Modern financial history records two fundamental changes in the concept of taxation. While, from the 16th to the 18th century, tax collection was considered as an expedient in times of emergency and even an abuse which as soon as possible should be replaced by income derived from public property, particularly domains, and by voluntary contributions, common opinion has gradually acquiesced in its permanent character. Current taxation is the inseparable twin of the modern State. This is as true for socialist as for capitalist countries. It is significant that even Soviet Russia, in spite of her vigorous collectivization, had to admit that the government could be more easily financed by current compulsory contributions than by the yield of public enterprises. After a brief diversion into the Utopian tax-free stage during the years 1920 and 1921, she regretfully returned, under the auspices of the New Economic Policy (NEP), to a broad scheme of direct and indirect taxation. Moreover, the recent suggestion of a follower of Mr. Keynes that taxation be stripped of its traditional function since the raising of revenue “can be brought about so much more easily by printing the money.” seems not to have made any deep impression on public opinion. Except for times of emergency and wars, governments are condemned for borrowing a large proportion of their needs.

Tyrannicide has traditionally been distinguished from political assassination in terms of the difference between public and private life. Tyrannicide was a self-sacrificing act for public benefit (and so morally esteemed); common assassination, its opposite, namely, a self-serving act for private gain (and correspondingly censured). Terrorist assassinations, though similarly condemned, raise a special problem since they purport to be self-denying acts for the public good. It is argued that a satisfactory distinction between them and tyrannicide cannot be drawn on the basis of historical or behavioral criteria alone, and consequently a supplementary “teleological” criterion is required. This leads to a consideration of the “classical” and “ideological” styles of politics as the respective contexts of tyrannicide and terrorism. In context, terrorism and tyrannicide can be seen as not only categorically different but also antithetical kinds of political violence. Terrorism, in short, is a form of tyranny of which tyrannicide is a negation.

Only recently have students of political theory begun to pay attention to Plato's Menexenus, and it deserves this closer study. In this article, it is argued that the dialogue is best read as Plato's at least quasi—serious critique of Pericle' famous Funeral Oration, and that a comparison of these two works leads to a paradoxical discovery. For by presenting Socrates in the Menexenus as a defender of a restrained and traditional politics against the bold imperialism of Pericles, Plato presents a figure who is hard to square with the dialectical critic of the city found in dialogues like the Apology. Whether there is nonetheless some thread tying Socrates' venture at political rhetoric to his signature form of philosophy is the deepest question posed by the Menexenus and one which offers new insight on Plato's complex view of the relation between politics and philosophy.

This article explores a hitherto unexamined aspect of John Locke's political thought, his advocacy of general naturalization. It is based upon an unpublished manuscript of Locke's which appears in the Appendix. Although naturalization was supported by a number of Locke's contemporaries, the arguments for naturalization which rely on the tradition of classical republicanism must be distinguished from those such as Locke's which rely on the new political economy. The classical republicans ground naturalization in the need for increasing the number of citizens available for a civic militia; this need, in turn, is intertwined with a vision of imperialistic conquest on the Roman model. Locke's arguments are based on a theory of an expanding commercial society and the productive power of labor. They reflect a new concept of individualistic voluntaristic citizenship which provides an alternative to the common law notions of natural allegiance of Locke's day.

While recent scholarship has attempted to clarify the Founders′ opposition to religious establishment, few pause to consider public establishment as a viable alternative. This study examines one of the eighteenth century's least likely proponents of religious establishment: David Hume. Despite his reputation as an avowed enemy of religion, Hume actually defends religion for its ability to strengthen society and to improve morality. These salutary qualities are lost, however, when society is indifferent about the character of the religion professed by its citizens. Hume's masterful History of England reveals that a tolerant established church is best equipped to reap the advantages of religion while avoiding the dangers of fanaticism. Hume's differences in this respect from Adam Smith and Alexis de Tocqueville are explored.

In the last few years, we have witnessed a remarkable increase in public discourse about the role of religion in American life. From the spirited campaign rhetoric of vice-presidential candidate Joseph Lieberman to George W. Bush's faith-based initiative, our national leaders have demonstrated a growing willingness to bring religion into the public square. One result has been a renewed debate about the meaning of both the First Amendment and the Founders′ principle of nonestablishment. Often missing from this debate is a discussion of the deeper issues at play in the relationship between church and state. What exactly do individual citizens have to fear from a union of church and state?

Anyone who lived in France in the years 1945–1946 has a confused impression of both disarray and nostalgia. In the spring of 1946 Father Danielou, S.J., addressing a small group of British teachers, who had come to France at the invitation of the “Catholic Center of French Intellectuals,” described the time aptly: between the past horrors of war and occupation and the ever-present possibility in the immediate future of other horrors still more atrocious, this period seemed to him an oasis. For a great many Frenchmen this time still evokes the disorder due to the occupation, rapid liberation, and also recalls for them the beginning of a convalescence with all the relief and well-being this implies; it is the period of agitation and illusion.

Diversity and unity are pivotal to the thought of the eighteenth-century German philosopher, Johann Gottfried Herder. Yet despite the enormous influence of his thought on the late Isaiah Berlin in the development of his own pluralism and Berlin's urging for those interested in cultural diversity to learn from Herder, many commentators fail to heed Berlin's equal recognition of Herder's radical antidualism. Thus, while an increasing number of theorists now note Herder's contribution to philosophical and political thought in being one of the first to recognize the value of cultural diversity, many fail to grasp fully the complexity and subtlety of his understanding of culture. Contrary to what is becoming the orthodox view in Anglo-American political theory, Herder was fully aware of the diversity existing within any given cultural community and promoted cultural interaction and interchange in a spirit of cooperation. He only opposed the cultural domination of indigenous populations.

Scholars disagree about whether or not there was a break between Hobbes's earlier, humanistic period and his later, scientific period. This article contends that, when judged on the epistemological level, Hobbes broke with his humanist past by exchanging the probability of the humanists' rhetorical epistemology for the certainty of scientific knowledge. Hobbes believed that only certainty could shield against the anarchy of civil war. Hobbes's rejection of the humanists' epistemology had practical consequences for the issue of religious toleration. The humanists, like the ancient rhetoricians, turned to consensus as the criterion of truth. By relying on consensus, the humanists were able to reduce the area of intolerance; only those beliefs on which there existed a broad-based agreement of the Christian faithful were viewed as essential. Hobbes's rejection of the humanists' epistemology, which included their concept of consensus, also entailed his rejection of their particular defense of toleration. Nevertheless, since Hobbesian political theory is, in principle, neutral on the question of toleration, there is nothing in the logic of Hobbes's argument that would preclude a greater degree of toleration, based on the sovereign's prudential assessment of existing circumstances.

“Conflicting imperatives” lie at the heart of many important social science concepts. This label was introduced by Reinhard Bendix to characterize concepts that entail a dynamic tension among contradictory goals, priorities, or motivations. Notwithstanding the attention scholars give to conflicting imperatives, the importance to social science research of concepts based on conflicting imperatives has not adequately been recognized and the issues of concept formation that arise with these concepts have not been explored. This article seeks to address these shortcomings and to give the consideration of conflicting imperatives a more central place in conceptual and methodological discussions.

This article examines the ties between the work of Václav Havel and his dissident mentor Jan Patočka. Havel's political theory consists largely of an evocative, literary reformulation of a number of themes developed by Patočka, the student of Husserl and Heidegger generally recognized as the most significant Czech philosopher of the century. Insofar as Patočka's work continues to be ignored in the West, the intuitively appealing essays of Havel will themselves fail to be fully understood. This study offers an analysis of Havel's debt to Patočka, as well as an explication of the latter's political thought. With Patočka's phenomenological interpretation of ancient and contemporary thought, of Socrates and Heidegger, a bridge is built between the classical and the postmodern that seeks to ground ethics and politics without recourse to the foundationalism of metaphysical accounts of reality.

Not since the tenth century has Islam been confronted with a greater challenge of self-examination than in the first half of the twentieth century. During its early expansion Islam came into contact with Greek science and philosophy. Its failure to adapt itself to Greek science and philosophy, and to integrate Greek methods and teachings into its own, determined the character of subsequent Islamic thought and institutions. Between the twelfth and nineteenth centuries, Islamic society lapsed into scientific and cultural stagnation, accompanied by political corruption and social disorganization. The Muslims transmitted Greek science and philosophy to Europe without having been influenced by it to any great degree. Whereas Western Europe accepted the Greek heritage and tried to harmonize it with Christian teachings, the Muslim world remained essentially unaffected. Assuming a negative attitude, it finally rejected Greek thought and learning as heretical and, in self-defense, returned to literalism and orthodoxy. Ever since, Islam has been dominated by the theology of its medieval ulama or doctors of Islamic Law.

After World War II bitter controversy broke out in the United States between Catholics, on the one hand, and Protestants and liberals on the other. Although important issues were involved, these controversies have attracted almost no scholarly attention. Donald Crosby's book on Catholics and McCar-thyism is the only full-scale monograph dealing with any aspect of the controversies of which I am aware. My intention here is to draw attention to two additional aspects of the controversy which touch on matters that are still of interest and in need of much more study by historians. These are: (1) ambiguities in the concept of pluralism; and (2) a tendency that emerged in the critique of Catholic authoritarianism to treat democracy as a civil religion. But before taking up these issues we must look briefly at the development of “the Catholic issue” between the A1 Smith campaign of 1928 and the end of World War II.

Considerable controversy in recent decades has centered on the question of why the philosopher in Plato's Republic would condescend to participate in politics. The traditional view is that philosophers rule from a general obligation to the city in which they live, a specific duty to the kallipolis which educated them or an acknowledgement of “the rule of reason as the primary and natural imperative.” However, if the ultimate happiness of the philosopher consists in a contemplative life divorced from politics, then the justice of the city which demands that philosophers rule conflicts with the psychic harmony of the individual philosopher. The analogy between justice in the state and in the individual soul breaks down as justice in the state demands functions of the philosopher for which he has no inclination or expertise. The just rule of reason is possible for individuals but impossible for states, unless philosophers can be required to meet their obligation to rule.

The political thought of Leo Strauss commands the respect and admiration of even his critics. His critical intellectual carpentry is sharp, cutting, and often rebuking. His criticism of modernity, whether it be that of Machiavelli, Max Weber, an existentialist, or a scientific political scientist, is inspired by and deeply rooted in the Greek intellectualistic essentialism, particularly that of Aristotle, and the age-old tradition of nature and natural right as is shown in his work, Natural Right and History

In the antithesis of Western imperialism and colonial nationalisms and the still uncertain synthesis the United States has had a significant and in some ways a determining role. By the extension of its frontiers into the Caribbean and the Pacific at the turn of the century, the United States found itself an imperialist power. American imperialism consciously endeavored to bring what was best of the Western way of life to its colonial peoples. Nevertheless, it depended on the conventional instruments of military force and colonial-civil government imposed by the conqueror. For the United States the Philippines became the fittest subject for this Westernizing process for which Theodore Roosevelt was the outstanding spokesman and apologist. Under President Roosevelt's direction the work of civilizing a backward people received a full American expression, and from a consideration of that enterprise the temper of American imperialism may be sounded. Drawing from the Philippine experiment and from experience with the Caribbean countries Roosevelt combined practical judgments with certain intellectual and emotional attitudes to elaborate a comprehensive doctrine of imperialism.

It has become common to locate the origins of the modern notion of subjective rights theory in late medieval scholastic and juristic writings. But comparatively little effort has been made to connect medieval ideas of individual rights to some of the other key political ideas associated with it in early modern thought, such as consent, limited government, and resistance to illegitimate power. This article argues that a little-known work by the English churchman William of Pagula, known as the Speculum Regis Edwardi III (1331–1332), constructs such a connection. Starting with the concept of a basic human right to property and its free use, William argues that the ruler must respect the individual lordship of his subjects if he is to gain and retain their love and approval. He also asserts in a rudimentary way the legitimacy of popular revolt against a government which violates their subjective rights.

Although the concept of legitimacy is widely invoked in social science literature, political discourse, and common parlance, key empirical and normative questions about legitimacy are often left far from answered, especially “Legitimated by whom?” and “Legitimate by what criteria?” Recently these questions have been raised with particular acuteness with regard to the nascent international society, for instance, the standing of the International Criminal Court and the 2003 invasion of Iraq by the United States-led coalition.

John Adams's complaints notwithstanding, no one of the American Founding generation has been so consistently misunderstood as James Madison. In recent decades a small handful of scholars have made significant strides toward correcting the Madisonian record. In addition to the justly acclaimed study of Madison by Lance Banning, The Sacred Fire of Liberty, the thoughtful work of Alan Gibson stands out in this regard. In particular, Professor Gibson's efforts to parse the contemporary debate over the character of Madison's political thought constitute a distinctive and valuable contribution to the literature on Madison and the Founding.

In his most recent essay, “Veneration and Vigilance: James Madison and Public Opinion, 1785–1800,” Professor Gibson makes three central claims, namely, that Madison never wavered in his commitment to popular sovereignty and deserves to be considered a leading and prescient democratic theorist of the Founding, that Madison's conception of the nature and role of public opinion in the 1790s signifies a substantial revision of the earlier Humean understanding of public opinion he embraced in the 1780s, and that Madison did not seek to foster civic education in the American republic. I agree with the first of these claims, though I would make the case for Madison's democratic credentials even more emphatically than Gibson does. In general, however, Gibson and I share common ground in the recognition of the critical importance of the concept of public opinion in Madisonian theory.

Nietzsche's concept of the higher man is often seen as vague. The article adds concreteness to the concept by studying an example of a higher man, Napoleon. Napoleon embodied power and spiritual health, and was therefore an admirable person. By looking at Nietzsche's description of Napoleon as an artist, we also gain insight into the higher man as a political actor: he uses the public arena as the medium on which he practices his art. In doing so, he presents himself as a exemplar of humanity, inspiring others to seek their own path to excellence. By studying this, we gain important insight into Nietzsche's political teaching. But Nietzsche's account of Napoleon is not one-sided: he also describes Napoleon's corruption. The fall of a higher man is both a warning of the dangers of the political realm, and a reminder that sickness and health are closely connected. Even the mightiest individual is fragile.

In Democracy's Discontent, Michael Sandel argues for a revival of the republican tradition in order to counteract the pernicious effects of contemporary liberalism. As in his earlier work, Sandel charges that liberals who embrace the ideals of political neutrality and the unencumbered self are engaged in a self–subverting enterprise, for no society that lives by these ideals can sustain itself. Sandel is right to endorse the republican emphasis on forming citizens and cultivating civic virtues. By opposing liberalism as vigorously as he does, however, he engages in a self–subverting enterprise of his own. That is, Sandel is in danger of undercutting his position by threatening the liberal principles upon which he implicitly relies. This danger is greatest when he presses his case against the unencumbered self, when he appeals to the obligations of membership, and when he treats republicanism and liberalism as adversaries rather than allies.