Journal articles on the topic 'July Revolution, 1830'

A spectre is still haunting historians of nineteenth-century France, the spectre of the bourgeois revolution of 1830, surviving despite the exorcism of revisionists. It is a spector that distorts our image of the liberal opposition to Charles X and of the victors after the July Days. Restoration prefects, moved from department to department with increasing rapidity in Charles X's reign, were content to categorize critics of the Polignac government as bourgeois. In the July Monarchy socialists vilified the elite as an established bourgeoise who robbed the real revolutionaries, the artisans, of their rights.3 Early socialists, including Marx, defined bourgeois broadly, to embrace landowners, but later marxists, writing when France was less of an agrarian state, labelled the bourgeoisie of 1830 as a business and industrial elite. The most recent generation of revisionist historians has shown, by empirical and detailed investigations, that the development of industry and accompanying social change occurred over several centuries and that revolutions, in particular, 1789, were mainly political events and more likely to retard than to facilitate the evolution of bourgeois capitalism. Thus revisionist historians of nineteenth-century France refer to ‘notables’ and stress the numerical dominance of landowners rather than businessmen in the elite of both the Restoration and the July Monarchy.

In 1833, the Swiss city-republic of Basel separated into two distinct cantons. During the three-year period known as the “Troubles” (Wirren), landowners in the countryside, inspired by the French July Revolution of 1830, rebelled against the city government. The roots of the division, however, run deeper in Basel's religious and theological culture and also reflect the outgrowth of the German Confederation's “persecution of demagogues.” This article examines these neglected aspects of the cantonal division, showing the importance of Christianity, and the complex politics of Protestantism, in Europe's revolutionary century.

This article questions the opinion established in modern French historiography on implementation of life sentence as a criminal punishment under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte (in accordance with the Criminal Code of 1810). Leaning on examination of legislative, policy drafting, and court materials, the author traces the evolution of the system of criminal penalties associated with incarceration. and determines the role of life sentence therein – since the adoption of first criminal laws in the era Great Revolution until the revision Napoleonic Criminal Code in 1832, and the court of Peers under Louis-Philippe I. The acquires materials demonstrate that after long absence of the  Consulate and Early Empire in the time of Revolution,  life sentence was envisaged by the Criminal Code of 1810 as an alternative measure to penal servitude for life or deportation (for criminals of senior age), rather than an separate type of criminal punishment. Reference to the practice of the court of Peers during the Restoration and the July Monarchy suggests that life sentence became a separate type of criminal punishment only with the advent of verdict passed by Peers with regards to 1830 case of former ministers. This sentence was based on the combination of legislative and court functions in actions of the Chamber of Peers as higher justice authority, and thus was of constitutive nature. The conclusion is made that the implementation of life sentence in French criminal law should be attributed to the time of the July Monarchy rather than the ruling of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Following the July Revolution of 1830, French history writing began to reflect a new personal perspective that allowed many to identify with the earlier revolution of 1789. This immediate association with the past allowed individuals to connect with history in ways that reflected themselves as well as the new political and cultural horizon. French grand opéra represented this desire for historical knowledge by displaying a dramatic narrative akin to the writings of French academic historian Jules Michelet (1798–1874). Through the analysis of the music and libretto of Daniel Auber’s Gustave III (1833) it is shown that the historical narrative found within this so-called’ opéra historique’ embraces the same historiographic narrative of revolution as found in the writings of Michelet. Such an investigation highlights the aesthetic and cultural importance of grand opéra in France as well as the genre’s relationship to national identity in the first half of the nineteenth century.

Fernand Toussaint (Meulebeke 1805 - Elsene 1885), zoon van een Frans emigrant was eerst ambtenaar tijdens het Hollandse regime. In september 1830 vluchtte hij naar Brussel en speelde een niet onbelangrijke rol in de Belgische revolutie. Hij werd lid van de revolutionaire en republikeinse Club, de ‘Réunion Centrale’. Deze Club hield zich intens bezig met de voorbereiding van de nieuwe staatsinstellingen. Toussaint heeft zich tweemaal (in het Frans) in de debatten gemengd, op 15 en op 30 oktober 1830.Zijn republikeinse opvattingen kwamen het duidelijkst tot uiting op 15 oktober, waarbij hij de erfelijke monarchie, de instelling van een Senaat en het koninklijk veto verwerpt.Op 15 oktober verdedigde hij de ‘Vlaamse taal, op een ogenblik dat alle discussies in het Frans verliepen’. Wetten en besluiten dienden volgens hem ook in het Vlaams vertaald te worden. Hij werd daarin gesteund door de Waals-Brabander Lucien Jottrand (1804-1877). Toussaint voerde daarover een perscampagne.Deze materie kwam aan bod tijdens de werkzaamheden van het Nationaal Congres (10 november 1830-21 juli 1831). Op 27 november 1830 werd een amendement door de Oudenaardse vertegenwoordiger, Charles Liedts (1802-1878), goedgekeurd. Het stipuleerde dat alle wetten en besluiten dienden voorzien te zijn van een Vlaamse vertaling, ‘in de gemeenten waar Vlaams gesproken wordt’.In die zin is Toussaint een voorloper van de Gentse groep rond Philip Blommaert (1808-1871), de eerste ‘taalijveraars’ in de Vlaamse beweging.________Jozef Ferdinand Toussaint (1807-1885), zealot of the Flemish language. 15 October 1830Fernand Toussaint (Meulebeke 1805 – Ixelles 1885), son of a French emigrant, was at first a civil servant under the Dutch regime. In September 1830 he fled to Brussels and played a not unimportant role in the Belgian Revolution. He became a member of the revolutionary republican club, La Réunion Centrale. This club was intensely preoccupied with the preparation of the new state institutions. Toussaint took part in these debates twice, on 15 and 30 October 1830.His republican opinions were most evident on 15 October, when he rejected the hereditary monarchy, the institution of the Senate, and the royal veto.On 15 October he defended the “Flemish language, at a moment when all the discussions took place in French”. According to him, laws and decrees should also be translated into Flemish. He was supported in this by Lucien Jottrand (1804-1877) of Walloon Brabant. Toussaint lead a press campaign about this.This matter came up during the proceedings of the National Congress (10 November 1830-21 July 1831). On 27 November 1830, an amendment from the representative from Oudenaarde, Charles Liedts (1802-1878), was approved. It stipulated that all laws and decrees should be provided with a Flemish translation, “in the municipalities where Flemish is spoken”. In this sense, Toussaint is a forerunner of the Ghent group around Philip Blommaert (1808-1871), the first “language zealots” in the Flemish Movement.

Abstract: The Vienna system of international relations established at the Congress of Vienna in 1814-1815, was a real challenge for the French political elite during all subsequent decades. France was a defeated party and was thus morally humiliated. The objective for all French governments after 1815 was to improve the position of France in this new system of international relations, including due to the destabilization and breaking of the Vienna system. In the years of the Restoration in France (1814-1830) a major foreign policy action of the government of Louis XVIII was the intervention in Spain in 1823, which refers to the Spanish revolution of 1820-1823. The French government, reflecting the interests of the European reaction, had hoped to raise these military prestige of France, and consequently to raise the question of the revision of the treatises of Vienna of 1815. Despite the success of the intervention, she has not brought the big political dividends in France. After the July revolution 1830 in France, the foreign policy of France intensified. Leading French politicians defined quite clearly exclusive spheres of influence of France, and in 1832 the French troops invaded Central Italy, capturing the city of Ancona. In 1840, during the second Oriental crisis, the French government has opposed themselves to the rest of Europe for the first time since the Napoleonic wars. Ultimately, the strategic position of France in the middle East was weakened. But the exacerbation of international conflict contributed to the strengthening of the French army and Navy. Further successes of the French diplomacy will be linked to the period of the Second Empire in France, in particular, with the Crimean war, that raised has raised status of France, and the decision of the Italian question in the second half of the 60-ies of the XIX century.

Often characterized as the founding father of Danish national culture and democracy during the 19th century, N.F.S. Grundtvig also formulated remarkably radical and explicit criticisms of democracy as a revolutionary and ungodly principle, against which he defended principles of strict hierarchical social order and unflinching obedience towards the absolutist monarch. These thoughts were expressed most clearly in his pamphlet Political Considerations regarding Denmark and Holstein, published in 1830-31 as a polemic against the July Revolution in France and its supporters in the Danish public sphere. However, this pamphlet also contained significant elements of unresolved contradictions pointing towards very different political modes, including democratic modes of legitimization.

Abstract This annotated English translation of an article written by Eugène Briffault one year after the 1830 July Revolution presents a unique testimony of a city in a state of post-revolutionary transition. Drawn with the pen of a realist novelist and observed with the eye of a practised reporter, ‘The Paris Night’ takes the reader on a journey through the streets of a city seemingly under martial law, from the haunts of journalists, into the vice-dens of the Palais-Royal, past the hectic activity of Les Halles and into streets still bearing the scars of the recent Revolution. Along with the ubiquitous military patrols, the author encounters streetwalkers, ragpickers and other denizens of the night until he reaches the Chaillot Heights to contemplate a ‘revolution escamotée’, a popular revolt which had been ‘smuggled away’. Along with a brief biography of Briffault, J. Weintraub’s introduction places the essay in the context of its time.

In this essay I examine the en-gendering of cultural memory in Honoré de Balzac´s story Adieu (1830), which proceeds from a repressed trauma originating in historical events. Balzac wrote the story in the spring of 1830, i. e. at a time when the French discontent with the Restoration regime was soon to explode in the July Revolution. The story is considered to claim that the Restoration regime’s repression of revolutionary history will recieve serious consequences in the present. But the question is how the now of the Restoration can best be linked to the then of the Revolution and the Empire? How can history be represented in a productive way, without silencing traumatic memories? My suggestion is that the abyss be-tween now and then has to be met with an ethically informed respect for difference. Stéphanie, the protagonist, dies when Philippe creates an exact replica of the traumatic situation in which they were separated many years ago. She then became a sex slave to the retiring French army, dehumanized during the hard Russian campaign, an experience that also dehumanized her. This Philippe refuses to acknowledge, since he wants to retrieve the woman he knew. That can of course never happen, but in insisting on it, I would claim that he actually renders Stéphanies life after the trauma impossible. Instead of emphasizing the distinction between past and present, Philippe overlooks it, with the severe consequence of Sté-phanie’s death. In my analysis I relate to pertinent discussions in the interdisciplinary field of cultural memory studies (an expanding field of research within the wider frame of cultural studies), but since it rarely discusses gender aspects I find it essential to relate also to feminist scholars who continually have scrutinized issues concerning memory and history writing.

After the Napoleonic Wars, central Europe frequently witnessed important diplomatic discussions, and cities such as Vienna, Aix-la-Chapelle, Carlsbad, Troppau, and Laibach served as the places for rendezvous of European monarchs and diplomats. Austrian Chancellor Clemens Wenzel Lothar Nepomuk Prince von Metternich-Winneburg played a leading role at these meetings between 1814 and 1822, and he particularly wanted them to take place in the territories of the Austrian Empire because he could therefore better control their course and exert influence over the events to an extent undoubtedly exceeding the real power of the state whose interests he advocated. This is exactly what happened after 1814, and the subsequent years were definitely the happiest period in the life of the man known for his extraordinary diplomatic talent as well as his vanity. It was all the more difficult for him to reconcile himself with the loss of the position of the “coachman of Europe” in the 1820s when the alliance formed by the five European powers (Great Britain, France, Prussia, the Austrian Empire, and Russia) failed to solve the Greek war of independence. The July Revolution of 1830 then created a gulf between the liberal and conservative powers, so that neither the willingness of the five powers to cooperate under his leadership nor the necessary conditions for his leadership existed in the 1830s.

AbstractThe constitutional developments and debates during the first half of the 19th century, in particular following the French and Belgian revolutions of 1830 and the introduction of new written constitutions (the French Charte of 1830 and the Belgian constitution of 1831) show the dynamics between the Executive, still largely controlled by the monarch, and the parliamentary representation. Although the balance of power differed from one political system to another, the dual system established during the July Monarchy, which increasingly called for a government and government policies which were acceptable to both the monarch and a majority in Parliament, affected the developments throughout Europe.

This article examines Austrian policy towards the Italian states from the Congress of Vienna to the revolutions of 1848. It argues that the paramount concern of Habsburg policy was not revolution, but rather the maintenance of a hegemonic position in the peninsula against threats from the Habsburgs’ traditional enemy - the French. Revolution caused significant concern only because it might provide the French with a pretext for intervention in the peninsula. Consequently a number of strategies were adopted both to forestall insurrection (vigorous policing, encouraging moderate reform programmes, armed intervention), and to retain influence over the peninsula's rulers (diplomatic pressure, dynastic and military alliances, promises of assistance against unrest). However, by the 1830s the Austrians were faced by increasing challenges to their position of dominance. This was in part because of the personal ambitions of individual Italian rulers, but it also reflected the changing situation in Paris after the July Revolution, and in Vienna after the death of Francis I.

An attempt to compare Russian Tsar Alexander I was the head of the Grand Duchy of Finland, which the Russian army captured in 1809 as a result of the Russo-Swedish war. The final act of the Congress of Vienna of June 1815 decided to establish the Kingdom of Poland. Beside the title of Grand Duke of Finland tsar, Alexander I was awarded the title of the King of Poland. From that moment on, for over one hundred years, the fate of the Grand Duchy of Finland and the Kingdom of Poland was intertwined during the rule of five Russian tsars. The aim of this paper is to answer the question whether two different ways on the road to independence – romantic Polish way with national uprisings, and pragmatic Finnish, relative loyal to the Russian tsars – had an impact on their policy towards both nations. The Kingdom of Poland and the Duchy of Finland were autonomous, were in a personal union with Russian tsars, had their own constitutions, parliaments, armies, monetary systems and educational structures, and official activities were held in Polish (Polish Kingdom) and Swedish (in the Grand Duchy of Finland). Both countries also had their own universities. The first national uprising in the Kingdom of Poland, which broke out in November 1830, resulted in a wave of repression. The Constitution was replaced by the so-called The Organic Statute, the Sejm (the Parliament) and the independent army were liquidated. The Kingdom was occupied by the mighty Russian army, and in 1833 martial law was introduced. The second national uprising of January 1863 led to another wave of repression and intensive Russification of Polish territories. In 1867, the autonomy of the Kingdom of Poland, its name and budget were abolished. From 1872 the Polish language was only an optional choice. After 1863, the policy of the Russian authorities changed towards the Grand Duchy. A session of the Finnish parliament (Eduskunta) was convened for the first time since 1809, the new parliamentary law allowed the dissemination of the Finnish language. After the deadly assault on Alexander II in 1881, his son Alexander III made attempts to limit also Finland’s autonomy. The years 1899–1904 were called the first period of Russification in Finland (“the first period of oppression”). The Manifesto of June 1900 introduced obligatory Russian language in correspondence of officials with Russia. In 1901, the national Finnish army was liquidated. In Russia this was the beginning of the process of the empire’s unification into one cultural, political and economic system. After a short thaw as a result of the 1905 revolution in Russia, the Grand Duchy of Finland, the so-called “second period of oppression” and anti-Finnish politics took place. During the great war of 1914–1918, the Grand Duchy was on the side of Russia. The territories of the former Kingdom of Poland were under German rule since 1915. After the outbreak of the revolution in Russia, the Eduskunta (on 6 December 1917) passed a Declaration of Independence. After a short period of regency, on 19 July 1919, the Finns adopted the republican system with a parliamentary form of government. On 11 November 1918 Germany surrendered on the Western Front. On that day, the Regency Council in Warsaw handed over military authority to the Polish Legion commander Józef Piłsudski. Although Poland still had to fight for the final shape of the state, the 11th of November 1918 is considered the first day of recovered Polish independence.

Recent studies have revealed how workers’ movements adapted republicanism into a language of anticapitalism in the nineteenth century. Much less attention has been paid, however, to the role feminists played in this process. This essay addresses this oversight by introducing the voices of the utopian socialists under July Monarchy France. These socialists insisted that there could be no social revolution without sexual revolution. Although they are often positioned outside of the republican tradition, this essay argues that the utopian socialists are better understood as rendering the legacy of classical and French republicanism compatible with nascent workers’ movements in the 1830s. By foregrounding the feminist Flora Tristan, this essay shows how utopian socialists weaponized republican tropes to address the social question, thereby expanding what a republican critique of capitalism could look like.

The Jaquerie is one of the lesser-known dramatic works of Prosper Mérimée. However, it is a very important work to understand the aesthetic and political stakes of romantic theatre on the eve of the July Revolution. The Jaquerie also helps us to understand the cul-de-sac of the theatre of French liberalism which had, however, dominated the theoretical debate about a new dramatic form during the 1830s.

A Constituição de 1824 reconheceu a organização do território brasileiro em prová­ncias e garantiu o direito do cidadão de, por meio dos Conselhos Gerais, intervir em seus ”negócios”. A criação dessa instá¢ncia de poder intermediário entre as Cá¢maras Municipais e a Assembleia Geral fez das prová­ncias mais do que circunscrições territoriais, tornou-as unidades administrativas do Estado brasileiro recém-fundado, sancionando uma experiência de descentralização polá­tica. Em 1834, o Ato Adicional converteu os referidos Conselhos em Assembleias Legislativas. O objetivo deste artigo é discutir como o projeto que visava conceder maiores prerrogativas á s Assembleias Provinciais, tornando-as instá¢ncias polá­ticas, foi vencido na Assembleia mineira, apesar de ter sido defendido nos anos iniciais de funcionamento da instituição. A revolução que irrompeu na cidade mineira de Barbacena, em julho de 1842, foi, nesse sentido, uma tentativa fracassada de reverter o regresso conservador e acabou por fortalecê-lo.Palavras-chave: Assembleia Provincial de Minas Gerais. Regresso Conservador. Revolução liberal. THE PROVINCES OF THE EMPIRE: the Minas Gerais Legislative Assembly and the conservative ”return” (1835-1842)Abstract: The Constitution of 1824 recognized the organization of the Brazilian territory in provinces and guaranteed the citizens”™ right to intervene in its "business", through the General Councils. The creation of this intermediary authority between the City Councils and the General Assembly turned the provinces into something more than territorial districts: it made them administrative units of the newly founded Brazilian State, sanctioning an experience of political decentralization. In 1834, the Additional Act turned these Councils into Legislative Assemblies. The purpose of this article is to discuss how the project that aimed at granting greater prerogatives to the Provincial Assemblies, making them political bodies, was defeated at the Minas Gerais Assembly, despite the support that it gathered in the initial years of the institution”™s operations. The revolution that broke out in July 1842 in the city of Barbacena, Minas Gerais, was, in this sense, a failed attempt to reverse the conservative ”regress” (return) which eventually strengthened it.Keywords: Provincial Assembly of Minas Gerais. Conservative Return. Liberal Revolution. LAS PROVINCIAS DEL IMPERIO: la Asamblea Legislativa de Minas Gerais y el regreso conservador (1835-1842)Resumen: La Constitución de 1824 reconoció la organización del territorio brasileño en provincias y garantizó el derecho ciudadano de poder intervenir en sus ”negocios” a través de los Consejos Generales. La creación de esta instancia intermedia de poder entre las Cámaras Municipales y la Asamblea General hizo de las provincias más que meras circunscripciones territoriales, las convirtió en unidades administrativas del recién fundado Estado brasileño, sancionando asá­ una experiencia de descentralización polá­tica. En 1834, el Ato Adicional convirtió los referidos Consejos en Asambleas Legislativas. El objetivo de este artá­culo es discutir cómo este proyecto, que buscaba conceder mayores prerrogativas a las Asambleas Provinciales para convertirlas en instancias polá­ticas, fue vencido en la Asamblea mineira, a pesar de la defensa que el proyecto tuvo en los años iniciales de funcionamiento de la institución. La revolución que estalló en la ciudad mineira de Barbacena en julio de 1842 fue, en ese sentido, una tentativa fracasada de revertir el regreso conservador y que acabó por fortalecerlo.Palabras clave: Asamblea Provincial de Minas Gerais. Regreso Conservador. Revolución Liberal.

AbstractAry Scheffer (1795-1858) is so generally included in the French School (Note 2)- unsurprisingly, since his career was confined almost entirely to Paris - that the fact that he was born and partly trained in the Netherlands is often overlooked. Yet throughout his life he kept in touch with Dutch colleagues and drew part of his inspiration from Dutch traditions. These Dutch aspects are the subject of this article. The Amsterdam City Academy, 1806-9 Ary Scheffer was enrolled at the Amsterdam Academy on 25 October 1806, his parents falsifying his date of birth in order to get him admitted at the age of eleven (fifteen was the oficial age) . He started in the third class and in order to qualify for the second he had to be one of the winners in the prize drawing contest. Candidates in this were required to submit six drawings made during the months January to March. Although no-one was supposed to enter until he had been at the Academy for four years, Ary Scheffer competed in both 1808 and 1809. Some of his signed drawings are preserved in Dordrecht. (Figs. 1-5 and 7), along with others not made for the contest. These last in particular are interesting not only because they reveal his first prowess, but also because they give some idea of the Academy practice of his day. Although the training at the Academy broadly followed the same lines as that customary in France, Italy and elsewhere (Note 4), our knowledge of its precise content is very patchy, since there was no set curriculum and no separate teachers for each subject. Two of Scheffer's drawings (Figs. 2 and 3) contain extensive notes, which amount to a more or less complete doctrine of proportion. It is not known who his teacher was or what sources were used, but the proportions do not agree with those in Van der Passe's handbook, which came into vogue in the 18th century, or with those of the canon of a Leonardo, Dürer or Lebrun. One gets the impression that what are given here are the exact measurements of a concrete example. Scheffer's drawings show him gradually mastering the rudiments of art. In earlier examples the hatching is sometimes too hasty (Fig. 4) or too rigidly parallel (Fig.5), while his knowledge of anatomy is still inadequate and his observation not careful enough. But right from the start he shows flair and as early as 1807 he made a clever drawing of a relatively complex group (Fig. 6) , while the difficult figure of Marsyas was already well captured in 1808 and clearly evinces his growing knowledge o f anatomy, proportion , foreshortening and the effects of light (Fig. 7). The same development can be observed in his portrait drawings. That of Gerardus Vrolik (1775-1859, Fig.8), a professor at the Atheneum Illustre (the future university) and Scheffer' s teacher, with whom he always kept in touch (Note 6), is still not entirely convincing, but a portrait of 1809, thought to be of his mother (Fig.9, Note 7), shows him working much more systematically. It is not known when he left the Academy, but from the summer of 1809 we find him in France, where he was to live with only a few breaks from 1811 to his death. The first paintings and the Amsterdam exhibitions of 1808 and 1810 Ary Scheffer's earliest known history painting, Hannibal Swearing to Avenge his Brother Hasdrubal's Death (Fig. 10) Notes 8-10) was shown at the first exhibition of living masters in Amsterdam in 1808. Although there was every reason for giving this subject a Neo-Classical treatment, the chiaroscuro, earthy colours and free brushwork show Scheffer opting for the old Dutch tradition rather than the modern French style. This was doubtless on the prompting of his parents,for a comment in a letter from his mother in 1810 (Note 12) indicates that she shared the reservations of the Dutch in general about French Neo-Classicism. (Note 11). As the work of a twelve to thirteen year old, the painting naturally leaves something to be desired: the composition is too crowded and unbalanced and the anatomy of the secondary figures rudimentary. In a watercolour Scheffer made of the same subject, probably in the 1820's, he introduced much more space between the figures (Fig. 11, Note 13). Two portraits are known from this early period. The first, of Johanna Maria Verbeek (Fig. 12, Note 14), was done when the two youngsters were aged twelve. It again shows all the characteristics of an early work, being schematic in its simplicity, with some rather awkward details and inadequate plasticity. On the other hand the hair and earrings are fluently rendered, the colours harmonious and the picture has an undeniable charm. At the second exhibition of works by living masters in 1810, Ary Scheffer showed a 'portrait of a painter' (Fig. 13), who was undoubtedly his uncle Arnoldus Lamme, who also had work in the exhibition as did Scheffer's recently deceased father Johan-Bernard and his mother Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme, an indication of the stimulating surroundings in which he grew up. The work attracted general attention (Note 16) and it does, indeed, show a remarkable amount of progress, the plasticity, effects of light, brushwork and colour all revealing skill and care in their execution. The simple, bourgeois character of the portrait not only fits in with the Dutch tradition which Scheffer had learned from both his parents in Amsterdam, but also has points in common with the recent developments in France, which he could have got to know during his spell in Lille from autumn 1809 onwards. A Dutchman in Paris Empire and Restoration, 1811-30 In Amsterdam Scheffer had also been laught by his mother, a miniature painter, and his father, a portrait and history painter (Note 17). After his father's death in June 1809, his mother, who not only had a great influence on his artistic career, but also gave his Calvinism and a great love of literature (Note 18), wanted him to finish his training in Paris. After getting the promise of a royal grant from Louis Napoleon for this (Note 19) and while waiting for it to materialize, she sent the boy to Lille to perfect his French as well as further his artistic training. In 1811 Scheffer settled in Paris without a royal grant or any hope of one. He may possibly have studied for a short time under Prudhon (Note 20) , but in the autumn of 1811 he was officially contracted as a pupil of Guérin, one of the leading artists of the school of David, under whom he mastered the formulas of NeD-Classicism, witness his Orpheus and Eurydice (Fïg.14), shown in the Salon of 1814. During his first ten years in Paris Scheffer also painted many genre pieces in order, so he said, to earn a living for himself and his mother. Guérin's prophecy that he would make a great career as a history painter (Note 21) soon came true, but not in the way Guérin thought it would, Scheffer participating in the revolution initiated by his friends and fellow-pupils, Géricault and Delacroix, which resulted in the rise of the Romantic Movement. It was not very difficult for him to break with Neo-Classicism, for with his Dutch background he felt no great affinity with it (Note 22). This development is ilustrated by his Gaston de Foix Dying on the Battlefield After his Victory at Ravenna, shown at the Salon of 1824, and The Women of Souli Throwing Themselves into the Abyss (Fig.15), shown at that of 1827-8. The last years of the Restoration and the July Monarchy. Influence of Rembrandt and the Dutch masters In 1829, when he seemed to have become completely assimilated in France and had won wide renown, Scheffer took the remarkable step of returning to the Netherlands to study the methods of Rembrandt and other Dutch old masters (Note 23) . A new orientation in his work is already apparent in the Women of Souli, which is more harmonious and considered in colour than the Gaston dc Foix (Note 24). This is linked on the one hand to developments in France, where numbers of young painters had abandoned extreme Romanticism to find the 'juste milieu', and on the other to Scheffer's Dutch background. Dutch critics were just as wary of French Romanticism as they had been of Neo-Classicism, urging their own painters to revive the traditions of the Golden Age and praising the French painters of the 'juste milieu'. It is notable how many critics commented on the influence of Rembrandt on Scheffer's works, e.g. his Faust, Marguérite, Tempête and portrait of Talleyrand at the Salon of 1851 (Note 26). The last two of these date from 1828 and show that the reorientation and the interest in Rembrandt predate and were the reasons for the return to the Netherlands in 1829. In 1834 Gustave Planche called Le Larmoyeur (Fig. 16) a pastiche of Rembrandt and A. Barbier made a comparable comment on Le Roi de Thule in 1839 (Note 27). However, as Paul Mantz already noted in 1850 (Note 28), Scheffer certainly did not fully adopt Rembrandt's relief and mystic light. His approach was rather an eclectic one and he also often imbued his work with a characteristically 19th-century melancholy. He himself wrote after another visit to the Netherlands in 1849 that he felt he had touched a chord which others had not attempted (Note 29) . Contacts with Dutch artists and writers Scheffer's links with the Netherlands come out equally or even more strongly in the many contacts he maintained there. As early as 1811-12 Sminck-Pitloo visited him on his way to Rome (Note 30), to be followed in the 1820's by J.C. Schotel (Note 31), while after 1830 as his fame increased, so the contacts also became more numerous. He was sought after by and corresponded with various art dealers (Note 33) and also a large number of Dutch painters, who visited him in Paris or came to study under him (Note 32) Numerous poems were published on paintings by him from 1838 onwards, while Jan Wap and Alexander Ver Huell wrote at length about their visits to him (Note 34) and a 'Scheffer Album' was compiled in 1859. Thus he clearly played a significant role in the artistic life of the Netherlands. International orientation As the son of a Dutch mother and a German father, Scheffer had an international orientation right from the start. Contemporary critics and later writers have pointed out the influences from English portrait painting and German religious painting detectable in his work (Note 35). Extracts from various unpublished letters quoted here reveal how acutely aware he was of what was likely to go down well not only in the Netherlands, but also in a country like England, where he enjoyed great fame (Notes 36-9) . July Monarchy and Second Empire. The last decades While most French artists of his generation seemed to have found their definitive style under the July Monarchy, Scheffer continued to search for new forms of expression. In the 1830's, at the same time as he painted his Rembrandtesque works, he also produced his famous Francesca da Rimini (Fig. 17), which is closer to the 'juste milieu' in its dark colours and linear accents. In the 1840's he used a simple and mainly bright palette without any picturesque effects, e.g. in his SS. Augustine and Monica and The Sorrows of the Earth (Note 41), but even this was not his last word. In an incident that must have occurred around 1857 he cried out on coming across some of his earlier works that he had made a mistake since then and wasted his time (Note 42) and in his Calvin of 1858 (Fig. 18) he resumed his former soft chiaroscuro and warm tones. It is characteristic of him that in that same year he painted a last version of The Sorrows of the Earth in the light palette of the 1840's. Despite the difficulty involved in the precise assessment of influences on a painter with such a complex background, it is clear that even in his later period, when his work scored its greatest successes in France, England and Germany, Scheffer always had a strong bond with the Netherlands and that he not only contributed to the artistic life there, but always retained a feeling for the traditions of his first fatherland. Appendix An appendix is devoted to a study of the head of an old man in Dordrecht, which is catalogued as a copy of a 17th-century painting in the style of Rembrandt done by Ary Scheffer at the age of twelve (Fig.19, Note 43). This cannot be correct, as it is much better than the other works by the twelve-year-old painter. Moreover, no mention is made of it in the catalogue of the retrospective exhibition held in Paris in 1859, where the Hannibal is given as his earliest work (Note 44). It was clearly unknown then, as it is not mentioned in any of the obituaries of 1858 and 1859 either. The earliest reference to it occurs in the list made bv Scheffer's daughter in 1897 of the works she was to bequeath to the Dordrecht museum. A clue to its identification may be a closely similar drawing by Cornelia Scheffer-Lamme (Fig. 20, Note 46), which is probably a copy after the head of the old man. She is known to have made copies after contemporary and 17th-century masters. The portrait might thus be attributable to Johan-Bernard Scheffer, for his wife often made copies of his works and he is known from sale catalogues to have painted various portraits of old men (Note 47, cf. Fig.21). Ary Scheffer also knew this. In 1839 his uncle Arnoldus Lamme wrote to him that he would look out for such a work at a sale (Note 48). It may be that he succeeded in finding one and that this portrait came into the possession of the Scheffer family in that way, but Johan-Bernard's work is too little known for us to be certain about this.

Til Nordmænd om en Norsk Høi-Skole. En indledning[To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School. An Introduction]By Henrik YdeTo the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School (1837) is the second of Grundtvig’s major writings on people’s high schools or national high schools. It is also the only one aimed at a non-Danish public. And whereas his other writings on this subject did not catch much attention in Denmark when published, To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School immediately stirred up a fierce debate in Norway.In 1832—after the liberal revolutions in Paris and elsewhere—Grundtvig clearly stated that he was “no friend of parliaments” but preferred absolute monarchy. However, as parliaments did exist, Grundtvig was of the opinion that the voters as well as the members of parliaments ought to receive national education in their vernacular languages in order to gain sense and knowledge about the common good of their respective nations.When addressing the Norwegians, Grundtvig had to take into account that the Norwegian constitution from 1814 was one of the most liberal of all European constitutions. The Norwegian parliament—the Storting—actually had legislative authority and had shown itself to be strong enough to oppose the Swedish-Norwegian king. This was not the case in Denmark, where provisional advisory assemblies—praised by Grundtvig—had been established in 1831 largely to ward off demands for a constitutional monarchy. However, in To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School, Grundtvig deliberately avoids a direct address to the Storting. He chooses not to talk about the need for national education for the members of the Norwegian parliament. This omission is probably due to the fact that while some of Grundtvig’s Norwegian followers were liberals, some were conservatives: thus, it was crucial for him not to be accused of taking sides in Norwegian politics. Instead, he makes a more general claim about a national education in the mother tongue where the students should learn about the common good of the nation. He hardly mentions the Storting.However, when speaking of education in the mother tongue, Grundtvig entered another area of high tension, namely that of the use of the classical language of Latin at the University of Christiania (Oslo) and in the Norwegian upper secondary schools, the ‘Latin schools’. And though Grundtvig’s conservative Norwegian friends did not share his hatred of Latin, here he did not hesitate to stress the need for a higher national education in the vernacular language.The reaction was immediate: A week before the official release of To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School (on July 29th 1837) the conservative paper Den Constitutionelle (The Constitutionalist) strongly attacked Grundtvig, claiming that his idea of national education was subversive and socialist and also that it was contradictory to his former biblical fundamentalism.These arguments were immediately refuted by the liberal Morgenbladet (The Morning Daily), in which the critic totally agreed with Grundtvig to an extent not even uttered in To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School itself: that a national high school using the mother tongue would be an excellent means for educating the members of the Storting, especially those who had not attended the ‘Latin school’ in their youth.One specific paper did not react in the first round of the debate: Statsborgeren (The Nationalf), a radical liberal and national paper, edited by the writer Henrik Wergeland. He and Grundtvig had very similar ideas about a number of issues including the enlightenment of the people. However, no dialogue was possible: Wergeland was a liberal applauding the ideals of The French Revolution, Grundtvig was a conservative anti-rationalist. Furthermore Wergeland still remembered that his father Nicolai had had a fierce fight with Grundtvig in the years 1811-16 over Denmark’s political and economic relationship to Norway through the centuries, as being either imperialistic (N. Wergeland’s claim) or altruistic (Grundtvig’s claim). Later, in the debate about To the Norwegians concerning a Norwegian High School, Wergeland attacked Grundtvig along with his Norwegian followers, claiming that Grundtvig was ignorant in the matter of science and a megalomaniac as a person.Thus with the exception of Morgenbladet, the premise of Grundtvig’s booklet was not well understood. Instead, it was considered to be a comment on the standing debate in Norway over the use of Latin at the university and in the upper secondary school.On the sidelines, though, some of Grundtvig’s closest followers in Norway, the wealthy Solem-family, continued to work on their own initiative and with their own money to bring about a Grundtvigian national high school. However, the conditions for this were not yet favourable, either in Norway or in Denmark, and the first Norwegian people’s high school only opened in 1864.

The Athenian Captive (1838) was to constitute the last significant use of Greek tragedy on the professional stage in Britain for a radical political purpose until Gilbert Murray's stagings of Euripides in the Edwardian era.Edith HallI believe in the Revolution.Robert Brough, 1855The fiercest political debates in 1850s Britain were inextricably bound up with the Classical past. Traditionalists and eulogists, priests and pamphleteers, doctors and revolutionaries all set their arguments and their ideals within a Classical framework. Amongst those who sought to use the ancient for decidedly contemporary purposes, Robert Brough was one of the most passionate. He was a revolutionary, a playwright, and a Classicist—though up until the performance of his burlesque Medea (on July 14th 1856), he had never been all three at once. This article will explore how, at the time, the myth of Medea was the perfect vehicle for radical politics—and how Brough exploited its potential to the full. It will frame his play within some of the most controversial debates of the period. It will explore Brough's (on the face of it, startling) claim that his burlesque would give the audience more to think about than any play they had seen before, that it would be ‘a conjugal lesson, surpassing in intensity anything ever before presented’. Brough wrote his Medea believing in ‘the Revolution’. And, as I hope to show, he wanted his audiences to leave the theatre believing in it too.

AbstractTwo things long stood in the way of the erection of statues in public in the Northern Netherlands, on the one hand the lack of a strong central government and on the other the wrongly interpreted - Calvinist interdict on them (Note 1). The first statue of this kind, that of Erasmus in Rotterdam by De Keyser (1622), was attacked by strict Calvinists, but noted throughout Europe as an early paradigm (Note 3). Not until the 19th century did the Netherlands join in the nationalistic 'statue craze', which was just breaking out then, with two monuments to the supposed Dutch inventor of printing, Laurens Janszoon Coster. These statues of a private citizen had a predecessor in the 18th century, while a statue had already been demanded in the 17th-century eulogies of Coster. Cities had long honoured their famous inventors as important contributors to civilization and praise of the inventor was also a fundampental ingredient of the history of learning (e.g. in Pliny). In the Renaissance scientific inventions acquired a special emphasis, modern inventors being held up as evidence that the model of Antiquity could be not only equalled, but also surpassed, while both Christian civilization and the northern countries could also gain credit here (cf. Johannes Stradanus, Figs. 2, 3, Note 9, and Francis Bacon, Note 10). The significance of the invention of printing for Christianity was soon recognized, so that it was lauded above other inventions as 'divine', an attitude that was certainly also strengthened by its decisive role in the Reformation. In the Netherlands in particular, where religious and political developments were so closely interwoven, printing was regarded as an important aid to both (Notes 14, 15), while the young Dutch Republic, in which printing played such an important part, could claim the honour of counting the inventor of this important art among its citizens. This 'pious fraud' (Hellinga) is fundamental to the discussion of the history of the statues. The Coster tradition can only be traced back to about a century after the supposed invention, acquiring its definitive form at the end of the 16th century in Hadrianus Junius' Batavia Illustrata of 1598. The further enlargement on the merits of Coster also necessitated a portrait of him which, in de fault of an authentic one, had to be fabricated for the purpose, the features of the statue of Erasmus being taken over for a full-length portrait (Fig. 5), which served as a 'graphic monument'. A fictitious bust of Coster was also cited in the 17th century (Fig. 7) and this, like the early sculptural marks of honour to him (Fig. 16), belongs to the iconography of printing, the practitioners of the craft evoking their inventor. Such representations - a more or less life-size statue of Coster is still to be seen on the house of the Haarlem printer Enschedé - were not yet very public in character. The statue of Coster projected from the end of the 17th century for the garden of the Hortus Medicus in Haarlem did acquire greater publicity, however. This humanist garden of a bourgeois learned society (Note 28), reflected not only nature, but also the world of learning, as a microcosm of the arts, with sixteen busts of connoisseurs and scholars under the leadership of a full-length statue of Coster, since it was he who by his art had made the dissemination of learning possible, although he owed his place here largely to his Haarlem origins, of course. The designs made by Romeyn de Hooghe for this statue (Note 29) were only realized in 1722 in a statue by Gerrit van Heerstal, which tried to unite historical and classical features (Figs. 8-13). In the years thereafter, up to the tercentenary of the invention, the poems, medals and a weighty commemorative publication (Fig. 14, Note 35) celebrating the Haarlem inventor of printing all referred to this statue in his birthplace. Meanwhile Germany too had honoured her inventors of printing - Fust in addition to Gutenberg, initially - in 1640 and 1710 by centenary festivities often of a Protestant cast. Privileges relating to public statues may have been one of the reasons why no monuments were erected on these occasions. These privileges were, however, annulled by the French Revolution, just as the Enlightenment and political renewal furthered the cult of honouring leading civic 'geniuses'. Two Gutenberg cities under French rule took pride of pace here, but only in 1840 did Strasbourg acquire a statue of Gutenberg by David d'Angers, which illustrated his role as the enlightener of all mankind (Figs. 15-18, Note 39). In Mainz a private initiative of 1794 came to nothing (Note 40), as did a Napoleonic rebuilding plan centred on a Gutenberg Square with a statue. Not until 1829 was a semi-public statue by Joseph Stok set up there (Note 41), while in 1837 the Gutenberg monument designed by Bartel Thorwaldsen was unveiled with great ceremony (Fig. 19). The two last-mentioned statues in Mainz, like the many others erected after 1814, were the products of the nationalistic pride in the country's past history that flared up after the defeat of Napoleon. This pride in the past generally took on a nostalgic cast and served to compensate for the failure of current political ambitions: The unity of Germany long a dream, while the hoped-for great changes in the Kingdom of the Netherlands were dealt a bitter blow by the breakaway of the 'southern provinces' in 1831 (Note 44). This last event marked the start for the Northern Netherlands of a long-lasting rivalry with their Belgian neighbours, which was pursued by means of monumental art, from the statue of Rembrandt (1852) as an answer to that of Rubens (1840) to the Rijksmuseum (1885). The great importance attached to Coster in the 19th century was already manifested in 1801 by the removal of the statue in Haarlem from the Hortus Medicus to the marketplace (Note 45). National pride is abundantly evident in the prizewinning treatise published in 1816 by Jacobus Koning, who is a weighty investigation confirmed Coster's right to the invention and with it that of the Netherlands to a leading place among the civilized nations. The quatercentenary, fixed surprisingly early, in 1823, comprised every imaginable type of public entertainment and demonstration of scholarship. It is, however, striking that these expressions of national pride were still balanced by references to the elevating effect of the invention (Note 56). The most lasting mark of honour of the celebration of 1823, the abstract monument by the Haarlem sculptor D. Douglas, also looked back to the sensibilities of the 18th century in its placing on the spot where the invention had come into being in the Haarlem Wood (Fig. 23, Note 59). After this Haarlem monument of 1823 had been adduced in the discussions about the statue in Mainz before 1829, Thorwaldsen's statue, which attracted great international attention, became a greater source of annoyance to the Dutch adversaries of Gutenberg after 1829 than the statue to the Belgian inventor Dirck Martens in Aalst (Note 63) or the projected monument to William Caxton in England. Jan Jacob Frederik. Noordziek summed up this dissatisfaction in his call in 1847 to 'uphold the honour of the fatherland', in which he pleaded for a monument that would surpass the Gutenberg statue and thus serve as an argument that would establish the Dutch claim for good (Note 64). The erection of this statue was further expressly intended to be an exclusively national affair: the citizens of the Netherlands must raise the money and only Dutch artists be charged with the execution. The general discussion about the statues appears to have been less virulent than was usually the case in the preliminaries to other monuments (Note 66), Coster's merits evidently being little contested within the country itself. There were two notable critical voices, however (see Appendix). Professor M. Siegenbeek rang the changes on an old Calvinist argument in refusing a seat on the preparatory committee: in addition to the fact that there were certainly more people who deserved statues, he pointed out that the great expense involved merely evinced ostentation and that the money would be better spent on social ends. The Neo-Classicist Humbert de Superville, on the other hand, did express doubts as to Coster's right to the title, repeating aesthetic arguments which had been adduced before: statues ought, in his view, to be made in the form of durable stone herms, but he thought there was as little chance of that in this 'age of modish lay-figures' in the bronze of melted-down coins, as that the statue would be made by a Dutchman (Note 67). A typical Romantic historical controversy threw the organizers into turmoil, namely the authenticity of the representations of Coster. In particular Westreenen van Tielland unmasked the idealizing and forged portraits, arguing against the erection of a historicizing representational statue. But the defenders of Coster's honour opted for the usual historical realism (Note 68). The tenor of these polemics is found again in the conflict over the 'historical or allegorical' nature of the composition, which can be seen in the designs. Louis Royer, to whom the commission was given in 1848, wanted to show Coster walking with a winged letter A in his hand, as if on his way to show people his discovery, which was soon to wing its way round the world (cf. Fig. 22). However, this allegorical element disappeared completely in the final version, in which the choice fell on a realistic portrait, albeit Coster was still shown walking like a classical predecessor, Archimedes, who could not keep his discovery to himself (Fig. 23, Note 69). The architect H. M. Tetar van Elven was commissioned to make a base in the style of 'the last era of the Middle Ages'. The inscriptions also presented problems, but were finally agreed on in September 1855. The ceremonies, which after all manner of altercation between Royer and the main committee (Note 70) and various financial problems, were finally able to be staged from 15 to 17 July) 1856, included, in addition to the actual unveiling of the statue on the marketplace ( Van Heerstal's statue being returned to the garden again) , pageants, meetings, an exhibition and all sorts of popular entertainments. Everything was on a grander and more extensive scale than 33 years before and little remained of the motif of enlightenment through printing which had been so important then. Nalionalistic merry-making now predominated, along with expressions of devotion to the House of Orange. Less emphasis was also given to the 'darkness' of the Middle Ages, which were now beginning to be valued as part of the nation's history. The most monumental homage to this monument was a 360-page account of the events by the indefatigable Noordziek. His dream of the recognition of Coster and the nation as a whole seemed to have become a reality. But it was not to be so for long. Only fifteen years after the unveiling A. van de Linde unmasked the' 'Haarlem Coster legend' and called for the demolition of the statue, again in the interests of the nation (Note 81).

Gargantua, a lithograph created by Honoré Daumier in 1831, portrayed the French king Louis-Philippe as a gluttonous giant who devours the labor of his people while sitting in a toilet-like throne, and attacked the king’s person and his government with a satirical manner. Apart from its portrayal of the king as a social cannibal, Gargantua also had a scatological humor by representing the king in defecating. For this reason, this lithograph was by no means tolerated by the July Monarchy that struggled to control over the press by censorship throughout its reign. In this research paper that aims to study the meanings and reasons behind Daumier’s portrayal of king Louis-Philippe as a ravenous giant in Gargantua, it will be discussed why this caricature, which the government both censored and sentenced Daumier to imprisonment and fine penalty, discomforted the king and his government so much. In this context, it will be briefly reviewed the political, economic and social conditions in France before and after the 1830 July Revolution in order to get a better understanding on the political atmosphere during the time when Daumier started to draw satirical caricatures for the journal, La Caricature. Later, it will be discussed Gargantua’s literary references, its implications to king Louis-Philippe and his government, the domestic politics in 1831, and the impact of lithography on increasing power of the press in France. Keywords: Honoré Daumier, Gargantua, lithography, political caricature, printmaking

The period between 1830 (July Revolution in France) and 1848 (March Revolution in Germany) is not only a period of political upheavals, not only the beginning of the so called Industrial Revolution in Germany, but also an extraordinary philosophical era characterized by Hegel’s scholars. The so called Vormärzphilosophie (pre-March philosophy) was dominated by two different schools of Hegelianism. There was one faction which saw in the continuation of Hegel’s speculative system philosophy the intellectual fundament of a modern constitutional state. On the other side stood those “philosophers of the future” like the brothers Ludwig and Friedrich Feuerbach or Karl Marx who worked on a complete break with Hegel’s system of science because of its theological roots. Going back to the idea of an absolute spirit meant from this perspective going back to a non-enlightened school of thinking. The philosophy of future was a philosophy with a strong practical accent as Marx had put into words in his 11th thesis on Feuerbach. First step of this practical program was the secularization, which was first of all an educational program, since the church (theological faculties) educated the teachers, wrote the school books and prevented any enlightenment of the people. In the consequence people were not only treated as bad sinners, but also as eternal subject with no right of political participation. So the break with Hegel and the Hegelian theory of a Christian state opened the door to a united and democratic Germany. The way to democracy and unity was long. It took – seen from 1848 – 100 years to give Germany a lasting constitution and 140 years to unite.

Abhandlungen und Aufsätze Dmitrii Sterkhov, Die Niederlage Preußens von 1806/07 im Urteil der zeitgenössischen Predigt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Thomas Simon, Vom „zusammengesetzten Staat“ zum „dezentralisierten Einheitsstaat“. Dezentralisierung und (Provinzial-)Landtage in Preußen und Österreich-Cisleithanien . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Hubertus Fischer, „Die Stadt Coeslin hat sich niederträchtig benommen“. Monarchenreisen durch Hinterpommern 1844 und 1851 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Peter Wulf, „Ma campagne diplomatique de l’été 1865“. Die Verhandlungen Gustav Graf Blomes mit Bismarck in Gastein Juli bis August 1865 . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 Annette Rieck, Die Einführung der Zivilehe in Preußen. Professor Dr. Rudolf Virchows Beiträge in den Gesetzesberatungen des Preußischen Abgeordnetenhauses 1873/74 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Pauline Puppel, „Aber der schrecklichste der Schrecken ist die Wissenschaftlichkeit der Weiber“. Zu den Anfängen des Frauenstudiums in Preußen . . . . . . . . . . . 147 WolfgangNeugebauer, Otto Hintze, Carl Hinrichsunddie Acta Borussicaum1930. Preußische Geschichte als „historische Soziologie“ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 Jonathan Schilling, Noch einmal Preußen im Film. Zu Preußenbildern in Filmen mit Ruth Leuwerik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 Berichte und Kritik Hendrik Thoß, Karrieren in Preußen – Frauen in Männerdomänen. Bericht zur Jahrestagungder Preußischen HistorischenKommissionvom1. bis 3.November 2018 in Berlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223 Ellen Franke, Die lieben Kleinen ... Dynastischer Nachwuchs als Hoffnungsträger und Argument. 7. Nachwuchsworkshop des Nachwuchsnetzwerks HiKo_21 bei der Historischen Kommission zu Berlin e.V. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Rüdiger von Voss, Die Pyramide von Rapa – Mausoleum und Zeichen der Versöhnung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 Reinhard Mehring, Verfassungshistoriker auf verlorenem Posten. Fritz Hartung in seiner Korrespondenz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249 Buchbesprechungen Reuter, Simon, Revolution und Reaktion im Reich. Die Intervention im Hochstift Lüttich 1789–1791 (Georg Eckert) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 Bahlcke, Joachim / Joisten, Anna (Hrsg.), Hans von Held. Ein aufgeklärter Staatsdiener zwischen Preußen und Polen (Enno Eimers) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 Gerlach, Jürgen von, Von Gerlach. Lebensbilder einer Familie in sechs Jahrhunderten (Hans-Christof Kraus) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258 Martus, Steffen, Aufklärung. Das deutsche 18. Jahrhundert – Ein Epochenbild (Hans-Christof Kraus) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260 Lappenküper Ulrich / Morgenstern, Ulf (Hrsg.), Überzeugungen, Wandlungen und Zuschreibungen. Das Staatsverständnis Otto von Bismarcks (Pauline Puppel) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262 Schmidt, Anna-Maria, Katholisch und emanzipiert. Elisabeth Gnauck-Kühne und Pauline Herber als Leitfiguren der Frauen- und Mädchenbildung um 1900 (Pauline Puppel) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264 Vollert, MichaelP., FürRuheundOrdnung.Einsätze des MilitärsimInnern (1820– 1918), Preußen – Westfalen – Rheinprovinz (Ingeborg Schnelling-Reinicke) ... 266 Volkmann, Hans-Erich, Die Polenpolitik des Kaiserreichs. Prolog zum Zeitalter der Weltkriege (Daniel Benedikt Stienen) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeiter Prof. Dr. Hubertus Fischer, Berlin Ellen Franke, Historische Kommission zu Berlin e.V. Prof. Dr. Reinhart Mehring, PH Heidelberg, Institut für Gesellschaftswissenschaften Prof. Dr. Wolfgang Neugebauer, Würzburg Dr. Pauline Puppel, Geheimes Staatsarchiv PK, Berlin Dr. Annette Rieck, Landeskirchenamt der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Kirche in Norddeutschland, Kiel Jonathan Schilling, Gomaringen Prof. Dr. Thomas Simon, Universität Wien, Rechtswissenschaftliche Fakultät Prof. Dmitrii Sterkhov, Russische Staatliche Medizinische Universität Moskau, Abteilung Geschichte Dr. Hendrik Thoß, Technische Universität Chemnitz, Europäische Geschichte des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts Dr. Rüdiger von Voss, Berlin Prof. Dr. Peter Wulf, Grettorf

Füssel, Marian / Antje Kuhle / Michael Stolz (Hrsg.), Höfe und Experten. Relationen von Macht und Wissen in Mittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, Göttingen 2018, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 228 S. / Abb., € 55,00. (Alexander Querengässer, Leipzig) Fertig, Christine / Margareth Lanzinger (Hrsg.), Beziehungen – Vernetzungen – Konflikte. Perspektiven Historischer Verwandtschaftsforschung, Köln / Weimar / Wien 2016, Böhlau, 286 S. / Abb., € 35,00. (Simon Teuscher, Zürich) Geest, Paul van/ Marcel Poorthuis / Els Rose (Hrsg.), Sanctifying Texts, Transforming Rituals. Encounters in Liturgical Studies. Essays in Honour of Gerard A. M. Rouwhorst (Brill’s Studies in Catholic Theology, 5), Leiden / Boston 2017, Brill, XL u. 489 S. / Abb., € 145,00. (Martin Lüstraeten, Mainz) Kallestrup, Louise Nyholm / Raisa M. Toivo (Hrsg.), Contesting Orthodoxy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Heresy, Magic and Witchcraft (Palgrave Historical Studies in Witchcraft and Magic), Cham 2017, Palgrave Macmillan, XVII u. 349 S. / Abb., £ 63,00. (Vitali Byl, Greifswald) Grüne, Niels / Jonas Hübner / Gerhard Siegl (Hrsg.), Ländliche Gemeingüter. Kollektive Ressourcennutzung in der europäischen Agrarwirtschaft / Rural Commons. Collective Use of Resources in the European Agrarian Economy (Jahrbuch für Geschichte des ländlichen Raums, 2015), Innsbruck / Wien / Bozen 2016, StudienVerlag, 310 S. / Abb., € 29,90. (Christine Fertig, Münster) Wilson, Peter H., The Holy Roman Empire. A Thousand Years of Europe’s History, [London] 2016, Allan Lane, XII u. 941 S. / Abb., £ 14,99. (Alexander Jendorff, Gießen) Krischer, André (Hrsg.), Stadtgeschichte (Basistexte Frühe Neuzeit, 4), Stuttgart 2017, Steiner, 260 S. / Abb., € 24,00. (Nicolas Rügge, Hannover) Fouquet, Gerhard / Jan Hirschbiegel / Sven Rabeler (Hrsg.), Residenzstädte der Vormoderne. Umrisse eines europäischen Phänomens. 1. Symposium des Projekts „Residenzstädte im Alten Reich (1300 – 1800)“ der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Kiel, 13.–16. September 2014 (Residenzenforschung. Neue Folge: Stadt und Hof, 2), Ostfildern 2016, Thorbecke, 501 S. / Abb., € 79,00. (Michel Pauly, Luxemburg) Lau, Thomas / Helge Wittmann (Hrsg.), Reichsstadt im Religionskonflikt. 4. Tagung des Mühlhäuser Arbeitskreises für Reichsstadtgeschichte, Mühlhausen 8. bis 10. Februar 2016 (Studien zur Reichsstadtgeschichte, 4), Petersberg 2017, Imhof, 400 S. / Abb., € 29,95. (Stephanie Armer, Nürnberg) Universitätsarchiv Heidelberg durch Heike Hawicks u. Ingo Runde / Historischer Verein zur Förderung der internationalen Calvinismusforschung e. V. / Kurpfälzisches Museum der Stadt Heidelberg (Hrsg.), Päpste – Kurfürsten – Professoren – Reformatoren. Heidelberg und der Heilige Stuhl von den Reformkonzilien des Mittelalters zur Reformation. Begleitband zur Ausstellung im Kurpfälzischen Museum der Stadt Heidelberg, 21. Mai bis 22. Oktober 2017, Ubstadt-Weiher [u. a.] 2017, Verlag Regionalkultur, 120 S. / Abb., € 14,00. (Anuschka Holste-Massoth, Heidelberg) Buchet, Christian / Michel Balard (Hrsg.), The Sea in History / La Mer dans lʼHistoire, [Bd. 2:] The Medieval World / Le Moyen Âge, Woodbridge 2017, Boydell Press, XXX u. 1052 S. / Abb., £ 125,00. (Thomas K. Heebøll-Holm, Odense) Scholl, Christian / Torben R. Gebhardt / Jan Clauß (Hrsg.), Transcultural Approaches to the Concept of Imperial Rule in the Middle Ages, Frankfurt a. M. [u. a.] 2017, Lang, 379 S. / Abb., € 66,95. (Linda Dohmen, Bonn) Connell, Charles W., Popular Opinion in the Middle Ages. Channeling Public Ideas and Attitudes (Fundamentals of Medieval and Early Modern Culture, 18), Berlin / Boston 2016, de Gruyter, XVIII u. 347 S. / Abb., € 89,95. (Heike Johanna Mierau, Erlangen) Netherton, Robin / Gale R. Owen-Crocker (Hrsg.), Medieval Clothing and Textiles, Bd. 13, Woodbridge / Rochester 2017, Boydell Press, XIII u. 161 S. / Abb., £ 40,00. (Angela Huang, Lübeck) Kirsch, Mona, Das allgemeine Konzil im Spätmittelalter. Organisation – Verhandlungen – Rituale (Heidelberger Abhandlungen zur Mittleren und Neueren Geschichte, 21), Heidelberg 2016, Universitätsverlag Winter, 655 S., € 68,00. (Johannes Helmrath, Berlin) Burton, Janet / Karen Stöber (Hrsg.), Women in the Medieval Monastic World (Medieval Monastic Studies, 1), Turnhout 2015, Brepols, VIII u. 377 S. / Abb., € 90,00. (Cristina Andenna, Dresden) Baker, John, The Reinvention of Magna Carta 1216 – 1616 (Cambridge Studies in English Legal History), Cambridge [u. a.] 2017, Cambridge University Press, XLIX u. 570 S., £ 120,00. (Andreas Pečar, Halle a. d. Saale) Bünz, Enno (Hrsg.), Geschichte der Stadt Leipzig, Bd. 1: Von den Anfängen bis zur Reformation, Leipzig 2015, Leipziger Universitätsverlag, 1055 S. / Abb., € 49,00. (Christian Speer, Halle a. d. S.) Kinne, Hermann, Das (exemte) Bistum Meißen 1: Das Kollegiatstift St. Petri zu Bautzen von der Gründung bis 1569 (Germania Sacra. Dritte Folge, 7), Berlin / Boston 2014, de Gruyter, XII u. 1062 S., € 169,95. (Ulrike Siewert, Chemnitz) Bauch, Martin / Julia Burkhardt / Tomáš Gaudek / Václav Žůrek (Hrsg.), Heilige, Helden, Wüteriche. Herrschaftsstile der Luxemburger (1308 – 1437) (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters, 41), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 449 S. / Abb., € 55,00. (Lenka Bobkova, Prag) Voigt, Dieter, Die Augsburger Baumeisterbücher des 14. Jahrhunderts, 2 Bde., Bd. 1: Darstellung; Bd. 2: Transkriptionen (Veröffentlichungen der Schwäbischen Forschungsgemeinschaft. Reihe 1: Studien zur Geschichte des Bayerischen Schwabens, 43), Augsburg 2017, Wißner, XII u. 228 S. / Abb. / CD-ROM (Bd. 1); X u. 906 S. (Bd. 2), € 65,00. (Jörg Rogge, Mainz) Housley, Norman (Hrsg.), Reconfiguring the Fifteenth-Century Crusade, London 2017, Palgrave Macmillan, XIII u. 344 S., € 106,99. (Kristjan Toomaspoeg, Lecce) Fudge, Thomas A., Jerome of Prague and the Foundations of the Hussite Movement, Oxford 2016, Oxford University Press, XV u. 379 S. / Abb., £ 64,00. (Jan Odstrčilík, Wien) Braun, Karl-Heinz / Thomas Martin Buck (Hrsg.), Über die ganze Erde erging der Name von Konstanz. Rahmenbedingungen und Rezeption des Konstanzer Konzils (Veröffentlichungen der Kommission für geschichtliche Landeskunde in Baden-Württemberg, Reihe B: Forschungen, 212), Stuttgart 2017, Kohlhammer, XXI u. 268 S. / Abb., € 32,00. (Ansgar Frenken, Ulm) Fuchs, Franz / Pirmin Spieß (Hrsg.), Friedrich der Siegreiche (1425 – 1476). Beiträge zur Erforschung eines spätmittelalterlichen Landesfürsten (Stiftung zur Förderung der pfälzischen Geschichtsforschung. Reihe B: Abhandlungen zur Geschichte der Pfalz, 17), Neustadt a. d. Weinstraße 2016, Selbstverlag der Stiftung zur Förderung der pfälzischen Geschichtsforschung, X u. 366 S., € 59,00. (Gabriel Zeilinger, Kiel) Förschler, Silke / Anne Mariss (Hrsg.), Akteure, Tiere, Dinge. Verfahrensweisen der Naturgeschichte in der Frühen Neuzeit, Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 258 S. / Abb., € 35,00. (Isabelle Schürch, Bern) Rediker, Marcus, Gesetzlose des Atlantiks. Piraten und rebellische Seeleute in der frühen Neuzeit, übers. v. Max Henninger u. Sabine Bartel (Kritik & Utopie), Wien 2017, Mandelbaum, 310 S., € 18,00. (Magnus Ressel, Frankfurt a. M.) Forrestal, Alison / Seán A. Smith (Hrsg.), The Frontiers of Mission. Perspectives on Early Modern Missionary Catholicism (Catholic Christendom, 1300 – 1700), Leiden / Boston 2016, Brill, XI u. 202 S. / Abb., € 110,00; als Brill MyBook € 25,00. (Irina Pawlowsky, Tübingen) Graf, Joel, Die Inquisition und ausländische Protestanten in Spanisch-Amerika (1560 – 1770). Rechtspraktiken und Rechtsräume, Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 320 S., € 45,00. (Christoph Nebgen, Mainz) Mazur, Peter A., Conversion to Catholicism in Early Modern Italy (Religious Cultures in the Early Modern World, 22), New York / London 2016, Routledge, XIV u. 178 S. / Abb., £ 95,00. (Kim Siebenhüner, Jena) Germann, Michael / Wim Decock (Hrsg.), Das Gewissen in den Rechtslehren der protestantischen und katholischen Reformationen / Conscience in the Legal Teachings of the Protestant and Catholic Reformations (Leucorea-Studien zur Geschichte der Reformation und der Lutherischen Orthodoxie, 31), Leipzig 2017, Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 345 S. / Abb., € 68,00. (Nils Jansen, Münster) Höppner, Anika, Gesichte. Lutherische Visionskultur der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn 2017, Fink, 389 S. / Abb., € 69,00. (Rainer Walz, Bochum) Millar, Charlotte-Rose, Witchcraft, the Devil, and Emotions in Early Modern England (Routledge Research in Early Modern History), London / New York 2017, Routledge, XII u. 230 S. / Abb., £ 105,00. (Christina Antenhofer, Salzburg) Kounine, Laura / Michael Ostling (Hrsg.), Emotions in the History of Witchcraft (Palgrave Studies in the History of Emotions), London 2016, Palgrave Macmillan, XVI u. 321 S. / Abb., £ 74,50. (Christina Antenhofer, Salzburg) Dirmeier, Artur (Hrsg.), Leben im Spital. Pfründner und ihr Alltag 1500 – 1800 (Studien zur Geschichte des Spital-‍, Wohlfahrts- und Gesundheitswesens, 12), Regensburg 2018, Pustet, 269 S. / Abb., € 34,95. (Christina Vanja, Kassel) Nicholls, Angela, Almshouses in Early Modern England. Charitable Housing in the Mixed Economy of Welfare, 1550 – 1725 (People, Markets, Goods: Economies and Societies in History, 8), Woodbridge / Rochester 2017, Boydell, XI u. 278 S., £ 19,99. (Christina Vanja, Kassel) Mączak, Antoni, Eine Kutsche ist wie eine Straßendirne … Reisekultur im Alten Europa. Aus dem Polnischen von Reinhard Fischer und Peter O. Loew (Polen in Europa), Paderborn 2017, Schöningh, 237 S. / Abb., € 29,90. (Benjamin Müsegades, Heidelberg) Garner, Guillaume (Hrsg.), Die Ökonomie des Privilegs, Westeuropa 16.–19. Jahrhundert / Lʼéconomie du privilège, Europe occidentale XVIe-XIXe siècles (Studien zu Policey, Kriminalitätsgeschichte und Konfliktregulierung), Frankfurt a. M. 2016, Klostermann, VII u. 523 S. / graph. Darst., € 79,00. (Rachel Renault, Le Mans) Gemeine Bescheide, Teil 1: Reichskammergericht 1497 – 1805, hrsg. v. Peter Oestmann (Quellen und Forschungen zur höchsten Gerichtsbarkeit im Alten Reich, 63.1), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2013, Böhlau, VI u. 802 S., € 79,90. (Ralf-Peter Fuchs, Essen) Gemeine Bescheide, Teil 2: Reichshofrat 1613 – 1798, hrsg. v. Peter Oestmann (Quellen und Forschungen zur höchsten Gerichtsbarkeit im Alten Reich, 63.2), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 480 S., € 60,00. (Ralf-Peter Fuchs, Essen) Süß, Thorsten, Partikularer Zivilprozess und territoriale Gerichtsverfassung. Das weltliche Hofgericht in Paderborn und seine Ordnungen 1587 – 1720 (Quellen und Forschungen zur höchsten Gerichtsbarkeit im Alten Reich, 69), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 570 S., € 90,00. (Michael Ströhmer, Paderborn) Luebke, David M., Hometown Religion. Regimes of Coexistence in Early Modern Westphalia (Studies in Early Modern German History), Charlottesville / London 2016, University of Virginia Press, XI u. 312 S. / Abb., $ 45,00. (Alexander Schunka, Berlin) Blum, Daniela, Multikonfessionalität im Alltag. Speyer zwischen politischem Frieden und Bekenntnisernst (1555 – 1618) (Reformationsgeschichtliche Studien und Texte, 162), Münster 2015, Aschendorff, X u. 411 S., € 56,00. (Alexander Schunka, Berlin) Wüst, Wolfgang (Hrsg.) / Marina Heller (Red.), Historische Kriminalitätsforschung in landesgeschichtlicher Perspektive. Fallstudien aus Bayern und seinen Nachbarländern 1500 – 1800. Referate der Tagung vom 14. bis 16. Oktober 2015 in Wildbad Kreuth (Franconia, 9), Erlangen / Stegaurach 2017, Zentralinstitut für Regionenforschung, Sektion Franken / Wissenschaftlicher Kommissionsverlag, XX u. 359 S., € 29,80. (Jan Siegemund, Dresden) Liniger, Sandro, Gesellschaft in der Zerstreuung. Soziale Ordnung und Konflikt im frühneuzeitlichen Graubünden (Bedrohte Ordnungen, 7), Tübingen 2017, Mohr Siebeck, X u. 362 S., € 59,00. (Beat Kümin, Warwick) Scott, Tom, The Swiss and Their Neighbours, 1460 – 1560. Between Accomodation and Aggression, Oxford 2017, Oxford University Press, XII u. 219 S. / graph. Darst., £ 55,00. (Volker Reinhardt, Fribourg) Tomaszewski, Marco, Familienbücher als Medien städtischer Kommunikation. Untersuchungen zur Basler Geschichtsschreibung im 16. Jahrhundert (Spätmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation, 98), Tübingen 2017, Mohr Siebeck, XII u. 252 S. / Abb., € 89,00. (Beate Kusche, Leipzig) Horst, Thomas / Marília dos Santos Lopes / Henrique Leitão (Hrsg.), Renaissance Craftsmen and Humanistic Scholars. Circulation of Knowledge between Portugal and Germany (Passagem, 10), Frankfurt a. M. [u. a.] 2017, Lang, 245 S. / Abb., € 55,95. (Martin Biersack, München) Boer, Jan-Hendryk de, Unerwartete Absichten – Genealogie des Reuchlinkonflikts (Spätmittelalter, Humanismus, Reformation, 94), Tübingen 2016, Mohr Siebeck, VIII u. 1362 S., € 189,00. (Albert Schirrmeister, Paris) Peutinger, Konrad, Tischgespräche (Sermones convivales) und andere Druckschriften. Faksimile-Edition der Erstdrucke mit einer Einleitung von Johannes Burkhardt und einer kommentierten Übersetzung von Helmut Zäh und Veronika Lukas, hrsg. v. Johannes Burkhardt (Historia Scientiarum. 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Luther und die Hexen (Kataloge des Mittelalterlichen Kriminalmuseums in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, 1), Darmstadt 2017, Theiss, 224 S. / Abb., € 19,95. (Rainer Walz, Bochum) Dingel, Irene / Armin Kohnle / Stefan Rhein / Ernst-Joachim Waschke (Hrsg.), Initia Reformationis. Wittenberg und die frühe Reformation (Leucorea-Studien zur Geschichte der Reformation und der Lutherischen Orthodoxie, 33), Leipzig 2017, Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 444 S. / Abb., € 68,00. (Stefan Michel, Leipzig) Bauer, Joachim / Michael Haspel (Hrsg.), Jakob Strauß und der reformatorische Wucherstreit. Die soziale Dimension der Reformation und ihre Wirkungen, Leipzig 2018, Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 316 S. / Abb., € 29,00. (Mark Häberlein, Bamberg) Zinsmeyer, Sabine, Frauenklöster in der Reformationszeit. Lebensformen von Nonnen in Sachsen zwischen Reform und landesherrlicher Aufhebung (Quellen und Forschungen zur sächsischen Geschichte, 41), Stuttgart 2016, Sächsische Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Leipzig / Steiner in Kommission, 455 S. / Abb., € 76,00. (Andreas Rutz, Bonn/Düsseldorf) Der Kurfürstentag zu Regensburg 1575, bearb. v. Christiane Neerfeld (Deutsche Reichstagsakten. Reichsversammlungen 1556 – 1662), Berlin / Boston 2016, de Gruyter Oldenbourg, 423 S., € 139,95. (Thomas Kirchner, Aachen) Kerr-Peterson, Miles / Steven J. Reid (Hrsg.), James VI and Noble Power in Scotland 1578 – 1603 (Routledge Research in Early Modern History), London / New York 2017, Routledge, XVI u. 219 S., £ 75,00. (Martin Foerster, Düsseldorf) Nellen, Henk J. M., Hugo Grotius. A Lifelong Struggle for Peace in Church and State, 1583 – 1645, übers. v. J. Chris Grayson, Leiden / Boston 2015, Brill, XXXII u. 827 S. / Abb., € 199,00. (Peter Nitschke, Vechta) Weber, Wolfgang E. J., Luthers bleiche Erben. Kulturgeschichte der evangelischen Geistlichkeit des 17. Jahrhunderts, Berlin / Boston 2017, de Gruyter Oldenbourg, VI u. 234 S. / Abb., € 29,95. (Cornel Zwierlein, Bamberg / Erfurt) Hennings, Werner / Uwe Horst / Jürgen Kramer, Die Stadt als Bühne. Macht und Herrschaft im öffentlichen Raum von Rom, Paris und London im 17. Jahrhundert (Edition Kulturwissenschaft, 63), Bielefeld 2016, transcript, 421 S. / Abb., € 39,99. (Susanne Rau, Erfurt) „Das Beispiel der Obrigkeit ist der Spiegel des Unterthans“. Instruktionen und andere normative Quellen zur Verwaltung der liechtensteinischen Herrschaften Feldsberg und Wilfersdorf in Niederösterreich (1600 – 1815), hrsg. v. Anita Hipfinger (Fontes Rerum Austriacarum. Abt. 3: Fontes Iuris, 24), Wien / Köln / Weimar 2016, Böhlau, 875 S. / Abb., € 97,00. (Alexander Denzler, Eichstätt) Roper, Louis H., Advancing Empire. English Interests and Overseas Expansion, 1613 – 1688, New York 2017, Cambridge University Press, XI u. 302 S., £ 25,99. 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(Pauline Puppel, Berlin) Onnekink, David, Reinterpreting the Dutch Forty Years War, 1672 – 1713, Palgrave Pivot 2016, London, VIII u. 138 S., £ 37,99. (Johannes Arndt, Münster) Froide, Amy M., Silent Partners. Women as Public Investors during Britainʼs Financial Revolution, 1690 – 1750, Oxford / New York 2017, Oxford University Press, VI u. 225 S. / Abb., £ 60,00. (Philipp R. Rössner, Manchester) Mulsow, Martin / Kasper Risbjerg Eskildsen / Helmut Zedelmaier (Hrsg.), Christoph August Heumann (1681 – 1764). Gelehrte Praxis zwischen christlichem Humanismus und Aufklärung (Gothaer Forschungen zur Frühen Neuzeit, 12), Stuttgart 2017, Steiner, XVI u. 265 S. / Abb., € 54,00. (Claire Gantet, Fribourg/Freiburg) Harding, Elizabeth (Hrsg.), Kalkulierte Gelehrsamkeit. Zur Ökonomisierung der Universitäten im 18. Jahrhundert (Wolfenbütteler Forschungen, 148), Wiesbaden 2016, Harrassowitz in Kommission, 300 S. / Abb., € 62,00. (Andrea Thiele, Halle a. d. S.) 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Eine Biographie, Beck 2017, München, 253 S. / Abb., € 24,95. (Georg Eckert, Wuppertal) Home, Roderick W. / Isabel M. Malaquias / Manuel F. Thomaz (Hrsg.), For the Love of Science. The Correspondence of J. H. de Magellan (1722 – 1790), 2 Bde., Bern [u. a.] 2017, Lang, 2002 S. / Abb., € 228,95. (Lisa Dannenberg-Markel, Aachen) Wendt-Sellin, Ulrike, Herzogin Luise Friederike von Mecklenburg-Schwerin (1722 – 1791). Ein Leben zwischen Pflicht, Pläsir und Pragmatismus (Quellen und Studien aus den Landesarchiven Mecklenburg-Vorpommerns, 19), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 468 S. / Abb., € 60,00. (Britta Kägler, Trondheim) Oehler, Johanna, „Abroad at Göttingen“. Britische Studenten als Akteure des Kultur- und Wissenstransfers 1735 bis 1806 (Veröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission für Niedersachsen und Bremen, 289), Göttingen 2016, Wallstein, 478 S. / graph. Darst., € 39,90. (Michael Schaich, London) Düwel, Sven, Ad bellum Sacri Romano-Germanici Imperii solenne decernendum: Die Reichskriegserklärung gegen Brandenburg-Preußen im Jahr 1757. Das Verfahren der „preußischen Befehdungssache“ 1756/57 zwischen Immerwährendem Reichstag und Wiener Reichsbehörden, 2 Teilbde., Münster 2016, Lit, 985 S. / Abb., € 79,90 (Bd. 3 als Download beim Verlag erhältlich). (Martin Fimpel, Wolfenbüttel) Pufelska, Agnieszka, Der bessere Nachbar? Das polnische Preußenbild zwischen Politik und Kulturtransfer (1765 – 1795), Berlin / Boston 2017, de Gruyter Oldenbourg, VIII u. 439 S., € 74,95. (Maciej Ptaszyński, Warschau) Herfurth, Stefan, Freiheit in Schwedisch-Pommern. Entwicklung, Verbreitung und Rezeption des Freiheitsbegriffs im südlichen Ostseeraum zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts (Moderne europäische Geschichte, 14), Göttingen 2017, Wallstein, 262 S. / Abb., € 29,90. (Axel Flügel, Bielefeld) Boie, Heinrich Christian / Luise Justine Mejer, Briefwechsel 1776 – 1786, hrsg. v. Regina Nörtemann in Zusammenarbeit mit Johanna Egger, 4 Bde. im Schuber, Bd. 1: Juni 1776 – Juni 1782; Bd. 2: Juli 1782 – Juni 1784; Bd. 3: Juli 1784 – Juli 1786; Bd. 4: Kommentar, Göttingen 2016, Wallstein, 612 S. (Bd. 1); 608 S. (Bd. 2); 571 S. (Bd. 3); 846 S. / Abb. (Bd. 4), € 149,00. (Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, Berlin / Münster) Poniatowski, Fürst Stanisław, Tagebuch einer Reise durch die deutschen Länder im Jahre 1784. Aus dem Manuskript übers. u. hrsg. v. Ingo Pfeifer, Halle a. d. S. 2017, Mitteldeutscher Verlag, 269 S., € 24,95. (Michael Maurer, Jena) Blaufarb, Rafe, The Great Demarcation. The French Revolution and the Invention of Modern Property, New York 2016, Oxford University Press, XIV u. 282 S., £ 47,99. (Moritz Isenmann, Köln) Behringer, Wolfgang, Tambora und das Jahr ohne Sommer. Wie ein Vulkan die Welt in die Krise stürzte, 4. Aufl., München 2016, Beck, 398 S. / Abb., € 24,95. (Wolfgang Reinhard, Freiburg i. Br.) Die Tagebücher des Ludwig Freiherrn Vincke 1789 – 1844, Bd. 10: 1830 – 1839, bearb. v. Heide Barmeyer-Hartlieb (Veröffentlichungen des Vereins für Geschichte und Altertumskunde Westfalens, Abt. Münster, 10; Veröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission für Westfalen. Neue Folge, 45; Veröffentlichungen des Landesarchivs Nordrhein-Westfalen, 69), Münster 2018, Aschendorff, 949 S. / Abb., € 88,00. (Heinz Duchhardt, Mainz)

Cremer, Annette C. / Martin Mulsow (Hrsg.), Objekte als Quellen der historischen Kulturwissenschaften. Stand und Perspektiven der Forschung (Ding, Materialität, Geschichte, 2), Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 352 S. / Abb., € 50,00. (Alexander Georg Durben, Münster) Pfister, Ulrich (Hrsg.), Kulturen des Entscheidens. Narrative – Praktiken – Ressourcen (Kulturen des Entscheidens, 1), Göttingen 2019, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 409 S. / Abb., € 70,00. (Wolfgang Reinhard, Freiburg i. Br.) Krischer, André (Hrsg.), Verräter. Geschichte eines Deutungsmusters, Wien / Köln / Weimar 2019, Böhlau, 353 S. / Abb., € 39,00. (Wolfgang Reinhard, Freiburg i. Br.) Baumbach, Hendrik / Horst Carl (Hrsg.), Landfrieden – epochenübergreifend. Neue Perspektiven der Landfriedensforschung auf Verfassung, Recht, Konflikt (Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung, Beiheft 54), Berlin 2018, Duncker & Humblot, 280 S., € 69,90. (Fabian Schulze, Ulm / Augsburg) Ertl, Thomas (Hrsg.), Erzwungene Exile. 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(Iris Fleßenkämper, Münster) Freitag, Werner / Wilfried Reininghaus (Hrsg.), Beiträge zur Geschichte der Reformation in Westfalen, Bd. 1: „Langes“ 15. Jahrhundert, Übergänge und Zäsuren. Beiträge der Tagung am 30. und 31. Oktober 2015 in Lippstadt (Veröffentlichungen der Historischen Kommission für Westfalen. Neue Folge, 35), Münster 2017, Aschendorff, 352 S. / Abb., € 39,00. (Andreas Rutz, Düsseldorf) Hartmann, Thomas F., Die Reichstage unter Karl V. Verfahren und Verfahrensentwicklung 1521 – 1555 (Schriftenreihe der Historischen Kommission bei der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 100), Göttingen / Bristol 2017, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 370 S., € 70,00. (Reinhard Seyboth, Regensburg) Der Reichstag zu Regensburg 1541, 4 Teilbde., bearb. v. Albrecht P. Luttenberger (Deutsche Reichstagsakten. Jüngere Reihe, 11), Berlin / Boston 2018, de Gruyter Oldenbourg, 3777 S., € 598,00. (Eva Ortlieb, Graz) Putten, Jasper van, Networked Nation. 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(Olivia Spiridon, Tübingen) „wobei mich der liebe Gott wunderlich beschutzet“. Die Schreibkalender des Clamor Eberhard von dem Bussche zu Hünnefeld (1611 – 1666). Edition mit Kommentar, hrsg. v. Lene Freifrau von dem Bussche-Hünnefeld / Stephanie Haberer, [Bramsche] 2017, Rasch, 216 S. / Abb., € 34,50. (Helga Meise, Reims) Rohrschneider, Michael / Anuschka Tischer (Hrsg.), Dynamik durch Gewalt? Der Dreißigjährige Krieg (1618 – 1648) als Faktor der Wandlungsprozesse des 17. Jahrhunderts (Schriftenreihe zur Neueren Geschichte, 38; Neue Folge, 1), Münster 2018, Aschendorff, VII u. 342 S. / Abb., € 48,00. (Claire Gantet, Fribourg) Schloms, Antje, Institutionelle Waisenfürsorge im Alten Reich 1648 – 1806. Statistische Analyse und Fallbeispiele (Beiträge zur Wirtschafts- und Sozialgeschichte, 129), Stuttgart 2017, Steiner, 395 S., € 62,00. (Iris Ritzmann, Zürich) Mühling, Christian, Die europäische Debatte über den Religionskrieg (1679 – 1714). Konfessionelle Memoria und internationale Politik im Zeitalter Ludwigs XIV. (Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für europäische Geschichte Mainz, 250), Göttingen 2018, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 587 S., € 85,00. (Cornel Zwierlein, Bamberg) Dietz, Bettina, Das System der Natur. Die kollaborative Wissenskultur der Botanik im 18. Jahrhundert, Köln / Weimar / Wien 2017, Böhlau, 216 S., € 35,00. (Flemming Schock, Leipzig) Friedrich, Markus / Alexander Schunka (Hrsg.), Reporting Christian Missions in the Eighteenth Century. Communication, Culture of Knowledge and Regular Publication in a Cross-Confessional Perspective (Jabloniana, 8), Wiesbaden 2017, Harrassowitz, 196 S., € 52,00. (Nadine Amsler, Frankfurt a. M.) Berkovich, Ilya, Motivation in War. The Experience of Common Soldiers in Old-Regime Europe, Cambridge / New York 2017, Cambridge University Press, XII u. 280 S. / graph. Darst., £ 22,99. (Marian Füssel, Göttingen) Stöckl, Alexandra, Der Principalkommissar. 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The term “coffee palace” was primarily used in Australia to describe the temperance hotels that were built in the last decades of the 19th century, although there are references to the term also being used to a lesser extent in the United Kingdom (Denby 174). Built in response to the worldwide temperance movement, which reached its pinnacle in the 1880s in Australia, coffee palaces were hotels that did not serve alcohol. This was a unique time in Australia’s architectural development as the economic boom fuelled by the gold rush in the 1850s, and the demand for ostentatious display that gathered momentum during the following years, afforded the use of richly ornamental High Victorian architecture and resulted in very majestic structures; hence the term “palace” (Freeland 121). The often multi-storied coffee palaces were found in every capital city as well as regional areas such as Geelong and Broken Hill, and locales as remote as Maria Island on the east coast of Tasmania. Presented as upholding family values and discouraging drunkenness, the coffee palaces were most popular in seaside resorts such as Barwon Heads in Victoria, where they catered to families. Coffee palaces were also constructed on a grand scale to provide accommodation for international and interstate visitors attending the international exhibitions held in Sydney (1879) and Melbourne (1880 and 1888). While the temperance movement lasted well over 100 years, the life of coffee palaces was relatively short-lived. Nevertheless, coffee palaces were very much part of Australia’s cultural landscape. In this article, I examine the rise and demise of coffee palaces associated with the temperance movement and argue that coffee palaces established in the name of abstinence were modelled on the coffee houses that spread throughout Europe and North America in the 17th and 18th centuries during the Enlightenment—a time when the human mind could be said to have been liberated from inebriation and the dogmatic state of ignorance. The Temperance Movement At a time when newspapers are full of lurid stories about binge-drinking and the alleged ill-effects of the liberalisation of licensing laws, as well as concerns over the growing trend of marketing easy-to-drink products (such as the so-called “alcopops”) to teenagers, it is difficult to think of a period when the total suppression of the alcohol trade was seriously debated in Australia. The cause of temperance has almost completely vanished from view, yet for well over a century—from 1830 to the outbreak of the Second World War—the control or even total abolition of the liquor trade was a major political issue—one that split the country, brought thousands onto the streets in demonstrations, and influenced the outcome of elections. Between 1911 and 1925 referenda to either limit or prohibit the sale of alcohol were held in most States. While moves to bring about abolition failed, Fitzgerald notes that almost one in three Australian voters expressed their support for prohibition of alcohol in their State (145). Today, the temperance movement’s platform has largely been forgotten, killed off by the practical example of the United States, where prohibition of the legal sale of alcohol served only to hand control of the liquor traffic to organised crime. Coffee Houses and the Enlightenment Although tea has long been considered the beverage of sobriety, it was coffee that came to be regarded as the very antithesis of alcohol. When the first coffee house opened in London in the early 1650s, customers were bewildered by this strange new drink from the Middle East—hot, bitter, and black as soot. But those who tried coffee were, reports Ellis, soon won over, and coffee houses were opened across London, Oxford, and Cambridge and, in the following decades, Europe and North America. Tea, equally exotic, entered the English market slightly later than coffee (in 1664), but was more expensive and remained a rarity long after coffee had become ubiquitous in London (Ellis 123-24). The impact of the introduction of coffee into Europe during the seventeenth century was particularly noticeable since the most common beverages of the time, even at breakfast, were weak “small beer” and wine. Both were safer to drink than water, which was liable to be contaminated. Coffee, like beer, was made using boiled water and, therefore, provided a new and safe alternative to alcoholic drinks. There was also the added benefit that those who drank coffee instead of alcohol began the day alert rather than mildly inebriated (Standage 135). It was also thought that coffee had a stimulating effect upon the “nervous system,” so much so that the French called coffee une boisson intellectuelle (an intellectual beverage), because of its stimulating effect on the brain (Muskett 71). In Oxford, the British called their coffee houses “penny universities,” a penny then being the price of a cup of coffee (Standage 158). Coffee houses were, moreover, more than places that sold coffee. Unlike other institutions of the period, rank and birth had no place (Ellis 59). The coffee house became the centre of urban life, creating a distinctive social culture by treating all customers as equals. Egalitarianism, however, did not extend to women—at least not in London. Around its egalitarian (but male) tables, merchants discussed and conducted business, writers and poets held discussions, scientists demonstrated experiments, and philosophers deliberated ideas and reforms. For the price of a cup (or “dish” as it was then known) of coffee, a man could read the latest pamphlets and newsletters, chat with other patrons, strike business deals, keep up with the latest political gossip, find out what other people thought of a new book, or take part in literary or philosophical discussions. Like today’s Internet, Twitter, and Facebook, Europe’s coffee houses functioned as an information network where ideas circulated and spread from coffee house to coffee house. In this way, drinking coffee in the coffee house became a metaphor for people getting together to share ideas in a sober environment, a concept that remains today. According to Standage, this information network fuelled the Enlightenment (133), prompting an explosion of creativity. Coffee houses provided an entirely new environment for political, financial, scientific, and literary change, as people gathered, discussed, and debated issues within their walls. Entrepreneurs and scientists teamed up to form companies to exploit new inventions and discoveries in manufacturing and mining, paving the way for the Industrial Revolution (Standage 163). The stock market and insurance companies also had their birth in the coffee house. As a result, coffee was seen to be the epitome of modernity and progress and, as such, was the ideal beverage for the Age of Reason. By the 19th century, however, the era of coffee houses had passed. Most of them had evolved into exclusive men’s clubs, each geared towards a certain segment of society. Tea was now more affordable and fashionable, and teahouses, which drew clientele from both sexes, began to grow in popularity. Tea, however, had always been Australia’s most popular non-alcoholic drink. Tea (and coffee) along with other alien plants had been part of the cargo unloaded onto Australian shores with the First Fleet in 1788. Coffee, mainly from Brazil and Jamaica, remained a constant import but was taxed more heavily than tea and was, therefore, more expensive. Furthermore, tea was much easier to make than coffee. To brew tea, all that is needed is to add boiling water, coffee, in contrast, required roasting, grinding and brewing. According to Symons, until the 1930s, Australians were the largest consumers of tea in the world (19). In spite of this, and as coffee, since its introduction into Europe, was regarded as the antidote to alcohol, the temperance movement established coffee palaces. In the early 1870s in Britain, the temperance movement had revived the coffee house to provide an alternative to the gin taverns that were so attractive to the working classes of the Industrial Age (Clarke 5). Unlike the earlier coffee house, this revived incarnation provided accommodation and was open to men, women and children. “Cheap and wholesome food,” was available as well as reading rooms supplied with newspapers and periodicals, and games and smoking rooms (Clarke 20). In Australia, coffee palaces did not seek the working classes, as clientele: at least in the cities they were largely for the nouveau riche. Coffee Palaces The discovery of gold in 1851 changed the direction of the Australian economy. An investment boom followed, with an influx of foreign funds and English banks lending freely to colonial speculators. By the 1880s, the manufacturing and construction sectors of the economy boomed and land prices were highly inflated. Governments shared in the wealth and ploughed money into urban infrastructure, particularly railways. Spurred on by these positive economic conditions and the newly extended inter-colonial rail network, international exhibitions were held in both Sydney and Melbourne. To celebrate modern technology and design in an industrial age, international exhibitions were phenomena that had spread throughout Europe and much of the world from the mid-19th century. According to Davison, exhibitions were “integral to the culture of nineteenth century industrialising societies” (158). In particular, these exhibitions provided the colonies with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world their economic power and achievements in the sciences, the arts and education, as well as to promote their commerce and industry. Massive purpose-built buildings were constructed to house the exhibition halls. In Sydney, the Garden Palace was erected in the Botanic Gardens for the 1879 Exhibition (it burnt down in 1882). In Melbourne, the Royal Exhibition Building, now a World Heritage site, was built in the Carlton Gardens for the 1880 Exhibition and extended for the 1888 Centennial Exhibition. Accommodation was required for the some one million interstate and international visitors who were to pass through the gates of the Garden Palace in Sydney. To meet this need, the temperance movement, keen to provide alternative accommodation to licensed hotels, backed the establishment of Sydney’s coffee palaces. The Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company was formed in 1878 to operate and manage a number of coffee palaces constructed during the 1870s. These were designed to compete with hotels by “offering all the ordinary advantages of those establishments without the allurements of the drink” (Murdoch). Coffee palaces were much more than ordinary hotels—they were often multi-purpose or mixed-use buildings that included a large number of rooms for accommodation as well as ballrooms and other leisure facilities to attract people away from pubs. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reveals, their services included the supply of affordable, wholesome food, either in the form of regular meals or occasional refreshments, cooked in kitchens fitted with the latest in culinary accoutrements. These “culinary temples” also provided smoking rooms, chess and billiard rooms, and rooms where people could read books, periodicals and all the local and national papers for free (121). Similar to the coffee houses of the Enlightenment, the coffee palaces brought businessmen, artists, writers, engineers, and scientists attending the exhibitions together to eat and drink (non-alcoholic), socialise and conduct business. The Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace located in York Street in Sydney produced a practical guide for potential investors and businessmen titled International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney. It included information on the location of government departments, educational institutions, hospitals, charitable organisations, and embassies, as well as a list of the tariffs on goods from food to opium (1–17). Women, particularly the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) were a formidable force in the temperance movement (intemperance was generally regarded as a male problem and, more specifically, a husband problem). Murdoch argues, however, that much of the success of the push to establish coffee palaces was due to male politicians with business interests, such as the one-time Victorian premiere James Munro. Considered a stern, moral church-going leader, Munro expanded the temperance movement into a fanatical force with extraordinary power, which is perhaps why the temperance movement had its greatest following in Victoria (Murdoch). Several prestigious hotels were constructed to provide accommodation for visitors to the international exhibitions in Melbourne. Munro was responsible for building many of the city’s coffee palaces, including the Victoria (1880) and the Federal Coffee Palace (1888) in Collins Street. After establishing the Grand Coffee Palace Company, Munro took over the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1886. Munro expanded the hotel to accommodate some of the two million visitors who were to attend the Centenary Exhibition, renamed it the Grand Coffee Palace, and ceremoniously burnt its liquor licence at the official opening (Murdoch). By 1888 there were more than 50 coffee palaces in the city of Melbourne alone and Munro held thousands of shares in coffee palaces, including those in Geelong and Broken Hill. With its opening planned to commemorate the centenary of the founding of Australia and the 1888 International Exhibition, the construction of the Federal Coffee Palace, one of the largest hotels in Australia, was perhaps the greatest monument to the temperance movement. Designed in the French Renaissance style, the façade was embellished with statues, griffins and Venus in a chariot drawn by four seahorses. The building was crowned with an iron-framed domed tower. New passenger elevators—first demonstrated at the Sydney Exhibition—allowed the building to soar to seven storeys. According to the Federal Coffee Palace Visitor’s Guide, which was presented to every visitor, there were three lifts for passengers and others for luggage. Bedrooms were located on the top five floors, while the stately ground and first floors contained majestic dining, lounge, sitting, smoking, writing, and billiard rooms. There were electric service bells, gaslights, and kitchens “fitted with the most approved inventions for aiding proficients [sic] in the culinary arts,” while the luxury brand Pears soap was used in the lavatories and bathrooms (16–17). In 1891, a spectacular financial crash brought the economic boom to an abrupt end. The British economy was in crisis and to meet the predicament, English banks withdrew their funds in Australia. There was a wholesale collapse of building companies, mortgage banks and other financial institutions during 1891 and 1892 and much of the banking system was halted during 1893 (Attard). Meanwhile, however, while the eastern States were in the economic doldrums, gold was discovered in 1892 at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia and, within two years, the west of the continent was transformed. As gold poured back to the capital city of Perth, the long dormant settlement hurriedly caught up and began to emulate the rest of Australia, including the construction of ornately detailed coffee palaces (Freeman 130). By 1904, Perth had 20 coffee palaces. When the No. 2 Coffee Palace opened in Pitt Street, Sydney, in 1880, the Australian Town and Country Journal reported that coffee palaces were “not only fashionable, but appear to have acquired a permanent footing in Sydney” (121). The coffee palace era, however, was relatively short-lived. Driven more by reformist and economic zeal than by good business sense, many were in financial trouble when the 1890’s Depression hit. Leading figures in the temperance movement were also involved in land speculation and building societies and when these schemes collapsed, many, including Munro, were financially ruined. Many of the palaces closed or were forced to apply for liquor licences in order to stay afloat. Others developed another life after the temperance movement’s influence waned and the coffee palace fad faded, and many were later demolished to make way for more modern buildings. The Federal was licensed in 1923 and traded as the Federal Hotel until its demolition in 1973. The Victoria, however, did not succumb to a liquor licence until 1967. The Sydney Coffee Palace in Woolloomooloo became the Sydney Eye Hospital and, more recently, smart apartments. Some fine examples still survive as reminders of Australia’s social and cultural heritage. The Windsor in Melbourne’s Spring Street and the Broken Hill Hotel, a massive three-story iconic pub in the outback now called simply “The Palace,” are some examples. Tea remained the beverage of choice in Australia until the 1950s when the lifting of government controls on the importation of coffee and the influence of American foodways coincided with the arrival of espresso-loving immigrants. As Australians were introduced to the espresso machine, the short black, the cappuccino, and the café latte and (reminiscent of the Enlightenment), the post-war malaise was shed in favour of the energy and vigour of modernist thought and creativity, fuelled in at least a small part by caffeine and the emergent café culture (Teffer). Although the temperance movement’s attempt to provide an alternative to the ubiquitous pubs failed, coffee has now outstripped the consumption of tea and today’s café culture ensures that wherever coffee is consumed, there is the possibility of a continuation of the Enlightenment’s lively discussions, exchange of news, and dissemination of ideas and information in a sober environment. References Attard, Bernard. “The Economic History of Australia from 1788: An Introduction.” EH.net Encyclopedia. 5 Feb. (2012) ‹http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/attard.australia›. Blainey, Anna. “The Prohibition and Total Abstinence Movement in Australia 1880–1910.” Food, Power and Community: Essays in the History of Food and Drink. Ed. Robert Dare. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1999. 142–52. Boyce, Francis Bertie. “Shall I Vote for No License?” An address delivered at the Convention of the Parramatta Branch of New South Wales Alliance, 3 September 1906. 3rd ed. Parramatta: New South Wales Alliance, 1907. Clarke, James Freeman. Coffee Houses and Coffee Palaces in England. Boston: George H. Ellis, 1882. “Coffee Palace, No. 2.” Australian Town and Country Journal. 17 Jul. 1880: 121. Davison, Graeme. “Festivals of Nationhood: The International Exhibitions.” Australian Cultural History. Eds. S. L. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. 158–77. Denby, Elaine. Grand Hotels: Reality and Illusion. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Ellis, Markman. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Federal Coffee Palace. The Federal Coffee Palace Visitors’ Guide to Melbourne, Its Suburbs, and Other Parts of the Colony of Victoria: Views of the Principal Public and Commercial Buildings in Melbourne, With a Bird’s Eye View of the City; and History of the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880, etc. Melbourne: Federal Coffee House Company, 1888. Fitzgerald, Ross, and Trevor Jordan. Under the Influence: A History of Alcohol in Australia. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2009. Freeland, John. The Australian Pub. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1977. Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace. International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney, Restaurant and Temperance Hotel. Sydney: Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace, 1879. Mitchell, Ann M. “Munro, James (1832–1908).” Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National U, 2006-12. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/munro-james-4271/text6905›. Murdoch, Sally. “Coffee Palaces.” Encyclopaedia of Melbourne. Eds. Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00371b.htm›. Muskett, Philip E. The Art of Living in Australia. New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 1987. Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. New York: Walker & Company, 2005. Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company Limited. Memorandum of Association of the Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company, Ltd. Sydney: Samuel Edward Lees, 1879. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A Gastronomic History of Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2007. Teffer, Nicola. Coffee Customs. Exhibition Catalogue. Sydney: Customs House, 2005.

IntroductionAccounts of criminals, their victims, and their pursuers have become entrenched within the sphere of popular culture; most obviously in the genres of true crime and crime fiction. The centrality of the pursuer in the form of the detective, within these stories, dates back to the nineteenth century. This, often highly-stylised and regularly humanised protagonist, is now a firm feature of both factual and fictional accounts of crime narratives that, today, regularly focus on the energies of the detective in solving a variety of cases. So familiar is the figure of the detective, it seems that these men and women—amateurs and professionals—have always had an important role to play in the pursuit and punishment of the wrongdoer. Yet, the first detectives were forced to overcome significant resistance from a suspicious public. Some early efforts to reimagine punishment and to laud the detective include articles written by Charles Dickens; pieces on public hangings and policing that reflect the great Victorian novelist’s commitment to shed light on, through written commentaries, a range of important social issues. This article explores some of Dickens’s lesser-known pieces, that—appearing in daily newspapers and in one of his own publications Household Words—helped to change some common perceptions of punishment and policing. Image 1: Harper's Magazine 7 December 1867 (Charles Dickens Reading, by Charles A. Barry). Image credit: United States Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. A Reliance on the Scaffold: Early Law Enforcement in EnglandCrime control in 1720s England was dependent upon an inconsistent, and by extension ineffective, network of constables and night watchmen. It would be almost another three decades before Henry Fielding established the Bow Street Foot Patrol, or Bow Street Runners, in 1749, “six men in blue coats, patrolling the area within six miles of Charing Cross” (Worsley 35). A large-scale, formalised police force was attempted by Pitt the Younger in 1785 with his “Bill for the Further prevention of Crime and for the more Speedy Detection and Punishment of Offenders against the Peace” (Lyman 144). The proposed legislation was withdrawn due to fierce opposition that was underpinned by fears, held by officials, of a divestment of power to a new body of law enforcers (Lyman 144).The type of force offered in 1785 would not be realised until the next century, when the work of Robert Peel saw the passing of the Metropolitan Police Act 1829. The Police Act, which “constituted a revolution in traditional methods of law enforcement” (Lyman 141), was focused on the prevention of crime, “to reassure the lawful and discourage the wrongdoer” (Hitchens 51). Until these changes were implemented violent punishment, through the Waltham Black Act 1723, remained firmly in place (Cruickshanks and Erskine-Hill 359) as part of the state’s arsenal against crime (Pepper 473).The Black Act, legislation often referred to as the ‘Bloody Code’ as it took the number of capital felonies to over 350 (Pepper 473), served in lieu of consistency and cooperation, across the country, in relation to the safekeeping of the citizenry. This situation inevitably led to anxieties about crime and crime control. In 1797 Patrick Colquhoun, a magistrate, published A Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis in which he estimated that, out of a city population of just under 1 million, 115,000 men and women supported themselves “in and near the Metropolis by pursuits either criminal-illegal-or immoral” (Lyman 144). Andrew Pepper highlights tensions between “crime, governance and economics” as well as “rampant petty criminality [… and] widespread political corruption” (474). He also notes a range of critical responses to crime and how, “a particular kind of writing about crime in the 1720s demonstrated, perhaps for the first time, an awareness of, or self-consciousness about, this tension between competing visions of the state and state power” (Pepper 474), a tension that remains visible today in modern works of true crime and crime fiction. In Dickens’s day, crime and its consequences were serious legal, moral, and social issues (as, indeed, they are today). An increase in the crime rate, an aggressive state, the lack of formal policing, the growth of the printing industry, and writers offering diverse opinions—from the sympathetic to the retributive—on crime changed crime writing. The public wanted to know about the criminal who had disturbed society and wanted to engage with opinions on how the criminal should be stopped and punished. The public also wanted to be updated on changes to the judicial system such as the passing of the Judgement of Death Act 1823 which drastically reduced the number of capital crimes (Worsley 122) and how the Gaols Act, also of 1823, “moved tentatively towards national prison reform” (Gattrell 579). Crimes continued to be committed and alongside the wrongdoers were readers that wanted to be diverted from everyday events by, but also had a genuine need to be informed about, crime. A demand for true crime tales demonstrating a broader social need for crimes, even the most minor infractions, to be publicly punished: first on the scaffold and then in print. Some cases were presented as sensationalised true crime tales; others would be fictionalised in short stories and novels. Standing Witness: Dickens at the ScaffoldIt is interesting to note that Dickens witnessed at least four executions in his lifetime (Simpson 126). The first was the hanging of a counterfeiter, more specifically a coiner, which in the 1800s was still a form of high treason. The last person executed for coining in England was in early 1829; as Dickens arrived in London at the end of 1822, aged just 10-years-old (Simpson 126-27) he would have been a boy when he joined the crowds around the scaffold. Many journalists and writers who have documented executions have been “criticised for using this spectacle as a source for generating sensational copy” (Simpson 127). Dickens also wrote about public hangings. His most significant commentaries on the issue being two sets of letters: one set published in The Daily News (1846) and a second set published in The Times (1849) (Brandwood 3). Yet, he was immune from the criticism directed at so many other writers, in large part, due to his reputation as a liberal, “social reformer moved by compassion, but also by an antipathy toward waste, bureaucratic incompetence, and above all toward exploitation and injustice” (Simpson 127). As Anthony Simpson points out, Dickens did not sympathise with the condemned: “He wrote as a realist and not a moralist and his lack of sympathy for the criminal was clear, explicit and stated often” (128). Simpson also notes that Dickens’s letters on execution written in 1846 were “strongly supportive of total abolition” while later letters, written in 1849, presented arguments against public executions rather than the practice of execution. In 1859 Dickens argued against pardoning a poisoner. While in 1864 he supported the execution of the railway carriage murderer Franz Müller, explaining he would be glad to abolish both public executions and capital punishment, “if I knew what to do with the Savages of civilisation. As I do not, I would rid Society of them, when they shed blood, in a very solemn manner” (in Simpson 138-39) that is, executions should proceed but should take place in private.Importantly, Dickens was consistently concerned about society’s fascination with the scaffold. In his second letter to The Daily News, Dickens asks: round what other punishment does the like interest gather? We read of the trials of persons who have rendered themselves liable to transportation for life, and we read of their sentences, and, in some few notorious instances, of their departure from this country, and arrival beyond the sea; but they are never followed into their cells, and tracked from day to day, and night to night; they are never reproduced in their false letters, flippant conversations, theological disquisitions with visitors, lay and clerical […]. They are tried, found guilty, punished; and there an end. (“To the Editors of The Daily News” 6)In this passage, Dickens describes an overt curiosity with those criminals destined for the most awful of punishments. A curiosity that was put on vile display when a mob gathered on the concourse to watch a hanging; a sight which Dickens readily admitted “made [his] blood run cold” (“Letter to the Editor” 4).Dickens’s novels are grand stories, many of which feature criminals and criminal sub-plots. There are, for example, numerous criminals, including the infamous Fagin in Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy’s Progress (1838); several rioters are condemned to hang in Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of Eighty (1841); there is murder in The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit (1844); and murder, too, in Bleak House (1853). Yet, Dickens never wavered in his revulsion for the public display of the execution as revealed in his “refusal to portray the scene at the scaffold [which] was principled and heartfelt. He came, reluctantly to support capital punishment, but he would never use its application for dramatic effect” (Simpson 141).The Police Detective: A Public Relations ExerciseBy the mid-1700s the crime story was one of “sin to crime and then the gallows” (Rawlings online): “Crimes of every defcription (sic) have their origin in the vicious and immoral habits of the people” (Colquhoun 32). As Philip Rawlings notes, “once sin had been embarked upon, capture and punishment followed” (online). The origins of this can be found in the formula relied upon by Samuel Smith in the seventeenth century. Smith was the Ordinary of Newgate, or prison chaplain (1676–1698), who published Accounts of criminals and their gruesome ends. The outputs swelled the ranks of the already burgeoning market of broadsides, handbills and pamphlets. Accounts included: 1) the sermon delivered as the prisoner awaited execution; 2) a brief overview of the crimes for which the prisoner was being punished; and 3) a reporting of the events that surrounded the execution (Gladfelder 52–53), including the prisoner’s behaviour upon the scaffold and any last words spoken. For modern readers, the detective and the investigation is conspicuously absent. These popular Accounts (1676–1772)—over 400 editions offering over 2,500 criminal biographies—were only a few pence a copy. With print runs in the thousands, the Ordinary earnt up to £200 per year for his efforts (Emsley, Hitchcock, and Shoemaker online). For:penitence and profit made comfortable bedfellows, ensuring true crime writing became a firm feature of the business of publishing. That victims and villains suffered was regrettable but no horror was so terrible anyone forgot there was money to be made. (Franks, “Stealing Stories” 7)As the changes brought about by the Industrial Revolution were having their full impact, many were looking for answers, and certainty, in a period of radical social transformation. Sin as a central motif in crime stories was insufficient: the detective was becoming essential (Franks, “True Crime” 239). “In the nineteenth century, the role of the newly-fashioned detective as an agent of consolation or security is both commercially and ideologically central to the subsequent project of popular crime writing” (Bell 8). This was supported by an “increasing professionalism and proficiency of policemen, detectives, and prosecutors, new understandings about psychology, and advances in forensic science and detection techniques” (Murley 10). Elements now included in most crime narratives. Dickens insisted that the detective was a crucial component of the justice system—a figure to be celebrated, one to take centre stage in the crime story—reflecting his staunch support “of the London Metropolitan Police” (Simpson 140). Indeed, while Dickens is known principally for exposing wretched poverty, he was also interested in a range of legal issues as can be evinced from his writings for Household Words. Image 2: Household Words 27 July 1850 (Front Page). Image credit: Dickens Journals Online. W.H. Wills argued for the acceptance of the superiority of the detective when, in 1850, he outlined the “difference between a regular and a detective policeman” (368). The detective must, he wrote: “counteract every sort of rascal whose only means of existence it avowed rascality, but to clear up mysteries, the investigation of which demands the utmost delicacy and tact” (368). The detective is also extraordinarily efficient; cases are solved quickly, in one example a matter is settled in just “ten minutes” (369).Dickens’s pro-police pieces, included a blatantly promotional, two-part work “A Detective Police Party” (1850). The narrative begins with open criticism of the Bow Street Runners contrasting these “men of very indifferent character” to the Detective Force which is “so well chosen and trained, proceeds so systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workman-like manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of the public” (“Police Party, Part I” 409). The “party” is just that: a gathering of detectives and editorial staff. Men in a “magnificent chamber”, seated at “a round table […] with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in between that stately piece of furniture and the wall” (“Police Party, Part I” 409). Two inspectors and five sergeants are present. Each man prepared to share some of their experiences in the service of Londoners:they are, [Dickens tells us] one and all, respectable-looking men; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging or slinking in their manners; with an air of keen observation, and quick perception when addressed; and generally presenting in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. (“Police Party, Part I” 410) Dickens goes to great lengths to reinforce the superiority of the police detective. These men, “in a glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate sketch of the editorial presence” and speak “very concisely, and in well-chosen language” and who present as an “amicable brotherhood” (“Police Party, Part I” 410). They are also adaptable and constantly working to refine their craft, through apeculiar ability, always sharpening and being improved by practice, and always adapting itself to every variety of circumstances, and opposing itself to every new device that perverted ingenuity can invent, for which this important social branch of the public service is remarkable! (“Police Party, Part II” 459)These detectives are also, in some ways, familiar. Dickens’s offerings include: a “shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman – in appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained schoolmaster”; a man “with a ruddy face and a high sun-burnt forehead, [who] has the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army” (“Police Party, Part I” 409-10); and another man who slips easily into the role of the “greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured, chuckle-headed, un-suspicious, and confiding young butcher” (“Police Party, Part II” 457). These descriptions are more than just attempts to flesh out a story; words on a page reminding us that the author is not just another journalist but one of the great voices of the Victorian era. These profiles are, it is argued here, a deliberate strategy to reassure readers.In summary, police detectives are only to be feared by those residing on the wrong side of the law. For those without criminal intent; detectives are, in some ways, like us. They are people we already know and trust. The stern but well-meaning, intelligent school teacher; the brave and loyal soldier defending the Empire; and the local merchant, a person we see every day. Dickens provides, too, concrete examples for how everyone can contribute to a safer society by assisting these detectives. This, is perfect public relations. Thus, almost singlehandedly, he builds a professional profile for a new type of police officer. The problem (crime) and its solution (the detective) neatly packaged, with step-by-step instructions for citizens to openly support this new-style of constabulary and so achieve a better, less crime-ridden community. This is a theme pursued in “Three Detective Anecdotes” (1850) where Dickens continued to successfully merge “solid lower-middle-class respectability with an intimate knowledge of the criminal world” (Priestman 177); so, proffering the ideal police detective. A threat to the criminal but not to the hard-working and honest men, women, and children of the city.The Detective: As Fact and as FictionThese writings are also a precursor to one of the greatest fictional detectives of the English-speaking world. Dickens observes that, for these new-style police detectives: “Nothing is so common or deceptive as such appearances at first” (“Police Party, Part I” 410). In 1891, Arthur Conan Doyle would write that: “There is nothing so deceptive as an obvious fact” (78). Dickens had prepared readers for the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes: who was smarter, more observant and who had more determination to take on criminals than the average person. The readers of Dickens were, in many respects, positioned as prototypes of Dr John Watson: a hardworking, loyal Englishman. Smart. But not as smart as those who would seek to do harm. Watson needed Holmes to make the world a better place; the subscriber to Household Words needed the police detective.Another article, “On Duty with Inspector Field” (1851), profiled the “well-known hand” responsible for bringing numerous offenders to justice and sending them, “inexorably, to New South Wales” (Dickens 266). Critically this true crime narrative would be converted into a crime fiction story as Inspector Field is transformed (it is widely believed) into the imagined Inspector Bucket. The 1860s have been identified as “a period of awakening for the detective novel” (Ashley x), a predictor of which is the significant sub-plot of murder in Dickens’s Bleak House. In this novel, a murder is committed with the case taken on, and competently solved by, Bucket who is a man of “skill and integrity” a man presented as an “ideal servant” though one working for a “flawed legal system” (Walton 458). Mr Snagsby, of Bleak House, observes Bucket as a man whoseems in some indefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply at the very last moment [… He] notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger, or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt. (278) This passage, it is argued here, places Bucket alongside the men at the detective police party in Household Words. He is simultaneously superhuman in mind and manner, though rather ordinary in dress. Like the real-life detectives of Dickens’s articles; he is a man committed to keeping the city safe while posing no threat to law-abiding citizens. ConclusionThis article has explored, briefly, the contributions of the highly-regarded Victorian author, Charles Dickens, to factual and fictional crime writing. The story of Dickens as a social commentator is one that is familiar to many; what is less well-known is the connection of Dickens to important conversations around capital punishment and the rise of the detective in crime-focused narratives; particularly how he assisted in building the professional profile of the police detective. In this way, through fact and fiction, Dickens performed great (if under-acknowledged) public services around punishment and law enforcement: he contributed to debates on the death penalty and he helped to build trust in the radical social project that established modern-day policing.AcknowledgementsThe author offers her sincere thanks to the New South Wales Dickens Society, Simon Dwyer, and Peter Kirkpatrick. 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Introduction: Technology EnthusiasmEnthusiasts are people who have a passion, keenness, dedication or zeal for a particular activity or hobby. Today, there are enthusiasts for almost everything, from genealogy, costume dramas, and country houses, to metal detectors, coin collecting, and archaeology. But to be described as an enthusiast is not necessarily a compliment. Historically, the term “enthusiasm” was first used in England in the early seventeenth century to describe “religious or prophetic frenzy among the ancient Greeks” (Hanks, n.p.). This frenzy was ascribed to being possessed by spirits sent not only by God but also the devil. During this period, those who disobeyed the powers that be or claimed to have a message from God were considered to be enthusiasts (McLoughlin).Enthusiasm retained its religious connotations throughout the eighteenth century and was also used at this time to describe “the tendency within the population to be swept by crazes” (Mee 31). However, as part of the “rehabilitation of enthusiasm,” the emerging middle-classes adopted the word to characterise the intensity of Romantic poetry. The language of enthusiasm was then used to describe the “literary ideas of affect” and “a private feeling of religious warmth” (Mee 2 and 34). While the notion of enthusiasm was embraced here in a more optimistic sense, attempts to disassociate enthusiasm from crowd-inciting fanaticism were largely unsuccessful. As such enthusiasm has never quite managed to shake off its pejorative connotations.The 'enthusiasm' discussed in this paper is essentially a personal passion for technology. It forms part of a longer tradition of historical preservation in the United Kingdom and elsewhere in the world. From preserved railways to Victorian pumping stations, people have long been fascinated by the history of technology and engineering; manifesting their enthusiasm through their nostalgic longings and emotional attachment to its enduring material culture. Moreover, enthusiasts have been central to the collection, conservation, and preservation of this particular material record. Technology enthusiasm in this instance is about having a passion for the history and material record of technological development, specifically here industrial archaeology. Despite being a pastime much participated in, technology enthusiasm is relatively under-explored within the academic literature. For the most part, scholarship has tended to focus on the intended users, formal spaces, and official narratives of science and technology (Adas, Latour, Mellström, Oldenziel). In recent years attempts have been made to remedy this imbalance, with researchers from across the social sciences examining the position of hobbyists, tinkerers and amateurs in scientific and technical culture (Ellis and Waterton, Haring, Saarikoski, Takahashi). Work from historians of technology has focussed on the computer enthusiast; for example, Saarikoski’s work on the Finnish personal computer hobby:The definition of the computer enthusiast varies historically. Personal interest, pleasure and entertainment are the most significant factors defining computing as a hobby. Despite this, the hobby may also lead to acquiring useful knowledge, skills or experience of information technology. Most often the activity takes place outside working hours but can still have links to the development of professional expertise or the pursuit of studies. In many cases it takes place in the home environment. On the other hand, it is characteristically social, and the importance of friends, clubs and other communities is greatly emphasised.In common with a number of other studies relating to technical hobbies, for example Takahashi who argues tinkerers were behind the advent of the radio and television receiver, Saarikoski’s work focuses on the role these users played in shaping the technology in question. The enthusiasts encountered in this paper are important here not for their role in shaping the technology, but keeping technological heritage alive. As historian of technology Haring reminds us, “there exist alternative ways of using and relating to technology” (18). Furthermore, the sociological literature on audiences (Abercrombie and Longhurst, Ang), fans (Hills, Jenkins, Lewis, Sandvoss) and subcultures (Hall, Hebdige, Schouten and McAlexander) has also been extended in order to account for the enthusiast. In Abercrombie and Longhurst’s Audiences, the authors locate ‘the enthusiast’ and ‘the fan’ at opposing ends of a continuum of consumption defined by questions of specialisation of interest, social organisation of interest and material productivity. Fans are described as:skilled or competent in different modes of production and consumption; active in their interactions with texts and in their production of new texts; and communal in that they construct different communities based on their links to the programmes they like. (127 emphasis in original) Based on this definition, Abercrombie and Longhurst argue that fans and enthusiasts differ in three ways: (1) enthusiasts’ activities are not based around media images and stars in the way that fans’ activities are; (2) enthusiasts can be hypothesized to be relatively light media users, particularly perhaps broadcast media, though they may be heavy users of the specialist publications which are directed towards the enthusiasm itself; (3) the enthusiasm would appear to be rather more organised than the fan activity. (132) What is striking about this attempt to differentiate between the fan and the enthusiast is that it is based on supposition rather than the actual experience and observation of enthusiasm. It is here that the ethnographic account of enthusiasm presented in this paper and elsewhere, for example works by Dannefer on vintage car culture, Moorhouse on American hot-rodding and Fuller on modified-car culture in Australia, can shed light on the subject. My own ethnographic study of groups with a passion for telecommunications heritage, early British computers and industrial archaeology takes the discussion of “technology enthusiasm” further still. Through in-depth interviews, observation and textual analysis, I have examined in detail the formation of enthusiast societies and their membership, the importance of the material record to enthusiasts (particularly at home) and the enthusiastic practices of collecting and hoarding, as well as the figure of the technology enthusiast in the public space of the museum, namely the Science Museum in London (Geoghegan). In this paper, I explore the culture of enthusiasm for the industrial past through the example of the Greater London Industrial Archaeology Society (GLIAS). Focusing on industrial sites around London, GLIAS meet five or six times a year for field visits, walks and a treasure hunt. The committee maintain a website and produce a quarterly newsletter. The title of my paper, “If you can walk down the street and recognise the difference between cast iron and wrought iron, the world is altogether a better place,” comes from an interview I conducted with the co-founder and present chairman of GLIAS. He was telling me about his fascination with the materials of industrialisation. In fact, he said even concrete is sexy. Some call it a hobby; others call it a disease. But enthusiasm for industrial archaeology is, as several respondents have themselves identified, “as insidious in its side effects as any debilitating germ. It dictates your lifestyle, organises your activity and decides who your friends are” (Frow and Frow 177, Gillespie et al.). Through the figure of the industrial archaeology enthusiast, I discuss in this paper what it means to be enthusiastic. I begin by reflecting on the development of this specialist subject area. I go on to detail the formation of the Society in the late 1960s, before exploring the Society’s fieldwork methods and some of the other activities they now engage in. I raise questions of enthusiast and professional knowledge and practice, as well as consider the future of this particular enthusiasm.Defining Industrial ArchaeologyThe practice of 'industrial archaeology' is much contested. For a long time, enthusiasts and professional archaeologists have debated the meaning and use of the term (Palmer). On the one hand, there are those interested in the history, preservation, and recording of industrial sites. For example the grandfather figures of the subject, namely Kenneth Hudson and Angus Buchanan, who both published widely in the 1960s and 1970s in order to encourage publics to get involved in recording. Many members of GLIAS refer to the books of Hudson Industrial Archaeology: an Introduction and Buchanan Industrial Archaeology in Britain with their fine descriptions and photographs as integral to their early interest in the subject. On the other hand, there are those within the academic discipline of archaeology who consider the study of remains produced by the Industrial Revolution as too modern. Moreover, they find the activities of those calling themselves industrial archaeologists as lacking sufficient attention to the understanding of past human activity to justify the name. As a result, the definition of 'industrial archaeology' is problematic for both enthusiasts and professionals. Even the early advocates of professional industrial archaeology felt uneasy about the subject’s methods and practices. In 1973, Philip Riden (described by one GLIAS member as the angry young man of industrial archaeology), the then president of the Oxford University Archaeology Society, wrote a damning article in Antiquity, calling for the subject to “shed the amateur train drivers and others who are not part of archaeology” (215-216). He decried the “appallingly low standard of some of the work done under the name of ‘industrial archaeology’” (211). He felt that if enthusiasts did not attempt to maintain high technical standards, publish their work in journals or back up their fieldwork with documentary investigation or join their county archaeological societies then there was no value in the efforts of these amateurs. During this period, enthusiasts, academics, and professionals were divided. What was wrong with doing something for the pleasure it provides the participant?Although relations today between the so-called amateur (enthusiast) and professional archaeologies are less potent, some prejudice remains. Describing them as “barrow boys”, some enthusiasts suggest that what was once their much-loved pastime has been “hijacked” by professional archaeologists who, according to one respondent,are desperate to find subjects to get degrees in. So the whole thing has been hijacked by academia as it were. Traditional professional archaeologists in London at least are running head on into things that we have been doing for decades and they still don’t appreciate that this is what we do. A lot of assessments are handed out to professional archaeology teams who don’t necessarily have any knowledge of industrial archaeology. (James, GLIAS committee member)James went on to reveal that GLIAS receives numerous enquiries from professional archaeologists, developers and town planners asking what they know about particular sites across the city. Although the Society has compiled a detailed database covering some areas of London, it is by no means comprehensive. In addition, many active members often record and monitor sites in London for their own personal enjoyment. This leaves many questioning the need to publish their results for the gain of third parties. Canadian sociologist Stebbins discusses this situation in his research on “serious leisure”. He has worked extensively with amateur archaeologists in order to understand their approach to their leisure activity. He argues that amateurs are “neither dabblers who approach the activity with little commitment or seriousness, nor professionals who make a living from that activity” (55). Rather they pursue their chosen leisure activity to professional standards. A point echoed by Fine in his study of the cultures of mushrooming. But this is to get ahead of myself. How did GLIAS begin?GLIAS: The GroupThe 1960s have been described by respondents as a frantic period of “running around like headless chickens.” Enthusiasts of London’s industrial archaeology were witnessing incredible changes to the city’s industrial landscape. Individuals and groups like the Thames Basin Archaeology Observers Group were recording what they could. Dashing around London taking photos to capture London’s industrial legacy before it was lost forever. However the final straw for many, in London at least, was the proposed and subsequent demolition of the “Euston Arch”. The Doric portico at Euston Station was completed in 1838 and stood as a symbol to the glory of railway travel. Despite strong protests from amenity societies, this Victorian symbol of progress was finally pulled down by British Railways in 1962 in order to make way for what enthusiasts have called a “monstrous concrete box”.In response to these changes, GLIAS was founded in 1968 by two engineers and a locomotive driver over afternoon tea in a suburban living room in Woodford, North-East London. They held their first meeting one Sunday afternoon in December at the Science Museum in London and attracted over 130 people. Firing the imagination of potential members with an exhibition of photographs of the industrial landscape taken by Eric de Maré, GLIAS’s first meeting was a success. Bringing together like-minded people who are motivated and enthusiastic about the subject, GLIAS currently has over 600 members in the London area and beyond. This makes it the largest industrial archaeology society in the UK and perhaps Europe. Drawing some of its membership from a series of evening classes hosted by various members of the Society’s committee, GLIAS initially had a quasi-academic approach. Although some preferred the hands-on practical element and were more, as has been described by one respondent, “your free-range enthusiast”. The society has an active committee, produces a newsletter and journal, as well as runs regular events for members. However the Society is not simply about the study of London’s industrial heritage, over time the interest in industrial archaeology has developed for some members into long-term friendships. Sociability is central to organised leisure activities. It underpins and supports the performance of enthusiasm in groups and societies. For Fine, sociability does not always equal friendship, but it is the state from which people might become friends. Some GLIAS members have taken this one step further: there have even been a couple of marriages. Although not the subject of my paper, technical culture is heavily gendered. Industrial archaeology is a rare exception attracting a mixture of male and female participants, usually retired husband and wife teams.Doing Industrial Archaeology: GLIAS’s Method and PracticeIn what has been described as GLIAS’s heyday, namely the 1970s to early 1980s, fieldwork was fundamental to the Society’s activities. The Society’s approach to fieldwork during this period was much the same as the one described by champion of industrial archaeology Arthur Raistrick in 1973:photographing, measuring, describing, and so far as possible documenting buildings, engines, machinery, lines of communication, still or recently in use, providing a satisfactory record for the future before the object may become obsolete or be demolished. (13)In the early years of GLIAS and thanks to the committed efforts of two active Society members, recording parties were organised for extended lunch hours and weekends. The majority of this early fieldwork took place at the St Katherine Docks. The Docks were constructed in the 1820s by Thomas Telford. They became home to the world’s greatest concentration of portable wealth. Here GLIAS members learnt and employed practical (also professional) skills, such as measuring, triangulations and use of a “dumpy level”. For many members this was an incredibly exciting time. It was a chance to gain hands-on experience of industrial archaeology. Having been left derelict for many years, the Docks have since been redeveloped as part of the Docklands regeneration project.At this time the Society was also compiling data for what has become known to members as “The GLIAS Book”. The book was to have separate chapters on the various industrial histories of London with contributions from Society members about specific sites. Sadly the book’s editor died and the project lost impetus. Several years ago, the committee managed to digitise the data collected for the book and began to compile a database. However, the GLIAS database has been beset by problems. Firstly, there are often questions of consistency and coherence. There is a standard datasheet for recording industrial buildings – the Index Record for Industrial Sites. However, the quality of each record is different because of the experience level of the different authors. Some authors are automatically identified as good or expert record keepers. Secondly, getting access to the database in order to upload the information has proved difficult. As one of the respondents put it: “like all computer babies [the creator of the database], is finding it hard to give birth” (Sally, GLIAS member). As we have learnt enthusiasm is integral to movements such as industrial archaeology – public historian Raphael Samuel described them as the “invisible hands” of historical enquiry. Yet, it is this very enthusiasm that has the potential to jeopardise projects such as the GLIAS book. Although active in their recording practices, the GLIAS book saga reflects one of the challenges encountered by enthusiast groups and societies. In common with other researchers studying amenity societies, such as Ellis and Waterton’s work with amateur naturalists, unlike the world of work where people are paid to complete a task and are therefore meant to have a singular sense of purpose, the activities of an enthusiast group like GLIAS rely on the goodwill of their members to volunteer their time, energy and expertise. When this is lost for whatever reason, there is no requirement for any other member to take up that position. As such, levels of commitment vary between enthusiasts and can lead to the aforementioned difficulties, such as disputes between group members, the occasional miscommunication of ideas and an over-enthusiasm for some parts of the task in hand. On top of this, GLIAS and societies like it are confronted with changing health and safety policies and tightened security surrounding industrial sites. This has made the practical side of industrial archaeology increasingly difficult. As GLIAS member Bob explains:For me to go on site now I have to wear site boots and borrow a hard hat and a high visibility jacket. Now we used to do incredibly dangerous things in the seventies and nobody batted an eyelid. You know we were exploring derelict buildings, which you are virtually not allowed in now because the floor might give way. Again the world has changed a lot there. GLIAS: TodayGLIAS members continue to record sites across London. Some members are currently surveying the site chosen as the location of the Olympic Games in London in 2012 – the Lower Lea Valley. They describe their activities at this site as “rescue archaeology”. GLIAS members are working against the clock and some important structures have already been demolished. They only have time to complete a quick flash survey. Armed with the information they collated in previous years, GLIAS is currently in discussions with the developer to orchestrate a detailed recording of the site. It is important to note here that GLIAS members are less interested in campaigning for the preservation of a site or building, they appreciate that sites must change. Instead they want to ensure that large swathes of industrial London are not lost without a trace. Some members regard this as their public duty.Restricted by health and safety mandates and access disputes, GLIAS has had to adapt. The majority of practical recording sessions have given way to guided walks in the summer and public lectures in the winter. Some respondents have identified a difference between those members who call themselves “industrial archaeologists” and those who are just “ordinary members” of GLIAS. The walks are for those with a general interest, not serious members, and the talks are public lectures. Some audience researchers have used Bourdieu’s metaphor of “capital” to describe the experience, knowledge and skill required to be a fan, clubber or enthusiast. For Hills, fan status is built up through the demonstration of cultural capital: “where fans share a common interest while also competing over fan knowledge, access to the object of fandom, and status” (46). A clear membership hierarchy can be seen within GLIAS based on levels of experience, knowledge and practical skill.With a membership of over 600 and rising annually, the Society’s future is secure at present. However some of the more serious members, although retaining their membership, are pursuing their enthusiasm elsewhere: through break-away recording groups in London; active membership of other groups and societies, for example the national Association for Industrial Archaeology; as well as heading off to North Wales in the summer for practical, hands-on industrial archaeology in Snowdonia’s slate quarries – described in the Ffestiniog Railway Journal as the “annual convention of slate nutters.” ConclusionsGLIAS has changed since its foundation in the late 1960s. Its operation has been complicated by questions of health and safety, site access, an ageing membership, and the constant changes to London’s industrial archaeology. Previously rejected by professional industrial archaeology as “limited in skill and resources” (Riden), enthusiasts are now approached by professional archaeologists, developers, planners and even museums that are interested in engaging in knowledge exchange programmes. As a recent report from the British think-tank Demos has argued, enthusiasts or pro-ams – “amateurs who work to professional standards” (Leadbeater and Miller 12) – are integral to future innovation and creativity; for example computer pro-ams developed an operating system to rival Microsoft Windows. As such the specialist knowledge, skill and practice of these communities is of increasing interest to policymakers, practitioners, and business. So, the subject once described as “the ugly offspring of two parents that shouldn’t have been allowed to breed” (Hudson), the so-called “amateur” industrial archaeology offers enthusiasts and professionals alike alternative ways of knowing, seeing and being in the recent and contemporary past.Through the case study of GLIAS, I have described what it means to be enthusiastic about industrial archaeology. I have introduced a culture of collective and individual participation and friendship based on a mutual interest in and emotional attachment to industrial sites. As we have learnt in this paper, enthusiasm is about fun, pleasure and joy. The enthusiastic culture presented here advances themes such as passion in relation to less obvious communities of knowing, skilled practices, material artefacts and spaces of knowledge. Moreover, this paper has been about the affective narratives that are sometimes missing from academic accounts; overlooked for fear of sniggers at the back of a conference hall. Laughter and humour are a large part of what enthusiasm is. Enthusiastic cultures then are about the pleasure and joy experienced in doing things. Enthusiasm is clearly a potent force for active participation. I will leave the last word to GLIAS member John:One meaning of enthusiasm is as a form of possession, madness. Obsession perhaps rather than possession, which I think is entirely true. It is a pejorative term probably. The railway enthusiast. But an awful lot of energy goes into what they do and achieve. Enthusiasm to my mind is an essential ingredient. If you are not a person who can muster enthusiasm, it is very difficult, I think, to get anything out of it. On the basis of the more you put in the more you get out. 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