In 1873, an Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court filed a memorable dissenting opinion. His brethren had upheld a state-granted monopoly against the charge that it violated the new Fourteenth Amendment. The substance of that majority judgment has never been reversed, and it stands today as one of the great milestones in our constitutional law. But the dissent of Mr. Justice Field, though unproductive as to the specific constitutional doctrine he there espoused, is, from another viewpoint, even more noteworthy. For it marks — or we can conveniently take it as marking — the point in our intellectual history at which the democratic strain in the American tradition begins its subservience to political conservatism.

The choice of a date is indeed somewhat arbitrary. A profound change in the national consciousness does not occur overnight, and the revision of the American ideology diat Field's dissent proclaimed was not yet complete in 1873. But Field was a child of his times, and he spoke with the voice of the new generation. His rambling discourse, with its moral overtones, is evidence that a new era in American political thinking had dawned.

Since the end of World War II British Policy in the Middle East has been plagued by the devils of the past, joined by a more formidable company of contemporary devils, some of whom bear a mocking resemblance to still earlier ones. Most of this region was once largely in the weak hands of the Turkish Empire. In this area, strategic for the control of the Mediterranean and the security of the Suez Canal, British policy had been to support the Turkish Empire against the heavy pressure of Tsarist Russia, until Turkey's association with Germany drove Britain to moderate its rivalry with Russia, to accept her partnership in Persia (1907), following a similar accommodation of differences with France (1904).

During the First World War the British sponsored the Arab Revolt against Turkey, thus shattering the feeble union of those lands, and creating in the Middle East a parody of the Habsburg succession states, complicated by concessions to France (the Sykes-Picot Agreement) and to Zionism (the Balfour Declaration).

The conflict between Stalin's Russia and Tito's Yugoslavia is reminiscent of a quarrel between two old friends whose long intimacy serves only to make their dispute all the more violent and ultimately irreconcilable. Certainly the reaction of the Yugoslavs has followed a familiar pattern: at first, complete incredulity that their old friends and protectors should take a minor dispute centered around a few personalities and a few administrative problems as the opening of a great campaign to proclaim Tito and his collaborators traitors and to call for the destruction of their regime. Then, as the hope of reconciliation vanished (this hope was evident, at least on the Yugoslav side, during the first few months of the dispute), both sides began to recall those moments of strain which at the time of mutual admiration had appeared as only minor dissonances, but now upon reflection, were seen as the first clear signs of the other side's brutality or treachery.

The Partisans fought during the war for their own country but they also fought with a fanatical devotion to the Soviet Union. Apart from the Communist persuasion of their leaders the fact that the Soviet Union was meeting the main fury of German attacks and that it stood as the main defender of the Slavic nations, against Germany's aggression, created an atmosphere in which the slightest criticism of Yugoslavia's great ally would have been inconceivable. Even a few months after July 1948, Tito in his speech to the 5th Congress of the C.P.Y.

Aristotle mentions coercion first in his description of the elements of involuntariness: “What sort of acts, then, should be called compulsory? We answer that without qualification actions are so when the cause is in the external circumstances and the agent contributes nothing.” This statement clearly marks the essence of coercion as exteriority, as opposition not only to the higher degree of interiority, of “from-withinness,” which distinguishes voluntary actions, but also to the spontaneity common to all natural processes. Aristotle gives some instances of physical coercion: a man blown from his path by the wind, and a man carried away by kidnappers.

But we know that psychical forces can also bring about coercion. For example, the movements commanded of a person in deep hypnosis have their origin externally to him in the will of the hypnotist; the hypnotized person contributes nothing by way of voluntary decision to those movements. He is an instrument moved by the external, psychical force of the hypnotist's will; that is, he is subject to psychical coercion.

“Mirabeau and Sieyès are the two strongest minds of the Revolution,” said Talleyrand who knew both of them well. This is no doubt true. It is likewise true that Mirabeau and Sieyes were at opposite poles from each other intellectually. Sieyès was a political theorist; they called him the brain. Mirabeau, on the other hand, was the least theoretical of men. When the Estates General opened he had no draft of a Constitution; Sieyès, on the other hand, had thought of one and even several.

For the whole course of the Revolution until his death in April, 1791, Mirabeau cannot be described by an invariable formula. He cannot be classified in the pro-English school. He wrote to a minister before the Revolution: “the executive life” suited him better than “the speculative life.” Sieyès, and even Mounier, would have been wonderful professors of Constitutional Law. Not Mirabeau. His culture was enormous but disorganized. An omnivorous reader and always with pen in hand, he had made innumerable excerpts from all sorts of books, and drew upon them with no scruples about plagiarism when he wrote his own works. One must be careful to avoid the temptation, to which some have succumbed, of seeing in these plagiarisms the expression of Mirabeau's own ideas.