In the last decade, more and more political scientists have speculated on the possible applications of mathematical analysis to political phenomena. It is the position of this paper that such discussion, when in the abstract, serves little purpose, for the question of whether or not quantitative techniques can fruitfully be so applied is essentially an empirical one and can only be resolved by experiment. Yet even a specifically experimental approach becomes challengeable if it can be shown to misunderstand and hence misemploy otherwise sound techniques. The claim to have solved problems whose mathematical features have not, in fact, been comprehended seems especially harmful in a field where the application of mathematics is as yet in its infancy, and this not only because minor impurities at the base of a growing framework may assume major proportions at its apex, but because exposure of error may breed unjustified disenchantment or give solace to those who prefer a casual, imprecise impressionism in the social sciences.

We have had many reminders of the limits and risks of statistical predictions about human behavior. When I ventured last year to offer a formula describing Supreme Court action in the state “right to counsel” cases over a period of years, I was mainly concerned to show that, contrary to accepted judicial doctrine about decisions in unique cases, consistencies in the Court's collective judgments could be demonstrated in this area, and stated in quantitative terms. I did not suppose that the formula was more than a method of approximation. I did not offer it as the perfect formula, or the only one; and in particular I did not claim that it was capable of indefinite extension to other areas of constitutional law. An exploratory effort begins with what is available. But I did take into account, so far as the available data permitted, not only the Court's decisions, but also the votes of individual justices on each of the pivotal factors on which their positions could be identified or imputed. I did not claim more for the product than that, so far, it works. With this general statement, let me turn to Fisher's article.

Writers on parliamentary law frequently begin their essays by citing with approval Hatsell's famous observation that “… it is more material that there should be a rule to go by than what that rule is ….” So generally is this notion accepted that it probably ought to be regarded as a fundamental premise of parliamentary law. Indeed the whole structure of this branch of law rests on the assumption that form is more important than content. Its literature consists almost entirely of the compilation of precedents, and, furthermore, parliamentarians have seldom been concerned to justify the decisions they compile. This indifference to rationalization clearly follows from Hatsell's premise: if one believes that form alone is important, one appropriately concentrates on the form of rules, largely ignoring questions of whether or not their substance is efficient, or fair, or reasonable.

What combination of forces elects a President? Each electoral decision releases a flood of interpretive comment about the conditions, circumstances, and causes which have influenced the result. A very great assortment of factors is examined and varying estimates are made of the responsibility of each for the outcome. Certainly, interpretations of the most recent presidential contest have shown the variety of ideas Americans bring to the analysis of their national elections. Mr. Eisenhower's victory has been attributed to the satisfactions engendered by national prosperity; to the anxieties raised by the threat of war; to the moods of racial, ethnic, or other groupings in the population; to the personal attractiveness of the winning candidate; to the conservative temper of the electorate; to the impact of various issues; to changing party loyalties; to the growth of suburbia; to the progress of an electoral cycle; to events and strategems of the nominating conventions and the campaign; to the influence of the press and of the other mass media. The list could be revised or lengthened in many ways.

A common generalization about the distribution of power in the American political system states that it is fragmented and decentralized. In accordance with this view, the making of public policy decisions can be explained largely in terms of the continuous interaction, competitive or cooperative, among many diverse semi-autonomous centers of power, some governmental, others non-governmental. Each power-holding unit—individual or group, private or public—is a discrete, describable entity existing within a plural political universe. It must be perceived and understood not in isolation but as one unit in a larger system of interrelated parts. Within such a network, multiple role-playing, group cross-pressures, and institutional rivalry must be considered normal. This paper is an attempt to apply the generally pluralistic viewpoint so expressed to a much neglected political institution, the President's Cabinet, and to the power relationships involving an individual Cabinet member.

Unless federation and political representation are developed in metropolitan areas, compartmentalization of local government and fragmentation of public administration will continue. The unmistakable characteristics of American metropolitan areas make them easy to spot: dense populations, urban in nature; industrial and commercial resources; one or more central cities producing the mononucleated or polynucleated pattern; economic and social interconnections maintained by a daily inflow and outflow of traffic. The web of economic and social structure is, however, by no means equalled by political interconnections. The governmental services required by the people living in the area are either unresolved in their metropolitan aspects or are administered by authorities which are often autonomous and remote from coordinated control. Area-wide government to establish policy for the metropolitan population in its unanimity of need and interest is lacking. No political power is in existence to administer the metropolitan aspects of functions. Metropolitan government as such does not exist; it is a concept and possibly a tentative approach. So far, it is no more than that. Still less in esse is metropolitan self-government.

The French political scientist Jean-Jacques Chevallier tells of a young writer who was explaining his ideas to Maurice Barrès. “I understand your ideas well enough,” declared Barrès, “but your thirst?” That is, what is the fundamental idea, the guiding passion which has led you to express yourself in this way, and which will explain the inner meaning and coherence of your ideas? The fundamental desire of Machiavelli in writing the Prince was the unification of Italy. A passion for popular government was the guiding idea behind the Social Contract of Rousseau. The “thirst” of the Mouvement Républicain Populaire during the first three years of its existence consisted of two incompatible aims, namely, a desire to spread the ideals of Christian Democracy and a desire for immediate electoral success.

The clash between these two aims first occurred in 1944 when a group of leaders of the Resistance to Vichy and the German occupation seized an opportunity to organize a Christian Democratic party, the M.R.P. The conflict continued throughout 1945 and 1946 when the Provisional Government of General Charles de Gaulle and the two constituent assemblies successively governed France. During this period, the M.R.P. achieved its greatest electoral triumphs.

When the forces of the French Union and those of the Viet Minh accepted a cease-fire at Geneva in July, 1954, the 17th Parallel was visioned only as a temporary military demarcation line. Nation-wide elections were to be held within two years to settle the political future of the country; and it was generally taken for granted that the entire area, from the Gate of Nam-Quan on the China border to the Point of Ca-Mau at the tip of the Indo-China peninsula, an area roughly equivalent in size to that of the States of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and West Virginia combined, with a population approximating 23 millions, would fall to Ho Chi Minh and his Communists. The device of a delayed election was accepted merely as a face-saving measure to enable the French to withdraw gracefully from the scene by handing over control of the South—and hence responsibility for its future—to a native government.

That the 17th Parallel has become, instead, a political boundary separating the Republic of Viet Nam, embracing roughly the southern 40 per cent of the area and nearly half of the population, from the Communist “Democratic Republic of Viet Nam,” has been largely the work of a single man, Ngo Dinh Diem, and his closely knit group of assistants.

A great many people seem to believe that “they” run things: the old families, the bankers, the City Hall machine, or the party boss behind the scene. This kind of view evidently has a powerful and many-sided appeal. It is simple, compelling, dramatic, “realistic.” It gives one standing as an inside-dopester. For individuals with a strong strain of frustrated idealism, it has just the right touch of hard-boiled cynicism. Finally, the hypothesis has one very great advantage over many alternative explanations: It can be cast in a form that makes it virtually impossible to disprove.

Consider the last point for a moment. There is a type of quasi-metaphysical theory made up of what might be called an infinite regress of explanations. The ruling elite model can be interpreted in this way. If the overt leaders of a community do not appear to constitute a ruling elite, then the theory can be saved by arguing that behind the overt leaders there is a set of covert leaders who do. If subsequent evidence shows that this covert group does not make a ruling elite, then the theory can be saved by arguing that behind the first covert group there is another, and so on.

To understand the political philosophy of Francis Bacon, or what he tried to do in political philosophy, one must make the clear-cut distinction he saw, I believe, between a provisional and a definitive political teaching. The latter, which he put chiefly in the New Atlantis and the De Sapientia Veterum, could be but imperfectly explored, because man could only build a final political teaching out of an as yet unconstructed natural philosophy. The former, on the other hand, could be known and conveyed with some precision. It was to serve the purpose of furnishing a temporary station for mankind, one that would be liveable and even comfortable as a dwelling place, and one that would at the same time, permit philosophy or science its own discovery of something better. Of the provisional political order, as Bacon saw it, there were three pillars: crown, church, and empire. The imperial pillar is certainly the most important to him of the three, and its construction required a greater boldness than the construction of either of the others.