In The Federalist, Publius writes of “new” and “improved” “principles” of the “science of politics,” and he urges his countrymen to abandon the classical teachings concerning the possibilities of republican government over an extensive territory…
Conservatives—American and otherwise—have always held The Federalist in extremely high regard. Virtually all would agree with Clinton Rossiter that it stands with the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution among the “sacred writings of American political history.” And some might even agree with the more lavish assessment of Chancellor Kent, who wrote that he knew of no finer work “on the principles of free government,” not even those of “Aristotle, Cicero, Machiavel, Montesquieu, Milton, Locke, or Burke.” On the other hand, I think it fair to say, liberals would scarcely be as unified or laudatory in their appraisals.
Why are conservatives so attracted to The Federalist? Why do they hold it in such esteem? Most answers to these questions would involve its complementary relationship to the Constitution and Declaration of Independence; that is, its role relative to the official documents of the Founding Era. Jefferson touched upon one side of this relationship when he wrote that The Federalist is the work “to which appeal is habitually made by all, and rarely declined by any as evidence of the general opinion of those who framed and of those who accepted the Constitution of the United States, on questions as to its genuine meaning.” In this vein, numerous justices over the decades have almost elevated The Federalist to the status of fundamental law. Still others see it as providing the theory and “constitutional morality”—i.e., a morality, not to be found by reading the Constitution with an innocent eye, that informs us how its institutions and processes should operate—that bridges the gap between the Declaration and the Constitution by spelling out, authoritatively and in greater detail than any other source we have, how the Constitution secures the goals and ideals of the Declaration.
These reasons taken together point to the fact that conservatives see a continuity in our tradition in which The Federalist performs an indispensable role. By contrast, as we will see shortly, liberals see no continuity. Indeed, quite the opposite: They are inclined to look upon The Federalist as an elaborate justification for the derailment of our “true” tradition.
In what follows, I want to develop and set forth other and more basic reasons—quite apart from those that derive from any complementary relationship—why Publius’s teachings are, or should be, inherently attractive to conservatives, and why, moreover, his approach and concerns transcend the particular circumstances surrounding the ratification struggle. To put this a bit differently, I want to indicate why The Federalist’s approach and teachings are enduring, still highly relevant to today’s world, and why, to quote Washington, they will “always be interesting to mankind so long as they shall be connected with civil society.”
Oddly enough, a convenient way to come to grips with what I regard to be the more significant and enduring aspects of Publius’s approach and teachings—and we may presume as well those of most of the Founders’—is to examine the dominant and persistent criticisms that have been leveled against them. Such an examination forms a splendid backdrop for an appreciation of Publius’s lasting contributions.
Beginning in 1907 with the publication of James Allen Smith’s The Spirit of American Government, the Founding Fathers, the Constitution, and The Federalist (both critics and friends understandably tend to lump them together) have come under sustained attack from the academic or “intellectual” left. These attacks, as we will see, vary in approach by concentrating on different aspects of the Founding Era, but they all echo the same basic themes that Smith dwelt upon. The first of these, quite simply, is that the Constitution was not designed to provide for popular government. Smith found it difficult to see “how anyone who had read the proceedings of the Federal Convention could believe that it was the intention of that body to establish a democratic government.” On the contrary, he insisted, “Democracy—government by the people, or directly responsible to them—was not the object which the Framers of the American Constitution had in view.” What the delegates sought to do, he argued, was to draft a document “just popular enough” to avoid “general opposition” and to secure its adoption but which would, in effect, give the people little by way of real political power.
With regard to what the Framers were “up to,” Smith’s work was soon eclipsed by Charles Beard’s An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States published in 1913. Beard’s work possessed all the trappings of a scholarly inquiry, the heart of which was a partial, but original, inquiry into the economic interests of the members of the Philadelphia Convention. Beard concluded that “The movement for the Constitution was originated and carried through principally by four groups of personality which had been adversely affected under the Articles of Confederation: money, public securities, manufactures, and trade and shipping.” But these findings, largely refuted by later scholarship, were really quite secondary to the main message of the book which reflected the contemporary frustrations of the left wing of Progressivism. As Douglass Adair remarked, on Beard’s showing these “radicals and reformers” were denied the opportunity to transform America “into a land where social justice prevailed,” “not” as they believed “by a usurping court” which had invalidated certain of their programs, “but by the sacred word of the Constitution of 1787.” “Beard’s answer” to this dilemma, according to Adair, “was to expose the nature of that Constitution, to unmask its hidden features in order to show that it deserved no veneration, no respect, and should carry no authority to democratic Americans of the twentieth century.”
A second and related theme set forth by Smith, and one which is still very much alive in one form or another, is that the Framers betrayed the principles and ideals of the Declaration of Independence. In his view, the Constitution was a deliberate effort to curb the democratic forces that had been unleashed by the Revolution. “The adoption” of the constitutional system, he contended, represented “the triumph of a skillfully directed reactionary movement.” In this regard, he noted the absence of “Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Paine, Patrick Henry and other democratic leaders of that time” from the Philadelphia Convention. Indeed, he pointed out that although the Constitutional Convention convened “only eleven years after the Declaration of Independence was signed…only six of the fifty-six men who signed that document were among its members.”
While it is clear that Beard also believed the Constitution served to thwart “progressive” notions of social and economic justice, he did not elaborate on these notions or set forth his vision of a better society. This was a task undertaken by Herbert Croly, whose influence, albeit indirect, is still evident today in liberal quarters. Croly did subscribe to the Beardian thesis that “the Constitution was… ‘put over’ by a small minority of able, vigorous and unscrupulous personal property owners,” but his major concern was to spell out the Progressive ends—the substance of what he called the “Promise of American life” or the “National promise”— arid how they might be realized. Aware that to achieve these ends required a strong national government, he was not nearly as harsh on the Framers as Beard or Smith. He could even find much to admire in Hamilton’s efforts on behalf of “constructive national” policies because they demonstrated the potential of a strong national government to promote the common good.
Here we cannot treat of all the specifics of Croly’s “National promise” because they involve far-reaching changes in almost every aspect of the social, economic, and political fabric of society. As he acknowledged, he was advocating “a radical transformation of the traditional national policy and democratic creed.” Yet, certain key aspects of his program are noteworthy. He did not believe that a truly democratic nation should “accept human nature as it is, but…move in the direction of its improvement.” (He accepts John Jay Chapman’s assertion that “Democracy assumes perfection in human nature.”) Part of this improvement involved what Croly termed “individual emancipation” which, in turn, required that the individual be prepared and willing “to sacrifice his recognized private interest to the welfare of his countrymen.” “Not until his personal] action is dictated by disinterested motives,” he contended, “can there be any such harmony between private and public interests.” And, at various places in his writings, he specifies means designed to produce this harmony. For instance, “selfish acquisitive motives” ought to be de-emphasized and replaced where possible in the economic field by encouraging “excellence of work.” He believed that the state, in assuming the responsibility “for the subordination of the individual to the demand of a dominant and constructive national purpose,” should also assume the responsibility “for a morally and socially desirable distribution of wealth.”
Vernon L. Parrington in the first of his monumental three-volume Main Currents in American Thought—dedicated to James Allen Smith—embraces and develops the basic framework and propositions of the leftist critique of the Founders. He accepted Beard’s economic determinism and contended that Madison’s tenth Federalist, with its emphasis on economic divisions and factions, represented “pretty much the whole Federalist theory of political science.” With Smith, he held that “an honest appeal to the people was the last thing desired by the Federalists.” Similarly, he bemoaned the Federalists’ attacks on “the democratic machinery of recalls and referendums and rotations in office, which had developed during the war” by alleging that these were “factional devices” which would render “good government” impossible.
More importantly, however, Parrington reconceptualized the essence of Croly’s concerns about democracy and the American political experience by placing them in a broader historical and theoretical context. According to Parrington, the Founders (and Publius) essentially accepted “English liberalism” which “was self-seeking, founded on the right of exploitation, and looking toward capitalism.” In so doing, he argued, they rejected “French radicalism” embodied in Rousseau’s philosophy whose “ultimate ends…were universal liberty, equality, and fraternity.” This French radicalism, in Parrington’s words, “was humanitarian, appealing to reason and seeking social justice”; the outgrowth of Rousseau’s conviction that “A ruthless social order is forever perverting the natural man; whereas if social rewards were bestowed on the social-minded, the innate sense of justice would speedily modify and control the impulse to egoism.” In sum, French radicalism pointed the way toward Croly’s emancipated individual and, as Parrington would have it, “a skillful minority” (the Federalists) turned the majority away from his path.
Although a good deal has been written over the decades to counter the “good guy/ bad guy” version of our founding era characteristic of the Progressive historians and commentators, its essential elements are still part of the intellectual mainstream, particularly among the historians. Thus, Gordon Wood can write in his widely praised Creation of the American Republic that “through the artificial contrivance of the Constitution overlying an expanded society, the Federalists meant to restore and to prolong the traditional kind of elitist influence in politics that social developments, especially since the Revolution, were undermining” and that “The Constitution was intrinsically an aristocratic document designed to check the democratic tendencies of the period.”
More significantly, Gordon Wood writes of “a fundamental transformation” of the “political culture” which had “taken place” between “the Revolutionary constitution-making of 1776” and “the formation of the federal Constitution of 1787.” In this regard, he observes, “The sacrifice of individual interests to the greater good of the whole formed the essence of republicanism and comprehended for Americans the idealistic goal of their Revolution.” Alas, he contends, this classical view of “public virtue”—the “willingness of the individual to sacrifice his private interests for the good of the community”—had all but disappeared by the time of the Constitutional Convention. What is striking in his account are the parallels between this “classical” public virtue, Parrington’s “French radicalism,” and the characteristics of Croly’s “emancipated individual.”
Publius and Human Nature
Let us put the foregoing to one side for the moment and briefly examine Publius’s views on human nature (and presumably those of a majority of the Founding Fathers as well). Clearly, these views are a critical component of his thinking and bear a very close relationship to the why’s and wherefore’s of our constitutional structure and processes. But I think they are particularly important in pointing up wherein Publius’s teachings differ fundamentally from those of his critics. This, in turn, leads us to fundamental and abiding reasons why conservatives should feel at home with The Federalist.
We can profitably begin with perhaps the most famous passage of The Federalist: “If men were angels, no government would be necessary” (322). This sentence is usually taken to mean that Publius held to a rather “low” or “pessimistic” view of human nature. In fact, this passage is noteworthy because it reminds readers in a rather striking way of their existential status—i.e., we are mortal, we are not perfect, we are prone to various kinds and degrees of conflict that necessitate the existence of earthly, superintending authority. The reminder is highly important, but the message is couched in terms that render it little more than a mild “put down.”
That is not to say that Publius doesn’t picture man in “dark” terms. Certainly one of his most straightforward accounts arises in connection with his estimate of the consequences of a rejection of the Constitution with the states remaining independent sovereigns or forming partial confederacies. Such a situation, he warns, would involve the states or confederacies in “frequent and violent contests with one another.” To believe otherwise, to assume that the states or confederacies would peacefully coexist, he argues, “would be to forget that men are ambitious, vindictive, and rapacious” (6:54). In this same vein, he cautions that “our political systems” should not be modeled “upon speculations of lasting tranquility” because this would be “to calculate on the weaker springs of the human character,” “To judge from the history of mankind,” he explains, “we shall be compelled to conclude that the fiery and destructive passions of power reign in the human breast with much more powerful sway than the mild and beneficent sentiments of peace” (34:208). Or one need only look as far as the famous tenth Federalist to appreciate the dangers of faction, particularly majority factions, the “causes” of which “are sown in the nature of man” (84). Scarcely anything could speak more directly to his views regarding human nature than this.
Publius gives us many examples of the darker side of human nature. But he alludes to the brighter side as well. The final portion of the last paragraph of Federalist fifty-five is the most widely cited passage to show that he was not totally pessimistic about man’s nature. While scarcely a ringing affirmation of the innate goodness of man, he does write: “As there is a degree of depravity in mankind which requires a certain degree of circumspection and distrust, so there are other qualities of human nature which justify a certain portion of esteem and confidence” (346). Similarly, he asserts in Federalist seventy-six that “The institution of delegated power implies that there is a portion of virtue and honor among mankind,” and that “A man disposed to view human nature as it is, without either flattering its virtues or exaggerating its vices, will see sufficient ground of confidence in the probity of the Senate” (458–59) to prevent its domination by the executive through use of his appointment power.
It is tempting to conclude from these and other passages that could readily be produced that Publius held to a “mixed” view of human nature—mostly “bad” but enough “good” mixed in to provide the basis for republican government. This, or one very close to it, would seem to be the prevailing understanding of Publius’s position. Yet, whatever merit it may have in describing his general stance, it scarcely provides us with anything resembling a coherent view of human nature. In the words of James Scanlan, such a formulation is itself “theoretically functionless.” We know, for instance, that Publius makes a number of judgments and predictions throughout The Federalist concerning how individuals or institutions will behave in differing circumstances. But, unless he did so on the basis of some coherent theory of human nature from which he systematically derived his judgments, we are left to guess about the bases for his conclusions. For instance, without a coherent theory, we would have no way of determining whether or not he was simply subscribing to whatever assumptions happened to serve his immediate purposes.
As Scanlan so ably points out, there is—as we would have every reason to expect—an underlying theory of human nature in The Federalist; a theory best expressed in terms of propositions relating to human motivation. Scanlan identifies three categories of motives that are central to Publius’s thinking: passion, reason and virtue, and interest. While it is well beyond our purpose here to elaborate fully on Scanlan’s analysis, one general finding merits our attention: Publius operates on the assumption that “immediate self-interest” will usually predominate over “reason and virtue,” “true” interest or long-term “common” interest when these motives come into conflict. We see as much in his treatment of the proposition, advanced by “visionary and designing men,” that “commercial republics will never be disposed to waste themselves in ruinous contention with each other.”
Is it not (we may ask these projectors in politics) the true interest of all nations to cultivate the same benevolent and philosophic spirit? If this be their true interest, have they in fact pursued it? Has it not, on the contrary, invariably been found that momentary passions, and immediate interests, have a more active and imperious control over human conduct than general or remote considerations of policy, utility, or justice? Have republics in practice been less addicted to war than monarchies? Are not the former administered by men as well as the latter? Are there not aversions, predilections, rivalships, and desires of unjust acquisitions that affect nations as well as kings? (6:56)
Publius does admit of exceptions to the domination of immediate interests. In Federalist ten, he acknowledges the existence of “enlightened statesmen,” individuals who can “adjust…clashing interests and render them all subservient to the public good.” But, he writes, such individuals “will not always be at the helm,” thereby suggesting that at best they will be few in number. What is more, by way of indicating the strong pull of immediate self-interest, he points out that even if they were at the helm, such adjustments would be rare in those matters which require that “indirect and remote considerations” be taken into account. These considerations, he states, “will rarely prevail over the immediate interest which one party may find in disregarding the rights of another or the good of the whole” (80).
What is clear is that the Constitution is not built on the premise that subsequent generations are to count on enlightened statesmen. At least Publius operates on the assumption that immediate self-interest will prevail. This is evident in his conviction that no man (or party) ought to be the judge of his (its) own cause. This is why, as a reading of Federalist forty-eight through fifty-one will reveal, reliance is placed upon “ambition counteracting ambition” to preserve the constitutional separation of powers. Primary reliance on the people for this purpose would, he believed, result in Congress—the likely trespasser—judging of its own action. Likewise, this is the basic reason why he regards legislation for states, rather than for individuals, to be the “great and radical vice” of the Articles: The states’ compliance with national law will hinge, not on the common good, but on “their [the states’] immediate interest or aim; the momentary convenience or inconveniences, that would attend its adoption” (15:111).
Publius’s Enduring Legacy
Much more could be said about how a recognition of these motivational propensities, and the corollaries that flow from them, influenced the form of our constitutional procedures and institutions. The critics’ charges that the institutions are “undemocratic,” I should note in passing, clearly fail to take into account Publius’s concerns to neutralize these tendencies. Even so, as I have shown elsewhere, contrary to what his critics maintain, Publius defends nothing that would impede deliberative majorities from ruling consistent with republican principles. But let us leave that matter for another day and turn straightaway to the basic issues that separate Publius from his critics. As I have already intimated, these issues may be cast in terms of reasons why conservatives so readily and enthusiastically identify with The Federalist and its teachings.
One reason seems obvious enough: Publius recognizes the dark side of human nature and accommodates to this reality. For instance, a goodly number of his “selling points” consist of showing how the proposed Constitution will operate to resist the “downward pull” of men’s motivational propensities. Beyond this, one of the most notable aspects of his theory is that these less than noble propensities can be pitted against one another for good ends. His claim that majorities will “seldom” coalesce on principles other than “justice and the general good” is credible precisely because it is not based on the assumption that “emancipated individuals” will predominate in keeping with the principles of “French Radicalism” or “classical republicanism.” Put another way, Publius’s approach is based on the proposition that adjustments must be made for motivational propensities of man if a political system is to survive and fulfill its ends.
This points to other reasons why conservatives can and do fashion to The Federalist. To begin with, while dearly recognizing the imperfections of men, Publius makes no claims that the new Constitution will provide the means for their perfection or “elevation to new plateaus of reason and virtue.” Though he does believe that good government might serve to alter the behavior of men for the better, the thrust of his arguments would strongly suggest that he took human nature as a “given.” In his mind, it seems clear, institutions had to be accommodated to human nature, if for no other reason than it would be impossible to fashion human nature to institutions. He proceeds in his discourse as if human nature, at least in terms of motivation, has been constant over the centuries; that it is the same in all countries; and that, most significantly, it is unchangeable. He rejects the very idea of a “golden age” that holds out “promises of an exception from the imperfections, the weaknesses, and the evils incident to society in every shape” (8:59). He writes, too, of the “true springs by which human conduct is actuated” (15:110)—i.e., the passions, as well as immediate self-interest—that is everywhere to be observed and necessitates government. Whatever the case might be with regard to his general views, however, it is evident he presumed that we will never be free from the “downward pull.”
On this score, Publius stands in sharp contrast to his critics who cling to an almost entirely different set of assumptions. They hold that, just as the Constitution served to corrupt a basically virtuous people by embracing “English liberalism,” the people can be saved or redeemed, the “National promise” fulfilled, through social and political readjustments. Given an institutional and social setting—i.e., one instituted to impart and to reinforce virtue and reason—men can be made to abandon acquisitiveness, to place the general welfare above their individual interests, to curb their passions. Thus, man’s nature is malleable; perfectible even.
The divide that separates Publius from his critics can be put in more striking and general terms. Publius never ventures far from existential reality. This fact alone is of enormous significance because we find none of the elements of gnosticism or utopianism of the Enlightenment in The Federalist that were to play such a significant role in the French Revolution. To borrow from J.L. Talmon’s framework of analysis, Publius was caught up in what can be termed a political enterprise; that is, his undertaking was concerned with the “concrete data of experience, by reference to logic and to the limitations inherent in any given historical situation.” As Talmon points out, “Politics involves a choice between evils or, more charitably, an acceptance of the second best” because it deals with “very intractable material,” that is, “men.”
Quite different from “Politics,” Talmon informs us, is “Utopianism” which simply “postulates a definite goal…for the attainment of which you need to recast or remold all aspects of life and society in accordance with some very explicit principle.” With the “Age of Reason,” he continues, the belief in the goodness or perfectibility of man led to the conviction that “absolute justice based on the supremacy of reason could and would be achieved,” that there could be, given a “rational order,” “a harmonious reconciliation of all interests.” But Utopianism, Talmon writes, leads ultimately to “totalitarian coercion”: When the promised salvation—the harmony, peace, happiness—is not forthcoming, the culprit must be “evil forces” (not, of course, human nature) and “to frustrate” these forces requires “forceful intercession to lend a helping hand” so that “destiny” can “take its predetermined course.”
From Talmon’s account, we can see just how wide the gulf is between Publius’s teachings and Utopianism with its inevitable evils. In this respect, we may say that The Federalist reflected a fundamental American disposition, an uneasiness with the “isms” that hold out the prospects of earthly salvation, which is still very much with us. We can also better appreciate the significance of the distance that separates Publius from his Progressive critics. To be sure, Publius writes of “new” and “improved” “principles” of the “science of politics” and he urges his countrymen to abandon the classical teachings concerning the possibilities of republican government over an extensive territory. Yet, he urges nothing which, given the sentiments and experience of the American people, is wild or chimerical. His concern, we may say, is to provide for an orderly and decent government, one better and more effective than the Articles, not one whose mission is to reconstruct society or the individual to conform more closely with objectives derived from some ideological construct. Moreover, and leaving to one side the question of the desirability of such objectives, The Federalist also asserts the truth of limited government; that is, the notion that there are things which government cannot do, no matter how hard it might try. Beyond this, of course, Publius’s recognition of the imperfection of man, of those human propensities that could lead to wickedness and folly, clearly suggest that he also believed that there are any number of things government should not do.
Apart from the fact that these reasons tell us why The Federalist will always enjoy a warm spot in the hearts of conservatives, they constitute reminders that republican regimes are not free from the fundamental difficulties which arise from man’s nature; that decent and orderly republican government requires more than merely elections, toleration, and a sufficient degree of “pluralism”; and, inter alia, that sweetness and light do not flow as a matter of course from self-government. Put another way, Publius’s concern with existential reality, his awareness of the intractable nature of man and the need to make adjustments to it, stand in sharp contrast to the euphoric expectations frequently associated with every advance of “liberal democracy.” This alone should have a sobering effect on the democratic globalists in our midst, particularly those who profess to use the American model as their guide.
Republished with gracious permission from the Intercollegiate Review (Fall 1989).
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- “Introduction” to The Federalist, Clinton Rossiter, ed. (New York: New American Library, 1961), vii. All subsequent citations to The Federalist in the text are to this edition,
- Quoted in Gottfried Dietze, The Federalist: A Classic on Federalism and Free Government (Baltimore: John Hopkins Press, 1960), 6. Chapter 1 of this work provides probably the most extensive review of general appraisals of The Federalist.
- Quoted from “Introduction” to The Federalist Papers, Roy P. Fairfield, ed., 2nd ed. (Baltimore: JohnHopkins University Press, 1981), xiii. On this point also see Danny M.Adkison, “The Federalist and Original Intent,” Political Science Reviewer (1987).
- An excellent book of essays which attempts to show how this gap is bridged is Saving the Revolution, Charles R. Kesler, ed. (New York: The Free Press, 1987).
- Quoted from Rossiter, “Introduction,” viii.
- James Allen Smith, The Spirit of American Government, Cushing Strout, ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1965).
- Smith, 31–32.
- Smith, 29–30.
- Charles A. Beard, An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution (New York: Macmillan, 1913).
- Beard, 324.
- Douglass Adair, Fame and the Founding Fathers, Trevor Colbourn (New York: W. W. Norton, 1974), 85.
- Smith, 37.
- Smith, 33.
- Herbert Croly, Progressive Democracy (New York: Macmillan, 1913), 49.
- Herbert Croly, The Promise of American Life (New York: Macmillan, 1911), 418. He is quoting from John Jay Chapman’s chapter on “Democracy” from his Causes and Consequences.
- Promise, 418.
- Promise, 415.
- Promise, 23.
- The Colonial Mind, volume one of Main Currents in American Thought (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1927), 290.
- Parrington, 276.
- Parrington, 277.
- We have, for example, Robert Dahl’s elaborate and widely heralded critique, with which most political scientists are well acquainted, of Madison’s major contributions to The Federalist, delivered some fifty years after the publication of Smith’s book. Dahl concludes from his analysis that “Madison [understood to mean a majority of the Framers, as well] wished to erect a political system that would guarantee the liberties of certain minorities whose advantages of status, power, and wealth would, he thought, probably not be tolerated indefinitely by a constitutionally untrammeled majority. Hence majorities had to be constitutionally inhibited.” A Preface to Democratic Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956), 31. For a devastating and near-definitive critique of Dahl’s analysis see Ronald M. Peters, Jr. “Political Theory, Political Science, and A Preface to Democratic Theory,” 7 Political Science Reviewer (1977).
- Gordon Wood, Creation of the American Republic (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1969), 513.
- Wood, viii.
- Parrington, 53.
- Parrington, 68.
- All citations in the text are to the Rossiter edition. See note one.
- James P. Scanlan, “The Federalist and Human Nature,” Review of Politics 21 (October, 1959), 659.
- Scanlan also points out that “antagonistic passions” (envy, jealousy, avarice) like “immediate” and “personal” interests will usually prevail over “amicable passions,” “reason and virtue,” “true” or “common” interests.
- George W. Carey, “Separation of Powers and the Madisonian Model: A Reply to the Critics,” 72 American Political Science Review (March, 1978).
- He can see how forbearance might come about after the people have grown accustomed to the institutions and processes and are convinced of their fairness and judiciousness. See, for instance, Federalist 51 and Federalist 63.
- J.L. Talmon, “Utopianism and Politics,” George Kateb, ed., Utopia (New York: Atherton Press, 1971), 92.
- Talmon, 94.
- Talmon, 95.