In their search for nationhood since World War II, many peoples of Asia and Africa have discovered that independence from western rule is only the first and perhaps the easiest step. Once the foreigner has gone, the larger problem looms of creating a viable political society. Divisions and competitive strivings held in check when outsiders controlled affairs are suddenly released. Ethnic, religious and regional differences, that seemed less important so long as colonial administrators ruled, boil up after independence and more often than not come to dominate the loyalties and inspire the ambitions that move men in politics. To their dismay, responsible leaders find themselves heading not the homogeneous, modern nation state they dreamed of before independence, but a congeries of separate groups. The simple, unifying purpose of the independence struggle fades away, leaving a host of contradictions and cleavages.

Indonesia is wracked by repeated resistance to Jakarta. Burma has been beset by periodic insurrection, supported in part by regional and ethnic hostility to Rangoon. The nightmare of India's Nehru is the growth of regional and linguistic differences. Imminent disintegration of the ex-Belgan Congo dramatizes the extreme case.

American students of society and politics for the most part view “historicism”—the ascription to history of an overall direction and goal—with attitudes ranging from skepticism to overt hostility. In the general view, no valid propositions can be framed concerning matters so shrouded in darkness as the course and the end of history. Indeed it may well be asked, when we use such terms, whether we are referring to realities or merely to inventions of the imagination. Historicist theories are also said to tend to undermine concern for the individual; the needs of the present, living person are likely to shrink into apparent insignificance before the imagined events of a future age. On the part of those who in recent years have seen the bloody trails left by pretended ministers of historical missions, such misgivings are understandable.

Are social scientists and political thinkers at liberty, however, dogmatically to reject historicism? It is the purpose of this article to argue that they are not. For if history is without meaning, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that social and political affairs, which make up a large part of what we treat as history, are also without meaning. Why then should one study, or take part in, these affairs? What is at stake, in the last analysis, is our right—or duty—to regard the world we inhabit, not merely as alien material to be used or ignored as we please, but as a realm of being with which we are fundamentally united and in which, consequently, we are properly participants.

In an exchange of perennial delight to the Holmesian, the pauky Sherlock, pitting wits against a government detective, condescends to remark on the unusualness of the usual:

“Is there any point to which you would draw my attention?”

“To the curious incident of the dog in the night time.”

“The dog did nothing in the night time.”

“That was the curious incident.”

And in asymptotic fashion, the student of politics, intrigued by the burgeoning literature of community power now emerging from the hands of sociologists, searches for the contributions that these writings can make to the study of local government. The political scientist readily discovers that this literature is approaching metaphorical indeterminacy: like an expanding universe, it threatens to outrun his gaze. It contains the substance of competing conceptual schemes, the power elite vs. the pluralism of power. It offers comparative studies, both domestic and cross-cultural, and studies built upon historical dimensions. It even possesses studies designed to torture original hypotheses by invoking the test of predictability. And yet, in reviewing this freshet of publication, the political scientist finds himself asking whether there is, for his discipline, anything unusual in this outpouring.

As he reads, he finds underscored and “discovered” many of the propositions that are stock to his own lumber room: he learns that there is often discontinuity between the real and the nominal holders of political power; and that social values can affect the utilization of that power.

The recruitment of political candidates is a basic function of political parties: a party that cannot attract and then nominate candidates surrenders its elemental opportunity for power. Two stages may conveniently be distinguished in the process of recruitment. Certification includes the social screening and political channeling that results in eligibility for candidacy, while selection includes the actual choice of candidates to represent parties in the general election. Selection is at the focus of the contest for power within parties, and is my focus here.

Considering its importance we know too little about the dynamics of the nominating process. Most of what we do know derives from the analysis of two modal institutional types of political selection: the convention system and the primary system. Experience indicates that despite their manifest purposes, these contrasting institutional types have not necessarily resulted in widely different internal party structures. A variety of party patterns in one-party states—from the tightly controlled machines in Virginia to the transient and multiple factionalism of Florida—flourish in the framework of the direct primary system. Patterns of diffusing factionalism on the one hand, and of disciplined party organizations on the other are also found in states without primaries. Perhaps a closer look at the active participants in the processes of selection, and their interrelationships, may shed some further light on significant factorsin party structure. By interviewing candidates in party primaries we hoped to disclose the steps in nomination and the precise political relationships involved.

Although universal male suffrage as the basis for a representative assembly existed in Germany half a century earlier than in Great Britain, the Reichstag never occupied as important a position in the German constitutional order as the House of Commons did in the British. Neither in its representative function of integrating the community (in Friedrich's terms), nor in its deliberative function as a lawmaking and supervisory body, did the Reichstag ever achieve the significance that would warrant describing the German system of government, either under the Second Empire or the first Republic, as a parliamentary system. The popularly elected Reichstag under Bismarck, in form so advanced for its time, existed under a constitutional system whose “artfully manufactured chaos” permitted, in reality, the exercise of authoritarian government with little parliamentary interference. When, during the latter years of the first World War, the Reichstag demonstrated an increasing ability to call governments to account, this apparent development of a parliamentary system gained a fleeting constitutional recognition during the last days of the Empire and paved the way for the provisions of the Weimar Constitution under which the Government was to be responsible to the Reichstag. Nevertheless, the republican Reichstag never actually fulfilled its constitutional functions, and in difficult times fell victim to the habits of the authoritarian past, manifesting themselves in the autonomy of the army and the bureaucracy, and the irresponsible behavior of the political parties and the President. “Surely the new constitution granted the Reichstag unquestioned leadership in the formation of policy,” a political analyst of the Weimar epoch has written.

Allusions to the “problem of metropolitan government” are often made in characterizing the difficulties supposed to arise because a metropolitan region is a legal non-entity. From this point of view, the people of a metropolitan region have no general instrumentality of government available to deal directly with the range of problems which they share in common. Rather there is a multiplicity of federal and state governmental agencies, counties, cities, and special districts that govern within a metropolitan region.

This view assumes that the multiplicity of political units in a metropolitan area is essentially a pathological phenomenon. The diagnosis asserts that there are too many governments and not enough government. The symptoms are described as “duplication of functions” and “overlapping jurisdictions.” Autonomous units of government, acting in their own behalf, are considered incapable of resolving the diverse problems of the wider metropolitan community. The political topography of the metropolis is called a “crazy-quilt pattern” and its organization is said to be an “organized chaos.” The prescription is reorganization into larger units—to provide “a general metropolitan framework” for gathering up the various functions of government. A political system with a single dominant center for making decisions is viewed as the ideal model for the organization of metropolitan government. “Gargantua” is one name for it.

The growing concern of students of politics with the social structure of official bodies and the behavior expected of their members promises to make the Senate of the United States a prime target of research. Two recent books make notable contributions and suggest the trend. One is William S. White's Citadel: The Story of the U.S. Senate, an “insider's” impressions based on years of close observation; and the other is Donald R. Mathews' U.S. Senators and Their World, the work of a political scientist. One (though not the only) concern of both books is the system of norms for behavior of members of the Senate. Although reached through different routes (White's largely inferred from observed behavior, Matthews' principally from interviews) their statements of Senate norms and the way they work have much in common. The norms (or “folkways,” as Matthews calls them) are viewed as cultural “oughts” upon which there is a high degree of consensus. The members who conform most closely to the norms are, generally speaking, the most influential and effective members. This general view is almost certainly correct, as it would be for any stable human group; in this the Senate is not unique (as White sometimes seems to suggest it is) but typical.

But what about the senator who does not conform? What is his place in the Senate and what happens to him there? This study will explore these questions through a case study of such a senator. But first it may be useful to try to restate the relevant parts of the analysis of White and Matthews (without holding them in any way responsible for the restatement) in terms of role theory, which will provide the conceptual framework for the analysis of the senator's experience.

The study of political groups has been characterized by large areas of general agreement and a relatively small output of precise application. Political scientists seem convinced that groups larger than the family and smaller than a nation are necessary in the analysis of more advanced political systems. But what variables of group behavior in this intermediate range may be most useful in studying development in new nations is a question little explored. Systematically assembled data have only recently been brought to bear on the study of political groups in the United States; and still more recently a survey of pressure groups outside the United States has appeared. The purpose of this article is to examine the importance of several widely accepted and frequently used variables of group behavior in the light of survey data collected in a new nation, Morocco. Pursuing the suggestion of Professor Blanksten, data collected in Morocco in late 1958 will be used to see how a particular way of analyzing group data may contribute to the study of less developed countries.

One important distinction employed here needs to be noted at the outset. Political scientists have generally used groups to study administrative decision-making or more formal, institutional aspects of government. This essay will argue that a group focus is of more value in the study of new nations where group activity can be correlated with levels of social development.

Several scholars within the public law field of political science have compiled data on differences in the backgrounds of American judges, but without attempting to correlate these characteristics with differences in the decisions of the judges. Other scholars have compiled data on the different decisional tendencies of American judges, but again without correlating these tendencies with differences in the backgrounds of the judiciary.

The first purpose of this paper is to explore the empirical relationships between one background characteristic and fifteen areas of judicial decision-making. Political party affiliation was chosen as the one background characteristic because it is of particular interest to political scientists, and is an especially useful indicator for predicting how judges on bipartisan appellate courts will divide when they do not agree. The second purpose is to explore empirically the effectiveness of three judicial reforms (judicial appointment, non-partisan ballot, and long term of office) which are frequently advocated as means of decreasing partisan influences in judicial decisions.

The use of traditional symbols by leaders of newly independent states to achieve consensus in their respective political communities is not unusual these days. The professed aspiration of these leaders to modernize their societies does not keep them from manipulating traditional symbols for the maintenance of order in a period of troubled transition. Often the student of politics in these states finds that formal changes in the institutions and functions of the state and government do not necessarily reflect or imply serious structural and conceptual changes. Nor do they necessarily affect appreciably the concept, use, or allocation of power.

When members of the military establishment acceded to political power in some Middle Eastern states in the past decade, they announced their intention to “modernize” their societies. This aspiration raises a variety of questions for the student of Middle Eastern politics. What political ideology, order, and system was the new leadership proposing? The desire to “modernize” implied that their societies were still bound in a complex of traditional relationships and structures. The attitudes of the new military leaders, who claim to desire a departure from the past in national development, toward the Islamic religious-traditional background of society should be a primary factor in any analysis of the orientation of this new leadership.

The passage of the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) Revenue Bond Act in 1959 ended a quarter of a century during which the Authority was dependent upon Congressional appropriations to supply the capital investment for its growing electric power facilities. This development marked the first appearance of consensus in the long conflict over the role of TVA in the national economy. The consensus emerged from an impasse between TVA's lack of support in Congress—the result of its narrow geographical limits, its identification with a single political party, and the growing industrialization of states on its borders—and the inability or unwillingness of its opponents to have TVA sold to private investors—the result of intensive support for the Authority among an active few in Congress, the unified nature of the TVA power system, and the huge amounts of power which TVA supplied to defense installations. The resolution of this impasse by authorizing TVA to sell revenue bonds on the public market suggests that in an open political arena like the Congress a stable consensus on policy may arise despite the most ardent efforts of the main contenders to achieve other solutions. Indeed, conflict among independent political forces may well achieve solutions meeting a far wider range of preferences than would be the case if the decision were made by any single official. Since maintenance of adequate Congressional support is a perennial problem for federal agencies, it will be instructive to review the shifting basis of support for TVA in Congress and draw from this experience the appropriate lessons.

Party leadership in Congress has been one focal point for the sustained attack on the structure and performance of the American party system that has gone on for a decade and a half. Academic critics and members of Congress, individually and in committees, supplemented by a wide array of interested citizens and groups, have laid out blueprints for institutional reorganization. While there is some variety in their prescriptions, it is not hard to construct a composite model of party leadership in legislation on which there has been a fairly wide consensus among the reformers.

The fount of party policy would be a reformed national convention, meeting biennially at the least. The obligation of the majority party in Congress, spurred by the president if he were of the same party, would be to carry out the platform put together by the convention. For this purpose frequent party conferences would be held in each house to consider specific measures. Some would be for the purpose of discussion and education, but on important party measures the members could be bound by a conference vote and penalized in committee assignments and other party perquisites for disregarding the will of the conference. Party strategy, legislative scheduling, and continuous leadership would be entrusted to a policy committee made up, in most schemes, of the elective officers of the house and the chairmen of the standing committees. Some have suggested a joint policy committee, made up of the policy committees of the respective houses, which might then meet with the president as a kind of legislative cabinet. The committee chairmen would not be exclusively, and perhaps not at all, the products of seniority.

The personnel of the Supreme Court remained unchanged during the 1959 Term. From the point of view of the decisions rendered in the public law field, this was an undistinguished Term. Few of the constitutional cases are likely to hold an important place among the precedents, and a considerable number of well-argued decisions turned entirely upon private law questions. But there was no dearth of writing, during the period under review, about the Court as an institution and about the Justices who sit there.

Note may be made at this point of the latest chapter in the long dispute over the so-called tidelands. In 1947 the Supreme Court had ruled that, as against the claims of California, the United States possessed paramount rights in lands underlying the Pacific Ocean seaward from the low-water mark. Similar rulings were made in 1950 as regards the claims of Louisiana and Texas in the Gulf of Mexico. But with the enactment in 1953 of the Submerged Lands Act, the United States relinquished to the coastal states all of its rights in all lands beneath navigable waters within the three-mile limit, and in excess of that limit within state boundaries as they existed at the time a state became a member of the Union, or as theretofore approved by Congress. The limit of the grant was three leagues (about ten and one-half miles) in the Gulf of Mexico and three geographical miles in the Atlantic and Pacific. The actual extent of the claims of the coastal states involved in the question was therefore left to be settled by litigation.

It is a commonplace observation of French politics of the past century that men who started out as radicals turned conservative as they grew older, and that party groups launched with radical names and programs, though they kept the names, swung to the Right with the passage of time. In both cases we explain the transformation, in part at least, as evidence of an increasing satisfaction with the status quo, as the political system made room for the newcomer. In Joseph de Maistre we have an example from a somewhat earlier age of a less common phenomenon, the conservative turned reactionary, and impelled, moreover, to develop a systematic justification of his new position. Evidently, no parallel explanation will serve to account for this change, for Maistre, though he found a place for himself in the public life of his time, grew increasingly dissatisfied with the trend of events around him. It will not do, either, to dismiss him—in the manner of the orthodox tradition in the history of political thought—as an authoritarian ogre, or an irrationalist, or simply as a confused man, a split personality with humanitarian impulses and reactionary ideas. There was no inconsistency in this combination. Rather the explanation must be sought in the political situation of his day as he saw it, and in his concern for the perennial problem of political obligation. The positions that concern led him to take, his rationalizations of them, and the difficulties they landed him in, are the subject of this article.

Any attempt to understand the legislative process, or to reckon how well it fulfills its purported functions, calls for a careful consideration of the relationships among congressmen. The beginning weeks of the first session of every congress are dominated by the internal politics of one phase of those relationships, the assignment of members to committees. Since congressmen devote most of their energies—constituents' errands apart—to the committees on which they serve, the political stakes in securing a suitable assignment are high. Competition for the more coveted posts is intense in both houses; compromises and adjustments are necessary. Members contest with each other over particularly desirable assignments; less frequently, one member challenges the entire body, as when Senator Wayne Morse fought for his committee assignments in 1953.

The processes and patterns of committee assignments have been only generally discussed by political scientists and journalists. Perhaps the reason for this is too ready an acceptance of the supposition that these assignments are made primarily on the basis of seniority. Continuous service, it is true, insures a member of his place on a committee once he is assigned, but seniority may have very little to do with transfers to other committees, and it has virtually nothing to do with the assignment of freshman members. On what basis, then, are assignments made? Surely, not on the basis of simple random selection.

A recent student sees the committee assignment process as analogous to working out a “giant jig saw puzzle” in which the committees-on-committees observe certain limitations.

C. P. Snow, in his Rede Lecture on the scientific and literary worlds as separate cultures, lists four groups needed by a country if it is to “come out top” in the scientific revolution. First, as many top scientists as it can produce; second, a larger group trained for supporting research and high class design; third, educated supporting technicians; and “fourthly and last, politicians, administrators, an entire community, who know enough science to have a sense of what the scientists are talking about.”

It seems increasingly clear that the growing army of “political” scientists—meaning natural scientists in politics—is more likely to be aided by students of politics prepared to understand the effects of science in political terms than by most of the recent efforts to understand politics in scientific terms. When one looks over the journals in political science, and in related areas of public opinion and social psychology, searching for significant conclusions in articles where much time has been spent on the elaboration of method, it is difficult to avoid V. O. Key's conclusion “that a considerable proportion of the literature commonly classified under the heading of ‘political behavior’ has no real bearing on politics, or at least that its relevance has not been made clear.”

Students of American politics are told that our political system is fundamentally a representative democracy. Concepts of representaion, since Burke, have commonly employed his distinction between action taken in response to instructions from constituents and action based on an independent appraisal of the national interest. A very recent analysis has offered a refinement of this, by distinguishing three types: “delegate,” “trustee” and “politico.” Theory and history alike tell us, however, that a representative does not invariably act in only one of these roles. There have been a number of empirical studies of representatives, few of which concentrate on specific policy fields; and studies also of the play of interests in the enactment of specific legislation, but without a systematic account of the legislative committee members involved, acting in their representative capacities as they saw them. How then can we tell when to expect a representative to view his role in one way rather than another? The aim of this article is to shed a little light on some aspects of this broad question by means of a case study.

The subjects of the study were the members of the House Agriculture Committee and their action on the omnibus farm legislation (H. R. 12954 and S. 4071) in 1958 (85th Congress, second session). Most of the data were obtained from interviews with thirty of the thirty-four Committee members but, in addition, the specific stands of members in subcommittees, the full committee, and on the House floor were traced, through the printed hearings and the Congressional Record of floor debates. Finally, other interested and knowledgeable people were interviewed, newspaper accounts were studied, and the characteristics of constituencies were examined.

When the political scientist attempts to assess the state of civil liberties in America following World War II, he confronts a voluminous record of episodes and events. Most of the books, articles, and other documents so far available suggest that the fear of communist subversion carried Americans very far from the spirit, if not the letter, of the Bill of Rights. Indeed, it is possible to conclude that the hysteria associated with the name of Joseph R. McCarthy permeated almost every state, city and hamlet in America, and that McCarthy himself, in the words of Richard H. Rovere, “held two Presidents captive, or as nearly captive as any Presidents of the United States have ever been held …” The political scientist may therefore be persuaded that the label McCarthy Era better fits the Nineteen Fifties than the alternative designation, Eisenhower Era.

It may be hoped, however, that his research will not overlook those incidents, however rare, which suggest that fear and suspicion did not entirely dominate the national scene. One such incident, of more than ordinary interest, occurred in Iowa during the early months of 1951. By April, 1951, more than one year had elapsed since the late junior Senator from Wisconsin had produced his famous if elusive “list” of card-carrying communists in the State Department. The Korean War, moving toward the end of its first winter, promoted a mood which was, on the whole, favorable to the Senator's activities. Nevertheless, in April, 1951, the Iowa Senate overwhelmingly rejected a loyalty oath measure which was much less stringent than those that had previously been approved in almost half the states. The action of the Iowa Senate, moreover, was not merely unusual or exceptional in 1951; it appears to be without precedent in recent history. So far as is known, Iowa was the only state in which a loyalty oath measure was defeated by vote in the legislature.