In a world increasingly dominated by high technology and esoteric scientific knowledge it is not surprising that political scientists and sociologists have begun to ask what role experts and specialists play in the policymaking process. Inaugurated almost a century ago by Weber's seminal essay on bureaucracy and the rationalization of authority, this issue was subsequently developed out of neo-Marxist debates over the relative autonomy of the state into a more explicitly state-centered perspective. Though state-centered theorists have not abandoned pluralism altogether, bureaucrats and policy experts have increasingly taken center stage in policy analyses. These state actors are portrayed as “policy experts,” free from political pressure, focused on making policy recommendations based on the most up-to-date knowledge of the field. Instead of pursuing votes and campaign money, policy experts seek the most efficient answers to social problems, a rationalized process of positivistic scientific inquiry and experiential learning. In most areas of public policymaking, this boils down to the reductive analysis of prior, presumably analogous, policy outcomes, drawing lessons for the future from the successes and failures of the past. Seen from this perspective, policymaking is portrayed as “a deliberate attempt to adjust the goals or techniques of policy in response to past experience and new information.” History thus not only transforms state capacities (as in historical institutionalist accounts) but also directly effects the ways in which policymakers think about social problems. Political scientists refer to this as a “social learning” process.

Although originalism’s emergence as an important theory of constitutional interpretation is usually attributed to efforts by the Reagan administration, the role the theory played in the South’s determined resistance to civil rights legislation in the 1960s actually helped create the Reagan coalition in the first place. North Carolina Senator Sam Ervin Jr., the constitutional theorist of the Southern Caucus, developed and deployed originalism because he saw its potential to stymie civil rights legislation and stabilize a Democratic coalition under significant stress. Ervin failed in those efforts, but his turn to originalism had lasting effects. The theory helped Ervin and other conservative southerners explain to outsiders and to themselves why they shifted from support for an interventionist state powerful enough to enforce segregation to an ideology founded on individual rights and liberty. It thus eased the South’s integration with the emerging New Right.

There has always been something problematic, if not anomalous, about the political status of the District of Columbia. In theory, the federal government reigns supreme. Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution allows Congress to “exercise exclusive legislation in all cases whatsoever” in the territory that houses the seat of government, but it is not clear whether that rules out some measure of popular representation in local government. For Congress to exercise exclusive authority over the capital of the Republic, in denial of the inhabitants' right to govern their own affairs, might seem a stark contradiction of the founding principles of American government. “This, happening at the seat of a nation which boasts of its democratic government,” observed a writer in the Atlantic Monthly in 1909, during a period when the District was subject to direct federal control, “constitutes a solecism of the first magnitude.” Over the 204 years of its residence there, Congress has both allowed and disallowed local representation. For most of its first seventy years, Washington was governed by an elected mayor and councils. (The city of Georgetown and the rural sections of the District, known as Washington County, had their own separate governing arrangements.) The conduct of municipal government in the antebellum period was not dissimilar to that in other cities of comparable size, with the important distinction that Washington, like the rest of the District, was subject to the supreme authority of Congress. That authority, however, was exercised fitfully by a national legislature whose preferred stance toward the District was one of benign neglect. Whatever practical inconvenience might result from this arrangement was not judged sufficient to warrant a serious reconsideration, that is, until the Civil War and its aftermath drastically raised the stakes and altered the significance of governing the District.

The recruitment of about seven thousand Italian migrant workers by the postwar British Labour government is an interesting study in the use of foreign labor recruitment as a diplomatic policy. Foreign labor recruitment has generally been regarded as primarily an economic policy, with political ramifications entering into the picture in the form of domestic issues around integration, racism, labor relations and so on. However, the various British schemes to recruit Italian migrant workers from 1945 to 1951, and the discussion around the movement of migrant workers in postwar Europe carried on in various inter-European bodies, illustrate that foreign labor recruitment can be a much more complex phenomenon.

Were it not linguistically awkward, I would be inclined to entitle these remarks a discourse on what went wrong with the love affair of policy-makers, academic pundits, and hard-core positivists with the world of science. In the nineteenth century, science was as identified with progress as bacon is with eggs. This optimism has given way to a pandemic mistrust of science by all sorts of elites. Popular displeasure became transparently evident in the waning decades of the twentieth century. Mistrust of science has only deepened in the first years of the new millennium. The ease with which scientific products are converted into destructive weaponry only partially accounts for the new skepticism about conventional claims. Unanticipated negative human consequences of actual discoveries in areas ranging from genetic engineering to wireless communication are at least as important an element in popular concerns. Nonetheless, professional assertions about the benefits of science continue unabated. Peter Watson in his fine recent survey, The Modern Mind, in which he asserts science as such “provides a new kind of humanity and a canon for life as it is now lived,” typifies these claims. The limitation in this by no means unusual formulation is that few people are actually involved in the life of science, while many are affected by applications of scientific work that often have indeterminate or, even worse, destructive consequences.

This article reveals how the politics of federalism in the 1920s stifled the U.S. Children’s Bureau’s ability to collect national data on the workings of the Sheppard-Towner Act. The Bureau staff’s reliance on state administrators for data hindered their efforts to collect standardized national statistics on the states’ use of federal dollars. Ultimately, this barrier contributed to Sheppard-Towner’s defeat in 1929. Though the law was short-lived, the problems the Children’s Bureau encountered administering it provide insights into how federal matching grant programs began to shape federal and state relations before the New Deal. As this article shows, Bureau staff learned from their experience administering Sheppard-Towner that they needed to implement more stringent federal oversight over state-level accounting in their administration of Title V of the Social Security Act.

Congressional enactment of the Enforcement Acts in 1870 and 1871 marked an unprecedented federalization of voting rights. The various election laws aimed to make real the promise of the recently enacted Fourteenth and Fifteenth amendments to the constitution. A complex duality characterized this new departure in the constitutional understanding of democratic suffrage. On one hand, Republican leadership looked to secure the rights of freedmen in the Reconstruction-era South. At the same time, from the outset, northern Republicans strategically worked to strengthen the party in all regions with a particular interest in urban America. From the immediate postwar years down to the early 1890s, congressional committees regularly investigated the problematic and deeply partisan politics of enforcement. Often, House and Senate investigators were more concerned with developments in northern cities than with the state of African American voting across the rural South. This urban story of the consequences of constitutional revision illuminates the often-obscured national dimensions of Reconstruction and its aftermath, while also alerting us to shifting visions of the vote across the final third of the nineteenth century. This essay explores this nationalization of Reconstruction in the wake of the Fifteenth Amendment's enactment by first documenting the central place of New York City in the emerging postbellum electoral regime and then expanding out from Manhattan to look at broader patterns of urban experience with enforcement.

In January 1973, American Telephone & Telegraph, then the world's largest private-sector employer, entered into a Consent Decree with the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. In this decree, following a fourteen-month dispute before the Federal Communications Commission, at&t agreed to implement specific goals and timetables for hiring women in traditionally male jobs, men in traditionally female jobs, and minorities in jobs in which they had been traditionally underrepresented. at&t's adoption of affirmative action immediately preceded the routine application of affirmative action hiring and promotion policies in large, private-sector U.S. firms regardless of federal contractor status. Nonetheless, the importance of at&t's action remains misunderstood by critics and supporters of affirmative action alike.

In 1981, Ronald Reagan created a task force intended to gain the initiative on immigration reform. But immigration reform presented obstacles to his political stance in repudiation of his Democratic predecessors. After four years of wrangling, internally as well as with Congress, many on the Reagan team viewed the immigration task force as having shackled the president to an unwinnable issue. Frustrated politically, Reagan aides shifted focus to an emerging presidential tactic—the signing statement. This allowed the president to sign the Immigration Reform and Control Act while setting important precedents for his larger conservative agenda. The trajectory from presidential task force to presidential signing statement on immigration reform reveals the challenges Reagan faced on policy issues outside his core priorities, and also the development of a tactic to maneuver through the challenges. Immigration reform became less about immigration than about serving the administration’s larger core priorities.

Butterfield's well-known warning to historians may hold important lessons for the analysis of the contemporary welfare state. In his view, the Whig historians distorted history by interpreting the past in terms of the present. They allowed themselves to become “dispensers of moral judgments” by dividing the world into the friends and enemies of progress. Many contemporary explanations of welfare states pose the same problem, not so much because social science intentionally excludes the past, but because the search for rigorous empirical explanations of our present choices and accomplishments is divorced from the past. As Himmelfarb noted in her comments on the study of social history, the investigations of this intricate transformation of nineteenth-century liberal states are now virtually “two cultures.”

As many manufacturing industries have declined and as much American manufacturing has become vulnerable to foreign competition, numerous groups have suggested that programs to intervene in specific manufacturing sectors could help. Proponents focus on aid to telecommunications, aerospace, information technology, and high-definition television, where an edge in new technology may be key to the industries' success, but they also touch on aid to declining industries. Opponents of trade restrictions often argue that policies should facilitate adjustment in industries injured by trade. Other groups call for a technological “revolution” in manufacturing to restore international competitiveness through programs to facilitate adjustment and to speed the transition to new kinds of manufacturing. Others, concerned about massive job losses in depressed manufacturing communities, have called for improving the welfare of workers and communities.

The Great Depression, World War II, and Keynesian Revolution all contributed to a transformation in the role of the state in the economy. By the postwar period, it had become politically imperative, as well as intellectually sanctioned, for the state to assume responsibility for addressing unemployment. Certain Western governments were willing and able to go to great lengths to ameliorate joblessness, and in some cases prevent it, while others seemed capable or inclined to go less far. As anyone who studies unemployment in a comparative context knows, Sweden and the United States present a vivid contrast in how seriously governments undertook this responsibility and to what degree they were willing to extend the control of the state in the market conomy. It is precisely because these two nations stand at virtually opposite poles in the commitment to eliminating unemployment and in implementing policies toward that end that many scholars have sought to compare them. Compared to the United States, Sweden's policy objectives have been much more ambitious, its policy instruments more diverse and capable of intervening more extensively in the labor market, and its budgets for training, relocation, and job-creation schemes substantially larger. In short, in Sweden we find the government doing more, and in the United States we find it doing less.