In keeping with the social character of the advancement of knowledge, and in spite of a strong competitive impulse among scholars to magnify small differences into warring schools of thought, the leading historical writings in the past four decades have yielded substantial agreement on the identification of critical trends that were transforming United States society in the period of the 1890s to 1916. Implicitly, at least, they may well have been anticipating the way to resolving some latest of these small differences before they get too far out of hand, such as that between “social history” and “political history” and, in a variation upon the theme, that between “society-centered” (or “movement-centered” or “interest-centered”) and “state-centered” history. The common acknowledgment of critical trends has served newcomers and veterans alike, including partisans on either side of these differences, and historians in the various genres, in the selection of authoritative frameworks of continuing research into the period. In this respect, the historical discipline shares with other disciplines, including those in the physical sciences, attributes held to be common to a “normal science.”

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)

As conventional thinking once had it, Vormärz Prussia and the antebellum United States mapped out opposite ends of a “strong-state, weak-state” spectrum. But several decades of research have rendered both images increasingly untenable. Revisions began on the American side in the 1940s when a group of scholars set out to re-evaluate the state governments' role in antebellum American industrialization. These studies of state legislation and political rhetoric—the first to take federalism seriously, one might say—collectively laid to rest the myth of laissez-faire during the antebellum period. Since then scholars of the antebellum political economy have examined the American state from another angle, shifting attention to the role of the state and federal courts in economic growth. Others, mean-while, have taken a closer look at the federal government's role before the Civil War and discerned interventionist tendencies in the federal legislature and executive as well. The cumulative effect is clear: it has become impossible to speak of laissez-faire in the antebellum American context. On the Prussian side, too, historians have begun to rethink the state's role in industrialization as mounting evidence has undermined the conventional image. Initially, few historians questioned the extent of the state's involvement in economic activity during the first half of the 19th century; instead, they debated its consequences—beneficial or not, intended or not. On balance the first round of revisions judged Vormdrz Prussian policies to have been rather contradictory in nature, some encouraging industrialization but others either hampering economic change or proving irrelevant.5 Historian Clive Trebilcock has gone a step further, however, debunking what he labels “myths of the directed economy” in nineteenth-century Germany.

Comparative research on the origins of modern welfare states typically asks why certain European nations, including Great Britain, enacted pensions and social insurance between the 1880s and the 1920s, while the United States “lagged behind,” that is did not establish such policies for the entire nation until the Social Security Act of 1935. To put the question this way overlooks the social policies that were distinctive to the early twentieth-century United States. During the period when major European nations, including Britain, were launching paternalist versions of the modern welfare state, the United States was tentatively experimenting with what might be called a maternalist welfare state. In Britain, male bureaucrats and party leaders designed policies “for the good” of male wage-workers and their dependents. Meanwhile, in the United States, early social policies were championed by elite and middle-class women “for the good” of less privileged women. Adult American women were helped as mothers, or as working women who deserved special protection because they were potential mothers.

I wish to thank Steven Hahn for helping me to think more critically about some of my own ideas and those of others. The substantive questions that he raises will be subject matter for vital ongoing inquiry and thinking among interested scholars for some time to come. He has also raised some very important questions of method that provide the occasion to extend the discussion, briefly, in ways that readers may find of interest, as I do. In what follows, I confine myself to some of the questions of method.

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.

Electoral campaigns are a distinguishing feature, worldwide, of modern representative democracies. For most citizens in most polities, campaigns provide a compelling incentive to think about government. So campaigns thus are a, perhaps the, main point of contact between officials and the populace over matters of public policy. If, as democratic theorists postulate, rulers are responsible to the ruled, the nexus of responsibility, the time and place that we impose it, is during campaigns and the elections in which they culminate.

Twenty years after Louis Galambos published “The Emerging Organizational Synthesis,” the organizational strand of revisionist history has become a mainstay of scholarly interpretation. One hallmark of its maturity is that today the organizational synthesis is itself a subject undergoing revision by charter members and critics alike. High priests like Galambos have underscored the wealth of scholarship spawned by the organizational approach and have discerned broad new trends and tensions in that scholarship. Galambos recently blessed three denominations that have embellished and elaborated upon the founders' abiding faith in the forces of modernization to reshape state-society relations: technology, as mediated through large-scale corporate development; the administrative state, as it has developed over the twentieth century to embrace a new, corporatist form of liberalism; and the pervasive professionalization of society. Yet many leading historians remain outside of the organizational flock. Alan Brinkley, one of the agnostics, has criticized organizational historians for pushing “vast segments of society to the periphery of historical analysis.” Michael McGerr, an outright heretic, has questioned the whole endeavor, doubting whether there “really was an ‘organizational society’ in the early twentieth century (or even now)” and charging the historians who in-vented that society with the sin of “presentism.”

Over the past decade, William Riker has written a series of articles that reinterpret the founding of American politics in light of insights gleaned from theories of rational choice. In the course of these efforts, he has invented a new subject, “heresthetics,” having “to do with the manipulation of the structure of tastes and alternatives within which decisions are made.” With Evelyn C. Fink, for example, he has shown more systematically than previous analyses how the federalists structured the the ratification process by attaching an informal promise of future amendment to a formally unconditional ratification. In the present essay, Riker moves from heresthetics to rhetoric: “Rhetoric and heresthetic are both techniques of winning. But they are different kinds of techniques. Rhetoric is persuasion.… With heresthetic, on the other hand, conviction is at best secondary or not involved at all.” Riker describes federalist and antifederalist ratification rhetoric in an effort to display the persuasiveness of “negative” campaign appeals for those who wish to attract the support of marginal voters.

It is a bit difficult for me to figure out the main theme of Tulis' often inconsistent commentary. For example, he ends his essay with the claim that my insights are “epistemologically equivalent” to those of whom I “seek to supersede.” Apart from gratuitously attributing to me an intention to “supersede” Main and Storing, two scholars for whom I have the deepest respect and whom I wish to correct only in one particular, my insights cannot, on Tulis' own grounds, possibly be “epistemologically equivalent” to theirs. Much of his essay is devoted to criticizing my method as an unnecessary and undesirable departure from the traditional method of rhetorical analysis by literary criticism. So, by his account, my method cannot be “epistemologically equivalent” to theirs. I suppose he meant to write “substantively equivalent.” Whatever his intent, this illustrates my difficulty with interpretation.

From the vantage point of a critical moment in the history of statebuilding in the United States, we wish to take a fresh look at questions about the resources and wherewithal of the national state. Within modern American political science, a focus on state capacity is at least as old as the landmark essay by Woodrow Wilson on “The Study of Administration” and as current as the important scholarly impulse that has revived interest in the state at a time of struggle about the size and span of the federal government. The dominant motif of these various accounts of American statebuilding has been a concern with organizational assets, which usually are assayed by their placement on a linear scale of strength and weakness.

“Hegemony” has become a fashionable catchword in a number of intellectual circles. One encounters it among historians, sociologists, anthropologists, political scientists, even (or, perhaps, especially) literary critics. Many a frustrated radical finds it a useful explanation for the quiescence of the masses. Marxist scholars frequently see it as a liberating departure from Marx's economic reductionism. More mainstream social scientists often detect little harm in it, since the notion that people are not ruled by force alone, but also by ideas, seems highly congruent with what they have learned from Max Weber and Talcott Parsons.