Some analysts blame the direct primary for the supposedly parlous state of the American party system; others assert that nominating procedures do not affect parties at all. The literature abounds with more or less judicious, and conflicting, estimates of the consequences of the primary mode of nomination. In fact, our present knowledge provides little basis for confident appraisal of the effects of the direct primary. This article reports an attack on a small part of the problem, viz., state legislative nominations in two-party states, by explicit methods of analysis, whose use may both make possible a minor substantive contribution as well as demonstrate the appalling amount of work necessary for a provisional solution of even the smallest aspect of the broad problem.

To cope with questions about the consequences of particular institutional arrangements requires both a working theory and a means of observation to determine whether it fits the facts. For lack of a better concept, the problem of the effects of the primary method of nomination may be regarded as a special case of the broader question of the nature of the interaction between formal and informal organization.

This, the fiftieth annual meeting of our Association, has more than ordinary significance. Certainly it can be said that the Association has attained middle-age and the intellectual as well as the physical maturity to do proper credit to our years. We may, on this special occasion at least, regard with pardonable pride our record of growth, the recognition and development of our discipline in both teaching and research, the public service it has rendered, and its contribution to the forward progress of American political democracy. American political scientists, practitioners of what Aristotle rightly or wrongly described as the “master science,” have recognized, as did Plato and Aristotle, the surpassing importance of political problems in society and have experienced the difficulties which they foresaw in the effort to employ scientific methods and procedures in the solution of such problems. Beyond doubt, however, we move steadily forward. Our scientific and professional standards show constant improvement. Our store of knowledge is immense. Our almost feverish search for new data is incessant. We know almost all there is to know about the political infirmities of our patients except how to cure them. The state of domestic and world affairs keeps us humble.

Ten months after President Eisenhower's inaugural, an article in Fortune extolled a presidential aide in terms which would have seemed familiar ten months before; the picture of his role in Eisenhower's entourage might easily have been drawn in President Truman's time. The subject of this piece was Roger W. Jones, an Assistant Director of the Bureau of the Budget and chief of its Office of Legislative Reference. In Fortune's terms, here was a confidential, if “non-political,” member of the White House circle performing tasks of great importance to the President, trusted, respected, and relied upon by all of his associates. As an analysis of governmental functions and relationships, this testimonial was scarcely definitive, but its mere publication testifies to the continuation of the Budget Bureau's so-called legislative clearance operations, handily surviving the Great Transition of 1953.

What are these clearance operations? Essentially they amount to central coordination and review of stands taken by the various federal agencies at three successive stages of the legislative process.

A study of the relation of intellectuals to public opinion suggests the outlines of a sociology of the intellectuals as a functioning social group. The libertas philosophandi has long been asserted by the educated elite, and in pre-democratic days the theoretical relation to public opinion was quite clear. Philosophers have had the civil liberty to criticize government, but the same right was not generously extended to the vulgar conscience, or the common men who composed the “open public.” Actually, the rise of democracy has not really clarified the issue, though the mass or Gnostic movements of modern times have asserted the right to judge the government, the intellectuals, and any other group that might stand in the way of political victory. The democratic intellectual can hardly say that the revolting mass does not have the right to judge him, but he can and does say that public opinion must be reformed, purified, educated, or directed by the latest in scientific hypothesis. More especially, however, the modern selfconscious intellectuals have directed their fire against other groups or elites who have a following and who in fact provide a pluralistic leadership of public opinion.

A rough measure of the resilience of the British Conservative party is indicated by the relatively rapid comeback from the electoral defeat of 1945. Instead of a twenty years' exile, like that of American Republicans, the Conservatives were out of office only six years. To be sure, their return to power was by a very slim parliamentary majority, representing less than half the popular vote cast in the General Election of 1951. And the ups and downs of the Conservative Goverment's popularity, as reflected in by-elections during 1952 and 1953, have shown little more than a capacity to hold the existing narrow margin. For many it must still seem difficult, as it did for Professor Herman Finer in the late 1940's, “to conceive a policy which, within some decades even, might win back for the Conservatives enough votes to support a solid government.” Naturally the Conservatives themselves have hardly accepted the fate of serving only an occasional interregnum between periods of Labour rule. Almost entirely without the spectacular issues which have characterized recent electoral successes of American Republicans, the British Right has sought to refute the assumption that it is incapable of presenting a sufficiently attractive political alternative to socialism.

“Congressional government is Committee government” said Woodrow Wilson in 1884, and political scientists since that day have seen no reason to disagree with him. It would be reasonable to suppose then that once committees ceased to meet secretly (as they did when Wilson wrote) and began to keep verbatim public records of their proceedings, the committee process would be subjected to relentless and systematic study. Such has not been the case. The frequency with which Wilson is quoted is as much a reflection of a lack of substantive research by later students as it is a tribute to his intuitive insights.

It would not be hard to make a case for close and continuous study of congressional committees. On every count, they would seem to hold as much interest for the student of politics as administrative bodies or the courts, upon which so much more attention has been lavished. They are decision-making agencies of crucial importance; it is a commonplace that they hold life-or-death power over legislation. Again, they provide a point of focus for the political process; they are “miniature legislatures,” “microcosms” of their parent bodies—not in the sense that they epitomize the larger houses, but rather that the committees are subject to the same influences and power drives, which are easier to intercept and analyze here than in the larger and more complex houses themselves.

The organized interest group does not make the laws of the land. It must devise means for gaining access to and influencing those who are constitutionally empowered to make, administer, or otherwise define the law. This study deals with the efforts of one organized group, the Associated Industries of Vermont, to secure its objectives in the 1951 session of the Vermont legislature. The study is correlatively concerned with the legislator's view of the AIV activities and, more broadly, of the legislative process.

The Associated Industries of Vermont is a “peak” association; an organized business group which acts as spokesman for many diverse business interests in the state. The membership, which ranges from small manufacturers to the National Life Insurance Company, totaled some 450 concerns in 1951, the year in which the events to be described took place. Membership is by individuals, firms, and a few trade associations. Included were almost all the textile, the granite and marble, and the machine-tool companies in the state—representing three of the state's important industries. A rough estimate of the total payroll of the member concerns was about half of the total payroll of the state. A few retailing and other non-manufacturing members had recently been added.

The first territory to be returned to Japan by the United States since the 1945 surrender is a group of the Ryukyu Islands. This fact focuses attention on this strategically important archipelago extending from southernmost Japan to Formosa, although the Ryukyus have been at least on the periphery of Western attention for two centuries. The chief compulsions for American popular interest in the islands have been the Battle of Okinawa of World War II and, more recently, the best selling novel and Broadway hit, The Teahouse of the August Moon.

This transitory and popular interest will undoubtedly give way to wider international attention in the next few years as the Japanese become more articulate in their criticism of the questionable grounds on which these islands were stripped from Japan Proper at the end of the war. Of further significance to political science is the fact that Okinawa, major island of the group, is (excepting only the Bonins) the last area of the world to remain under complete American military government control. The character of this nearly ten-year rule by the United States and its impact on a million people who have continually demanded “reversion” to Japan must inevitably be the subject of study of those interested in the confluence of cultures under conditions of sustained military government.

Although David Hume's stature as a philosopher has rarely been questioned, his claims as a political theorist have fared less well. Jefferson showed deep hostility towards Hume's ideas, while John Adams could find agreement with only a few points. Later opinion has been less vehement but still reserved. Thomas Huxley thought Hume's political writings suggestive, but on the whole marred by an unabashed desire for literary success. In Sir Leslie Stephen's judgment Hume was guilty of a “cynical conservatism” that was at once superficial and unhistorical.

More recent studies, such as those of Sabine and Halévy, have established more securely Hume's place in political thought but have left certain ambiguities. Sabine has coupled Hume with Burke as an opponent of eighteenth-century rationalism, while Halévy viewed him as a forerunner of the “philosophical radicalism” of Bentham, Adam Smith, James Mill, and Ricardo. To have fathered squabbling children is always something of an embarrassment, but particularly so when one is, like Hume, temperamentally averse to taking sides. It is true, nonetheless, that if a temporary distinction is made between Hume's doctrine and his influence, it is possible to maintain that his influence worked in two quite different directions. His inquires into causation, the role of reason, and the nature of moral judgments helped eventually to undermine the natural law structure of eighteenth-century liberalism, while his emphasis on utility as the test of institutions contributed an important ingredient to Benthamite liberalism.

American political parties have long been the victims of a peculiarly ambivalent public attitude—an attitude which on the one hand views them as perverters of the democratic spirit while on the other hand it gives them a vital role in the political process. Much of the regulation imposed on the parties in this spirit of distrust makes it all the more difficult for them to carry out their political role. To operate successfully, they have been forced to adapt their organization and functions to rigorous legal climates.

The vagueness and flexibility of political organization in the states reflect this constant struggle the parties wage to maintain their vitality and integrity against what are frequently severe legal odds. Parties have learned to create informal organs which will be effective and practical. Consequently, the real centers of political power rarely parallel the orderly, pyramided party organzations that the states create. The state or local party leader who holds no formal party office and the extra-legal organization or “machine” are commonplaces in American politics.

Many Americans view “neutralism” as a new type of social disease. Its probable causes: intimacy in some form with communism; its symptoms: mental confusion and moral dereliction; its cure: unknown. This is a somber diagnosis, filled with implications of doom for the “victims.” But our warnings and protests have been to little avail. Most “neutralists” have deliberately rejected them, and the “disease”—if that be its proper designation—has approached epidemic proportions in many areas. Among the centers of infection, Asia is certainly the region where “neutralism” has shown its most consistent strength and taken its most diverse forms. And however much they may lament it, Americans must recognize the fact that Asian “neutralism” can be neither ignored nor talked out of existence. In our own interests, therefore, we should seek a more complete understanding of this highly complex force—its causes and effects, and possibly its implications for future American policy. Understanding does not necessarily mean acceptance; it does permit a more accurate calculation of alternative risks, and this is the vital element in decision making.

At the outset, the problems of definition and terminology must be raised. It is not easy to define or describe “neutralism” in such manner as to obtain the largest measure of agreement from all parties concerned. Frequently, the word is intended as an epithet, with connotations similar to those suggested in our opening sentences.

Great Britain's giant nationalized industries pose unprecedented problems for a free nation. Are the old governmental forms appropriate? Can the new forms be held accountable to the public? Can public accountability and business efficiency be reconciled? The five key industries, formed out of thousands of former enterprises, employ almost two million workers—almost three times the number of civil servants. Even the strictly “business” problems are unprecedented. In personnel, the transport industry is double the size of American Telephone and Telegraph. Coal is three times the size of General Motors. Admitting that the final answers on accountability had not been found, Herbert Morrison, then Lord President of the Council, well stated the prevailing British attitude: “We are in the early years of novel constitutional and social experiments of great long-term significance, and we can be certain that as experience grows the methods which are in use at present will need to be modified and additional methods will be evolved.”

If Sophocles were alive today to recast the dilemma of Antigone in contemporary, if less sanguine, terms, he might well seize on the problem of the citizen who refuses to answer questions put to him by a congressional investigating committee. Antigone, you will recall, was torn between two loyalties. Her religion commanded her to bury the body of her brother, while her state commanded that his body be left, unburied and unmourned, to be eaten by dogs and vultures on the open plain outside the city walls. As a loyal citizen, Antigone was required to yield her conscience to the state, to guide her conduct not by her rational moral knowledge but by the precepts of the law. As a person bound to her kin by the dictates of her religion, she was required to subordinate the instructions of Creon the king to those of her faith. She chose to obey her conscience and paid the penalty. Socrates, who—according to a traditional interpretation of the Crito—would doubtless have counseled otherwise, was also executed by the state. Thoreau, who at a critical moment followed what has scornfully been termed “the primitive attitude of Antigone, rather than the mature comprehension of Socrates,” found that refusal to obey a law resulted not in loss of life but in temporary loss of physical freedom.

There was no change in the personnel of the Supreme Court during the 1952 Term. But following the close of the Term, on September 8, 1953, Chief Justice Fred M. Vinson, who had been appointed to the Court by President Truman in 1946, died unexpectedly at the age of 63. To replace him President Eisenhower gave a recess appointment to Governor Earl Warren of California on October 2. The new Chief Justice was sworn in on October 5.

Two important developments in the constitutional law field during the period under review occurred outside the Court. One was the publication by the Government Printing Office, in 1953, of a newly revised annotated Constitution of the United States, prepared by the Legislative Reference Service under the editorship of Edward S. Corwin. The annotations come down to June 30, 1952. The last annotated Constitution was published in 1938 under the editorship of W. C. Gilbert. The new work, an ample book of about 1400 large pages, is indispensable for students of American government.

Noteworthy also was the appearance of the first two volumes of William Winslow Crosskey's monumental study of the American Constitution, under the title of Politics and the Constitution in the History of the United States.

The conservative in a revolutionary period always represents somewhat of an anomaly. Were society still cohesive, it would occur to no one to be a conservative for a serious alternative to the existing structure would be inconceivable. But a revolutionary period is a symptom precisely of the fact that the self-evidence of the goals of the social effort has disintegrated, that a significant segment of society holds values which either cannot or will not be assimilated. What had been taken for granted must now be defended and the act of defense introduces rigidity. The deeper the fissure, the more inflexible the contending positions and the greater the temptation to dogmatism. Were the “legitimate” structure still universally accepted, it would not be necessary to demonstrate its validity; but the act of defense exhibits the possibility of an alternative.

Once the existing legitimacy has been challenged, no real discourse between the contenders is possible any longer, for they cease to speak the same language. It is not the adjustment of differences within a political system which is now at issue, but the political system itself.

The postwar record of collective bargaining in the steel industry is both important and unique. It is important because steel is a traditional “patternsetter” for large segments of American industry. The key bargains which are negotiated in this industry establish the benchmarks for the negotiations among thousands of employers and their unions, and the relationships between “Big Steel” and the United Steelworkers of America have a profound influence on the whole industrial relations climate of America. Everyone is concerned with the outcome of steel's bargains—unions, employees, companies, the public, and particularly the government.

The record is unique by virtue of the extent of government involvement in collective bargaining matters in this industry. Since the end of the war, there have been three nation-wide steel strikes. The first, in 1946, lasted about three weeks; the second, in 1949, went on for over a month; and the third, in 1952, kept the industry at a standstill for fifty-five days. In all three cases the government was a principal party in the dispute.

Our history affords numerous examples of efforts to secure state cooperation in the enforcement of federal laws, especially those marking abrupt changes in national policy. In practice, state cooperation has been most readily forthcoming in the administration of benefactory legislation. Most notably, federal grants-in-aid have been effective in helping to lift the standards of state services in such functional areas as highways, airports, public health, and agricultural technology. In another area, Selective Service has successfully employed local boards to enforce national policy. On the other hand, the Fugitive Slave law, the Civil Rights laws, National Prohibition, and the Emergency Price Control acts are reminders of the difficulties federal authorities have encountered in trying to enlist state aid in enforcement of national regulatory policies uncongenial to local sentiment. This article examines the experience under a permissive provision of the Fair Labor Standards Act, section 11(b), which authorizes the national government to reimburse state agencies aiding in enforcement.

“The problem of the ‘dying away’ of the state,” observed A. Y. Vyshinsky rather sarcastically in a recent monograph, “is a purely theoretical problem.” Within the context of contemporary Soviet political theory, the accuracy of this observation is beyond question, although Vyshinsky would have been the first to admit that a “theoretical problem,” no matter how pristine, always reflects a practical quandary within the methodological precepts of Marxist-Leninist ideology. This particular theoretical problem conceals an important chapter in the profound transmutation of Marxist political theory and its philosophical substructure in the Soviet Union, for it was the failure to cope adequately with this utopian legacy which led to the abandonment of the eschatological categories of the Marxist doctrine and the erection of a totally new theoretical edifice supported by new philosophical foundations.

Contrary to widespread impression, the theoretical problem of the Soviet state was not satisfactorily resolved at the 18th Party Congress in 1939, although the view is prevalent that Stalin was able to provide an adequate rationalization for the existence of the state in Soviet society. It was on this occasion that the late Soviet leader explained that the state was a necessary institution because of “capitalist encirclement” and that it would persist in socialist and communist society until this encirclement was finally liquidated.

Postwar uprisings and nationalist assertions in Tropical Africa—that part of the continent south of the Sahara and north of the Union—have directed increased attention towards the nature and implications of the awakening of the African to political consciousness. Among scholars this neglected area has long been the preserve of the scientific linguist or of the social anthropologist; only recently have American sociologists, economists, and political scientists developed an active interest in its problems. As a consequence, apart from certain efforts by anthropologists to popularize their findings and insights we have been obliged to rely primarily upon the somewhat contradictory accounts of colonial governments seeking to explain imperial connections, or of African nationalists determined to achieve self-government and the good life of which national self-determination has become the symbol. Thus, we have been placed in the uncomfortable position of having to formulate opinions and policy and to render judgments without sufficient knowledge, or, what could be worse, on the basis of evaluations provided by participants in the nationalist struggle. There is, therefore, a very real need for independent and objective research regarding the character and probable course of African nationalist development.

When the Council of Economic Advisers opened its doors in late 1946, many regarded the fledgling agency as a contingent of depression doctors armed with a “watered down” version of the Full Employment Bill. Instead, during the Truman era, the Council became, in the words of its second chairman, “an overall general economic advisory staff” generally concerned with major problems affecting the growth and stability of the American economy, including its adaptability to the special demands of international stress. Actually the “transition” of the agency to this broader role was more apparent than real, since the Employment Act itself clearly contained a charter for a general economic staff function if the new staff and its principal chose development in that direction. In the wartime deliberations which led up to the Act, the Congress was concerned not only to prevent a postwar depression but also to improve the integration of the whole economic policy formation process. And, in the final version of the Act, after making a very general policy declaration, the Congress decided, instead of drafting specific substantive solutions which would prejudge the source and nature of future economic problems, to establish procedural machinery to facilitate the intelligent diagnosis and solution of such problems when they did subsequently arise.