Guide for Teachers




Lincoln reflected on the problem that ambition poses for democratic government and for the rule of law in a speech that he gave to Young Men's Lyceum in Springfield, Illinois, quite early in his political career in 1838. In the quotation from that speech which introduces this unit Lincoln contrasts those of ordinary ambition, who serve their country by aspiring to its political offices such as the Presidency, with those of superior political and/or military talent and of boundless ambition to match. The classic examples are those mentioned by Lincoln: world-conquerors such as Alexander, Caesar, and Napoleon, who changed the course of history. One of the purposes of his speech is to warn about the dangers of such individuals to established governments. This unit discusses what moves ambitious men, in what ways they serve their country and themselves, as well as what forms ambition takes in different political settings. What limits do ambitious individuals encounter, and what limits should they encounter? And in what ways is greatness manifest? The talent for war is never sufficient nor always even necessary for political greatness. Whereas those men of boundless ambition whom Lincoln mentions are famous for establishing anti-democratic regimes, Lincoln's own example proves that this is not always the case. Democratic greatness may be of a different kind altogether. However, it remains to be seen whether democracy's limitation of the claims of the great can be justified, and whether a democratic government that makes honorable use of the great is possible.

Lincoln's speech "On the Perpetuation of our Political Institutions," often referred to as "the Lyceum Speech," is famous for its seemingly self-prophetic line about a great man who will thirst for the distinction of political rule, even at the "expense of emancipating slaves, or enslaving freemen." But since Lincoln presents this great man as one who will seize power and destroy democratic government, it is clear that the emancipator he warns against would have been a man who combined the qualities and aims of a Napoleon and a John Brown. Such a man would have been rather unlike Lincoln, and would have freed slaves for rather different motives.

The speech elucidates the question that would dominate Lincoln's entire career: whether a nation "dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal," could "long endure," and particularly whether it could resist threats to its existence that came, not from foreign nations, but from within. Was government of, by, and for the people simply a noble but overly optimistic experiment that would eventually fail?

While in this speech Lincoln pits the desire of truly great persons for political preeminence against the preservation of liberty, a study of Lincoln's own life shows us a man of abundant talents achieving the heights of greatness precisely because of his unwavering dedication to the preservation of liberty. This speech reveals, however, that Lincoln did not understand democracy as simple rule of the majority. A mob, after all, is often a kind of direct majority rule. Lincoln warns against the danger of mob rule (and disrespect for law, which mob rule presumes) as he does against the dangers of ambition. Lincoln is not dedicated to the proposition that the majority always rules, but to the proposition that all men are created equal, which means all persons should be equally protected by laws, or that they should enjoy certain rights, such as a right to a fair trial.

Lincoln illustrates the dangers posed to "The Perpetuation of our Political Institutions" by the increasing incidents of mob rule in the America of his day. Our task–his own task–he implies is to eliminate the injustices that are protected by the law without undermining law itself. It is this task–not that of world conquerors–that calls for "towering genius."


Thomas Jefferson, corresponding with John Adams in 1813, defended democracy precisely because it allowed the best individuals to rise to positions of preeminence. The "natural aristocracy," far from threatening democratic government, was its greatest blessing as well as its strongest justification. Eliminating the laws and customs that supported permanent social classes, democracy opened offices to the most qualified, giving the best individuals, regardless of class, the opportunity to be elected to the positions of power. Jefferson understood, however, the importance of education to the character of a self-governing people, especially to "rais[ing] the mass of people to the high ground of moral respectability" necessary to orderly government and to election of the "veritable aristoi" in free elections.


Alexis de Tocqueville, a French aristocrat who toured the United States in the 1830s and wrote Democracy in America, was less sanguine about the potential of democracy to give rise to outstanding individuals. In our selection, he points out the leveling effect of the principle of equality both on thought and on action. When all are thought equal, and conventional ranks and classes are given no special authority, each individual is freed to think for himself. But, given the principle of equality, his own thoughts have no more worth that anyone else's. The opinion of the majority, or public opinion, has a moral worth it would not have in more aristocratic societies. In Tocqueville's analysis, the same condition that "lead[s] the mind of every individual to untried thoughts," paradoxically "induc[es] him to freely give up thinking at all." Equality has its effect on human action and ambition as well, opening up all fields of endeavor to everyone, but restraining by the same token what any one individual can achieve. Thus Tocqueville finds in America many ambitious people, but few of lofty ambition. Like Lincoln and Jefferson, although with a different analysis of the dangers, Tocqueville thought that democracy could not be taken for granted, but required efforts to protect it, and even to educate or refine the principles on which it was based.


Concern for the effects of society on the character of human beings is not limited to democratic social conditions. In the 18th century, Jean-Jacques Rousseau objected to the traditional understanding derived from Aristotle that human beings are social or political by nature, realizing their potentials and achieving happiness through associating with others in political communities. Instead, Rousseau argued that society corrupts human beings, by leading them to develop artificial needs and desires. Losing their natural freedom and independence, "social" beings become dependent on others to satisfy their desires. In his major work on education, The Emile, Rousseau contrasts a natural and healthy self-love (amour de soi), by which we are concerned "only with ourselves" and which satisfies our true needs, with the selfishness (amour-propre) that develops as we grow up in society, which arises when we learn to compare ourselves with others. This selfishness is the source of pride and vanity, competition, envy, and all the irascible passions that cause our unhappiness. Rousseau proposes the importance of pity or compassion, which is based on our common weakness and suffering, as a way of countering the selfishness that is unavoidable for social beings. His proposal for an education in compassion suggests a quite different defense of equality than we find in Jefferson, and while Rousseau would agree with Lincoln and Tocqueville concerning the dangers of relying on the opinions of society, his model for resisting those opinions is a "democratic" individual of a different sort.


Perhaps the most notable description of a proper self-regard in Western literature, however, is found in Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, in his description of the virtues, and of magnanimity in particular. For Aristotle, the virtues that good human beings exercise–from the moral virtues of courage, moderation, and justice, to the intellectual virtues of prudence and wisdom–are the major constituents of human happiness. Although the exercise of the virtues generally involve us with other human beings–to whom we are just in our actions or with whom we are courageous in war–their exercise is the fulfillment of our natures as human beings and thus the cause of our happiness. The individual with proper regard for himself will therefore be virtuous in society and in his relations with others. Aristotle's virtuous individual is less dependent than Rousseau's "selfish" one, but more social or political than Rousseau's "self-loving" one. The virtue of magnanimity, literally "greatness of soul," however, poses special problems for the relation between the virtuous individual and society. The magnanimous individual as Aristotle defines him "is worthy of the greatest things and claims that he is so." Out of self-regard, he does not deign to compete with less deserving individuals, and prefers to give than to receive, not out of duty, and surely not of compassion, but because it manifests his independence and greatness. Holding back from action, except when "a great work is at stake," he is "a person of few deeds, but of great and notable ones." It is not clear, however, what he does when there are no great and notable deeds to perform, or whether his sense of his own worth offers him a strong enough link to other human beings and the community they share. In discussing magnanimity, Aristotle shows a possible conflict between human greatness and society, or between virtuous self-regard and the common good of all.

The second part of this unit examines several ambitious individuals: Shakespeare's Coriolanus and Henry V, General Patton, Willie Stark (of All the King's Men), and, finally, the ambitions of Crash Davis and Ebby Calvin LaLoosh in the baseball world of Bull Durham. We will see different kinds of ambition, the paths ambition takes, the selfishness or self-regard that underlies ambition, and the relation between ambitious individuals and other human beings.


Caius Martius, who wins the name Coriolanus through a military victory, is an exemplar of Roman military virtue who unabashedly regards himself as superior to other men. Militarily, he undoubtedly is superior, but he excels in other ways as well. He is frank and honest even when it is costly to be so, and refuses to give or receive any form of flattery. He can deliver rousing speeches, and can convincingly expound the principles of the patrician-led republican government, which he holds to firmly. Overall, he seems naturally fit to lead Rome.

Rome, however, is undergoing a political struggle between its two classes of society, the patricians (nobles) and the plebeians (the common people), which is changing the nature of the regime. At the beginning of Shakespeare's play, the plebeians revolt against the patrician class, who rule Rome. To quell the rebellion, the Senate, the institution through which the patricians rule, establishes the office of the tribunes to represent the interests of the plebeians and to give voice to their concerns. Now any man who desires to attain the leadership positions, which are reserved for the best of the patricians, must court the good will of the plebeians. Coriolanus, who openly regards the plebeians as cowardly in war and fickle in political matters, and who denounces their recently won rights, is incapable of this. He will not hide his opinions nor soften his harsh manners for his own gain, nor for Rome's well-being. He demands to be taken as he is. The plebeians are willing to at first, since after all he is a war hero who has defended their country, and so they ratify the Senate's choice of him for consul, which is the public office of greatest power and honor. But when the tribunes remind them of Coriolanus' manner toward them and generally stir up their anger, they revoke their vote and denounce him as an enemy. As a result, the tensions between the plebeians and patricians threaten to erupt in open civil war. Many of the wiser patricians counsel compromise, but the indignant Coriolanus insists upon unapologetic adherence to what he regards as Rome's highest political principle, rule by the best, even as it threatens to bring about the worst political result.

What, then, can Rome do with Coriolanus? This, and the shocking results that follow, the reader will discover. The play is indeed quite exciting, with many scenes occurring in the midst of battles or angry mobs. Some version of Shakespeare's story actually happened, as it is based upon Plutarch's account in his Lives of Noble Grecians and Romans.

The play simultaneously gives expression to and shows the shortcomings of one of the most potent political ideas humanity has entertained over the ages, that the best ought to rule. If we simply derive a moral of "pride begets a fall," the play will seem to be a rather pointless fuss over a rather colorless snob. If, however, we see that there is a strong case to be made for the patrician side generally, and for Coriolanus specifically, we can begin to grasp the seriousness of the two main conflicts in the play, between democratic and aristocratic values, on one hand, and between political compromise and personal integrity, on the other.

Henry V

The Macedonians had their Alexander, the Romans their Caesar, and in Shakespeare's day, the English had their own conquering warrior to hark back to, Henry V. Prior to his sudden death due to disease, at age 34, he had conquered much of northern France, won incredible concessions from the French in the Treaty of Troye, and due to these successes and his marriage to the French king's daughter arranged in that treaty, looked as if he might go on to establish a dual kingdom of France and England.

As a foil to Coriolanus, Shakespeare's Henry V is particularly interesting, because while he has more power over the common people and less political need to cater to their desires, he exhibits warm affection toward them, and in one speech seems to espouse a belief in a basic human equality. Indeed, prior to his becoming king, he was known to spend much time carousing in the taverns and even thieving with lowly tavern types, as Shakespeare reminds his audience at the beginning of the play. Since he did this in part to win esteem through a most noticeable "reformation" (Henry IV, Part I, Act I, Sc. 2, 165-185), his real attitude toward the common people is better seen in Henry V, where he inspires his soldiers, many of whom are commoners, and meditates on the fact that he may be leading them to their deaths. Although Henry claims that "if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive," his stirring rhetoric promotes unity between the various classes in his army and refers to all of them, himself included, as "a band of brothers."

Kenneth Branagh used this play to create one of the finest and most exciting film adaptations of Shakespeare. Branagh's screenplay (available on-line) judiciously edits the play for the screen. Students can therefore obtain a good sense of the play from the movie and the excerpts of the play provided here. For those following the film, we have bracketed certain sections of the play that Branagh omitted from the film, which give a fuller picture of Shakespeare's purpose.


The blurbs say: "Maverick General! Super Patriot and Super Rebel!" And indeed, for many, Patton will remain an icon, like John Wayne, of rugged American individualism. But there is much more to the movie, and the man, than that. Indeed, to leave it at that would be to miss the point. Unlike Coriolanus, General Patton knew how to put on an act when it was in his interests to do so, and his main act was pushing his own feisty personality over the top, so that his soldiers would be inspired to be brave, aggressive, and confident. Reporters dubbed him "old blood and guts" for the gory details and exhortations to bravery he used in his speeches. Like Coriolanus, Patton's reputation for fighting spirit and bravery was based upon deeds. Moreover, for battlefield strategy he had no peer in the allied armies.

Unlike Henry V, a king striving to obtain another kingdom, or Coriolanus, a patrician expecting to become consul, this warrior was a servant of a democracy. Still, Patton was something of an aristocrat. His wealthy family was known for its forebears' prominence in confederate military service, and he married into an even more upper-crust family from Boston. He maintained horses, competed in polo and steeplechase, and always traveled, dressed, and dined in high style. He loved military pageantry and was an expert in military history, being particularly drawn to the ancient military commanders depicted in the pages of Plutarch's Lives. He relished daring and deplored cowardice. More than anything else, he loved the thrill, the trial, and the glory of war, even as he genuinely deplored the deaths of "so many fine young men" in battle.

Of course, in a modern bureaucratized army serving a democratic nation, such a classic warrior-type is bound to run into trouble. In Patton, the general gets in trouble with his nation for three reasons. 1) He disobeys the intent, if not the letter, of certain orders, in favor of his own strategically superior plans. 2) He makes controversial statements about foreign policy. 3) He angrily slaps a soldier admitted to a field hospital with a case of nerves and calls him a coward. Although Patton gets in a great deal of trouble with American public opinion over the latter incident, it is actually a very minor and quite innocent instance of Patton's deeper problems that threaten to remove him from command at the height of the war. As in the case of Coriolanus, Patton's defects are the flip side of his virtues. But unlike Coriolanus, Patton does not want to rule. He wants only to serve his country as a general. He wants desperately to do what he seems made for and can do better than anyone else. Thus, the political issue surrounding Patton involves whether democracy can make a suitable place for those like him. That is, does democracy have a place of honor for the warrior, and more generally, for the man who excels others?

Patton addresses those with vaguely pacifist inclinations who may be appalled, and in some ways rightly so, by Patton's zest for warfare, and by the slapping incident particularly. The film also addresses those inclined to warmly embrace Patton as a Dirty Harry macho-man. To steer away from both these mistakes, we should focus upon Patton the thinker, who seeks, not always successfully, to rationally employ his passion for greatness toward worthy military ends.

All the King's Men

If Patton allows us to see that in a modern democratic society, military excellence is rather limited in its ability to obtain glory, let alone power, All the King's Men displays just how much glory and power can be obtained by political smarts in such a society. It follows the career of Willie Stark, a character closely based on Huey P. Long, governor and senator of Louisiana, and, as Harold Evans puts it in The American Century, "the first genuine homespun American dictator." Long was immensely popular with the poor of both races, thoroughly corrupt, and absolutely ruthless toward his political opponents. Chillingly, he obtained a great deal of personal control over both the press and the police of Louisiana, and had he become president, he might have tried similar tactics on the national stage. America was in the throes of the Great Depression, and Long began to campaign for president with an audacious and simple plan of redistributing wealth. Had he not been assassinated, he may have given FDR a real run for the presidency in 1936.

Many have seen in Long's rise an instance of American susceptibility to dictatorship. As Evans puts it:

Long was more of banana republic bully than a Hitler or a Mussolini, an opportunist rather than an ideologue. But his lightning rise showed that the institutions of American democracy were vulnerable to a totalitarian who could identify with the yearnings of the common people.

Willie Stark is more than simply a fictional substitute for Huey P. Long, however. All The King's Men was a novel by Robert Penn Warren before it was a movie, and it has often been hailed as one of the great American novels, and perhaps the American political novel. Using Stark and the other main characters of All the King's Men, we should reflect about the motivations to obtain and the temptations brought about by political power, especially the temptation to do political good by using immoral means. We should also reflect on the egalitarian program of Willie Stark, and the extent to which it is justified. The film shows the extent to which the state really had been gripped by a corrupt clique of political operatives who have neglected the needs of the poor. And when the disgusted father of the girl killed in the accident objects to Stark's deeds, he says about Stark's speeches, "The words were good, still are."

On the other hand, the "yearnings" to which Stark appeals amount to what Aristotle speaks of in his Politics: the desire of the poor, because they are more numerous, to divide the property of the rich among themselves. The man who can exploit this desire, who can turn the hurt of powerlessness and poverty into a demand for redistribution, to be accomplished by his own power in the name of the people, is the classical model of the demagogue, the inevitable result of the democratic impulse when unrestrained. In All the King's Men, we see not only the man of boundless ambition against which Lincoln warned, but the lawlessness of the mob who comes to stand behind him. The film questions not only Stark's shady means but the democratic appeal of his rhetoric and political program, when it shows the envy and ressentiment on which it relies.

While Coriolanus would have had contempt for everything Stark stood for, he and Stark exhibit a similar desire for preeminence in the state based upon their own political virtue. For Coriolanus, the political virtue is courage, for Stark, it is the righteousness to demand justice for the people, and most importantly, the ability to obtain it by any means. Thus, All The King's Men allows us to compare the man of intense ambition in modern democracy to such a man of earlier times, and also to compare the nature of these ambitions. One ambition has contempt for the will of the people, the other ambition seeks to embody it. A key question raised by All The King's Men is whether a man who seeks to embody the will of the people mustn't ultimately wind up devouring them into his own body politic. Many scenes reveal Stark's increasing control over the citizens of Louisiana, and the main plot shows how every major character is sucked into Stark's orbit. We see that not all Stark's utterances are "good," when the film ends with his dying words, "Could have been--whole world, Willie Stark."

Bull Durham

The final film selection of our unit looks away from the world of kings and statesmen, generals and demagogues, to the world of baseball, which also gives birth to ambition and honors achievement. This is true even on a minor league team like the Durham Bulls, most of whose members are well aware that they will never make it to "the show" (as they refer to the major league), as they play as much for the love of the game and its challenges as the paycheck. A new rookie, however, Ebby Calvin LaLoosh, has a pitching arm that might take him to the majors, but only if the manager can find a way "to mature the kid." This will not be an easy job, for although he has "a million dollar arm," he seems to have only "a five cents head," and little control, either over his pitching or his life. For this purpose the team hires long-time minor league catcher Crash Davis. Contrasting the two characters, the film shows the growth in both, as they vie for the attentions of baseball fan and savant Annie Savoy. Annie, although a community college teacher of literature and composition, understands her task in life as conveying "life wisdom" to young ball players, but by the end of the film seems to have acquired new "life wisdom" herself.

The film raises the question whether baseball is just a pastime, or even a sport where the ambitious compete and talent can excel, or whether it is an institution that to at least some who respect the game can impart the life wisdom that Annie seeks to convey. At the end of the film, Annie quotes Walt Whitman's prediction that baseball "will repair our losses and be a blessing to us." The story of these characters allows us to revisit the issues of honor and ambitious, self-regard, and even human greatness. The latter appears in the film in unexpected forms, even in "minor" leagues. Democratic social conditions are not always and perhaps even characteristically at odds with human excellence, but make possible its recognition and even its flourishing.

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