This essay provides a contextual reading of Titus Andronicus, paying close attention to the play's collaborative authorship. Peele and Shakespeare are shown to have manufactured a superficially compelling but in reality utterly fake image of the Roman state as an imaginary laboratory for political ideas, especially the elective principle. Topical allusions and deliberate anachronisms encourage the audience to relate the subject matter to the present, viz., late Elizabethan England in the throes of a succession crisis and rent by confessional divisions. Unlike Peele's solo works, which exhibit a potent anti-Catholic bias, Titus remains confessionally elusive. The play invites the audience to reflect on the viability of particular modes of succession without committing itself either way, and shows that it is not institutional structures and processes but those who use and abuse them that make the difference to the state of the polity.

The title chosen for this paper1 is to some extent misleading. This is not to be another exercise in clearing the history of the 1930's of the myths that encrust it. Professor Toscano, Professor Wiskemann, and Sir Lewis Namier, more senior and more experienced hands than mine have already performed this task for the Axis. It would be presumptuous to attempt to improve on their work.

The American mind has been traditionally more ready to accept the validity of political parties which tend to reflect the complexity of political and economic problems and are not based on any simple ideology. For a nation's mind is not a simple one, nor are its interests capable of simple definition. In a free society, a political party with any claim to national scope and to a lasting identification with the task of solving the particular problems of the country in which it operates, will probably be found to be a composite movement, a meeting ground where different groups bring their different attitudes, a clearing house from which compromises emerge. This is the kind of party to which the United States has grown accustomed. It satisfies an instinctive desire to avoid those clashes on a straight ideological basis which would divide the country and endanger the maintenance of the common foundation and the survival of methods of political action accepted by all.

As the late Patrick Wolfe phrased it, “settler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event.” Settler colonialism as a “structure not an event” captures the idea that settler colonial invasion of Indigenous lands should not be contained as a phenomenon of the past, but rather is continually reproduced throughout the history and present of settler societies such as the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Israel. To say this is also to raise the question of how to trace and analyze the development, legitimization, and maintenance of the colonial structures in these societies: those built on the dispossession and occupation of stolen lands. To this end, Rita Dhamoon's definition of settler colonialism helps in thinking of it as “not only a structure but also a process, an activity for assigning political meanings, and organizing material structures driven by forces of power.” Dhamoon points us toward attending rigorously to this process in ideological, institutional, structural, and historical terms.

John Rawls's book A Theory of Justice1 has been widely looked to not only as a substantive account of the meaning of justice, but also as a model of the procedure by which the requirements of justice may be determined. Rawls terms his mode of approach to justice “moral theory,” and apparently subsumes the traditional discipline of political philosophy under this more inclusive science. At the same time, he claims that his approach is Socratic in nature, and that it “goes back in its essentials to Aristotle's procedure in the Nicomachean Ethics” (pp. 49, 51). “Moral theory,” from this point of view, is simply a new name for the enterprise pursued by the great political philosophers from Socrates onwards. But, surprisingly, despite the number of outstanding thinkers who devoted themselves to this enterprise, little progress was ever made in it, for the theories with which we have been left, according to Rawls, remain “primitive and have grave defects” (p. 52). It is Rawls's claim to have developed a “theory of justice” that is superior to any of those devised by previous philosophers, in that it conforms better to the dictates of men's “sense of justice” (p. 52).

Though indebted to the social compact for the basic features of his political thought, James Madison found the doctrine inadequate in one essential respect: its failure to provide an account of founding. Of course, this is no simple oversight in liberal political philosophy. It reflects deep misgivings about prudence—especially when understood in its “architechtonic” sense as the height of practical reason—and the inequalities that it implies. Madison addresses this problem in Federalist, Nos. 37–40, his fullest treatment of the activities of the Federal Convention. Here he defends the classical notion of prudence, describing its relationship to the modern science of politics and suggesting how it can be reconciled with modern egalitarian principles.

Ideology refers to a set of basic assumptions, both normative and empirical, about the nature and purposes of man and society which serve to explain the human condition. At the political level, it is a belief system through which man perceives, understands, and explains the universe as well as nature and the human community. Ideology also guides individual and collective action, sets forth the political goals one may seek and regulates the ways in which they may be obtained, and defines man's rights, privileges, andobligations. Finally, ideology sets the “parameters of expectations.”

The political philosophy of Thomas Hobbes is rightly considered as marking the end of one era in political theory and the beginning of a new one. Formerly, men had sought and found a guide to political conduct in a basic principle upon which the order of well-being of the state depended. Hobbes broke with the past by postulating the state as simply a rationalization of the needs of men. He analyzed man's psychology and relied on his own observation and ratiocination to establish the best possible state commensurate with mankind's situation, but his supreme emphasis on force and authority left no room for the older constitutional, religious, and traditional safeguards of the citizen. This was the price that Hobbes willingly paid to achieve a secure state during the English Civil War.

This paper contends that Locke's educational writings are more robust in their commitment to autonomy than recent assessments of Locke as a theorist of “disciplinary liberalism” suggest. While Locke's account of parental power is conflicted, it is mostly compatible with a liberal, child-responsive approach to education. Insofar as Locke develops a pedagogy sensitive to the pupil's temperament and his rights as a child, he articulates a nuanced understanding of autonomy, shown to be a product of the individual's participation in a community of rational beings. Complicating both received understandings of Lockean liberalism as atomistic and newer claims about the dark forces of socialization it unleashes, this paper gleans from Lockean education the potential of a socially embedded subject, who looks both within and without himself to cultivate a posture of considerable critical independence.

As everyone knows, an enormous revival of interest in Edmund Burke has taken place during the past twenty years or so, the period, roughly, since the end of the Second World War. Scholars, to be sure, have always been interested in him, and he was widely admired for his style, and by some for his “practical wisdom,” during the nineteenth century. But the point is that in our time he has come to be read not merely as one among a large number of other important figures in the history of political thought, but as a thinker of intense, of special, contemporary relevance. Burke is our contemporary, he is an issue, in a way that Locke is not, and Leibniz is not, and even Mill is not. Burke has not receded into what Lovejoy called the pathos of time, by which he meant that benign and even tender feeling we have for thought that is now completely, forever, a part of the past — and so neither defines us nor menaces us.

No principle commands wider support in political science today than the one which holds that the political scientist's primary task is the construction of theory. Political scientists with little else in common can usually agree on the possibility and desirability of political theory, even though they may disagree vigorously about its nature, source and content. This broad agreement tends to obscure something fundamental, namely, that the very idea of a theory of politics is something peculiar, indeed, something radically problematical. Political life has its own priorities and its own distinctive concerns, and these seem to be at odds with the priorities and concerns of theoretical speculation. The questions that confront the citizen seem to be very different from those that perplex the theorist. A story about the philosopher Anaxagoras serves to illustrate this divergence of the political and theoretical lives as well as the tension between them. It is reported that Anaxagoras took no interest in civic affairs and was blamed for his negligence. When someone asked him whether or not he cared about his country, he replied: “I will have great concern for my country after I have explained the heavens”.

I outline from a non-foundational standpoint why knowledge does not rest on a circular argument and why the nonunivocality of language is compatible with scientific truth and objectivity. The theory sketch is advanced as the form of scientific theory appropriate to homeostatic systems. A rebuttal to the arguments against my theory sketches of international systems permits a concrete and systematic investigation of why the theory sketch—rather than formal theories of the type of physics or historical generalizations - is the appropriate method. I later explore more briefly how theory sketches apply to other types of homeostatic systems. I discuss how the homeostatic control metaphor informs the vicarious test-in-principle that I employ in the area of moral analysis and why other types of moral analysis, including those of Rawls and Nozick, fail. How my position on moral analysis accords with and differs from that of Aristotle is noted.

President Truman's statesmanship consists in the fact that his administration's foreign policy fused moral principle and national self-interest and that his articulation of foreign policy educated citizens in the principles of the American regime and in the nature of the threat to it. The Truman Doctrine and the Marshall Plan address vital strategic interests, but Truman's conception of the national interest contained a lucid sense of political meaning and purpose in his understanding that the perpetuation of freedom in America required a resolute defense of republicanism elsewhere in the world. Like Lincoln, Truman was committed to the prudent containment of an expansionist power, and for Truman, as for Lincoln, the survival of the Union meant above all the preservation of a regime devoted to the principles of the Founders. NSC-68 crystallized containment policy, uniting power with principle in a strategy that matched military means to political ends.

Many readers of Alexis de Tocqueville have noted the ambiguity in his formulation of the term “democracy.” This essay suggests that this ambiguity can be clarified by considering what Tocqueville calls “democratic language”—i.e., the use of generalizations, abstractions, and personifications in writing and speech. Tocqueville investigates these novel linguistic devices to understand the transformation of language in democratic times. More importantly, he employs them to appropriate the Doctrinaires’ formulation of democracy and to criticize their legitimation of the July Monarchy's exclusive government. Yet Tocqueville's use of democratic language is a reluctant one. He finds that the tendency to use abstract and personified concepts obfuscates the political agency of citizens. Wary of the despotic effects of such obfuscation, Tocqueville argues that individuals must practice their concepts. In the context of the July Monarchy, this becomes a call for the extension of democratic rights and institutions.

Jacques Ellul today lives and works in the French city in which he was born over sixty years ago, Bordeaux. His public life has two major aspects. First, he is a scholar, with degrees in history, sociology, and law. Before the Second World War he was director of studies at the University of Strasbourg until his dismissal by the Vichy government. Now he is professor of history and sociology of institutions at the University of Bordeaux. During the war he was active in the Resistance, and after the Liberation had the chance to begin a promising political career when he served for two years as deputy mayor of Bordeaux under Jacques Chalban-Delmas. But he abandoned that prospect to devote his time fully to teaching and writing. He has written more than twenty books and more than a hundred articles.

One of the marks of any generation's scholarship is its desire to examine the ideas of important historical figures in the light of contemporary concepts and concerns. One of the marks of a truly significant historical figure is his or her ability to inform and stimulate successive generations as each grapples with the salient issues of its own times. This scholarly dialectic has its dangers and its satisfactions. One danger lies in the temptation to carve one's own interpretation of historical writings immutably into the concrete issues of one's own times, dismissing as secondary or historically idiosyncratic, those ideas which do not answer the needs or fit the intellectual categories of that time. A second danger is that of early obsolescence. The satisfaction of the scholarly dialectic, on the other hand, lies in the discovery of solid foundations in the past for the concerns of the present. This is particularly important when the historical figure in question is one of the nation's Founders, for here the solid foundation supports not only a historical interpretation but can legitimate constitutional interpretation as well.

Recently Alan Gewirth has attempted to establish a universally valid foundation for ethics and politics by means of analyzing the “normative structure” of action and what that necessarily entails for any agent. By “normative structure”he means that by virtue of which certain “evaluative and deontic judgments on the part of agents are logically implicit in all action” (pp. 25–26). These judgments, leading finally to a supreme moral principle, are part of what is “conceptually necessary” to being an agent. Anyone who resists making these judgments is guilty of “selfcontradiction” and thus a diminution of his claim to be a rational being (pp. 44, 48).

Although Gewirth considers his approach to be a novel one, it infact exhibits some interesting parallels with the approach of the German philosopher andsocial-political theorist, Jiirgen Habermas. The latter has not written a systematic work on what he calls “communicative ethics,” but he has laid out its basic components. As with Gewirth, the foundation of this ethics lies in a certain “normative force” implicit in action. While there are such similarities of approach between the two theorists, they differ in the specific analyses they offer of action and of what constitutes an agent's claim to rationality.

This article investigates whether Aristotelian magnanimity is compatible with Christianity. According to Aristotle, this virtue is displayed in claiming and deserving great honors and accompanied by a disdain for others, all of which looks remarkably like the Christian sin of pride. This article argues that in spite of these apparent difficulties Aristotelian magnanimity is compatible with Christian morality, that the deserving Christian may, without prejudice to the virtue of humility, claim great honors, recognize his own superiority, and look down on others. The article concludes with an account of the contemporary political importance of these issues. Responding to scholarship that argues that Christianity's undermining of magnanimity is responsible for modernity's lack of great statesmanship, it is contended on the contrary that in the modern world Christianity alone can make magnanimous statesmanship possible.