Imagine that all the greatest scientists down to about the end of the eighteenth century—the Archimedes, the Newtons, the Galileos, and the Descartes—are gathered in some part of the lower world, and a messenger from earth brings a dynamo for them to examine at their leisure. They are told that this apparatus is used by the living to produce movement, light, or heat. They look at it, they set it going. Next, they take it to pieces, and inspect and measure each part. In short, they do all they can.... But they know nothing about the electric current, they know nothing about induction, they know only about mechanical transformation. “What are all those coiled wires for?” they ask. They are forced to recognize their incompetence. So, all knowledge and all human genius, united in the face of this mysterious object, fail to discover its secret, fail to guess the new fact established by Volta, and other facts discovered by Ampere, Faraday, et al....
—Paul Valéry1
Valéry reminds us that the electric dynamo rests upon a science of electricity, lacking which we would be stymied by this inscrutable device. Here “the light by which we are guided” is the history of science, duly attentive to works of theory and discovery. 2 Somewhat analogously, the history of political philosophy is our guide in the book on which I shall comment, Harvey C. Mansfield’s Taming the Prince. Mansfield shows that a history duly attentive to political philosophy can shed comparable light on executive things. Like the power-generating dynamo, the “executive” is an artifact of the modern scientific revolution, which Mansfield explores in its wider but less familiar political implications. Executive power has a peculiarly theory-laden history because it entered history by way of a novel philosophical teaching.3 Far from being coeval with political life, it is a recent, history-shaping invention. The creature of Machiavelli’s doctrine, and the cutting edge of his revolutionary politics, “the executive” comes to light in Mansfield’s inquiry as the most important of those modern “inventions of prudence” to which Madison alluded in Federalist #51. The historian can no more comprehend execution without its theory than he could decode Valéry’s dynamo without electrical science.
Since we do not generally regard our executive, the American presidency, as an office generated by philosophic initiative or embodying a theory, this thesis is evidently at odds with received opinion. Mansfield’s thesis will appear especially outlandish to readers influenced by Leo Strauss, for Strauss took pains to discourage his students from thinking of the presidency in this way.4 Strauss sought to recover the citizen’s perspective, the way things appeared to men immersed in social or political life before what Max Weber called “the disenchantment of the world by science”; or as Strauss preferred to put it, prior to the discovery of nature with the emergence of science or philosophy. Strangely enough, he taught that a principal task of political science today was to recapture the look of political things from this pre-philosophic angle—how social life comes to light for citizens unequipped with the lenses of philosophy and as yet unaffected by the profound changes that its meddling has wrought in social life.5 Strauss’s insistence on the primacy of the citizen’s perspective was not embraced by all his students in every field, to be sure. But it was certainly taken to heart by those who studied the presidency. One distinctively Straussian contribution to presidential studies, over the last few decades, has been the effort to elevate the reasoning of presidents to a novel ascendancy in (or over) American political thought, and thereby to exhibit the presidency as the product in large measure of their thoughtful statesmanship.6 Mansfield’s restatement of the effectual truth of Machiavelli’s executive teaching is bound to strike many of Strauss’s students as a reversal of his principle of emphasis: Strauss clearly displayed Machiavelli’s ferocious assault on the naive civilian viewpoint in order to repel that attack; whereas Mansfield appears to reinforce and further Machiavelli’s challenge to the citizen’s perspective.7
An index of that reversal might be the remarkable contrast between Mansfield’s Preface and Strauss’s Introduction to Thoughts on Machiavelli. “The United States,” Strauss observed, “may be said to be the only country in the world which was founded in explicit opposition to Machiavellian principles.”8 If Strauss’s initial theme was the distance between Machiavelli and the American Founding, Mansfield’s is their convergence, in the creation of the executive. Far from opposing Machiavelli, Mansfield suggests, the Framers adopted a strong, Machiavellian executive.9 In their Constitution, “the devices of Machiavelli are made available to the office first held by George Washington.”10 Mansfield invites us to study this marriage, whereas Strauss began with the divorce: “At least to the extent that the American reality is inseparable from the American aspiration, one cannot understand Americanism without understanding Machiavellianism, which is its opposite.” 11 Rejecting this point of departure, Mansfield conveys the strong first impression that the Founders’ debt to Machiavelli is most evident in the primary institution through which their regime presents itself to the world and to its own citizens: a president “elected to administer the executive government of the United States.”12
This impression is reinforced by the opening of Mansfield’s account of the American Founding, in his final chapter. Although “the executive seems sovereign in the realm where practice is not subject to theory”(248). Mansfield contends that this appearance is misleading. For “it was precisely in regard to the executive that the Constitution was most in need of the theorizing of political science, and most indebted to it”(250). Thus in Mansfield’s culminating chapter the presidency initially comes to light as a creature of modern theory. Speaking of the adoption of the Constitution, Mansfield writes, “Now the theory has a formal embodiment in an office; it becomes a theory in practice, identified with what each president makes of it” (248).
But by this point in the book the attentive reader is bound to ask:Which theory? For Mansfield has developed four modern theories of execution and executive power in chapters on Machiavelli, Hobbes, Locke, and Montesquieu. Although cognate, they are very different. Perplexity on this score is intensified when Mansfield highlights the features of The Federalist’s presidency that diverge from all four of the modern teachings on executive power that he has thus far explicated in Parts II (The Discovery of Executive Power) and III (The Constitutional Executive). In the course of Chapter 10, Mansfield effectively demonstrates that none of the four is “formally embodied” in the presidential office. Accordingly, this chapter on The Federalist is intended “to show what new doctrine they [the American Founders] produced” (248). As Mansfield unfolds the striking originality of The Federalist (and of the Constitution it expounds), he shows that “the formal embodiment” of the theory entailed a profound rethinking. Taken in conjunction with The Federalist’s meditation on that “embodiment,” the American Founders’ moment in the history of the executive proves to be a theoretical event of considerable stature in its own right, amounting to a complete reassessment of the modern doctrine of executive power. A formal embodiment that yields a new doctrine entails more than a mere actualization; it is a theoretical reformulation. Indeed, if Mansfield did not repeatedly insist on the executive character of the presidency, one might wonder whether The Federalist’s “new doctrine” was a theory of executive power at all; or conclude (to adopt one of Mansfield’s fine distinctions), that the American president was a “practical executive not understood as executive” (and hence not bound to consider himself as executive) (73).
Before the theory of modern executive power could be formally embodied in an office of the American Constitution, it had to pass through a lengthy deliberation, in the Constitutional Convention. Reflecting on what these deliberations accomplished (and guiding their sequel in the Ratification debate), The Federalist articulated a new teaching on the executive. Mansfield argues that these deliberations simultaneously transformed the received understandings of republicanism and of the executive power; by qualitatively modifying two hitherto unreconciled traditions, it made their union possible. Neither the resulting constitutionalized republicanism nor the republicanized executive is intelligible without the other; Mansfield’s chapter shows The Federalist devoting equal attention to reformulating them together.
In the course of this deliberately republican Founding, according to Mansfield, the executive which these modern theorists had invented and refined was separated from their doctrines. While the purposes to which they had subordinated it were not entirely stripped away, even these purposes were given a new twist by the new Federalist doctrine.Thus as early as Federalist #17, the characteristic modern preoccupation with an effective executive receives a novel turn. “Contrary to Machiavelli, the people will be impressed more by steady administration than by sensational examples”(251). Mansfield does not say the people will be unimpressed by sensational examples, nor that steady administration precludes them; but whereas the Machiavellian “effectual truth” by which government is judged necessarily requires and excuses criminal deeds of execution, the republicanized executive of The Federalist’s doctrine does not (251; cf. 124-125, 131-134, 142).
Moreover (and despite the emphasis on consent in The Declaration of Independence), Mansfield notes that for Publius,
contrary to Hobbes, Locke, and the republicans, the people’s consent to obey is not effective enough. They must like their government, rather than merely obey it, if it is to be effective. And they will like it more for its good administration than because it is derived from their consent. Publius elevates the modern demand for results to a requirement of good performance....The stage is set for a new kind of responsibility in executives—constitutional and republican. (251)
Even Publius’s greatest reliance upon the received doctrine of executive power entails innovation. As Mansfield has argued, “the creation of executive power was made possible, indeed it was created, by a recognition—new to republican theory and contrary to previous republican theorists—of the power of necessity.” (252) But when The Federalist teaches this recognition of necessity to republicans hitherto reluctant to acknowledge necessities, that recognition changes in character. Seen “from the battlefront of human recalcitrance”(49), where citizens stubbornly insist on making their own choices, it loses its scientific neutrality and its capacity to neutralize republican political life. Necessity comes to light in The Federalist as the potential ally or enemy of republican choice. Mansfield had shown earlier that the “Machiavellian moment,” far from being an endorsement of republican choice, was a reorientation of politics toward the dreadful origins of organized social life, where necessity silences choice.
Its thrust was “to make all men aware of the necessity of tyranny, and therefore to throw very cold water on the ardent hopes they have cherished for any notion of justice that would oppose necessity”(182). By contrast, “Publius recognizes necessity, but does not draw the Machiavellian conclusion. As we shall see, this recognition does not become an excuse for doing ill, but an incentive for doing better than what is merely necessary” (252).
The Federalist’s most important doctrinal borrowing is from Locke. It initially appears to be without modification; because it requires inspection, we quote Mansfield’s analysis at length:
It is characteristic of the American Constitution, by contrast to the republican tradition, to constitutionalize necessities in the manner of Locke. Those necessities limiting our choice, which we would like to wish away, are brought into the Constitution so that the people, through their government, can choose how to deal with them after having anticipated the necessity for doing so. That is how reflection enables choice to contend with “accident and force,” which cannot in fact be removed from human affairs. (255)
But the Constitution constitutionalizes the necessities of republican experience—and in no respect more obviously than in the executive. In its “energy” or quickness, the executive deals more than any other branch with the accidents and force that may thwart or disturb republican choice. By dealing with such necessities, the executive actually represents them in the Constitution. The provision for a strong executive thus reflects a realistic recognition by the people, in ratifying the Constitution and electing a President, that emergencies will arise that may confound their choices. (256)
Yet precisely here the Constitution (and The Federalist’s teaching) add a dimension that was absent from Locke: “Republican choice is improved by the same forms in the Constitution that represent, or constitutionalize, necessities” (257). The term “forms” is chosen advisedly. As Mansfield has explained, Machiavellian skepticism about forms makes it difficult for those whose political science is confined by modern horizons to appreciate the full potentiality of the formalities of liberty; notwithstanding Locke’s great concern for liberty, his constitutionalism is vexed by this difficulty.13 But serious citizens need not accept this harness, and Mansfield highlights the reasons Publius gave for slipping out of it.
Judging from Mansfield’s earlier chapters, the reader would not have expected that the modern executive power could be employed for the purpose of improving republican choice; Mansfield has consistently stressed Machiavelli’s contrary intention.14 Yet Mansfield finds that nothing prevents Machiavelli’s devices from being re-appropriated against his intent and turned to republican purposes that Locke had not contemplated.
But it is especially in the executive that republican choice acquires new capability. For the executive not only makes decisions in emergencies, as one ingredient of “energy,” but also, as another ingredient, supplies the consistency in administration that makes possible “extensive and arduous enterprises” (Federalist 72). Such enterprises are familiar to us today as the long-term programs of legislation and administration—the New Deal, the Reagan Revolution—which always have their origin in the executive branch. Precisely the branch that most recognizes the limits to human choice arising from emergencies, also best extends human choice in the capability to set a general direction for policy now and in the future. An able executive will improve upon the occasions of his decision. He will make his quick reactions consistent with his general program, so that his quickness is not merely willful but somehow adheres to his lasting intent. (257)
Locke, by contrast, “leaves no place in the constitution for the executive’s program, a combination of law and discretion in which the choice of legislation is guided by a long-term choice of policy” (259). Thus The Federalist undertook a task foreign to the modern political philosophers who introduced and refined the executive power, according to Mansfield.
.... in teaching republicans to bow to the necessities represented especially in the need for executive power, The Federalist also shows republicans how to choose better, because more lastingly, while not departing from the republican principle that all government should be derived from the people. Thus it teaches republicans to be better republicans. (257)
Although Mansfield insists upon the contribution of modern executive power to the presidency and its character as an executive office, his account suggests that The Federalist’s presidency was also released from the biases or constraints of modern theory in the course of this deliberately republican Founding. Publius’s new doctrine proves to be substantially new, at odds not only with the Machiavellian doctrine whose discovery Mansfield had taken such pains to trace, but also with the liberal constitutionalist doctrines of Locke and Montesquieu.15 The American presidency expounded by The Federalist relies significantly, yet very selectively, upon the modern tradition of executive power. Although the devices of executive action refined by Machiavelli (and toned down by the philosophic founders of modern liberalism) may be in a measure available to American presidents, Mansfield argues that the republican and constitutional character of the presidency defines the measure.
.... we know what to expect from our government and from ourselves through the powers and duties defined in the Constitution. When all branches or even all citizens have a prerogative power, no one has a responsibility because no one has a definite responsibility. Loss of constitutional definition leads to loss of responsibility. The Constitution must define neither too little nor too much. But it is in defining executive power, the power that most resists definition, that the problem lies. For a constitutional people, nothing is more difficult, nor more necessary, than to define what executive power is. (291)
Mansfield had observed that under Locke’s executive and legislative division, “Men cannot take their bearings from their humanity alone but must proceed with their attention divided between desire and necessity” (211). The adoption of Locke’s model constitution would therefore entail a heavy sacrifice. “Loss of a sense of responsibility for a whole”—for a constitutional whole that comprises both desire and necessity or that takes its bearings from our humanity—is the price, Mansfield warns, of Locke’s rejecting the possibility of Aristotle’s “kingship over all” (211). In Mansfield’s judgment, however, the Constitution retains that possibility. His account of the new doctrine propounded by Publius culminates in this astonishing conclusion:
As a formal possibility, Aristotle’s kingship of virtue remains in the Constitution. Nothing in it prevents the emergence of such a king, except for the same practical problems that stand in the way elsewhere. The Constitution adopts that which precludes kingship in order to create a republican executive rather than a king; nevertheless, constitutional powers broad enough to meet necessities may also be strong enough to satisfy virtue. The Machiavellian principle of anticipating necessity by the use of virtue may be interpreted in the interest of virtue. Just as the people may elect rather than rule, so those with outstanding virtue may run for election and act within constitutional restraints instead of ruling. In a rare case such a person may rule through the constraints, that is, may succeed in using them to serve his virtue. (275)
This represents a remarkable reversal. Mansfield had demonstrated in Chapters 6-9 that under all the modern doctrines of executive power prior to the American Founding, the executive was never held within the orbit of the law or under the control of virtue. Here, near the end of Chapter 10, he concludes that the new doctrine brought forth by the Constitution and The Federalist yields a responsible republican executive which is outside neither the law nor the rule of virtue; but it seems that he has done so by making the executive a placeholder for Aristotleian kingship. Mansfield pithily summarizes the peripetia of Chapter 10 thus: “The Constitution formalized the ambivalence of virtue—republican or super-republican—in the ambivalence of executive power, weak or strong” (275). This jujitsu summation is evidently designed to stagger the reader and provoke a thorough reassessment of the book’s argument.
Parts II and III seem to run contrary to Aristotelian common sense and to mimic the moderns while explaining their attempt to reconstruct political life through audacious theoretical projects. But in appropriating modern political science, which mixes theory and practice and dissolves or supersedes common sense, Mansfield is guided by Aristotle. These two parts, despite their careful tracing out of Machiavelli’s executive thought and its impact on liberal constitutionalism, reflect Mansfield’s effort to separate what the moderns meld together in their endeavor to unite knowledge and power. Their work thus becomes available to both philosophers and citizens in a new light.
On the one hand, their projects required them to disguise or efface the politically significant contemplative life. Mansfield shows that Machiavelli, Hobbes, Locke, and Montesquieu lived that life nearly to the hilt; and so the chapters Mansfield devotes to them develops the bios theoretikos as a standard for the most serious minds.16 This articulation is, one might argue, Mansfield’s “critical political science,” which serves to “mock the impossible desires” which the moderns systematically flattered.17 Mansfield makes perspicuous the two ways of life, of the philosopher and of the citizen or statesman, which the moderns confounded.
On the other hand, by showing how Publius interprets such devices as the executive, Mansfield discloses a constructive possibility. All the political artifices forged by the founders of liberalism may be rediscovered and made freshly available as “modern inventions of prudence” or as means to be employed by Mansfield’s working political science, which is modelled on Aristotle’s.17
Part I on the pre-history of the executive therefore occupies two distinct positions, or fulfills two different functions, in Mansfield’s teaching. Initially it serves as a background against which Machiavelli’s revolutionary discovery of the executive can appear in its true magnitudes. Later, Mansfield’s reader may begin to gather in the combinatorial side of his working or constructive political science.18 The modern regimes in which the Machiavellian executive is embedded are, as Mansfield demonstrates, well-conceived projects to defeat common sense and confound those who view politics from the citizen’s perspective. In these regimes, constructive reform is made doubly difficult by a doctrinal reinforcement of human recalcitrance: modern political philosophy teaches that rule as such is unjust.19 Presidential scholars may learn from Mansfield’s study how to address this peculiarly modern resistance to constructive reform. Understood in this light, these latter parts (II and III) adumbrate a practical political science framed for our circumstances.
Some may consider that in interpreting Machiavelli, Mansfield has gone too far in appreciating “the cunning and violence that prudence needs to have at its command whether in the worst or in the best cause.” (111) His inquiry seems to run contrary to a tendency in Straussian presidential studies, as I have indicated. Have “the fundamental considerations that kept Aristotle from uncovering executive power” (74) led Mansfield to uncover it further, now that it has become the universal and primary mode of governance? However that may be, by taking Machiavelli’s challenge to its limit, Mansfield has enabled us to appreciate fully, and perhaps for the first time, how the Constitution and The Federalist repelled Machiavelli’s assault on responsible citizenship.
Scholars unaffected by Strauss will also be jarred by Mansfield’s thesis, but for very different reasons. They may well conclude that Mansfield’s radicalism undermines American constitutional morality, by indicting its foundational ideas and especially its unexamined democratic assumptions. Taming the Prince is refreshingly candid on this score. Certainly Mansfield would not have undertaken this effort if he thought it were possible to rescue modern liberal constitutionalism by drawing more deeply upon its proper resources or merely by returning to its roots. Mansfield’s study is a remorseless demonstration that, from its earliest beginnings in Locke and Montesquieu, liberal constitutionalism never categorically repudiated Machiavelli’s politics. It was instead a subtly accommodating effort to preserve his acquisitive principle and his prince in a tamer form.20 The pride of modern liberalism is a kinder, gentler self-aggrandizement.
Mansfield shows, moreover, that when Locke and Montesquieu tame the prince they do so largely by befuddling our standards of deliberation and judgment, so that one might as well call their efforts a Machiavellian taming of public morality: qua executive, the executive of the liberal constitutionalists is never within the orbit of the law or under the control of virtue (106). The question Mansfield’s study poses is whether the executive, which he shows to be at the root of liberal constitutionalism, ever was or can ever be a healthy root of constitutional self-government. Taming the Prince thus challenges what liberalism teaches about constitutional morality. Mansfield argues that Locke and Montesquieu adopted the opposition between form and reality, or between constitutional form and political reality, which Machiavelli discovered and exploited.21 Only in a political community ruled by the dogma that constitutional forms are unbridgeably divided from the real goods or powers men seek through politics is the field fully open for the Machiavellian prince and for the Machiavellian art of combining formal or constitutional weakness with informal or unlawful strength.22 Such ambivalence is the essence of the executive, Mansfield demonstrates; and its foundation or precondition in public opinion is a moral prejudice against rule.23 Locke’s morality, which Mansfield contends is “our morality,” makes us at once loathe to take responsibility for ruling others and eager to punish those who do.24 When we tame the prince by enhancing the fundamental opinions that rule out any alternative, what we are taming is not primarily the executive. For—to say nothing of necessity!—whenever lawful routine threatens to entrap and imperil us, whenever its mills grind out injustice, we have no remedy but to unleash or untame executive action. Like Nature, we may throw it out with a pitchfork, but inexorably it comes back. By Mansfield’s account, our Lockean morality depraves the part of the soul that can only be perfected when we assume political responsibility for our selves. This (according to Mansfield, following Aristotle) includes the responsibility for ruling others along with ourselves.25
At first glance Mansfield’s inquiry appears quite tangential to presidential studies and remote from the issues that excite public attention today. His study goes no further than 1789, before the presidency (as Americans have known it for more than two hundred years) began. The actions of American presidents fall outside his purview, as well as their thoughts on executive power. But presidential studies as Mansfield frames it is primarily a deliberation about a profoundly troubling and disputable office. As a conversation among serious citizens, its center of gravity is philosophic without being historical or academic: it continues the original debate which the Constitutional Convention initiated over the place of monarchy and Machiavellian tyranny in our fundamentally popular form of government.26 However, what is most controversial will neither be acknowledged in the public conversation nor discussed, if presidents and presidential scholars censor their wisdom. 27 Mansfield reminds us of this practical dimension of presidential studies by taking the floor to advance the debate. In this respect, Taming the Prince is one of the more remarkable interventions by a good mind into American public life. It bears comparison with Hamilton’s much-maligned speech during the 1787 Convention—an initiative that staggered the delegates but succeeded in advancing their deliberations swiftly (and in the event, irrevocably) toward the inherently strong presidential office the Constitution established.28
Paul Valéry, “The Outlook for Intelligence” in Valéry, History and Politics (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1970): 133.
Tocqueville, Democracy in America, Vol.2, Bk.l, ch.10.
Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr., Taming the Prince: The Ambivalence of Modern Executive Power (New York: Free Press, 1989): xv-xviii, 5-13, 19-20, 121ff. All page numbers in parentheses in the text are to this edition, as are page numbers in the footnotes below, unless otherwise indicated.
Leo Strauss, Liberalism Ancient and Modern (New York: Basic Books, 1968): 206-215. Wilson C. Mc Williams argues that Strauss’s emphasis led his students to neglect “more purely theoretical American thinkers—Emerson, for example, who might have been expected to be of special interest, given his links to Nietzsche.” See “Strauss and the Dignity of American Political Thought,” The Review of Politics, Vol.60 #2 (Spring, 1998): 231-246.
Leo Strauss, What is Political Philosophy, and other Studies (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959): 78-81; Natural Right and History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1953): 78-80, 81-119, 120-122; Leo Strauss, On Tyranny: Revised and Expanded Edition Including the Strauss-Kojeve Correspondence, ed.Victor Gourevitch and Michael S. Roth (New York: The Free Press, 1991): 26-28, 184-186, 207.
Morton J. Frisch and Richard A. Stevens, American Political Thought: The Philosophical Dimension of American Statesmanship (New York: Scribners, 1971): 5, 23-50, 125-144, 191-236; Harry V. Jaffa, The Crisis of the House Divided: An Interpretation of the Lincoln-Douglas Debates (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1973); Charles R. Kesler, “Woodrow Wilson and the Statesmanship of Progress,” in Silver, op.cit., pp. 103-127; Jeffrey K. Tulis, The Rhetorical Presidency (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1987); James W.Ceaser, Presidential Selection: Theory and Development (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979); Sidney M. Milkis, The President and the Parties: The Transformation of the American Party System Since the New Deal (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).
Leo Strauss, What is Political Philosophy, and other Studies . 40-43, 46-47; Strauss, The City and Man (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1964): 11-12.
Leo Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli (Seattle: University ofWashington Press, 1958): 13.
Mansfield, ibid., xvi-xvii, xxii.
Ibid., xix.
Strauss, Thoughts on Machiavelli, 14.
George Washington, “Farewell Address,” para.1, reprinted in Patrick J. Garrity and Matthew Spalding, A Sacred Union of Citizens: George Washington’s Farewell Address and the American Character (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 1996): 175.
Pp. 186-190, 198, 203-204, 209-211.
Pp. 70, 81, 89, 91, 95, 115-116, 128-129.
Pp. 259-260, 293-294.
Pp. 148, 167, 178, 214-215, 292-293.
Pp. 45-46, 108, 115-118, 147-148, 174, 178, 198, 211, 214-215.
Compare 46-47, 51-53.
Pp. xxiii, 16-20, 50-51, 89, 91, 95, 104, 116, 127-129,148; see also Robert Eden, “The Ambivalent Executive in the Political Philosophy of Hobbes,” The International Hobbes Association Newsletter (July 1990).
Pp. 127, 129, 151, 175, 196, 287-290.
Pp. 13-16, 28-33, 71, 127-129, 139, 288-290.
Pp. xvi, 1-4, 13-20, 28-33, 71, 137-139, 148-149, 153, 171-174, 286.
P.153; see Eden, “The Ambivalent Executive.”
Pp. 208, 211, and the passages in the next note.
Pp. xxiii, 18-19, 29-30, 39-40, 42-43, 70, 208-209, 270-271, 291-294.
See xv-xvi, xxiii, 18-19, and 278:“In the American Constitution the office of the executive permits and encourages a continuing dispute about the nature of executive power.”
Pp. 165, 167, 176-178, 294-297. “If the executive and the people for whom he acts are capable of acting responsibly, we need a political science capable of discerning responsibility. Such a political science is essentially Aristotelian, as opposed to the Machiavellian political science that invented the modern executive,” 291.
See “Speech in the Convention on a Plan of Government, June 18, 1787,” in Morton J. Frisch, ed., Selected Writings and Speeches of Alexander Hamilton (Washington,D.C.:American Enterprise Institute, 1985): 90-116.