sense is the most
ill-defined are sometimes those that possess the most influence. Such, for
example, are the terms democracy, socialism, equality, liberty, &c., whose
meaning is so vague that bulky volumes do not suffice to precisely fix it. Yet
it is certain that a truly magical power is attached to those short syllables, as
if they contained the solution of all problems. They synthesise the most diverse
unconscious aspirations and the hope of their realisation.
Reason and arguments are incapable of combatting certain words and
formulas. They are uttered with solemnity in the presence of crowds, and as
soon as they have been pronounced an expression of respect is visible on every
countenance, and all heads are bowed. By many they are considered as natural
forces, as supernatural powers. They evoke grandiose and vague images in
men’s minds, but this very vagueness that wraps them in obscurity augments
their mysterious power. They are the mysterious divinities hidden behind the
tabernacle, which the devout only approach in fear and trembling.
The images evoked by words being independent of their sense, they vary
from age to age and from people to people, the formulas remaining identical.
Certain transitory images are attached to certain words: the word is merely as
it were the button of an electric bell that calls them up.
All words and all formulas do not possess the power of evoking images,
while there are some which have once had this power, but lose it in the course
of use, and cease to waken any response in the mind. They then become vain
sounds, whose principal utility is to relieve the person who employs them of
the obligation of thinking. Armed with a small stock of formulas and
commonplaces learnt while we are young, we possess all that is needed to
traverse life without the tiring necessity of having to reflect on anything
whatever.
If any particular language be studied, it is seen that the words of which it is
composed change rather slowly in the course of ages, while the images these
words evoke or the meaning attached to them changes ceaselessly. This is the
reason why, in another work, I have arrived at the conclusion that the absolute
translation of a language, especially of a dead language, is totally impossible.
What do we do in reality when we substitute a French for a Latin, Greek, or
Sanscrit expression, or even when we endeavour to understand a book written
in our own tongue two or three centuries back? We merely put the images and
ideas with which modern life has endowed our intelligence in the place of
absolutely distinct notions and images which ancient life had brought into
being in the mind of races submitted to conditions of existence having no
analogy with our own. When the men of the Revolution imagined they were
copying the Greeks and Romans, what were they doing except giving to
ancient words a sense the latter had never had? What resemblance can possibly
exist between the institutions of the Greeks and those designated to-day by
corresponding words? A republic at that epoch was an essentially aristocratic
institution, formed of a reunion of petty despots ruling over a crowd of slaves
kept in the most absolute subjection. These communal aristocracies, based on
slavery, could not have existed for a moment without it.
The word “liberty,” again, what signification could it have in any way
resembling that we attribute to it to-day at a period when the possibility of the
liberty of thought was not even suspected, and when there was no greater and
more exceptional crime than that of discussing the gods, the laws and the
customs of the city? What did such a word as “fatherland” signify to an
Athenian or Spartan unless it were the cult of Athens or Sparta, and in no wise
that of Greece, composed of rival cities always at war with each other? What
meaning had the same word “fatherland” among the ancient Gauls, divided
into rival tribes and races, and possessing different languages and religions,
and who were easily vanquished by Caesar because he always found allies
among them? It was Rome that made a country of Gaul by endowing it with
political and religious unity. Without going back so far, scarcely two centuries
ago, is it to be believed that this same notion of a fatherland was conceived to
have the same meaning as at present by French princes like the great Condé,
who allied themselves with the foreigner against their sovereign? And yet
again, the same word had it not a sense very different from the modern for the
French royalist emigrants, who thought they obeyed the laws of honour in
fighting against France, and who from their point of view did indeed obey
them, since the feudal law bound the vassal to the lord and not to the soil, so
that where the sovereign was there was the true fatherland?
Numerous are the words whose meaning has thus profoundly changed from
age to age — words which we can only arrive at understanding in the sense in
which they were formerly understood after a long effort. It has been said with
truth that much study is necessary merely to arrive at conceiving what was
signified to our great grandfathers by such words as the “king” and the “royal
family.” What, then, is likely to be the case with terms still more complex?
Words, then, have only mobile and transitory significations which change
from age to age and people to people; and when we desire to exert an influence
by their means on the crowd what it is requisite to know is the meaning given
them by the crowd at a given moment, and not the meaning which they
formerly had or may yet have for individuals of a different mental constitution.
Thus, when crowds have come, as the result of political upheavals or changes
of belief, to acquire a profound antipathy for the images evoked by certain
words, the first duty of the true statesman is to change the words without, of
course, laying hands on the things themselves, the latter being too intimately
bound up with the inherited constitution to be transformed. The judicious
Tocqueville long ago made the remark that the work of the consulate and the
empire consisted more particularly in the clothing with new words of the
greater part of the institutions of the past — that is to say, in replacing words
evoking disagreeable images in the imagination of the crowd by other words
of which the novelty prevented such evocations. The “taille” or tallage has
become the land tax; the “gabelle,” the tax on salt; the “aids,” the indirect
contributions and the consolidated duties; the tax on trade companies and
guilds, the license, &c.
One of the most essential functions of statesmen consists, then, in baptizing
with popular or, at any rate, indifferent words things the crowd cannot endure
under their old names. The power of words is so great that it suffices to
designate in well-chosen terms the most odious things to make them accept-
able to crowds. Taine justly observes that it was by invoking liberty and
fraternity — words very popular at the time — that the Jacobins were able “to
install a despotism worthy of Dahomey, a tribunal similar to that of the
Inquisition, and to accomplish human hecatombs akin to those of ancient
Mexico.” The art of those who govern, as is the case with the art of advocates,
consists above all in the science of employing words. One of the greatest
difficulties of this art is, that in one and the same society the same words most
often have very different meanings for the different social classes, who employ
in appearance the same words, but never speak the same language.
In the preceding examples it is especially time that has been made to

intervene as the principal factor in the changing of the meaning of words. If,
however, we also make race intervene, we shall then see that, at the same
period, among peoples equally civilised but of different race, the same words
very often correspond to extremely dissimilar ideas. It is impossible to
understand these differences without having travelled much, and for this
reason I shall not insist upon them. I shall confine myself to observing that it
is precisely the words most often employed by the masses which among
different peoples possess the most different meanings. Such is the case, for
instance, with the words “democracy” and “socialism” in such frequent use
nowadays.
In reality they correspond to quite contrary ideas and images in the Latin and
Anglo-Saxon mind. For the Latin peoples the word “democracy” signifies
more especially the subordination of the will and the initiative of the individual
to the will and the initiative of the community represented by the State. It is the
State that is charged, to a greater and greater degree, with the direction of
everything, the centralisation, the monopolisation, and the manufacture of
everything. To the State it is that all parties without exception, radicals,
socialists, or monarchists, constantly appeal. Among the Anglo-Saxons and
notably in America this same word “democracy” signifies, on the contrary, the
intense development of the will of the individual, and as complete a subordina-
tion as possible of the State, which, with the exception of the police, the army,
and diplomatic relations, is not allowed the direction of anything, not even of
public instruction. It is seen, then, that the same word which signifies for one
people the subordination of the will and the initiative of the individual and the
preponderance of the State, signifies for another the excessive development of
the will and the initiative of the individual and the complete subordination of
the State.13
2. Illusions.
From the dawn of civilisation onwards crowds have always undergone the
influence of illusions. It is to the creators of illusions that they have raised
more temples, statues, and altars than to any other class of men. Whether it be
the religious illusions of the past or the philosophic and social illusions of the
present, these formidable sovereign powers are always found at the head of all
the civilisations that have successively flourished on our planet. It is in their
name that were built the temples of Chaldea and Egypt and the religious
edifices of the Middle Ages, and that a vast upheaval shook the whole of
Europe a century ago, and there is not one of our political, artistic, or social
conceptions that is free from their powerful impress. Occasionally, at the cost
of terrible disturbances, man overthrows them, but he seems condemned to
always set them up again. Without them he would never have emerged from
his primitive barbarian state, and without them again he would soon return to
it. Doubtless they are futile shadows; but these children of our dreams have
forced the nations to create whatever the arts may boast of splendour or
civilisation of greatness.
“If one destroyed in museums and libraries, if one hurled down on the
flagstones before the churches all the works and all the monuments of art that
religions have inspired, what would remain of the great dreams of humanity?
To give to men that portion of hope and illusion without which they cannot
live, such is the reason for the existence of gods, heroes, and poets. During
fifty years science appeared to undertake this task. But science has been
compromised in hearts hungering after the ideal, because it does not dare to be
lavish enough of promises, because it cannot lie.”14
The philosophers of the last century devoted themselves with fervour to the
destruction of the religious, political, and social illusions on which our
forefathers had lived for a long tale of centuries. By destroying them they have
dried up the springs of hope and resignation. Behind the immolated chimeras
they came face to face with the blind and silent forces of nature, which are
inexorable to weakness and ignore pity.
Notwithstanding all its progress, philosophy has been unable as yet to offer
the masses any ideal that can charm them; but, as they must have their illusions
at all cost, they turn instinctively, as the insect seeks the light, to the rhetori-
cians who accord them what they want. Not truth, but error has always been
the chief factor in the evolution of nations, and the reason why socialism is so
powerful to-day is that it constitutes the last illusion that is still vital. In spite
of all scientific demonstrations it continues on the increase. Its principal
strength lies in the fact that it is championed by minds sufficiently ignorant of
things as they are in reality to venture boldly to promise mankind happiness.
The social illusion reigns to-day upon all the heaped-up ruins of the past, and
to it belongs the future. The masses have never thirsted after truth. They turn
aside from evidence that is not to their taste, preferring to deify error, if error
seduce them. Whoever can supply them with illusions is easily their master;
whoever attempts to destroy their illusions is always their victim.
3. Experience.
Experience constitutes almost the only effective process by which a truth may
be solidly established in the mind of the masses, and illusions grown too
dangerous be destroyed. To this end, however, it is necessary that the
experience should take place on a very large scale, and be very frequently
repeated. The experiences undergone by one generation are useless, as a rule,
for the generation that follows, which is the reason why historical facts, cited
with a view to demonstration, serve no purpose. Their only utility is to prove
to what an extent experiences need to be repeated from age to age to exert any
influence, or to be successful in merely shaking an erroneous opinion when it
is solidly implanted in the mind of the masses.
Our century and that which preceded it will doubtless be alluded to by
historians as an era of curious experiments, which in no other age have been
tried in such number.
The most gigantic of these experiments was the French Revolution. To find
out that a society is not to be refashioned from top to bottom in accordance
with the dictates of pure reason, it was necessary that several millions of men
should be massacred and that Europe should be profoundly disturbed for a
period of twenty years. To prove to us experimentally that dictators cost the
nations who acclaim them dear, two ruinous experiences have been required
in fifty years, and in spite of their clearness they do not seem to have been
sufficiently convincing. The first, nevertheless, cost three millions of men and
an invasion, the second involved a loss of territory, and carried in its wake the
necessity for permanent armies. A third was almost attempted not long since,
and will assuredly be attempted one day. To bring an entire nation to admit that
the huge German army was not, as was currently alleged thirty years ago, a sort
of harmless national guard,15 the terrible war which cost us so dear had to take
place. To bring about the recognition that Protection ruins the nations who
adopt it, at least twenty years of disastrous experience will be needful. These
examples might be indefinitely multiplied.
4. Reason.
In enumerating the factors capable of making an impression on the minds of
crowds all mention of reason might be dispensed with, were it not necessary
to point out the negative value of its influence.
We have already shown that crowds are not to be influenced by reasoning,
and can only comprehend rough-and-ready associations of ideas. The orators

who know how to make an impression upon them always appeal in conse-
quence to their sentiments and never to their reason. The laws of logic have no
action on crowds.16 To bring home conviction to crowds it is necessary first of
all to thoroughly comprehend the sentiments by which they are animated, to
pretend to share these sentiments, then to endeavour to modify them by calling
up, by means of rudimentary associations, certain eminently suggestive
notions, to be capable, if need be, of going back to the point of view from
which a start was made, and, above all, to divine from instant to instant the
sentiments to which one’s discourse is giving birth. This necessity of
ceaselessly varying one’s language in accordance with the effect produced at
the moment of speaking deprives from the outset a prepared and studied
harangue of all efficaciousness. In such a speech the orator follows his own
line of thought, not that of his hearers, and from this fact alone his influence
is annihilated.
Logical minds, accustomed to be convinced by a chain of somewhat close
reasoning, cannot avoid having recourse to this mode of persuasion when
addressing crowds, and the inability of their arguments always surprises them.
“The usual mathematical consequences based on the syllogism — that is, on
associations of identities — are imperative ...” writes a logician. “This
imperativeness would enforce the assent even of an inorganic mass were it
capable of following associations of identities.” This is doubtless true, but a
crowd is no more capable than an inorganic mass of following such associa-
tions, nor even of understanding them. If the attempt be made to convince by
reasoning primitive minds — savages or children, for instance — the slight
value possessed by this method of arguing will be understood.
It is not even necessary to descend so low as primitive beings to obtain an
insight into the utter powerlessness of reasoning when it has to fight against
sentiment. Let us merely call to mind how tenacious, for centuries long, have
been religious superstitions in contradiction with the simplest logic. For nearly
two thousand years the most luminous geniuses have bowed before their laws,
and modern times have to be reached for their veracity to be merely contested.
The Middle Ages and the Renaissance possessed many enlightened men, but
not a single man who attained by reasoning to an appreciation of the childish
side of his superstitions, or who promulgated even a slight doubt as to the
misdeeds of the devil or the necessity of burning sorcerers.
Should it be regretted that crowds are never guided by reason? We would not
venture to affirm it. Without a doubt human reason would not have availed to
spur humanity along the path of civilisation with the ardour and hardihood its
illusions have done. These illusions, the offspring of those unconscious forces
by which we are led, were doubtless necessary. Every race carries in its mental
constitution the laws of its destiny, and it is, perhaps, these laws that it obeys
with a resistless impulse, even in the case of those of its impulses which
apparently are the most unreasoned. It seems at times as if nations were
submitted to secret forces analogous to those which compel the acorn to
transform itself into an oak or a comet to follow its orbit.
What little insight we can get into these forces must be sought for in the
general course of the evolution of a people, and not in the isolated facts from
which this evolution appears at times to proceed. Were these facts alone to be
taken into consideration, history would seem to be the result of a series of
improbable chances. It was improbable that a Galilean carpenter should
become for two thousand years an all-powerful God in whose name the most
important civilisations were founded; improbable, too, that a few bands of
Arabs, emerging from their deserts, should conquer the greater part of the old
Graco-Roman world, and establish an empire greater than that of Alexander;
improbable, again, that in Europe, at an advanced period of its development,
and when authority throughout it had been systematically hierarchised, an
obscure lieutenant of artillery should have succeeded in reigning over a
multitude of peoples and kings.
Let us leave reason, then, to philosophers, and not insist too strongly on its
intervention in the governing of men. It is not by reason, but most often in
spite of it, that are created those sentiments that are the mainsprings of all
civilisation — sentiments such as honour, self-sacrifice, religious faith,
patriotism, and the love of glory.
Chapter III. The Leaders of Crowds and Their Means of Persua-

sion.
We are now acquainted with the mental constitution of crowds, and we also
know what are the motives capable of making an impression on their mind. It
remains to investigate how these motives may be set in action, and by whom
they may usefully be turned to practical account.
1. The Leaders of Crowds.

As soon as a certain number of living beings are gathered together, whether

they be animals or men, they place themselves instinctively under the authority
of a chief.
In the case of human crowds the chief is often nothing more than a ringleader
or agitator, but as such he plays a considerable part. His will is the nucleus
around which the opinions of the crowd are grouped and attain to identity. He
constitutes the first element towards the organisation of heterogeneous crowds,
and paves the way for their organisation in sects; in the meantime he directs
them. A crowd is a servile flock that is incapable of ever doing without a
master.
The leader has most often started as one of the led. He has himself been
hypnotised by the idea, whose apostle he has since become. It has taken
possession of him to such a degree that everything outside it vanishes, and that
every contrary opinion appears to him an error or a superstition. An example
in point is Robespierre, hypnotised by the philosophical ideas of Rousseau, and
employing the methods of the Inquisition to propagate them.
The leaders we speak of are more frequently men of action than thinkers.
They are not gifted with keen foresight, nor could they be, as this quality
generally conduces to doubt and inactivity. They are especially recruited from
the ranks of those morbidly nervous, excitable, half-deranged persons who are
bordering on madness. However absurd may be the idea they uphold or the
goal they pursue, their convictions are so strong that all reasoning is lost upon
them. Contempt and persecution do not affect them, or only serve to excite
them the more. They sacrifice their personal interest, their family — every-
thing. The very instinct of self-preservation is entirely obliterated in them, and
so much so that often the only recompense they solicit is that of martyrdom.
The intensity of their faith gives great power of suggestion to their words. The
multitude is always ready to listen to the strong-willed man, who knows how
to impose himself upon it. Men gathered in a crowd lose all force of will, and
turn instinctively to the person who possesses the quality they lack.
Nations have never lacked leaders, but all of the latter have by no means been
animated by those strong convictions proper to apostles. These leaders are
often subtle rhetoricians, seeking only their own personal interest, and
endeavouring to persuade by flattering base instincts. The influence they can
assert in this manner may be very great, but it is always ephemeral. The men
of ardent convictions who have stirred the soul of crowds, the Peter the
Hermits, the Luthers, the Savonarolas, the men of the French Revolution, have
only exercised their fascination after having been themselves fascinated first
of all by a creed. They are then able to call up in the souls of their fellows that
formidable force known as faith, which renders a man the absolute slave of his
dream.
The arousing of faith — whether religious, political, or social, whether faith
in a work, in a person, or an idea — has always been the function of the great
leaders of crowds, and it is on this account that their influence is always very
great. Of all the forces at the disposal of humanity, faith has always been one
of the most tremendous, and the gospel rightly attributes to it the power of
moving mountains. To endow a man with faith is to multiply his strength
tenfold. The great events of history have been brought about by obscure
believers, who have had little beyond their faith in their favour. It is not by the
aid of the learned or of philosophers, and still less of sceptics, that have been
built up the great religions which have swayed the world, or the vast empires
which have spread from one hemisphere to the other.
In the cases just cited, however, we are dealing with great leaders, and they
are so few in number that history can easily reckon them up. They form the
summit of a continuous series, which extends from these powerful masters of
men down to the workman who, in the smoky atmosphere of an inn, slowly
fascinates his comrades by ceaselessly drumming into their ears a few set
phrases, whose purport he scarcely comprehends, but the application of which,
according to him, must surely bring about the realisation of all dreams and of
every hope.
In every social sphere, from the highest to the lowest, as soon as a man ceases
to be isolated he speedily falls under the influence of a leader. The majority of
men, especially among the masses, do not possess clear and reasoned ideas on
any subject whatever outside their own speciality. The leader serves them as
guide. It is just possible that he may be replaced, though very inefficiently, by
the periodical publications which manufacture opinions for their readers and
supply them with ready-made phrases which dispense them of the trouble of
reasoning.
The leaders of crowds wield a very despotic authority, and this despotism
indeed is a condition of their obtaining a following. It has often been remarked
how easily they extort obedience, although without any means of backing up
their authority, from the most turbulent section of the working classes. They
fix the hours of labour and the rate of wages, and they decree strikes, which
are begun and ended at the hour they ordain.
At the present day these leaders and agitators tend more and more to usurp
the place of the public authorities in proportion as the latter allow themselves
to be called in question and shorn of their strength. The tyranny of these new
masters has for result that the crowds obey them much more docilely than they
have obeyed any government. If in consequence of some accident or other the
leaders should be removed from the scene the crowd returns to its original state
of a collectivity without cohesion or force of resistance. During the last strike
of the Parisian omnibus employés the arrest of the two leaders who were
directing it was at once sufficient to bring it to an end. It is the need not of
liberty but of servitude that is always predominant in the soul of crowds. They
are so bent on obedience that they instinctively submit to whoever declares
himself their master.
These ringleaders and agitators may be divided into two clearly defined
classes. The one includes the men who are energetic and possess, but only
intermittently, much strength of will, the other the men, far rarer than the
preceding, whose strength of will is enduring. The first mentioned are violent,
brave, and audacious. They are more especially useful to direct a violent
enterprise suddenly decided on, to carry the masses with them in spite of
danger, and to transform into heroes the men who but yesterday were recruits.
Men of this kind were Ney and Murat under the First Empire, and such a man
in our own time was Garibaldi, a talentless but energetic adventurer who
succeeded with a handful of men in laying hands on the ancient kingdom of
Naples, defended though it was by a disciplined army.
Still, though the energy of leaders of this class is a force to be reckoned with,
it is transitory, and scarcely outlasts the exciting cause that has brought it into
play. When they have returned to their ordinary course of life the heroes
animated by energy of this description often evince, as was the case with those
I have just cited, the most astonishing weakness of character. They seem
incapable of reflection and of conducting themselves under the simplest
circumstances, although they had been able to lead others. These men are
leaders who cannot exercise their function except on the condition that they be
led themselves and continually stimulated, that they have always as their
beacon a man or an idea, that they follow a line of conduct clearly traced. The
second category of leaders, that of men of enduring strength of will, have, in
spite of a less brilliant aspect, a much more considerable influence. In this
category are to be found the true founders of religions and great undertakings:
St. Paul, Mahomet, Christopher Columbus, and de Lesseps, for example.
Whether they be intelligent or narrow-minded is of no importance: the world
belongs to them. The persistent will-force they possess is an immensely rare
and immensely powerful faculty to which everything yields. What a strong and
continuous will is capable of is not always properly appreciated. Nothing
resists it; neither nature, gods, nor man.
The most recent example of what can be effected by a strong and continuous
will is afforded us by the illustrious man who separated the Eastern and
Western worlds, and accomplished a task that during three thousand years had
been attempted in vain by the greatest sovereigns. He failed later in an
identical enterprise, but then had intervened old age, to which everything, even
the will, succumbs.
When it is desired to show what may be done by mere strength of will, all
that is necessary is to relate in detail the history of the difficulties that had to
be surmounted in connection with the cutting of the Suez Canal. An ocular
witness, Dr. Cazalis, has summed up in a few striking lines the entire story of
this great work, recounted by its immortal author.
“From day to day, episode by episode, he told the stupendous story of the
canal. He told of all he had had to vanquish, of the impossible he had made
possible, of all the opposition he encountered, of the coalition against him, and
the disappointments, the reverses, the defeats which had been unavailing to
discourage or depress him. He recalled how England had combatted him,
attacking him without cessation, how Egypt and France had hesitated, how the
French Consul had been foremost in his opposition to the early stages of the
work, and the nature of the opposition he had met with, the attempt to force his
workmen to desert from thirst by refusing them fresh water; how the Minister
of Marine and the engineers, all responsible men of experienced and scientific
training, had naturally all been hostile, were all certain on scientific grounds
that disaster was at hand, had calculated its coming, foretelling it for such a
day and hour as an eclipse is foretold.”
The book which relates the lives of all these great leaders would not contain
many names, but these names have been bound up with the most important
events in the history of civilisation.
2. The Means of Action of the Leaders: Affirmation, Repetition, Contagion.

When it is wanted to stir up a crowd for a short space of time, to induce it to

commit an act of any nature — to pillage a palace, or to die in defence of a
stronghold or a barricade, for instance — the crowd must be acted upon by
rapid suggestion, among which example is the most powerful in its effect. To
attain this end, however, it is necessary that the crowd should have been
previously prepared by certain circumstances, and, above all, that he who
wishes to work upon it should possess the quality to be studied farther on, to
which I give the name of prestige.
When, however, it is proposed to imbue the mind of a crowd with ideas and
beliefs — with modern social theories, for instance — the leaders have
recourse to different expedients. The principal of them are three in number and
clearly defined — affirmation, repetition, and contagion. Their action is
somewhat slow, but its effects, once produced, are very lasting.
Affirmation pure and simple, kept free of all reasoning and all proof, is one
of the surest means of making an idea enter the mind of crowds. The conciser
an affirmation is, the more destitute of every appearance of proof and
demonstration, the more weight it carries. The religious books and the legal
codes of all ages have always resorted to simple affirmation. Statesmen called
upon to defend a political cause, and commercial men pushing the sale of their
products by means of advertising are acquainted with the value of affirmation.
Affirmation, however, has no real influence unless it be constantly repeated,
and so far as possible in the same terms. It was Napoleon, I believe, who said
that there is only one figure in rhetoric of serious importance, namely,
repetition. The thing affirmed comes by repetition to fix itself in the mind in
such a way that it is accepted in the end as a demonstrated truth.
The influence of repetition on crowds is comprehensible when the power is
seen which it exercises on the most enlightened minds. This power is due to
the fact that the repeated statement is embedded in the long run in those
profound regions of our unconscious selves in which the motives of our
actions are forged. At the end of a certain time we have forgotten who is the
author of the repeated assertion, and we finish by believing it. To this
circumstance is due the astonishing power of advertisements. When we have
read a hundred, a thousand, times that X’s chocolate is the best, we imagine
we have heard it said in many quarters, and we end by acquiring the certitude
that such is the fact. When we have read a thousand times that Y’s flour has
cured the most illustrious persons of the most obstinate maladies, we are
tempted at last to try it when suffering from an illness of a similar kind. If we

always read in the same papers that A is an arrant scamp and B a most honest
man we finish by being convinced that this is the truth, unless, indeed, we are
given to reading another paper of the contrary opinion, in which the two
qualifications are reversed. Affirmation and repetition are alone powerful
enough to combat each other. When an affirmation has been sufficiently
repeated and there is unanimity in this repetition — as has occurred in the case
of certain famous financial undertakings rich enough to purchase every
assistance — what is called a current of opinion is formed and the powerful
mechanism of contagion intervenes. Ideas, sentiments, emotions, and beliefs
possess in crowds a contagious power as intense as that of microbes. This
phenomenon is very natural, since it is observed even in animals when they are
together in number. Should a horse in a stable take to biting his manger the
other horses in the stable will imitate him. A panic that has seized on a few
sheep will soon extend to the whole flock. In the case of men collected in a
crowd all emotions are very rapidly contagious, which explains the suddenness
of panics. Brain disorders, like madness, are themselves contagious. The
frequency of madness among doctors who are specialists for the mad is
notorious. Indeed, forms of madness have recently been cited — agoraphobia,
for instance — which are communicable from men to animals.
For individuals to succumb to contagion their simultaneous presence on the
same spot is not indispensable. The action of contagion may be felt from a
distance under the influence of events which give all minds an individual trend
and the characteristics peculiar to crowds. This is especially the case when
men’s minds have been prepared to undergo the influence in question by those
remote factors of which I have made a study above. An example in point is the
revolutionary movement of 1848, which, after breaking out in Paris, spread
rapidly over a great part of Europe and shook a number of thrones.
Imitation, to which so much influence is attributed in social phenomena, is
in reality a mere effect of contagion. Having shown its influence elsewhere, I
shall confine myself to reproducing what I said on the subject fifteen years
ago. My remarks have since been developed by other writers in recent
publications.
“Man, like animals, has a natural tendency to imitation. Imitation is a
necessity for him, provided always that the imitation is quite easy. It is this
necessity that makes the influence of what is called fashion so powerful.
Whether in the matter of opinions, ideas, literary manifestations, or merely of
dress, how many persons are bold enough to run counter to the fashion? It is
by examples not by arguments that crowds are guided. At every period there
exists a small number of individualities which react upon the remainder and
are imitated by the unconscious mass. It is needful however, that these
individualities should not be in too pronounced disagreement with received
ideas. Were they so, to imitate them would be too difficult and their influence
would be nil. For this very reason men who are too superior to their epoch are
generally without influence upon it. The line of separation is too strongly
marked. For the same reason too Europeans, in spite of all the advantages of
their civilisation, have so insignificant an influence on Eastern people; they
differ from them to too great an extent.
“The dual action of the past and of reciprocal imitation renders, in the long
run, all the men of the same country and the same period so alike that even in
the case of individuals who would seem destined to escape this double
influence, such as philosophers, learned men, and men of letters, thought and
style have a family air which enables the age to which they belong to be
immediately recognised. It is not necessary to talk for long with an individual
to attain to a thorough knowledge of what he reads, of his habitual occupa-
tions, and of the surroundings amid which he lives.”17
Contagion is so powerful that it forces upon individuals not only certain
opinions, but certain modes of feeling as well. Contagion is the cause of the
contempt in which, at a given period, certain works are held — the example
of “Tannhaüser” may be cited — which, a few years later, for the same reason
are admired by those who were foremost in criticising them.
The opinions and beliefs of crowds are specially propagated by contagion,
but never by reasoning. The conceptions at present rife among the working
classes have been acquired at the public-house as the result of affirmation,
repetition, and contagion, and indeed the mode of creation of the beliefs of
crowds of every age has scarcely been different. Renan justly institutes a
comparison between the first founders of Christianity and “the socialist
working men spreading their ideas from public-house to public-house”; while
Voltaire had already observed in connection with the Christian religion that
“for more than a hundred years it was only embraced by the vilest riff-raff.”
It will be noted that in cases analogous to those I have just cited, contagion,
after having been at work among the popular classes, has spread to the higher
classes of society. This is what we see happening at the present day with
regard to the socialist doctrines which are beginning to be held by those who
will yet be their first victims. Contagion is so powerful a force that even the
sentiment of personal interest disappears under its action.
This is the explanation of the fact that every opinion adopted by the populace
always ends in implanting itself with great vigour in the highest social strata,
however obvious be the absurdity of the triumphant opinion. This reaction of
the lower upon the higher social classes is the more curious, owing to the
circumstance that the beliefs of the crowd always have their origin to a greater
or less extent in some higher idea, which has often remained without influence
in the sphere in which it was evolved. Leaders and agitators, subjugated by this
higher idea, take hold of it, distort it and create a sect which distorts it afresh,
and then propagates it amongst the masses, who carry the process of deforma-
tion still further. Become a popular truth the idea returns, as it were, to its
source and exerts an influence on the upper classes of a nation. In the long run
it is intelligence that shapes the destiny of the world, but very indirectly. The
philosophers who evolve ideas have long since returned to dust, when, as the
result of the process I have just described, the fruit of their reflection ends by
triumphing.
3. Prestige.
Great power is given to ideas propagated by affirmation, repetition, and
contagion by the circumstance that they acquire in time that mysterious force
known as prestige.
Whatever has been a ruling power in the world, whether it be ideas or men,
has in the main enforced its authority by means of that irresistible force
expressed by the word “prestige.” The term is one whose meaning is grasped
by everybody, but the word is employed in ways too different for it to be easy
to define it. Prestige may involve such sentiments as admiration or fear.
Occasionally even these sentiments are its basis, but it can perfectly well exist
without them. The greatest measure of prestige is possessed by the dead, by
beings, that is, of whom we do not stand in fear — by Alexander, Cæsar,
Mahomet, and Buddha, for example. On the other hand, there are fictive
beings whom we do not admire — the monstrous divinities of the subterranean
temples of India, for instance — but who strike us nevertheless as endowed
with a great prestige.
Prestige in reality is a sort of domination exercised on our mind by an
individual, a work, or an idea. This domination entirely paralyses our critical

faculty, and fills our soul with astonishment and respect. The sentiment
provoked is inexplicable, like all sentiments, but it would appear to be of the
same kind as the fascination to which a magnetised person is subjected.
Prestige is the mainspring of all authority. Neither gods, kings, nor women
have ever reigned without it.
The various kinds of prestige may be grouped under two principal heads:
acquired prestige and personal prestige. Acquired prestige is that resulting
from name, fortune, and reputation. It may be independent of personal
prestige. Personal prestige, on the contrary, is something essentially peculiar
to the individual; it may coexist with reputation, glory, and fortune, or be
strengthened by them, but it is perfectly capable of existing in their absence.
Acquired or artificial prestige is much the most common. The mere fact that
an individual occupies a certain position, possesses a certain fortune, or bears
certain titles, endows him with prestige, however slight his own personal
worth. A soldier in uniform, a judge in his robes, always enjoys prestige.
Pascal has very properly noted the necessity for judges of robes and wigs.
Without them they would be stripped of half their authority. The most
unbending socialist is always somewhat impressed by the sight of a prince or
a marquis; and the assumption of such titles makes the robbing of tradesmen
an easy matter.18
The prestige of which I have just spoken is exercised by persons; side by side
with it may be placed that exercised by opinions, literary and artistic works,
&c. Prestige of the latter kind is most often merely the result of accumulated
repetitions. History, literary and artistic history especially, being nothing more
than the repetition of identical judgments, which nobody endeavours to verify,
every one ends by repeating what he learnt at school, till there come to be
names and things which nobody would venture to meddle with. For a modern
reader the perusal of Homer results incontestably in immense boredom; but
who would venture to say so? The Parthenon, in its present state, is a wretched
ruin, utterly destitute of interest, but it is endowed with such prestige that it
does not appear to us as it really is, but with all its accompaniment of historic
memories. The special characteristic of prestige is to prevent us seeing things
as they are and to entirely paralyse our judgment. Crowds always, and
individuals as a rule, stand in need of ready-made opinions on all subjects. The
popularity of these opinions is independent of the measure of truth or error
they contain, and is solely regulated by their prestige.
I now come to personal prestige. Its nature is very different from that of
artificial or acquired prestige, with which I have just been concerned. It is a
faculty independent of all titles, of all authority, and possessed by a small
number of persons whom it enables to exercise a veritably magnetic fascina-
tion on those around them, although they are socially their equals, and lack all
ordinary means of domination. They force the acceptance of their ideas and
sentiments on those about them, and they are obeyed as is the tamer of wild
beasts by the animal that could easily devour him.
The great leaders of crowds, such as Buddha, Jesus, Mahomet, Joan of Arc,
and Napoleon, have possessed this form of prestige in a high degree, and to
this endowment is more particularly due the position they attained. Gods,
heroes, and dogmas win their way in the world of their own inward strength.
They are not to be discussed: they disappear, indeed, as soon as discussed.
The great personages I have just cited were in possession of their power of
fascination long before they became illustrious, and would never have become
so without it. It is evident, for instance, that Napoleon at the zenith of his glory
enjoyed an immense prestige by the mere fact of his power, but he was already
endowed in part with this prestige when he was without power and completely
unknown. When, an obscure general, he was sent, thanks to influential
protection, to command the army of Italy, he found himself among rough
generals who were of a mind to give a hostile reception to the young intruder
dispatched them by the Directory. From the very beginning, from the first
interview, without the aid of speeches, gestures, or threats, at the first sight of
the man who was to become great they were vanquished. Taine furnishes a
curious account of this interview taken from contemporary memoirs.
“The generals of division, amongst others Augereau, a sort of swashbuckler,
uncouth and heroic, proud of his height and his bravery, arrive at the staff
quarters very badly disposed towards the little upstart dispatched them from
Paris. On the strength of the description of him that has been given them,
Augereau is inclined to be insolent and insubordinate; a favourite of Barras,
a general who owes his rank to the events of Vendémiaire who has won his
grade by street-fighting, who is looked upon as bearish, because he is always
thinking in solitude, of poor aspect, and with the reputation of a mathematician
and dreamer. They are introduced, and Bonaparte keeps them waiting. At last
he appears, girt with his sword; he puts on his hat, explains the measures he
has taken, gives his orders, and dismisses them. Augereau has remained silent;
it is only when he is outside that he regains his self-possession and is able to
deliver himself of his customary oaths. He admits with Masséna that this little
devil of a general has inspired him with awe; he cannot understand the
ascendency by which from the very first he has felt himself overwhelmed.”
Become a great man, his prestige increased in proportion as his glory grew,
and came to be at least equal to that of a divinity in the eyes of those devoted
to him. General Vandamme, a rough, typical soldier of the Revolution, even
more brutal and energetic than Augereau, said of him to Marshal d’Arnano in
1815, as on one occasion they mounted together the stairs of the Tuileries:
“That devil of a man exercises a fascination on me that I cannot explain even
to myself, and in such a degree that, though I fear neither God nor devil, when
I am in his presence I am ready to tremble like a child, and he could make me
go through the eye of a needle to throw myself into the fire.” Napoleon
exercised a like fascination on all who came into contact with him.19
Davoust used to say, talking of Maret’s devotion and of his own: “Had the
Emperor said to us, Ìt is important in the interest of my policy that Paris
should be destroyed without a single person leaving it or escaping,’ Maret I am
sure would have kept the secret, but he could not have abstained from
compromising himself by seeing that his family got clear of the city. On the
other hand, I, for fear of letting the truth leak out, would have let my wife and
children stay.”
It is necessary to bear in mind the astounding power exerted by fascination
of this order to understand that marvellous return from the Isle of Elba, that
lightning-like conquest of France by an isolated man confronted by all the
organised forces of a great country that might have been supposed weary of his
tyranny. He had merely to cast a look at the generals sent to lay hands on him,
and who had sworn to accomplish their mission. All of them submitted without
discussion.
“Napoleon,” writes the English General Wolseley, “lands in France almost
alone, a fugitive from the small island of Elba which was his kingdom, and
succeeded in a few weeks, without bloodshed, in upsetting all organised
authority in France under its legitimate king; is it possible for the personal
ascendency of a man to affirm itself in a more astonishing manner? But from
the beginning to the end of this campaign, which was his last, how remarkable
too is the ascendency he exercised over the Allies, obliging them to follow his
initiative, and how near he came to crushing them!”
His prestige outlived him and continued to grow. It is his prestige that made
an emperor of his obscure nephew. How powerful is his memory still is seen
in the resurrection of his legend in progress at the present day. Ill-treat men as
you will, massacre them by millions, be the cause of invasion upon invasion,
all is permitted you if you possess prestige in a sufficient degree and the talent
necessary to uphold it. I have invoked, no doubt, in this case a quite excep-
tional example of prestige, but one it was useful to cite to make clear the
genesis of great religions, great doctrines, and great empires. Were it not for
the power exerted on the crowd by prestige, such growths would be incompre-
hensible.
Prestige, however, is not based solely on personal ascendency, military glory,
and religious terror; it may have a more modest origin and still be consider-
able. Our century furnishes several examples. One of the most striking ones
that posterity will recall from age to age will be supplied by the history of the
illustrious man who modified the face of the globe and the commercial
relations of the nations by separating two continents. He succeeded in his
enterprise owing to his immense strength of will, but also owing to the
fascination he exercised on those surrounding him. To overcome the
unanimous opposition he met with, he had only to show himself. He would
speak briefly, and in face of the charm he exerted his opponents became his
friends. The English in particular strenuously opposed his scheme; he had only
to put in an appearance in England to rally all suffrages. In later years, when
he passed Southampton, the bells were rung on his passage; and at the present
day a movement is on foot in England to raise a statue in his honour.
“Having vanquished whatever there is to vanquish, men and things, marshes,
rocks, and sandy wastes,” he had ceased to believe in obstacles, and wished to
begin Suez over again at Panama. He began again with the same methods as
of old; but he had aged, and, besides, the faith that moves mountains does not
move them if they are too lofty. The mountains resisted, and the catastrophe
that ensued destroyed the glittering aureole of glory that enveloped the hero.
His life teaches how prestige can grow and how it can vanish. After rivalling
in greatness the most famous heroes of history, he was lowered by the
magistrates of his country to the ranks of the vilest criminals. When he died his
coffin, unattended, traversed an indifferent crowd. Foreign sovereigns are
alone in rendering homage to his memory as to that of one of the greatest men
that history has known.20
Still, the various examples that have just been cited represent extreme cases.
To fix in detail the psychology of prestige, it would be necessary to place them
at the extremity of a series, which would range from the founders of religions
and empires to the private individual who endeavours to dazzle his neighbours
by a new coat or a decoration.
Between the extreme limits of this series would find a place all the forms of
prestige resulting from the different elements composing a civilisation —
sciences, arts, literature, &c. — and it would be seen that prestige constitutes
the fundamental element of persuasion. Consciously or not, the being, the idea,
or the thing possessing prestige is immediately imitated in consequence of
contagion, and forces an entire generation to adopt certain modes of feeling
and of giving expression to its thought. This imitation, moreover, is, as a rule,
unconscious, which accounts for the fact that it is perfect. The modern painters
who copy the pale colouring and the stiff attitudes of some of the Primitives
are scarcely alive to the source of their inspiration. They believe in their own
sincerity, whereas, if an eminent master had not revived this form of art,
people would have continued blind to all but its naïve and inferior sides. Those
artists who, after the manner of another illustrious master, inundate their
canvasses with violet shades do not see in nature more violet than was detected
there fifty years ago; but they are influenced, “suggestioned,” by the personal
and special impressions of a painter who, in spite of this eccentricity, was
successful in acquiring great prestige. Similar examples might be brought
forward in connection with all the elements of civilisation.
It is seen from what precedes that a number of factors may be concerned in
the genesis of prestige; among them success was always one of the most
important. Every successful man, every idea that forces itself into recognition,
ceases, ipso facto, to be called in question. The proof that success is one of the
principal stepping-stones to prestige is that the disappearance of the one is
almost always followed by the disappearance of the other. The hero whom the
crowd acclaimed yesterday is insulted to-day should he have been overtaken
by failure. The re-action, indeed, will be the stronger in proportion as the
prestige has been great. The crowd in this case considers the fallen hero as an
equal, and takes its revenge for having bowed to a superiority whose existence
it no longer admits. While Robespierre was causing the execution of his
colleagues and of a great number of his contemporaries, he possessed an
immense prestige. When the transposition of a few votes deprived him of
power, he immediately lost his prestige, and the crowd followed him to the
guillotine with the self-same imprecations with which shortly before it had
pursued his victims. Believers always break the statues of their former gods
with every symptom of fury.

Prestige lost by want of success disappears in a brief space of time. It can
also be worn away, but more slowly by being subjected to discussion.
This latter power, however, is exceedingly sure. From the moment prestige
is called in question it ceases to be prestige. The gods and men who have kept
their prestige for long have never tolerated discussion. For the crowd to
admire, it must be kept at a distance.
Chapter IV. Limitations of the Variability of the Beliefs and Opinions

of Crowds..
1. Fixed Beliefs.
A close parallel exists between the anatomical and psychological characteris-
tics of living beings.
In these anatomical characteristics certain invariable, or slightly variable,
elements are met with, to change which the lapse is necessary of geological
ages. Side by side with these fixed, indestructible features are to be found
others extremely changeable, which the art of the breeder or horticulturist may
easily modify, and at times to such an extent as to conceal the fundamental
characteristics from an observer at all inattentive.
The same phenomenon is observed in the case of moral characteristics.
Alongside the unalterable psychological elements of a race, mobile and
changeable elements are to be encountered. For this reason, in studying the
beliefs and opinions of a people, the presence is always detected of a fixed
groundwork on which are engrafted opinions as changing as the surface sand
on a rock.
The opinions and beliefs of crowds may be divided, then, into two very
distinct classes. On the one hand we have great permanent beliefs, which
endure for several centuries, and on which an entire civilisation may rest.
Such, for instance, in the past were feudalism, Christianity, and Protestantism;
and such, in our own time, are the nationalist principle and contemporary
democratic and social ideas. In the second place, there are the transitory,
changing opinions, the outcome, as a rule, of general conceptions, of which
every age sees the birth and disappearance; examples in point are the theories
which mould literature and the arts — those, for instance, which produced
romanticism, naturalism, mysticism, &c. Opinions of this order are as
superficial, as a rule, as fashion, and as changeable. They may be compared to
the ripples which ceaselessly arise and vanish on the surface of a deep lake.
The great generalised beliefs are very restricted in number. Their rise and fall
form the culminating points of the history of every historic race. They
constitute the real framework of civilisation.
It is easy to imbue the mind of crowds with a passing opinion, but very
difficult to implant therein a lasting belief. However, a belief of this latter
description once established, it is equally difficult to uproot it. It is usually only
to be changed at the cost of violent revolutions. Even revolutions can only
avail when the belief has almost entirely lost its sway over men’s minds. In
that case revolutions serve to finally sweep away what had already been almost
cast aside, though the force of habit prevented its complete abandonment. The
beginning of a revolution is in reality the end of a belief.
The precise moment at which a great belief is doomed is easily recognisable;
it is the moment when its value begins to be called in question. Every general
belief being little else than a fiction, it can only survive on the condition that
it be not subjected to examination.
But even when a belief is severely shaken, the institutions to which it has
given rise retain their strength and disappear but slowly. Finally, when the
belief has completely lost its force, all that rested upon it is soon involved in
ruin. As yet a nation has never been able to change its beliefs without being
condemned at the same time to transform all the elements of its civilisation.
The nation continues this process of transformation until it has alighted on and
accepted a new general belief: until this juncture it is perforce in a state of
anarchy. General beliefs are the indispensable pillars of civilisations; they
determine the trend of ideas. They alone are capable of inspiring faith and
creating a sense of duty.
Nations have always been conscious of the utility of acquiring general
beliefs, and have instinctively understood that their disappearance would be
the signal for their own decline. In the case of the Romans, the fanatical cult
of Rome was the belief that made them masters of the world, and when the
belief had died out Rome was doomed to die. As for the barbarians who
destroyed the Roman civilisation, it was only when they had acquired certain
commonly accepted beliefs that they attained a measure of cohesion and
emerged from anarchy.
Plainly it is not for nothing that nations have always displayed intolerance in
the defence of their opinions. This intolerance, open as it is to criticism from
the philosophic standpoint, represents in the life of a people the most necessary
of virtues. It was to found or uphold general beliefs that so many victims were
sent to the stake in the Middle Ages and that so many inventors and innovators
have died in despair even if they have escaped martyrdom. It is in defence, too,
of such beliefs that the world has been so often the scene of the direst disorder,
and that so many millions of men have died on the battlefield, and will yet die
there.
There are great difficulties in the way of establishing a general belief, but
when it is definitely implanted its power is for a long time to come invincible,
and however false it be philosophically it imposes itself upon the most
luminous intelligence. Have not the European peoples regarded as incontro-
vertible for more than fifteen centuries religious legends which, closely
examined, are as barbarous21 as those of Moloch? The frightful absurdity of
the legend of a God who revenges himself for the disobedience of one of his
creatures by inflicting horrible tortures on his son remained unperceived
during many centuries. Such potent geniuses as a Galileo, a Newton, and a
Leibnitz never supposed for an instant that the truth of such dogmas could be
called in question. Nothing can be more typical than this fact of the hypnotis-
ing effect of general beliefs, but at the same time nothing can mark more
decisively the humiliating limitations of our intelligence.
As soon as a new dogma is implanted in the mind of crowds it becomes the
source of inspiration whence are evolved its institutions, arts, and mode of
existence. The sway it exerts over men’s minds under these circumstances is
absolute. Men of action have no thought beyond realising the accepted belief,
legislators beyond applying it, while philosophers, artists, and men of letters
are solely preoccupied with its expression under various shapes.
From the fundamental belief transient accessory ideas may arise, but they
always bear the impress of the belief from which they have sprung. The
Egyptian civilisation, the European civilisation of the Middle Ages, the
Mussulman civilisation of the Arabs are all the outcome of a small number of
religious beliefs which have left their mark on the least important elements of
these civilisations and allow of their immediate recognition.
Thus it is that, thanks to general beliefs, the men of every age are enveloped
in a network of traditions, opinions, and customs which render them all alike,
and from whose yoke they cannot extricate themselves. Men are guided in their
conduct above all by their beliefs and by the customs that are the consequence
of those beliefs. These beliefs and customs regulate the smallest acts of our
existence, and the most independent spirit cannot escape their influence. The
tyranny exercised unconsciously on men’s minds is the only real tyranny,
because it cannot be fought against. Tiberius, Ghengis Khan, and Napoleon
were assuredly redoubtable tyrants, but from the depth of their graves Moses,
Buddha, Jesus, and Mahomet have exerted on the human soul a far profounder
despotism. A conspiracy may overthrow a tyrant, but what can it avail against
a firmly established belief? In its violent struggle with Roman Catholicism it
is the French Revolution that has been vanquished, and this in spite of the fact
that the sympathy of the crowd was apparently on its side, and in spite of
recourse to destructive measures as pitiless as those of the Inquisition. The
only real tyrants that humanity has known have always been the memories of
its dead or the illusions it has forged itself.
The philosophic absurdity that often marks general beliefs has never been an
obstacle to their triumph. Indeed the triumph of such beliefs would seem
impossible unless on the condition that they offer some mysterious absurdity.
In consequence, the evident weakness of the socialist beliefs of to-day will not
prevent them triumphing among the masses. Their real inferiority to all
religious beliefs is solely the result of this consideration, that the ideal of
happiness offered by the latter being realisable only in a future life, it was
beyond the power of anybody to contest it. The socialist ideal of happiness
being intended to be realised on earth, the vanity of its promises will at once
appear as soon as the first efforts towards their realisation are made, and
simultaneously the new belief will entirely lose its prestige. Its strength, in
consequence, will only increase until the day when, having triumphed, its
practical realisation shall commence. For this reason, while the new religion
exerts to begin with, like all those that have preceded it, a destructive
influence, it will be unable, in the future, to play a creative part.
2. The Changeable Opinions of Crowds.

Above the substratum of fixed beliefs, whose power we have just demon-
strated, is found an overlying growth of opinions, ideas, and thoughts which
are incessantly springing up and dying out. Some of them exist but for a day,
and the more important scarcely outlive a generation. We have already noted
that the changes which supervene in opinions of this order are at times far
more superficial than real, and that they are always affected by racial
considerations. When examining, for instance, the political institutions of
France we showed that parties to all appearance utterly distinct — royalists,

radicals, imperialists, socialists, &c. — have an ideal absolutely identical, and
that this ideal is solely dependent on the mental structure of the French race,
since a quite contrary ideal is found under analogous names among other races.
Neither the name given to opinions nor deceptive adaptations alter the essence
of things. The men of the Great Revolution, saturated with Latin literature,
who (their eyes fixed on the Roman Republic), adopted its laws, its fasces, and
its togas, did not become Romans because they were under the empire of a
powerful historical suggestion. The task of the philosopher is to investigate
what it is which subsists of ancient beliefs beneath their apparent changes, and
to identify amid the moving flux of opinions the part determined by general
beliefs and the genius of the race.
In the absence of this philosophic test it might be supposed that crowds
change their political or religious beliefs frequently and at will. All history,
whether political, religious, artistic, or literary, seems to prove that such is the
case. As an example, let us take a very short period of French history, merely
that from 1790 to 1820, a period of thirty years’ duration, that of a generation.
In the course of it we see the crowd at first monarchical become very
revolutionary, then very imperialist, and again very monarchical. In the matter
of religion it gravitates in the same lapse of time from Catholicism to atheism,
then towards deism, and then returns to the most pronounced forms of
Catholicism. These changes take place not only amongst the masses, but also
amongst those who direct them. We observe with astonishment the prominent
men of the Convention, the sworn enemies of kings, men who would have
neither gods nor masters, become the humble servants of Napoleon, and
afterwards, under Louis XVIII, piously carry candles in religious processions.
Numerous, too, are the changes in the opinions of the crowd in the course of
the following seventy years. The “Perfidious Albion” of the opening of the
century is the ally of France under Napoleon’s heir; Russia, twice invaded by
France, which looked on with satisfaction at French reverses, becomes its
friend.
In literature, art, and philosophy the successive evolutions of opinion are
more rapid still. Romanticism, naturalism, mysticism, &c., spring up and die
out in turn. The artist and the writer applauded yesterday are treated on the
morrow with profound contempt.
When, however, we analyse all these changes in appearance so far reaching,
what do we find? All those that are in opposition with the general beliefs and
sentiments of the race are of transient duration, and the diverted stream soon
resumes its course. The opinions which are not linked to any general belief or
sentiment of the race, and which in consequence cannot possess stability, are
at the mercy of every chance, or, if the expression be preferred, of every
change in the surrounding circumstances. Formed by suggestion and
contagion, they are always momentary; they crop up and disappear as rapidly
on occasion as the sandhills formed by the wind on the sea-coast.
At the present day the changeable opinions of crowds are greater in number
than they ever were, and for three different reasons.
The first is that as the old beliefs are losing their influence to a greater and
greater extent, they are ceasing to shape the ephemeral opinions of the moment
as they did in the past. The weakening of general beliefs clears the ground for
a crop of haphazard opinions without a past or a future.
The second reason is that the power of crowds being on the increase, and this
power being less and less counterbalanced, the extreme mobility of ideas,
which we have seen to be a peculiarity of crowds, can manifest itself without
let or hindrance.
Finally, the third reason is the recent development of the newspaper press, by
whose agency the most contrary opinions are being continually brought before
the attention of crowds. The suggestions that might result from each individual
opinion are soon destroyed by suggestions of an opposite character. The
consequence is that no opinion succeeds in becoming widespread, and that the
existence of all of them is ephemeral. An opinion nowadays dies out before it
has found a sufficiently wide acceptance to become general.
A phenomenon quite new in the world’s history, and most characteristic of
the present age, has resulted from these different causes; I allude to the
powerlessness of governments to direct opinion.
In the past, and in no very distant past, the action of governments and the
influence of a few writers and a very small number of newspapers constituted
the real reflectors of public opinion. To-day the writers have lost all influence,
and the newspapers only reflect opinion. As for statesmen, far from directing
opinion, their only endeavour is to follow it. They have a dread of opinion,
which amounts at times to terror, and causes them to adopt an utterly unstable
line of conduct.
The opinion of crowds tends, then, more and more to become the supreme
guiding principle in politics. It goes so far to-day as to force on alliances, as

has been seen recently in the case of the Franco-Russian alliance, which is
solely the outcome of a popular movement. A curious symptom of the present
time is to observe popes, kings, and emperors consent to be interviewed as a
means of submitting their views on a given subject to the judgment of crowds.
Formerly it might have been correct to say that politics were not a matter of
sentiment. Can the same be said toÄday, when politics are more and more
swayed by the impulse of changeable crowds, who are uninfluenced by reason
and can only be guided by sentiment?
As to the press, which formerly directed opinion, it has had, like govern-
ments, to humble itself before the power of crowds. It wields, no doubt, a
considerable influence, but only because it is exclusively the reflection of the
opinions of crowds and of their incessant variations. Become a mere agency
for the supply of information, the press has renounced all endeavour to enforce
an idea or a doctrine. It follows all the changes of public thought, obliged to
do so by the necessities of competition under pain of losing its readers. The old
staid and influential organs of the past, such as the Constitutionnel, the Débats,
or the Siécle, which were accepted as oracles by the preceding generation,
have disappeared or have become typical modern papers, in which a maximum
of news is sandwiched in between light articles, society gossip, and financial
puffs. There can be no question to-day of a paper rich enough to allow its
contributors to air their personal opinions, and such opinions would be of
slight weight with readers who only ask to be kept informed or to be amused,
and who suspect every affirmation of being prompted by motives of specula-
tion. Even the critics have ceased to be able to assure the success of a book or
a play. They are capable of doing harm, but not of doing a service. The papers
are so conscious of the uselessness of everything in the shape of criticism or
personal opinion, that they have reached the point of suppressing literary
criticism, confining themselves to citing the title of a book, and appending a
“puff” of two or three lines.22 In twenty years’ time the same fate will probably
have overtaken theatrical criticism.
The close watching of the course of opinion has become to-day the principal
preoccupation of the press and of governments. The effect produced by an
event, a legislative proposal, a speech, is without intermission what they
require to know, and the task is not easy, for nothing is more mobile and
changeable than the thought of crowds, and nothing more frequent than to see
them execrate to-day what they applauded yesterday.
This total absence of any sort of direction of opinion, and at the same time
the destruction of general beliefs, have had for final result an extreme
divergency of convictions of every order, and a growing indifference on the
part of crowds to everything that does not plainly touch their immediate
interests. Questions of doctrine, such as socialism, only recruit champions
boasting genuine convictions among the quite illiterate classes, among the
workers in mines and factories, for instance. Members of the lower middle
class, and working men possessing some degree of instruction, have either
become utterly sceptical or extremely unstable in their opinions.
The evolution which has been effected in this direction in the last twenty-five
years is striking. During the preceding period, comparatively near us though
it is, opinions still had a certain general trend; they had their origin in the
acceptance of some fundamental belief. By the mere fact that an individual
was a monarchist he possessed inevitably certain clearly defined ideas in
history as well as in science, while by the mere fact that he was a republican,
his ideas were quite contrary. A monarchist was well aware that men are not
descended from monkeys, and a republican was not less well aware that such
is in truth their descent. It was the duty of the monarchist to speak with horror,
and of the republican to speak with veneration, of the great Revolution. There
were certain names, such as those of Robespierre and Marat, that had to be
uttered with an air of religious devotion, and other names, such as those of
Cæsar, Augustus, or Napoleon, that ought never to be mentioned unaccompa-
nied by a torrent of invective. Even in the French Sorbonne this ingenuous
fashion of conceiving history was general.23
At the present day, as the result of discussion and analysis, all opinions are
losing their prestige; their distinctive features are rapidly worn away, and few
survive capable of arousing our enthusiasm. The man of modern times is more
and more a prey to indifference.
The general wearing away of opinions should not be too greatly deplored.
That it is a symptom of decadence in the life of a people cannot be contested.
It is certain that men of immense, of almost supernatural insight, that apostles,
leaders of crowds — men, in a word, of genuine and strong convictions —
exert a far greater force than men who deny, who criticise, or who are
indifferent, but it must not be forgotten that, given the power possessed at
present by crowds, were a single opinion to acquire sufficient prestige to
enforce its general acceptance, it would soon be endowed with so tyrannical
a strength that everything would have to bend before it, and the era of free
discussion would be closed for a long time. Crowds are occasionally

easy-going masters, as were Heliogabalus and Tiberius, but they are also
violently capricious. A civilisation, when the moment has come for crowds to
acquire a high hand over it, is at the mercy of too many chances to endure for
long. Could anything postpone for a while the hour of its ruin, it would be
precisely the extreme instability of the opinions of crowds and their growing
indifference with respect to all general beliefs.
Book III. The Classification and Description of the Different

Kinds of Crowds.
Chapter I. The Classification of Crowds.
We have sketched in this work the general characteristics common to
psychological crowds. It remains to point out the particular characteristics
which accompany those of a general order in the different categories of
collectivities, when they are transformed into a crowd under the influences of
the proper exciting causes. We will, first of all, set forth in a few words a
classification of crowds.
Our starting-point will be the simple multitude. Its most inferior form is met
with when the multitude is composed of individuals belonging to different
races. In this case its only common bond of union is the will, more or less
respected of a chief. The barbarians of very diverse origin who during several
centuries invaded the Roman Empire, may be cited as a specimen of multitudes
of this kind.
On a higher level than these multitudes composed of different races are those
which under certain influences have acquired common characteristics, and
have ended by forming a single race. They present at times characteristics
peculiar to crowds, but these characteristics are overruled to a greater or less
extent by racial considerations.
These two kinds of multitudes may, under certain influences investigated in
this work, be transformed into organised or psychological crowds. We shall
break up these organised crowds into the following divisions: —
A. Heterogeneous crowds.
1. Anonymous crowds (street crowds, for example).
2. Crowds not anonymous (juries, parliamentary assemblies, &c.).
B. Homogeneous crowds.
1. Sects (political sects, religious sects, &c.).
2. Castes (the military caste, the priestly caste, the working caste, &c.).
3. Classes (the middle classes, the peasant classes, &c.).
We will point out briefly the distinguishing characteristics of these different

categories of crowds.
1. Heterogeneous Crowds.
It is these collectivities whose characteristics have been studied in this
volume. They are composed of individuals of any description, of any
profession, and any degree of intelligence.
We are now aware that by the mere fact that men form part of a crowd
engaged in action, their collective psychology differs essentially from their
individual psychology, and their intelligence is affected by this differentiation.
We have seen that intelligence is without influence in collectivities, they being
solely under the sway of unconscious sentiments.
A fundamental factor, that of race, allows of a tolerably thorough differentia-
tion of the various heterogeneous crowds.
We have often referred already to the part played by race, and have shown it
to be the most powerful of the factors capable of determining men’s actions.
Its action is also to be traced in the character of crowds. A crowd composed of
individuals assembled at haphazard, but all of them Englishmen or Chinamen,
will differ widely from another crowd also composed of individuals of any and
every description, but of other races — Russians, Frenchmen, or Spaniards, for
example.
The wide divergencies which their inherited mental constitution creates in
men’s modes of feeling and thinking at once come into prominence when,
which rarely happens, circumstances gather together in the same crowd and in
fairly equal proportions individuals of different nationality, and this occurs,
however identical in appearance be the interests which provoked the gathering.
The efforts made by the socialists to assemble in great congresses the
representatives of the working-class populations of different countries, have
always ended in the most pronounced discord. A Latin crowd, however
revolutionary or however conservative it be supposed, will invariably appeal
to the intervention of the State to realise its demands. It is always distinguished
by a marked tendency towards centralisation and by a leaning, more or less
pronounced, in favour of a dictatorship. An English or an American crowd, on
the contrary, sets no store on the State, and only appeals to private initiative.
A French crowd lays particular weight on equality and an English crowd on
liberty. These differences of race explain how it is that there are almost as
many different forms of socialism and democracy as there are nations.
The genius of the race, then, exerts a paramount influence upon the
dispositions of a crowd. It is the powerful underlying force that limits its
changes of humour. It should be considered as an essential law that the inferior
characteristics of crowds are the less accentuated in proportion as the spirit of
the race is strong. The crowd state and the domination of crowds is equivalent
to the barbarian state, or to a return to it. It is by the acquisition of a solidly
constituted collective spirit that the race frees itself to a greater and greater
extent from the unreflecting power of crowds, and emerges from the barbarian
state. The only important classification to be made of heterogeneous crowds,
apart from that based on racial considerations, is to separate them into
anonymous crowds, such as street crowds, and crowds not anonymous —
deliberative assemblies and juries, for example. The sentiment of responsibility
absent from crowds of the first description and developed in those of the
second often gives a very different tendency to their respective acts.
2. Homogeneous Crowds.
Homogeneous crowds include: 1. Sects; 2. Castes; 3. Classes.
The sect represents the first step in the process of organisation of homoge-
neous crowds. A sect includes individuals differing greatly as to their
education, their professions, and the class of society to which they belong, and
with their common beliefs as the connecting link. Examples in point are
religious and political sects.
The caste represents the highest degree of organisation of which the crowd
is susceptible. While the sect includes individuals of very different professions,
degrees of education and social surrounding, who are only linked together by
the beliefs they hold in common, the caste is composed of individuals of the
same profession, and in consequence similarly educated and of much the same
social status. Examples in point are the military and priestly castes.
The class is formed of individuals of diverse origin, linked together not by
a community of beliefs, as are the members of a sect, or by common profes-
sional occupations, as are the members of a caste, but by certain interests and
certain habits of life and education almost identical. The middle class and the
agricultural class are examples.

Being only concerned in this work with heterogeneous crowds, and reserving
the study of homogeneous crowds (sects, castes, and classes) for another
volume, I shall not insist here on the characteristics of crowds of this latter
kind. I shall conclude this study of heterogeneous crowds by the examination
of a few typical and distinct categories of crowds.
Chapter II. Crowds Termed Criminal Crowds.

Owing to the fact that crowds, after a period of excitement, enter upon a
purely automatic and unconscious state, in which they are guided by sugges-
tion, it seems difficult to qualify them in any case as criminal. I only retain this
erroneous qualification because it has been definitely brought into vogue by
recent psychological investigations. Certain acts of crowds are assuredly
criminal, if considered merely in themselves, but criminal in that case in the
same way as the act of a tiger devouring a Hindoo, after allowing its young to
maul him for their amusement.
The usual motive of the crimes of crowds is a powerful suggestion, and the
individuals who take part in such crimes are afterwards convinced that they
have acted in obedience to duty, which is far from being the case with the
ordinary criminal.
The history of the crimes committed by crowds illustrates what precedes.
The murder of M. de Launay, the governor of the Bastille, may be cited as a
typical example. After the taking of the fortress the governor, surrounded by
a very excited crowd, was dealt blows from every direction. It was proposed
to hang him, to cut off his head, to tie him to a horse’s tail. While struggling,
he accidently kicked one of those present. Some one proposed, and his
suggestion was at once received with acclamation by the crowd, that the
individual who had been kicked should cut the governor’s throat.
“The individual in question, a cook out of work, whose chief reason for being
at the Bastille was idle curiosity as to what was going on, esteems, that since
such is the general opinion, the action is patriotic and even believes he
deserves a medal for having destroyed a monster. With a sword that is lent him
he strikes the bared neck, but the weapon being somewhat blunt and not
cutting, he takes from his pocket a small black-handled knife and (in his
capacity of cook he would be experienced in cutting up meat) successfully
effects the operation.”
The working of the process indicated above is clearly seen in this example.
We have obedience to a suggestion, which is all the stronger because of its
collective origin, and the murderer’s conviction that he has committed a very
meritorious act, a conviction the more natural seeing that he enjoys the
unanimous approval of his fellow-citizens. An act of this kind may be
considered crime legally but not psychologically.
The general characteristics of criminal crowds are precisely the same as those
we have met with in all crowds: openness to suggestion, credulity, mobility,
the exaggeration of the sentiments good or bad, the manifestation of certain
forms of morality, &c.
We shall find all these characteristics present in a crowd which has left
behind it in French history the most sinister memories — the crowd which
perpetrated the September massacres. In point of fact it offers much similarity
with the crowd that committed the Saint Bartholomew massacres. I borrow the
details from the narration of M. Taine, who took them from contemporary
sources.
It is not known exactly who gave the order or made the suggestion to empty
the prisons by massacring the prisoners. Whether it was Danton, as is probable,
or another does not matter; the one interesting fact for us is the powerful
suggestion received by the crowd charged with the massacre.
The crowd of murderers numbered some three hundred persons, and was a
perfectly typical heterogeneous crowd. With the exception of a very small
number of professional scoundrels, it was composed in the main of shopkeep-
ers and artisans of every trade: bootmakers, locksmiths, hairdressers, masons,
clerks, messengers, &c. Under the influence of the suggestion received they
are perfectly convinced, as was the cook referred to above, that they are
accomplishing a patriotic duty. They fill a double office, being at once judge
and executioner, but they do not for a moment regard themselves as criminals.
Deeply conscious of the importance of their duty, they begin by forming a
sort of tribunal, and in connection with this act the ingenuousness of crowds
and their rudimentary conception of justice are seen immediately. In consider-
ation of the large number of the accused, it is decided that, to begin with, the
nobles, priests, officers, and members of the king’s household — in a word,
all the individuals whose mere profession is proof of their guilt in the eyes of
a good patriot — shall be slaughtered in a body, there being no need for a
special decision in their case. The remainder shall be judged on their personal
appearance and their reputation. In this way the rudimentary conscience of the
crowd is satisfied. It will now be able to proceed legally with the massacre,
and to give free scope to those instincts of ferocity whose genesis I have set
forth elsewhere, they being instincts which collectivities always have it in them
to develop to a high degree. These instincts, however — as is regularly the
case in crowds — will not prevent the manifestation of other and contrary
sentiments, such as a tenderheartedness often as extreme as the ferocity.
“They have the expansive sympathy and prompt sensibility of the Parisian
working man. At the Abbaye, one of the federates, learning that the prisoners
had been left without water for twenty-six hours, was bent on putting the
gaoler to death, and would have done so but for the prayers of the prisoners
themselves. When a prisoner is acquitted (by the improvised tribunal) every
one, guards and slaughterers included, embraces him with transports of joy and
applauds frantically,” after which the wholesale massacre is recommenced.
During its progress a pleasant gaiety never ceases to reign. There is dancing
and singing around the corpses, and benches are arranged “for the ladies,”
delighted to witness the killing of aristocrats. The exhibition continues,
moreover, of a special description of justice.
A slaughterer at the Abbaye having complained that the ladies placed at a
little distance saw badly, and that only a few of those present had the pleasure
of striking the aristocrats, the justice of the observation is admitted, and it is
decided that the victims shall be made to pass slowly between two rows of
slaughterers, who shall be under the obligation to strike with the back of the
sword only so as to prolong the agony. At the prison de la Force the victims are
stripped stark naked and literally “carved” for half an hour, after which, when
every one has had a good view, they are finished off by a blow that lays bare
their entrails.
The slaughterers, too, have their scruples and exhibit that moral sense whose
existence in crowds we have already pointed out. They refuse to appropriate
the money and jewels of the victims, taking them to the table of the commit-
tees.
Those rudimentary forms of reasoning, characteristic of the mind of crowds,
are always to be traced in all their acts. Thus, after the slaughter of the 1,200
or 1,500 enemies of the nation, some one makes the remark, and his suggestion
is at once adopted, that the other prisons, those containing aged beggars,
vagabonds, and young prisoners, hold in reality useless mouths, of which it
would be well on that account to get rid. Besides, among them there should
certainly be enemies of the people, a woman of the name of Delarue, for
instance, the widow of a poisoner:
“She must be furious at being in prison, if she could she would set fire to
Paris: she must have said so, she has said so. Another good riddance.” The
demonstration appears convincing, and the prisoners are massacred without
exception, included in the number being some fifty children of from twelve to
seventeen years of age, who, of course, might themselves have become
enemies of the nation, and of whom in consequence it was clearly well to be
rid.
At the end of a week’s work, all these operations being brought to an end, the
slaughterers can think of reposing themselves. Profoundly convinced that they
have deserved well of their country, they went to the authorities and demanded
a recompense. The most zealous went so far as to claim a medal.
The history of the Commune of 1871 affords several facts analogous to those
which precede. Given the growing influence of crowds and the successive
capitulations before them of those in authority, we are destined to witness
many others of a like nature.
Chapter III. Criminal Juries.

Being unable to study here every category of jury, I shall only examine the
most important — that of the juries of the Court of Assize. These juries afford
an excellent example of the heterogeneous crowd that is not anonymous. We
shall find them display suggestibility and but slight capacity for reasoning,
while they are open to the influence of the leaders of crowds, and they are
guided in the main by unconscious sentiments. In the course of this investiga-
tion we shall have occasion to observe some interesting examples of the errors
that may be made by persons not versed in the psychology of crowds.
Juries, in the first place, furnish us a good example of the slight importance
of the mental level of the different elements composing a crowd, so far as the
decisions it comes to are concerned. We have seen that when a deliberative
assembly is called upon to give its opinion on a question of a character not
entirely technical, intelligence stands for nothing. For instance, a gathering of
scientific men or of artists, owing to the mere fact that they form an assem-
blage, will not deliver judgments on general subjects sensibly different from
those rendered by a gathering of masons or grocers. At various periods, and in
particular previous to 1848, the French administration instituted a careful

choice among the persons summoned to form a jury, picking the jurors from
among the enlightened classes; choosing professors, functionaries, men of
letters, &c. At the present day jurors are recruited for the most part from
among small tradesmen, petty capitalists, and employés. Yet, to the great
astonishment of specialist writers, whatever the composition of the jury has
been, its decisions have been identical. Even the magistrates, hostile as they
are to the institution of the jury, have had to recognise the exactness of the
assertion. M. Bérard des Glajeux, a former President of the Court of Assizes,
expresses himself on the subject in his “Memoirs” in the following terms: —
“The selection of jurymen is to-day in reality in the hands of the municipal
councillors, who put people down on the list or eliminate them from it in
accordance with the political and electoral preoccupations inherent in their
situation.... The majority of the jurors chosen are persons engaged in trade, but
persons of less importance than formerly, and employés belonging to certain
branches of the administration.... Both opinions and professions counting for
nothing once the rôle of judge assumed, many of the jurymen having the
ardour of neophytes, and men of the best intentions being similarly disposed
in humble situations, the spirit of the jury has not changed: its verdicts have
remained the same.”
Of the passage just cited the conclusions, which are just, are to be borne in
mind and not the explanations, which are weak. Too much astonishment
should not be felt at this weakness, for, as a rule, counsel equally with
magistrates seem to be ignorant of the psychology of crowds and, in conse-
quence, of juries. I find a proof of this statement in a fact related by the author
just quoted. He remarks that Lachaud, one of the most illustrious barristers
practising in the Court of Assize, made systematic use of his right to object to
a juror in the case of all individuals of intelligence on the list. Yet experience
— and experience alone — has ended by acquainting us with the utter
uselessness of these objections. This is proved by the fact that at the present
day public prosecutors and barristers, at any rate those belonging to the
Parisian bar, have entirely renounced their right to object to a juror; still, as M.
des Glajeux remarks, the verdicts have not changed, “they are neither better
nor worse.”
Like all crowds, juries are very strongly impressed by sentimental consider-
ations, and very slightly by argument. “They cannot resist the sight,” writes a
barrister, “of a mother giving its child the breast, or of orphans.” “It is
sufficient that a woman should be of agreeable appearance,” says M. des

Glajeux, “to win the benevolence of the jury.”
Without pity for crimes of which it appears possible they might themselves
be the victims — such crimes, moreover, are the most dangerous for society
— juries, on the contrary, are very indulgent in the case of breaches of the law
whose motive is passion. They are rarely severe on infanticide by girl-mothers,
or hard on the young woman who throws vitriol at the man who has seduced
and deserted her, for the reason that they feel instinctively that society runs but
slight danger from such crimes,24 and that in a country in which the law does
not protect deserted girls the crime of the girl who avenges herself is rather
useful than harmful, inasmuch as it frightens future seducers in advance.
Juries, like all crowds, are profoundly impressed by prestige, and President
des Glajeux very properly remarks that, very democratic as juries are in their
composition, they are very aristocratic in their likes and dislikes: “Name, birth,
great wealth, celebrity, the assistance of an illustrious counsel, everything in
the nature of distinction or that lends brilliancy to the accused, stands him in
extremely good stead.”
The chief concern of a good counsel should be to work upon the feelings of
the jury, and, as with all crowds, to argue but little, or only to employ
rudimentary modes of reasoning. An English barrister, famous for his
successes in the assize courts, has well set forth the line of action to be
followed: —
“While pleading he would attentively observe the jury. The most favourable
opportunity has been reached. By dint of insight and experience the counsel
reads the effect of each phrase on the faces of the jurymen, and draws his
conclusions in consequence. His first step is to be sure which members of the
jury are already favourable to his cause. It is short work to definitely gain their
adhesion, and having done so he turns his attention to the members who seem,
on the contrary, ill-disposed, and endeavours to discover why they are hostile
to the accused. This is the delicate part of his task, for there may be an infinity
of reasons for condemning a man, apart from the sentiment of justice.”
These few lines résumé the entire mechanism of the art of oratory, and we see
why the speech prepared in advance has so slight an effect, it being necessary
to be able to modify the terms employed from moment to moment in
accordance with the impression produced.
The orator does not require to convert to his views all the members of a jury,
but only the leading spirits among it who will determine the general opinion.
As in all crowds, so in juries there are a small number of individuals who serve
as guides to the rest. “I have found by experience,” says the counsel cited
above, “that one or two energetic men suffice to carry the rest of the jury with
them.” It is those two or three whom it is necessary to convince by skilful
suggestions. First of all, and above all, it is necessary to please them. The man
forming part of a crowd whom one has succeeded in pleasing is on the point
of being convinced, and is quite disposed to accept as excellent any arguments
that may be offered him. I detach the following anecdote from an interesting
account of M. Lachaud, alluded to above: —
“It is well known that during all the speeches he would deliver in the course
of an assize sessions, Lachaud never lost sight of the two or three jurymen
whom he knew or felt to be influential but obstinate. As a rule he was
successful in winning over these refractory jurors. On one occasion, however,
in the provinces, he had to deal with a juryman whom he plied in vain for
three-quarters of an hour with his most cunning arguments; the man was the
seventh juryman, the first on the second bench. The case was desperate.
Suddenly, in the middle of a passionate demonstration, Lachaud stopped short,
and addressing the President of the court said: `Would you give instructions
for the curtain there in front to be drawn? The seventh juryman is blinded by
the sun.’ The juryman in question reddened, smiled, and expressed his thanks.
He was won over for the defence.”
Many writers, some of them most distinguished, have started of late a strong
campaign against the institution of the jury, although it is the only protection
we have against the errors, really very frequent, of a caste that is under no
control.25 A portion of these writers advocate a jury recruited solely from the
ranks of the enlightened classes; but we have already proved that even in this
case the verdicts would be identical with those returned under the present
system. Other writers, taking their stand on the errors committed by juries,
would abolish the jury and replace it by judges. It is difficult to see how these
would-be reformers can forget that the errors for which the jury is blamed were
committed in the first instance by judges, and that when the accused person
comes before a jury he has already been held to be guilty by several magis-
trates, by the juge d’instruction, the public prosecutor, and the Court of
Arraignment. It should thus be clear that were the accused to be definitely
judged by magistrates instead of by jurymen, he would lose his only chance of
being admitted innocent. The errors of juries have always been first of all the
errors of magistrates. It is solely the magistrates, then, who should be blamed

when particularly monstrous judicial errors crop up, such, for instance, as the
quite recent condemnation of Dr. L —— who, prosecuted by a juge d’instruc-
tion, of excessive stupidity, on the strength of the denunciation of a half-idiot
girl, who accused the doctor of having performed an illegal operation upon her
for thirty francs, would have been sent to penal servitude but for an explosion
of public indignation, which had for result that he was immediately set at
liberty by the Chief of the State. The honourable character given the con-
demned man by all his fellow-citizens made the grossness of the blunder
self-evident. The magistrates themselves admitted it, and yet out of caste
considerations they did all they could to prevent the pardon being signed. In
all similar affairs the jury, confronted with technical details it is unable to
understand, naturally hearkens to the public prosecutor, arguing that, after all,
the affair has been investigated by magistrates trained to unravel the most
intricate situations. Who, then, are the real authors of the error — the jurymen
or the magistrates? We should cling vigorously to the jury. It constitutes,
perhaps, the only category of crowd that cannot be replaced by any individual-
ity. It alone can temper the severity of the law, which, equal for all, ought in
principle to be blind and to take no cognisance of particular cases. Inaccessible
to pity, and heeding nothing but the text of the law, the judge in his profes-
sional severity would visit with the same penalty the burglar guilty of murder
and the wretched girl whom poverty and her abandonment by her seducer have
driven to infanticide. The jury, on the other hand, instinctively feels that the
seduced girl is much less guilty than the seducer, who, however, is not touched
by the law, and that she deserves every indulgence.
Being well acquainted with the psychology of castes, and also with the
psychology of other categories of crowds, I do not perceive a single case in
which, wrongly accused of a crime, I should not prefer to have to deal with a
jury rather than with magistrates. I should have some chance that my
innocence would be recognised by the former and not the slightest chance that
it would be admitted by the latter. The power of crowds is to be dreaded, but
the power of certain castes is to be dreaded yet more. Crowds are open to
conviction; castes never are.
Chapter IV. Electoral Crowds.

Electoral crowds — that is to say, collectivities invested with the power of
electing the holders of certain functions — constitute heterogeneous crowds,
but as their action is confined to a single clearly determined matter, namely,

to choosing between different candidates, they present only a few of the
characteristics previously described. Of the characteristics peculiar to crowds,
they display in particular but slight aptitude for reasoning, the absence of the
critical spirit, irritability, credulity, and simplicity. In their decision, moreover,
is to be traced the influence of the leaders of crowds and the part played by the
factors we have enumerated: affirmation, repetition, prestige, and contagion.
Let us examine by what methods electoral crowds are to be persuaded. It will
be easy to deduce their psychology from the methods that are most successful.
It is of primary importance that the candidate should possess prestige.
Personal prestige can only be replaced by that resulting from wealth. Talent
and even genius are not elements of success of serious importance.
Of capital importance, on the other hand, is the necessity for the candidate of
possessing prestige, of being able, that is, to force himself upon the electorate
without discussion. The reason why the electors, of whom a majority are
working men or peasants, so rarely choose a man from their own ranks to
represent them is that such a person enjoys no prestige among them. When, by
chance, they do elect a man who is their equal, it is as a rule for subsidiary
reasons — for instance, to spite an eminent man, or an influential employer of
labour on whom the elector is in daily dependence, and whose master he has
the illusion he becomes in this way for a moment.
The possession of prestige does not suffice, however, to assure the success
of a candidate. The elector stickles in particular for the flattery of his greed and
vanity. He must be overwhelmed with the most extravagant blandishments,
and there must be no hesitation in making him the most fantastic promises. If
he is a working man it is impossible to go too far in insulting and stigmatising
employers of labour. As for the rival candidate, an effort must be made to
destroy his chance by establishing by dint of affirmation, repetition, and
contagion that he is an arrant scoundrel, and that it is a matter of common
knowledge that he has been guilty of several crimes. It is, of course, useless to
trouble about any semblance of proof. Should the adversary be ill-acquainted
with the psychology of crowds he will try to justify himself by arguments
instead of confining himself to replying to one set of affirmations by another;
and he will have no chance whatever of being successful.
The candidate’s written programme should not be too categorical, since later
on his adversaries might bring it up against him; in his verbal programme,
however, there cannot be too much exaggeration. The most important reforms
may be fearlessly promised. At the moment they are made these exaggerations
produce a great effect, and they are not binding for the future, it being a matter
of constant observation that the elector never troubles himself to know how far
the candidate he has returned has followed out the electoral programme he
applauded, and in virtue of which the election was supposed to have been
secured.
In what precedes, all the factors of persuasion which we have described are
to be recognised. We shall come across them again in the action exerted by
words and formulas, whose magical sway we have already insisted upon. An
orator who knows how to make use of these means of persuasion can do what
he will with a crowd. Expressions such as infamous capital, vile exploiters, the
admirable working man, the socialisation of wealth, &c., always produce the
same effect, although already somewhat worn by use. But the candidate who
hits on a new formula as devoid as possible of precise meaning, and apt in
consequence to flatter the most varied aspirations, infallibly obtains a success.
The sanguinary Spanish revolution of 1873 was brought about by one of these
magical phrases of complex meaning on which everybody can put his own
interpretation. A contemporary writer has described the launching of this
phrase in terms that deserve to be quoted: —
“The radicals have made the discovery that a centralised republic is a
monarchy in disguise, and to humour them the Cortes had unanimously
proclaimed a federal republic, though none of the voters could have explained
what it was he had just voted for. This formula, however, delighted everybody;
the joy was intoxicating, delirious. The reign of virtue and happiness had just
been inaugurated on earth. A republican whose opponent refused him the title
of federalist considered himself to be mortally insulted. People addressed each
other in the streets with the words: `Long live the federal republic!’ After
which the praises were sung of the mystic virtue of the absence of discipline
in the army, and of the autonomy of the soldiers. What was understood by the
`federal republic?’ There were those who took it to mean the emancipation of
the provinces, institutions akin to those of the United States and administrative
decentralisation; others had in view the abolition of all authority and the
speedy commencement of the great social liquidation. The socialists of
Barcelona and Andalusia stood out for the absolute sovereignty of the
communes; they proposed to endow Spain with ten thousand independent
municipalities, to legislate on their own account, and their creation to be
accompanied by the suppression of the police and the army. In the southern
provinces the insurrection was soon seen to spread from town to town and
village to village.
Directly a village had made its pronunciamento its first care was to destroy
the telegraph wires and the railway lines so as to cut off all communication
with its neighbours and Madrid. The sorriest hamlet was determined to stand
on its own bottom. Federation had given place to cantonalism, marked by
massacres, incendiarism, and every description of brutality, and bloody
saturnalia were celebrated throughout the length and breadth of the land.”
With respect to the influence that may be exerted by reasoning on the minds
of electors, to harbour the least doubt on this subject can only be the result of
never having read the reports of an electioneering meeting. In such a gathering
affirmations, invectives, and sometimes blows are exchanged, but never
arguments. Should silence be established for a moment it is because some one
present, having the reputation of a “tough customer,” has announced that he
is about to heckle the candidate by putting him one of those embarrassing
questions which are always the joy of the audience. The satisfaction, however,
of the opposition party is shortlived, for the voice of the questioner is soon
drowned in the uproar made by his adversaries. The following reports of public
meetings, chosen from hundreds of similar examples, and taken from the daily
papers, may be considered as typical: —
“One of the organisers of the meeting having asked the assembly to elect a
president, the storm bursts. The anarchists leap on to the platform to take the
committee table by storm. The socialists make an energetic defence; blows are
exchanged, and each party accuses the other of being spies in the pay of the
Government, &c.... A citizen leaves the hall with a black eye.
“The committee is at length installed as best it may be in the midst of the
tumult, and the right to speak devolves upon `Comrade’ X.
“The orator starts a vigorous attack on the socialists, who interrupt him with
shouts of Ìdiot, scoundrel, blackguard!’ &c., epithets to which Comrade X.
replies by setting forth a theory according to which the socialists are ìdiots’
or `jokers.’”
“The Allemanist party had organised yesterday evening, in the Hall of
Commerce, in the Rue du Faubourg-du-Temple, a great meeting, preliminary
to the workers’ fête of the 1st of May. The watchword of the meeting was
`Calm and Tranquillity!’
“Comrade G — — alludes to the socialists as ìdiots’ and `humbugs.’

“At these words there is an exchange of invectives and orators and audience
come to blows. Chairs, tables, and benches are converted into weapons,” &c.,
&c.
It is not to be imagined for a moment that this description of discussion is
peculiar to a determined class of electors and dependent on their social
position. In every anonymous assembly whatever, though it be composed
exclusively of highly educated persons, discussion always assumes the same
shape. I have shown that when men are collected in a crowd there is a tendency
towards their mental levelling at work, and proof of this is to be found at every
turn. Take, for example, the following extract from a report of a meeting
composed exclusively of students, which I borrow from the Temps of 13th of
February, 1895: —
“The tumult only increased as the evening went on; I do not believe that a
single orator succeeded in uttering two sentences without being interrupted. At
every instant there came shouts from this or that direction or from every
direction at once. Applause was intermingled with hissing, violent discussions
were in progress between individual members of the audience, sticks were
brandished threateningly, others beat a tattoo on the floor, and the interrupters
were greeted with yells of `Put him out!’ or `Let him speak!’
“M. C — — lavished such epithets as odious and cowardly, monstrous, vile,
venal and vindictive, on the Association, which he declared he wanted to
destroy,” &c., &c.
How, it may be asked, can an elector form an opinion under such conditions?
To put such a question is to harbour a strange delusion as to the measure of
liberty that may be enjoyed by a collectivity. Crowds have opinions that have
been imposed upon them, but they never boast reasoned opinions. In the case
under consideration the opinions and votes of the electors are in the hands of
the election committees, whose leading spirits are, as a rule, publicans, their
influence over the working men, to whom they allow credit, being great. “Do
you know what an election committee is?” writes M. Schérer, one of the most
valiant champions of present-day democracy. “It is neither more nor less than
the corner-stone of our institutions, the masterpiece of the political machine.
France is governed to-day by the election committees.”26
To exert an influence over them is not difficult, provided the candidate be in
himself acceptable and possess adequate financial resources. According to the
admissions of the donors, three millions of francs sufficed to secure the

repeated elections of General Boulanger.
Such is the psychology of electoral crowds. It is identical with that of other
crowds: neither better nor worse.
In consequence I draw no conclusion against universal suffrage from what
precedes. Had I to settle its fate, I should preserve it as it is for practical
reasons, which are to be deduced in point of fact from our investigation of the
psychology of crowds. On this account I shall proceed to set them forth.
No doubt the weak side of universal suffrage is too obvious to be overlooked.
It cannot be gainsaid that civilisation has been the work of a small minority of
superior intelligences constituting the culminating point of a pyramid, whose
stages, widening in proportion to the decrease of mental power, represent the
masses of a nation. The greatness of a civilisation cannot assuredly depend
upon the votes given by inferior elements boasting solely numerical strength.
Doubtless, too, the votes recorded by crowds are often very dangerous. They
have already cost us several invasions, and in view of the triumph of socialism,
for which they are preparing the way, it is probable that the vagaries of popular
sovereignty will cost us still more dearly.
Excellent, however, as these objections are in theory, in practice they lose all
force, as will be admitted if the invincible strength be remembered of ideas
transformed into dogmas. The dogma of the sovereignty of crowds is as little
defensible, from the philosophical point of view, as the religious dogmas of the
Middle Ages, but it enjoys at present the same absolute power they formerly
enjoyed. It is as unattackable in consequence as in the past were our religious
ideas. Imagine a modern freethinker miraculously transported into the midst
of the Middle Ages. Do you suppose that, after having ascertained the
sovereign power of the religious ideas that were then in force, he would have
been tempted to attack them? Having fallen into the hands of a judge disposed
to send him to the stake, under the imputation of having concluded a pact with
the devil, or of having been present at the witches sabbath, would it have
occurred to him to call in question the existence of the devil or of the sabbath?
It were as wise to oppose cyclones with discussion as the beliefs of crowds.
The dogma of universal suffrage possesses to-day the power the Christian
dogmas formerly possessed. Orators and writers allude to it with a respect and
adulation that never fell to the share of Louis XIV. In consequence the same
position must be taken up with regard to it as with regard to all religious
dogmas. Time alone can act upon them.

Besides, it would be the more useless to attempt to undermine this dogma,
inasmuch as it has an appearance of reasonableness in its favour. “In an era of
equality,” Tocqueville justly remarks, “men have no faith in each other on
account of their being all alike; yet this same similitude gives them an almost
limitless confidence in the judgment of the public, the reason being that it does
not appear probable that, all men being equally enlightened, truth and
numerical superiority should not go hand in hand.”
Must it be believed that with a restricted suffrage — a suffrage restricted to
those intellectually capable if it be desired — an improvement would be
effected in the votes of crowds? I cannot admit for a moment that this would
be the case, and that for the reasons I have already given touching the mental
inferiority of all collectivities, whatever their composition. In a crowd men
always tend to the same level, and, on general questions, a vote, recorded by
forty academicians is no better than that of forty water-carriers. I do not in the
least believe that any of the votes for which universal suffrage is blamed — the
re-establishment of the Empire, for instance — would have fallen out
differently had the voters been exclusively recruited among learned and
liberally educated men. It does not follow because an individual knows Greek
or mathematics, is an architect, a veterinary surgeon, a doctor, or a barrister,
that he is endowed with a special intelligence of social questions. All our
political economists are highly educated, being for the most part professors or
academicians, yet is there a single general question — protection, bimetallism,
&c. — on which they have succeeded in agreeing? The explanation is that
their science is only a very attenuated form of our universal ignorance. With
regard to social problems, owing to the number of unknown quantities they
offer, men are substantially, equally ignorant.
In consequence, were the electorate solely composed of persons stuffed with
sciences their votes would be no better than those emitted at present. They
would be guided in the main by their sentiments and by party spirit. We should
be spared none of the difficulties we now have to contend with, and we should
certainly be subjected to the oppressive tyranny of castes.
Whether the suffrage of crowds be restricted or general, whether it be
exercised under a republic or a monarchy, in France, in Belgium, in Greece,
in Portugal, or in Spain, it is everywhere identical; and, when all is said and
done, it is the expression of the unconscious aspirations and needs of the race.
In each country the average opinions of those elected represent the genius of
the race, and they will be found not to alter sensibly from one generation to
another.
It is seen, then, that we are confronted once more by the fundamental notion
of race, which we have come across so often, and on this other notion, which
is the outcome of the first, that institutions and governments play but a small
part in the life of a people. Peoples are guided in the main by the genius of
their race, that is, by that inherited residue of qualities of which the genius is
the sum total. Race and the slavery of our daily necessities are the mysterious
master-causes that rule our destiny.
Chapter V. Parliamentary Assemblies.

In parliamentary assemblies we have an example of heterogeneous crowds
that are not anonymous. Although the mode of election of their members
varies from epoch to epoch, and from nation to nation, they present very
similar characteristics. In this case the influence of the race makes itself felt
to weaken or exaggerate the characteristics common to crowds, but not to
prevent their manifestation. The parliamentary assemblies of the most widely
different countries, of Greece, Italy, Portugal, Spain, France, and America
present great analogies in their debates and votes, and leave the respective
governments face to face with identical difficulties.
Moreover, the parliamentary system represents the ideal of all modern
civilised peoples. The system is the expression of the idea, psychologically
erroneous, but generally admitted, that a large gathering of men is much more
capable than a small number of coming to a wise and independent decision on
a given subject.
The general characteristics of crowds are to be met with in parliamentary
assemblies: intellectual simplicity, irritability, suggestibility, the exaggeration
of the sentiments and the preponderating influence of a few leaders. In
consequence, however, of their special composition parliamentary crowds
offer some distinctive features, which we shall point out shortly.
Simplicity in their opinions is one of their most important characteristics. In
the case of all parties, and more especially so far as the Latin peoples are
concerned, an invariable tendency is met with in crowds of this kind to solve
the most complicated social problems by the simplest abstract principles and
general laws applicable to all cases. Naturally the principles vary with the
party; but owing to the mere fact that the individual members are a part of a
crowd, they are always inclined to exaggerate the worth of their principles, and
to push them to their extreme consequences. In consequence parliaments are
more especially representative of extreme opinions.
The most perfect example of the ingenuous simplification of opinions
peculiar to assemblies is offered by the Jacobins of the French Revolution.
Dogmatic and logical to a man, and their brains full of vague generalities, they
busied themselves with the application of fixed-principles without concerning
themselves with events. It has been said of them, with reason, that they went
through the Revolution without witnessing it. With the aid of the very simple
dogmas that served them as guide, they imagined they could recast society
from top to bottom, and cause a highly refined civilisation to return to a very
anterior phase of the social evolution. The methods they resorted to to realise
their dream wore the same stamp of absolute ingenuousness. They confined
themselves, in reality, to destroying what stood in their way.
All of them, moreover — Girondists, the Men of the Mountain, the
Thermidorians, &c. — were alike animated by the same spirit.
Parliamentary crowds are very open to suggestion; and, as in the case of all
crowds, the suggestion comes from leaders possessing prestige; but the
suggestibility of parliamentary assemblies has very clearly defined limits,
which it is important to point out.
On all questions of local or regional interest every member of an assembly
has fixed, unalterable opinions, which no amount of argument can shake. The
talent of a Demosthenes would be powerless to change the vote of a Deputy
on such questions as protection or the privilege of distilling alcohol, questions
in which the interests of influential electors are involved. The suggestion
emanating from these electors and undergone before the time to vote arrives,
sufficiently outweighs suggestions from any other source to annul them and to
maintain an absolute fixity of opinion.27
On general questions — the overthrow of a Cabinet, the imposition of a tax,
&c. — there is no longer any fixity of opinion, and the suggestions of leaders
can exert an influence, though not in quite the same way as in an ordinary
crowd. Every party has its leaders, who possess occasionally an equal
influence. The result is that the Deputy finds himself placed between two
contrary suggestions, and is inevitably made to hesitate. This explains how it
is that he is often seen to vote in contrary fashion in an interval of a quarter of
an hour or to add to a law an article which nullifies it; for instance, to

withdraw from employers of labour the right of choosing and dismissing their
workmen, and then to very nearly annul this measure by an amendment.
It is for the same reason that every Chamber that is returned has some very
stable opinions, and other opinions that are very shifting. On the whole, the
general questions being the more numerous, indecision is predominant in the
Chamber — the indecision which results from the ever-present fear of the
elector, the suggestion received from whom is always latent, and tends to
counterbalance the influence of the leaders.
Still, it is the leaders who are definitely the masters in those numerous
discussions, with regard to the subject-matter of which the members of an
assembly are without strong preconceived opinions.
The necessity for these leaders is evident, since, under the name of heads of
groups, they are met with in the assemblies of every country. They are the real
rulers of an assembly. Men forming a crowd cannot do without a master,
whence it results that the votes of an assembly only represent, as a rule, the
opinions of a small minority.
The influence of the leaders is due in very small measure to the arguments
they employ, but in a large degree to their prestige. The best proof of this is
that, should they by any circumstance lose their prestige, their influence
disappears.
The prestige of these political leaders is individual, and independent of name
or celebrity: a fact of which M. Jules Simon gives us some very curious
examples in his remarks on the prominent men of the Assembly of 1848, of
which he was a member: —
“Two months before he was all-powerful, Louis Napoleon was entirely
without the least importance.
“Victor Hugo mounted the tribune. He failed to achieve success. He was
listened to as Félix Pyat was listened to, but he did not obtain as much
applause. Ì don’t like his ideas,’ Vaulabelle said to me, speaking of Félix
Pyat,’ but he is one of the greatest writers and the greatest orator of France.’
Edgar Quinet, in spite of his exceptional and powerful intelligence, was held
in no esteem whatever. He had been popular for awhile before the opening of
the Assembly; in the Assembly he had no popularity.
“The splendour of genius makes itself less felt in political assemblies than
anywhere else. They only give heed to eloquence appropriate to the time and
place and to party services, not to services rendered the country. For homage
to be rendered Lamartine in 1848 and Thiers in 1871, the stimulant was needed
of urgent, inexorable interest. As soon as the danger was passed the parliamen-
tary world forgot in the same instant its gratitude and its fright.”
I have quoted the preceding passage for the sake of the facts it contains, not
of the explanations it offers, their psychology being somewhat poor. A crowd
would at once lose its character of a crowd were it to credit its leaders with
their services, whether of a party nature or rendered their country. The crowd
that obeys a leader is under the influence of his prestige, and its submission is
not dictated by any sentiment of interest or gratitude.
In consequence the leader endowed with sufficient prestige wields almost
absolute power. The immense influence exerted during a long series of years,
thanks to his prestige, by a celebrated Deputy,28 beaten at the last general
election in consequence of certain financial events, is well known. He had only
to give the signal and Cabinets were overthrown. A writer has clearly indicated
the scope of his action in the following lines: —
“It is due, in the main, to M. X — — that we paid three times as dearly as we
should have done for Tonkin, that we remained so long on a precarious footing
in Madagascar, that we were defrauded of an empire in the region of the
Lower Niger, and that we have lost the preponderating situation we used to
occupy in Egypt. The theories of M. X — — have cost us more territories than
the disasters of Napoleon I.”
We must not harbour too bitter a grudge against the leader in question. It is
plain that he has cost us very dear; but a great part of his influence was due to
the fact that he followed public opinion, which, in colonial matters, was far
from being at the time what it has since become. A leader is seldom in advance
of public opinion; almost always all he does is to follow it and to espouse all
its errors.
The means of persuasion of the leaders we are dealing with, apart from their
prestige, consist in the factors we have already enumerated several times. To
make a skilful use of these resources a leader must have arrived at a compre-
hension, at least in an unconscious manner, of the psychology of crowds, and
must know how to address them. He should be aware, in particular, of the
fascinating influence of words, phrases, and images. He should possess a
special description of eloquence, composed of energetic affirmations —
unburdened with proofs — and impressive images, accompanied by very
summary arguments. This is a kind of eloquence that is met with in all

assemblies, the English Parliament included, the most serious though it is of
all.
“Debates in the House of Commons,” says the English philosopher Maine,
“may be constantly read in which the entire discussion is confined to an
exchange of rather weak generalities and rather violent personalities. General
formulas of this description exercise a prodigious influence on the imagination
of a pure democracy. It will always be easy to make a crowd accept general
assertions, presented in striking terms, although they have never been verified,
and are perhaps not susceptible of verification.”
Too much importance cannot be attached to the “striking terms” alluded to
in the above quotation. We have already insisted, on several occasions, on the
special power of words and formulas. They must be chosen in such a way as
to evoke very vivid images. The following phrase, taken from a speech by one
of the leaders of our assemblies, affords an excellent example: —
“When the same vessel shall bear away to the fever-haunted lands of our
penitentiary settlements the politician of shady reputation and the anarchist
guilty of murder, the pair will be able to converse together, and they will
appear to each other as the two complementary aspects of one and the same
state of society.”
The image thus evoked is very vivid, and all the adversaries of the speaker
felt themselves threatened by it. They conjured up a double vision of the
fever-haunted country and the vessel that may carry them away; for is it not
possible that they are included in the somewhat ill-defined category of the
politicians menaced? They experienced the lurking fear that the men of the
Convention must have felt whom the vague speeches of Robespierre
threatened with the guillotine, and who, under the influence of this fear,
invariably yielded to him.
It is all to the interest of the leaders to indulge in the most improbable
exaggerations. The speaker of whom I have just cited a sentence was able to
affirm, without arousing violent protestations, that bankers and priests had
subsidised the throwers of bombs, and that the directors of the great financial
companies deserve the same punishment as anarchists. Affirmations of this
kind are always effective with crowds. The affirmation is never too violent, the
declamation never too threatening. Nothing intimidates the audience more than
this sort of eloquence. Those present are afraid that if they protest they will be
put down as traitors or accomplices.

As I have said, this peculiar style of eloquence has ever been of sovereign
effect in all assemblies. In times of crisis its power is still further accentuated.
The speeches of the great orators of the assemblies of the French Revolution
are very interesting reading from this point of view. At every instant they
thought themselves obliged to pause in order to denounce crime and exalt
virtue, after which they would burst forth into imprecations against tyrants, and
swear to live free men or perish. Those present rose to their feet, applauded
furiously, and then, calmed, took their seats again.
On occasion, the leader may be intelligent and highly educated, but the
possession of these qualities does him, as a rule, more harm than good. By
showing how complex things are, by allowing of explanation and promoting
comprehension, intelligence always renders its owner indulgent, and blunts,
in a large measure, that intensity and violence of conviction needful for
apostles. The great leaders of crowds of all ages, and those of the Revolution
in particular, have been of lamentably narrow intellect; while it is precisely
those whose intelligence has been the most restricted who have exercised the
greatest influence.
The speeches of the most celebrated of them, of Robespierre, frequently
astound one by their incoherence: by merely reading them no plausible
explanation is to be found of the great part played by the powerful dictator: —
“The commonplaces and redundancies of pedagogic eloquence and Latin
culture at the service of a mind childish rather than undistinguished, and
limited in its notions of attack and defence to the defiant attitude of school-
boys. Not an idea, not a happy turn of phrase, or a telling hit: a storm of
declamation that leaves us bored. After a dose of this unexhilarating reading
one is attempted to exclaim Òh!’ with the amiable Camille Desmoulins.”
It is terrible at times to think of the power that strong conviction combined
with extreme narrowness of mind gives a man possessing prestige. It is none
the less necessary that these conditions should be satisfied for a man to ignore
obstacles and display strength of will in a high measure.
Crowds instinctively recognise in men of energy and conviction the masters
they are always in need of.
In a parliamentary assembly the success of a speech depends almost solely
on the prestige possessed by the speaker, and not at all on the arguments he
brings forward. The best proof of this is that when for one cause or another a
speaker loses his prestige, he loses simultaneously all his influence, that is, his
power of influencing votes at will.
When an unknown speaker comes forward with a speech containing good
arguments, but only arguments, the chances are that he will only obtain a
hearing. A Deputy who is a psychologist of insight, M. Desaubes, has recently
traced in the following lines the portrait of the Deputy who lacks prestige: —
“When he takes his place in the tribune he draws a document from his
portfolio, spreads it out methodically before him, and makes a start with
assurance.
“He flatters himself that he will implant in the minds of his audience the
conviction by which he is himself animated. He has weighed and reweighed
his arguments; he is well primed with figures and proofs; he is certain he will
convince his hearers. In the face of the evidence he is to adduce all resistance
would be futile. He begins, confident in the justice of his cause, and relying
upon the attention of his colleagues, whose only anxiety, of course, is to
subscribe to the truth.
“He speaks, and is at once surprised at the restlessness of the House, and a
little annoyed by the noise that is being made.
“How is it silence is not kept? Why this general inattention? What are those
Deputies thinking about who are engaged in conversation? What urgent motive
has induced this or that Deputy to quit his seat?
“An expression of uneasiness crosses his face; he frowns and stops.
Encouraged by the Presisident, he begins again, raising his voice. He is only
listened to all the less. He lends emphasis to his words, and gesticulates: the
noise around him increases. He can no longer hear himself, and again stops;
finally, afraid that his silence may provoke the dreaded cry, `The Closure!’ he
starts off again. The clamour becomes unbearable.”
When parliamentary assemblies reach a certain pitch of excitement they
become identical with ordinary heterogeneous crowds, and their sentiments in
consequence present the peculiarity of being always extreme. They will be
seen to commit acts of the greatest heroism or the worst excesses. The
individual is no longer himself, and so entirely is this the case that he will vote
measures most adverse to his personal interests.
The history of the French Revolution shows to what an extent assemblies are
capable of losing their self-consciousness, and of obeying suggestions most
contrary to their interests. It was an enormous sacrifice for the nobility to
renounce its privileges, yet it did so without hesitation on a famous night

during the sittings of the Constituant Assembly. By renouncing their
inviolability the men of the Convention placed themselves under a perpetual
menace of death and yet they took this step, and were not afraid to decimate
their own ranks, though perfectly aware that the scaffold to which they were
sending their colleagues to-day might be their own fate to-morrow. The truth
is they had attained to that completely automatic state which I have described
elsewhere, and no consideration would hinder them from yielding to the
suggestions by which they were hypnotised. The following passage from the
memoirs of one of them, Billaud-Varennes, is absolutely typical on this score:
“The decisions with which we have been so reproached,” he says, “were not
desired by us two days, a single day before they were taken: it was the crisis
and nothing else that gave rise to them.” Nothing can be more accurate.
The same phenomena of unconsciousness were to be witnessed during all the
stormy sittings of the Convention.
“They approved and decreed measures,” says Taine, “which they held in
horror — measures which were not only stupid and foolish, but measures that
were crimes — the murder of innocent men, the murder of their friends. The
Left, supported by the Right, unanimously and amid loud applause, sent to the
scaffold Danton, its natural chief, and the great promoter and leader of the
Revolution. Unanimously and amid the greatest applause the Right, supported
by the Left, votes the worst decrees of the revolutionary government.
Unanimously and amid cries of admiration and enthusiasm, amid demonstra-
tions of passionate sympathy for Collot d’Herbois, Couthon, and Robespierre,
the Convention by spontaneous and repeated re-elections keeps in office the
homicidal government which the Plain detests because it is homicidal, and the
Mountain detests because it is decimated by it. The Plain and the Mountain,
the majority and the minority, finish by consenting to help on their own
suicide. The 22 Prairial the entire Convention offered itself to the executioner;
the 8 Thermidor, during the first quarter of an hour that followed Robes-
pierre’s speech, it did the same thing again.”
This picture may appear sombre. Yet it is accurate. Parliamentary assemblies,
sufficiently excited and hypnotised, offer the same characteristics. They
become an unstable flock, obedient to every impulsion. The following
description of the Assembly of 1848 is due to M. Spuller, a parliamentarian
whose faith in democracy is above suspicion. I reproduce it from the Revue
littéraire, and it is thoroughly typical. It offers an example of all the exagger-
ated sentiments which I have described as characteristic of crowds, and of that

excessive changeableness which permits of assemblies passing, from moment
to moment, from one set of sentiments to another entirely opposite.
“The Republican party was brought to its perdition by its divisions, its
jealousies, its suspicions, and, in turn, its blind confidence and its limitless
hopes. Its ingenuousness and candour were only equalled by its universal
mistrust. An absence of all sense of legality, of all comprehension of
discipline, together with boundless terrors and illusions; the peasant and the
child are on a level in these respects. Their calm is as great as their impatience;
their ferocity is equal to their docility. This condition is the natural conse-
quence of a temperament that is not formed and of the lack of education.
Nothing astonishes such persons, and everything disconcerts them. Trembling
with fear or brave to the point of heroism, they would go through fire and
water or fly from a shadow.
“They are ignorant of cause and effect and of the connecting links between
events. They are as promptly discouraged as they are exalted, they are subject
to every description of panic, they are always either too highly strung or too
downcast, but never in the mood or the measure the situation would require.
More fluid than water they reflect every line and assume every shape. What
sort of a foundation for a government can they be expected to supply?”
Fortunately all the characteristics just described as to be met with in
parliamentary assemblies are in no wise constantly displayed. Such assemblies
only constitute crowds at certain moments. The individuals composing them
retain their individuality in a great number of cases, which explains how it is
that an assembly is able to turn out excellent technical laws. It is true that the
author of these laws is a specialist who has prepared them in the quiet of his
study, and that in reality the law voted is the work of an individual and not of
an assembly. These laws are naturally the best. They are only liable to have
disastrous results when a series of amendments has converted them into the
outcome of a collective effort. The work of a crowd is always inferior,
whatever its nature, to that of an isolated individual. It is specialists who
safeguard assemblies from passing ill-advised or unworkable measures. The
specialist in this case is a temporary leader of crowds. The Assembly is
without influence on him, but he has influence over the Assembly.
In spite of all the difficulties attending their working, parliamentary
assemblies are the best form of government mankind has discovered as yet,
and more especially the best means it has found to escape the yoke of personal
tyrannies. They constitute assuredly the ideal government at any rate for
philosophers, thinkers, writers, artists, and learned men — in a word, for all
those who form the cream of a civilisation.
Moreover, in reality they only present two serious dangers, one being
inevitable financial waste, and the other the progressive restriction of the
liberty of the individual.
The first of these dangers is the necessary consequence of the exigencies and
want of foresight of electoral crowds. Should a member of an assembly
propose a measure giving apparent satisfaction to democratic ideas, should he
bring in a Bill, for instance, to assure old-age pensions to all workers, and to
increase the wages of any class of State employés, the other Deputies, victims
of suggestion in their dread of their electors, will not venture to seem to
disregard the interests of the latter by rejecting the proposed measure, although
well aware they are imposing a fresh strain on the Budget and necessitating the
creation of new taxes. It is impossible for them to hesitate to give their votes.
The consequences of the increase of expenditure are remote and will not entail
disagreeable consequences for them personally, while the consequences of a
negative vote might clearly come to light when they next present themselves
for re-election.
In addition to this first cause of an exaggerated expenditure there is another
not less imperative — the necessity of voting all grants for local purposes. A
Deputy is unable to oppose grants of this kind because they represent once
more the exigencies of the electors, and because each individual Deputy can
only obtain what he requires for his own constituency on the condition of
acceding to similar demands on the part of his colleagues.29
The second of the dangers referred to above — the inevitable restrictions on
liberty consummated by parliamentary assemblies — is apparently less
obvious, but is, nevertheless, very real. It is the result of the innumerable laws
— having always a restrictive action — which parliaments consider them-
selves obliged to vote and to whose consequences, owing to their shortsighted-
ness, they are in a great measure blind.
The danger must indeed be most inevitable, since even England itself, which
assuredly offers the most popular type of the parliamentary régime, the type in
which the representative is most independent of his elector, has been unable
to escape it. Herbert Spencer has shown, in a work already old, that the
increase of apparent liberty must needs be followed by the decrease of real

liberty. Returning to this contention in his recent book, “The Individual versus
the State,” he thus expresses himself with regard to the English Parliament: —
“Legislation since this period has followed the course, I pointed out. Rapidly
multiplying dictatorial measures have continually tended to restrict individual
liberties, and this in two ways. Regulations have been established every year
in greater number, imposing a constraint on the citizen in matters in which his
acts were formerly completely free, and forcing him to accomplish acts which
he was formerly at liberty to accomplish or not to accomplish at will. At the
same time heavier and heavier public, and especially local, burdens have still
further restricted his liberty by diminishing the portion of his profits he can
spend as he chooses, and by augmenting the portion which is taken from him
to be spent according to the good pleasure of the public authorities.”
This progressive restriction of liberties shows itself in every country in a
special shape which Herbert Spencer has not pointed out; it is that the passing
of these innumerable series of legislative measures, all of them in a general
way of a restrictive order, conduces necessarily to augment the number, the
power, and the influence of the functionaries charged with their application.
These functionaries tend in this way to become the veritable masters of
civilised countries. Their power is all the greater owing to the fact that, amidst
the incessant transfer of authority, the administrative caste is alone in being
untouched by these changes, is alone in possessing irresponsibility, imperson-
ality, and perpetuity. There is no more oppressive despotism than that which
presents itself under this triple form.
This incessant creation of restrictive laws and regulations, surrounding the
pettiest actions of existence with the most complicated formalities, inevitably
has for its result the confining within narrower and narrower limits of the
sphere in which the citizen may move freely. Victims of the delusion that
equality and liberty are the better assured by the multiplication of laws, nations
daily consent to put up with trammels increasingly burdensome. They do not
accept this legislation with impunity. Accustomed to put up with every yoke,
they soon end by desiring servitude, and lose all spontaneousness and energy.
They are then no more than vain shadows, passive, unresisting and powerless
automata.
Arrived at this point, the individual is bound to seek outside himself the
forces he no longer finds within him. The functions of governments necessar-
ily increase in proportion as the indifference and helplessness of the citizens

grow. They it is who must necessarily exhibit the initiative, enterprising, and
guiding spirit in which private persons are lacking. It falls on them to
undertake everything, direct everything, and take everything under their
protection. The State becomes an all-powerful god. Still experience shows that
the power of such gods was never either very durable or very strong.
This progressive restriction of all liberties in the case of certain peoples, in
spite of an outward license that gives them the illusion that these liberties are
still in their possession, seems at least as much a consequence of their old age
as of any particular system. It constitutes one of the precursory symptoms of
that decadent phase which up to now no civilisation has escaped.
Judging by the lessons of the past, and by the symptoms that strike the
attention on every side, several of our modern civilisations have reached that
phase of extreme old age which precedes decadence. It seems inevitable that
all peoples should pass through identical phases of existence, since history is
so often seen to repeat its course.
It is easy to note briefly these common phases of the evolution of civilisa-
tions, and I shall terminate this work with a summary of them. This rapid
sketch will perhaps throw some gleams of light on the causes of the power at
present wielded by crowds.
If we examine in their main lines the genesis of the greatness and of the fall
of the civilisations that preceded our own, what do we see?
At the dawn of civilisation a swarm of men of various origin, brought
together by the chances of migrations, invasions, and conquests. Of different
blood, and of equally different languages and beliefs, the only common bond
of union between these men is the half-recognised law of a chief. The
psychological characteristics of crowds are present in an eminent degree in
these confused agglomerations. They have the transient cohesion of crowds,
their heroism, their weaknesses, their impulsiveness, and their violence.
Nothing is stable in connection with them. They are barbarians.
At length time accomplishes its work. The identity of surroundings, the
repeated intermingling of races, the necessities of life in common exert their
influence. The assemblage of dissimilar units begins to blend into a whole, to
form a race; that is, an aggregate possessing common characteristics and
sentiments to which heredity will give greater and greater fixity. The crowd
has become a people, and this people is able to emerge from its barbarous
state. However, it will only entirely emerge therefrom when, after long efforts,
struggles necessarily repeated, and innumerable recommencements, it shall
have acquired an ideal. The nature of this ideal is of slight importance; whether
it be the cult of Rome, the might of Athens, or the triumph of Allah, it will
suffice to endow all the individuals of the race that is forming with perfect
unity of sentiment and thought.
At this stage a new civilisation, with its institutions, its beliefs, and its arts,
may be born. In pursuit of its ideal, the race will acquire in succession the
qualities necessary to give it splendour, vigour, and grandeur. At times no
doubt it will still be a crowd, but henceforth, beneath the mobile and changing
characteristics of crowds, is found a solid substratum, the genius of the race
which confines within narrow limits the transformations of a nation and
overrules the play of chance.
After having exerted its creative action, time begins that work of destruction
from which neither gods nor men escape. Having reached a certain level of
strength and complexity a civilisation ceases to grow, and having ceased to
grow it is condemned to a speedy decline. The hour of its old age has struck.
This inevitable hour is always marked by the weakening of the ideal that was
the mainstay of the race. In proportion as this ideal pales all the religious,
political, and social structures inspired by it begin to be shaken.
With the progressive perishing of its ideal the race loses more and more the
qualities that lent it its cohesion, its unity, and its strength. The personality and
intelligence of the individual may increase, but at the same time this collective
egoism of the race is replaced by an excessive development of the egoism of
the individual, accompanied by a weakening of character and a lessening of the
capacity for action. What constituted a people, a unity, a whole, becomes in the
end an agglomeration of individualities lacking cohesion, and artificially held
together for a time by its traditions and institutions. It is at this stage that men,
divided by their interests and aspirations, and incapable any longer of
self-government, require directing in their pettiest acts, and that the State
exerts an absorbing influence.
With the definite loss of its old ideal the genius of the race entirely disap-
pears; it is a mere swarm of isolated individuals and returns to its original state
— that of a crowd. Without consistency and without a future, it has all the
transitory characteristics of crowds. Its civilisation is now without stability,
and at the mercy of every chance. The populace is sovereign, and the tide of
barbarism mounts. The civilisation may still seem brilliant because it possesses
an outward front, the work of a long past, but it is in reality an edifice
crumbling to ruin, which nothing supports, and destined to fall in at the first
storm.
To pass in pursuit of an ideal from the barbarous to the civilised state, and
then, when this ideal has lost its virtue, to decline and die, such is the cycle of
the life of a people.
Notes.
1. His most subtle advisers, moreover, did not understand this psychology any
better. Talleyrand wrote him that “Spain would receive his soldiers as
liberators.” It received them as beasts of prey. A psychologist acquainted with
the hereditary instincts of the Spanish race would have easily foreseen this
reception.
2. General Boulanger.
3. Persons who went through the siege of Paris saw numerous examples of
this credulity of crowds. A candle alight in an upper story was immediately
looked upon as a signal given the besiegers, although it was evident, after a
moment of reflection, that it was utterly impossible to catch sight of the light
of the candle at a distance of several miles.
4. L’Eclair, April 21, 1895.
5. Do we know in the case of one single battle exactly how it took place? I
am very doubtful on the point. We know who were the conquerors and the
conquered, but this is probably all. What M. D’Harcourt has said with respect
to the battle of Solferino, which he witnessed and in which he was personally
engaged, may be applied to all battles — “The generals (informed, of course,
by the evidence of hundreds of witnesses) forward their official reports; the
orderly officers modify these documents and draw up a definite narrative; the
chief of the staff raises objections and re-writes the whole on a fresh basis. It
is carried to the Marshal, who exclaims, `You are entirely in error,’ and he
substitutes a fresh edition. Scarcely anything remains of the original report.”
M. D’Harcourt relates this fact as proof of the impossibility of establishing the
truth in connection with the most striking, the best observed events.
6. It is understandable for this reason why it sometimes happens that pieces
refused by all theatrical managers obtain a prodigious success when by a stroke
of chance they are put on the stage. The recent success of Francois Coppée’s
play “Pour la Couronne” is well known, and yet, in spite of the name of its
author, it was refused during ten years by the managers of the principal
Parisian theatres.
“Charley’s Aunt,” refused at every theatre, and finally staged at the expense
of a stockbroker, has had two hundred representations in France, and more
than a thousand in London. Without the explanation given above of the
impossibility for theatrical managers to mentally substitute themselves for a
crowd, such mistakes in judgment on the part of competent individuals, who
are most interested not to commit such grave blunders, would be inexplicable.
This is a subject that I cannot deal with here, but it might worthily tempt the
pen of a writer acquainted with theatrical matters, and at the same time a subtle
psychologist — of such a writer, for instance, as M. Francisque Sarcey.
7. The novelty of this proposition being still considerable and history being
quite unintelligible without it, I devoted four chapters to its demonstration in
my last book (“The Psychological Laws of the Evolution of Peoples”). From
it the reader will see that, in spite of fallacious appearances, neither language,
religion, arts, or, in a word, any element of civilisation, can pass, intact, from
one people to another.
8. The report of the ex-Conventionist, Fourcroy, quoted by Taine, is very
clear on this point.
“What is everywhere seen with respect to the keeping of Sunday and
attendance at the churches proves that the majority of Frenchmen desire to
return to their old usages and that it is no longer opportune to resist this natural
tendency.... The great majority of men stand in need of religion, public
worship, and priests. It is an error of some modern philosophers, by which I
myself have been led away, to believe in the possibility of instruction being so
general as to destroy religious prejudices, which for a great number of
unfortunate persons are a source of consolation.... The mass of the people,
then, must be allowed its priests, its altars, and its public worship.”
9. The most advanced republicans, even of the United States, recognise this
fact. The American magazine, The Forum, recently gave categorical
expression to the opinion in terms which I reproduce here from the Review of
Reviews for December, 1894: —
“It should never be forgotten, even by the most ardent enemies of an
aristocracy, that England is to-day the most democratic country of the universe,
the country in which the rights of the individual are most respected, and in
which the individual possesses the most liberty.”
10. If a comparison be made between the profound religious and political
dissensions which separate the various parties in France, and are more
especially the result of social questions, and the separatist tendencies which
were manifested at the time of the Revolution, and began to again display
themselves towards the close of the Franco-German war, it will be seen that
the different races represented in France are still far from being completely
blended. The vigorous centralisation of the Revolution and the creation of
artificial departments destined to bring about the fusion of the ancient
provinces was certainly its most useful work. Were it possible to bring about
the decentralisation which is to-day preoccupying minds lacking in foresight,
the achievement would promptly have for consequence the most sanguinary
disorders. To overlook this fact is to leave out of account the entire history of
France.
11. This phenomenon, moreover, is not peculiar to the Latin peoples. It is
also to be observed in China, which is also a country in the hands of a solid
hierarchy of mandarins or functionaries, and where a function is obtained, as
in France, by competitive examination, in which the only test is the
imperturbable recitation of bulky manuals. The army of educated persons
without employment is considered in China at the present day as a veritable
national calamity. It is the same in India where, since the English have opened
schools, not for educating purposes, as is the case in England itself, but simply
to furnish the indigenous inhabitants with instruction, there has been formed
a special class of educated persons, the Baboos, who, when they do not obtain
employment, become the irreconcilable enemies of the English rule. In the
case of all the Baboos, whether provided with employment or not, the first
effect of their instruction has been to lower their standard of morality. This is
a fact on which I have insisted at length in my book, “The Civilisations of
India” — a fact, too, which has been observed by all authors who have visited
the great peninsula.
12. Taine, “Le Regime moderne,” vol. ii., 1894. These pages are almost the
last that Taine wrote. They resume admirably the results of the great
philosopher’s long experience. Unfortunately they are in my opinion totally
incomprehensible for such of our university professors who have not lived
abroad. Education is the only means at our disposal of influencing to some
extent the mind of a nation, and it is profoundly saddening to have to think that
there is scarcely any one in France who can arrive at understanding that our
present system of teaching is a grave cause of rapid decadence, which instead
of elevating our youth, lowers and perverts it.
A useful comparison may be made between Taine’s pages and the
observations on American education recently made by M. Paul Bourget in his
excellent book, “Outre-Mer.” He, too, after having noted that our education
merely produces narrow-minded bourgeois, lacking in initiative and
will-power, or anarchists — “those two equally harmful types of the civilised
man, who degenerates into impotent platitude or insane destructiveness” — he
too, I say, draws a comparison that cannot be the object of too much reflection
between our French lycées (public schools), those factories of degeneration,
and the American schools, which prepare a man admirably for life. The gulf
existing between truly democratic nations and those who have democracy in
their speeches, but in no wise in their thoughts, is clearly brought out in this
comparison.
13. In my book, “The Psychological Laws of the Evolution of Peoples,” I
have insisted at length on the differences which distinguish the Latin
democratic ideal from the Anglo-Saxon democratic ideal. Independently, and
as the result of his travels, M. Paul Bourget has arrived, in his quite recent
book, “Outre-Mer,” at conclusions almost identical with mine.
14. Daniel Lesueur.
15. The opinion of the crowd was formed in this case by those
rough-and-ready associations of dissimilar things, the mechanism of which I
have previously explained. The French national guard of that period, being
composed of peaceable shopkeepers, utterly lacking in discipline and quite
incapable of being taken seriously, whatever bore a similar name, evoked the
same conception and was considered in consequence as harmless. The error of
the crowd was shared at the time by its leaders, as happens so often in
connection with opinions dealing with generalisations. In a speech made in the
Chamber on the 31st of December, 1867, and quoted in a book by M. E.
Ollivier that has appeared recently, a statesman who often followed the
opinion of the crowd but was never in advance of it — I allude to M. Thiers
— declared that Prussia only possessed a national guard analogous to that of
France, and in consequence without importance, in addition to a regular army
about equal to the French regular army; assertions about as accurate as the
predictions of the same statesman as to the insignificant future reserved for

railways.
16. My first observations with regard to the art of impressing crowds and
touching the slight assistance to be derived in this connection from the rules
of logic date back to the seige of Paris, to the day when I saw conducted to the
Louvre, where the Government was then sitting, Marshal V ——, whom a
furious crowd asserted they had surprised in the act of taking the plans of the
fortifications to sell them to the Prussians. A member of the Government (G.
P ——), a very celebrated orator, came out to harangue the crowd, which was
demanding the immediate execution of the prisoner. I had expected that the
speaker would point out the absurdity of the accusation by remarking that the
accused Marshal was positively one of those who had constructed the
fortifications, the plan of which, moreover, was on sale at every booksellers.
To my immense stupefaction — I was very young then — the speech was on
quite different lines. “Justice shall be done,” exclaimed the orator, advancing
towards the prisoner, “and pitiless justice. Let the Government of the National
Defence conclude your inquiry. In the meantime we will keep the prisoner in
custody.” At once calmed by this apparent concession, the crowd broke up, and
a quarter of an hour later the Marshal was able to return home. He would
infallibly have been torn in pieces had the speaker treated the infuriated crowd
to the logical arguments that my extreme youth induced me to consider as very
convincing.
17. Gustave le Bon, “L’Homme et les Sociétés,” vol. ii. p. 116. 1881.
18. The influence of titles, decorations, and uniforms on crowds is to be
traced in all countries, even in those in which the sentiment of personal
independence is the most strongly developed. I quote in this connection a
curious passage from a recent book of travel, on the prestige enjoyed in
England by great persons.
“I had observed, under various circumstances, the peculiar sort of
intoxication produced in the most reasonable Englishmen by the contact or
sight of an English peer.
“Provided his fortune enables him to keep up his rank, he is sure of their
affection in advance, and brought into contact with him they are so enchanted
as to put up with anything at his hands. They may be seen to redden with
pleasure at his approach, and if he speaks to them their suppressed joy
increases their redness, and causes their eyes to gleam with unusual brilliance.
Respect for nobility is in their blood, so to speak, as with Spaniards the love
of dancing, with Germans that of music, and with Frenchmen the liking for
revolutions. Their passion for horses and Shakespeare is less violent, the
satisfaction and pride they derive from these sources a less integral part of their
being. There is a considerable sale for books dealing with the peerage, and go
where one will they are to be found, like the Bible, in all hands.”
19. Thoroughly conscious of his prestige, Napoleon was aware that he added
to it by treating rather worse than stable lads the great personages around him,
and among whom figured some of those celebrated men of the Convention of
whom Europe had stood in dread. The gossip of the period abounds in
illustrations of this fact. One day, in the midst of a Council of State, Napoleon
grossly insults Beugnot, treating him as one might an unmannerly valet. The
effect produced, he goes up to him and says, “Well, stupid, have you found
your head again?” Whereupon Beugnot, tall as a drum-major, bows very low,
and the little man raising his hand, takes the tall one by the ear, “an
intoxicating sign of favour,” writes Beugnot, “the familiar gesture of the
master who waxes gracious.” Such examples give a clear idea of the degree of
base platitude that prestige can provoke. They enable us to understand the
immense contempt of the great despot for the men surrounding him — men
whom he merely looked upon as “food for powder.”
20. An Austrian paper, the Neue Freie Presse, of Vienna, has indulged on the
subject of the destiny of de Lesseps in reflections marked by a most judicious
psychological insight. I therefore reproduce them here: —
“After the condemnation of Ferdinand de Lesseps one has no longer the right
to be astonished at the sad end of Christopher Columbus. If Ferdinand de
Lesseps were a rogue every noble illusion is a crime. Antiquity would have
crowned the memory of de Lesseps with an aureole of glory, and would have
made him drink from the bowl of nectar in the midst of Olympus, for he has
altered the face of the earth and accomplished works which make the creation
more perfect. The President of the Court of Appeal has immortalised himself
by condemning Ferdinand de Lesseps, for the nations will always demand the
name of the man who was not afraid to debase his century by investing with
the convict’s cap an aged man, whose life redounded to the glory of his
contemporaries.
“Let there be no more talk in the future of inflexible justice, there where
reigns a bureaucratic hatred of audacious feats. The nations have need of
audacious men who believe in themselves and overcome every obstacle

without concern for their personal safety. Genius cannot he prudent; by dint of
prudence it could never enlarge the sphere of human activity
“... Ferdinand de Lesseps has known the intoxication of triumph and the
bitterness of disappointment — Suez and Panama. At this point the heart
revolts at the morality of success. When de Lesseps had succeeded in joining
two seas princes and nations rendered him their homage; to-day, when he
meets with failure among the rocks of the Cordilleras, he is nothing but a
vulgar rogue.... In this result we see a war between the classes of society, the
discontent of bureaucrats and employés, who take their revenge with the aid
of the criminal code on those who would raise themselves above their fellows.
... Modern legislators are filled with embarrassment when confronted by the
lofty ideas due to human genius; the public comprehends such ideas still less,
and it is easy for an advocate-general to prove that Stanley is a murderer and
de Lesseps a deceiver.”
21. Barbarous, philosophically speaking, I mean. In practice they have
created an entirely new civilisation, and for fifteen centuries have given
mankind a glimpse of those enchanted realms of generous dreams and of hope
which he will know no more.
22. These remarks refer to the French newspaper press. — Note of the
Translator.
23. There are pages in the books of the French official professors of history
that are very curious from this point of view. They prove too how little the
critical spirit is developed by the system of university education in vogue in
France. I cite as an example the following extracts from the “French
Revolution” of M. Rambaud, professor of history at the Sorbonne:
“The taking of the Bastille was a culminating event in the history not only of
France, but of all Europe; and inaugurated a new epoch in the history of the
world!”
With respect to Robespierre, we learn with stupefaction that “his dictatorship
was based more especially on opinion, persuasion, and moral authority; it was
a sort of pontificate in the hands of a virtuous man!” (pp. 91 and 220.)
24. It is to be remarked, in passing, that this division of crimes into those
dangerous and those not dangerous for society, which is well and instinctively
made by juries is far from being unjust. The object of criminal laws is
evidently to protect society against dangerous criminals and not to avenge it.
On the other hand, the French code, and above all the minds of the French
magistrates, are still deeply imbued with the spirit of vengeance characteristic
of the old primitive law, and the term “vindicte “ (prosecution, from the Latin
vindicta, vengeance) is still in daily use. A proof of this tendency on the part
of the magistrates is found in the refusal by many of them to apply Bérenger’s
law, which allows of a condemned person not undergoing his sentence unless
he repeats his crime. Yet no magistrate can be ignorant, for the fact is proved
by statistics, that the application of a punishment inflicted for the first time
infallibly leads to further crime on the part of the person punished. When
judges set free a sentenced person it always seems to them that society has not
been avenged. Rather than not avenge it they prefer to create a dangerous,
confirmed criminal.
25. The magistracy is, in point of fact, the only administration whose acts are
under no control. In spite of all its revolutions, democratic France does not
possess that right of habeas corpus of which England is so proud. We have
banished all the tyrants, but have set up a magistrate in each city who disposes
at will of the honour and liberty of the citizens. An insignificant juge
d’instruction (an examining magistrate who has no exact counterpart in
England. — Trans.), fresh from the university, possesses the revolting power
of sending to prison at will persons of the most considerable standing, on a
simple supposition on his part of their guilt, and without being obliged to
justify his act to any one. Under the pretext of pursuing his investigation he
can keep these persons in prison for six months or even a year, and free them
at last without owing them either an indemnity or excuses. The warrant in
France is the exact equivalent of the lettre de cachet, with this difference, that
the latter, with the use of which the monarchy was so justly reproached, could
only be resorted to by persons occupying a very high position, while the
warrant is an instrument in the hands of a whole class of citizens which is far
from passing for being very enlightened or very independent.
26. Committees under whatever name, clubs, syndicates, &c., constitute
perhaps the most redoubtable danger resulting from the power of crowds. They
represent in reality the most impersonal and, in consequence, the most
oppressive form of tyranny. The leaders who direct the committees being
supposed to speak and act in the name of a collectivity, are freed from all
responsibility, and are in a position to do just as they choose. The most savage
tyrant has never ventured even to dream of such proscriptions as those
ordained by the committees of the Revolution. Barras has declared that they
decimated the convention, picking off its members at their pleasure. So long
as he was able to speak in their name, Robespierre wielded absolute power.
The moment this frightful dictator separated himself from them, for reasons of
personal pride, he was lost. The reign of crowds is the reign of committees,
that is, of the leaders of crowds. A severer despotism cannot be imagined.
27. The following reflection of an English parliamentarian of long experience
doubtless applies to these opinions, fixed beforehand, and rendered unalterable
by electioneering necessities: “During the fifty years that I have sat at
Westminster, I have listened to thousands of speeches; but few of them have
changed my opinion, not one of them has changed my vote.”
28. M. Clemenceau. — Note of the Translator.
29. In its issue of April 6, 1895, the Economiste published a curious review
of the figures that may be reached by expenditure caused solely by electoral
considerations, and notably of the outlay on railways. To put Langayes (a town
of 3,000 inhabitants, situated on a mountain) in communication with Puy, a
railway is voted that will cost 15 millions of francs. Seven millions are to be
spent to put Beaumont (3,500 inhabitants) in communication with
Castel-Sarrazin; 7 millions to put Oust (a village of 523 inhabitants) in
communication with Seix (1,200 inhabitants); 6 millions to put Prade in
communication with the hamlet of Olette (747 inhabitants), &c. In 1895 alone
90 millions of francs were voted for railways of only local utility. There is
other no less important expenditure necessitated also by electioneering
considerations. The law instituting workingmen’s pensions will soon involve
a minimum annual outlay of 165 millions, according to the Minister of
Finance, and of 800 millions according to the academician M. Leroy-Beaulieu.
It is evident that the continued growth of expenditure of this kind must end in
bankruptcy. Many European countries — Portugal, Greece, Spain, Turkey —
have reached this stage, and others, such as Italy, will soon be reduced to the
same extremity. Still too much alarm need not be felt at this state of things,
since the public has successively consented to put up with the reduction of
four-fifths in the payment of their coupons by these different countries.
Bankruptcy under these ingenious conditions allows the equilibrium of
Budgets difficult to balance to be instantly restored. Moreover, wars,
socialism, and economic conflicts hold in store for us a profusion of other
catastrophes in the period of universal disintegration we are traversing, and it
is necessary to be resigned to living from hand to mouth without too much
concern for a future we cannot control.

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Book I. The Mind of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Book II. The Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

invariably demonstrated to me that social organisms being every whit as

Introduction. The Era of Crowds.

and wages. They return to assemblies in which the Government is vested,

a proportional tax on wages or income of any other kind, to be paid in a lump

Book I. The Mind of Crowds.

characteristics of a psychological crowd. It will be sufficient in that case that

circumstances, would have been peaceable notaries or virtuous magistrates.

creation of new characteristics, just as in chemistry certain elements, when

which we are unconscious, and possessed by the majority of the normal

Chapter II. The Sentiments and Morality of Crowds.

2. The Suggestibility and Credulity of Crowds.

easily conceive this state by thinking of the fantastic succession of ideas to

has been so often done, by the evidence of a child.

record by books — have in themselves no stability. The imagination of the

3. The Exaggeration and Ingenuousness of the Sentiments of Crowds.

4. The Intolerance, Dictatorialness and Conservatism of Crowds.

Dictatorialness and intolerance are common to all categories of crowds, but

governed by unconscious considerations, and too much subject in consequence

5. The Morality of Crowds.

Chapter III. The Ideas, Reasoning Power, and Imagination of

side or another of their intelligence are akin to primitive beings. I have

2. The Reasoning Power of Crowds.

It would be superfluous to add that the powerlessness of crowds to reason

3. The Imagination of Crowds.

the imagination of crowds of every category than theatrical representations.

Chapter IV. A Religious Shape Assumed by All the Convictions of

Book II. The Opinions and Beliefs of Crowds.

these periods of expectancy were extremely troubled.”

4. Political and Social Institutions.

Anglo-Saxons have adopted, as their great historian, Macaulay, teaches us in

5. Instruction and Education.

gratuitous and obligatory schooling has — in France — replaced apprentice-

germinating to-day in the masses, and will spring up to-morrow, it is necessary

Chapter II. The Immediate Factors of the Opinions of Crowds.

1. Images, Words, and Formulas.

In the preceding examples it is especially time that has been made to

and can only comprehend rough-and-ready associations of ideas. The orators

Chapter III. The Leaders of Crowds and Their Means of Persua-

1. The Leaders of Crowds.

As soon as a certain number of living beings are gathered together, whether

2. The Means of Action of the Leaders: Affirmation, Repetition, Contagion.

When it is wanted to stir up a crowd for a short space of time, to induce it to

tempted at last to try it when suffering from an illness of a similar kind. If we

individual, a work, or an idea. This domination entirely paralyses our critical

with every symptom of fury.

Chapter IV. Limitations of the Variability of the Beliefs and Opinions

2. The Changeable Opinions of Crowds.

France we showed that parties to all appearance utterly distinct — royalists,

guiding principle in politics. It goes so far to-day as to force on alliances, as

discussion would be closed for a long time. Crowds are occasionally

Book III. The Classification and Description of the Different

We will point out briefly the distinguishing characteristics of these different

agricultural class are examples.

Chapter II. Crowds Termed Criminal Crowds.

Chapter III. Criminal Juries.

particular previous to 1848, the French administration instituted a careful