Parallel statements through the 1970s and 1980s can be found regarding study of the religious elements in early modern liberal political thought, notably that of Hobbes and Locke. By any measure, the study of religion in American politics, history, and culture, and in political philosophy today, is not only flourishing, it threatens to overwhelm us. This is true not only in the bureaucratic sense of the Religion and Politics Section of the APSA, but in the focus on religion across the discipline and in the use by these political scientists of the work of political, social, cultural, racial, and gender historians and literary critics. And where enough entrepreneurial academics go, grant-giving foundations are sure to follow.

I examine the exploitation of quorum rules in American legislatures from the colonial era to the present. After documenting changing quorum standards, I examine instances where minorities (and occasionally majorities) have exploited them through disappearing quorums and bolting quorums. This analysis allows me to identify the conditions under which quorum rules have been more easily abused for partisan purposes.

The twentieth century was the century in which African-Americans fought their way into American democracy. But it did not begin that way. From 1895 until 1915, Booker T. Washington advised African-Americans, with considerable success, to adopt a different course. He believed that blacks were unlikely to attain equal rights through political protest. Hence, they should stop fighting racial segregation and political exclusion. Equality would come only after blacks had attained a substantial level of economic success. In order to achieve this, African-Americans would have to build their own institutions – schools, businesses, and the like. Thus, Washington advised accommodation, economic initiative, and racial self-help. And his was not idle advice, for Washington became the most influential black leader of his day – possibly of any day.

The shifting salience of political parties is a central issue in American political development. From the debates over colonial “parties” to debates over the relevance of realignment theory in the 1980s and 1990s, scholars have attempted to assess the impact of political parties on political development. One topic that has provoked particularly extensive debate is the status of parties since World War II. Scholars point to confidence gaps, realignment, and institutional displacement, among other factors, to explain the postwar decline of political parties. But there are problems: Analytical frameworks explaining decline cannot account for recent signs of party resurgence; frameworks explaining resurgence typically account for little of the decline. Those focused on one aspect of the party system (e.g., parties in Congress) rarely offer insights on other aspects (e.g., parties in the electorate). What is needed is an approach that places parties within their structural settings. If these settings change, parties may change.

Recently, Victoria Hattam and William Forbath have separately defended new explanations of the development of the distinctive, relatively apolitical labor movement in the United States. Their explanations differ from earlier accounts that saw the failure of socialism in the United States as the result of either the distinctive liberal tradition in the United States or of ethnic and other divisions within the working class. Their alternative view is that distinctive structural features of the U.S. state – in particular, the independent judiciary – played a decisive role in shaping the development of the labor movement. This paper questions some of the shared assumptions of these new accounts, focusing on Victoria Hattam's recent book, Labor Visions and State Power. Without denying that the judiciary played an important role in the development of the U.S. labor movement, I want to suggest a different account of the relationship between the judiciary and the legislative and executive branches.

Whether secession movements in Europe draw support from the disintegration of the Soviet Union into multiple units based on separate national identities or whether there are also independent centrifugal forces, the “right to secession” has emerged as a pressing question of democratic theory, one which is intertwined in complex ways with the current debate over the foundations of modern democratic society. This essay seeks to clarify the issue of right to secession through a critical examination of a single modern statesman: Abraham Lincoln.

The increase in writing by political historians and political scientists about the United States in the 1940s registers concerns about origins – after some major endings, notably of Democratic political predominance and the Cold War. That decade also saw the beginning of serious national efforts at reform in racial politics.

How, if at all, can studies of the city help us understand the distinctive qualities of the American regime? In “The Burdens of Urban History,” which refines and elaborates his earlier paper “The Problem of the Political in Recent American Urban History,” Terrence McDonald, a historian who has written on urban fiscal policy and conflict, argues that students of the city have focused their work too narrowly on bosses and machines, patronage and pluralism. In so doing, they have obscured other bases of politics and conflict, and, trapped by liberal categories of analysis, they have perpetuated a self-satisfied, even celebratory, portrait of American politics and society. This unfortunate directionality to urban research in some measure has been unwitting because historians and social scientists have been unreflective about the genealogies, and mutual borrowings, of their disciplines. Even recent critical scholarship in the new social history and in the social sciences under the banner of “bringing the state back in” suffers from these defects. As a result, these treatments of state and society relationships, and of the themes that appear under the rubric of American “exceptionalism,” are characterized by an epistemological mish-mash, a contraction of analytical vision, and an unintended acquiescence in the self-satisfied cheerleading of the academy that began in the postwar years.

Beginning in the late 1840s advocates of municipal reform in the United States campaigned to throw rascals out of public office, reconstruct the legal foundations of municipal government, and install regimes of at least modest virtue in place of local government's shameless vice. More profoundly, reformers hoped to replace municipal political cultures of partisanship and patronage with different values and expectations. In these efforts reformers met with the militant opposition of party leaders and their constituents; party leaders too had a vision of what local political life ought to be, and of their own central role in making it so.

The policy feedback literature developed in an era in which the level of polarization and the intensity of party competition were far lower than today. These background conditions narrowed the scope of many policy debates and facilitated the consolidation of programmatic expansions after their enactment. As a result, the feedback literature emphasized the ways that new policies build supportive constituencies and become entrenched. While the core insight that policies can generate major political repercussions remains solid, American political development (APD) scholars should pay greater attention to the role of negative feedback processes and backlash politics in an era of disunity. Based on a review of New York Times articles mentioning policy backlash between 1960 and 2019, I show that the 2010s was a period of heightened countermobilization. Backlash forces have diffused from civil rights into many other arenas—including health, trade, and immigration—due to partisan polarization, conflicts over cultural shifts, and the negative feedback from activist government itself.

Through the 1880s, Senator Henry Blair (R-NH) spearheaded an effort to erode local control of education by turning Congress into a source of funds and oversight for state-level primary and secondary schools. The Blair Bill won support from an interregional, interracial, bipartisan coalition. It passed in the Senate on three separate occasions, was endorsed by presidents, and was a frequent topic of discussion among party elites. Yet in 1890 the bill failed for the last time, and local control would go largely unchanged until the 1965 Elementary and Secondary Education Act. In this article we explore the decade-long battle surrounding Blair's proposal. Our analysis focuses on this lost opportunity as a way of highlighting the coalitional and institutional dynamics that work to prevent reform in an otherwise favorable environment. In this way, we contribute to a large literature on the uneven course of American state development.

U.S. Grant was stumped: “The muddle down there is almost beyond my fathoming,” the president told the New York Herald in the summer of 1871. What had him flummoxed was the recently adjourned “Gatling Gun Convention” in New Orleans, a Republican state nominating gathering that reads like a passage from a novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The run-up was punctuated by open combat in the trenches and foxholes of countless ward clubs and party conventions—the so-called “War of the Factions.” When the sitting Republican governor, the colorful and roguish Henry Clay Warmoth, hobbled by a boating accident earlier in the summer, led delegates supporting his candidacy to the designated meeting place inside the U.S. Customhouse on Canal Street, federal soldiers manning the latest in automatic weaponry turned him and his followers away when they tried to barge into a rival group's caucus. Warmoth thereupon guided his followers to another meeting hall. For the next 18 months, warring Republican factions moved in and out of opportunistic alliances with Conservative-Democrats. They divided into rival legislatures, used force to achieve quorums, and arrested and impeached their own senior leaders. If some of the more scurrilous allegations are to be believed, they even poisoned their lieutenant-governor. Were Louisiana politics on the verge of becoming “Mexicanized”—plunged into chronic crisis and political tumult? That was the question beginning to trouble Republican observers north of the Ohio River.

What explains the development of repressive employer coordination? Classic historical American business and labor literature focuses on institutions of labor repression and employer associations, but little systematic examination of such associations exists, particularly during the interwar period. Similarly, recent political science literature on the origins of industrial institutions underemphasizes the importance of repressive employer associations. I use new quantitative subnational evidence from the U.S. interwar period, with data from the open-shop movement in the United States at the local level after World War I. I test a variety of families of hypotheses regarding variation in repressive employer coordination, with specific data measuring the threat posed by organized labor. I find that such threats posed by unions are correlated to repressive employer associations. The results have implications for understanding local-level variation in the business repression of labor movements in the early twentieth century and contribute to our understanding of labor repressive institutions and the incentives of firms to collectively act.

In 1908, the Supreme Court struck down Section 10 of the Erdman Act of 1898 in the notorious case of Adair v. United States.1 Section 10 made it a misdemeanor for employers in the railroad industry to blacklist members of railroad unions or to require employees to sign “yellow-dog” contracts, that is, contracts promising that the employee would not join a labor union. The Court ruled that Section 10 was unconstitutional because it interfered with the “liberty of contract” allegedly protected by the United States Constitution.

The story of American political thought has been told in many different ways. Three genres stand out. The first is written within the larger framework of intellectual history and takes the form of anthology and narrative summary. Among its most prominent features are an eclecticism of sources (from Roger Williams to Walt Whitman to Erich Fromm) and a heavy emphasis on the period from the first New England settlements through the victory of Jeffersonian democracy. A second form is constitutionalist. Charting the major struggles over legal and institutional relationships through time, this perspective gives prominence to landmark court decisions and articulations of major constitutional issues by party and political leaders. As articulated in the late nineteenth century, it examines the major forms of constitutionalist thinking that lie behind these constitutional and institutional struggles. The third genre, I label populist-progressive. Here, the story of American political thought is Earlier versions of this paper were presented at the Southwestern Political Science Association annual meeting, March 23–26, 1988, Houston, Texas, and at the American Politics Group meeting in Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford University, January 4–6, 1988.

To be taken seriously is the hope of a serious author, next to which being agreed with is a petty affair. If this sentiment sounds inhuman, and too good to be true, it is because it abstracts from the desire for recognition, which can take the form of desire for political power. Sheldon Wolin takes my book Taming the Prince1 seriously as—as if it were!—an important political influence. He flatters the all-too-human side of my soul by fastening on the book's conclusion and working backwards from that.

Social scientists have long been interested in the development of education. Mustafa Emirbayer and Clyde Barrow, whose essays appear in this volume, have many illustrious predecessors including political scientists Ira Katznelson and Margaret Weir; economists Max Weber, Albert Fishlow, Samuel Bowles and Herbert Gintis, and Martin Carnoy and Henry Levin; and sociologists Emile Durkheim, John Meyer, Martin Trow, Randall Collins, Joseph Ben David, Julia Wrigley, and Margaret Archer.