When an American looks at British politics, one of his first questions is likely to be, “Where are your pressure groups?” Since the subject has hardly been studied and most works on British government largely ignore it, he may feel some surprise when he finds that, even if compared with American examples, pressure groups in Britain are numerous, massive, well-organized, and highly effective. In this article I wish in the first place simply to sketch the pattern of pressure group activity in Britain and to illustrate the influence of pressure politics on the policy of British governments in recent years. This cannot be done, however, if the analysis is confined to pressure groups alone. For their aims, methods, and effectiveness are profoundly affected by the context within which they act. We all recognize, for instance, the differences from the American pattern of pressure politics which result from the discipline of British parties and the centralized power of cabinet government.

A portrayal of Woodrow Wilson's legislative leadership and administive methods has more uses than as a reminder of achievements durably impressive in themselves. His practice partly answered his own unresolved thinking about the presidency; in turn it implied theories that serve as foils in looking at later developments. The centennial of Wilson's birth is a fitting time to recount the story drawing on memoirs that accumulated after his death. The emphasis may well be on domestic policy in view of the greater attention that has been given to Wilson's role in war and peace.

First we must examine the prior development of Wilson's thinking about the presidency. Our concern is the working conception of the office of American elected chief executives that he had come to hold by the time of his full entrance into public life.

As a college senior Wilson wrote on “Cabinet Government in the United States.” He deplored, as real cause of solicitude and doubt, “the absorption of all power by a legislature which is practically irresponsible for its acts.”

My intention is to consider political science as a discipline and as a profession in relation to the impact of the physical and biological sciences and of engineering upon the life of man. I propose to inquire into the possible reconciliation of man's mastery over Nature with freedom, the overriding goal of policy in our body politic.

In the interest of concreteness I shall have something to say about past and potential applications of science in three areas: armament, production, and evolution.

It is trite to acknowledge that for years we have lived in the afterglow of a mushroom cloud and in the midst of an arms race of unprecedented gravity. Here I shall support a proposition that may at first evoke some incredulous exclamations. The proposition is that our intellectual tools have been sufficiently sharp to enable political scientists to make a largely correct appraisal of the consequences of unconventional weapons for world politics.

Apparent revival of Communist power in the recent French elections raises once again the thorny problem of appraising the strength of this huge and partially submerged political force. Some Western observers, forgetting that the drop in popular support for the party in 1951 was largely a consequence of the bizarre workings of the election law, were distressed by the gains scored in January of this year. In fact, the Communists were competing on an equal footing with the other parties (in contrast with 1951) and could rely on supporters who, in that year, had deserted on election day. Divisions among French center parties in 1956 meant that a vote for the PCF was no longer regarded as just a “throw-away protest.” From the standpoint of political statistics, it is important to recognize that under optimum conditions the party was able to do no more than make up for the setback suffered in 1951. Indeed the Communist vote declined slightly as a percentage of total popular vote, stabilizing at about 4,500,000 in a year when some 2,250,000 more voters went to the polls. The true picture, then, is one of impressive, but not steadily advancing, strength.

The subject of party responsibility for public policy in Congress has commanded much attention among political scientists. Creation of the Senate party policy committees in 1947 with legal sanction and public appropriations was heralded by some political scientists as a major step in the direction of centralizing and evolving a so-called party program. These committees have now been in operation for nine years, during which the Republican and Democratic bodies have each served about the same amount of time in the majority and minority. The committees may be said to have passed the experimental stage. Notwithstanding this, there is a paucity of material, both descriptive and analytical, concerning their operations.

In 1951 extensive hearings were held to evaluate the operation of the Legislative Reorganization Act. Yet none of the three Democratic Policy Committee chairmen—Senators Barkley, Lucas, and McFarland, nor any member of their staffs appeared to testify. Senator Robert A. Taft, Republican Policy Committee Chairman, made no reference to his committee when discussing the Act.

The encounter between the human mind and the outside world is the essence of speculation. The dramatic element in the encounter has been provided by man's assertion that mind is capable of comprehending and ordering the world about him. This same “epistemological presumptuousness,” which we associate instinctively with the spectacular successes of the natural sciences, has also been implicit in the enterprise of political theory. Here, too, the claim is that the human intellect can understand all of the complex interrelationships of a political order. In some ways this claim is even more assertive than that of the natural scientist. The theorist seeks not only to analyze and explain certain phenomena, but to prescribe more satisfactory patterns.

Given the complexity of the subject matter of politics and the finite character of the human mind, it is not surprising that the ideas of political theorists lend themselves to diverse interpretations at the hands of later commentators. Disagreement in interpretation, however, can take one of two forms: it may turn on a question concerning a particular idea, meaning, or emphasis; or it may find the interpreters taking diametrically opposed positions concerning the basic tendency of a given set of political ideas.

Throughout the years when the Meiji Constitution served for most purposes as Japan's basic law (1890–1947), it was always a matter of considerable value to the nation's constitutional scholars to have readily available an authoritative statement of the intent of the framers of that document. This was Itō Hirobumi's Kempō Gige (Commentaries on the Constitution). It played a role somewhat analogous to that of Madison's journals in our own annals of constitutional, legal and historical scholarship, but was even more definitive. It is interesting therefore to speculate just where present or future Japanese scholars might find a similar source for their present constitution. The facts presently available would indicate the necessity of a pilgrimage to New York's Waldorf Tower. There or in its immediate environs are to be found the most notable of the “founding fathers” of the present Japanese Constitution.

That one should have to seek on foreign shores for the author of the fundamental law of a great modern state is in itself a phenomenon unique in recent history. Even stranger perhaps is the fact that some nine years after its promulgation and four years after the end of the military occupation which made it possible in the first place, this constitution remains formally intact and unamended.

“Civilian control of the military is a basic principle of the American Constitution”; so runs the commonplace. It is the thesis of this article that the cliché could hardly be more inaccurate, for actually the American Constitution in the twentieth century obstructs the achievement of civilian control. It is well known that civil supremacy was a major concern of the Framers. They provided for it in the only form in which they knew it. But civilian control in the eighteenth century is very different from civilian control in the twentieth century: the Constitution which was expertly designed to provide for it then, for this very reason, frustrates it now. In presenting this thesis, it is necessary: (1) to show how the meaning of civilian control has changed over the intervening years; (2) to describe the Framers' concept and show how it was embodied in the Constitution; and (3) to demonstrate how the provisions which they thought would guarantee it impair its effectiveness today.

In the perspective of those political scientists who would reform American parties so as to make them more “responsible,” British parties are familiar prototypes. Prominent among the admired qualities is the cohesion displayed in parliamentary voting by the members of each major British party. That this cohesion is greater than that of American legislative parties has been generally observed at least since the work of A. Lawrence Lowell. And it is common enough, though not universal, to regard British parliamentary solidarity as a virtue particularly because it permits a victorious party, after an election, to enact the program behind which a majority of voters have presumably been rallied. Correspondingly, the relatively low cohesion among Republican and among Democratic congressmen is taken as a defect of American politics.

The purpose of this article, however, is not primarily to discuss value judgments concerning parliamentary cohesion. Rather it is to examine the nature of that cohesion and the ways in which it is maintained. But regardless of the disputed merits of British practice, it is still reasonable to ask after such an examination whether the cohesion of party members in the House of Commons is the product of devices which the United States could adopt, or whether it is the result of underlying factors alien to the American environment.

Recent political developments in France, particularly the dissolution of the National Assembly and the subsequent elections of January 2, 1956, overshadowed one of the most interesting and long-awaited enactments of the second legislature of the Fourth Republic. A law of November 30, 1954, passed by the National Assembly by the required two-thirds majority, realized the revision of the constitution of the Fourth Republic. The law was the culmination of debates that had begun when the new constitution was framed. One might indeed say that constitutional reform was advocated throughout the whole period of the Third Republic, and in 1945 the French people overwhelmingly expressed themselves in favor of a constituent assembly to frame a new republican constitution. Yet when the document was drafted and submitted to the people it was received with great apathy and endorsed on October 13, 1946, by a minority of the registered voters. No sooner had it been put into force than the movement for reform recommenced, and various leaders like DeGaulle, Reynaud, Mendès-France, Laniel and Bidault joined the eminent statesmen of the Third Republic in proclaiming the need for further revision. Perhaps no better evidence testifies to the inherent instability of the French body politic than this perennial dissatisfaction with the basic instrument of government.

On October 9, a week after the 1954 Term began, Justice Robert H. Jackson died, and for his place the President nominated Judge John Marshall Harlan, on November 8, 1954. Judge Harlan had been appointed in March, 1953, to the Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. The Senate did not act on the Harlan nomination until March 16, 1955, when it was confirmed by a vote of 71–11, and the new Justice took the oath of office on March 28. Accordingly, the Court was handicapped during much of the Term by not having a full bench, and apparently the argument of important cases was delayed until the vacancy was filled. Former Justice Owen J. Roberts, who had taken his seat on appointment by President Hoover on June 2, 1930, and resigned July 31, 1945, died on May 17, 1955.

At the end of the Term, Chief Justice Warren announced that henceforth the Court will not hear oral arguments or hold open sessions on Friday, which will be reserved for the conferences of the Justices. Thus the ancient practice of holding the “recitation periods” on Saturday has, at least for the present, come to an end.

The dual status of the National Guard as a component of the national defense establishment and as a military force under state control has long been an object of Congressional and military concern, and lately has drawn some scholarly attention. It has not been generally appreciated, however, that without benefit of legislation or much public notice the domestic function of the Guard has been subtly and radically transformed during the past decade. From an embodiment of force it has become largely an instrument of rescue and relief. The change appears to be bringing a welcome increase in local prestige to this sometimes neglected and often controversial organization. But it suggests a serious problem in case an atomic attack should result in the mobilization of the Guard into national military service just at a time when its new domestic services are most urgently needed at home.

Recent controversies over the degree of responsibility displayed by American parties have underscored at least one feature of voting in the Congress. Whatever the merits of the contending interpretations and demands, the facts adduced on both sides suggest relatively fluid, unstructured voting patterns, especially in the House of Representatives. Although the party label is clearly the single most reliable indicator of congressional voting behavior, it is admittedly somewhat less than perfect. The individual Representative may fairly often dissent from the views of most of his party colleagues, not only on matters of local or minor significance but also on issues of national or even global import.

The Representative's “independence” is most commonly, and in a good many instances accurately, ascribed to peculiarities of his constituency which generate demands for a non-conforming vote or, perhaps more frequently, are expected to be the source of recriminations and penalities if he does not display independence of his party colleagues on certain types of issues. But the Member of Congress is by no means always able to predict the electoral consequences of his choices even though he is sure that they may produce repercussions in his district.

The problem of sustaining and strengthening democratic institutions is of the first magnitude. The stakes are high.

“Democracy,” whatever else may be included, implies free discussion and popular election of governors, with alternative choices available. Presumably the governors will include a representative element, normally in the form of a legislative or policy-adopting body.

The term “cultural prerequisites” is less easily defined. The sociologists have an approach that sheds light upon that for which we are searching. They speak of the mores, those modes of thought as well as behavior by which men live and institutions are sustained. The mores are those elements of a culture which are regarded as essential for survival of the society itself. As regards democracy, our question is basically, “What is its cultural and psychological underpinning?” What cultural attitudes or mores will sustain democracy? In part they must do this by assuring its success in satisfying the psychological necessities of its citizens, in part by giving it and its institutions an emotional content which will make its survival a fighting matter for those who love it.

The primary raw material of Communist power in economically less developed regions of the world is neither the landless peasant with outstretched rice bowl nor the intellectual in search of a cause. Even more basic than these frequently summoned symbols, the realpolitik of social tensions determines political events where economic scarcity aggravates the particularisms dividing man from man.

This contention gains strength from a study of Communist fortunes in a representative Asian setting. With little or no industrial economy to ease population density and underemployment, Andhra State on the southeast coast of India bears the familiar marks of Asian poverty. Here has emerged the most successful regional Communist movement in India. Yet the explanation for Andhra Communist strength does not lie in economic factors. The postwar decade in Andhra demonstrates that social factors can relegate even unusually powerful economic factors to a position of secondary importance.

Were evidence to be drawn only from very recent American experience, a strong case could be made for the notion that the status of business enterprise owned and operated by the government tends to be rather anomalous in a “free enterprise” country. Whatever may be said about the existence of a “mixed economy” in the United States, the philosophy of the Eisenhower Administration is plainly one which casts doubt on the legitimacy of public enterprise.

With American experience in mind, this article attempts to characterize the status of public enterprise in Canada, a country whose economic system is also based on private enterprise. In the Canadian “free enterprise” garden, how should the public enterprise plant be described—as a creeper vine, a hothouse flower, or a hardy but unspectacular perennial? To what extent has it affected its surroundings and in turn been affected by them? The study proceeds on the assumption that specific examples of public enterprise furnish the best basis for generalization about its character. The examples are confined to the national government in order to keep the study within manageable limits and to facilitate reference to American experience (although no extensive comparison is intended).

Since 1948, there has been a marked revival of interest in the presidential primary. In all probability this has come about because of the cleavage between the bulk of the regular Republican leadership, most of whom favored Taft, and the rank and file of the Republican party, who, together with many independent voters, favored Eisenhower. Concurrently, in the Democratic party there was in 1952 a “free convention” for the first time since 1932. As a result, there was revived interest in the presidential primary, and in the system of selecting delegates to the national nominating conventions, during the preconvention campaigns of 1952. Since the untimely heart attack suffered by President Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1955, interest in the nominating process for the presidential candidates of the major parties is again at a high point. This article, after reviewing briefly recent developments with respect to presidential primaries, discusses in some detail the legislation enacted in 1955 by the state of Florida.

During the period of the 1952 contest, interest in the presidential primary was expressed in four ways. In the first place, Eisenhower's decisive show of strength in primary contests in New Hampshire, Minnesota, and New Jersey drew public attention to the contrast between the preference primary and the methods of delegate selection in other states. Texas is a prime example of the manipulations that characterized the worst use of the convention system.

The existence of one-party systems of politics within the larger framework of the democratic society merits an increased share of the attention of students of American politics. For too long the common conception has been that one-party politics is a problem unique to the Southern states. This misconception persists even though systematic studies such as the monumental work of V. O. Key and Alexander Heard have illustrated that the politics of the so-called Solid South is in many respects the politics of the nation.

As a case in point, an examination of the composition of contemporary legislative delegations indicates that monopolistic control of elective offices is clearly not the exclusive province of the Southern Democrats. In 1955, three out of every four state legislative bodies or congressional delegations were so completely dominated by a single political party that that party controlled more than 66 per cent of the members of the group. Excluding the 15 Border and Southern states, fully half of the remaining 33 state legislatures were controlled by one party holding at least two out of every three seats; in only six states was the controlling margin below 55 per cent. Within the same group of non-Border, non-Southern states, 25 of the 33 congressional delegations were dominated by one party controlling two-thirds or more of the delegation members; only four delegations were so evenly divided as to give the majority party less than 55 per cent of the members.

The use of public employment for political patronage is an ancient phenomenon seldom studied by political scientists in systematic and objective detail. Texts and treatises on political parties reckon with the subject, but usually support their generalizations and conclusions with illustrations rather than comprehensive evidence. Detailed studies date back to the muck-raking period, and deal chiefly with large metropolitan centers. The role of patronage in maintaining the thousands of rural and small city party units across the country, in the face of marked changes in the methods of national party operation over the past generation, is largely guesswork. Yet the vitality of these organizations is a matter of general concern for the future of the party system.

This study is an attempt to apply some of the more familiar assumptions about the value and role of patronage to actual experience in a rural county in central Pennsylvania where it can have little to do with policy control. Exactly what are the political uses of state patronage at this low level? Has it been used to reward the party faithful, or to encourage party activity and contributions, or to woo new partisans? In short, what does a small group of political jobholders contribute to the party that placed them in office—money? service? votes?