An old, not to say ancient, debate among certain scholars is whether and to what extent the American Founding was ancient versus modern. That is to ask: to what extent, if any, was ancient political philosophy not only an inspiration to the American founders but actually incorporated into the regime they built? This issue rises well above a mere scholarly controversy over “sources” and goes to the heart of what kind of regime the American founders were trying to build, to what America is.

To sum up as briefly as possible, one view holds that the American regime is purely modern—that is, derived wholly and self-consciously from modern political philosophy. For instance, the influential political scientist Joseph Cropsey declared America “an arena in which modernity is working itself out” and “the microcosm of modernity, repeating in its regime, on the level of popular consciousness, the major noetic events of the modern world.” Those who hold this view tend to conclude that this origin makes America, and a fortiori Americans, “low but solid,” concerned more with comfortable self-preservation than with the soul.

Against this view, others argue that the American founders relied just as much on ancient wisdom as on modern theory. They cite (for instance) Thomas Jefferson’s 1825 letter to Henry Lee, which explains that the authority of the Declaration of Independence rests primarily on the “the harmonizing sentiments of the day” and only secondarily on “the elementary books of public right, as Aristotle, Cicero, Locke, Sidney, &c.”—two ancients and two moderns, and all republicans. They further argue that, while modern political philosophy may inevitably degenerate into pointless production and consumption (what Leo Strauss famously called “the joyless quest for joy”) and culminate in antirational nihilism, political practice follows its own logic and course—influenced, to be sure, by philosophy, but in the last analysis decided by citizens and statesmen. As Charles Kesler has put it,

The purpose of American constitutionalism is to produce a certain kind of human being and citizen—an American, whose character reflects the ends of our republicanism. In this respect, the political theory of the Constitution cannot be understood apart from the principles of the Declaration of Independence, and the political theory of the American regime cannot be understood apart from the political science of the classics.

To explore, if not settle, this question, it is perhaps worthwhile to examine the treatment of the ancients in The Federalist, the American founders’ single most important contribution to the literature of political philosophy.

What Not to Do

The ancients loom large in The Federalist. First and foremost, the work presents itself as the product of one “Publius,” borrowing the name from Publius Valerius Publicola, one of the founders of the Roman Republic. In other words, The Federalist’s authors wish to claim for themselves some degree of the authority and majesty of the ancients, and in particular of ancient Rome, history’s most successful republic.

In part, this choice was in keeping with common practice in the founding era, when pseudonyms proliferated and often took Roman (for instance Agrippa, Brutus, Cato, Cincinnatus, Helvidius Priscus, Marcus, Tullius) or Roman-sounding (Americanus, Philadelphiensis) forms. It also reflected the elite education of the time. As Kesler explains,

education in the colonies and in the new nation was anchored, from the primary school to college, in the study of classical languages and literature. By comparison with much instruction in the classics today, this study was serious: it did not regard Greece and Rome as two unusually interesting cultures, an acquaintance with which was mildly diverting and sometimes useful in decoding highbrow literature and middlebrow crossword puzzles. For the founders, instruction in the classics was, to a great extent, the study of living wisdom that happened to have been written centuries ago in different languages. (“The Founders and the Classics” 8)

From all this (and more), one might expect a respectful, even reverential, treatment of the ancients in The Federalist. Yet that expectation is at first glance not met.

Twenty-three of The Federalist’s 85 papers discuss the ancients. In nearly all cases, they are cited for the lessons taught by their examples, not for their theoretical insights. Plato and Socrates are mentioned once each, the former to dismiss the possibility of “a nation of philosophers” and a “philosophical race of kings” (No. 49), the latter with the pungent and memorable observation that “had every Athenian citizen been a Socrates, every Athenian assembly would still have been a mob” (No. 55). The only other ancient authorities cited are Plutarch (in Nos. 6, 18, and 38) and Polybius (No. 63), both in their capacities as historians rather than for their philosophical or moral teachings.

The Federalist’s very first mention of the ancients, in No. 4, cites the “history of the states of Greece and of other countries” to illustrate the dangers of disunity. Those “other countries” are not specified to be either ancient or modern, but it is likely that both are intended. In other words, the founders are not “historicists” (to cite a concept that would emerge a few decades later): they did not believe that ancient examples were inapt to their situation simply for being old, nor did they see a fundamental discontinuity between antiquity and modernity in all things. They rather believed that, because human nature remains more or less constant (more on this below), ancient examples have just as much to teach as modern ones.

Unfortunately, nearly all those lessons appear to be negative. A cursory look at the discussions of the ancients in The Federalist seems to reveal a long and almost unrelieved litany of failures. The reader is confronted early on with “the petty republics of Greece and Italy” (No. 9) and “the turbulent democracies of ancient Greece” (No. 14). The entirety of Federalist 18 is given over to a discussion (for whose length Publius apologizes) of the failures of the Amphictyonic Council and the Achaean League, two ancient defensive confederacies cited by opponents of the proposed Constitution as models for the loose defensive alliance that (these critics argue) would be sufficient to ensure American security. Of foreign corruption, we are reminded “how much this contributed to the ruin of the ancient commonwealths” (No. 22). “Greece was undone,” Publius quotes Montesquieu, “as soon as the king of Macedon obtained a seat among the Amphictyons” (No. 43)—that is, as soon as the latter confederacy unwisely admitted a state with a regime radically different from those of its existing members. But homogeneity alone was not enough to save the ancient confederacies: “We have seen, in all the examples of ancient and modern confederacies, the strongest tendency continually betraying itself in the members, to despoil the general government of its authorities, with a very ineffectual capacity in the latter to defend itself against the encroachments” (No. 45). Anti-Federalists who charge that the proposed Constitution’s less popular elements portend tyranny, and who therefore insist on a more radically democratic structure, should remember that “in the ancient republics, where the whole body of the people assembled in person, a single orator, or an artful statesman, was generally seen to rule with as complete a sway as if a sceptre had been placed in his single hand” (No. 58). Those who fret about vesting executive power in one man are reminded that “Roman history records many instances of mischiefs to the republic from the dissensions between the Consuls, and between the military Tribunes, who were at times substituted for the Consuls” (No. 70). Even the most spectacular ancient success carried a more spectacular downside: “the liberties of Rome proved the final victim to her military triumphs” (No. 41).

Damning with Faint Praise

Even when Publius appears to pay a compliment, it is more likely than not backhanded. The Romans are praised in Federalist 5—but for their skill in turning allies into conquests so imperceptibly that their victims didn’t notice until far too late. The Lycian and Achaean Leagues are damned with the faint praise that these confederacies “appear to have been most free from the fetters of that mistaken principle” (of loose confederation; No. 16). Number 45 delivers the punchline: both were ruined anyway.

Roman bicameralism is praised in Federalist 34, but not as an end in itself or for its good effects. Rather, Rome’s two independent assemblies—one patrician, the other plebeian—are cited to vindicate the coexistence in America of federal and state authority, to show that practice often trumps theory, that something which on paper may appear impracticable often works in real life.

Rome is subsequently cited for her martial valor, but as a reminder of the unfortunate necessity for states to remain armed in the face of potential predation (No. 41). For all of Publius’s Roman pretensions, America is not to become another Rome; she is not to seek empire. She will have enough on her hands defending her own territory and interests while maintaining a balance between a military strong enough to deter and (if necessary) meet aggression, but not so strong as to threaten domestic liberty.

The closest Publius ever comes to unqualified praise of the ancients is the statement that “history informs us of no long-lived republic which had not a senate” (No. 63). Sparta, Rome, and Carthage are said to be “the only states to whom that character can be applied.” Here, finally, appears to be an ancient innovation worth copying. But even here, Publius makes a momentous change.

Whereas no ancient senate (to say nothing of hereditary legislatures such as the British House of Lords) rested on a popular foundation, the Constitutional Convention’s proposed senate will. Indeed, in The Federalist’s 14th essay (which concludes the book’s first section), Publius declares that the American Constitution proposes a government that will be “unmixed” and “wholly popular.” Granted, the United States Senate will function something like the aristocratic ancient bodies from which it takes its name, and the presidency will have monarchical-like powers. But, in contrast to all known predecessors, ancient or modern, American senators and presidents alike will depend, ultimately, entirely on the people for their selection and legitimacy. When Publius uses the word “mixed” as praise for his new constitution, he means the mixture of federal and state sovereignty (cf. Nos. 39 and 40), not ancient political philosophy’s recommendation of a mixed regime with popular, aristocratic, and monarchical elements.

Size Matters

A wholly popular regime is not an innovation; there were numerous such governments in the ancient world. But in all of them, the people assembled “in person” (Nos. 10, 14, 48, 52, and 58) to administer the government’s functions. This Publius defines as “democracy” (or “pure democracy”; Nos. 10 and 63). He dismisses this form of government as impracticable for a country as large as the United States, and also as a bad regime simply, because prone to tyranny of the majority.

The proposed American Constitution by contrast is representative. This too is not an innovation: Publius acknowledges that “we owe” to modern Europe “the great principle of representation” (No. 14). What is an innovation is placing representation on a wholly popular foundation. America will be the world’s first-ever wholly popular (or unmixed) and wholly representative republic (cf. Diamond, “The Federalist,” 581). This is the first of two unique contributions to political theory and practice that Publius claims for America.

The other is that America will be the largest republic ever conceived as such; that is, not as the result of expansion but designed as such from the beginning. In the famous tenth Federalist, Publius seizes on an alleged objection or downside to the adoption of the proposed Constitution and boldly proclaims it an advantage. Not only, he asserts, is the great size of the United States no bar to the country’s remaining republican; size will instead be instrumental in keeping the country republican. Indeed, he argues that the “extensive republic” is the only way to avoid the chief danger from a wholly popular government: majority tyranny. Returning to Federalist 14, Publius boasts that “America can claim the merit of making the discovery [of the principle of representation] the basis of unmixed and extensive republics. It is only to be lamented that any of her citizens should wish to deprive her of the additional merit of displaying its full efficacy in the establishment of the comprehensive system now under her consideration.”

The issue of the “extensive republic” is the key to The Federalist. The strongest headwind facing advocates of the proposed Constitution was the popular belief (or prejudice) that only small countries can sustain republicanism and that, conversely, large countries inevitably descend into tyranny. Perhaps one reason Publius never cites ancient political science is because nearly all the ancients argue that republics must be small. Be that as it may, Publius does, we recall, admit that “the liberties of Rome proved the final victim to her military triumphs”—that size, at least if it is the product of military expansion, can indeed be deadly to liberty, domestically no less than externally.

But in support of the view that republics must be small, the Constitution’s opponents looked less to the ancients than to Montesquieu, the philosopher by far most oft-cited in The Federalist. Hence, when Publius first refers to Montesquieu (in No. 9), it is to show (or attempt to show) that those who cite him as an authority against the possibility of the large republic do not understand him. Publius equates Montesquieu’s “confederate republic”—a defensive confederacy of otherwise sovereign states that vest power over foreign affairs in a central government while reserving to themselves authority over domestic matters—with The Federalist’s extensive republic. In other words, he turns Montesquieu back against those critics of the Constitution who cite the French philosopher in support of the argument that the state governments are alone sufficiently republican to secure Americans’ liberty. To the contrary, Publius replies: the state governments are already too large to fulfill Montesquieu’s requirement for small republics, and yet at the same time too small to serve as proper “extended republics” that can secure liberty for the long term.

At any rate, Montesquieu’s argument that republics must be small of course channels the ancients. Publius must therefore vindicate the large republic tacitly against ancient theory, explicitly in contrast to ancient practice, as well as (he claims) against a mistaken interpretation of modern theory.

“New” or “Improved” Science?

Advocates of the founders-as-moderns thesis sometimes attribute to Publius (or other American founders) the phrase “new science of politics.” The passage most often cited in support of this assertion is from Federalist 9:

The science of politics, however, like most other sciences, has received great improvement. The efficacy of various principles is now well understood, which were either not known at all, or imperfectly known to the ancients. The regular distribution of power into distinct departments; the introduction of legislative balances and checks; the institution of courts composed of judges holding their offices during good behavior; the representation of the people in the legislature by deputies of their own election: these are wholly new discoveries, or have made their principal progress towards perfection in modern times.

If this were not enough to establish the Constitution’s novelty, and hence modernity, we may add this passage from Federalist 14:

But why is the experiment of an extended republic to be rejected, merely because it may comprise what is new? Is it not the glory of the people of America, that, whilst they have paid a decent regard to the opinions of former times and other nations, they have not suffered a blind veneration for antiquity, for custom, or for names, to overrule the suggestions of their own good sense, the knowledge of their own situation, and the lessons of their own experience? To this manly spirit, posterity will be indebted for the possession, and the world for the example, of the numerous innovations displayed on the American theatre, in favor of private rights and public happiness. Had no important step been taken by the leaders of the Revolution for which a precedent could not be discovered, no government established of which an exact model did not present itself, the people of the United States might, at this moment, have been numbered among the melancholy victims of misguided councils, must at best have been laboring under the weight of some of those forms which have crushed the liberties of the rest of mankind. Happily for America, happily, we trust, for the whole human race, they pursued a new and more noble course. They accomplished a revolution which has no parallel in the annals of human society. (Emphasis added)

One hallmark of modern political philosophy is its assertion that it alone is grounded or scientific, that it “reduces” “justice and policy…to the rules and infallibility of reason,” whereas all prior political teachings “had been built in the air.” In Federalist 31, in the midst of a relatively mundane discussion of taxation, Publius all but compares political science to math:

Though it cannot be pretended that the principles of moral and political knowledge have, in general, the same degree of certainty with those of the mathematics, yet they have much better claims in this respect than, to judge from the conduct of men in particular situations, we should be disposed to allow them.

To this we might add Publius’s defense in Federalist 38 of Americans’ reliance on an “assembly of men” to devise their constitution rather than on “some individual citizen of preeminent wisdom and approved integrity” as was customary in the ancient world (cf. Discourses I 9). The collective wisdom of many is bound to be superior to the judgment of one alone, especially since the latter avowedly depends on divine inspiration which, even if not knowingly fabricated, is at a minimum “unscientific.” All this, and much else besides, might seem to settle the question in favor of the Constitution’s being wholly modern.

Yet Publius never actually uses the phrase “new science of politics.” Charles Kesler points out that, as “readers of cereal boxes know, ‘new’ and ‘improved’ are not the same, and hence cereal companies like to use both terms to communicate the sheer magnificence of their work. Publius, on the other hand, claims only to have added new elements to an already existing science, to have improved but not remade it.” That is, Publius sees himself as building on insights already known, supplementing and improving them with subsequent discoveries learned through investigation and experience.

Because nearly all of Publius’s references to the classics are to failures of practice that teach lessons to avoid, one might suspect that he entirely rejects ancient wisdom. Yet Publius nowhere criticizes ancient political philosophy in The Federalist. He does, however, levy one criticism against modern political philosophy that I believe has received insufficient attention. In No. 14, he writes:

To this accidental source of the error may be added the artifice of some celebrated authors, whose writings have had a great share in forming the modern standard of political opinions. Being subjects either of an absolute or limited monarchy, they have endeavored to heighten the advantages, or palliate the evils of those forms, by placing in comparison the vices and defects of the republican, and by citing as specimens of the latter the turbulent democracies of ancient Greece and modern Italy. Under the confusion of names, it has been an easy task to transfer to a republic observations applicable to a democracy only; and among others, the observation that it can never be established but among a small number of people, living within a small compass of territory.

The “error” in question is the opinion “which limits republican government to a narrow district.” Its “accidental source” is the inability or refusal of “some celebrated authors” to see the key difference between a democracy and a republic, namely that “in a democracy, the people meet and exercise the government in person; in a republic, they assemble and administer it by their representatives and agents.” These authors “confound” the two—whether from incomprehension or artifice, Publius does not aver—in a way that flatters the monarchies under which they live. In other words, certain influential modern political philosophers either do not understand or deliberately obfuscate a fundamental political distinction.

Nature, Modern versus Ancient

This criticism by itself cannot establish that Publius is not, or does not understand himself to be, a modern: he might be criticizing modernity from a more modern position.

I believe the solution to this difficulty can be found in Publius’s statements on “nature.” It would be a whole ’nother chapter just to summarize Publius’s views on this vast topic (“nature” or a variant appears in The Federalist 247 times). Suffice it to say for present purposes that Publius explicitly bases his entire political science on his views of human nature, the nature of human understanding, the nature of government, and the comprehensive “nature of things.”

But neither is this observation in itself decisive, since early modern no less than classical political philosophy claims to take its bearings from nature. It would be less a book than a life’s work (and in a sense was Leo Strauss’s life’s work) to demonstrate the many and profound differences between ancient and modern thought. I present instead the barest summary, focusing on those features that bear directly on the heart of the issue at hand.

Taking a quick stroll through the moderns’ statuary hall, we first find Machiavelli, who argues—contra the ancients—that man is not the social and political animal; he is instead radically selfish, but his selfishness can be the basis of a just political order if channeled through institutions forged by the right kind of founder, who is himself motivated by the selfish passion of desire for glory. We next find Hobbes, who disparages glory (and any higher or aspirational impulse) as “Pride,” a “Selfe-Conceipt; or great Dejection of mind,” which he includes with “Injustice, Ingratitude, Arrogance,…Iniquity, Acception of persons, and the rest,” which “can never be made lawfull.” We then find Locke, who elevates Hobbes’s imperative for self-preservation to men’s “comfortable, safe, and peaceable living…in a secure enjoyment of their properties” acquired through diligent industry. And we find Publius’s “celebrated Montesquieu” who, in the course of rejecting ancient virtue in favor of modern “trade and finance,” declares that “commerce cures destructive prejudices” and that the “natural effect of commerce is to lead to peace.” (Quick glances at Harrington, Spinoza, Sydney, and others yield not dissimilar results.)

Is this picture true to Publius’s estimation of man? It may at first seem so, considering his apparently jaundiced view of human nature. For instance, he says it is “human nature” for nations to “make war whenever they have a prospect of getting anything by it” (No. 4); that the “causes of faction are…sown in the nature of man” (No. 10); that no one with a “tolerable knowledge of human nature” needs reminding that “personal considerations” often produce “great national events” (wars and other destructive quarrels not in the national interest; No. 6); that “the constitution of human nature” includes a “love of power” that induces men occupying lower offices to disobey the lawful edicts of those above them (No. 15); and that “the frailty of human nature” prevents men from sorting truth from falsehood (No. 24). He also advises “making the proper deductions for the ordinary depravity of human nature” (No. 78) and observes that “in the general course of human nature, a power over a man’s subsistence amounts to a power over his will” (No. 79).

We find in addition references to “inhumanity and cruelty” (No. 6), “human avarice” (No. 12), “the capriciousness of the human mind” and “human selfishness” (No. 15), “the unruly passions of the human heart” (No. 31), “the imperfection of the human faculties” and “the infirmities and depravities of the human character” (No. 37), “the caprice and wickedness of man” (No. 57), as well as “the vanity,…conceit, and…obstinacy of individuals” and “the effects of this despicable frailty, or rather detestable vice, in the human character” (No. 70), among others.

In The Federalist’s most famous statement on this theme, Publius asks:

What is government itself, but the greatest of all reflections on human nature? If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary. (No. 51)

This litany of vices might seem to mirror Publius’s litany of ancient failures and cause one to conclude that he takes a dim view of man. To the extent that Publius holds out hope for better behavior, he might seem to do so only on the basis of modern premises, namely, that it is foolish to count on man’s alleged higher motives, which are unreliable (if they even exist); that “institutions with teeth in them” rather than character formation through education will deliver justice; and that the purpose of those institutions should be to channel selfish passions toward productive ends. For instance, Publius declares in Federalist 71:

It is a general principle of human nature, that a man will be interested in whatever he possesses, in proportion to the firmness or precariousness of the tenure by which he holds it; will be less attached to what he holds by a momentary or uncertain title, than to what he enjoys by a durable or certain title; and, of course, will be willing to risk more for the sake of the one, than for the sake of the other.

In the very next essay, Publius adds that “the desire of reward is one of the strongest incentives of human conduct.” In this vein, he also specifically refers to the United States as a “commercial republic” (No. 6), speaks of the “commercial character of America” (No. 11), and describes Americans as a “commercial people” (Nos. 24 and 34). In other words, the key to political success is aligning human passions, especially acquisitiveness, with earthly incentives. If modern (or at least early modern) political philosophy could be boiled down to one tenet, this would be it.

Yet once again, this is not the whole picture. Some of Publius’s observations about human nature simply reflect common sense. For instance, in Federalist 17 he notes:

It is a known fact in human nature, that its affections are commonly weak in proportion to the distance or diffusiveness of the object. Upon the same principle that a man is more attached to his family than to his neighborhood, to his neighborhood than to the community at large, the people of each State would be apt to feel a stronger bias towards their local governments than towards the government of the Union.

Other passages evince a keen, noncynical awareness of the higher virtues. Indeed, the movement of The Federalist overall is from lower to higher: from “safety” in The Federalist’s first part to “happiness” in its second. The first part (Nos. 1–36) focuses on union, or more precisely on the necessity of union to self-preservation. As Kesler explains,

it is only in The Federalist’s second [part], which turns to the merits of the proposed Constitution as such, that Publius begins consistently to look at matters from a higher point of view. Here we learn that the Constitution strives to secure “the common good of the society,” “the happiness of the people,” and a complex “public good” that incorporates such elements as “a due sense of national character,” the cultivation of “the deliberate sense of the community,” and even “extensive and arduous enterprises for the public benefit” that will be championed by future presidents. (Introduction xvii–xix)

Hence Publius’s assessment of human nature turns out to be much more balanced than his account of ancient political practice, and more in keeping with ancient political philosophy, which sees the low but also the high, and the former always in the light of the latter.

“The supposition of universal venality in human nature,” Publius declares in Federalist 76, “is little less an error in political reasoning, than the supposition of universal rectitude.” In No. 55, he observes that “as there is a degree of depravity in mankind which requires a certain degree of circumspection and distrust, so there are other qualities in human nature which justify a certain portion of esteem and confidence. Republican government presupposes the existence of these qualities in a higher degree than any other form.” Among these qualities, “there is in every breast a sensibility to marks of honor, of favor, of esteem, and of confidence, which, apart from all considerations of interest, is some pledge for grateful and benevolent returns” (No. 57). And: “Ingratitude is a common topic of declamation against human nature; and it must be confessed that instances of it are but too frequent and flagrant, both in public and in private life. But the universal and extreme indignation which it inspires is itself a proof of the energy and prevalence of the contrary sentiment” (No. 57).

To these “qualities” (or “virtues” 33), thoroughly familiar to the ancients, Publius adds one of his own that, despite its relative novelty, is perfectly in keeping with the basic premises of classical political philosophy. As Kesler was the first to show, Publius gives the new(ish) word “responsibility” “its classic definition.” In Publius’s usage, “responsibility” has two meanings. First, government must be responsive to what the people want, responsible to them for delivering it, and its officers subject to punishment (losing elections, impeachment) for failure. The second, higher meaning goes “beyond mere responsiveness” and encompasses serving “the people’s true interests or their reasonable will”—that is, giving them not merely what they want or demand but what they ought to want or what is good for them. “Responsibility” thus enters the pantheon of virtues to help further elevate the founders’ political science, and their regime, above mere concern for mere life to facilitation of the good life.

Publius even relies—Machiavelli would say foolishly—on higher motives to uplift the thoughts and actions of officeholders: “Every consideration that can influence the human mind, such as honor, oaths, reputations, conscience, the love of country, and family affections and attachments, afford security for [senators’] fidelity” (No. 64). And: “There are strong minds in every walk of life that will rise superior…and will command the tribute due to their merit…and I trust, for the credit of human nature, that we shall see examples of such vigorous plants flourishing in the soil of federal as well as of State legislation” (No. 36). Similarly, one finds passages that describe, and ascribe to Americans, “wisdom and virtue” (No. 36), “humanity” (No. 42), “moderation” and “prudence” (No. 43; emphasis in original), noble refusal to tolerate corruption (Nos. 66 and 76), and the sagacity of the common people (No. 41). One may dismiss these sentiments as naïve, but one must also concede that naïvete is not, to say the least, a hallmark of modern political philosophy.

Returning to Publius’s criticism of modern political philosophy in Federalist 14, we see that the chief reason he rejects direct democracy is that it allows and even encourages human vices to predominate. His solution is representation, which is not only necessary in a large republic but also choiceworthy in itself because it encourages the better angels of human nature to come to the fore. The election of representatives—in addition to being the only way to maintain popular government in an extensive country—will “refine and enlarge the public views, by passing them through the medium of a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country, and whose patriotism and love of justice will be least likely to sacrifice it to temporary or partial considerations” (No. 10).

Even in matters of epistemology, Publius turns out to be closer to ancient circumspection than to modern certitude. Federalist 37—the beginning of the work’s second of two main parts—is mostly a long lament on the limits of the human mind and the difficulty of human prudence to address concrete problems. And in Federalist 55 Publius retracts his earlier comparison of political science to math: “Nothing can be more fallacious than to found our political calculations on arithmetical principles.”

In sum, Publius does not think human nature has changed from ancient times: it remains just as bad, but also just as good, as it always was. Nor does he give any indication that he thinks ancient writers understood human nature or politics incorrectly. He is concerned rather with correcting practice, and not just ancient practice but all practice, modern emphatically included. This chapter has not focused on (because that is not its intent) Publius’s criticisms of modern political practice, but they are often just as pointed as his recounting of ancient failures.

Ancient Versus Modern Failure

The argument that there is an ancient element to the American founders’ political science, as well as to the country they built, is typically advanced against the notion that America is solely or mostly focused on getting and spending, and thus is a flawed regime whose decay into its present condition was inevitable. Of course, to those who see nothing amiss in the country’s present condition, this whole argument is moot. But among those who do, the ones who believe the founding’s sole basis was “low but solid” modernity cannot find the present outcome surprising. By contrast, those of us who believe the founding was ennobled by ancient philosophy have some explaining to do.

Are we wrong to argue that the founders paid as much attention to ancient wisdom as to examples of ancient failure? I hope to have demonstrated the opposite. Is it possible that, whatever the founders’ intent, their incorporation of ancient elements into their new regime was unsuccessful? Perhaps. Or was it that the ancient precepts themselves turned out to be wrong, which explains why they didn’t produce the effects intended? I doubt this.

One hypothesis is that the alien import of Progressivism later corrupted and supplanted the founding. But precisely those of us who accept this argument must still ask: Does not this explanation beg the question, or force us to wonder what it was about the founders’ regime that made it susceptible to the worst elements of late modernity? Or is this rather the wrong question, presuming—as it does—that political permanence is possible, and that where and when regimes decline and fall, not just a cause but a culprit must be identified?

Be that as it may, there is no question that the American Founding was a stunning achievement—among the greatest political achievements, if not the greatest, in human history. Those of us who lament the present state of the United States and fear its passing should ask ourselves whether, in the course of human events—especially amidst the acid wash of late modernity—250 years is not in fact a very long time over which to deliver liberty, security, justice, prosperity, and happiness to hundreds of millions (to say nothing of what this country has done for foreigners).

Recall that Publius himself defines one criterion of a successful republic as being “long-lived” (Federalist 63). The three republics he cites in that passage—Sparta, Rome, and Carthage—all lasted about five hundred years as republics. Would Publius be dissatisfied with half as long for his handiwork? Or did he know or believe that there is something about modernity that speeds history along, thwarting the attempts of even the wisest men to hold things steady?

Whatever his answer, Publius must perforce, as I do, lament the end whenever it comes. I, at any rate, do not know what or how he and his fellow founders could have done better.