Much of this essay falls within the realm of speculative thought. Since it is in the nature of speculation that one's words may appear immodest and his conclusions often eccentric, I shall state my arguments at the outset without pausing to elaborate them. The arguments themselves are quite simple. Each of them will reappear later on clothed, I hope, in more attractive dress.

Two varieties of political thought contended for the allegiance of the American people at the founding of the new nation. The two seem irreconcilable in certain crucial respects.

One was notable for its expression of friendship and brotherhood, for its insistence upon individual spontaneity and uniqueness, and for its disdain for material concerns; it was intuitive and unsystematic in temper. The other displayed a preoccupation with social order, procedural rationality, and the material bases of political association and division; it was abstract and systematic in temper.

The exponents of the latter point of view, having put their opponents to rout, assumed the responsibility for organizing the government and politics of the country. They enacted their psychological, social, economic, and political theories into fundamental law, then erected insititutions designed to train generations of citizens to prefer certain goods and conduct over all others.

In the life of all organizations there seems to be a general tendency toward a state of affairs called “equilibrium” by the favorably disposed and “rigidity” by the disaffected. Once the internal processes of an organization have become routine and its relations to the outside world have become stabilized, a kind of inertia seems to set in. The prevailing patterns are seen as good by the members. Identification involves a good deal of resistance to change. But if this is true of organizations, certain conditions also provide incentives for innovation.

All stable organizations are in a continual process of adaptation. Innovation is that part of the process which is deliberate, self-conscious adaptation. Activities are innovative if they are attempts to change the organization and its environment in keeping with policies thought out in advance of the attempt. Innovation is not to be confused with liberalism or reform. The antonym for innovation is “consolidation,” not conservatism. Liberalism and conservatism are postures toward the kinds of changes required. To have no policy at all for changing things or to have a policy against changing things is to be neither liberal nor conservative; it is to be non-innovative or consolidative.

In a recent monograph, Professor Heinz Eulau begins his analysis by quoting two “evidently antagonistic formulations” of the theoretical underpinnings of voting behavior in the United States:

1. “A person thinks, politically, as he is socially.”

2. Crucial among the elements in the electoral decision are “traditional or habitual partisan attachments.”

These rival conceptions of primacy among politically relevant variables are often summarized by the terms “class” and “party.” As Eulau points out, “from Aristotle to Harold J. Laski, the relationship between class and party has been one of the ‘grand problems,’ so-called, of speculation about political systems. It has also remained one of the most neglected areas of systematic theory and of empirical analysis.” Data drawn from Survey Research Center surveys have recently been used to explore the relative importance and specify the interdependence of class and party in American voting. Generally, they show party to be more immediately relevant to the voting decision than class, though class position clearly shapes and sets limits to possible party identification and party-related perspectives.

Difficult problems are involved in attempting to sort out and define the two postulated independent variables. The extent to which, in some sense, class determines party orientation is perhaps the most difficult. For example, even when it is found that a certain portion of the working class prefers the Republican party, it may still be that a generation or two earlier the families of this group were Republican on class grounds, and have perpetuated the identification through the socialization process. Campbell et al., conclude that party identification has a “conserving influence,” inhibiting or, at least, slowing down the political manifestation of changes in class position. Their dat a strongly suggest that in any immediate situation class will be much less highly correlated with the vote than party preference. Campbell et al., do not attempt to control for class in relating party identification to the vote, although they do explore the separate effect of class. Eulau deals with this problem at length, but his focus is rather different. He does not attempt to specify the relative weight of each independent variable in predicting the vote, but concentrates on exploring the interrelationships of the two variables.

A generation ago “legal realists” led by Jerome Frank and Karl Llewellyn dismissed law as a myth—a function of what judges had for breakfast. The important thing, they insisted, was what a court did, not what it said. No doubt this was good medicine for the times. Yet, however broad Frank's 1930 language, later on the bench he loyally acknowledged the compulsive force of legal rules. As a lower court judge, he decided cases in accordance with what he found the law to be—and on occasion he made clear in addenda what he thought it ought to be.

Llewellyn, too, changed his mind. In 1934 he had said, “The theory that rules decide cases seems for a century to have fooled, not only library-ridden recluses, but judges.” Seventeen years later he confessed that his earlier behavioral descriptions of law contained “unhappy words when not more fully developed, and they are plainly at best a very partial statement of the whole truth.”

In short, after their initial enthusiasm, these and other legal realists recognized that there is and must be law in the judicial process, as well as discretion. This was inevitable, for society can no more dispense with order and coherence than it can deny the demands of changing circumstance. We must have stability, yet we cannot stand still; and so the legal system inevitably has both static and dynamic qualities. Holmes put it in a thimble: “The … law is always approaching, and never reaching, consistency. It is forever adopting new principles from life at one end, and it always retains old ones from history at the other, which have not been absorbed or sloughed off. It will become entirely consistent only when it ceases to grow.”

The main point of this article is to identify some traditions of American thought that figure in analysis of the distinctively democratic aspects of government. The discussion is centered on doctrines of “representation.” While that term has a generally understood meaning, its application in specific contexts depends upon values and expectations closely related to other largely procedural aspects of politics; and together these perspectives figure in appraisals and decisions of policy.

The “distinctively democratic aspects of government” have broadly to do, I think, with relations between public officials and the population. These can be conceptualized and described in terms of institutions, influence, identification, or exchange, and are so treated in various positive or empirical approaches. At the points where normative critique and empirical description join, the literature of American political science seems to have converged on several broad concerns that tend to organize and orient discussion—e.g., representation, responsibility, rationality, and lately, the “public interest,” of which “representation” surely has the clearest empirical reference. These are overlapping or intersecting concerns. They emphasize different aspects of government and different blends of calculation and control (or intellectual versus institutional elements); but they do not refer to distinct phenomena, and they relate to common normative traditions. Such terms are often, I think, of dubious utility because they tend to obscure the more detailed values at stake in action or discussion and perhaps thereby to discourage more pointed empirical inquiry relevant to those values. However that may be, the interrelatedness of these concerns and the broad relevance of “representation” can be briefly indicated.

Human culture develops as a means for man to control his environment. Primitive cultures rely to a large extent on magical means. The whimiscal and incalculable forces which govern nature are personified, and rituals are developed which are intended to control the actions of the gods. Such cultures tend to be fatalistic. The magical controls are limited and uncertain. One must endure and accept what comes.

As culture develops, men turn increasingly to rational control of the environment. Technology arises, and, what is more fundamental, attitudes arise which enable the progressive development and utilization of technological resources. In our culture, full rational control over the environment appears not far from accomplishment.

As the forces of nature give way to the development of culture, however, it becomes evident that the culture itself exhibits “forces” or “laws of development” which seem themselves to be beyond control. It has become a commonplace to say that while man has established rational control over nature, he has not done so over his culture, and that this is the next and imperative task. What is too commonly overlooked is the radically different nature of the second problem.

It is through culture that rational control of nature is possible. By analogy, it would seem that culture itself must supply the resources to control itself: that is, that rational control over culture must in some sense be reflexive. This raises a set of problems that, even after two thousand years, have not as yet been thought through. The methods and techniques used to control nature may have to be profoundly transformed before they can be used to subject culture to rational control—indeed, the very meaning of the term “rational control” is called into question.

In recent years a rich outpouring of case studies on community decision-making has been combined with a noticeable lack of generalizations based on them. One reason for this is a commonplace: we have no general theory, no broad-gauge model in terms of which widely different case studies can be systematically compared and contrasted.

Among the obstacles to the development of such a theory is a good deal of confusion about the nature of power and of the things that differentiate it from the equally important concepts of force, influence, and authority. These terms have different meanings and are of varying relevance; yet in nearly all studies of community decision-making published to date, power and influence are used almost interchangeably, and force and authority are neglected. The researchers thereby handicap themselves. For they utilize concepts which are at once too broadly and too narrowly drawn: too broadly, because important distinctions between power and influence are brushed over; and too narrowly, because other concepts are disregarded—concepts which, had they been brought to bear, might have altered the findings radically.

Many investigators have also mistakenly assumed that power and its correlatives are activated and can be observed only in decisionmaking situations. They have overlooked the equally, if not more important area of what might be called “nondecision-making”, i.e., the practice of limiting the scope of actual decisionmaking to “safe” issues by manipulating the dominant community values, myths, and political institutions and procedures. To pass over this is to neglect one whole “face” of power.

In the history of political thought, revolution is a relatively new idea. Rebellion, insurrection, tyrannicide, civil war, resistance: all these have been discussed and debated since the very beginnings of speculation about politics. But the idea that a select group of men might wilfully and systematically employ political violence to effect the moral and social transformation of an established order was literally not conceived until early modern times and did not become a matter of self-conscious speculation until quite recently. The purpose of this essay is to analyze and, in part, to explain one of the earliest appearances of revolutionary thought—among a group of exiled English and Scottish writers in the sixteenth century. It is a case study in the origins (rather than a description of the origin) of a new intellectual style and a new mode of perceiving and responding to the political world. But a new style and a new set of perceptions and responses suggests a new man: the religious exile of the sixteenth century was such a man, an intellectual suddenly set loose from conventional and corporate ties and radicalized, so to speak, by his experience. Hence the nature of the exile and the social character of the exiles must be studied before the new ideas can be fully understood.

The writings of the Marian exiles have rarely been accorded such importance as will be attributed to them in this essay. Their work has more often been treated as a minor part of monarchomach literature; more especially, as an anticipation of, or a footnote to, the more important work of the French Huguenots.

Political science has been greatly stimulated in recent years by the invention of new designs for the comparative analysis of political systems. The diversity of these designs, however, risks creating a situation in which it may be difficult to derive agreed conceptual tools. Any points of convergence which can be found, therefore, and particularly in contrasting comparative designs, need to be emphasized. The purpose of this note is to show that in two recent designs for comparative analysis which are divergent in purpose, method and universe of application, there is a convergence on two fundamental points. The first is that liberty, taken to mean freedom of criticism and of discussion, is a major variable for comparative analysis. The second is that once liberty has been employed as a variable, it is necessary to employ policy as a secondary variable in order to discriminate among those political systems in which freedom of discussion does not exist or is severely limited.

Neither of the systems of comparative analysis which I will discuss, one constructed by Raymond Aron and the other by Gabriel Almond, explicitly employs either liberty or policy as variables. In fact, Aron makes a deliberate effort to avoid using liberty as a variable, and policy is implicitly ruled out of Almond's design by his reliance on functional categories. Yet both authors implicitly take freedom of discussion as a major variable, and when they discuss totalitarian regimes they both employ additional variables which can be subsumed under the heading of policy.

Some four years before the appearance of Mill's On Liberty, Macaulay sang the praises of the freedom of the press in his History of England. One hundred and sixty years earlier, in 1695, the censorship of the press had been withdrawn in England. Prior to this event, according to Macaulay, the prohibition of political criticism had elicited a flourishing trade in contraband criticism to which moderation was unknown. Its creators and distributors were not law-abiding citizens, and their character was not high. In fact, what they produced was unprincipled, fanatical, wild and dissolute in the extreme.

For the aftermath, we must quote at length:

… The emancipation of the press produced a great and salutary change. The best and wisest men in the ranks of the opposition now assumed an office which had hitherto been abandoned to the unprincipled or the hotheaded. Tracts against the government were written in a style not misbecoming statesmen and gentlemen; and even the compositions of the lower and fiercer class of malcontents became somewhat less brutal and less ribald than in the days of the licensers.