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INTRODUCTION
by
Elizabeth Fox-Genovese
HISTORY
ARGUABLY ORIGINATED in two unprecedented attempts to understand and explain
the forces or passions that lead men to go to war. Herodotus and Thucydides
wrote within an intellectual context that included Homer's gripping epic,
but they both insisted upon the need to develop different models of explanation.
Each, in his own way, succeeded brilliantly. At the root of both explanations
lies the conviction that the central historical subject concerns the mystery
of causation and the variety of human action and motivations that shape
it. Throughout a long and variegated history, the Western tradition has
attributed primacy to human choices, and the internal and external forces
that shape them. That primacy persists as the hallmark of history as an
intellectual adventure.
Contemporary
styles of historical writing and choice of historical topics depart in
greater or lesser measure from those of the past. The second half of the
twentieth century produced a myriad of initiatives and agenda to transform
history, whether by expanding the topics deemed worthy of serious historical
consideration or by transforming the methods upon which historians rely.
Theoretical and philosophical currents intersected with and intensified
these projects in various ways, notably through the introduction of elements
of postmodernist skepticism on the one hand and canons of feminist and
other political certainties on the other. With the modicum of hindsight
that a few decades afford, it is possible to recognize the strong ties
between these challenges to the received notion of historical studies as
the offspring of an eventful and troubled historical moment.
Poised
at the threshold of the twenty-first century, we confront a plethora of
phenomena that our ancestors could not have imagined. From decolonization
to the globalization of the economy, the contemporary world seems consumed
by unceasing reconfiguration, something like those halls of mirrors in
which you can never see yourself clearly and from which you seem never
able to escape. Under the pressure of these forces, including the acceleration
of commodification and the expansion of the Internet, familiar social roles,
notably those that have historically constituted families, are experiencing
radical transformation and even disintegration. Perhaps more significant,
we are living with a rate of change that exceeds anything previously known.
This is an intellectual and political climate in which it has become plausible
to pronounce history, as the world has known it, "dead." Whatever the ultimate
merits of that judgment-and it embodies an intellectual sophistication
with which it is not always credited-those who teach history too often
have reason to bemoan an apparent death of historical knowledge and understanding
among their students.
The
Journal
is intended as an intervention into the discussions that emanate from our
postmodern condition. Above all, it invites reflection upon and discussion
of historical questions and problems that can engage the imagination of
a wide variety of readers who may share only an interest in history as
a vital inquiry into both unique and recurring aspects of human experience.
To this end, we hope to publish articles on specific historical subjects
that suggest connections to others, thus contributing to a web of historical
inquiry that simultaneously unsettles prevailing pieties and reconstructs
an understanding of connections among apparently discrete events, societies,
and cultures.
We
will select articles according to two principal criteria: first, their
embodiment of exacting standards of historical scholarship, normally original
research, but sometimes fresh review and interpretation of secondary literature
or intervention in lively historical debates; second, the likelihood of
their appeal to a broad constituency beyond specialists in the specific
historical field or subfield. Consequently, we will place a high premium
upon grace and clarity of writing style. The proliferation of jargon-variously
known as "theorizing" or social science-has done as much as anything to
discourage potential readers of academic history, and we intend to campaign
vigorously against it. With luck, the vigilance of the editorial staff
will guarantee that the pages of the Journal will be, as they say,
genuinely "user friendly." Certainly, that is our goal. There is no excuse
for producing historical work that appears arcane and inaccessible to highly
educated readers of the Wall Street Journal or the New Republic.
Accessible
does not mean, "dumbed down." We expect to publish articles, commentaries,
reviews, and interventions of the highest intellectual quality. But the
more significant and complex the historical arguments, the more important
it becomes that readers find them engaging and intelligible. We deplore-and
hope to avoid-the disquieting elitism that assumes that what we "professionals"
do necessarily eludes the comprehension of hoi polloi. One of the major
justifications for historical study-and hence the continuing employment
of those who teach history-lies in its ability to illuminate aspects of
the human condition and to inculcate exacting investigation of tough decisions,
whether about the choice of war or peace, the allocation of scarce resources,
appropriate forms of governance or social and legal structure, or the distribution
of social roles. We aspire to initiate such discussions in relation to
a variety of questions across a broad range of settings.
It
is not surprising that historians, given the breadth of their ambitions,
have poached upon adjacent fields, notably literature, political theory,
sociology, anthropology, art history, philosophy, and religion. And the
Journal
of The Historical Society, like The Historical Society itself, warmly
welcomes the contributions of specialists in those fields, which have done
so much to enrich our own. But the main focus of the Journal will
remain, as it was for Herodotus, Thucydides, and their successors, the
craft and interpretation of history understood simultaneously as the actions
of people in the past and the contemporary attempt to unravel the meaning
of and motivation for those actions. In purposefully cultivating what Marc
Bloch, the great medievalist and rural historian, called "the historian's
craft," we hope to contribute to a reinvigoration of historical thought
and practice among scholars, teachers, students, and aficionados,
whether professional or independent.
Each
of the articles in this first issue identifies and explores a historical
problem worthy of sustained discussion; each simultaneously focuses scrupulous
attention upon a particular topic and points beyond itself to questions
that engage our understanding of history and of historical study. In "The
Failure of American Religious History," Darryl Hart reviews the trajectory
of religious history from the 1950s, when Henry May optimistically assessed
its prospects, to the present, when, notwithstanding a proliferation of
discrete studies, it remains as marginal as ever. Notwithstanding Hart's
admirable discretion, the astute reader will readily note that he harbors
reservations about the enthusiasm with which many historians of American
religion have embraced variants of cultural studies and focused upon questions
of identity. Nor, as he notes, does the sheer number of books suffice to
establish the importance of a subject, much less to move it from marginality
to centrality. Having originated as an almost exclusively Protestant enterprise,
American religious history now almost entirely ignores the Protestant mainstream,
perhaps because of academic historians' lack of interest in the large number
of middling Americans who adhere to its tenets, perhaps because of a reluctance
to acknowledge the pervasive influence of Protestantism upon American political
and civic culture.
Most
American historians have, it appears, been happy to support religious historians'
focus upon the more exotic manifestations of religious belief, presumably
because the proliferation of discrete cases does not disrupt the central
narrative they favor. If anything, this scholarship adds indirect aid and
comfort to social and women's historians' interest in individual cases.
Thus American religious history has, however inadvertently, contributed
to the discrediting of a central narrative of American history, and the
outcome is all the more ironic because of the centrality of mainstream
Protestant beliefs to American civic and political culture. The more troubling
problem concerns the place-or even the admissibility-of religious conviction
in the writing of history. For as Hart, in some ways complementing George
Marsden's sweeping critique, argues, contemporary academic historical culture
has made room for, and frequently embraced, an extensive company of ideologies
and allegiances, but has resolutely placed religious conviction, especially
on the part of historians themselves, beyond the pale.
Hart's
thoughtful essay invites sustained reflection upon and discussion of these
issues, notably whether it is possible to write compelling history from
within religious conviction. On the face of it, to write history as a Muslim,
Christian, or Jew should be no more problematic than to write it as a Marxist,
a philosophical idealist, a feminist, a pan-Africanist, or a gay activist.
Yet contemporary academics have normally cast religion as uniquely in violation
of the standards for intellectual "objectivity." In future issues, the
Journal
will pursue this question in relation to other societies and centuries,
and we invite responses that directly engage Hart's argument.
In
"Imagined Communities, Nationalist Experiences," Robert Wiebe opens
an equally, if not more, sensitive and contested topic. Taking the impressive
success of Benedict Anderson's title, Imagined Communities, as a
point of departure, Wiebe details the multiple ways in which the studied
ambiguity of "imagined communities" appealed to a contemporary intellectual
imagination that was finding it increasingly difficult to encompass the
protean realities of the modern world within the neat categories of modernist
thought.1 The notion of imagined
communities, Wiebe suggests, owed much of its appeal to its power to obscure
a host of fundamental problems, notably nationalism. As scholars from different
ideological and methodological perspectives became ever more embroiled
in debates over the definition and significance of nationalism, the appeal
of imagined communities as a heuristic substitute grew apace, doubtless
because the replacement of a precise definition with a metaphor opened
inviting possibilities.
Wiebe
especially criticizes Anderson's concept of imagined communities for obscuring
the significance and dynamics of nationalism as a major-and elusive-historical
phenomenon, but he simultaneously acknowledges the formidable challenge
of any attempt to contain nationalism within one or more neat categories.
Reviewing the various ways in which scholars have treated nationalism,
he suggests that, in one case after another, even the ablest scholars have
fallen back on circular or misleading generalizations. In this respect,
Anderson's metaphor may be said to have answered an unarticulated yearning
for a way out of the intellectual dead ends to which the discussions of
nationalism were leading. Wiebe attributes much of this confusion to the
congeries of political, ethnic, linguistic, and religious formations to
which nationalism has been applied or to which it has been linked.
Political,
linguistic, ethnic, cultural, and religious considerations all have a claim
upon the understanding of nationalism, but they do not all come into play
in every instance of perceived national identity. Above all, however, Wiebe
views the problematic relation between nationalism-or nationalistic elements-and
the state as a compelling intellectual challenge for historians. In focusing
upon this relation, which requires renewed attention both to the coupling
and the uncoupling of nation and state, Wiebe opens a new set of questions
with broad implications for different societies and centuries. Consider,
among the many cases he evokes in passing, the implications of a renewed
discussion of nationalism on our understanding of Black Nationalism, which
has developed in isolation from control of the state. Here, as in the case
of Hart's essay, the possibilities for empirically grounded theoretical
discussion are virtually endless, and we expect to invite a range of responses.
From
the start, the promotion of respectful debate has ranked as one of the
main purposes of The Historical Society, and the Journal offers
an important forum for continuing debates. Hart's and Wiebe's essays both
directly engage subjects that have provoked vigorous discussion and, in
this respect, both represent forceful interventions into continuing conversations.
Both also sharply challenge the terms of the debates in which they are
engaging, thereby recasting and reorienting them in essential ways. These
are essays that invite further discussion, and we expect regularly to publish
others that do the same. The Journal will reserve space for responses
to the articles we have run, and, as things become more settled, we may
(with the author's acquiescence) invite responses prior to publication
so that the article and its initial responses appear in the same issue.
In instances in which the discussions acquire an independent life and attract
numerous participants, they may well spill over onto The Historical Society's
Web page.
The
articles by Victor Hanson and Mark Smith should also stimulate responses
and continuing discussion, but in a somewhat different way. Smith is contributing
to a startling new historical subject: the history of sound. Most of us
so much take sound for granted (whether we enjoy or abhor the sounds with
which we are bombarded) that we do not think of its having a history. Yet,
as Smith demonstrates, it indisputably does, and attention to the history
of sound vastly expands our ability to grasp the texture of previous societies.
Smith laid the foundations for this compelling work in his previous study
of time, in which he boldly challenged received wisdom about attitudes
toward time in preindustrial societies, including the slaveholding South.2
Here
he begins with a preliminary overview of the general problem of sound as
a historical subject, demonstrating that the sounds a society produces
play a significant role both in expressing its character and in marking
its differences from other societies. After delineating some of the promising
new perspectives and questions to which the history of sound can lead,
Smith turns to an exploration of the different "soundscapes" presented
by the northern and southern states in the decades before the Civil War,
notably to the distinct sounds of emerging industrialism on the one hand
and agriculture grounded in slavery on the other. Historians have long
made much of the differences between free and slave labor, but the idea
that these different labor systems produced different sounds will strike
many as novel, and it opens a striking new perspective on the history of
the United States during the nineteenth century. Smith reminds us of the
many issues that converge in the sounds a society makes, including the
ability of some to control the sounds made by others. In his view, a society's
sounds articulate its class relations as well as its level of development.
Such bold claims are bound to suggest a host of arresting questions for
other places in other periods as well as discussions of the most fruitful
ways in which to identify both the character of sounds and the social meanings
they convey.
Hanson's
discussion of agricultural equilibrium-or what he calls agrarianism-in
the ancient and modern worlds develops a theme that simultaneously illuminates
a facet of ancient history and raises important questions about the modern
world. Hanson holds that the proliferation of middling family farms endows
a society with a unique and invaluable quality and, especially, underwrites
the true politics of democracy. Students of the Southern agrarians of the
1930s will note resemblances between the world Hanson evokes and the world
the agrarians sought to restore, and they will also recognize important
differences. For Hanson takes us back to the earliest foundation of the
independence of the responsible citizen. Breaking with Locke and subsequent
thinkers who sought ways of justifying the accumulation of property-whether
in land or in specie-Hanson insists that a truly viable political society
must be grounded in agricultural property that is worked by its owner with
some family or hired assistance and that is widely distributed among the
citizenry of the society. In his judgment, only these conditions can guarantee
responsible political decisions, especially with regard to war and peace.
For in these societies, men only go to war to defend their farm and the
way of life it supports, and they cease fighting when the farm demands
their presence.
Those
familiar with Hanson's impressive corpus of work on warfare and on Ancient
Greece, notably The Other Greeks, will recognize elements of the
argument he advances here.3 But
the argument in this form raises an important set of questions for historians
of all periods and societies, namely the ultimate significance of an immediate
relation to the land as a source of livelihood and a distinct way of life
for the understanding of the privileges and responsibilities of citizenship.
In Hanson's view, a citizen's robust sense of stewardship requires individual
ownership and cultivation of land as well as some rough equality among
landholdings. In other words, a landholding society composed of lords and
serfs does not produce the same beneficial political culture as one composed
of family or yeoman farmers.
In
very different guise, similar questions weave through all of history and
remain contentious today. The most highly developed economies have moved
so far from their original agricultural base as to lead many to dismiss
as bizarre the idea that responsible citizenship depends upon the ownership
and cultivation of land. What even the most highly developed economies
have not lost is a commitment to the significance of private property-the
individual ownership or control of resources. Yet the more highly developed
the economy and the wealthier the individual, the more likely it is that
the individual's property will be completely severed from specific parcels
of land or even a specific country. In this respect, the globalization
of the economy has led to a growing divorce between property and place.
If Hanson is correct, we should not be surprised that these developments
have led to a widespread view of the individual as accountable primarily-if
not only-to him or herself.
We
look forward to discussions of these topics and any others that our contributors
choose to place before us. We already expect future issues to include an
exploration of the American Revolution as a violent struggle that weighed
heavily upon the lives of countless contemporaries, combatant and noncombatant
alike, and a discussion of the failures and challenges of labor history,
especially in the developing world, as well as the continuing conversations
about nationalism and the place of religious history in mainstream historical
narrative and analysis. In addition, we are hoping to publish some of the
papers from our second national conference (June 2000), which will focus
upon revolution in history, and we foresee the possibility of other thematic
issues. At least one issue a year will include a review essay that links
this journal to the on-line History in Review.
The
Editorial Board will warmly welcome suggestions of topics for articles
and will work with authors to develop ideas into appropriate articles.
We shall unabashedly seek as broad a range of topics as possible, with
special attention to representing different epochs and different parts
of the world as well as different historical styles and methods.
These
goals nonetheless carry inherent limitations: Since we are determined-for
reasons of readers' comfort as well as reasonable cost to subscribers-to
keep the Journal at a manageable size, we will not be able to touch
upon the interests of each of our members in each of our issues. Recognition
of that impossibility has stiffened our determination to publish articles
with practical or theoretical significance for a range of fields and, especially,
articles that should be of interest to all historians because of the ways
in which they engage and deploy the historical craft. We will expect cultural
and social historians to read articles on military, economic, or diplomatic
history and vice versa. In the spirit of "nothing human is foreign to me,"
we will aim to publish articles that are of interest to all our readers,
embodying good history and raising significant historical questions. We
do not expect to hew to one or another ideological line, any more than
we expect to restrict our offerings to specific topics or methods.
In
an age of intense specialization, dangers shadow any attempt to promote
generalization-above all the dangers of banality and superficiality. Since
we embrace the goal of encouraging historians from different specializations
and different clubs to talk to one another, we have shouldered the responsibility
to demonstrate that a common conversation remains possible and, more, that
it is potentially beneficial not merely to our work as specialists but
to our work as teachers, colleagues, and members of a profession.
NOTES
1.
Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and
Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London: Verso, 1991 [1983]).
2.
Mark M. Smith, Mastered by the Clock: Time, Slavery, and Freedom in
the American South (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,
1997).
3.
Victor Davis Hanson, The Other Greeks: The Family Farm and the Agrarian
Roots of Western Civilization (New York: Free Press, 1995).