Parliament has today perhaps less supervision over foreign policy than over any other field of governmental activity. Such has been the case for over a generation, and such is still the case in spite of the Labor party's efforts to democratize the control of foreign affairs. That such a situation should exist is particularly strange, since the generally accepted theory of the English constitution assumes that foreign affairs are under the strict control of Parliament. Indeed, the governmental practice of the last forty years has largely violated theories formulated somewhat earlier. How this situation originated, and what its significance is, can best be understood after some examination of the theory and practice of foreign policy control.

What may be called the classical theories of the English constitution are largely the product of the writings of Bagehot and J. S. Mill working on the imagination of the generation which Gladstone dominated, and given emphasis by the Liberals of the seventies. Somewhat unthinkingly, perhaps, these theories won acceptance by Liberals and Conservatives alike. Authoritative statements of the constitutional theory of the control of foreign policy will be found, for instance, in Anson's Law and Custom of the Constitution and Halsbury’s Laws of England. Both of these works express a Liberal conception of foreign policy control; yet both ate the works of Tories.

So evident has become the reality of the international community on the one hand, and that of occupational groups on the other, that sociology, which is more concerned with social tendencies than with formal doctrine of any kind, has largely discarded the idea of the sovereign nation-state. But juristic science in considerable measure still clings to it. This is true because the latter is naturally more concerned than sociology with the conservative function of legal formalities. Yet the progressivist influence that sociology has already exerted upon legal concepts is likely to continue; which means that the present sociological insistencies will more nearly correspond with the legal ideas of tomorrow than they do with those of today. Law, in order to maintain its function, must of necessity feed upon the fresh materials of change; to live, it will, in the long run, have to conform to moral and social needs. Morality, which is always at least a step ahead of the law, requires to be followed by the law, for the sake of the life of both, at a distance neither too great nor too short. For the law that follows too closely upon the heels of morality, no less than that which is too far behind, fails to be generally respected and enforced. Legal development is in constant need of being harmonized with all the other strands of history, to the end of the good life. This historic propriety is the ideal not only for the content of legislation, but also—though here the steps of change are fewer and longer—in the realm of fundamental juristic concepts such as that of national sovereignty.

Mankind is sectional in outlook, carving the world into little compartments with mile upon mile of boundary lines. Technology, on the other hand, is inherently universal in outlook; nature's laws operate as infallibly in Spain as in China, in Russia as in Australia. The substances which it uses are scattered widely over the earth without respect for human conventions. In the collection of raw products and the transportation of finished goods, its purposes are economic, not political. The engineer, then, in applying his rational skill to the world's haphazard system of political areas must necessarily cut across artificial regions with a variety of works. The railway needs no introduction as a map-slashing agency. It has pierced the Alps, connecting Switzerland and Italy by way of the famous Simplon tunnel; it has crossed the towering Andes, linking Argentina with Chile; it has stretched out through Siberia, tying China and the Pacific with the countries of western Europe; and it speeds the traveller through a veritable maze of Balkan nations. Electrical designers, creating superpower nets of transmission lines, run wires with utter abandon across national and local frontiers, joining Switzerland and France over the Alps in one net, and North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee in another. The production manager, turning out automobiles, airplanes, watches, and a flood of other commodities, seeks to distribute his products in every clime and under every flag. The engineer, in short, is a universalist, however intense his patriotism, and cannot function efficiently without traversing human boundary lines.

The British parliamentary system presumes a working government majority, or else an appeal to the electorate, with the inevitable confusion of issues involved therein. Hence, in studying the conduct of foreign relations throughout the British Commonwealth, little profit is to be gained from analysis of anomalous instances where governments and parliaments are found to have been at variance on external policies. Whatever familiarity with the “checks and balances” tradition may incline us to assume, such cases are no adequate criterion of democratization of control. On the contrary, this is to be found in the degree to which parliaments not merely are called upon to ratify governmental acts and policies, but are taken into the confidence of governments and consulted before decisions are conclusively formulated. In the second place, “external relations” should, in the case of the Dominions, include relations with other members of the Commonwealth, especially the mother country. These still comprise the bulk of their external contacts; and from the standpoint of the problem now under discussion, no actual difference in kind exists between them and truly foreign affairs. Moreover, it is upon the procedural foundation of the one that the principles governing the conduct of the other have been based.

As it happens, the issue of parliamentary control has been agitated most zealously in connection with representation at the Imperial Conference, the supreme council of the British League of Nations.

Since the last decade has witnessed an unparalleled outlay of energy in discussing public opinion, and in inventing devices intended to add precision to the discussion, it is not untimely to take stock of our present position in the matter. If this paper can be said to support a single thesis, it is that the problem of measurement can be considered most profitably in relation to a set of nuclear concepts about public opinion. To measure is to render more precise; measuring efforts which undertake to render faulty concepts more precise are foreordained to be more precisely faulty. I shall begin by passing certain general conceptions in review, and we shall see whether the upshot warrants us in believing that we shall thereby achieve a sounder view of the measurement problem.

Political changes come to pass by unreflecting innovation, by private planning and adjustment, and by acts which involve the attention of many people at some stage of their elaboration. Much of the etiquette of public administration has come into being without anyone taking thought of it. Much has been devised by a single person, who quietly transmitted his innovation to a limited circle, and ensured its permanence. But some of the features of political life have a more extended history. Men have argued, and even bled, for national independence, for the extension of the franchise, for the devolution of authority, for the qualified independence of the judiciary.

The contemporary criticism in England of the traditional theory of the state can conveniently be traced to the famous introduction of Maitland to the fragment of Gierke. It is significant to note that Maitland's analysis followed by one year the classic restatement of the orthodox view by Bosanquet, thus perhaps offering another illustration of the common observation that when a doctrine has received its fullest elaboration, its decline has already set in. During the first twelve or fifteen years of the present century, this criticism became an important undercurrent of political thought, as shown by the emergence of Distributivism and Guild Socialism, the passing of the zenith of the conventional Fabianism with the publication in 1909 of the Minority Eeport on the Poor Law, and the publication of Figgis's Churches in the Modern State in 1913. This later view was as yet, however, only an undercurrent; for the main stream of thought as indicated by L. T. Hobhouse in his Liberalism (1911) did not show any effects of the new leaven. Only during the next decade, say between the publication of Russell's Principles of Social Reconstruction (1916) and Professor H. J. Laski's Grammar of Politics (1925), did the novel movement become the main current. Viewed in wider perspective, Russell, Hobhouse, the Webbs, Tawney, Cole, Laski, and Hobson offer variations on the same theme. The completeness and comprehensiveness of Professor Laski's Grammar of Politics make it especially significant. The book is, in fact, a summary of the development of English thought since 1900.

The growth of the democratic element in Japanese government has not been without effect on the Privy Council. In the early years of its history, the Council and the ministry were institutions serving the same classes and seeing eye to eye. This was true not only under the presidency of Ito, Oki, and Yamagata (1889-94), but also even during a considerable part of the period when party government was struggling for supremacy. In those days, political parties in the House of Representatives were balked by the bureaucrats, clansmen, and militarists entrenched in the administrative branch, while the seats in the Council were occupied by the great leaders of these controlling classes. But the doctrine of ministerial responsibility had begun to take root. In 1895, the Ito ministry abandoned the principle of executive independence of political parties and accepted an alliance with the Jiyuto, or Liberal party. In 1898, the Kenseito, or Constitutional party, under the leadership of Okuma and Itagaki, was given the opportunity of forming the first party cabinet in the history of Japan. Upon its fall, caused by internal dissension, the succeeding ministry under Yamagata (1898-1900) contained no party men, although the premier condescended to an alliance with the Kenseito. In 1900, Ito himself formed the Seiyukai, and brought the second party cabinet into office. But it was not until the first Kenseikai ministry, under Okuma and Kato (1914-16), and the fifth Seiyukai ministry under Hara (1918-21), that well-grounded ministerial parties controlled the lower house.

The student of international organization who visits the League of Nations in its home city of Geneva encounters one phenomenon associated with the organization and activity of the League which seldom receives much, if any, attention in the news of the day or in current discussions of League problems. That is the so-called Permanent Delegation to the League of Nations. As will appear, these institutions are sometimes located elsewhere than in Geneva; but most of them are located there, and it is there that their activities are most easily observable. It is proposed to describe this institution as regards its nature and its proper nomenclature, its history, its organization, its functions, and its actual and potential value for international government.

The title inscribed at the head of this paper was adopted, to speak frankly, because it had become somewhat familiar by usage, official and unofficial, and because, superficially at least, it seems to describe the institution under discussion. A little analysis, however, will reveal both its shortcomings and the difficulty of labelling, in familiar language, the phenomenon in question. Both the nature and the consequent nomenclature of the institution must be studied by reference to the formal legal status given to it by the official agencies creating and maintaining it, and also by reference to its own activities and essential character as observed in operation; the former test will be applied first and the second reverted to later.

Although a naïve economist, I am quite conscious of the way in which the forces of inertia, self-interest, and sentiment combine to give persistent vitality to those two old parties which, so far as ideas are concerned, are so perfect an example of the embalmer's art. Not only do these parties have the network of precinct and local organization upon which effective political work must rest, but they also furnish to ambitious men and women the sole avenues to immediate political power. Perhaps most important of all is the fact that their trade-marks and totemistic deities tap large wellsprings of genuine, if benighted, sentiment in the hearts of millions of humble and undistinguished men and women. To the farmers of the Middle West, the Republican party is still a glorious fellowship of the consecrated Knights of the Grail, who, in times past, prevented slavery from creeping up the Mississippi Valley, gave homesteads to the people, fought the Civil War, and bequeathed Abraham Lincoln to the ages. Similarly, nostalgic Southerners regard the Democratic party as an integral part in that vista of the glorious days before the Civil War when cotton was king and their statesmen dominated Capitol Hill, and also as the corporate representative of that chivalrous group of men in white armor who finally overthrew carpet-bag government and negro domination, and who by their efforts finally made Southern Caucasian civilization free at last.

Such being the assets of the old parties as going concerns, it is not surprising that progressively minded leaders like Senators Norris and Borah should wish to stay inside the party breastworks and utilize the accumulated resources of organization and sentiment for their own purposes, rather than to surrender the good-will value of the party label to their opponents.

For more than a decade, the Privy Council has been the subject of political controversy in Japan. Today, a group of liberals look upon the Council as an obstruction to the progressive development of parliamentary government and urge its reform, if not abolition. Under these circumstances, there is a tendency to subject the Council to considerable scrutiny from a utilitarian viewpoint. What is its purpose? Does it adequately fulfill this purpose, or does it obstruct the present trend of representative government in Japan? What reforms in its structure and functions are to be recommended? The answers to these questions are suggested largely by the varying liberal or conservative views of the various critics.

An evaluation of the achievements of an organ of government such as the Privy Council may be guided by several standards of value. One standard aims to measure the success of the institution in achieving the purpose of the states men who were the architects of its being. Another attempts to measure the success of the institution in promoting what is generally accepted at the present time by intelligent persons as good government. Measured by the first of these standards, the Privy Council would probably disappoint the author of the constitution, or at least disappoint his expectations as expressed in the almost naive language of the celebrated Commentaries on the Constitution wherein the Council was designed “to serve as the highest body of the emperor's constitutional advisers,” and was “to be impartial, with no leanings to this or that party, and to solve all difficult problems.”

Confusion reigns almost supreme in the field of political science, particularly when the meaning of terms is involved. Some of our most commonly used words have so many meanings, shades of meaning, and connotations that hearers and readers are frequently at a loss as to the meaning and significance of terms used unless the speaker or writer defines them as he uses them. A cursory examination of the term “state” brought to light no fewer than one hundred forty-five different definitions, even though only a few writers were included who might be classed as radical. Less than half of the definitions were in general agreement. Even this statement is based on the assumption that when the same words were used by two writers they were used to mean the same thing; and I doubt whether the assumption is entirely justifiable. Furthermore, “state” is not the only term in political science which is defined in multifold ways. A similar situation was found when others, especially “law,” “government,” “political,” “administration,” were investigated.

The process of communication between political scientists, as well as between these scientists and laymen or between laymen and laymen, comes to be a guessing game. Consciously or unconsciously, it is suggested, we are spending much of our time guessing what the sender means when he uses even technical words.

State activity in the amendment of constitutions seems to fluctuate between off-seasons in odd years and periods of expansion in even years. In 1927, when this annual survey was inaugurated, seven states were included. In 1928, attention was directed toward eighteen states. The number was reduced to five in 1929, only to swell to a new height of twenty-one in 1930. As heretofore, the constitutional changes are reviewed by states rather than by subject-matter, and the effect of each amendment upon earlier constitutional provisions is indicated. A word is said concerning the amendment process in each state surveyed.

Massachusetts. Commencing in 1935, and continuing every tenth year thereafter, a census of the inhabitants of each city and town is to be taken and a special enumeration made of the legal voters therein for the purpose of determining the representative districts for the ten-year period beginning with the first Wednesday in the fourth January following the special enumeration. Districts established in 1926 continue in effect until the first Wednesday in January, 1939. Provision is made for the division of towns of twelve thousand population and over into representative districts; but no precincts in such towns may be divided. In taking the census, the enumeration of legal voters must specify the number residing in each precinct of the town. Towns of less than twelve thousand inhabitants may not be divided into representative districts. County commissioners are authorized to create representative districts and to apportion representatives among them. The total number of representatives (240), senators (40), and councilors remains unchanged (new Articles 21 and 22 in substitution for old Articles 21 and 22). It is necessary that constitutional amendments be approved by a majority of the Senate and by two-thirds of the House of Representatives in two successive legislatures, and by a majority of electors voting thereon at a popular election.

The constitution of California—filling one hundred and sixty-five pages of fine print—has been the object of so much criticism, and even ridicule, that the people of the state are fairly well agreed that it ought to be given an overhauling. As to the nature and extent, as well as the method, of the proposed reconstruction, there is, however, little or no harmony of view. The fact that the state electorate has on a number of occasions declined to sanction the calling of a constitutional convention does not indicate that it is content to leave things as they are. But what, it is asked, might such an assembly do? Should it tamper with those sections dealing with the initiative, referendum, or recall, its work would come to nothing. Should it impair the powers of the railroad commission, or abolish the judicial,council, or set up a new basis of taxation, or lessen the independence of the regents of the state university, or raise the salaries of legislative and executive officials, or take any one of a dozen other courses of action, large sections of the electorate would oppose the revised instrument. It is a fairly safe assumption that a constituent assembly that radically revised the present constitution would see its work discarded by the people. Therefore, since a constitutional convention could do nothing effective, why waste money on a futile adventure?

Since the adoption of the present constitution in 1879, there has been no studied revision. Californians have changed the instrument when and as they have seen fit, acting largely on proposals of the legislature. They have followed no systematic plan; yet in most instances they have acted wisely. Piecemeal, sporadic, and unscientific modifications are not likely to produce a document of sufficient symmetry of form to be admired; nevertheless, the government thus established may prove quite workable, and, as American state governments go, highly successful.

Professional students of American politics, like other members of the governed classes, have their private reasons for discontent with the present administration at Washington. The business depression, to be sure, has not injured the educational interests of the country to the same extent as most others. Decreased income from tuition and endowments has reduced somewhat the demand for young Ph.D.'s in colleges and universities, and the American Association of University Professors has received an extraordinary number of calls for help from older teachers who have been laid off for more or less obscure reasons on the plea of lack of funds. But in general, education seems to be one of the public services for which the public will not readily reduce its effective demand. Boys and girls continue to grow up in bad times as in good, and the increasing difficulty of finding remunerative employment only stimulates the desire for further education. Professorial salaries, once fixed, are not easily reduced, and the fall in the general level of prices leaves most professors better off than before. Hence the private reasons of professors of political science for discontent with the present administration, though no less exigent than those of other members of the governed classes, are of a peculiar nature.

In the first place, the present administration has not fulfilled the high hopes of many political scientists for improvement in the methods of legislation at the national capital. It was hoped, for example, that the executive would take a vigorous initiative in recommending measures to the Congress and would make greater use of technical experts in the preparation of administration measures.

A nomenclature is a system of names or signs, or both, used in any field of knowledge. Such systems are of value to scientists in a field if they enable positions to be seen more clearly or distinctions to be drawn more readily.

In a recent article, Huntington Cairns says: “There prevails, secondly, confusion with respect to the instrument—linguistics—with which the anthropologist, the jurist, or the social scientist must pursue his investigations and through whose medium he must state his conclusions. … But once the social scientist passes from these simple aspects to the realm of theory, linguistics becomes a problem and it is in his struggle with this problem that he is most envious of the symbolism of the mathematician.”1

Confusion and uncertainty appear to be present in several sections of political science. Linguistics is a problem for us in theory; in addition, it is a serious one in teaching and in the field of research.

When a problem appears in a field of knowledge which handicaps effective work, experiments are in order, not only to analyze the phenomenon itself, but, in addition, to find ways or means by which the causes producing the unfortunate circumstance may be removed, or at least reduced. Can the apparent confusion and uncertainty among political scientists concerning the meaning of terms, labels, or intellectual positions be reduced? This is an important problem which directs our attention to the possibility of developing a nomenclature for political science.

American political theorists have long assumed that the various governmental units composing the United States act only in accordance with the powers bestowed upon them by constitutions and conforming laws of their respective jurisdictions. But in recent years they have received an electric shock through the development of “government by special consent.” Basically, the new principle means that a supervisory authority can in reality exercise rights over persons and property not brought under its wing by the constitution under which it operates—provided certain public agencies or private parties agree to the extension. This practice, which has not yet received philosophical treatment, has enabled the several governments of the Union to conquer new worlds without resorting to the long, difficult, and unwieldy process of constitutional amendment. The novel method of transfer by agreement is both rapid and flexible. But why, one is led to inquire, do independent bodies surrender portions of their “sovereignty” to other groups? Certainly not through mere altruism. They do it “for value received,” be it financial aid, convenience, advertising advantages, or other rewards. In all ages, from biblical days to the latest moment, birthrights have been sold for “pottage.”

Financial pottage needs no introduction to most American observers. They are well aware that various states in the Union, for example, have agreed to accept national control over their internal roads, educational affairs, forestry, agriculture, and other matters in exchange for monetary assistance from the federal government. Such transfers of authority for cash are of mutual benefit.

Observers of the American political system have long recognized the difficult position of the opposition party as an effective critic of the legislative and executive policies of the party in power, especially in the interval between campaigns. Our constitutional practices result in the nomination of “available” men for the presidency, and in the rather complete elimination of the defeated candidate from a position of acknowledged party leadership. The methods and traditions which govern and control the procedure of Congress are hardly adapted to produce party leaders who can speak authoritatively for the minority. It is rare that the party out of power is cohesive, united, and ready to present and support an alternative program. It is decidedly difficult, under normal conditions, to arouse public interest in the minority's position, save in the period which precedes an election. On the other hand, because of the great prestige attaching to the presidential office, and because of the elaborate methods of favorable publicity so highly developed by recent chief executives, the party in power is able to direct continuous attention to its policies and program.

The question of effective minority opposition concerns chiefly the Democratic party, since it seems probable that it will remain, for the most part, in the position of an opposition party. The lack of funds adequately to finance campaigns and the relatively insignificant press support given to the Democracy are factors which accentuate the difficulty.

The education department of the state of New York, which is charged with the administration of the literacy test law of 1923, has recently submitted a report on the workings of the measure from 1923 to 1929. The document furnishes some very illuminating evidence, not only on the operation of the literacy test for voters, but on other phases of political action.

These figures indicate a steady increase of interest in voting in the state of New York, if the presidential years are not included. Despite the peak applications of 1928, a larger number of new voters applied in the off-year 1929 than in the gubernatorial year 1926. The figures for 1928 are particularly significant. The Hoover-Smith campaign brought out a record number of non-voters who had never participated, and it must be recalled that these 163,299 persons had either become of age or had been naturalized since January 1, 1922. They do not include persons who were qualified but had never voted before the literacy test law became operative.

It is an old axiom, replete with common sense, that there is no more uncertain field for prophecy than that of practical politics. This is especially true when any forecast must be made fourteen months ahead of time. All that the observer of contemporary American politics may do is to sum up, as far as possible, the existing state of affairs, and then make a series of guesses as to what may eventuate. This present article is written with these conditions in mind, and should be read in the same spirit.

The present political situation would appear to be as follows. Normally, there are at least five million more Republicans than Democrats in the country. This is in large part due to the secession from the Democratic party in 1896 of large numbers of young men, just entering upon adult life or experiencing their first taste of business and finance, who were hostile to the late William J. Bryan and his “free silver” theories. These young men later were added to in large number by the strong, dominant, and attractive personality of Theodore Roosevelt, who typified to them the American spirit. Also the great, underlying influence of economic expansion, the financial and business domination of much of our national life, and the frank acceptance of these conditions by the Republican leaders of the first decade of this century strengthened and accelerated this movement in favor of the “Grand Old Party.” The young men of that time, now grown to middle age and national leadership in many walks of life, are the backbone of the financial support of the party today. And they have brought up their children to the same political allegiance.