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Volume 3, Number 2 December 2013 1
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Table of Contents
Editors-in-chief
Contributors’ Details
Page 3
Editors’ Note
Page 5
Arthur der Weduwen Andrew Eckert
Editorial Board
Society Talks and History Seminars Page 6 Post-War Italy: Radical Republic to Disciplined Democracy
Page 7
Forgotten Voyagers? PreColumbian Trans-Pacific Contact
Page 14
The Wolfenden Report and Attitudes to Homosexuality
Page 19
The Divergence of The Maritime Powers, 1713-1748
Page 23
A Reappraisal of Arthur Sullivan’s Musical Legacy
Page 34
The Mesolithic: An Archaeological Study
Page 38
Nicholas II and George V’s Refusal of Asylum
Page 44
African American History Module Review
William Tonks Emily Vine Rebecca Chircop Michael Doyle
Contributors (order of appearance) Robert Miller Thomas Davies Conor Byrne Arthur der Weduwen Michael Doyle Alex Hitter Gonzalo Linares Matás Jonathan Barter Carolin Wefer
Cover Page 49 William Tonks Arthur der Weduwen
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Contributors’ Information Degrees, Interests, and Contact Jonathan Barter is a Second-Year History and Politics student with a particular interest in the modern British and European monarchies and modern political history. As part of the second year's 'Doing History' module, he is carrying out a study into the political consequences of King Edward VII in the early twentieth century. He intends to extend this project further for a dissertation, in order to assess the changing political influence of the British monarchy over the past two centuries. Email: jb535@exeter.ac.uk. Conor Byrne is a Second-Year BA History student. He has previously written for The Historian on topics as Anne Boleyn, Katherine Howard, the fate of Edward II, and medieval queens and witchcraft. His main interests are Early Modern and Medieval history, in particular gender, cultural, and social history. Email: cb497@exeter.ac.uk. Thomas Davies is a First-Year BA History student; this is his first time contributing to The Historian. His interests include clashes between cultures, the military and political aspects of world empires, and tribal cultures. Email: td289@exeter.ac.uk. Michael Doyle is a Second-Year BA History and International Relations student. He has been editorial board member of The Historian since June 2013. He has previously written for The Historian on topics such as the relevance of history as a discipline, the decline of serfdom, the progressive reform under Labour in the 1960s, and the Levellers of the 1640s. His primary research interest is the Early Modern period, encompassing socio-economic and diplomatic history. His Doing History project this term focuses primarily on US-British relations from 1800-1812. Email: md377@exeter.ac.uk. Alex Hitter is a Third-Year BA History student at the University of Exeter Cornwall Campus. His interests include classical history, landscape history, and histories of place and identity. Email: ah414@exeter.ac.uk. Gonzalo Linares Matås is a First-Year BA Archaeology student. His research interests include a broad range of topics: the processes of socio-cultural change in Prehistory, such as the extinction of Neanderthals and the arrival of modern humans, and the Mesolithic period, along with acculturation dynamics, such as the Romanisation of Iron Age societies, and the relationship of Islam and Christianity in the Iberian Peninsula, amongst others. In the future, he would also like to explore the differences and similarities of colonisation and decolonisation processes between the far and recent past from a global perspective. Email: gjl205@exeter.ac.uk. Robert Miller is a Second-Year BA History and Politics student at the University of Exeter Cornwall Campus. His research interests are very broad, but his primary interests revolve around agrarian social relations, particularly relations of production and the relationship between ownership rights and use rights, and he is currently fascinated by the history of enclosure and engrossment in England and by 3
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struggles over agrarian reform across the world. His interdisciplinary project focuses primarily on parliamentary enclosure in England. Email: rm425@exeter.ac.uk. Arthur der Weduwen is a Third-Year student from Amsterdam reading a BA History and International Relations. He has been editor of The Historian since March 2012. He has previously written for The Historian on various Early Modern topics such as the Glorious Revolution, the decline of serfdom, British foreign policy, and the USTC project. His research has thus far focused on various aspects of Early Modern European history, but he also has great interests in broad historical trends and the connections between History and IR. He is writing a dissertation on the portrayal of the United Provinces in diplomatic and popular spheres during the later 1730s. Email: ad383@exeter.ac.uk. Carolin Wefer is a Third-Year BA History and International Relations student. She has previously written for The Historian on United States land redistribution following the Civil War. Her historical interests include the history of the modern world, the World Wars, and especially the German perspective. She is currently taking a module on Strategic Bombing, in which she focuses particularly on the German historical narrative. She is writing her dissertation on US Foreign Policy towards the fall of the Berlin Wall. Email: cw406@exeter.ac.uk.
If you are interested in contributing to The Historian then please contact the editors at ad383 and ate202 – we look forward to hearing from you! 4
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Editors’ Note Arthur der Weduwen & Andrew Eckert Dear Reader, We are pleased to welcome you to the second issue of the third volume of The Historian, the University of Exeter’s History Society Journal. The variety of subjects and topics contained in this edition is a tribute to the diversity and interests of Exeter’s student body. We are delighted to open this journal with an article from Robert Miller, a history student at the Exeter campus in Cornwall, on the allied disbandment of anti-fascist partisans in Italy after the Second World War. Then, Thomas Davies offers an analysis of the various viewpoints regarding the possibilities of Pre-Columbian Trans-Pacific Polynesian contact, followed by Conor Byrne’s discussion on the Wolfenden Report and attitudes to homosexuality in 1950s Britain. Next, Arthur der Weduwen and Michael Doyle present a comparative collaboration on the socioeconomic constitutions of the United Kingdom and the United Provinces in the early eighteenthcentury, raising a new perspective on the divergence of the two allies. Then, Alex Hitter, also of the Cornwall Campus, offers a re-appraisal of Arthur Sullivan’s musical legacy, focusing on the imperial and nationalistic context of his work. Next, Gonzalo Linares Matás gives a comprehensive take on some of the key archaeological similarities and differences within Mesolithic North-Western European culture, followed by Jonathan Barter’s discussion of Nicholas II and the reasons for his failure to gain asylum in the United Kingdom after the Russian Revolution. Lastly, Carolin Wefer presents an insightful module review of the Second-Year African American History option module, run in term two at Streatham Campus. Furthermore, we would like to thank our contributors and our editorial board for their work and continued dedication throughout what has been a very busy term for everyone. Hopefully you will enjoy this edition, and perhaps it might even inspire you to write an article, essay, or module review for the next issue of The Historian. We also welcome any response articles to any of our previous content. The deadline for the third edition of the year is the 24th of February, so get in touch with us at ad383@exeter.ac.uk or ate202@exeter.ac.uk if you would like to contribute! Finally, we thank you for your continued interest. Have a historic Christmas, Arthur der Weduwen & Andrew Eckert Editors of The Historian, 2013-2014
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History Society Talks Confirmed History Society Talks: 11 March: Clive Bloom, Professor Emeritus at Middlesex University and researcher on Street Protests and Riots in Britain, will hold a talk (time and venue to be confirmed). 27 March: Mark Connelly, of the University of Kent, will be giving a lecture regarding the centenary celebrations for WWI and their importance and impact today (time and venue to be confirmed). Watch out for more information regarding talks and academic events organised by the History Society to be distributed at socials and online on Facebook and Twitter. More events are to be announced shortly.
Upcoming Seminars Upcoming History seminars include: ‘Bodies of Evidence: Robert Hooke and the Construction of the Scientific Self’ Dr Felicity Henderson (Exeter) 4:00pm - 6:00pm, Wednesday 11 December Queen's Building Room MR3 Centre for Early Modern Studies
‘The Naval History of the Second World War’ Professor Derek Law (Strathclyde); Professor Eric Grove (Liverpool Hope University); Robin Brodhurst (Navy Records Society); Captain Peter Hore (Naval Obituarist) 2:30pm - 5:00pm, Wednesday 11 December Streatham Court Room 0.28 Centre for Maritime Historical Studies
These seminars are free to attend for staff, postgraduates, and undergraduates.
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From Radical Republic to Disciplined Democracy The Allied Repression of the Italian Anti-Fascist Resistance, 1944-51 By Robert Miller ‘History says, don't hope on this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime, the longed for tidal wave of justice can rise up, and hope and history rhyme.’ - Seamus Heaney World War II is often seen as a war of democracy against fascism, in which the Allies fought to rid the world of tyranny and make it safe for people to participate in politics. This narrative, however, sits uneasily with the actions of the Allied powers after the war. The opposition of the Soviet Union to democracy in Eastern Europe is well known, but it is often forgotten that the United States overthrew democracies and supported military dictatorships, such as those of General Suharto and Carlos Castillo Armas, that were fascist in all but name.1 Even in the aftermath of liberation, support for democracy was tentative at best, as resistance movements that had fought fascism in the belly of the beast, from Italy and Greece to Korea and the Philippines, were consumed and repressed by the victorious Allies. These movements had begun to create new social orders in which democratic control could be exercised in fields and factories as well as in government, and the Allies were forced to collaborate with former fascists to fend off the danger of economic democracy.2
This article will discuss what happened when the United States and Britain discovered that the Italian anti-fascist resistance was creating a radically new society in the aftermath of war. By the time Allied forces arrived in occupied Northern Italy in April 1945, the Germans had lost control of much of the country. Through a combination of strikes, insurrections and guerrilla warfare the antifascist resistance had already liberated every major city, as well as large areas of the countryside, and had begun to establish democratic institutions.3 The partisans of the resistance fought not just to destroy fascism and defeat the German invaders, but also to create a new social order in Italy. Approximately 85% of the 300,000 partisans were members of the Action, Communist or Socialist parties, which all advocated farreaching land and economic reforms and some form of democratic republic.4 In a January 1944 motion, the Committee of National Liberation for Northern Italy (Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale Alta Italia or CLNAI) affirmed that ‘Our political, economic and social system can only be one of definite and
1
See, for example, David F. Schmitz, Thank God They're on Our Side: The United States and Right-Wing Dictatorships; 1921-1965 (North Carolina, 1999); Stephen Kinzer, Overthrow: America's Century of Regime Change from Hawaii to Iraq (New York, 2007); William Blum, Killing Hope: US Military & CIA Interventions Since World War 2 (London, 2004). 2 The closest study to providing a unified narrative of this phenomenon is Gabriel Kolko, The Politics of War: The World and United States Foreign Policy; 1943-1945 (New York, 1990 [1968]) and Joyce and Gabriel Kolko, The Limits of Power: The World and United States Foreign Policy; 1945-1954 (New York, 1972).
3
Peter Thompkins, The OSS and Italian Partisans in World War II: Intelligence and Operational Support for the Anti-Nazi Resistance (https://www.cia.gov/library/center-for-the-study-ofintelligence/csi-publications/csistudies/studies/spring98/OSS.html, accessed 27/06/2013); Tom Behan, The Italian Resistance: Fascists, Guerrillas and the Allies (New York, 2009), pp. 22-25, 32-39, 85-92, 96-105, 175-189. 4 Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 3, 44-60.
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effective democracy, and today the CLN is a harbinger. In tomorrow’s government the weight of workers, peasants and artisans – all popular classes – will be decisive.”5
extended across northern Italy. In the republic of Battocchio a generalised expropriation of all latifondi was decided at a general meeting, while land occupations were common in the countryside. Land reform in the republics kept the peasants on the side of the partisans.9 At least 500 factories were occupied and run by their workers through workers’ councils and factory committees, and nascent democratic governments were set up in the aftermath of liberation in all major cities.10 When the Allies arrived in northern Italy they found the industrial plants in good working order and activist optimism pervading the region as a new government took its first steps.11 The Allied war effort in Italy was initially headed by Britain but coordination began to shift to the US as the war progressed.12 Both powers needed the resistance during the war, but were hostile to the transformations that it fostered in liberated areas. After much vacillating between different policies, the Allies agreed to work with the partisans but to restrain their growth and regulate their behaviour.13 The US Secretary of
Partisans of the 36th Garibaldi Brigade, operating in the hills surrounding Bologna
The internal organisation of the resistance reflected its democratic and egalitarian values. Partisan brigades elected their own commanders, who were subject to potential recall by ordinary members, and the official policy of the CLNAI was that ‘every local committee should tend to become a local centre for drive and independent initiative.’6 Liberated areas were transformed as more than fifteen republics were established across rural Italy during the war.7 In the Montefiorino Republic mass meetings were held in squares, where anyone could participate and vote on decisions such as the establishment of a new tax system, financial help for the disadvantaged, and the prices of essential goods.8 Economic transformations followed political ones as democratic control was
9
Paul Ginsborg, ‘The Communist Party and the Agrarian Question in Southern Italy, 1943-1948’, History Workshop No. 17 (Spring 1984), 81-101, pp. 89 ff. Latifondi were the large feudal estates, monopolised by a single landowner, which dominated the countryside, particularly in the South. 10 Kolko and Kolko, Limits of Power, p. 149; Basil Davidson, Special Operations Europe: Scenes from the Anti-Nazi War (London, 1980), p. 172, 176; Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 96, 100, 105. 11 Federico Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, 1944-1951, Translated by Harvey Fergusson II (North Carolina, 1992), p. 52; Sir N. Charles to Mr Churchill, ‘Activities of the CLN’, Telegram No. 232, 13th June 1945, Foreign Office (FO) 371/49771, Political Situation in Italy, 1st January 1945 to 31st December 1945. 12 Kolko, The Politics of War, chap. 3, 12, 17. 13 See, for example, Diana Butler, Allied Forces and the Italian Resistance, 1943-1945, Cabinet Office (CAB) 101/227, 1st January 1973 – 31st December 1978; Political Committee (Allied Force Headquarters), ‘Status of Italian Partisans: Note by assistant Chief of Staff’, PC (44) 135, 13th November 1944, War Office (WO)
5
Cited in Ibid. p. 53. Cited in Alastair Davidson, Communists and the Italian Resistance, in Alastair Davidson and Steve Wright, eds., “Never Give In”: The Italian Resistance and Politics (Michigan, 1998), p. 37. 7 See, for example, Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 175-189. 8 Ibid. p. 177. 6
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State, Cordell Hull, was told in 1944 that his men would ‘Ensure that there shall be no political activity, such as an attempt to form [an] alternative government, in any period between German withdrawal and Allied entry.’14 Allied Force Headquarters planned in February 1945 for ‘the speedy occupation of vital areas and the establishment of stable government’ as well as ‘the rapid disarmament and absorption into civil life of the Italian armed forces of all Italian patriots as the Allied armies advance.’15 Allied policy was based solidly on the assumption that they, not the partisans, should decide the fate of Italy after the war. As Allied forces prepared to cross the Gothic Line16 they worried about the strength of the resistance. The CLNAI was growing in numbers and beginning to set up its own radically democratic administration. W. H. Braine, the head of the Labour sub-division of the Allied administration, wrote that ‘There must be a formulation of policy and direction from above ... the Committee of National Liberation is not itself able to provide this, although it has assumed a position of authority which rivals or even challenges AMG control.’17 The Mediterranean Joint Planning Staff warned that ‘The more armed and politically conscious bands of partisans there were operating in Northern Italy, the more
difficult the pacification of the country would be.’18 But while there were legitimate reasons for the Allies to fear the radicalism of the rank and file partisans, the leaders of the resistance had already been bought. In December 1944, the Allies had persuaded the leadership of the weakened CLNAI to sign the Rome Protocols in exchange for needed finance and weapons.19 It was agreed that ‘Immediately upon the establishment of Allied Military Government, CLNAI will recognize Allied Military Partisans celebrate liberation in Pavia
Government and will hand over to that Government all authority and powers of local government and administration previously assumed.’20 By this agreement, in its hour of 18
Mediterranean Joint Planning Staff (Allied Force Headquarters), ‘Special Operations Policy in Northern Italy’, F/277, 11th April 1945, WO 204/2795, Special Operations: handling of Italian Partisans, FebruaryMarch 1945. 19 The resistance had lost up to two thirds of its members to German repression following the proclamation by Allied Commander in Chief General Alexander, not broadcast in code, that the Allies were “ceasing largescale operations” for the winter. See, for example, Diana Butler, Allied Forces and the Italian Resistance, 19431945, Cabinet Office (CAB) 101/227, 1st January 1973 – 31st December 1978; Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 211, 215 f.; Kolko, The Politics of War, p. 62; Davidson, Special Operations Europe, pp. 250 ff. 20 ‘Memorandum of Agreement Between the Supreme Allied Commander Mediterranean Theatre of Operations And the Committee of National Liberation for Northern Italy’, 7th December 1944, WO 204/2797, Relations with Italian Partisans: cables, conferences and memoranda including an agreement between S.A.C., the Italian Government and the Committee of National Liberation, North Italy, November-December 1944.
204/2796, Relations with Italian Partisans: Political Committee meetings and correspondence, JulyDecember 1944. 14 The Chargé at Algiers (Chapin) to the Secretary of State, Telegram, 865.01/965, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS) 1944, Volume III, The British Commonwealth and Europe, p. 1003. 15 Mediterranean Joint Planning Staff (Allied Force Headquarters), ‘Interim Report on Measures to Deal With Patriot Problems in Northern Italy’, P/265, 18th February 1945, WO 204/2795, Special Operations: handling of Italian Partisans, February-March 1945. 16 The German’s last major line of defence in Italy, dividing Northern Italy from Rome and the South. 17 Cited in Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, p. 52.
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desperation, the resistance signed its own death warrant. It agreed that the new society it was creating was only provisional. Once the war against Hitler was won, the Allies quickly disarmed the partisans and dissolved their institutions. In Genoa, the first official order of the Allied Military Government (AMGOT) was to ‘make them disarm.’21 Partisans who refused to hand over their arms were sent to prison, while those who cooperated were rewarded with special food rations and sometimes jobs.22 At the same time, AMGOT dismantled the partisans’ democratic governments and factory committees and made all CLNAI decrees and appointments subject to military approval.23 Basil Davidson, a British Liaison Officer with partisans in Genoa and Liguria, told representatives of the democratic government formed in Genoa that ‘...This committee is dissolved as from tomorrow. All their functions cease. All their responsibilities are assumed by AMGOT.’24 The operative principle, as AMGOT expressed it, was that ‘resistance groups have no political function.’25 The new relationships and institutions, fostered by the resistance during the war, were not allowed to lay the foundations of a new society. Democracy was to apply only to the government, not in the field or the factory.26 By June 1945 all the partisans’ institutions had been dismantled or assimilated into AMGOT, at least 60 percent of partisan arms were in the hands of the military, and the defeated CLNAI officially dissolved itself.27 Claudio Pavone, a
former partisan and one of the most influential Italian historians of the resistance, writes that ‘What took place was not only the demobilisation of armed partisans, but of all ‘Resistance society’, which entered into ‘political society’ only in a minimal fashion.’28 With the CLNAI dissolved, the partisans disarmed and their democratic governments dismantled, the Allies proceeded to eliminate the last remnants of resistance society from public life. The biggest threat came from workers’ self-management, since the workers’ councils, fostered by the partisans, had not been entirely eradicated and they threatened Allied plans for a capitalist reconstruction. James Dunn, US Ambassador for Italy, wrote that ‘Political and economic policy reforms against the opposition of many special interests, including Communist’ were needed ‘to meet and vanquish the forces in this whirlpool of disintegration’.29 With the leftwing parties of the Resistance in power, and with many factories still under workers’ control, these reforms, which included a block on wage increases, control over strikes and abandonment of the prohibition against dismissals, were impossible.30 The Allies, therefore, took every step possible to remove the Left from power and restore the factories to their original owners. In November 1945 the US backed a Christian Democrat and Liberal Party coup against the newly elected government of Ferruccio Parri, the leader of the Action Party and former president of the CLNAI, who was replaced by Christian Democrat leader Alcide
21
Davidson, Special Operations Europe, p. 274. Kolko, The Politics of War, p. 61. 23 Ibid, p. 437; Davidson, Special Operations Europe, pp. 258, 272 f. 24 Davidson, Special Operations Europe, p. 272 f. 25 Eighth Army (Headquarters, Allied Military Government), ‘Subject: Patriots’, Telegram Ext: 93, OA/200, 26th April 1945 WO 204/10065, Patriots and Partisans: Dispersal, April-June 1945. 26 Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, pp. 52 f., 56 ff. 27 Kolko, The Politics of War, p. 437. 22
28
Cited in Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 106. The Ambassador in Italy (Dunn) to the Secretary of State, Telegram, 865.51/5-747, Rome, May 7, 1947, Secret, FRUS 1947, Volume III, The British Commonwealth: Europe, p. 896 f. 30 Ibid. 29
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De Gasperi.31 De Gasperi’s administration removed all members of the Communist and Socialist parties (which represented 40% of all votes in the last election) from government and, with the threat of the Left gone, proceeded to eradicate the remaining workers’ councils and factory committees.32 In February 1946 the management of FIAT, which was being run by its workers, was restored to its former managing director, Vittorio Valletta, a former member of the Fascist Party who had been sentenced to death by the Piedmont CLNAI for collaboration with the Nazis.33 In the words of Romero, this agreement ‘spelled out the worker-management councils’ functions, sanctioning the end of attempts to make them
It warned that a communist victory would result in a cancellation of US aid and that any Italian who voted for the Communist party would be banned from ever entering America, while heavily financing the Christian Democrats and various anti-communist organisations and initiating daily propaganda broadcasts.35 After the Christian Democrat victory, the military police continued to oppose the nomination to government positions of candidates belonging to Socialist or Communist parties.36 The left-wing parties still believed they had fought fascism for economic as well as political democracy, and the state thought it necessary to keep them from power lest they meddle with the restoration of industry to its original owners, who had, more often than not, maintained close relations with Mussolini and collaborated with the Germans.37 Harold Macmillan, who was the Allied High Commissioner in Southern Italy in 1944, wrote later that Italians had ‘The dual experience of being occupied by the Germans and liberated by the Allies. It was difficult to say which of the two processes was more painful or upsetting.’38 It seems that a lot of Italians would have agreed. The years following liberation saw a number of rebellions by embittered former resistance members; for example, the occupation of the prefecture of Milan following the November 1947 sacking
Partisans at Vittorio Emmanuel Square in Bologna give up their arms to the Allies
effective instruments of control’.34 The US then manipulated the 1948 election to ensure that the Christian Democrats defeated the Left. 31
See, for example, John L. Harper, America and the Reconstruction of Italy: 1945-1948 (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 37 ff.; Kolko and Kolko, Limits of Power, p. 148. 32 See, for example, Kolko and Kolko, Limits of Power, p. 149 f.; Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, p. 56 f.; Blum, Killing Hope, p. 29; The Ambassador in Italy (Dunn) to the Secretary of State, Telegram, 865.00/6-1847, Rome, 18th June 1947 9 p.m., Confidential, FRUS 1947, Volume III, The British Commonwealth: Europe, p. 924. 33 Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, p. 57; Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 83, 100. 34 Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, p. 57.
35
See, for example, James E. Miller, ‘Taking Off the Gloves: The United States and the Italian Elections of 1948’, Diplomatic History Vol. 7, No. 1 (Winter 1983), 35-55; Blum, Killing Hope, chap. 2. 36 Jonathan Dunnage, Policing and Politics in the Southern Italian Community, 1943-1948, in Jonathan Dunnage, ed., After the War: Violence, Justice, Continuity and Renewal in Italian Society (Leicester, 1999), pp. 33 ff. 37 Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement, pp. 56 f., 140; Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 107. 38 Cited in Ginsborg, ‘The Communist Party and the Agrarian Question in Southern Italy’, p. 87.
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of Ettore Troilo, the prefect (provincial state administrator) of Milan and the last partisan prefect.39 The US and its Christian Democrat allies responded to the partisans’ political activity with repression. Guido Neppi Modena has termed what followed as ‘the trial of the resistance’ and he writes that ‘Beginning in 1948 and continuing until the end of the fifties, the courts initiated trials against partisans for the crime of illegal possession and transportation of weapons, in other words, for actions constituting an indispensable part of the Resistance.’40 Piero Calamandrei, a jurist and former partisan, noted that in the courts ‘All revolutionary achievements by the combatants of the clandestine war and of the war of Liberation were made to appear not as heroic acts in defence of the homeland against the invaders but as the criminal acts of ‘rebels’.’41 Between 1948 and 1951 over 90,000 Communist Party activists and former partisans were arrested.42 In the province of Modena, 20% of all former partisans were taken in for questioning by the police.43 Many spent several months in preventative custody awaiting a decision over whether they would be brought to trial, and torture was widely reported.44 An early example of ex-partisans’ attempts to resist Allied repression was the establishment of the Partisan Resistance Movement (Movimento di Resistenza Partigiana or MRP) in August 1946, which demanded the purging of fascists from government, the release of partisans from jail and ‘jobs and a living for a
country which has been destroyed and bled dry by people representing other interests.’ MRP offices were raided and leaders were arrested, and the group quickly folded.45 The US Chargé d’Affaires in Italy wrote that ‘any potential threat to constituted authority was nipped in the bud by prompt action of the Italian Government in arresting leaders and dispersing groups.’46 General Giovanni De Lorenzo, a high-ranking Career Officer under Mussolini. After the war he was made head of the Carabinieri, was paid by the CIA to organise the "Gladio" secret army and in 1964 he led an attempted military coup, which successfully forced the Socialist Party from government.
In order to maintain the traditional ruling class against the ascendant workers and peasants of the resistance the Allies were forced to collaborate extensively with former fascists, helping many war criminals escape from justice in the process.47 Following the Christian Democrat victory in the 1948 elections, a secret police force called the AntiBolshevik Front was established with US funds and advisers. This was largely staffed with members of the old fascist secret police
39
Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 126 ff.; see also pp. 118-137, 141-144. 40 Guido Neppi Modona, Postwar Trials against Fascist Collaborationists and Partisans: the Piedmont Experience, in Dunnage, ed., After the War, p. 56. 41 Cited in Ibid. p. 54 f. It should be noted that these words were written as early as 1947. 42 Luca Alessandrini, The Option of Violence - Partisan Activity in the Bologna Area 1945-1948, in Dunnage, ed., After the War, p. 64 f. 43 Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 116 44 Ibid.
45
Ibid. pp. 120 ff. The Chargé in Italy (Key) to the Secretary of State, Telegram, 865.00/12-1146, Rome, 11th December 1946 3 p.m., Secret, FRUS 1946, Volume V, The British Commonwealth: Western and Central Europe, p. 950. 47 See, for example, Claudio Pavone, The General Problem of the Continuity of the State and the Legacy of Fascism, in Dunnage, ed., After the War; Modona, Postwar Trials against Fascist Collaborationists and Partisans, in Dunnage, ed., After the War; Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 114-118, 138-145. 46
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rebuild their shattered societies.53 In Italy the anti-fascist resistance, which laid claim to the legacy of liberation, sought to create a democratic and egalitarian social order from the bottom up. In this it clashed with the US, which sought to reconstruct the capitalist world-system with itself at the centre, and Britain, which sought to revive the pre-war conservative consensus in Europe.54 In this forgotten battle the Allies were victorious. They disarmed the partisans and dismantled the democratic institutions that they had created, led a coup against the first democratically elected Prime Minister in post-fascist Italy, and kept those who advocated the partisans’ social order from power. Furthermore, they sanctioned police repression against still-active partisan groups and imprisoned former partisans for their resistance activities during the war. Through repression, the US and Britain destroyed the radically democratic social order that the resistance was creating and returned Italy to the hands of the old ruling class, which retained many elements of its recent fascist past. The short-lived experience of democracy in the workplace was terminated as factories were returned to their former owners, while the local, participatory democracy of the partisans was replaced with a superficial and hierarchical form of democracy that we would recognise today.55 The partisans who had heroically fought off fascism and liberated their country from German rule were sidelined, and the new, democratic and just Italy they had fought to create was stillborn.
including its leader, General Giuseppe Piéche.48 As early as 1944 the CLNAI complained to the Allies that ‘ex-Fascists [and] ex-members of the Fascist militia are being shamelessly recruited even for the highest ranks.’49 The Allied Control Commission responded that ‘The bulk of officials were and had to be Fascists to earn their daily bread. The appointment of an efficient man nearly always means the appointment of a Fascist in some degree.’50 This policy of collaboration culminated in a failure to meaningfully purge any part of the state apparatus, and during the 1950s all 241 prefects and all 135 police chiefs had begun their public service under fascism, while attempts to democratise the police and the prefecture by appointing ex-partisans were reversed.51 Men who had risen through the ranks as a result of their loyal service to the dictatorship were therefore in control of the repressive arms of state power until at least the 1960s, while those who had fought to liberate Italy from fascism were excluded from the upper echelons of government.52 In the aftermath of the Second World War a revolutionary moment unfolded on a world scale. All that was solid melted into air as the institutions and relationships that tied people together were torn apart in the chaos and destruction of total war. Myriad new possibilities opened up, as people everywhere fought over competing visions of how to
48
Edward S. Herman and Frank Brodhead, The Rise and Fall of the Bulgarian Connection (New York, 1986), p. 73 f.; Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 140. 49 ‘Memorandum by the Executive Junta of the Italian Committee of Liberation to the Chief Commissioner of the Allied Control Commission for Italy (Mac Farlane)’, 865.01/2168, FRUS 1944, Volume III, The British Commonwealth and Europe, p. 1027. 50 Cited in Kolko, The Politics of War, p. 57. 51 Behan, The Italian Resistance, pp. 107, 115, 116, 126 ff., 141. 52 Modona, Postwar Trials against Fascist Collaborationists and Partisans, p. 51.
53
See, for example, Kolko, The Politics of War; Kolko and Kolko, Limits of Power. 54 See, for example, Ibid; Romero, The United States and the European Trade Union Movement. 55 See, for example, the description of the post-war Italian government by Pietro Secchia, one of the prime architects of the resistance, in Behan, The Italian Resistance, p. 221 f.
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Forgotten Voyagers? An analysis of the evidence for Pre-Columbian Trans-Pacific contact between Polynesian peoples and Native Americans By Thomas Davies Stories of voyages to the Americas before Columbus have appeared throughout history. Figures such as Viking explorer Leif Eriksson, Welsh Prince Madoc, Irish monk St Brendan the Navigator, and more recently, Chinese Admiral Zheng have all been the subject of varying degrees of historical scrutiny. However, one example of Pre-Columbian contact that excited the minds of some academics is the theory that Polynesian islanders reached the western coast of the Americas and came into contact with the Native peoples. In this article I will discuss and provide some analysis of the evidence for Polynesian-American pre-Columbian contact as it stands in the academic world. Polynesian is perhaps an unfamiliar term to some scholars. The words Polynesian and Native American have much in common in that they both describe a wide variety of peoples that have enough geographical and social similarities that we consider them to possess a common culture. The Polynesian peoples colonised all of the Pacific islands between 1500 BC and 1000 AD and formed an ocean-based culture that flourished until the arrival of Europeans in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.56 Notable groups include indigenous Hawaiians, Tahitians, Samoans and the Maori of New Zealand who still maintain a strong cultural presence in New Zealand today. The famous Haka of the All-Blacks is one such example of contemporary Maori tradition.
It is important to establish whether Polynesians had the material means to reach America if they had desired to do so. In the 1950s and 1960s scholars debated the nature of Polynesian travel. One group supported ‘intentional voyages’, the idea that Polynesians were, as according to their legends, able sailors with a strong maritime tradition.57 The alternative was ‘accidental drift’, that Polynesians simply floated from one island to the next purely by chance and that they could not have made their way there by themselves.58 One of the most notable opponents to Polynesian seafaring was Norwegian explorer and ethnologist Thor Heyerdahl.59 He argued that the Polynesian islands were not settled by Austronesian peoples, but by Native Americans. To justify his point in 1947 he famously sailed in a raft-boat – The Kon-Tiki – from Peru to the Tuamotu Islands to ‘prove’ that Native Americans could have made it to the outer islands. When computer projections of sea currents made it impossible to suggest a boat drifting to islands like Hawaii,60 the impetus was then to prove Polynesians had the ability to sail long distances. 57
H. K. Kane, Founding the Polynesian Voyaging Society, Building and Naming Hōkūle‘a, from Voyagers (Honolulu, Whalesong: 1991), http://pvs.kcc.hawaii.edu/ike/kalai_waa/kane_building_h okulea.html (Accessed 22nd Sept 2013). 58 Ibid. 59 ‘About Thor Heyerdahl’, The Kon-Tiki Museum, http://www.kon-tiki.no/E-Heyerdahl.php (Accessed 22nd Sept 2013). 60 H. K. Kane, ‘Founding the Polynesian Voyaging Society, Building and Naming Hōkūle‘a’, from Voyagers (Honolulu, Whalesong: 1991), http://pvs.kcc.hawaii.edu/ike/kalai_waa/kane_building_h okulea.html (Accessed 22nd Sept 2013).
56
‘Wayfinders: Polynesian History and Origin’, PBS television channel, http://www.pbs.org/wayfinders/polynesian2.html (Accessed 22nd Sept 2013).
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since the first voyage. This physical proof is a testimony to Polynesian abilities, and with research having ‘failed to produce any body of…data that would support the contention that the Polynesians derived from South America’,63 it seems that there is little evidence to support Heyerdahl’s theories. Once Polynesian contact was theoretically possible, the next step was to find physical evidence for such contact. Perhaps there is evidence in indigenous Polynesian and American culture and archaeological remains, a notion supported by Terry Jones. In an interview given to Ancient History Encyclopaedia, Jones notes the existence of strong similarities between Polynesian canoes and those of the Chumash people of southern California as a part of his collaborative work Polynesians in America: Pre-Columbian Contacts with the New World. According to Jones ‘The technological differences between the Chumash sewn-plank canoe (tomolo), and the tule balsa used by their neighbours for 800 km (500 mi) to the north and south, seem significant.’64 To explain this difference he suggests that they came in contact with Polynesian voyagers and adopted their technique. But as Jones himself admits in the interview, the flaw in this theory is the inherent assumption that the Chumash could not have come up with the idea themselves without Polynesian intervention. He also points out that another similar argument against Polynesian guidance is ‘a strong inclination to attribute all innovations as independent adaptive responses at the local level.’65 To assume Native ineptitude is perhaps paternalistic and
A graphic showing the Polynesian triangle: the area that covers Polynesian culture.
To try and settle the debate, the Polynesian Voyaging Society began in 1973 the creation, construction and voyages of the deep-sea canoe, the Hōkūle‘a. Led by Herb Kawainui Kane, they built a replica of the traditional Polynesian craft using modern materials. Archaeological remains found on the island of Huahine acted as a blueprint61 and provided evidence of how Polynesians ‘put wood in from behind and lashed the two pieces of wood together’ to create a distinctive plank based canoe.62 With the notable help of traditional Micronesian navigator Mau Piailug the Hōkūle‘a sailed from Hawaii to Tahiti and back in 1976 using only Piailug’s navigation for guidance. The ship has since made eleven ocean voyages to date and five other ‘modern’ Polynesian voyaging canoes have been built 61
H. K. Kane, In search of the Ancient Polynesian Voyaging Canoe, Polynesian Voyaging Society, http://pvs.kcc.hawaii.edu/ike/kalai_waa/kane_search_vo yaging_canoe.html, (accessed 22nd Sept 2013). 62 N. Thompson, Speech at Kamehameha Schools, April 1998, from http://pvs.kcc.hawaii.edu/ike/kalai_waa/kane_search_vo yaging_canoe.html (accessed 22nd Sept 2013).
63
P. V. Kirch, California Archaeology, Volume 4, Number 2, December 2012, pp. 269. 64 J. B. Weiner, Polynesians in America: Evidence for an Ancient Exchange?, Ancient History Encyclopaedia http://www.ancient.eu.com/news/3010/, (accessed 22nd Sept 2013). 65 Ibid.
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condescending to the Chumash, but considering the complexity of the design, and the fact that only the Chumash, their neighbours the Gabrielino and also Native groups in Chile made that design it seems odd that it is so rare in America if every coastal tribe could have come up with it.66 Native American canoes were sturdy craft and perhaps no other tribe developed this complicated design because there was no advantage or need for better boats, and therefore these groups learnt it only because Polynesians showed it to them. But this is just a theory and certainly the American community considers Jones’ theory quite controversial though it appears to have been better received elsewhere. 67 In an attempt to counteract the argument that the Chumash did it alone, Jones makes references to his colleague, linguist Kathyrn A. Klar, who, according to Jones, proposed that ‘the Chumash borrowed a word from the [Polynesian] boat-building lexicon.’68 Klar claimed that tomolo might have derived from the Polynesian word ‘kumulaau’, meaning ‘tree which provides wood useful for making boats’.69 This would suggest a personal contact between Polynesians and the Chumash as the word could not have travelled without people to impart it. Despite this, Klar herself points out in the aforementioned Polynesians in America that ‘there remains much to be done in the search for linguistic evidence of Polynesian-American contact’.70 In addition, another linguistic link in Ecuador mentioned in the same book was described as ‘speculative’ by that section’s authors, and thus it appears
that linguistics are not the best way of discerning a contact link. 71 By following the trail to South America we find both anthropological and genetic evidence for Polynesian contact. In 2007, at the site El Arenal-1 in Chile, a group of archaeologists discovered a chicken bone in a Mapuche settlement.72 Despite the fact that chickens aren’t native to the Americas, this is not initially very interesting. It’s well known that chickens were brought across to the Americas by Europeans, but carbon dating of the bones revealed they were alive between 1321 and 1407, nearly a century before Columbus’ arrival.73 Bioarchaeologist Alice Storey also linked it to accounts by Spanish Conquistador Francisco Pizarro which described chickens being used for Inca rituals, saying that this ‘suggests chickens had already been there for a while… It's possible there are stylized chickens in the iconography that we have not recognized because we did not know they were there’.74 Elizabeth Matisoo-Smith who also analysed chicken bones from El Arenal-1, and like Storey was an editor of Jones’ book, called it ‘the first concrete evidence [for Polynesian-American contact] not something based on a similarity in the styles of artefacts or a linguistic similarity’.75 She was able to link the DNA of the chicken bones to near-identical prehistoric specimens found on the islands of Tonga, American 71
T. Jones et al., Polynesians in America: PreColumbian Contacts with the New World, (AltaMira Press 2011) pp.192. 72 E. A. Powell, Top Discoveries of 2007- Polynesian Chickens in Chile, Archaeology Magazine, Volume 61 Number 1, (Published January/February 2008). 73 Ibid. 74 Ibid. 75 E. Young, Polynesians beat Columbus to the Americas, New Scientist, http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11987polynesians-beat-columbus-to-theamericas.html#.Ujy9Z_1waP8 (Accessed 22nd September 2013).
66
Ibid. Ibid. 68 Ibid. 69 Ibid. 70 T. Jones et al., Polynesians in America: PreColumbian Contacts with the New World, (AltaMira Press 2011) pp. 207. 67
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Samoa and Easter Island which suggested that the chickens must have somehow got from Polynesia to Chile, or vice versa.76 In 2008 genetic research on South American chickens called the studies of El Arenal-1 ‘an analysis that included only a limited number of other comparative sequences’,77 thus implying that scientifically there was a significant margin for error and that the research lacked the large comparison necessary for it to be scientifically valid. However, that same work also ‘casts further doubt on claims for pre-Columbian [indigenous] chickens’78 which indicates that these chickens must have come from somewhere outside the Americas, and it may be that the aforementioned genetic link, however unreliable, is not to be entirely dismissed. Recently, further developments have been made in genetic analysis of PolynesianAmerican contact. On April 16th 2013 a report was published in The Proceeding of the National Academy of Sciences in the United States on the subject of indigenous skeletons uncovered in Brazil. These Botocudo Native American remains were analysed genetically and the abstract ‘report[ed] the identification of mitochondrial sequences belonging to haplogroups characteristic of Polynesians’.79 Whilst this seems fairly concrete evidence for Polynesians having very strong relationships to Native Americans, a later, separate webdocument commenting on the article quoted the authors as saying that ‘there still would
remain the need to explain how these migrants crossed the Andes and ended up in Minas Gerais, Brazil…We feel that such a scenario is too unlikely to be seriously entertained.’80 Interestingly, the web-document was at a loss to give any definitive suggestion for how these haplogroups appeared in these individuals and cited instead by their own description ‘the best of a bad bunch of explanations’.81 As two independent examinations in Brazil and Denmark also reiterated these findings, contamination seems unlikely. Thus until further evidence is found, what remains is glorified guesswork and postulation as academics try and make sense of these unique archaeological finds. Given the possibility of trading relationships, cultural exchange and the appearance of the aforementioned Brazilian specimens one might expect there to be more evidence for Polynesian contact. Both MatisooSmith and Jones believe that the reasons for this lie in the nature of the contacts themselves. Jones in particular stresses only ‘contact between Polynesian seafarers of the Pacific and Native societies of the west coast of the Americas’82 and elaborated that ‘We [the various authors of Polynesians in America] do not believe that contacts were by any means sustained’.83 In a New Scientist article MatisooSmith offered some justification for these short contacts. She was paraphrased as saying the lack of evidence ‘is not surprising…Ancient 80
J. Timmer, Polynesian DNA mysteriously shows up in Brazilian tribe, Ars Technica, http://arstechnica.com/science/2013/04/polynesian-dnamysteriously-shows-up-in-a-brazilian-tribe/ (Accessed 22nd Sept 2013). 81 Ibid. 82 T. Jones et al., Polynesians in America: PreColumbian Contacts with the New World, (AltaMira Press, 2011) p. 6. 83 J. B. Weiner, Polynesians in America: Evidence for an Ancient Exchange?, Ancient History Encyclopaedia, http://www.ancient.eu.com/news/3010/, (accessed 22nd Sept 2013).
76
Ibid. 77 J. Gongora et al., Indo-European and Asian origins for Chilean and Pacific chickens revealed by mtDNA http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2492461 /(Accessed 22nd September 2013). 78 Ibid. 79 V. F. Goncalves et al, ‘Identification of Polynesian mtDNA haplogroups in remains of Botocudo Amerindians from Brazil’, The Proceeding of the National Academy of Sciences in the United States, vol. 110 no. 16, (Published April 16, 2013), page number unknown.
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Polynesians were great explorers, but tended to settle only in uninhabited islands. It seems that if they found other people, they would usually turn around and go home.’84 Despite all these findings the strongest contact evidence comes not from humans, but from plants. The sweet potato which originated in the Americas has also been found in Polynesia. When British explorer Captain Cook visited Hawaii in the eighteenth century he discovered the sweet potato already present on the islands. Furthermore, genetic analysis of fragments of sweet potato dated them approximately to the fourteenth century.85 Another, separate experiment in 2013 ‘provide[d] strong support for prehistoric transfer(s) of sweet potato from South America (Peru-Ecuador region) into Polynesia.’86 This is considered one of the most significant evidence for Polynesian-American contact as it suggests that the cultures traded in the sweet potato and the Polynesians took possession of it. Whether Polynesians got the sweet potato from the Americas or Native Americans brought it to Polynesia, as Heyerdahl might have thought, is still an open question. As they were the intrinsically more sea-orientated people, the Polynesian theory seems more likely, but with no hard evidence to illustrate this we cannot be completely certain.
In conclusion, the evidence for Polynesian-American contact seems fairly strong. The genetic evidence in particular seems especially convincing and suggests that a contact of some description did occur before European arrival. However, the details of said contact remain incredibly uncertain and the evidence does little to convince me of any specific examples. The Chilean contact given the evidence of trade in sweet potatoes and chickens is much more convincing than the possibly circumstantial evidence between the Polynesians and the Chumash, and the Chilean contact seems fairly convincing as there seems to be no evidence counteracting it as of yet,
A depiction of what a Polynesian voyage might have looked like
even if some is still to be fully explained. Furthermore, the Chumash theory is not to be entirely dismissed, despite the obvious difficulties with language and cultural mixing, it is worth investigating further. There is still a great need for further study and cooperation between the various academic disciplines to create a full picture of Polynesian-American contact, but for now there is enough evidence there to create something historically quantifiable.
84
Polynesians beat Columbus to the Americas, E. Young, New Scientist, http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn11987polynesians-beat-columbus-to-theamericas.html#.Ujy9Z_1waP8 (Accessed 21st September 2013). 85 T. Ladefoged et al., The introduction of Sweet Potato in Polynesia: Early Remains in Hawaii, The Journal of the Polynesian Society- University of Auckland, Volume 114, No. 4, 359. 86 C. Rouiller et al, ‘Historical collections reveal patterns of diffusion of sweet potato in Oceania obscured by modern plant movements and recombination’, The Proceeding of the National Academy of Sciences in the United States, vol. 110 no. 6, (Published February 5, 2013) .
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The Wolfenden Report and Attitudes to Homosexuality in 1950s Britain A discussion of the origins and impact of a crucial report for LGBT rights By Conor Byrne Known in full as The Report of the Departmental Committee on Homosexual Offences and Prostitution, the abbreviated Wolfenden Report published in Britain on the 4th of September 1957 was arguably a watershed in terms of the history of homosexual rights in Britain. It influenced a new understanding of sexuality unique to previous medical and cultural beliefs. Yet despite the prevalence of terms and phrases associated with homosexuality in society today, such as ‘gay’, it might be considered whether the Wolfenden Report, in the long term, has had such an important influence on the nature of homosexual rights and private behaviour. It will be argued ultimately that it has, in that such sexual behaviour is now permitted in a private domain, although difficult challenges remain in place in a more public sense. A discussion of, rather than an argument pertaining to, this report and the cultural and social context in which it was produced will lead to the conclusion that the Report has allowed greater freedom and acceptance of LGBT behaviours and acts. In 1950s Britain, homosexuality was a murky issue which caused considerable fear and anxiety in society, particularly because of its conservative values regarding sexual issues. Society did not by any means embrace what we now understand to be alternative sexual orientations (then viewed as unnatural perversions) and homosexuality was seen as a troubling issue that needed to be controlled or preferably cured in the eyes of many. It was in this context that the Wolfenden Report was
established in 1954 with the purpose of finding an effective solution to the issue, which refused to subscribe to the idea of imprisonment but which agreed that the central aim was to find a means of controlling homosexual behaviour seen as threatening the foundations of respectable society. Recommendations were issued to the Committee, some of which came from homosexuals, alongside religious figures, psychiatrists, policemen and probation officers. These recommendations focused on allowing homosexual acts between consenting adults in private – meaning they were no longer criminal offences – and were centred around two spheres: public and private, legal morality and utilitarianism, espoused by two particularly important figures. Jeremy Bentham, a famous philosopher of utilitarianism (a philosophy embracing utility and the need to maximise happiness while reducing suffering), classed homosexuality as ‘an imaginary offence’ which was dependent on changing concepts of taste and morality. Following on from this, John Stuart Mill argued that the only justification for legal intervention in private life was in order to prevent harm to others, meaning that, in a viable sense, the law had no right to interfere in the private sexual lives of citizens if they were not causing harm to others.87 Taking up these arguments, Wolfenden proposed that the fundamental purpose of criminal law was to preserve public order and decency, and to protect the weak from 87
See, for example, ‘John Stuart Mill’s Ethics’, accessed online at http://www.iep.utm.edu/mill-eth/ (11 November 2013).
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exploitation. The report essentially concluded that there was no real logic in homosexuality in private being illegal, just as prostitution in itself was not illegal. Private behaviour should not necessarily be regulated, although the law should continue to intervene in unusual cases in order to sustain public standards. It suggested that homosexuality in private between consenting adults should be partially decriminalised: ‘unless a deliberate attempt be made by society through the agency of the law to equate the sphere of crime with that of sin, there must remain a realm of private that is in brief, not the law’s business.’ Alongside this, the report was famous for provoking the HartDevlin debate between Lord Devlin, a leading British judge who argued against the report’s
whether or not homosexual behaviour in private should be criminally punished, it does convey a sense of the continuing uncertainty at the time as to whether or not the law should uphold conservative values in the private lives of citizens, or whether it should be separate from private morals. Writing in October 1958, just over a year after the report, Desmond Curran claimed that ‘the prevalence of homosexuality... is commonly unsuspected... the whole subject is surrounded by emotion and prejudice... ignorance surrounding homosexuality is widespread and if possible should be overcome’.89 While this could still apply fiftyfive years later, the fact that the article was published in a medical journal speaks volumes about how homosexuality was perceived and researched in the 1950s – it was a subject of medical enquiry, rather than being perceived as a sexual orientation. Just four years after Curran’s article, and five years after the publication of the Wolfenden Report, Clifford Allen celebrated the fact that a homosexual had reportedly been cured by aversion therapy, while concluding that ‘... the absurd suggestion in the Wolfenden Report that homosexuality is not a disease is refuted by successful cures’.90 Clearly, the Wolfenden Report was not universally accepted amongst contemporaries because its implications and findings continued to be rigorously challenged by academics in learned journals. Understandably, therefore, as Jeffrey Weeks compellingly suggests in relation to the impact of the Report on homosexual rights and private behaviour, ‘this is not a simple history of effortless progress from the darkness of 1950s oppression to the
Lord Wolfenden, who chaired the committee
philosophical basis, and H.L.A. Hart, a leading jurisprudential scholar who argued in favour of it. Devlin argued in The Enforcement of Morals that, while the Wolfenden Report was ‘an excellent study of two very difficult legal and social problems’, he believed that the law should intervene in matters of public morality.88 While this debate may not necessarily have focused specifically on
89
Desmond Curran, ‘Homosexuality’, The British Medical Journal 2 (1958), 837. 90 Clifford Allen, ‘Aversion Therapy for Homosexuality’, The British Medical Journal 1 (1962), 1078.
88
Patrick Devlin, The Enforcement of Morals (Oxford University Press, 1965), p. 11.
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enlightenment of the tolerant Noughties’.91 If the Wolfenden Report in the long-term had an important effect on how homosexual behaviour and identity came to be reinterpreted and accepted in modern Britain, it certainly faced significant challenges on its way to doing so. Eventually, the recommendations were significant in leading to the passage of the Sexual Offences Act of 1967, which decriminalised homosexual acts in private between adult men, if both of whom had attained the age of 21 (although the Act actually increased penalties for public displays of homosexuality and led to increased prosecutions). In 1994, the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act reduced the age of consent to 18, and in 2000 it was further reduced to 16. Despite the positive nature of the report, in that it set in motion the events which led to LGBT equality in the UK, those who served on the committee were not necessarily supportive of homosexuality in any sense. Significantly, Patrick Higgins has argued that the report failed ‘to understand or appreciate (except in the most negative terms) the importance of the homosexual 92 subculture’. In a sense, despite the influence of the report alongside British films in the 1950s, which dealt with issues of homosexuality, ‘the idea that homosexuality was an affliction would take a long time to dissipate’.93 The Wolfenden Report was extremely influential, in terms of changing attitudes towards homosexuality. The report also helped to change perceptions regarding the role of the
law in enforcing sexual morality. But most importantly, perhaps, the report articulated a legally unprecedented view of homosexuality hitherto unknown, which became influential for women as well as for men. In Weeks’ opinion, ‘...in a real sense it brought the idea of a distinctive homosexual identity and way of life into the law for the first time’, since before 1957 homosexuality had had no presence within the law and had been dealt with under ‘unnatural offences’. In this sense, it can convincingly be argued that ‘the committee ‘discovered’, even invented, the meaning of homosexuality as sexual identity, sexual practices and forms of knowledge’, while perhaps most significantly of all, ‘...it recognised that for many it [homosexuality] was an irrevocable destiny’.94 It seems probable that the Wolfenden Report, in the long-term, was in part highly influenced by the culture and context in which it was compiled. Famously, the 1960s experienced a wave of sexual liberation which encompassed not only homosexuality but also abortion, divorce, and prostitution, as well as forms of censorship. In terms of the situation today, LGBT individuals are able to enjoy the protection of the law, with recognised rights, and social recognition. Despite this, it has been claimed by the LGBT group GALOP that 83% of young gay people have experienced verbal abuse, and 47% anti-gay violence.95 A US government study entitled Report of the Secretary’s Task Force on Youth Suicide (1989) concluded that LGBT youth are four times more likely to commit suicide than other young people.96 Issues of LGBT rights remain fundamentally important today, especially
91
Jeffrey Weeks, ‘Wolfenden and beyond: the remaking of homosexual history’, History & Policy (2007), accessed online at http://www.historyandpolicy.org/papers/policy-paper51.html (last accessed 15 October 2013). 92 Patrick Higgins, Heterosexual Dictatorship: Male Homosexuality in Postwar Britain (London, 1996). 93 Andrew Roberts, ‘Shifting Attitudes on Homosexuality’, History Today 61 10 (2011).
94
Weeks, ‘Wolfenden and beyond’. Ibid. 96 “Report of the Secretary’s Task Force on Youth Suicide”, accessed online at http://eric.ed.gov/?id=ED334503 (11 November 2013). 95
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because of the current political and social climate regarding issues of marriage, pornography, and teenage sexuality; most notably issues relating to gay marriage and the treatment of LGBTs in foreign countries. While the Wolfenden Report was fundamental, in the long-term, in shifting attitudes to homosexuality as well as ensuring legal equality and fairness, homophobia remains rampant in contemporary society. The
they nevertheless did not believe that homosexuality should be endorsed or welcomed as a valid life choice. Instead, the greatest impact of the report is arguably that it helped create an identity for homosexuality removed from that of the ‘disease’ or ‘malfunction’ preserved in medical journals, or an ‘abomination’ favoured by religious figures.
ambivalence towards homosexuality which prevailed both then, as well as now, can perhaps be discerned best in regards to the committee’s own position: although they believed, from a moral and legal perspective, that the law should not intervene in the private lives of its citizens unless harm is being done, 22
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The Divergence of the Allies A Comparative Inquiry of Fracture and Unity in the Socio-Economic Constitution of the Maritime Powers, 1713-1748 By Arthur der Weduwen & Michael Doyle European diplomats, merchants, writers, and casual observers of the early eighteenthcentury regularly referred to the United Kingdom (hereafter UK) and the United Provinces (hereafter UP)97 collectively as the ‘Maritime Powers’. In diplomatic despatches regarding the mediation of settlement, or outbreak of war, ambassadors would question how the Maritime Powers would react or act – in this sense, the allies were almost taken as one political entity. However, the period between the end of the War of the Spanish Succession and the armed conflict that ensued in the 1740s saw a divergence open up between the UP and the UK. This has generally been regarded as a political phenomenon, and scholarship has tended to focus on the high politics of the Maritime Powers when discussing their alliance.98 This article will take a different path; rather than focus on the political alliance, it will seek to explore and evaluate socioeconomic developments within the UK and the UP in the early eighteenth-century. We will contrast the internal fracture of the UP with the growing unity of the UK, portraying a sharp contrast in the development of the constitutions
of both nations, and elaborating on the effect of these changes on the respective capacities of both nations. Overall, this paper aims to open up discussions regarding the importance of socio-economic change for the causation and correlations of decline and rise in the eighteenth-century, which remain ever relevant to current revolutions shaping fortunes and demise. Changing Powers
Constitutions
of
the
Maritime
The evolution of the British constitution during the period 1713-1748 laid the basis for Britain’s divergence from the UP. Prior to the accession to power of the Whigs, Britain struggled to define what her constitutional framework should be. The Whigs did not believe that it was possible to trace the English constitution back to an original contract.99 Therefore, the Whigs’ interpretation of the Glorious Revolution of 1688 was of Britain rediscovering her true principles; her system of common law was customary and immemorial, whilst the accumulation of wisdom down the ages helped define her constitutional settlement.100 The constitution in Britain was innovative and unique, and differed significantly from other Europe countries.101 In contrast, the constitution of the UP was of a markedly different nature in this
97
This may also be referred to as the Dutch Republic in this article. The (seven) United Provinces consisted of the provinces of Holland, Zeeland, Utrecht, Gelderland, Overijssel, Friesland, Groningen, as well as the province of Drenthe, and the generality lands. 98 Such as J. Black, European International Relations 1648-1815 (Basingstoke, 2002), R. Hatton, Relations between Great Britain and the Dutch Republic 17141721 (London, 1950), and H. Dunthorne, The Maritime Powers 1721-1740: A Study of Anglo-Dutch Relations in the Age of Walpole (London, 1986).
99
J. Cannon, The Whig Ascendency (London, 1981), p. 38. 100 Ibid. 101 V. Bogdanor, The Monarchy and the Constitution (Oxford, 1997), p. 10.
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example, on 3 July 1739, Horatio Walpole105 stated that the Pensionary of Holland,106 Anthonie van der Heim, was ‘full of despair, and despondency with respect to the Republick’s being ever able to act a considerable part in Europe again’.107 The state of governmental finances was furthermore exacerbated by the decline of Dutch trade dominance and industry. The Dutch had established hegemony in bulk good carrying, yet this was slowly taken over by other European states, most notably the UK, as Dutch shipping stagnated. Historical debate has surrounded the notion of whether Dutch shipping experienced relative or absolute decline,108 but the general consensus is that by the 1730s the Dutch hegemony was no longer unassailable. This was coupled with the loss of markets in the West Indies and India, as other European nations increased their colonial involvement and investment. These factors increased circumvention of Dutch ports by foreign ships, diminishing tax income and financial investment. In addition, strong mercantilist policies exercised by France, the UK, Prussia, and the Baltic states hurt Dutch industries, most notably that of textile refinement and porcelain.109 This was coupled with a decline in urban population in many Dutch cities. This socio-economic situation of the UP can be contrasted with the microeconomic
period. In 1743, an anonymous English pamphleteer described the UP as a place where there was ‘a wonderful neatness and noble simplicity in all things’, and where ‘the citizens…see their money laid out by the magistrate on every thing that can render their lives agreeable and happy.’102 This idealised opinion presented an image of the Dutch Republic which was no longer truthful. By the time that William III had become King of England in 1689, the UP had been engaged in war with the France of Louis XIV for almost
The United Provinces
twenty-five years.103 It can be successfully argued that these wars set-off a relative and absolute decline in the political power and economy of the UP. While the ‘wonderful neatness’ in Dutch houses persisted, the strong financial backbone of the Republic had been shattered by 1713. The state of Dutch debts has been widely investigated,104 and the picture that emerges is one of desperation due to the inability of the Dutch to improve their finances. This is highly evident from diplomatic correspondence of the time; for
105
Then extraordinary ambassador to the United Provinces. 106 The de facto foreign secretary and prime minister of the States-General. 107 Horatio Walpole to Lord Harrington, 3 July 1739. State Papers 84/380, Public Record Office, National Archives. 108 See Ormrod, The Rise of Commercial Empires pp. 273-334 for a good overview of some of this debate. 109 A Dutch contemporary Elias Luzac (a lawyer and publisher) commented in his 1781 work Hollands Rijkdom that ‘However great the decline of our shipping and commerce in relation to Europe may be, the decline of our manufacturing and our industries is much greater.’ (p. 324, personal translation from Dutch).
102
A description of Holland: or, the present state of the United Provinces (London, 1743), p. vi. 103 In the Nine Years’ War (1689-1698) and the War of the Spanish Succession (1702-1713). 104 Most notably by Dormans in Het Tekort: Staatsschuld in de tijd der Republiek (Amsterdam, 1991).
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base for pioneering industrialisation.115 Socioeconomic factors had intertwined with constitutional change, and the result was an established platform to begin imperial expansion. This platform partially replaced the expansion of the Dutch on the international stage. The economic, financial and commercial problems of the early eighteenth-century caused a relative retreat in Dutch foreign engagement. With the death of William III in 1702, and the death of his nephew, Johan Friso, in 1711, the Republic was without the rule of a Stadhouder. The period 1702-1747 is therefore known as the Second Stadhouderless regime. The UP was ruled by regents: mostly men with backgrounds in law, administration, or finance, who regulated the affairs of the Republic on all domestic and foreign fronts, often with a sincere regard for their own familial or business interests. Both Dutch and foreign commentators of the time complained about the machinations of the political system of the UP and the oligarchy of regents which held the system in place – and, according to some historians, worsened it.116 Our pamphleteer from 1743, for example, states that ‘it is this form of government that renders the Resolutions of the Republick so tedious and dilatory, as to tire the patience of the Powers, who have affairs to negotiate with the States…’,117 while Lord Harrington118 wrote to Robert Trevor119 that George II was concerned that some of the
factors that enabled Britain to rise. A key sector in the increase of prosperity was agriculture; this area of the economy met the needs of an expanding population, and aided the growth of important manufacturing sectors that would otherwise have grown less rapidly.110 Britain was also fortunate to experience consistent population growth that outpaced her European rivals by a considerable margin; between the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries, the rate of population growth in the UP was 50% in contrast to 280% in Britain.111 With the fundamentals of the British economy in good shape, an increase in real wages and living standards created social cohesion. Furthermore, the commercial revolution between 1700 and the 1780s extended markets and diversified the commodities that Britain traded in; the expansion of trade had benefits for increased real incomes.112 At a macro level, the constitutional innovations in finance had filtered down to the population. The Bank of England had opened up new channels for the flow of capital, and managed Britain’s national debt.113 The flows of capital had aided the improvements in agricultural productivity whilst the paying down of national debt in the 1720s meant interest on government coupons was low and attractive to foreign investors. This in turn led to falling food prices and an increase in real wages contributed to a benign socioeconomic environment.114 This resulted in greater social mobility and a more dynamic domestic economy, which made Britain stand out from her continental rivals. Furthermore, unlike the UP, Britain had a greater resource-
115
Ibid. p. 199. For example, L.J. Rogier, ‘Ware Vrijheid’, in Beeckelaer et al. (eds). Vaderlands Verleden in Veelvoud (Den Haag, 1975), p. 310, cited in Jonathan Israel, The Dutch Republic: Its Rise, Greatness, and Fall 1477-1806 (Oxford, 1995), p. 994. 117 A description of Holland: or, the present state of the United Provinces (London, 1743), p. 68. 118 Then Secretary of State for the Northern Department. 119 First secretary to Horatio Walpole at his embassy in the Hague, and later ambassador when Walpole’s tenure as ambassador had ended. 116
110
R. Brown, Society and Economy in Modern Britain 1700-1850 (Cambridge, 1991), p. 49. 111 M. Daunton, Progress and Poverty: An Economic and Social History of Britain 1700-1850 (Oxford, 1995), p. 135. 112 Ibid. p. 170. 113 Ibid. pp. 198-9. 114 D.C. Coleman, The Economy of England 1450-1750 (Oxford, 1977), pp. 102-3.
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be paid – the so called funded debt; and the incorporation of the Bank of England as a pivot that connected private lenders to the Exchequer.122 The most important change to the constitution was made at the beginning of George I’s reign. The King would no longer attend cabinet meetings; taking his place at the head of the decision-making process was the senior minister, who eventually would become known as the Prime Minister.123 The transfer of decision-making from the unelected sovereign to the elected Prime Minister began the gradual
resolutions of the States in regard to troop augmentations were ‘so deficient, & imperfect, and others clog’d with difficulties…’120 The actual constitution of the political system was unlike that of any other state in eighteenth-century Europe. The seven provinces each had their own ‘States’, or parliament, in which representatives from the city councils of the most important towns of that state would come together to discuss issues and vote on all state matters. The seven assemblies then constituted the ‘StatesGeneral’, in The Hague, which presided over all national matters of policy, which were in turn supposed to be formulated with the consent of all delegations of the seven provinces. However, the dominance of the province of Holland, and the deep divisions in the Republic with regards to the rights and position of the Prince of Orange, William IV, rendered the political system flawed in practice. The oligarchy of the regents was in no way able to tackle the financial, economic, social, and political troubles of the Dutch Republic and its anachronistic constitution in the early eighteenth-century. Instead of this division, the British political constitution presented one of compromise; the Whigs distrusted the concept of popular sovereignty believing it would lead to tyranny, yet also did not feel comfortable vesting untrammelled power in the monarch.121 Furthermore, there were important constitutional innovations prior to the Hanoverian succession to the British throne. They included the subjection of the crown to Parliamentary supervision through the Bill of Rights; the linking of loans to specific taxes that were supposed to provide the assured stream of income out of which interest would
Maritime Power: the capture of Porto Bello by the Royal Navy in 1739
decline in the influence that the sovereign could exercise over policy. This meant that power was being devolved to Parliament and thus to elected representatives.124 That senior minister was Robert Walpole – who would become Britain’s first Prime Minister in 1721. 122
R. Floud and P. Johnson (eds.), The Cambridge Economic History of Modern Britain: Volume 1 Industrialisation, 1700-1860 (Cambridge, 2004), p. 216. 123 Ibid. p. 14. 124 It is important to note that the franchise was only restricted to property owners at this time. Until the 1832 Reform act, only 10% of the adult male population had the right to vote.
120
Lord Harrington to Robert Trevor, 15 February 1740 (OS). SP84/384, Public Record Office, National Archives. 121 Cannon, Whig Ascendency, p. 30.
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Walpole was instrumental in the banishment of Toryism from the centre of political power. The political creed of Toryism in 1713 was anathema to George I as it stood for free and frequent elections, low taxation and a reluctance to engage in large-scale continental wars.125 By contrast, the Whigs were closely allied to the Court and were committed to war if necessary.126 The Tory party displayed little appetite in the fight against the Whigs’ parliamentary dominance; managing only a meagre 50% attendance rate – even the Whig schism of 1717 failed to galvanise the Tories into voting in the majority.127 Furthermore, the Whigs passed legislation which ensured they stayed in power for a longer period of time; the Septennial act of 1716 prolonged the life of Parliament for seven years.128 The rationale behind the act was to minimise and prevent Jacobite rebellions within the polity. Mr Lyddal’s speech in the House of Lords illustrates the ruthless rationale behind the Whig’s proposal; ‘upon the whole, Sir, the electors and people of all boroughs in England having been, for several years past, both bribed and preached into the Pretender’s interest, and a dislike of the Protestant succession, it becomes rather necessity than choice to apply an extraordinary remedy to an extraordinary disease’.129 It was demonstrative of the ruthless and vicious approach to politics taken by the Whigs: reducing the Tory party to a mere rump in Parliament left them greatly weakened and
unable to stem the tide of Whig attacks on them. Walpole had neutralised the Tory party as an effective parliamentary opposition; and their local organisation had been reduced to little more than a mere pressure group. Now, under his direction the Whigs set about ensuring Great Britain was a unified polity with a stable political system. The same could not be said of her old rival, the UP. Fracture in the United Provinces The historical narrative of the early eighteenthcentury UP is one with a persistent undercurrent of fracture. In a country on a course of decline, inequality was on the rise. This inequality manifested itself in a variety of forms. One of the most prominent forms of inequality was that of the oligarchic Regent and mercantile classes, and the working classes. The decline of Dutch industry had forced many labourers, who had moved into the numerous towns from the countryside throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth century, into unemployment. Similarly, both the navy and the army were voted to decline in size during the early eighteenth-century,130 largely because of the dire financial straits, which also caused an increase in the availability of manpower in the Dutch labour market. This drove down the real wage of the Dutch worker, causing a relative decline in living standards for many people. The urbanised middle class was also halted in its expansion.131 The early eighteenth-century, for all its financial depression, did not provide a platform for entrepreneurial ventures, and the artisan classes were severely impacted by a rise in prices and a decreased demand for the
125
J.H. Plumb, The Growth of Political Stability in England 1675-1725 (London, 1967), p. 151. 126 Ibid. p. 152. 127 L. Colley, In Defiance of Oligarchy: The Tory Party 1714-1760 (Cambridge, 1982), p. 55. 128 J.C.D Clark, Revolution and Rebellion: State and Society in England in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Cambridge, 1976), p. 75. 129 ‘First Parliament of George I: First session (part 3 of 3) – from 19/4/1716’ The History and Proceedings of the House of Commons: volume 6: 1714-1727 (1742), pp. 68-107.
130
Israel, The Dutch Republic, p. 985, 994. A large middle class had developed between the fifteenth and the seventeenth centuries, and the UP had by far the largest middle class in proportion to other countries of the same period. 131
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manufactured products that they created and refined. Cheap imports from the UK became more prominent and the only Dutch industry to expand in this period was that of jenever (a Dutch liquor and forerunner of gin) production.132 Population growth slowed down and Dutch towns, with the exception of Amsterdam, did not expand in the early eighteenth-century, while population numbers in previously major centres of industry, such as Leiden, even declined.133 In contrast to these economic and demographic effects of Dutch industrial and mercantile decline, the Dutch elite revelled in its wealth. The upper classes distanced themselves from the busy towns, residing in large mansions in the countryside, and used their financial means to invest in emerging foreign markets (most notably the UK) and speculate in stock.134 While this wasn’t always successful,135 the Dutch elite enjoyed a period of relative growth in capital and income. However, this capital was not invested in Dutch industry, as the businessmen knew that there was more to be gained if they invested in the growing industries of England, France or the Baltic states. Such a lack of domestic investment increased inequality in the Republic and arguably contributed to the continuing economic decline of the States. The growing socio-economic inequality also affected other parts of Dutch society. Increasingly, the state of Holland held more dominance over the other states. While the states had always respectfully recognised their independent resources and spirit, such as the prominent agriculture and continental interests of Overijssel, Gelderland, and Groningen
against the mercantile, sea-focused states of Holland and Zeeland, interstate economic and socio-political inequality was on the rise. De jure, all states were equal, and contributed to the navy and land forces according to their relative income and resources. However, the decline of the Dutch economy had by far the greatest impact on the land-locked provinces. Frequently, Holland, and principally its chief town Amsterdam, were forced to contribute more resources to the general well-being of the Republic.136 In response, Holland repeatedly attempted to assert its will on the other states, especially on matters of foreign policy and the issue of the Stadhouder. This leads into another complicating clash present during this period. The Republic was heavily divided on the topic of William IV’s rights and place in the UP. As son of Johan Friso, and descendant of the William I, William IV was considered by many as the natural successor of the previous Stadhouders. However, given that this was not a hereditary right in all states, each state had to vote on the matter separately. The Eastern states of Groningen, Friesland, and Gelderland all voted William as Stadhouder in the 1710s and 20s, albeit with reduced rights compared to his forefathers. The other provinces, under the determined lead of Holland, refused William any serious part in Dutch politics or military affairs. William’s marriage to Anna, daughter of George II, further complicated matters as many Republican regents interpreted this as a
136
The lack of the other States to be able to contribute to the overall condition of the Republic was a recurring source of frustration for the Vroedschap (Council) of Amsterdam. For example, on 17 May 1740 it was reported in the Vroedschap minutes that ‘The defect of the [land] provinces with regards to matters of sea, are an old habit, given that they didn’t contribute anything in the last two wars either’. Stadsarchief Amsterdam, Archief van de Vroedschap 5025/55.
132
Israel, The Dutch Republic, pp. 1006-1011. Ibid. 134 See A.C. Carter, ‘Dutch Foreign Investment, 17381800’, Economica 20 (1953), 322-340. 135 For example, many lost large sums of their capital in the South Sea Bubble of the early 1720s. 133
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direct attack on their legitimacy and policy.137 Dutch society split along finely defined lines of Orangism and Republicanism, it being hard for any citizen to avoid being drawn to either side. The popular market was continually flooded with polemic pamphlets and tracts, usually in the form of dialogues, discussing William’s rights and place, invoking the history of the Republic and its mismanagement by either Prinsgezinden (supporters of the Prince) or Patriotten (Patriots, i.e. Republicans).138 Whereas the land-locked states tended towards Orangism, those in the West tended more towards Republicanism. However, even in the state of Holland, certain towns were more Orange than others – for example, the rapid decline of former industrial centres like Leiden shifted the public opinion from Republicanism to Orangism in several decades. Those who suffered most under the decline of the Second Stadhouderless regime were usually the ones to denounce Republicanism in favour of the seemingly righteous and authoritarian Orangism. The various fractures mentioned were highly interrelationary, and complicated the decline of the UP. These various layers of division and irresolution – or, to quote Horatio Walpole, ‘the indolence, inaction, and distraction of the Republic’139 – were to cause decisive consequences for the UP and its future
role in Europe towards the end of the second Stadhouderless period. The Fall of the Dutch Regime and the persistence of inequality The War of the Austrian Succession broke out at the end of 1740.140 By 1744, the UP had stayed neutral, despite relentless British pressure and Austrian frustration. However, when French forces entered the Austrian Netherlands, which were partly garrisoned by Dutch troops as part of the Barrier Treaty, the Regent regime had no choice but to join the war. After the battle of Fontenoy in May 1745 the French were able to conquer the majority of the Austrian Netherlands within the following year. The Dutch-garrisoned fortresses surrendered without much fight, being too illequipped and under-manned to orchestrate an effective defence. The French-supported invasion of the ‘Young Pretender’ in Scotland also caused the English contingents of the coalition force to be recalled, together with 6,000 Dutch troops to aid them.141 In April 1747, a small French force crossed into the border of the Dutch Republic, taking Staats-Vlaanderen in Zeeland and the city of Bergen-op-zoom. Although a relatively small incursion into Dutch territory, this invasion sparked riots in most major towns of Zeeland, Holland, and Utrecht.142 These riots subsequently turned into a political revolution: as the violent mobs and militias clamoured for
137
This is a recurring topic in Anglo-Dutch diplomatic correspondence of this period. See in particular HMC Report 14, Appendix 9, for the papers of Robert Trevor, and the edited volumes of the correspondence of the brothers Walpole by William Coxe. 138 Some typical examples include De Hollandsche patriot, gevende elucidatie over de naem van prinsman, of princeluiden (S.l., 1735), Antwoort op de Hollanse patriot (S.l., 1735), Schuite-praatje ofte Samenspraak tusschen drie heeren [...] over saken van deese tyt (S.l., 1736), Jagt-praatje ofte Discours tusschen een Groeninger, een Dockumer, en twee Zeeuwze heeren over de Verhandeling van de vryheid in den burgerstaat (Leeuwarden, 1737). 139 Horatio Walpole to Robert Trevor, 17 April 1739 (OS), HMC Report 14, Appendix 9, p. 27.
140
For a general account of the War of the Austrian Succession, refer to M.S. Anderson, The War of the Austrian Succession 1740-1748 (London, 1995). 141 This was stipulated under the Anglo-Dutch alliance treaty, and cause for much grievance on the side of the Dutch Regents. 142 See Israel, The Dutch Republic, pp. 1067-78, and J.A.F. de Jongste, ‘The Restoration of the Orangist Regime in 1747: The Modernity of a Glorious Revolution’, in M.C. Jacob and W.W. Mijnhardt, (eds.), The Dutch Republic in the Eighteenth Century: decline, enlightenment, and revolution (Ithaca, 1992).
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a strong leader to counter the French invasion, the remaining Stadhouderless states re-instated William IV as Stadhouder. While the French did not actually advance any further into Dutch territory, they had kicked down the door which held the political house together, forcing the Regents to accept William as de facto head of the UP. William and his allies quickly took advantage of the appointment and secured a grip on government.143 The councils of the major towns were reformed, largely with new members more supportive of the Orangist cause. In this sense, the local government of each state was decided upon by the Stadhouder and his close circle of friends, enabling him to directly control affairs as executive. He also forced the States to make the Stadhoudership hereditary, ensuring that the Orangist cause would triumph in the long term, in addition to securing more personal rights from the States. Whilst the political revolution of the reinstatement of the Stadhouder and the halfhearted purges of local and national government had answered some of the calls for change of urban mobs and militias, the unrest was not halted with William’s ascension.144 The incredibly rapid revolution had inspired a sense of confidence in the demands of the population, which took this concession as a sign to demand more. Riots persisted, but not all were concerned with the purging of Republican town councils – throughout 1748 more riots broke out regarding the rights of Catholics and that of ‘tax-farmers’ and associated mercantile classes. The tumultuous events of the French invasion and the political revolution turned into a socio-economic revolt. The vacuum of power and the emergence of country-wide platforms, from which economically-oppressed citizens could voice their anger, portrays the extent to which
inequality and decline had seeped deep into the fractures of early eighteenth-century Dutch society. The Stadhouder and his allies were only willing to reform to the extent that it suited their own interests.145 While they purged some of the councils, replacing them with Orangist supporters, these still came from established regent families, thereby maintaining the oligarchy of the upper classes. The riots, motivated by a desire for greater socioeconomic mobility and change, were violently quashed by town militias loyal to the new political regime. No great economic changes were implemented, nor were great military victories gained by William in the latter stages of the War of the Austrian Succession – peace was duly brokered at Aix-La-Chapelle at the end of 1748. In this setting, until the uproar of Fourth Anglo-Dutch War in the 1780s, the Republic dragged itself into deeper decline, fractured and divided. Unity in the United Kingdom In the summer of 1723, King George I ordered his ministers to enact an act of Parliament compelling all persons over the age of eighteen in England, Scotland, and Wales to take the oath of allegiance.146 The significance of this was twofold: firstly, George I was binding the people of Britain together and strengthening the fledging British national identity, and secondly, he was making an important connection with his new subjects and strengthening his own kingship. This imbued a sense of national pride amongst the populace, meaning Britain’s rise in the international system during the early to mid 1700s was not as beset with the difficulties that their 145
See J.A.F. de Jongste, ‘The Restoration of the Orangist Regime in 1747’, p. 43. 146 London Gazette, 23 Jul. 1723.
143
Ibid. 144 Ibid.
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investment.147 Furthermore, having sustainable levels of national debt meant Britain was able to fund her continental wars – and eventually play a part in forming her empire. Taxation in Britain was far less burdensome on the people than in the UP.148 This is an important contrast to be made, for in a state with higher levels of taxation there will inevitably be social discontent. Hence it is difficult to play a greater role in continental affairs if a state is hobbled by high levels of taxation. The conventional presumption one has of socio-economic conditions in Britain pre-twentieth-century is of a feudalistic society that had no fluid movement of people up the social-class ladder, and no room for entrepreneurship amongst the lower classes. In fact, entrepreneurship flourished in Britain largely as a result of protectionist measures such as the customs duty that protected domestic markets.149 However, there was also a religious element to this rise in entrepreneurial endeavour. Protestant groups who were not within the mainstream of Anglicanism – such as the Quakers, Methodists and Presbyterians – formed interdependent networks amongst relatives and co-religionists that included informal and later formal exchanges of cash and credit.150 Local politics was controlled by a small cabal of the landed classes. This tiny group of people had the money, men, and organisation necessary to be able to dominate the political process.151 Though the electoral system in Hanoverian England was still regressive, the landed gentry were completely aware that
continental rivals faced. Furthermore, the professions were an active channel of social mobility in the 1720s, and access to them was open to all social classes. The increase in social mobility contributed greatly to the sense entrepreneurial spirit that was one of the characteristics of early eighteenth-century Britain which also manifested itself in greater prosperity relative to her continental rivals – notably the UP. Moreover, the increase in literacy amongst the populace, as well as the emergence of a provincial press, meant that people in Britain were becoming more socially and politically conscious. George I’s senior minister, Sir Robert Walpole, masterfully and skilfully oversaw this dynamic process of economic prosperity and constitutional innovation. Walpole steadily paid down national debt during his period in
147
Brown, Society and Economy, p. 197. Ormrod, The Rise of Commercial Empires, p. 22. 149 P. Langford, A Polite and Commercial People: England 1727-1783 (Oxford, 1989), p. 175. 150 B.A. Holderness, Pre-Industrial England: Economy and Society, 1500-1750 (London, 1976). p. 168. 151 F. O’Gorman, Voters, Patrons, and Parties: The Unreformed Electoral System of Hanoverian England 1734-1832 (Oxford, 1989), p. 9. 148
Robert Walpole
office. High levels of national debt lead to drainage of capital away from more productive
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without an element of collusion with the professional and middle classes, electoral politics could be undermined with social unrest.152 An increasing role of the daily press and the greater access to education meant that the populace were more informed and engaged. Hence it would have been a foolish move on the part of the landed classes to deny the upwardly mobile classes’ access to the political process. Central government was unable to intervene in the local polities – mainly due to a lack of reliable information on population, revenues, and economic activity, as well as a dearth of land surveys and detailed maps.153 The local politicians followed the example of the Whigs in the national Parliament: a system of patronage that preserved control of the local dominions, combined with an extraordinary amount of political power that preserved oligarchic control at a local level. There were challenges to these local oligarchs by pressure groups which used the medium of the provincial press, as well as public meetings to exert pressure from below. A good example of this is the campaign against Walpole’s Excise scheme.154 In 1733, Walpole proposed reducing the land tax to one shilling in the pound permanently through revenues generated by his new Excise scheme.155 Though Walpole was simply following his fiscal instincts of lower taxation, this consummate political strategist made a rare tactical mistake. Walpole intended to convert the customs on tobacco and wine into inland duties, however, this adversely affected shopkeepers who formed the backbone of Britain’s middling class – and who carried immense electoral clout. Significantly, it was
the country gentlemen who defeated Walpole, as he underestimated his fellow landowners’ paternalistic instincts. Facing the possibility of a humiliating aristocratic revolt in the House of Lords, Walpole withdrew the scheme from the Commons.156 The 1734 General election was a disaster for Walpole. There were 136 contested elections, more than in any other general election before 1832 except 1710 and 1722; moreover, the Tories saw an increase in their Parliamentary representation in the Commons, the only election between 1713 and 1760 that this occurred.157 The rise of the print press galvanised people lower down the social ladder, and their campaign, through pressure groups and petitions to their MPs, played a role in Walpole’s retreat. Walpole understood that his huge working majorities in the Commons were a result of his ability to attain a clear majority of support amongst the electorate and the propertied public. In the 1730s, occupational and societal groups whose members did not sit in the House of Commons began to challenge the Parliamentary process on a regular basis; this was facilitated by the spread of literacy and the printed press – particularly amongst the urban class.158 Pressure on local political leaders filtered up to the national level and this clash of forces would begin the gradual weakening of Walpole’s position as Prime Minister. However, it was not just pressure from domestic forces that threatened Walpole. On 10 October 1733 Louis XV declared war on Charles VI: this conflict would become known as the War of the Polish Succession.159 It had a significant effect on domestic politics, as Walpole, sensing that he was being buffeted by
152
Ibid. J. Black, The Politics of Britain: 1688-1800 (Manchester, 1993), p. 23. 154 G. Holmes and D. Szechi, The Age of Oligarchy: Preindustrial Britain 1722-1783 (Harlow, 1993), p. 51. 155 Langford, A Polite and Commercial People, p. 29. 153
156
Ibid. p. 30. Ibid. 158 G. Holmes and D. Szechi, Age of Oligarchy, p. 52. 159 Black, The Rise of the European Powers 1679-1793, p. 98. 157
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events at home, did not lead his ministry into war. Walpole did not want a foreign engagement to distract him from seeking another election victory. Secondly, war would have brought about unnecessary instability at a time when what Walpole and his ministry needed was stability. The period 1713-1748 is viewed as one of political oligarchy, with the dominance of the Whiggish hegemon influencing various areas of national life.160 Yet, as mentioned previously, the gentry, the professional and middling classes were enjoying rising living standards and much greater social mobility. Therefore, Whig hegemony was, for the most part, a benign influence over large swathes of British life. It is true that power was still very much concentrated amongst the upper classes. However, paternalism was the glue that held society together, and it was the crucial element that prevented social discontent being directed at the unreformed electoral system. Britain under the Hanoverians, through a combination of prudent management of public finance and a more stable social order that had been established through constitutional reform, was able to avoid social upheaval. Having a stable social order made economic change easier for Britain,161 and an established social contract with the people leads to a benign socioeconomic environment. Finally, the expansion of the Crown bureaucracy during this period – particularly the revenue service – achieved two goals; a greater facilitation of the gentry entering the professional class whilst establishing the most sophisticated fiscal system in Europe that made a more prominent continental role more feasible.162
Conclusion The early eighteenth-century was a decisive time for the Maritime Powers. The comparative approach of this article has portrayed that the dynamic changes in the socio-economic constitutions of both nations impacted on the divergence of the allies. The respective political capabilities of the Maritime Powers were greatly affected by these domestic complexities, and these capabilities fed directly into the relative decline and rise of the UP and the UK. While the two states were observed to be of similar nature by contemporaries, at least from the Glorious Revolution onwards, the internal fracture and revolution of the UP and the rigorous unity of the UK made a sincere political co-operation undesirable by the 1740s. While it has not yet been argued successfully that the Maritime Powers were never in a state of true coalition in the early eighteenthcentury,163 this article has tried to indicate that the nature of the domestic politics of the UP and the UK put significant pressure on its alliance. The end of the War of the Austrian Succession ultimately sealed the fate of this relationship, and marked the clear divergence of the two nations for the rest of the eighteenthcentury. As a final remark, this article has hopefully raised some thoughts on the uses of comparative history, the importance of domestic socio-economic consistency, and the complexity of alliance. Such thoughts remain ever relevant today, and perhaps some meaningful answers may be found within the history of the Maritime Powers.
163
Stephen Baxter provides a base from which such an argument could be supported in ‘The Myth of the Grand Alliance in Europe’, in S. Baxter and P. Sellin (eds.) Anglo-Dutch Cross Currents in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries (Los Angeles, 1976). However, this has not yet been developed further by any other historian.
160
O’Gorman, Voters, Patrons, and Parties, p. 11. Brown, Society and Economy, p. 207. 162 Cannon, Whig, p. 17. 161
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For he is an Englishman: A Reappraisal of Arthur Sullivan’s Musical Legacy By Alex Hitter Duke of Edinburgh – Sullivan was touched when the crew joined in a personal rendition of He Is An Englishman from HMS Pinafore.166 The inspiration for I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General from Pirates of Penzance, General Sir Garnet Wolesly, would sing the song as a party-piece.167 Indeed, a whole bevy of establishment figures, from Lords Birkenstead and Elwyn-Jones to Admiral Fisher, Oscar Wilde, and the Queen herself adored the shows, and many of them appeared caricatured in them.168 The Savoy Operas were an impressive fusion of the popular and the political – in this case, the celebration of Empire and the nation. They were society events,169 and also a celebration of the nation and the status quo.170 This was the work for which he earned regard from the nation: the Savoy Operas lightly satirised elements of the imperial mission, while fully upholding the Empire as a laudable enterprise. When Sullivan died in 1900, aged 58, The Times declared his death to have ‘plunged the whole of the Empire into gloom’.171 Moreover, the work for which he earned recognition from the state – including his knighthood – was undoubtedly that which he composed for state occasions, and he was enthusiastic in doing so, beginning in 1871, with the twentieth anniversary celebrations for the Great Exhibition of 1851. On this occasion,
In 1992 at the Conservative Party conference in Brighton, Peter Lilley, then the Secretary of State for Social Security, assumed the stage and performed, to the delight of the delegates, a pastiche of As Some Day It May Happen from The Mikado, trilling ‘I’ve got a little list/ Of benefit offenders who I’ll soon be rooting out/ And who never would be missed’.164 Lilley, who would go on to try out other pastiches at later party conferences, was declared ‘embarrassing’ and his popularity within the party dwindled.165 Such is the perception of Gilbert and Sullivan fans today; their devotion is to be mocked. For example, Frasier and Niles Crane, The Simpson’s Sideshow Bob, the revellers who embarrass Brian in front of his childhood friend in Starter For 10, and Lilley, are all figures of fun, whose love of light opera makes them seem foppish or effete. This perception seems strange then, given the politics of the man behind the music. To say nothing of his chief collaborator, the librettist W. S. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan was an enthusiastic nationalist, imperialist and xenophobe, whose primary muse was Britain, her empire and the royal dynasty. His place at the forefront of an artistic movement geared towards celebrating these institutions is in danger of being forgotten, and as such his legacy is in need of a comprehensive reappraisal. No one could deny the popularity of Sullivan’s work in his own lifetime, which was in part thanks to his and Gilbert’s light operas. When a guest on the HMS Hercules – undertaking a trip to Russia as the guest of the 164 165
166
J. Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 18761953 (Manchester, 2001) p. 34. 167 Ibid. 168 Ibid. 169 Ibid. 170 D. Cannadine, ‘Gilbert and Sullivan: the Making and Unmaking of a British “Tradition”’, in R. Porter (ed.), Myths of the English (Cambridge, 1992), p. 19. 171 The Times, 23rd November 1900.
The Independent, 3rd April 1994. The Independent, 10th October 1998.
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The later years of Victoria’s reign were a time when national celebration was brought very much to the fore, especially after the Queen’s coronation as Empress of India in 1876. Many of the art world’s leading lights were drawn to the nation for inspiration, and it is instructive to look at Sullivan’s connections in this pantheon. Most tellingly, he was to work closely with the poets Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Lewis Morris. Like Sullivan, Tennyson was rewarded with a title (as well as being made poet laureate): both were ardent monarchists and nationalists and the state gave them what it considered their due, both having committed themselves for so many years to the cause of celebrating Britain’s imperial prowess. Sullivan provided the incidental music for Tennyson’s play The Foresters.175 More significantly, they worked closely together on a piece for the opening of the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at the Royal Albert Hall in May 1886. This show, which was the first of the so-called Empire Exhibitions, featured produce from around the Empire, as well as regiments of indigenous soldiers on parade. This all took place against the backdrop of Sullivan’s score, with its grand crescendo culminating in Tennyson’s nationalist ode, recited in conjunction with the music: ‘Sons, be welded each and all/ Into one imperial whole/ One with Britain, heart and soul!/ One life, one flag, one fleet, one throne!’.176 The Queen was impressed and ‘after each verse… smiled her thanks to the singer and clapped her hands’.177 A year later, in 1887, Sullivan was commissioned again to work with the Welsh poet Lewis Morris for the laying of the foundation stone of what was to be the new Imperial Institute. The aim of the institute was
for which one composer from Britain, France, Germany and Italy was asked to compose a piece, Sullivan was chosen to replace the aging William Sterndale Bennett. While the occasion itself fell ‘flat and feeble’172 due to reports from the Franco-Prussian War, Sullivan’s work was well received.173 At the age of 29, he had emerged onto the national scene. A year later, his Festival Te Deum – written to celebrate the recovery of the Prince of Wales from typhoid – was hailed by The Musical Times as heralding the ‘blossoming’ of English music ‘into a Spring to be succeeded by a Summer, such as this land has not experienced since the death of [Henry] Purcell’.174 Doubtless, Sullivan would have been flattered by the comparison. Arthur Sullivan
172
The Graphic, 6th May 1871. Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876-1953 p. 25. 174 The Musical Times, 1st June 1872.
175
Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876-1953 p. 22. 176 Ibid. pp. 26-7. 177 The Times, 5th May 1886.
173
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to ‘strengthen the bonds of union between all classes and all races of Our Dominions’,178 but the laying of the stone was ‘a great event… in the interest it excited’ in its own right.179 Both men were clearly establishment figures, chosen for their commitment to the cause of national unity, as well as their popularity. Morris was knighted in 1895; he had been mentioned in the same breath as Ovid, Horace and Algernon Swinburne in Gilbert and Sullivan’s own Ruddigore; and he had composed well-received verse for diverse folk festivals in his native Wales.180 However, in consultation with the poet over the scoring, Sullivan made the score radically more nationalistic – he ruthlessly replaced Morris’s references to ‘Britain’ with his own to ‘England’, and he completely excised a verse extolling emigration to the colonies. Morris had seen nothing wrong with a little balance and reflection, but Sullivan evidently felt that the poet’s introspection had no place in his musical narrative.181 His aim was to celebrate his nation. When the institute officially opened six years later, the royal party, which included the Queen, arrived to Sullivan’s Imperial March, and were greeted with ‘an expression of a deep and durable sentiment that political theorists would be unwise in discrediting or deprecating’.182 The event was declared a ‘brilliant success’ and it ‘afforded even more incontestable proof that Englishmen can, if they please, produce effects beyond the reach of communities in which pageantry is regulated by an omnipotent and omniscient 183 government’. Sullivan was at the top of his game, and his enthusiastic efforts were being
channelled into a bid to revitalise the ailing monarchy whose popular image had suffered since the beginning of Victoria’s mourning period in 1861.184 His patriotic credentials were beyond reproach. In 1897, after Sullivan attended the review of colonial troops for Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee celebrations, he wrote to The Times, outraged ‘that British music has on these occasions (with two or three exceptions)…been totally ignored, the preference in all cases having been given to foreign productions’.185 For Sullivan, the idea of celebrating Britain’s presence on the world stage using music written by citizens of her rivals was anathema. In celebrating the embodiment of the nation herself – the Queen – Sullivan was inspired to compose one of his most impressive pieces: the ballet Victoria and Merrie England. No doubt to his chagrin, the Italian balletmaster Carlo Coppi had created the scenario, but it seems to have been Sullivan who had creative control, and the show opened at the Alhambra Theatre in May 1897.186 Throughout its eight scenes, Victoria and Merrie England depicts an imagined, highly romantic story of Britain’s rise to imperial greatness, beginning in a mysterious preRoman Albion, where the seed of English greatness is sown, moving through the mingling of the Briton, the Roman, the Saxon and the Norman to create the modern English people, to celebrating the paternalistic feudal lord, and the traditions of Christmas, and culminating in the coronation of Victoria and the symbolic representation of the growth of the Empire, with actors in full military garb
178
J. M. Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire (Manchester, 1984) p. 102. 179 The Times, 5th July 1887. 180 Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876-1953 p. 28. 181 Ibid. 182 The Times, 11th May 1893. 183 Ibid.
184
A. Horrall, Popular Culture in London, 1890-1918: The Transformation of Entertainment (Manchester, 2001), p. 44. 185 The Times, 20th July 1897. 186 Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876-1953, p. 35.
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giving the scene an intensely imperial feel.187 First, the Celtic nations, and then the world were sublimated into Sullivan’s grand tableau of English history, which had taken up the torch of greatness from the dying Roman Empire, and whose story culminated in global dominance. No doubt flattered, members of the royal family attended nineteen different performances of the ballet;188 The Era predicted it would be ‘immensely popular’189 and The Sun declared ‘Sullivan’s music the music for the people’.190 Containing as it did such popular anthems as Rule Britannia, no doubt the ballet met the people’s patriotic expectation no less than it met with Sullivan’s own goals. Alongside his nationalist project, Sullivan devoted himself to sacred work, pronouncing it to be ‘that on which I base my reputation as a composer’, and arguably, this work is an accompaniment to his patriotic works, given the heavy associations between British nationalism and Anglicanism that existed at the time.191 His most enduring work in this field was the new score he devised to revivify the hymn Onward Christian Soldiers, written by the Cornish squire and parson Sabine Baring-Gould, which is still popular today, and became extremely popular during the course of The Second Boer War (18991902). Its inclusion at the climactic moment of the new century’s New Year’s Day Service at the grand St. Mary’s Church in Bury St. Edmund’s – a noted ecclesiastical seat – drew in an ‘unusually large congregation’.192
Today, it is the Savoy Operas that are the basis for Sullivan’s reputation as a composer, but they are in need of reassessment. Although certainly light and comical, they were also celebrations of national or imperial life, drawn through the medium of tongue-incheek satire: as David Cannadine argues, they were ‘a paean of praise to national pride and the established social order’.193 That the comical nature of his work has endured and the imperial side gone out of focus is no surprise: jokes are always appreciated, whereas the political reality of the late nineteenth century is quite unlike that of today. This oversight leaves us with the risk of losing the main thread of a great composer’s work, even if its politics are now seen as questionable, the aesthetic value ought not to be undervalued.
187
S. Tillett, The Ballets of Sir Arthur Sullivan (London 1998), pp. 1-46. 188 Richards, Imperialism and Music: Britain 1876-1953, p. 31. 189 The Era, 28th May 1897. 190 The Sun, 26th May 1897. 191 A. Jacobs, Arthur Sullivan: A Victorian Musician (Aldershot, 1992), p. 223. 192 The Bury and Norwich Post, and Suffolk Standard, 2nd January, 1900.
193
Cannadine, ‘Gilbert and Sullivan: the Making and Unmaking of a British “Tradition”’, p. 19.
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The Mesolithic Period An archaeological study of North-Western Europe after the Ice Age Gonzalo Linares Matás adding an ‘important cognitive dimension’197 to the landscape. After the Ice Age, both the British Isles and Scandinavia experienced environmental changes that had a tremendous impact on their respective landscapes, such as modification of sea level198 and a northward alteration of distribution patterns of vegetables and animals,199 which led to some of them becoming extinct (such as the woolly rhinoceros or the mammoth). Moreover, the main ungulates of this period (such as red deer and roe deer) lacked a marked migratory behaviour.200 Considering all these changes, it is important to analyse the human response, because the subsistence economies of the hunter-gatherer groups of the Early Holocene (the Holocene is the current geological period, which started around 9700 BC) were drastically modified.201 Those groups repopulated large areas of Scandinavia and the British Isles from the south,202 quickly settling new landscapes and adapting them to their needs.203 At the forefront of human adaptation
This paper aims to give an approach to the nature and the main features of the Mesolithic period, focusing on the British Isles and southern Scandinavia, using them as a framework for both evaluating and explaining the similarities and differences observed in economy, society and material culture within one of the main periods of cultural change in Prehistory. The Mesolithic is the period between the Palaeolithic and the Neolithic. It is subdivided into Early Mesolithic (9600-7600 BC) and Late Mesolithic (7600-4000 BC).194 Despite sharing some common features, such as the predominance of microlithic technology in stone tool assemblages, the palaeoenvironmental and socio-cultural context make these two parts of the Mesolithic period different. The Mesolithic is a prehistoric period of great importance for the history of humankind, due to the great technological developments achieved. In fact, the Mesolithic is neither just the end of hunter-gatherers in Europe, nor the prelude to a Neolithic sociocultural lifestyle, but an important period of human development in its own right,195 that profoundly altered the pace of European prehistory. During this time, humans ceased pure exploitation of the natural world and began to integrate themselves within it,196
197
L. Larsson, 2003, ‘Land, water and symbolic aspects of the Mesolithic in southern Scandinavia’, Before farming, vol 4, no. 3, (2003), p. 1. 198 Ibid. pp. 1-5. 199 L. Straus, B. Eriksen, J. Erlandson, D. Yesner (eds.) ‘Humans at the end of the Ice Age: The archaeology of the Pleistocene-Holocene transition’, Plenum Press, (New York, 1996), p. 101. 200 S. Mithen, ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 86. 201 Straus et al., ‘Humans at the End of the Ice Age’, p. 125. 202 M. Nordin & P. Gustafsson ‘Unto a Good Land: Early Mesolithic Colonization of Eastern Central Sweden’, in A Larsson, L Papmehl-Dufay (eds.), Uniting sea II: Stone Age societies in the Baltic Sea region, OPIA 51, (2010), p. 97. 203 C. Conneller, N. Milner, B. Taylor & M. Taylor ‘Substancial settlement in the European Early
194
V. Gaffney, S. Fitch & D. Smith, Europe`s lost world: The rediscovery of Doggerland, Council of British Archaeology (York, 2009) p. 46. 195 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, in B Cunliffe (ed.), The Oxford Ilustrated History of European Prehistory (Oxford, 1994), p. 135. 196 Ibid. p. 81.
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was the creation of composite tools, which contained ‘small blade-based pieces known as microliths’204 (See Fig. 1).
landscape included the Boreal forest, which was characterised by a great range of species, such as hazel, oak and elm.210 In regards to art, parallel lines, filled with triangles and crossstrokes are frequent within this sub-period.211 Although some peculiarities are observed between sites (for example, at Star Carr bones were not usually employed for implements or weapons),212 in general, uniformity is predominant in all North-Western European Early Mesolithic sites.213 The fact that Great Britain until 5500 BC 214 was part of the continent can explain, at least in part, this cultural uniformity. However, in spite of this uniformity, local cultural facies also developed, showing regional landscape adaptation, including Horsham in Britain215 or Komsa in Scandinavia.216 Star Carr is one of the most important sites of this period in Great Britain and Europe. Located close to a post-glacial lake, it was linked to it by the only Mesolithic wooden pathway discovered in Europe to this day.217 The size of its faunal remains, despite being less numerous, is similar to Scandinavian samples.218
Fig. 1: Dryburgh microliths
The first relevant archaeological Mesolithic culture of Northern Europe is the Maglemose technocomplex. It developed during the Boreal stage (9500-7600 BC) coinciding with a warmer interstadial period, after the Piottino cooling.205 The technology was based mostly on single and opposed platform blade and flake cores.206 Extraordinary bone and antler toolkits appeared in combination of wooden artefacts in wellpreserved bog sites in Denmark.207 In North-Western Europe, this stage is characterised by oblique blunted points made of high quality grey/white local flint,208 like those found at Star Carr.209 The typical
210
Straus et al. ‘Humans at the end of the Ice Age’, p. 109. 211 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, pp. 108-110. 212 G. Clark ‘Excavations at the mesolithic site of Star Carr, Yorkshire, 1949-1950’, Archaeology, vol IV, no. 2, pp. 66-70, (1951), p. 69. 213 A. David, Palaeolithic and Mesolithic settlement in Wales, British Archaeological Reports, (Oxford, 2007), p. 55. 214 T. Darvill Prehistoric Britain, p. 39. 215 A. Woodcock, The nature of the Horsham Industry and its place within the British Mesolithic, Chichester City Museum, (Chichester, 1973), p. 19. 216 G. Clark, Mesolithic Settlement of Northern Europe, Greenwood Press (1936), p. 220. 217 P. Mellars, & P. Dark, ‘Star Carr in context’, pp. 213214. 218 A. Legge & P. Rowley-Conwy, Star Carr revisited, The Archaeological Laboratory, Birbeck College, (London, 1988), p. 10.
Mesolithic: new research at Star Carr’, Antiquity, no. 86 (2012), p. 1017. 204 T. Darvill, Prehistoric Britain, Routledge, (London, 1987), p. 39. 205 Straus et al. ‘Humans at the End of the Ice Age’, p. 135. 206 Ibid. p. 137. 207 M. Bell (ed.), Prehistoric coastal communities: The Mesolithic in western Britain, Council for British Archaeology (York, 2007), p. 125. 208 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, 90, 96; P.Mellars, & P. Dark, Star Carr in context, McDonald Institute monographs, Oxbow books, (Cambrigde, 1998), pp. 8384; P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, National Heritage Board Sweden (2003), p. 139. 209 P. Mellars, & P. Dark, ‘Star Carr in context’, p. 92.
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However, despite being one of the most in-depth sites investigated, after fifty years, much controversy is still present; it is not clear if the site was a base camp, because ‘all stages of flint knapping were carried out on the site’219 (See Fig. 2) or just a hunting camp, due to the under-representation of specific parts of animal carcasses.220 Moreover, its seasonality has not been yet clearly established either: G. Clark, the director of the first excavations, suggested the site to be a winter camp, whereas new zooarchaeological analysis indicates a summer occupation of the site.221 Regardless of the debate surrounding Star Carr, it is indisputable nowadays that the site holds great importance for the broadening of our knowledge of the Early Mesolithic in North-Western Europe.
(7500-6500). One of its main features is the development of the handle-core technology,222 a new technique that improved the fabrication of microliths. The process of cultural change during the North-Western European Mesolithic remains a delicate question. Nevertheless, the conjunction of a reduction of available land, an increase in population, the diversification of resource exploitation and the internal dynamics of Mesolithic societies223 undoubtedly contributed to the development of new technology and the appearance of new methods and survival strategies. Examples of those strategies, both in Scandinavia and Great Britain, are the colonisation of offshore islands (such as the Hebrides and the Isle of Man) and the evidence of the use of deep-sea fishing techniques and boats, which are still being found today, such as in the underwater site of Tybrind Vig, Denmark.224 As an overview of Mesolithic lifestyle, some features may be stressed: economically, the exploitation of both terrestrial (mainly meat, but also hazelnuts and other vegetables) and marine resources, which would have been fundamental in coastal and island sites such as the Isle of Man.225 The use of dogs, bows and arrows for hunting stands out,226 yet houses were built in a way that did not leave direct traces.227 Burials present rich grave goods and signs of funerary practices; 228 however, it is difficult to find direct evidence
Fig. 2: Selection of knapping tools (antler mattocks), flint tools (axes, scrapers, awls, flakes) and weapons (antler points, microliths) from the eighth-millennium BC campsite at Star Carr, North Yorkshire.
222
A. Olofsson, ‘Microblade technology in northern Sweden: Chronological and cultural implications’, Current Swedish Archaeology, vol 10, pp. 73-94, (2002), p. 81-85. 223 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, pp. 133-134. 224 Ibid. p. 106. 225 S. McCartan ‘The mesolithic in the Isle of Man’, Mesolithic Scotland and its neighbours, Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, (Edimbourgh, 2004), p. 281. 226 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, pp. 55-59. 227 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 105; P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 37. 228 Ibid. pp. 79, 122 resp.
The next main culture of Scandinavia, in archaeological terms, is named Kongemose 219
P.Mellars, & P. Dark, ‘Star Carr in context’, pp. 214217. 220 A. Legge & P. Rowley-Conwy, Star Carr revisited, p. 94. 221 Ibid. p. 38.
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for determining the nature of Mesolithic populations. Artistically, rhombi and contrasting carved lines in bone were predominant,229 contrasting with the previous Maglemose tradition of parallel lines. On the other hand, in Great Britain, hunting techniques changed faster. Contrasting the careful selection of prey visible in the site of Tagerup,230 the modification of seasonal migration behaviour of red and roe deer led to a new method of indiscriminate hunt: ‘shooton-sight’.231 This challenging situation was also dealt by Ertebolle societies in Scandinavia in the same way,232 though later in time. Other techniques were also employed, such as the addition of ‘redundant components to equipment’ and the use of traps.233 Finally, weapons were also adapted to this new hunting strategy,234 in order to improve its effectiveness as well as to ensure greater hunt success. Perhaps due to the inherent instability of the Mesolithic environment, Scandinavian sites registered a sudden depopulation between 5900-5500 BC.235 Once the Late Atlantic Transgression stabilised around 5400 BC,236 an intermediate period began between Earlier Kongemose and Later Ertebolle Mesolithic. This is visible in stone tool manufacture: despite still being made by an indirect
technique, blades had a bigger platform and therefore became wider and more robust.237 In England, however, some of the later industries of the Continent are not found.238 This could be an independent technological advancement that was developed due to the flooding of Doggerland in 5500 BC239 and the subsequent partial isolation of the British Isles. During the Late Mesolithic, the first examples of pottery appeared in Southern Scandinavia240 and even later, in Great Britain,241 suggesting a change in lifestyle. Local raw material was still used, but the quality of the flint worsened in both Scandinavia242 and Great Britain.243 This generalised phenomenon is not yet well explained. The exhaustion of the resource244 may be able to explain this situation in particular sites, although it seems improbable that all the high-quality flint sources of Scandinavia and Great Britain became exhausted immediately at the beginning of the Late Mesolithic. Coastal and riverside settlements during the Late Mesolithic in the British Isles frequently had a shell midden nearby (See Fig. 3). Examples of this are numerous and throughout Britain, most notably in the sites of Westward Ho! (Devon);245 Dyfed (South Wales),246 and Oronsay (Scotland).247 237
Ibid, p. 143. S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 96. 239 I. Ward, P. Larcombe & M. Lillie, ‘The dating of Doggerland: Post-glacial geochronology of the southern North Sea’, Environmental Archaeology, vol 12, no. 2, pp. 207-218 (2006), p. 214. 240 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, pp. 101-102. 241 T. Douglas Price, ‘The Mesolithic of Western Europe’, Journal of World Prehistory, vol 1, no. 3, pp. 3225-305, (1987), p. 282. 242 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 139. 243 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 90; P.Mellars, & P. Dark, ‘Star Carr in context’, p. 84. 244 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 90, P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 139. 245 T. Darvill Prehistoric Britain, p. 44. 246 A. David Palaeolithic and Mesolithic settlemet in Wales, pp. 192-194. 238
229
Ibid. p. 110. Ibid. p. 68. 231 M. Reyner, Early Mesolithic period in Britain: Origins, developments and directions, Archaeopress, (Oxford, 2005), p. 124. 232 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 189. 233 M. Reyner, Early Mesolithic period in Britain: Origins, developments and directions, pp. 124-125. 234 J. Eerkens, ‘Reliable and maintainable technologies: Artifact standarization and the Early to Later Mesolithic transition in Northern England’, Lithic Technology, vol 23, no. 1, (1998), p. 50. 235 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 130. 236 Ibid. p. 136. 230
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Furthermore, this is not exclusive to the British Isles: it also appears on Danish shores, dating from the Mid-late Ertebolle.248
from stone walls in Arctic Norway to mere post-holes in Traena, Finland as well as superpositioning of floors in Danish sites as Holmegaard IV.251 Estimated sizes range from huts of less than 25m2 to large houses of more than 50m2.252 The same can be applied to Britain, such as the extraordinary site of Mount Sandel, Ireland. 253 Due to increased territoriality caused by the progressive sedentarisation of late Mesolithic populations, the first graveyards were created (See figure 4).254 The archaeology of burials gives some new insights into the Mesolithic people and their personal circumstances: injuries from projectiles cannot be ignored, although it cannot be determined whether the injuries, some of them mortal, were caused by hunting accidents, by individual fights or by warfare. Grave goods range from few objects to large amounts of items. Attending to the distribution and variation of grave goods in relation to age and sex, social rank within Mesolithic communities seems to be achieved by personal success. However, there are also some child burials which cointain huge quantities of grave goods,255 suggesting that inherited social rank, although restricted,256 did exist. Thus, the archaeological evidence illustrates a complex socio-cultural organization of Mesolithic societies in both Scandinavia and Great Britain. One of the most remarkable aspects of the population of NorthWestern Europe during the Mesolithic period is the ability of Mesolithic groups in dealing successfully with a challenging climate in constant change.
Fig. 3: Idealised depiction of a late Mesolithic group living on a coastal shell midden.
Therefore, it seems that this is a common feature of most coastal Late Mesolithic settlements of North-Western Europe. It can be regarded as the result of a new way of using the resources available by Mesolithic groups, more evidence of their impressive adaptation within their environments. Apart from marine resources, hazelnuts were also fundamental in Mesolithic diet,249 due to their high energy content.250 Moreover, examples of Mesolithic buildings are found throughout Scandinavia, 247
P. Mellars, ‘Mesolithic Scotland, coastal occupation and the role of the Oronsay middens’, Mesolithic Scotland and its neighbours, Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, (Edimburgh, 2004), p. 175. 248 S. Andersen, ‘Danish Shell Middens reviewed’, in Mesolithic Scotland and its neighbours, Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, (Edinburgh, 2004), p. 401. 249 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 177; S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 109; D. Holst, ‘Eine einzige Nuss rappelt nicht im Sacke: Subsistenzstrategien in der Mittelsteinzeit’, Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Urgeschichte, no. 18 (2009), p. 11. 250 L. Snare, ‘Hazelnut production’, in Primefacts: Profitable & sustainable primary industries, no. 765, (2008), p. 2.
251
S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, pp. 103-105. P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 152-165. 253 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 103. 254 Ibid. p. 121. 255 P. Karsten & B. Knarrström, The Tagerup excavations, p. 196. 256 S. Mithen ‘The Mesolithic Age’, p. 125. 252
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Economically, hunting was the main activity. However, fishing and marine resources were especially important in coastal settlements, being its contribution to the diet increased through the Mesolithic in both areas,
material and in technology occurred mainly during the Late Mesolithic. Surprisingly, the change was towards a lower quality flint. It can be argued that the modification of mobility patterns prevents Mesolithic populations from accessing high-quality flint sources, yet the cultural factor should also be considered. To summarise, the level of complexity achieved by Mesolithic hunter-gatherer societies was greater than ever before in both Scandinavia and Britain, in terms of social and political organization, economy and culture. The diversification of their material culture may imply a diversification or specialisation in the range of activities that were undertaken. A change towards a more sedentary lifestyle was announced by the creation of cemeteries, the appearance of pottery and the evolution of dwellings (from circular to rectangular). The cognitive relationship between humans and their biological world was being gradually modified; consequently, the behavioural patterns of Mesolithic populations towards the biorhythm of plants and animals of their environments changed. The arrival of agriculture and farming societies – and with them, the Neolithic period – was only matter of time.
Fig. 4: Main Late Mesolithic cemeteries of Scandinavia and the British Isles.
and the role of gathering in Prehistory cannot be underestimated. Although the precise seasonality of the sites is still an unanswered question, it did exist; therefore, this combination of seasonal sedentarism and mobility suggests that Mesolithic populations had an in-depth knowledge of the great range of possibilities their natural environment could offer them. Typologically, a logical variation is perceived since the Early Mesolithic, although in both areas a synchronic change in raw
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The Problem of ‘Cousin Nicky’ The Role of King George V in Attempts to Secure Political Asylum for Tsar Nicholas II in Britain By Jonathan Barter The brutal murder of the Imperial Romanov family marked the definitive end for the dynasty that until March 1917 had ruled Russia for over three hundred years. The entire ordeal, which took ‘twenty minutes all together, because the children were slow to die’,257 occurred in the small hours of 17 July 1918, in the basement of Ipatiev House in the Russian city of Yekaterinburg. This brutal act destroyed any prospect of a return to Tsarist rule, an autocratic system which made Nicholas II, potentially, the most powerful monarch in Europe.258 Yet, this outcome could have arguably been entirely avoided had it not been for his cousin, Britain's King George V, who refused to grant the Romanovs political asylum in Britain which would no doubt have saved their lives. Although the actions of the King are significant, this study will dispute the argument this decision was primarily the result of a paranoid, politically astute monarch who was determined not to bring this historic institution into disrepute. The reasons behind this judgement, which were considered wholly out of character,259 are also important to explore. The inaction of the Russian government and diplomats, however, perhaps bear more responsibility than is often recognised. The roles of British ministers and practicalities of such an operation are also significant points to consider.
Nicholas II (left) and George V, in 1913
The personal connection between the two monarchs could not be disputed. The two were first cousins, their mothers being sisters, and their physical resemblance was striking. Both men stood around 5ft 7in and sported a distinguished beard and their bearded profile on gold roubles and sovereigns were indistinguishable.260 They were part of a large family unit ruling over three empires, the other being cousin ‘Willy’, or Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany. The bond between Nicholas and George however, was particularly significant and within British royal circles ‘Nicholas II
257
A. Marrow, Cousins Divided: George V and Nicholas II (Sutton Publishing, 2006), p. 201. 258 T. Aronson, Crowns in Conflict: The Triumph and Tradgedy of European Monarchy 1910-1918 (Salem House Publishers, 1986), p. 47. 259 K. Rose, King George V (Weidenfeld and Nicolson ltd. 1983), p. 215.
260
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was loved like a true brother’.261 From this perspective, therefore, the King's denial of the Tsar's safety is seemingly incomprehensible. Yet, their political perspectives shed more light on the situation. The nature of their reigns, on the other hand, could not have been more different. By 1905, the Tsar was technically a constitutional monarch, but the nature of his reign would be virtually unrecognisable to his British cousin. Although no law could be passed without consent of the Duma, the in-built conservative majority coupled with his constitutional right to dissolve this newly-formed parliament meant that he was not severely restricted by this elected body. He also retained his prerogative powers over defence and foreign policy. Ministers, meanwhile, were servants of the monarch, who was at liberty to appoint and dismiss them at will and to decide whether or not to heed their advice. In Britain, on the other hand, there would be no question of King George dictating the government's policy and the crown was subservient to ministers. Politically, therefore, George V was impotent,262 and the idea of the crown being an institution beyond party politics had become embedded in the British constitutional psyche. The constitutional position of the two monarchs illustrates the striking contrast between their perspective roles, yet both their positions were coming under increasing scrutiny, particularly as the effects of the First World War were felt by their subjects. Unlike their seemingly close personal relationship, their lives as fellow crowned heads were polar opposites. The chronology of events began once the Romanovs had been placed under arrest by the provisional government ‘as a precaution to
261 262
keep them safe’.263 Political asylum in Britain for the prisoners was sought almost immediately by the Russian foreign minister, Peter Milyukov. Such a request was by no means unusual in this situation, as can be seen with Kaiser Wilhelm’s exile to Holland following Germany's defeat in WWI in 1918. After discussions amongst the Prime Minister, David Lloyd George, and other senior figures, it was agreed that ‘the proposal...could not be refused’.264 This was despite Lloyd George's hostility to extending such an invitation as he ‘made no secret of his natural affinity with the starving Russian peasants’,265 rather than the imprisoned autocrats. Yet, mere days after the invitation had been extended to the Russian government, the King's private secretary Lord Stamfordham, expressed the sovereign’s doubts ‘on general grounds of expediency’.266 Further pressure from the crown was exerted upon ministers in the ensuing days, with Buchanan writing that ‘the residence in this country of the ex-Emperor and the Empress would be strongly resented by the public and would undoubtedly compromise the position of the King and Queen’.267 After a sustained bombardment268 on the part of both Buchanan and the King, the government capitulated and withdrew the initial invitation. It seems that the main reason the King reneged on this initial invitation focuses on his desire to preserve the monarchy as an institution, believing that offering sanctuary to his cousin would make his position untenable. It wasn't until 1983, with the release of Kenneth Rose's exhaustive study that dispelled 263
M. Carter The Three Emperors: Three Cousins, Three Empires and the Road to Ruin (Penguin Books, 2010), p. 468. 264 Ibid. 265 Marrow, Cousins Divided, p. 178. 266 A. Stamfordham quoted in Rose, King George V, p. 211. 267 Ibid. p. 212. 268 Rose, King George V, p. 213.
Ibid. p. 6. Aronson. Crowns in Conflict, p. 39.
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revival of republicanism’,274 Carter more convincingly asserts that in Britain there was ‘no answering surge of revolutionary republicanism’,275 despite the instances of industrial strife; such as factory workers in Coventry striking after being misinformed they were being conscripted. Although resentment was expressed in left-wing circles,276 wrongfully attributing the initial invitation of asylum to the King, such groups would no doubt express republican tendencies regardless of the situation and would not necessarily reflect more moderate, mainstream opinion. It is important to recognise that key political figures, such as Lloyd George, were devoted monarchists and if the Tsar's presence in England would have threatened the position of the crown they would never have agreed to taking him in the first place.277 The Russian government must bear the burden of responsibility for the events at Ipatiev House. Initial urgency to encourage Britain's cooperation was soon replaced with apparent apprehension, and once the offer had been extended, the government seemingly made no genuine effort to accept it. This delay eventually proved to be fatal.278 The government was also answerable to a discontented public, horrified at the thought of the Romanovs being evacuated and evading justice. The fact that the Russian government would be expected to fund such an operation merely compounded public resentment, meaning the government's hands were tied.279 The possibility of the Tsar seeking refuge in another neutral country was also rejected. It seems plausible that the former Empress,
the myth that ‘it was the King who strove to rescue his cousin from the perils of the Russian revolution, only to be thwarted by a heartless opportunist (the Prime Minister)’.269 To an extent these anxieties were understandable as there was a ‘growing sympathy in England for the revolutionaries wishing to end the Tsarist regime’.270 Britain was becoming an increasingly class-conscious society, as is illustrated by the growth of trade union movements and the emergence of the British Labour party. Anti-German sentiment was already rife in the country, given the ongoing war. The presence of the Tsarina, with her German heritage and supposed strong German sympathies, would have increased national tensions. The King himself was aware of this feeling to the extent whereby it was felt necessary to change the Royal family name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha to the more ‘English’ sounding surname, Windsor.271 Allied to this, the idea of Britain, a liberal democracy, offering a haven to a former autocrat responsible for what was often violent oppression of his people would be unpalatable to mainstream opinion and could have imperilled his own repute as a constitutional monarch.272 There was no apparent personal moral reason for George's refusal. George's father and predecessor, Edward VII, disapproved of the Tsar's autocratic outlook273 whereas his successor was more sympathetic to his cousin's form of government. It is debatable, however, what threat such a situation would pose to the position of the King. Although Aronson states that the King did indeed have to contend ‘with a
274
Aronson, Crowns in Conflict, p. 159. Carter, The Three Emperors, p. 472. 276 H. Nicolson, King George: His Life and Reign, 2nd Edition (Constable & Co. Ltd .1984), p. 301. 277 Carter, The Three Emperors, p. 473. 278 Rose, King George V, p. 211. 279 M. Khrustalev and M.D. Steinberg, The Fall of the Romanovs (Yale University Press, 1995), p. 120. 275
269
Ibid. p. 210. Marrow, Cousins Divided, p. 177. 271 Carter, The Three Emperors, p. 473. 272 Rose, King George V, p. 215. 273 C. Hibbert, Edward VII: A Portrait (Penguin Books. 1982), p. 261. 270
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Alexandra, expressed her desire to seek sanctuary in Denmark. There was a fear that such a move could leave the Romanovs vulnerable to capture by the German army who would return them to Russia at the head of a German-backed counter revolutionary force.280 Time was of the essence, and ‘with each passing week the government's grip on affairs was becoming shakier’281 and therefore the prospect of whisking the Tsar to British soil diminished. The government's agreement with the King's misgivings cannot be understated. As Rose notes, it ‘ensured that whatever else might happen to his Russian cousins, they should not set foot in England’.282 Yet, had it not been for the Russian government's inaction, the offer would still have been extended. The British foreign secretary himself stated following the King's initial reservations that he did not believe ‘it was now possible to withdraw the invitation’.283 The British government was sympathetic to the new provisional government and would no doubt wish to accommodate the wishes of its wartime ally. Key figures in the government such as Lloyd George and Arthur Balfour were unlikely to take the concerns of the crown too seriously should it contradict their own convictions. For instance, Balfour was naturally aloof to members of the crown, and saw no reason to try to halt the inevitable decline in monarchical power.284 The ambassador in Russia at the time, Sir George Buchanan, did little to enhance the chances of the Tsar being brought to Britain, instead
arguing that France may prove a more suitable place of exile.285 There is also considerable doubt as to whether such an operation could have been practically executed. Harold Nicolson questions that it was ‘doubtful... the escape of the Imperial family could have been
Nicholas II in 1917, after his abdication
contrived’.286 It is possible that the Tsar, being an intensely patriotic individual, may have refused to leave Russian soil, especially given his apparent inability to recognise the gravity of the situation. Yet it seems that his wish to receive passage to the northern port of Romanov implied an intention to leave for England even if it was only intended to be a temporary arrangement.287 Yet, many of the issues of practicalities can be related to the
280
Ibid. p. 119. Aronson, Crowns in Conflict, p. 160. 282 Rose, King George V, p. 214. 283 A. J. Balfour quoted in Rose, King George V, p. 211. 284 K. Young, Arthur James Balfour (G Bell and Sons ltd, 1963), p. 203. 281
285
Rose, King George V, p. 213. Nicolson, King George: His Life and Reign, p. 302. 287 Khrustalev and Sterinberg, The Fall of the Romanovs, p. 118. 286
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failings of the provisional government. As noted earlier, the provisional government's grip on affairs quickly became tenuous and it is likely that soldiers and workers would have prevented the Tsar's departure by force.288 A more urgent and concerted effort on the part of those in power to address the issue would no doubt have overcome these apparent difficulties. To conclude, although King George did impress the case against granting his cousin and the Imperial family a safe haven in Britain at a time when they were in grave danger, the Russian government's passivity must bear the heaviest burden of responsibility. The King's reasons against the proposal were understandable but largely unfounded. Although his actions played a crucial role in the eventual failure of the events to materialise it is doubtful whether the King had personally deprived the Imperial family of perhaps their only means of escape.289 The Russian government's weakness and failure to act made the safe passage of the Tsar impossible. But for their anxieties of the family being captured by the Germans, they could perhaps have been quickly dispatched to a neutral country. There can also be no doubt that if British ministers firmly believed that such a scenario would pose a threat to the crown, the prospect of the Tsar living in Britain would never have been entertained in the first place. Ministers and diplomats could not be expected to actively pursue receiving the Tsar, as it was up to the Russian government to not only fund but also to carry out the difficult task. Their failure to do so eventually proved fateful for the Romanov family and the future of Russia.
288 289
Nicolson, King George: His Life and Reign, p. 302. Rose, King George V, p. 215.
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African American History (HIH2209B) A Review of a Second-Year Option Module By Carolin Wefer This second-year module does not approach African American History in the way that most of us would expect. Instead of beginning with the familiar narrative of the Civil Rights Movement and Black Power, this module goes further back in time. It starts off with the Atlantic slave trade, describing the beginning of slavery in North America. The module examines the history of slavery and slave culture and discusses the impact of important events such as the American Revolution and the American Civil War. A large part of the analysis focuses on the aspects of repression and resistance throughout African American history; the struggles during the Reconstruction period, lynching, and eventually the Civil Rights movement. Beyond that, the module also touches upon subjects that might not be immediately familiar to students of African American history, such as the interwar years, African Americans in the military, or the Harlem Renaissance. The course consists of two one-hour lectures and one two-hour seminar a week. The lectures are very informative and feature extensive PowerPoint slides. These will be complemented by film sessions which give an interesting take on the topic, consisting for example of slave narratives enacted by some of today’s famous actors. Each seminar features source discussions and the assessment of the course is a 3,000-word formative essay, a 30minute presentation, and a 2-hour seen exam. The presentations are a crucial part of the
Seminars, with such topics as; Images of Lynching, Images of Civil Rights, African American Music, and African American Speeches. You will be asked to prepare the presentations independently, to decide on both sources and structure, and to incorporate innovative elements. During the seminars you will be encouraged to participate and debate, and to engage with the sources and the historical context. Ultimately, this course, as for many others, is as engaging as you make it. If you have read and prepared the sources and are willing to participate, this course will be interesting for you. Preparation, a good structure, and a talent to interact with the audience are very important for the presentation, as these are the most challenging part of the module. The topics which are most rewarding are clearly the ones which go beyond the familiar approach to African American History. The Harlem Renaissance gives you insights into new African American cultural expressions at that time, which manifested themselves in music, writing, and art. The slave narratives film session is a great alternative to examining written sources. The fact that modern actors act out the narratives, makes them more powerful and thus more interesting. Therefore, the rather unfamiliar topics will let you take away interesting information and new insights. All in all, this is an informative second-year module for all students interested in African American and social history.
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