The work of Leo Strauss is not typical of American academics. He has explicitly rejected the premises and methodologies of modern scholarship. In its stead, he claims to have rediscovered other, more ancient methods of discovery to guide his research. As a result, his conclusions do not necessarily reconfirm what we think we already know. Hence his work represents a challenge to current scholarship. For if Strauss 's conclusions are true, then a radical rethinking of the history of philosophy, political philosophy and psychology is required. It would be much easier if we could simply say that Strauss's methods and conclusions are wholly misguided.

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.”

The article discusses prudential liberalism: the attempt to develop classical liberal ideas upon the basis of purely prudential argument. It is argued, with particular reference to Narveson, that the universalism of classical liberalism cannot be sustained on such a basis. This faces the proponents of prudential liberalism with a problem: to reject universalism (and especially in light of the sort of example discussed in this article) would require a stronger case for rejecting our more ordinary ideas of morality than has yet been made; but if universalism is restored by recourse to nonprudential argument, prudentialism seems incoherent. In either case, the defense of their position against such criticisms would seem to lead prudential liberals away from the technical work upon which they are often engaged, and instead require them to participate in more traditional philosophical argument.

The contemporary British Liberal Party sturdily refuses to die. For nearly three decades family allegiances, traditional loyalties, and youthful hopes have preserved for it a dwindling minority status. The Liberals have sought to persuade the electorate with fresh faces and fresh ideas. Still drawing upon the nonconformist tradition they have offered the electorate only a chance to protest and not a possible government. This opportunity to protest against the Leviathan parties, Labour and Conservative, has been a major source of its occasional resurgence in by-elections. The Liberal Party is in many respects the victim of its success. Liberalism, broader than the Party, in pervading British society and parties, could not without drastic alteration become the distinguishing creed of a party. The proponents of change, the sectarian and radical Liberals, were divided, and their estate has been taken over by diverse heirs. Some of the views of Richard Cobden and John Bright became anachronistic, and others were enacted into law which Tories and Labour have preserved. Other elements of radicalism were associated with the Conservative and Labour Parties. Historically the interests attached to the Liberal Party did not cohere well. Even the moments of past liberal greatness, the periods of Gladstone's and Lloyd George's leadership, do not provide a sturdy base of future hope. These inspiring periods, indeed, seem to indicate that to be a dominant national force the Liberal Party requires leaders of unusual and towering genius who strain the bonds of party.

Of all the liberal arts no two would appear to be more closely and naturally interrelated than literature and history. Doubtless one can enjoy and appreciate much in belles-lettres even though handicapped by a limited knowledge of history, but the serious study of any body of literature would generally be admitted to presuppose a reasonable mastery of the historical milieu. In some instances, even a superficial understanding of a literary work would be impossible without the ability to place it in proper historical context. That literature is closely akin to history can be vouched for by the many who have been exposed to literature courses in college wherein the “background” seemed to outweigh in importance the creative achievements under study.

A friend of mine has the misfortune of owning a number of stone cottages. I say “misfortune” because the cottages are in Scotland, and their rents are fixed at the level of 1914. The cottages were built long before 1914—some of them are eighteenth-century work, with their pantiled roofs and trick rubble walls and irregular little windows; but they are good to look upon still, with their white door-sills and their little gardens along the path to the road. The law compels my friend to keep them in tolerable repair, if they are tenanted, and to pay most of what rent he receives either to local authorities or to the Exchequer, in the form of rates and income-taxes. But the rent of each cottage amounts to a mere five shillings a week—seventy cents, at the present rate of exchange. This is not particularly depressing to my friend, for the rents of his farms are fixed at levels no higher than they were during the Napoleonic wars, let alone the First World War. The cottages are a cause of expense to him, of course, rather than a source of income; but persons of his station are now resigned to being ruined, and for some of his cottages he asks no rent at all, letting them to old people who can afford to pay next to nothing. Some of his tenants, however, are better off, according to their lights, than my friend himself: they have risen in the economic scale while he has descended. His income is still much greater than theirs, but his expenses are much greater, and his responsibilities. These tenants now have better wages and shorter hours than ever they did before; they can afford their little luxuries, extending sometimes to television-sets. Some of them have come to look upon rent as a luxury—for, after all, many of their neighbors are the recipients of my friend's charity, paying nothing for their cottages. Accordingly, my friend's agent occasionally has his difficulties when he goes from door to door, on Mondays, collecting five shillings here and five shillings there. One morning the agent knocked at the door of a tenant who was in good health and employed at good wages. The tenant came to the door and announced that he had decided to pay no more rent; he could not afford it; prices were high, and he could use that five shillings himself.

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.

Not so long ago, a unified chorus of scholars, politicians, and activists declared that the time had come to move “beyond” toleration. Such an offensive orientation of de haut en bas indulgence towards difference may have been appropriate to warring Christian sects after the Reformation. But in this brave, new, and emphatically global world of unprecedented cultural, racial, and gender diversity, “mere” and musty toleration must give way to something more—to respect, recognition, even acceptance, or perhaps a positive conception of tolerance comprising the better features of all three.

Greek historical writing began at much the same time as Greek philosophic-scientific speculation. It experienced an even more rapid growth than philosophy, which it resembled in culminating its development in two men of genius. Contemporary events, the principal subject matter of early history, became the subject of inquiry, when some among the literate could not look at or understand events in the epic or mythic terms that had served the past and had to serve as a past.