In the late nineteenth century, public outdoor relief came under severe and sustained attack from reformers. Municipal reformers attacked it as a source of machine patronage and corruption, and charity reformers saw it as the cause of pauperism and moral turpitude among the poor. But in New York City, the critical decision to cut the municipal program came not from the reformers, but from the city's Democratic machine, Tammany Hall itself. In December 1876, the machine administration of Tammany Mayor William Wickham and Boss John Kelly terminated municipal outdoor relief funding for 1877, except for the distribution of coal. The previous “reform” administration had, by contrast, kept the program intact.

The traditional view of the 1920s as a decade of economic avarice, political corruption, and self-indulgence has been replaced by a more nuanced interpretation. Innovative approaches to the use of governmental power which thrived in the Progressive era were carried forward into the Age of Normalcy, and new dimensions were added, sometimes with quite interesting results. Moreover, the ideas and institutions tested in the 1920s were then at hand for expanded use and further modification in the next cycle of major reform, in the 1930s.

The period roughly encompassing the last twenty-five years of the nineteenth century and the first two decades of the twentieth century has been described as one in which America embarked on a “search for order.” It has also been characterized as a period that witnessed the genesis of the modern American administrative state. The time was one of profound change, marking the transition from a principally agrarian to an industrial society and economy. Positions on the most contentious issues of the era tended to fall along sectional lines that reflected regional disagreement on the scope, as well as the propriety, of that transition. Even after appeals to the “bloody shirt” had waned, the fundamentally sectional nature of the national debate over these issues, and the state's capacity to deal with them, remained.

There is perhaps no topic that has generated more sustained interest and controversy in the United States during the past three decades than the public policies called “entitlements.” From the Great Society innovations of the 1960s to the guaranteed income plan of the 1970s to the “health security” proposal of the early 1990s, debate over the issue of which U.S. citizens should be entitled to what kind of national-level benefits has been a constant in American political life. Though consensus has occasionally been reached, moments of accord have been fragile and fleeting. Late 1995 and early 1996 found both President William Clinton and a large, bipartisan majority of Congress targeting poor Americans and their benefits, advocating an “end to welfare as we know it.” Yet interbranch disagreement over the way that “welfare” reform should be implemented reached such heights that the annual U.S. budget development process broke down, resulting in repeated shutdowns of government agencies and the threat that, for the first time in the history of the American nation, the United States would default on its obligations to its creditors.

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.

We argue that American political development's (APD's) relentless preoccupation with the substantive problems that shape and animate American politics and how they emerge and develop over time has been a key source of the subfield's durability. We elaborate on three main payoffs to conceptualizing APD as a problem-driven enterprise: (1) it highlights APD's main comparative advantage within the American politics subfield, noting the tremendous agility APD's substantive breadth lends the enterprise; (2) it resolves the methodological debate, granting simply that the question chooses the method rather than the other way around; and (3) it reorients the critique: simply because a subfield considers itself to be problem-oriented does not mean that it is identifying the right problems to study.

In this article, I trace the historical lineage and dynamic processes leading to the creation of the Southern slaveholding Supreme Court of antebellum America. Supported by case studies of several Jeffersonian and Jacksonian era legislative battles over judicial reform, I argue that the complex, multistage creation of the Southern slaveholding Court—the Court that decided cases such as Prigg v. Pennsylvania, Dred Scott v. Sandford, and Ableman v. Booth—was the inadvertent result of certain institutional strictures concerning the size of the Court and the geographic organization of the federal circuit system. In so doing, I illustrate how the creation of a fundamentally Jacksonian but also disproportionately Southern and undeniably slaveholding Court was not simply about who was appointed but about the structures that determined who might be appointed, who could be appointed, and who should be appointed. It was these considerations, in turn, that shaped not only the makeup and composition of the Court during this tumultuous period of American political development but also the very character of the momentous decisions it was likely to make.

Robert Dahl's “Decision-Making in a Democracy: The Supreme Court as a National Policy-Maker” has long enjoyed pride of place within American politics scholarship, especially among regime theorists. However, Dahl's views of the U.S. Supreme Court are no longer defensible. It is essential for our field to move beyond “Decision-Making in a Democracy” in order to better theorize and explain the modern Supreme Court.

Individualism is a powerful symbol of American life. We treasure individual rights to speak our minds, choose our values, seek our goals, and achieve self-fulfillment. We believe individual self-interest is the foundation of economic growth and prosperity. We treat individual suffrage as the definitive characteristic of democratic government. In a sense, individualism is the lifeblood of an American dream that flows to our children, circulates among immigrants, and courses through the rhetoric of public policy. American historians record its genealogy and sociologists diagnose its effects while business leaders prescribe more of it and politicians praise it. Even critics are obsessed with it. They tell us that individualism has infected the habits of our hearts and forced the closing of our minds.

While attracting ardent interest from social scientists on a number of fronts, the Progressive Era is insufficiently examined within presidential studies. Scholars have, instead, portrayed Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson as prefiguring a later, modern presidency. For example, Sidney Milkis writes that the emergence of the modern presidency began in the Progressive Era, “especially as shaped by the statesmanship of Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson.”Sidney Milkis, The President and the Parties: The Transformation of the American Party System Since the New Deal (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 8. William Leuchtenburg observes that Franklin Roosevelt contributed to the modern presidency by giving the office “an importance which went well beyond what even Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson had done.”William E. Leuchtenburg, Franklin D. Roosevelt and the New Deal (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1963), 327. However, scholarship has not explained fully why these two Progressive Era presidents were precociously “modern.”

The study of constitutionalism, and in particular of constitutional development, represents a significant recent turn in the field of public law. Constitutional development occurs, of course, through formal adoption and amendment. And the study of courts has established that judicial declarations contribute to this process. A growing body of scholarship also shows that the overtly political actors of society – legislatures, executive officers, political partisans, and even the people – continually engage in the informal creation, maintenance, and transformation of constitutional meaning.The growth in the study of constitutionalism and consti- tutional development in the last decade is reflected in a recent collection, Sotirios A. Barber and Robert P. George, ed., Constitutional Politics: Essays on Constitution Making, Maintenance, and Change (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), as well as the following notable works: Bruce Ackerman, We the People: Transformations (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998); Stephen M. Griffin, American Constitutionalism: From Theory to Politics (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996); Wayne D. Moore, Constitutional Rights and Powers of the People (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996); Keith E. Whittington, Constitutional Construction: Divided Powers and Constitutional Meaning (Cambridge, MA Harvard University Press, 1999). While recent work illuminates instances of this latter type of constitutional development, there remain questions about the processes by which development occurs. Political actors create, maintain, and transform constitutional meaning, but the recent studies suggest that institutional contexts play an important role in shaping the consequent constitutional development. The very constitution that is subject to the forces of political actors, for example, also establishes an important, if not necessarily determinative, context that shapes the path of its continued development – consider that a government of separated powers, with its competing legislative, executive, and judicial branches, will facilitate conflicting efforts both to maintain existing and to construct new constitutional meaning.Ackerman, We the People; Whittington, Constitutional Construction. The works by Ackerman and Whittington demonstrate as well that the same effects follow from other features of constitutional design, such as Congress's bicameralism and the vertical separation of powers between national and state governments. Other institutions affect constitutional development as well. For example, social institutions exist alongside of and interact with political institutions. Through interactions, the former can enhance or undermine the stability of the latter. In this article, I argue that the study of constitutionalism must consider the full range of political and social institutions that shape constitutional development.

Traditional accounts of presidential hostility toward judicial authority rely on the federal judiciary's structure for explanatory leverage, focusing particularly on the court's potential to reach countermajoritarian rulings. By evaluating executive-judicial relations during the early republic, that is, the years prior to the Civil War, I suggest that anti-court sentiment stemmed not only from antipathy toward unelected judges or the seemingly undemocratic possibilities of judicial review, but also from a civic republican apprehension toward opposition. I show, first, that Jefferson, Jackson, and Van Buren considered open and stable opposition to be a harbinger of civil unrest and strove to preserve unity among the federal branches, and second, that this fear and corresponding aspiration toward unity underlay these presidents' concerns about judicial authority. As such, I argue that the presumption of the judiciary's countermajoritarian difficulty could be understood as a political development rather than a structural anomaly of the Constitution. In making this claim, I highlight the power of entrepreneurial presidents to drive conceptual change. Furthermore, focusing on the politics of opposition as a key element in the development of presidential-judicial relations broadens how we think of civic republicanism as an organizing political principle, defining not only early American political culture and electoral politics, but also influencing matters of governance.

I seek to counter a view commonly held by scholars that the Burger Court is pragmatic in its constitutional choices in contrast to the Warren Court, which is viewed as ideological. I propose a methodology to study the effects of process values and rights values held by members of the Burger Court on their decision making. To view its decision making as pragmatic, without awareness of underlying values of process and rights, results in an oversimplified view and leads to the unwarranted conclusion that the Burger Court is case-specific in making constitutional choices. I limit my discussion to separation of church and state cases, primarily in the area of aid to parochial education, because traditionally scholars have emphasized the pragmatic nature of Burger Court choices in this area. A finding of consistency of values in justices' orientations in this area suggests that the methodology reported here might have general utility in the study of Supreme Court decision making.

The judicial role in the construction of the twentieth-century state was decisively structured by the interaction of developments in jurisprudence and by changes in the organization of the regulation of economic activity. Individual judges brought their backgrounds and political predispositions to the task as well, and we will gain a full understanding of the judicial role in structuring the state only by integrating biography, jurisprudence, and political economy. This article examines the work of Justice Thurgood Marshall in constructing the post-New Deal settlement of the relations among people in their capacity as consumers, people in their capacity as workers, and capital. That settlement was expressed in legal forms that departed from the common law doctrines that had for two centuries provided one of the legitimating ideologies of social relations. With the construction of the administrative state came the need to reconstitute not only the legal structures that supported the agencies of government, but also the ideological structures that explained the legitimacy of these innovations. While legal academics articulated carefully thought out defenses of the administrative state, judges provided the citizenry with less developed but, perhaps, more easily understood ideologies. Justice Marshall's work in areas of labor law and civil procedure provides insight into the dimensions of the legal legitimation of the administrative state, while his unique experience as a lawyer and his place within the Court illuminate the importance of biographical factors in a full explanation of the construction of the legal structures of the administrative state.

Liberal political analysis is ordinarily based on a sharp distinction between domestic and international politics, and an assumption that domestic politics is the proper arena for democratic self-determination. But self-governing citizens have never exhausted the cast of characters who populate liberal states. Living alongside them there are often domestic aliens – permanent residents who are subject to the law, and may be protected by it, but who do not participate in making it. Refugees and remnants also inhabit liberal states. Whether citizens or not, they tend to bear the historical consciousness of victims or potential victims wherever they may live. A correlative fact is that in many now-liberal societies the meaning of citizenship itself is indelibly marked by the “missing” – the emigrant and the exile, the expelled and the extinct. Such identities – and the historical presence or absence of individuals who claim them – are generally regarded as messy details in the state-centered conceptual framework that dominates liberal political thought.

This analysis explores why a farmers-led social movement mobilized against federal government policy in the late twentieth century. It also explores where that revolt may lead and whether it was different from previous farm protests. Was it, as populist rhetoric of the 1980s charged, a reflection of structural changes in farmers' own agricultural production systems? Or was it simply a case of farmers wanting more federal income support? The distinction is important because the answer determines producer commitment to the central agricultural development premises of U.S. public policy. Farmers always have promoted the agrarian value of hardworking independence. Yet they also have been caught, especially since midcentury, in a cycle of farm industrialization. Technical innovation and federal agricultural policy have combined to make industrialization unavoidable for individual farm operators who want to remain as full-time, commercial growers. Has there been a link between the dissenting politics of farm protest and industrialized agricultural change? This linkage is the subject of concern in the following pages. Why industrialization might well have caused policy dissent is examined first.

Near the end of his important and challenging essay, Martin J. Sklar briefly considers an alternative path of development to the corporate-liberal reorganization that he identifies with the era between the 1890s and 1916. “A statist resolution might have taken hold,” Sklar writes,

had the American capitalist class, or its corporate sector, been less developed in its market powers and proficiencies and hence more dependent on the state for its wealth and power; had the liberal republican tradition of the supremacy of society over the state (the sovereignty of the people) been weaker; had the working class been less imbued with that republican ideology, less developed, and hence more inclined to statist rather than associative-constitutional ideas and principles; had the corporate sector of the capitalist class sought and found alliance with a statist-oriented sector of the working class or a statist-oriented petty bourgeoisie, especially in the farm and rural population; had the corporate sector of the capitalist class sought and found alliance with civilian or military professionals, technicians, administrators, and managers—or a “managerial class”—looking to the state as a base of power. (p. 210)

How powerful are national security bureaucrats? In the United States, they seem to be more than mere administrators, while remaining subordinate to elected politicians. However, despite a rich literature in American political development on bureaucratic autonomy across a variety of policy areas, national security remains undertheorized. Although the origins and evolution of the national security bureaucracy have received substantial scholarly attention, the individuals within this bureaucracy have not. In this article, I examine a case study of how one of these individuals bluntly ran up against the limits of his power. After the Second World War, J. Edgar Hoover's plans for a “World-Wide Intelligence Service” were swiftly shot down by the Truman administration, which adopted a sharp distinction between domestic and global intelligence instead. I pin this abject defeat on three interrelated factors: the resistance of President Truman, the array of bureaucratic competitors emerging from the Second World War, and deep aversion among key decision makers to the prospect of an “American gestapo.” While tracing this historical narrative, I also challenge accounts of Hoover as a near-omnipotent Washington operator, question the extent to which war empowers national security bureaucrats, and foreground the role of analogies in shaping the national security state.

The FDR administration waged a war on crime starting in 1933. I argue that this war on crime had three primary effects. First, it created a ratchet effect whereby expanded institutions did not return to previous levels after the campaign ended. Second, it instilled enduring institutional and racial logics into law enforcement in America. By building a state through a war on crime, these leaders constructed a criminal justice system designed to make war. Moreover, they perpetuated the surveillance of Black leaders and eschewed calls from Black organizations demanding protection from widespread racial violence. Third, these political entrepreneurs induced an issue realignment that defined crime policy around a politics of consensus—a consensus that included every major political bloc but Black Americans, who unsuccesfully called on the federal government to hold local police accountable and address racial inequality. This coalition diffused their methods to states and deployed future wars on crime, and the racial logics cemented in the FDR era set the stage for these future wars to be deployed disproportionately against the Black community.