More than three decades ago, a junior U.S. senator from Massachusetts authored a fascinating examination of the special quality that enables some political figures to resist the public passions of the moment and make the hard and unpopular decisions their convictions tell them are right.

In Profiles in Courage, John F. Kennedy wrote of other U.S. senators from bygone days, "men whose abiding loyalty to their nation triumphed over all personal and political considerations, men who showed the real meaning of courage and a real faith in democracy, men who made the Senate of the United States something more than ... a gathering of time-servers skilled only in predicting and following the tides of public sentiment."

Sadly, a contemporary historian evaluating the spring session of the Illinois General Assembly would be hard-pressed to discover much material for a sequel. The temptation instead would be strong to write a volume for which an appropriate title might be "Portraits in Political Expediency."

In fairness, lawmakers were not totally a do-nothing bunch as some critics have suggested. The welfare reform legislation, quickly signed by Gov. James R. Thompson, offers real hope for breaking the cycle of dependency that has trapped so many Illinoisans, and the assembly also removed the last barriers to full interstate banking here, a change of major economic significance. In addition, legislators approved perhaps the nation's most sweeping package of AIDS measures, intended to check the spread of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome and to help those infected with the dread virus.

Despite such achievements, however, the legislature failed to meet its preeminent challenge — providing adequate funding for vital state programs. When lawmakers adjourned until October they left behind a proposed spending plan that was at once too bloated for available revenues and too skimpy for critical needs.

That legacy will be felt in pocketbooks across the state: by the merchant who sells a product to the state and the doctor who treats a welfare recipient, both of whom will have to wait another month or so for their bills to be paid; by the college student suddenly faced with another $300 in tuition; by homeowners looking at higher property taxes for local schools and mounting fees for sewage treatment.

To be sure, there were those who applauded the legislature's no-tax-hike stance. Lawmakers took "the path to jobs and prosperity through less burdensome taxation, less redistributionist spending and more economic freedom," crowed Steve Baer, executive director of the United Republican Fund. The conservative fund-raising group threatened to bankroll challenges to GOP lawmakers who voted for higher taxes, which Baer warned would bring "devastation" to the party in the 1988 elections. Such sentiments, of course, weren't startling. No one would expect Baer, a marvelous ideologue, to have any better grasp of state finances than say, Kermit the Frog.

More surprising by far was state Comptroller Roland W. Burris, who clambered aboard the right-wing, "Just Say No" bandwagon and claimed that vital services could be funded if lawmakers would just eliminate wasteful spending.

Taken at face value, Burris' performance was doubly disappointing. After eight years in office, the comptroller could be expected to understand the state budget better. Moreover, as a national Democratic officer, Burris presumably shares his party's traditional concern for the less fortunate, historically manifested in "redistributionist'' policies that tax the haves to provide education, health care and other basic services for the have nots.

Of course, the comptroller may simply have been trying to score some easy political points for future campaigns; certainly, his rhetoric revived memories of the sort of demagoguery practiced so skillfully by his one-time patron, former governor Dan Walker.

Nor was Burris the only official to succumb to political expediency: The affliction affected most of the General Assembly, perhaps none more so than House Speaker Michael J. Madigan (D-30, Chicago). Throughout the session Madigan remained noncommital on the tax issue, maintaining over and over that Thompson had to convince the legislature that higher taxes were needed. When the governor finally abandoned his effort in the session's closing days, the speaker's official position was still "undefined."

Madigan, of course, is too keen a student of government for anyone to believe he hadn't actually figured out that the state's needs exceeded its revenues; what was unclear was his motivation. Some suspected he wished to remind Chicago Mayor Harold Washington, whose city and schools face budget problems which more state dollars could have helped solve, that he must deal with the House speaker. Others supposed Madigan wanted to punish teachers' and state workers' unions for endorsing Thompson last fall over Madigan's entry, Adlai E. Stevenson III. Whatever the reason, one thing is clear — this time the speaker chose not to do the appropriate thing at the appropriate time. Madigan's standoffishness was critical; it afforded the Republican leaders a convenient rationalization for shying away from the tax issue and it fueled the mutual distrust that marked the fruitless round of tax summits, as each camp worried more about the political balance sheet than the state's.

There were notable exceptions, however. To his credit, Thompson bit the bullet and called for higher taxes, despite the certain knowledge that his own popularity, indeed, his very credibility, would be damaged in the process. But the governor looked at the numbers, considered the needs, and made the right choice.

The only legislative leader who showed similar courage was Senate President Philip J. Rock (D-8, Oak Park), who acknowledged that a tax hike was necessary while his three fellow leaders were still waffling. In the end both Republican chieftains — Sen. James "Pate" Philip (R-23, Wood Dale) and Rep. Lee A. Daniels (R-46, Elmhurst) — were willing to "consider" tax hikes if other conditions were met, but neither took any initiative beyond some symbolic efforts at budget-cutting.

Throughout the session, political posturing and finger-pointing far outweighed any rational attempt to assess the state's fiscal needs. Democrats publicly — and some Republicans privately — complained that Thompson lied to voters last fall for the second election in a row, promising that no tax increase was needed, then asking for one just a few weeks after his inauguration. Indeed, the governor's task of selling his proposal was made immensely more difficult by what at best was a lack of candor in discussing state finances during the 1986 campaign. Despite all the legislative carping the numbers were there for all to see. As members of a co-equal branch of government, legislators — especially the majority Democrats — had just as much responsibility as the governor to deal with the budget woes.

Instead, the Democrats chose to send the governor a budget that its architects argued was "manageable," fitting within available resources. But part of their fiscal plan, they conceded, involved rolling over a $100 million loan due to be repaid next February and spending every penny of the state's general funds so that nothing would be available to carry into the next year.

Thompson correctly labeled those budgeting notions "preposterous," while Burris defended his party mates' handiwork. Their effort proved that no tax increase was needed, the comptroller asserted, conveniently ignoring that the plan flew in the face of the principle of prudent budgeting that he has long espoused: The ending general funds balance should be no less than $200 million.

To bring spending in line with expected revenues, Thompson cut almost $400 million from the legislature's $10.7 billion general funds budget. The cuts triggered distressed cries from educators and human services advocates and led some lawmakers to talk of restorations during the fall veto session. Notably missing, however, was any enthusiasm for the higher taxes that would be required to fund the additional spending, and neither the governor nor most legislative watchers expect that the required extraordinary majorities could be found just a few weeks before the filing date for the March primary.

While some critics contended that Thompson sought to inflict as much pain as possible in hopes of pressuring lawmakers into a fall tax hike, the governor actually seemed to go out of his way to minimize the cuts' impact. Perhaps the most striking example was his decision to reduce state retirement contributions to less than 45 percent of payout, the lowest level in anyone's memory. That freed up $75 million for other uses; had he wished to make a stronger tax-hike case, he could have just as easily carved deeper into education and human services and let retirement funding stand at current levels.

Burris again was among the nay-sayers, despite his frequent calls for belt-tightening in the past. He contended that $166 million in education restorations could be financed by paying a larger share of this year's bills with next year's revenues than Thompson proposed, by borrowing from the Road Fund and other earmarked accounts, and by jacking up revenue estimates. And in a remarkable display of chutzpah, the comptroller yelped loudest about the veto of $9.3 million he sought for an ongoing, $40 million upgrading of the state's accounting system. Burris' immediate reaction was to call for an override, apparently assuming legislators would be happy to lay out millions more for new computer hardware and programming for his office while school aid is slashed and prison guards are laid off.

Unfortunately, such claptrap only obscures a more important fact: Even had the governor pared not one penny from the legislative plan, the resulting spending blueprint would have been inadequate to the state's needs.

Consider, for example, the fiscal lip service the legislature again paid to the education reforms enacted with much hoopla two years ago. While the State Board of Education proposed boosting outlays by almost $110 million, legislators approved only $9 million more for this school year, with no increase at all for a key program intended to aid youngsters three to five years old who are at risk of academic failure. As a result, only about 7,200 of an estimated 112,000 children who need preschool education services will receive them.

The legislature also failed to provide enough funding for one of the reform package centerpieces, the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy. So the residential high school, intended to provide an enriched curriculum for the state's most precocious youngsters, was faced with shutting its doors after the fall semester unless additional state money or private grants could be found.

After Thompson took away another $3 million in reform money, State Schools Supt. Ted Sanders likened the reform effort to a stalling car. "It sputters and spurts and it keeps running," he said, "and we've got hopes that before we completely run out of gas we can get the tank refueled and the momentum returned." But, the schools chief noted, ''The question is how long can we survive and claim to have any measure of reform if we continue to have these kinds of appropriation problems."

The legislative budget plan contained similar shortfalls for mental health, child care, and other human services, making it clear that a tax increase was needed; Thompson's vetoes merely underscored the obvious.

Whether it's politically expedient or not to vote for a tax hike, the state's fiscal dilemma is real. To deal with it honestly and compassionately will require a good deal more of the sort of mettle Kennedy memorialized than has been visible so far in the 85th General Assembly.