The article examines Voegelin's understanding of nous as the ground for theorizing, and relates this back to Aristotle. Aristotle is shown to have understood the activities of nous in two distinct ways. On the one hand, nous is the divine activity of the soul exploring its own ground. But nous is also induction (epagôgê) of the first principles of science through sense perception, memory and experience. The two basic activities of nous are related, but they have different values when it comes to the world of particulars. The argument is that a substantive ethical and political science—one that sheds light on particulars—must include the inductive employment of nous and that the exclusion of this from Voegelin's political science results in some discernible limitations.

The limitations of Eric Voegelin—s work are sometimes difficult to keep in view, particularly while he is expounding upon the totality of Being, the myriad dimensions of human consciousness, and the nature of order in personal, social, and historical existence. But in fact Voegelin's work is more limited than his magisterial tone might suggest. The argument of this article is that while Voegelin offers his readers profoundly important insights into the structure of human consciousness and into what Aristotle called first philosophy, the study of being qua being, he does not offer his readers much in the way of a substantive ethical or political science.

In an important 1984 paper, “The Moral Education Theory of Punishment,” Jean Hampton argues that the practice of inflicting painful criminal punishments is justified only if punishment is morally educative. Hampton's suggestion forms the point of departure for this article on Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I show that Dostoevsky agrees with Hampton that punishment should aim at moral reform; however, Dostoevsky presents no evidence that self-punishment or legal punishment reliably cultivates respect for law, legal authority, oneself, or others as moral agents. Instead, Dostoevsky's post-Siberian writings are highly critical of Russian criminal justice, and emphasize that moral education comes through dialogue, reflection, and criticism. This highly individualized treatment may be experienced as painful, but it does not have to result from, and it may even be impeded by, legal “hard treatment.”

Emotional religion was embedded in the hearts of eighteenth-century Britons. The veneer of culture and moderation, so often considered the hallmark of the age of reason, was perilously thin. Conjure up an image of the Gordon Riots of June, 1780, to see the mob, rising in hysterical fear of popery, terrorizing the city of London for a week. From Charles Dickens' classic account in Barnaby Rudge to the recent King Mob of Christopher Hibbert, the saga of those savage days has fascinated historians and readers alike. Few of us remember that the Gordon Riots were merely the climax of organized agitation which had brewed for nearly two years and had already achieved singular success in Scotland. Victory there made possible the London disorders. In Glasgow and Edinburgh, in the intellectual capital of Britain, the heirs of John Knox had rejected the overtures of reason and moderation.

Historians are fond of looking back over the panorama of the past and writing about periods of cultural change that altered the continuity of history. The age of discovery and the rise of the city are phrases that describe such pivotal epochs. These are not Madison Avenue-inspired book titles, but legitimate interpretative descriptions of past ages that provide a key to understanding the development of American civilization. Although the history of American Catholicism does not lend itself to such epochal descriptions, interpretative concepts are applicable in this area of study as well and they can provide useful keys to the analysis of the past.

The enterprise called political theory is very old; so old that to some it seems to have outlived its time. At long last — 13 years ago to be precise — it was pronounced dead. Since that pronouncement seems not to have been widely heard, or sufficiently heeded, a second certificate testifying to its demise was issued two years later.

Defeatism is one of the most characteristic attitudes of the present period, though the thing is not as new as the word for it. It is also one of the facts through which modern wars are in part decided, and defeats are brought about. Defeatism, therefore, is at least as important a factor for modern warfare as tanks and planes. And yet, while much is said about these physical means of destruction, little is heard about this psychological medium of destruction, despite the noteworthy fact that defeatism is the very thing aggressors try to attain with their propaganda. The National Socialists, for instance, do not propagandize their own political system if it is obvious from the outset that no converts to their political conception can be made.

In the “metaphysical squabbles” that Bertrand de Jouvenel has said characterize much of American political science, none has been more bitter and perplexing than the controversy surrounding the work of Leo Strauss. To the extent that one can speak of a revival of classical political philosophy in this country, the credit for it assuredly belongs to the influence of Strauss's profound scholarship. Nonetheless there is common agreement among fairminded reviewers of Strauss's writings that a “calculated obscurity” hides his message. “He does not wish to tell us, in bold propositional terms, what is on his mind,” says Robert McShea. Granted that “Strauss indulges in the … game of esoteric silences,” that his real views are often “camouflaged,” we must see these devices for what Lee McDonald suggests they are: devices to persuade the reader to “a special way of reading the ‘classics’”; they are not primarily concerned with “specific details of interpretation.”

WithRespect to its international prospects the leadership of the Soviet Union entered this decade with enthusiasm; it is ending the decade on a note of disillusionment. And there is no area in which this phenomenon is more striking than that of the triangular relationship among the Soviet Union, the United Nations and the emerging “third world.” Both the “ups” and the “downs” of this relationship are to some extent attributable to the remarkable influence (and abrupt departure) of a single dynamic and quixotic personality, Nikita Khrushchev. Associated with his rise and fall, however, were objective historical factors which had a significant impact on the course of Soviet foreign relations. Read in the context of the origins and development of Soviet attitudes on international organization and on the role expected of nations liberated by the downfall of imperialism, this decade may well have marked a turning point in history. The outcome is not yet clear, but it is evident that Soviet policy has gone through another of those remarkable shifts from optimistic certainty to pragmatic reassessment which have marked historic moments in the past. The transition is both interesting and instructive.

Since the end of World War II British Policy in the Middle East has been plagued by the devils of the past, joined by a more formidable company of contemporary devils, some of whom bear a mocking resemblance to still earlier ones. Most of this region was once largely in the weak hands of the Turkish Empire. In this area, strategic for the control of the Mediterranean and the security of the Suez Canal, British policy had been to support the Turkish Empire against the heavy pressure of Tsarist Russia, until Turkey's association with Germany drove Britain to moderate its rivalry with Russia, to accept her partnership in Persia (1907), following a similar accommodation of differences with France (1904).

During the First World War the British sponsored the Arab Revolt against Turkey, thus shattering the feeble union of those lands, and creating in the Middle East a parody of the Habsburg succession states, complicated by concessions to France (the Sykes-Picot Agreement) and to Zionism (the Balfour Declaration).

This essay examines the liberal distinction between public and private spheres by analyzing civil and conjugal society in the work of John Locke and John Milton. Although the two authors explain the institution of civil government similarly, suggesting similar conceptions of liberal life, my explication of their views on marriage shows that they conceive of public and private quite differently. Marriage for Locke is a contract, the primary term of which is procreative sex. Because contracts are enforced by civil authorities, the apparently private conjugal society is subject to civil rule. In contrast, the purpose of marriage for Milton is comfort and companionship, which can only be known by those directly involved, which means that civil government cannot interfere. In marriage, one retains a natural domestic liberty and remains judge in one's own case. Exposing these variants of the publicprivate division, the article explains the differences in Locke's and Milton's liberalisms and suggests that neither acceptably encompasses intimate relationships.

As in all or almost all Shakespeare plays the opening scenes of Macbeth are key to setting up the problem the play addresses. In his Scottish play Shakespeare uses the opening scenes to set the two main contexts in which the regicide, usurpation, tyranny, and fall of the tyrant occur. The two are, we might say, the earthly or political context and the cosmic or superhuman context represented by the witches. In presenting these two contexts Shakespeare appears to be engaging in a dialogue with Machiavelli's Prince, taking cues from Machiavelli's political analysis on how to understand the political character of Scotland and taking issue with Machiavelli's ultimate agenda of a conquest of Fortuna.