BLOXHAM-Why History. A History

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Why History?
Why History?
A History
D O NA L D B L OX HA M
1
1
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For Cordelia, Yasmin, and Zahra

Preface
With a young family I took this project on at entirely the wrong time, so my
apologies, as well as my greatest debts of gratitude, are owed to three Beatties:
Cordelia, Yasmin, and Zahra. For helpful discussions and references I thank Zubin
Mistry, David Patterson, Natasha Wheatley, Tom Brown, Reinbert A. Krol, Thomas
Ahnert, and Bill Aird. For the same things, and for their time and effort in reading
and commenting on one or more chapters I thank Douglas Cairns, Felicity Green,
Adam Fox, Lucy Grig, Jürgen Matthäus, Louise Jackson, Jane Caplan, Stephan
Malinowski, Martin Shuster, Cordelia (again), Chris Given-Wilson, Fabian Hilfrich,
Guy Halsall, Rick Sowerby, Michael Bentley, David Laven, and Colin Richmond.
Steve Rigby read the entire manuscript with the most helpful rigour and generosity
of intellectual spirit.
Contents
Introduction1
On ‘Modern Historical Consciousness’ 1
Continuity and Change in Justifications for History 9
1. Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 16
Introduction16
Genealogy, Ethnography, and Historical Consciousness 19
Rhetoric, Purpose, Truth 25
Useful and Pleasurable History 29
From Greek to Roman Historiography 33
Philosophy, Poetry, History: A Greek in Rome 35
Roman Historiography in the Late Republic 38
History under Monarchy 39
Pre- and Anti-Christian Influences 43
2. History, Faith, Fortuna45
Introduction45
Classical–Christian Fusion 45
Christianity and Judaism 47
Early Christian Historiography 50
Christian Philosophy of History 53
On Causation: Determinism and Human Agency 58
3. The ‘Middle Age’ 62
Introduction62
Annals and Ancestry 63
Exemplarity, Allegory, and the Presence of the Past 71
Periodization and the Conceptualization of Change 77
Theology, Religious Hermeneutics, and History as Communion 84
Socio-Economic Change and the Function of Genealogies 95
History and Developments in Political Identity 99
‘Others’ Present and Past 101
4. Renaissances and Reformations 105
Introduction105
Re-Encounters108
Romans, Greeks, Goths 111
Developments in Source Criticism? 115
Changed Circumstances, Contested Purposes 117
The Return of Similitudo Temporum124
x Contents
Sixteenth-Century French Historiography 126

Modern Contextualization? 132
Montaigne134
Church, State, and Historianship: A Comparative Perspective 136
Ecclesiastical History and Source Criticism 138
History in the Scientific Seventeenth Century 145
5. Society, Nature, Emancipation 154
Introduction154
Prelude: Bolingbroke and Vico 157
The French Enlightenment 161
The Scottish Enlightenment 166
The German Enlightenment and Early Romanticism 169
Hegel178
Marx184
6. Nationalism, Historicism, Crisis 191
Introduction191
Nationalism, Romanticism, Whiggery 194
Historicism and Developmental Thought 203
Alternatives to the Dominant German Model in the 1860s 216
Reactions to Historicism 219
New Philosophies of Historical ‘Neutrality’ from the Later
Nineteenth Century 229
‘Progressive’ History 238
The Decline of Historicism and the Rise of German Social History 240
7. Turns to the Present 246
Introduction246
Structures and Superstructures 248
Structures and Events 257
From Interwar to Post-War 262
Social History, Sociology, Modernization 264
Social History, Experience, Identity 271
Language and Culture 278
Theory and History 291
New New Histories 297
8. Justifying History Today 304
Introduction304
History as Speculative Philosophy 305
History as Method 307
Knowledge and Human Interests 312
History as Practical Lesson 314
History as Moral Lesson 321
History as Travel, History as Tolerance? 322
History as Therapy 328
Contents xi
Varieties of Emancipatory History 330

History as Emancipation III 333
History as Emancipation II 337
History as Emancipation I 341
History as Identity 350
Bibliography of Works Cited 359

Index 389
Introduction
On ‘Modern Historical Consciousness’
The nineteenth-century French historian N. D. Fustel de Coulanges wrote that in

order to relive a bygone epoch one must try to bracket all knowledge of what
came subsequently. A classical education was misleading insofar as it rendered
Greeks and Romans all-too-familiar. ‘We have some difficulty in considering
them as foreign nations . . . Hence spring many errors. We rarely fail to deceive
ourselves regarding these ancient nations when we see them through the opin-
ions and facts of our own time.’ Best ‘to study them without thinking of ourselves,
as if they were entirely foreign to us; with the same disinterestedness, and with the
mind as free, as if we were studying ancient India or Arabia.’1
Fustel cogitated on foreign worlds past around ninety years before L. P. Hartley’s
The Go-Between. For Hartley’s narrator in 1952 the decades from childhood at the
turn of the century, ‘the most changeful half a century in history’, separated the
present from the ‘foreign country’ of the past. As we know from the novel’s
famous opening line, in the past ‘they do things differently’. Ultimately, though,
The Go-Between concerned the relationship between present and past. For his
part, Fustel also wrote that ‘the past never completely dies for man. Man may
forget it, but he always preserves it within him. For, take him at any epoch, and he
is the product, the epitome, of all the earlier epochs. Let him look into his own
soul, and he can find and distinguish these different epochs by what each has left
within him.’2
So Fustel provided manifestos for two different sorts of historical enquiry—
two different answers to the ‘why History’ question with which this book is occu-
pied. (Throughout, uppercase History denotes the discipline of studying the past,
or works of such study, while lowercase history, historical, etc., refer to the past.)
One was an empathetic examination of different, almost self-enclosed worlds
past. This is the sort of thing medievalists get at when they invoke the ‘otherness’
or ‘alterity’ of the Middle Ages. The second was a study into relations between
now and then, asking what the historian Arnold Toynbee later took to be the
1 N. D. Fustel de Coulanges, The Ancient City (Kitchener, ON: Batoche, 2001 [orig. 1864]), 5–6.
2 Ibid. 8; L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between (New York: New York Review Books, 2002 [orig. 1953]),
17, 313.
2 Why History?
historian’s ‘elemental question’: ‘How has this come out of that?’3 Insofar as this
book makes no effort to forget what came afterwards in the study of any given
historical ‘epoch’, perhaps it contravenes the spirit of Fustel’s first sort of enquiry.
Then again, perhaps he set an unnecessarily exacting standard. There is no
contradiction between trying to take the inhabitants of a long and diverse past ‘on
their own terms’ while also seeking to comprehend how their thoughts and
actions contributed to changes that affected other, later inhabitants. Nor is there
any reason that different approaches cannot be accommodated in the same book.
In combining the two approaches it becomes impossible to separate the elem
ents of this enquiry that might be said to be of purely intrinsic interest from those
that are of more utilitarian concern. When contemplating what of the past
remains and what has been lost along the way, one is casting light, directly or
indirectly, on the present. This can be done in such a way as to strew petals down
the royal road to the here and now, or to show how fortuitous were the twists and
turns of that route to the present, or to subject the present to critical scrutiny.
The present work surveys the development of historical thinking within the
baggy, porous, and influential ‘western tradition’. Its aims are to understand how
earlier students of the past justified what they did and also to illustrate the func-
tions of what they did, whether or not they recognized those functions. The study
concludes with a lengthy critical reflection on History’s purposes and functions
today. The book does not seek to provide a comprehensive history of the evolu-
tion of the discipline over three thousand years. It does have to probe aspects of
that general evolution to varying depths, but only insofar as is necessary for
explaining the historical evolution of answers to the questions of what History is
for, and why History matters.
Which aspects of the mainstream are relevant? On the whole, Histories of the
discipline of History have emphasized the changes that have occurred between
epochs, and two related sets of changes have preoccupied the lion’s share of
attention. One is in the area of technique and critical discernment. The other
concerns changes culminating in what is sometimes called ‘modern historical
consciousness’, which in this context means the idea that the past is wholly past,
significantly different to the present, a foreign country with its own particular
ways of knowing, being, doing, and valuing—a foreign country towards which
the historian needs a mode of comportment different to any that she adopts
toward the present.
None of this terrain is free from interpretative conflict, and what follows in
this introduction is but a taste of the fine scholarship that has joined battle.
Some historians trace the roots of a particularly ‘modern’ critical-contextual style
of his
toric al thought to the secularization of theological exegesis, others to
3 Arnold J. Toynbee, A Study of History, abridgement of vols. VII–X ed. Robert Somervell (Oxford:
Oxford University Press 1985), 353.
Introduction 3
eighteenth-century aesthetic theory.4 One sees ‘Copernican’ significance in the

fourteenth-century poet Petrarch’s sense of the past’s difference, then locates the
birth of the idea of anachronism in the later Renaissance period and its traditions
of reading and seeing, while arguing that this idea is not incorporated fully into
historical depiction until the Enlightenment of Montesquieu.5 Some find ‘the
first traces of a critical historical method’ and an associated ‘historicism’ in
Guiccardini’s sixteenth-century oeuvre. The significance of the French jurist,
philosopher, and historian Jean Bodin (1530–96), and the ‘French school’ of
legal-historical exegesis to which his work is indebted, is widely acknowledged in
many accounts.6 Others detect a ‘historical consciousness’ in the Islamic philoso
pher Ibn Khaldūn the century before and—in Europe—in the Italian philosopher
Giambattista Vico only more than a century after.7 A historically minded philoso
pher sees Machiavelli’s moment and the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-
century period as two significant steps in approximately the same direction: the
‘sublime’ dissociation of the past from the present in light of ruptures that upset
any sense of historical continuity.8 Intellectual historian Reinhart Koselleck’s
work on the advent and protean nature of modern ‘historical consciousness’ char-
acterizes it as a perception in which the future was open-ended, thus not foretold
by any religious eschatology, yet expected to be markedly different from the pre-
sent just as the present was different to the past. Koselleck arrives at 1850 as the
time, roughly speaking, when the new frame of mind had fully crystallized. He
sees the shift from previous conceptions of time occurring in the generations
4 Amos Funkenstein, Theology and the Scientific Imagination from the Middle Ages to the
Seventeenth Century (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), part IV and the wider range of
Funkenstein’s work discussed in Samuel Moyn, ‘Amos Funkenstein on the Theological Origins of
Historicism’, in Robert S. Westman and David Biale (eds.), Thinking Impossibilities: The Intellectual
Legacies of Amos Funkenstein (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), 142–66; Allan Megill,
‘Aesthetic Theory and Historical Consciousness in the Eighteenth Century’, History and Theory
17 (1978), 29–62.
5 Zachary Sayre Schiffman, The Birth of the Past (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2011),
144 ff.. Some of this draws on Peter Burke, The Renaissance Sense of the Past (London: Arnold, 1969).
Further on classic examinations of the innovations of the Quattocentro in terms of conceptualizing
the past, see the literature invoked in Gary Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science: The History of the
Future’, I Tatti Studies in the Italian Renaissance, 4 (1991), 59–88, here 59.
6 On Guiccardini, Jacques Bos, ‘Renaissance Historiography: Framing a New Mode of Historical
Experience’, in Rens Bod, Jaap Maat, and Thijs Weststeijn (eds.), The Making of the Humanities, 2 vols
(Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010 and 2012), vol. 1, 351–65, here 362; on Bodin,
Robert A. Nisbet, History of the Idea of Progress (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 2009), 119–24;
J. Samuel Preus, Explaining Religion: Criticism and Theory from Bodin to Freud (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1996); also Schiffman, Birth, 183 ff. As to sixteenth-century France, see
Donald R. Kelley, Foundations of Modern Historical Scholarship: Language, Law, and History in the
French Renaissance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970); Claude-Gilbert Dubois, La
Conception de l’histoire en France au XVIe siècle (Paris: Nizet, 1977); Zachary Sayre Schiffman, On the
Threshold of Modernity: Relativism in the French Renaissance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1991).
7 Bradley Nelson Seidel, ‘Giambattista Vico and the Emergence of Historical Consciousness’
(Marquette University: PhD thesis, 1996).
8 Frank Ankersmit, Sublime Historical Experience (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005).
4 Why History?
either side of the French Revolution’s destruction of the ancien régime, and also
as a result of industrialization and technological development.9 With regard to
that nineteenth-century context, another historian has identified a ‘new’ interest
in older, written sources, as opposed to eyewitness accounts. He sees that devel-
opment as commensurate with a shift away from the time-honoured tradition of
History as contemporary History—but yet another historian sees the same shift
occurring in Italian historianship of the fifteenth century.10
Historical events loom large in many explanations for shifting conceptualiza-
tions of the relation of past to present, but events are so many and various that we
cannot look for much consensus there. The French Revolution was surely signifi-
cant, but changes in historical thought were encouraged inter alia by: the Greco-
Persian and Peloponnesian wars; the rise and fall of the western Roman empire;
the Norman conquest of large parts of Britain; the withdrawal of the Holy Roman
Empire from the Italian peninsula; what Guicciardini called le calamità d’Italia in
the late fifteenth century; the Reformation and its theological and political after-
maths; nineteenth-century nation-state-building and industrialization; the World
Wars; and decolonization. These and many more instances, often of upheaval and
antagonism, have left their mark on conceptions of the present’s relationship to
the past, and thus on conceptualizations of the point of History.11 So, too, have
cross-cultural encounters of the sort that led the seventeenth-century philoso
pher René Descartes to compare foreign journeys to ‘living in the company of
the men of other times’.12 From Herodotus to Herder via ‘Marco Polo’ and
Montesquieu, other ways of life have been revealed, expanding the conceptual-
ization of human difference across space and by extension time. The most
self-serving and exploitative such instances include the invasion of the Americas,
a.k.a the ‘new world’ as opposed to the Eurasian and southern Mediterranean
‘old’ one, but despite the attention lavished on that encounter, akin to the focus on
the impact of the French Revolution, it was just one in a series of salient events. At
the other end of the spectrum encounters have been more like awkward family
reunions, as when Latin Christendom became more extensively reacquainted
with certain ancient Greek traditions of thought and a tranche of classical histori-
anship from the late fourteenth century.
Even on the more purely technical front it is very difficult to establish which
of very many rich accounts most merits credence. The ancient Greek historian
9 Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time (New York: Columbia
University Press, 2004).
10 Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 64–5; cf. Jaap den Hollander, ‘Beyond Historicism: From
Leibniz to Luhman’, Journal of the Philosophy of History 4 (2010) 210–25, here 220–1.
11 On some of these moments, see Daniel Woolf, ‘From Hystories to the Historical’, in Paulina
Kewes (ed.), The Uses of History in Early Modern England (San Marino, CA: Huntington Library,
2006), 31–68, here 35–6.
12 René Descartes, Discourse on Method, trans. Andrew Wollaston (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1960), 40.
Introduction 5
Polybius wrote that each later historian ‘makes such a parade of minute accuracy,
and inveighs so bitterly when refuting others, that people come to imagine that all
other historians have been mere dreamers . . . and that he is the only man who
has made accurate investigations, and unravelled every account with intelligence’.
The British historian of the classical world J. B. Bury credited Polybius’s predeces-
sors with being the first to apply genuine criticism to historical evidence. The
nineteenth-century ‘Whig’ historian E. A. Freeman, however, found the twelfth-
century William of Malmesbury to be the first properly critical historian—the
sort of claim that has fallen out of fashion recently.13 Renaissance historian
Gary Ianziti claims a Copernican Revolution (analogies to scientific revolutions
being popular in historiographical periodization) in source criticism in the work
of fifteenth-century scholars like Lorenzo Valla and Flavio Biondo.14 Anthony
Grafton sees sixteenth-century historiographical disputes as comprising the
forgotten crucible of much of the inheritance of the later professionalized
discipline.15
Whatever the diversity of modern historiography, the most influential accounts
of how the discipline got to where it is today are anchored in a conception of a
cultural modernity that emerged in the sixteenth or seventeenth century and
found its apotheosis in the nineteenth century. Sometimes such accounts draw on
a symmetry of classical and/or patristic (early Christian) scholarship on one side
and humanist-influenced History on the other.16 Both tendencies have a great
deal going for them, but they share an absence, or at least a much diminished,
often caricatured presence: the ‘medieval’. In the first set of accounts, the medieval
world is that from which modernity has departed. In the second set the medieval is
the absent point around which the symmetry is forged.
In exemplification of the first tendency, consider Koselleck’s virtuoso accounts
of the development in the early modern period of a ‘new quality’ of ‘historical
time’. He also dubs this novelty ‘a temporalization [Verzeitlichung] of history’ as
opposed to the supposedly ‘achronological’ character of prior historical thought.17
His insights on trends of thought between roughly 1500 and 1850 are less relevant
13 Frederick J. Teggart, Theory and Processes of History (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1962), 12–14.
14 Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 65.
15 Anthony Grafton, What was History? The Art of History in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2007).
16 Dimitri Levitin captures the richness of the more recent of the two symmetries, and includes
most of the relevant references: Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion: Paganism,
Judaism, and Christianity in European Historiography from Reformation to “Enlightenment”’, The
Historical Journal 55:4 (2012), 1117–60. Burke, The Renaissance Sense of the Past, creates a symmetry
between Roman and Renaissance historiography. Anthony Grafton and Megan Williams, Christianity
and the Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2006), Coda, considers relations between Renaissance palaeography and
Hebraism and patristic scholarship. The title of Arnaldo Momigliano’s Classical Foundations of
Modern Historiography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), is self-explanatory.
17 Koselleck, Futures Past, 10, 11.
6 Why History?
here than his characterization of what went before, notably his conception of the
relationship between ‘the’ medieval sense of time and theologically influenced
Christian philosophies of the historical process. Now Koselleck is writing on a
grand scale, so large generalizations are inevitable, but his generalization tends
towards caricature. Thus what is first described in one of his essays as ‘the history
of Christianity’ becomes two pages later the History of ‘the Church’, as if these
were co-extensive.18 Even the former usage is ambivalent between the history of
Christianity understood as ways of conceiving the historical process within
Christian civilization or as an account of that civilization itself. One suspects the
latter: we learn that Guicciardini’s insights stem from his being ‘in Italy, the land
where modern politics originated’, as if the practice of modern politics were
coterminous with the sort of political theory that Machiavelli and others have
some claim to have founded. For our nascent moderns, ‘Weighing the probability
of forthcoming or nonoccurring events in the first instance eliminated a concep-
tion of the future taken for granted by religious factions: the certainty that the
Last Judgment would enforce a simple alternative between Good and Evil through
the establishment of a single principle of behavior’. From this we can only infer
that prior to Koselleck’s chosen point in time, political leaders did not think about
issues of probability in deciding on their action, that they could not distinguish
between long-term prognoses and immediate situations, and so forth. Koselleck
tells us that ‘Prognosis produces the time within which and out of which it weaves,
whereas apocalyptic prophecy destroys time through its fixation on the End.
From the point of view of prophecy, events are merely symbols of that which is
already known.’19 Only post-medievals are apparently aware of the importance of
‘foresight’, as if, say, the thirteenth-century Dominican friar Thomas Aquinas had
not thought long and hard on ‘prudence’, or that one should be prepared for ‘sur-
prise’, with its implications of contingency planning.20 There is a sense of a fine
mind getting carried away by the logic of its own arguments when Koselleck sug-
gests that various calculations of Frederick the Great around the First Partition of
18 Ibid. 11, 13. 19 Ibid. 18, 19.

20 Ibid. Cf. Aquinas: ‘The knowledge of singulars pertains to the perfection of the intellective soul,
not in speculative knowledge, but in practical knowledge, which is imperfect without the knowledge
of singulars, in which operations exist . . . Hence for prudence are required the remembrance of past
things, knowledge of present things, and foresight of future things.’ Thomas Aquinas, Summa
Theologica (Raleigh, NC: Hayes Barton Press, 2006), 3790. Koselleck is obviously aware of some of the
relevant literature on gestae (deeds) and events because he cites a few medieval instances in another
important essay (Futures Past, 26–42), though again to illustrate the differences between medieval
senses of continuity and modern senses of change, whereas the material could be used against the
arguments cited in the main text here. Not only am I not convinced that some at least of the medieval
justifications for exemplar History are so very different to the justifications for history suggested at the
end of Koselleck’s essay by ‘moderns’ like Theodor Mommsen and Henry Adams (Futures Past, 41–2),
this literature clearly shows that ‘events’ could be used in medieval historical thought in a way other
than in symbolic relationship to prophecy. See the discussions in Chapter 3 below.
Introduction 7
Poland were ‘clearly possible only in a particular historical situation’. Unless that
statement is pure tautology, in which Frederick’s actions are to be defined in terms
of the precise situation against which he was reacting, it is a negative generaliza-
tion which is not tested against any actions from the vast tracts of time outside of
that ‘situation’. Only one counter-case would be needed to falsify it, but counter-
cases from outside the time in question are absent. Even when Koselleck rather
erases some of the distinctions that he has himself forcibly made—‘the distance
separating the early modern political consciousness of time from that of Christian
eschatology was nowhere near as great as it might seem’—the reductive associ
ation of medieval political consciousness with ‘Christian eschatology’ remains.21
Koselleck has no monopoly on such characterizations.22 Even those like the
medievalist Bernard Gunée who have protested in ‘defence’ of the medieval, and
the historian of the Renaissance Peter Burke who has somewhat revised his influ-
ential views in light of such accounts, have ended up saying something to the
effect that the medievals had their own historical sense—one that was historical
in some meaningful fashion, but nonetheless different to Renaissance or high
modern senses. This represents a conceptual advance, and after all one does not
want to pretend that nothing changed across time, because a great deal did. But
we still end up with a sort of relativism that maintains the hard periodizations
already established and with them a misleading concept of different historical
‘epochs’ each with corresponding, discrete outlooks on the past.23
21 Koselleck, Futures Past, 20, 21. See also Koselleck, The Practice of Conceptual History: Timing
History, Spacing Concepts (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002), 111–12, and Koselleck
‘Begriffsgeschichtliche Anmerkungen zur “Zeitgeschichte”’, in Victor Conzemius, Martin Greschat,
and Hermann Kocher (eds.), Die Zeit nach 1945 als Thema kirchlicher Zeitgeschichte (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 17–31.
22 Hanan Yoran, ‘Florentine Civic Humanism and the Emergence of Modern Ideology’, History and
Theory 46 (October 2007), 326–44, also deploys the generic ‘medieval’ to perform the work of con-
trast, even as he ultimately recognizes the significance of a distinctly medieval trend—nominalist
philosophy—in preparing the ground for what he sees as humanism’s break with this medieval. Nor
do I have any monopoly on contesting such characterizations. See for instance Judith Pollmann,
Memory in Early Modern Europe, 1500–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), who on pp. 9–10
takes issue with Koselleck and others whose position is relevantly similar to his. My own analysis and
accompanying corrective goes further back than Pollmann’s.
23 And this despite the evidence unearthed by the likes of Gunée that shows commonalities as well
as differences across time: Bernard Gunée, ‘Y a-t-il une historiographie médiévale?’, Revue Historique
258 (1977), 261–75. For Burke’s latter-day position which concurs with medievalist R. W. Southern
that medievals had a sense of the past, one which was then replaced by a different such sense, see his
‘The Sense of Anachronism from Petrarch to Poussin’, in Chris Humphrey and W. M. Ormrod (eds.),
Time in the Medieval World (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 2001), 157–73, here 162. (Southern’s
piece is ‘Sense of the Past’.) Compare this to Burke’s 1969 pronouncement (Renaissance Sense, 1) that
‘during the whole millennium 400–1400, there was no “sense of history” even among the educated’.
On the evolution of Burke’s thought, see Margreta de Grazia, ‘Anachronism’, in Brian Cummings and
James Simpson (eds.), Cultural Reformations: Medieval and Renaissance in Literary History (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2010), 13–32, here 27.
8 Why History?
Now the table of contents may suggest that at certain points this book has
replicated a version of the epochal schema just criticized, but examination of the
text itself will show merely that some familiar placeholders have been deployed
in order to break down the account into digestible chunks. While a broadly
chronological development underpins the volume’s structure, cleaving to calen-
drical markers too rigorously would seriously blunt the argument. One reasons
that is so is that some issues simply do retain their relevance for long periods;
such themes are elaborated in the second part of this introduction. Another rea-
son is that the moment of the translation and reception of certain ideas in certain
places is often separated from the moment of their production in other places.
There is a great deal of ‘cross-hatching’ between the ‘horizontal’ chronological
arrangement of the chapters and the ‘vertical’ themes.
Amongst other things, this book attempts a new way to relate ‘the medieval’ to
what went before and after. The purpose of the operation follows both of Fustel’s
lines. ‘Medieval’ and other instances of historical scholarship are placed in what-
ever are held to be the salient contexts of their writing at different junctures, in
the attempt to ‘do justice to them’ by their own standards and according to their
own purposes. But the aim is also to try to blur the distinctions between ‘ancient’,
‘medieval’, and ‘modern’ by illustrating powerful continuities as well as changes in
historical thinking. This is an especially important task in relationship to the
medieval and the modern because these two ‘epochs’ still stand as interdefined
‘others’, mutually constituted opposites.
One way of deconstructing the medieval–modern opposition is to trace the
presence of some allegedly modern thought in the heart of the medieval ‘other’,
whether that thought originated in the Middle Ages or was merely sustained or
enhanced therein. Another way is to press the narrative of change forward well
beyond whenever the medieval period is held to have ended. The coming con-
templation of the development of ‘modern’ historical thought moves beyond even
the concluding points that most detect in the eighteenth and especially nineteenth
century and stretches the issue right up to, and through, the present. Looking
backwards, alongside significant departures, some enduring conceptions may be
traced back to the beginning of the western historiographical tradition. Along the
way from that beginning to the present, newer justifications for History have only
overlain their predecessors without always superseding them. We would do well
to appreciate this when we talk about ‘modern historical consciousness’. It will
help us to understand the ongoing tensions elaborated in the final chapter in the
way ‘we’ orient ourselves towards the past today.
The matter is more than a purely scholarly debate. It is not only scholars who
are interested in the past, and History, as in the pursuit of reflection on the past,
has a correspondingly significant social role to play. In social affairs evidence
from the past is an important element in guessing at the social future, and atti-
tudes to the past much of what we have in prescribing for the future.
Introduction 9
Continuity and Change in Justifications for History
Judging by the historical scholarship that has survived, ancient Greek historians
had at least eight justifications for History at their disposal. Most if not all of those
were available from the very outset of Greek prose History in the ‘Classical
Period’, the fifth and fourth centuries bce.24 The justifications appear here in no
order of priority.
One was recreational, with an emphasis on evoking the romance and drama of
the past through the performative tradition. This will be referred to as ‘History as
Entertainment’. As a justification it is partly substantivist, meaning that entertain-
ment depends on the content of the past described, and partly formalist, in the
sense that a tale requires authorial skill in organization or ‘emplotment’. A vital
element is enargeia, in Latin evidentia. Whatever connotations ‘evidence’ has now,
enargeia referred then to vividness of depiction, the capacity to evoke audience
feelings appropriate to the event under representation. If this History is not
already being performed theatrically then the objective for the writer is to try to
render readers or listeners into spectators. Enargeia ‘is in the verbal realm the
counterpart of verisimilitude in the visual arts’.25
A second justification appears in Herodotus’s opening lines and again blends
substantivism and formalism. His aim was ‘preserving from decay the remem-
brance of what men have done, and of preventing the great and wonderful actions
of the Greeks and the Barbarians from losing their due meed of glory; and withal
to put on record what were their grounds of feud’. This justification is dubbed
‘History as Memorialization’.
A third justification lies in much of Herodotus’s subject matter and is more
wholly substantivist. He is a founder member of an enduring tradition of study-
ing other cultures in such a way that, as the poet G. K. Chesterton put it, one may
finally ‘set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land’.26 The project may be fur-
thered by travel back in time as well as across place. The label for this justification
is ‘History as Travel’.
A fourth justification is equally substantivist. It is present in Polybius
(c.200–c.118 bce), who wrote in what is today called the Hellenistic period, which
succeeded the Classical period, but it is there in Herodotus too. It involves tracing
24 François Bédarida, ‘The Modern Historian’s Dilemma: Conflicting Pressures from Science and
Society’, Economic History Review, 2nd ser. XL:3 (1987), 335–48, here 340, mentions three. I take those
and add some more.
25 Andrew D. Walker, ‘Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography’, Transactions of the
American Philological Association 123 (1993), 353–77, here 358; Stefania Tutino, Shadows of Doubt:
Language and Truth in Post-Reformation Catholic Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014)
67–8. On theatricality, Gregory Nagy, Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond (Cambridge:
26 G. K. Chesterton, ‘The Riddle of the Ivy’, Tremendous Trifles (London: Methuen, 1909), 203–10,
here 204.
10 Why History?
large-scale developments but also seeks to identify an underlying historical

process that sweeps all superficial historical developments in some direction. If
such a process does exist, is it linear, cyclical, spiralling, etcetera? Finally, and this
question is especially important in Judeo-Christian historical thought, is there
any meaning to the process? This modality of History is ‘History as Speculative
Philosophy’.
The fifth and sixth justifications are both matters of ‘philosophy teaching by
examples’, in words once attributed to Dionysius of Halicarnassus (60–7 bce). The
real author of the expression attributed its gist to Thucydides.27 The substance of
the historical record was again vital. In a stronger version the past was mined for
discrete transferable lessons; in a weaker version, historical events provided a
sounding board for contemporary reflection, whether that be inspiration by great
deeds, or solace or stoicism in the face of the vicissitudes of fortune. These justifi-
cations are hereafter called ‘History as Moral Lesson’ and ‘History as Practical
Lesson’, and since the two have a close relationship especially but not only in clas-
sical historiography, it will sometimes be the case that they are both referred to by
the moniker ‘History as Lesson’.
A seventh justification is proceduralist. The methods of the historian are at the
forefront, rather than any particular content of the past. In the logic of this justifi-
cation there is an affinity between the mode of dispassionate, critical enquiry and
a desirable disposition for the citizen or politician. Hence: ‘History as Method’.
Of all of the rationales elaborated so far the seventh is the least problematic by
the standards of the contemporary historical profession, but more than one of the
seven may still be found in the framing of any work of History. Few historians
would deny the need to observe some proceduralist principles, for example, and
all historians try their best with form even when many baulk at the claims of
strongly formalist accounts such as Hayden White’s.28 While propounding the
benefits of ‘universal’ History, Polybius wished that the reader would ‘derive
from history’ not just ‘profit’ but ‘delight’, i.e. entertainment.29 Elements of
superhuman, trans-historical direction, characteristic of History as Speculative
Philosophy, could coexist on the same pages as more mundane History. That was
true for the role of tyche/fortuna (in the Greek and Roman respectively) and it
could be true for the Christian redemptive philosophy of the whole course of his-
tory. For much of the occidental history of History too, there was no opposition
between History as Methodology and either species of History as Lesson.
27 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Thucydides, ed. W. Kendrick Pritchett (Berkeley: University of

California Press, 1975), 72.
28 Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in the Nineteenth Century (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973); White, The Content of the Form (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
29 Cited in Darryl W. Palmer, ‘Acts and the Historical Monograph’, Tyndale Bulletin 43:2 (1992)
373–88, here 388.
Introduction 11
Dionysius wrote of the historian’s ‘obligation in the first place to choose a good
subject of lofty character which will be truly profitable to the reader, and in the
second place to devote the utmost care and industry to the task of providing
himself with proper sources for his own composition’.30 Memorial and didactic
functions were often one and the same. Herodian of Antioch, writing in the first
half of the third century ce, was surely not the first to fuse them with the further
concern for ‘scrupulous exactitude’ and also the hope that his History, the History
of the Roman Empire after the Death of Marcus Aurelius, was ‘not without enter-
tainment for future generations’.31 With significant continuity in the fortunes of
History as Entertainment and History as Travel, much of the relevant recent his-
tory of History concerns the mutation of the remits of History as Lesson.
The decline of History as Lesson—the discarding of the Roman rhetorician
Cicero’s belief that History was magistra vitae, the teacher of life32—is often taken
to be one index of History’s modernization. Decline there was but it was by no
means total and in key instances what looks like decline can just as well be inter-
preted as revision according to intellectual circumstance. It is a matter of perspec-
tive whether the emphasis is on the changes or the unifying underlying conviction
that the substance of the past has something to teach us. In any case, such is the
prominence of substantivist rationales across large tracts of time that their evolu-
tion is one of the key thematic sinews connecting successive chapters in the book.
A whistle-stop tour might help in the orientation.
Let us say that at some point it became embarrassing in intellectual circles to
admit to consulting History books for advice on comportment. The reason may
have been an appreciation of the difference of historical circumstances and/or
cultures and/or the development of philosophies of politics and of the individual
that sought a conscious break with the past. Some of the logic of didactic exem-
plarity could nonetheless be salvaged by an idea devised in classical antiquity. In
the concept of similitudo temporum certain civilizations, epochs, and moments
shared characteristics and dilemmas with earlier counterparts. Everything did
not need to be the same, as long as some things were. Appropriately enough for
an idea about periodic resurfacing, the idea resurfaced periodically, with especial
vigour in the turmoil after the Reformation, but also well into modernity—it is
still with us today in dilution.33
So much, then, for positive relevance, in the sense of resonances of the present
in the past and vice versa. Negative relevance, or relevance by contrast, could be
just as useful if we consider some of the ways in which eighteenth-century
30 Dionysius, The Ancient History of Rome, Book I, ch. 1, repr. in Arnold J. Toynbee, Greek Historical
Thought (New York: Mentor Books, 1952), 53.
31 Book I, ch. 1, repr. in Toynbee, Greek Historical Though, 77.
32 Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Oratore, II.ix.36, in Cicero: On the Orator, Books 1–2, trans.
E. W. Sutton and H. Rackham (London: Heinemann, 1967), 224.
33 A. Dwight Culler, The Victorian Mirror of History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009).
12 Why History?
‘enlighteners’ referred to the past. Voltaire and Condorcet sometimes used

History to denigrate, listing past errors in the service of a better future. That
stance met in turn with another reaction.
Romanticism was more sympathetic to the medieval world not because it saw
history as unchanging but because it saw the past as the root of the present.
Studying the past was less useful in the sense of transferable lessons, more so in
the sense that comprehending one’s life story helped one to make sense of one’s
attitudes in the present. Furthermore, in the holistic, indeed essentialist way it
conceived cultures and cultural difference, romanticism had strong relativist con-
notations across place even if it was more concerned with balances of change and
continuity across time.
Especially after the world wars romanticism and its historical counterpart,
Historismus (historicism), lost their lustre. Partly this was because of their
German associations, partly because the wars themselves marked another of
those ruptures in time that estranged the past ‘within’ what had previously been
considered the same culture. The way was paved for a more decided relativism
across time as well as place.
There was also a shift towards social History and, to varying degrees, the social
scientific model. Here the sorts of ‘lessons’ in prospect were not generally in the
form of examples. In some cases historians aspired to infer historical laws based
on quantitative methods. Another substantivist goal was and remains the recov-
ery of histories of the marginalized or the masses. This goal had presentist con-
notations at the joinder of the two different meanings of representation—one (in
German Darstellung) meaning something like portraiture, the other (in German
Vertretung) pertaining to a political voice.
The reaction to social scientific History was a cultural History that nonethe-
less evinced some of the concerns of social History in its demotic and everyday
objects. On one hand, it pressed ever harder on the concept of human ‘differ-
ence’ across time and place, thus fortifying the substantivist rationale of History
as Travel, with its implications for enhancing the sympathies. On the other
hand, since the sorts of differences in which cultural historians were interested
were cultural, i.e. non-natural, the message was: that which humans have made,
they can unmake, and remake. The point seemed especially powerful when it
came to showing that things that had once been thought natural and given were
in fact changing cultural products. Here, in the project of ‘de-reification’, as prel-
ude to emancipation, we see some coincidence between the aims of cultural
historians and the Marxist historians whose fortunes had varied across the cen-
tury with intellectual fashion as well as political circumstance. This justification
for studying the past is ‘History as Emancipation’ and its most prominent recent
proponents have tended to be those influenced by poststructuralism and
postmodernism.
Introduction 13
Since this book does not just consider change over time but also the coexistence
of differing conceptions of History’s utility, and what happens when one such
conception periodically brings its arsenal of supporting assumptions to bear on
another, one further ‘Greek’ rationale needs to be thrown into the mix. It is a con-
ception at least as old as any of the candidates, and as enduring as any—indeed
one can identify it in Herodotus despite his broad sympathies. It is History as
Identity, the great chameleon. History as Identity is substantivist, concerned with
the content of the past. It is primarily genealogical, in the sense of establishing
causal relations and relations of identity between past and present, but as noted
(p. 2) it can be enacted in different spirits. The more open-minded and potentially
self-critical version involves understanding where the present has come from, in
the knowledge that identity is historically conditioned. The alternative is more
narcissistic and self-justificatory, involving the vindication of present identities
and projects by retrospective legitimation—this brand can often avail itself of the
Memorial tendency. Along with Entertainment Histories, Identity Histories of
differing sorts are the ones that fill bookshops. They are the most consumed
Histories in our societies and tell us a great deal about the nature of general inter-
est in the past irrespective of the rationales academic historians come up with for
their activities.
If in terms of Geschichtsinteressen—reasons for concerning oneself with the
past—there is at least as much variation within any given period as across periods,
is it too much to suggest that the same applies to ‘historical consciousness’?
Consider some examples from the study of geology. In the late eighteenth and
early nineteenth centuries, which as it happens was a key period in the institu-
tionalization of the discipline of History, geologists and other scientists estab-
lished a substantial professional consensus about the great age of the earth, and its
vast pre-human history, on the basis of evidence such as dinosaur fossils and sedi-
mentary rocks. All this helped pave the wave for the reception of Darwin’s theory
of evolution, which, with the rise of geology and ‘geo-history’, marked a grand
historical turn in the natural sciences just as parts of the occident at least were
entering an especially historically obsessed period in terms of concepts of the
nation.34 Decades later, in 1872, the archaeologist George Smith rediscovered
what came to be known as the Epic of Gilgamesh, a Babylonian story of ‘Noah’s’
flood—written at least a millennium before the book of Genesis. A public stir
ensued, leading a latter-day historian of the controversy to ask himself why that
should have been so if ‘the idea of deep time was more or less settled for “western”
savants’? Most obviously, he concluded, because ‘savants are not an entire culture’.
Had the Victorians as a whole ‘internalised ideas about deep time (the 4.55 billion
34 Martin J. S. Rudwick, Worlds before Adam: The Reconstruction of Geohistory in the Age of Reform
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), with ‘geohistory’ at 389.
14 Why History?
years of history in which we now believe)’, then the rediscovery ‘would have been
of interest principally to antiquarian specialists rather than the newspaper- and
periodical-reading masses’. As it stood, the diverse group of people that we call
Victorians grappled protractedly over the shift from a shortish anthropocentric
history, Garden of Eden and all, to a far more removed, impersonal origin tale of
seas and sludge.35 As for ‘modern historical consciousness’ in the study of human
affairs, remember Fustel. When preparing his work on classical antiquity The
Ancient City (1864), he encountered many who talked of the Greeks and Romans
as if they were ‘talking of the French or the English of their own time. They nearly
always imagined these people as living in the same social conditions as we do and
as thinking like us on nearly all issues.’36 And this only a few generations after the
grand historical rupture of the French revolution. Still today, politicians and cab
drivers are prone to invoke the Lessons of History even when academics can see
nothing but contextual variance.
The media of History vary as much as do historical interests and inferences.
For all the attention justifiably devoted to the historiographical significance of
Herodotus and Thucydides, these historians were but one of many tributary influ-
ences on historical thought in their time. Painted vases, relief sculpture, and epic
poetry were as important then in creating an image of the past as historical novels
and films and museums are today; legal and political ritual, ceremonies, drama,
and civic space and architecture endure across the temporal divide. While matters
of manageability and space prohibit examination of novels, films, museums, and
other fora of popular historical engagement explored by the likes of Raphael
Samuel and David Lowenthal, the final chapter nonetheless tries to grapple with
some of the issues arising in the present at the interface of professional and popu-
lar reckoning with the past.37
Manageability still remains a problem since this is a historiographical enquiry
in a broad sense, with a correspondingly eclectic base of primary and secondary
sources. At many of the moments under consideration those people who are most
identifiable as historians by today’s lights were not the key influences on historical
thought. Theologians, philosophers, jurists, political theorists, and social scien-
tists often loom as large in this book even when the study of the past was not their
35 Vybarr Cregan-Reid, Discovering Gilgamesh: Geology, Narrative, and the Historical Sublime in
Victorian Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013), 4.
36 Fustel’s inaugural lecture, 1862, repr. in Fritz Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History (New York:
Meridian, 1956), 179–88, here 184.
37 On some ancient Greek historical media, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, ‘The Great Kings of the Fourth
Century and the Greek Memory of the Persian Past’, in John Marincola, Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, and
Calum Alasdair Maciver (eds.), Greek Notions of the Past in the Archaic and Classical Eras: History
without Historians (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 317–46. On non-academic sources
of History in the present, Raphael Samuel, Theatres of Memory (London: Verso, 1994), David
Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), and
Lowenthal, The Heritage Crusade and the Spoils of History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1998).
Introduction 15
primary interest. The principle of selection is that they provided intellectual

articulation, whether in manifesto or by the logic of their works, of new investiga-
tive techniques and principles, or of particular strands of temporally and historic
ally oriented thought. Its broader intellectual contextualization is one of the
things that distinguishes this book from other works with much the same chrono
logical span such as John Burrow’s lucid masterpiece A History of Histories, the
classics of Ernst Breisach and Donald R. Kelley, and fine newer surveys such as
that by Jeremy Popkin.38 It should go without saying that not all major relevant
thinkers are considered here, and that is not just because there is no general
agreement as to the size of that pool of intellectuals; the coverage is inevitably
sometimes patchy, and other scholars would have had different emphases.
Often, at least as important for shifts in historical thinking as writing works
of History was honing methods of reading existing texts, especially old ones, and
especially sacred ones. Changes in the comprehension of the past have frequently
been related to advances in philology and the art of interpreting meaning that is
known as hermeneutics. Hermeneutics itself has a very long history, one inter-
twined in the occidental tradition with the monotheistic religions. In honour of
its religious origins the relevant rationale is named ‘History as Communion’, and
its fortunes have varied along with the state of faith. Its traces are all but absent in
most of today’s professional scholarship, but in previous centuries some of its
logic fused with the logics of History as Travel and the Romantic variant of
History as Identity.
History as Communion is the tenth rationale for historical enquiry to be
named so far in this introduction, and it bears stressing that at least nine of
those ten– the possible exception being History as Emancipation, though that
may have relevant precursors—are at least two millennia old. Naturally other
typologists might categorize differently, so the point ought not to be pressed too
far, yet it is instructive as to the weight of continuity alongside all the change
that only a few of the ten have been discarded as of today and that the one further
rationale to be added to the list in modernity, namely ‘History as Therapy’ (see
Chapter 8), has not been very successful.
38 John Burrow, A History of Histories (London: Allen Lane, 2007); Ernst Breisach, Historiography:
Ancient, Medieval and Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007); Donald R. Kelley, Faces
of History: Historical Inquiry from Herodotus to Herder (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998);
Jeremy D. Popkin, From Herodotus to H-Net: The Story of Historiography (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2015). As compared to these works, mine has more of the broad conceptualization of historiog-
raphy manifest in Aviezer Tucker (ed.), A Companion to the Philosophy of History and Historiography
(London: Wiley, 2009); Michael Bentley (ed.), Companion to Historiography (Abingdon: Routledge,
2007); and the five-volume The Oxford History of Historical Writing (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2011–12) under the general editorship of Daniel Woolf.
1
Classical History between Epic
and Rhetoric
Introduction
If choosing when to begin any History, including a History of History, is never

free of prejudgement, the same goes for choosing where to start. The eastern
Mediterranean point of departure flagged in the introduction makes sense given
the occidental focus of this work. Nonetheless, very different cultural traditions—
say izibongo, South African Nguni praise poetry—share functions and purposes
with the themes examined here, be those functions the entrenchment of in-group
identity, those purposes exemplarity or drama.1
The work of Confucius (551–479 bce) has interesting parallels too. Ancestor-
worship pre-dated him, and with it the preservation of genealogies, especially
those of the royal families of the various Chinese states, but he channelled this
convention into a continuous historiographical tradition sustained by scholar-
bureaucrats. The concern with precedents in the resulting Histories occupied a
place reserved in other cultures of the time for sacred texts. The first Chinese
landmark work in the tradition was the Spring and Autumn Annals, the chronicle
of the state of Lu from 722 to 481 bce. It is thought to have been edited by
Confucius, and a quality conventionally attributed to it is the subtle introduction
of elements of moral evaluation, thus spawning emulators in the assignment of
praise and blame over the next few centuries and, indeed, periodically until the
end of the empire in 1911.2
More directly relevant in the coming narrative are traditions in what is often
today called the Middle East. Jewish historical thought pertains, both in terms of
speculative philosophy of the development of the ‘overall historical process’ and
literalist depiction of past events and contexts. As with Christian interpretation of
the Bible, these two tendencies need not be at loggerheads. The Torah in its nar-
row sense, as in the first five books of the Hebrew Bible (Pentateuch in Greek) was
probably composed in the Persian period of Jewish history (c.520–c.320 bce),
1 Richard Whitaker, ‘History, Myth, and Social Function in Southern African Nguni Praise Poetry’,
in David Konstan and Kurt A. Raaflaub (eds.), Epic and History (Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010),
381–91, here 386, 389.
2 David Morgan, ‘The Evolution of Two Asian Historiographical Traditions’, in Bentley (ed.),
Companion, 11–22, here 17–20.
Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 17
with Persian authorization though not dictation. By establishing conditions of

blood genealogy (descent from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) and social contract
(upholding the Covenant) the Pentateuch defined membership in the community
of Israel, a community of faith and obligation though not a politically independ-
ent entity. Its account of creation draws for some of its best-known motifs on
cardinal Babylonian texts, which is perhaps ironic given the significance of the
Babylonian exile as a symbol of punishment and dispersion in Jewish history.3
With Babylonian culture in mind, note that Homer’s Odyssey has some simi-
larities to the Epic of Gilgamesh, which in turn may have drawn on elements from
the yet earlier Atrahasis Epic. There was also likely some influence of the
Babylonian Enuma Elish on the Theogony of Homer’s approximate contemporary,
Hesiod. These epics are relevant because while convention suggests that a discus-
sion of Greek historiography proceed from Herodotus (c.484–425 bce) or
Thucydides (c.460–c.395 bce), we will instead begin with the two poets—Homer,
if he was indeed an individual, and Hesiod—who lived earlier, probably in the
first half of the Archaic Period, which runs from c.800 to c.480 bce.4
The justification for this point of departure is that the epic poems have some of
the characteristics of subsequent historical scholarship, as well as having exerted a
great influence on popular historical thought. First, in Homer’s Iliad XVIII, the
noun histor appears, and this histor is an enquirer who takes testimony, ‘less than
a judge’ but ‘more than an arbitrator’.5 Secondly, thinking to the identity function
of History, the Iliad plays a central role in amplifying the collective ‘memory’ of
the Trojan wars, which had a huge influence not just on Greco-Roman civiliza-
tion but on many later origin myths in Christian Europe. Thirdly, the Odyssey in
particular pits the human actor, armed only with his resourcefulness, determin
ation, and counterproductive hubris, against capricious circumstance and indeed
supernatural power. Today sociologists would parse the opposition as structure
versus agency and elucidating the interaction of the two elements over time
remains a central problem for historians, not least because it is intertwined with
the balance of continuity and change. Not much less of a problem has been the
recovery of voices inadvertently or deliberately silenced in what is quaintly called
the historical record. Here too, and thus fourthly, the Odyssey represents and
3 Kyong-Jin Lee, The Authority and Authorization of Torah in the Persian Period (Leuven: Peeters,
2011); Paula Gooder, The Pentateuch: A Story of Beginnings (London: T&T Clark, 2000), 30 ff.; 41ff.;
Jean Louis Ska, Introduction to Reading the Pentateuch (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006) 225–8.
On Babylonian influence see also the next note.
4 Interesting comparisons and contrasts between different epic and epic-historical traditions are
explored in Konstan and Raaflaub (eds.), Epic and History. Generally in this area, see John Marincola,
‘Introduction’, to Marincola et al. (eds.), History without Historians, 1–13. Further on Herodotus’s
antecedents and milieu, Nino Luraghi (ed.), The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2001).
5 Hannah Arendt, The Life of the Mind (New York: Harcourt, 1978), 216; G. J. Basile, ‘Τhe Homeric
ἵστωρ and oath-taking’, Cuadernos de Filología Clásica. Estudios griegos e indoeuropeos 28 (2018),
17–39, with quote at 25.
18 Why History?
reinforces a norm. In the absence of his father, Odysseus’ son Telemachus grows
from boy to man, and part of the process of self-assertion is public rebuke of his
mother Penelope. ‘Speech’, he says, meaning authoritative public utterance, ‘will
be the business of men’.6 Even in this epic, which gives not insignificant attention
to women, their speech can only be in the private sphere, which is at once to deni-
grate it and to ensure it will not be recorded. (As the Athenian statesman and
general Pericles pronounces in one of Thucydides’ best-known passages, ideal
was the woman who was not discussed between men in any terms, glowing or
derogatory.) Fifthly, while for a long time many Greeks seem to have assumed
that the period of heroes and gods portrayed by the poets was real and provided
clues to ‘the way the world works’,7 we may detect a different though not necessarily
contradictory tendency in Homer. With the end of the heroic age, which is when
the heroes ultimately return after the Trojan wars, the gods no longer intervene
directly in earthly affairs and mortals are no longer so large or strong. This sense
of qualitative difference across time may prefigure the ‘historical consciousness’,
as we seem bound to call it, that is present in subsequent Greek historiography—
and present in the historiography of all subsequent periods too, if with differing
emphases.8
This opening chapter establishes the foundations on which the rest of the book
is built since post-classical western scholarship largely develops from classical
models or is shaped by its reaction against those models. The chapter addresses a
series of conceptual issues that have recurring relevance, including: differing con-
ceptions of the nature of historical truth; the relationship between History and
ethnography; the relationship between rhetoric and historianship; the relation-
ship between philosophy, poetry, and History; and the relationship between ‘use-
ful’ and ‘pleasurable’ Histories. In a more empirical vein the chapter discusses the
relationship between Greek and Roman historianship and accounts for different
tendencies in the development of historiography in each culture—tendencies like
a greater or lesser interest in the outside world, and a greater or lesser interest in
individuals as opposed to power structures or the study of society and culture.
The question of the consciousness of qualitative historical change is also discussed
in the case of a number of historians. In the 900 or so years of historianship
covered in this chapter no rationale for History that is present at or near the out-
set was ruled out by the end, though of course many avenues of possibility were
more fully explored. It is more than coincidence that the survey opens and closes
6 On this and many later echoes in the occidental tradition, Mary Beard, ‘The Public Voice of
Women’, London Review of Books, 20 March 2014, 11–14.
7 Emily Baragwanath, ‘The Mythic Plupast in Herodotus’, in Jonas Grethlein and
Christopher B. Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2012), 35–56, here 35; Charles Edward Muntz, Diodorus Siculus and the World of the
Late Roman Republic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 91.
8 A proponent of the view is Strasburger, cited in Fleming A. J. Nielsen, The Tragedy in History:
Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 33.
with species of History as Identity, beginning with the most elementary type of
that genre: genealogy.
Genealogy, Ethnography, and Historical Consciousness
Hesiod’s Theogony might be the first Greek genealogical work, understood as a

systematic attempt to establish relations and lineages between actors. In this case
the actors were the legendary heroes. Much later, during the fifth century bce, a
number of genealogies were produced in prose, which supplanted poetry as the
primary form of expository discourse around that time. Some genealogies tried
to tie local myths into the major myths. Hecataeus of Melitos (c.550–c.476 bce)
seems to have developed the distinction between a spatium mythicum and a
spatium historicum—terms which can easily confuse a modern audience. The dis-
tinction did not pertain to a mythical time versus a real, properly historical one.
Rather Hecataeus distinguished between times that could not be reliably recon-
structed by the historian’s enquiry and those that supposedly could, and tried to
establish where the boundary lay. He was interested in establishing the relations
between the heroes who lived around the time of the Trojan War as systematically
as possible, treating them as humans with ordinary generational and familial rela-
tions. Historical research could then take over to flesh out what could be fleshed
out down to the present. The widespread adoption of Hecataeus meant that Greek
genealogists in subsequent centuries felt on secure ground as they established
the deepest historical links between themselves and ‘barbarian’ peoples such as
various Italians, including the Romans.9
Herodotus’ younger contemporary Hellanicus of Mytilene (c.480–c.405 bce) is
a seminal figure in the development of two trends that relate to the genealogical
project. He was probably the first Atthidographer, meaning a specialist in the
history of the region of Attica which encompasses Athens.10 At the end of the fifth
century he devised a History spanning the supposed deep origins of Attica,
the period of Athenian Kingship, and the Peloponnesian wars of his own time.
He had already worked to establish a formal chronography that would help cor-
relate different local Histories with each other, and which would also be used in
future by Romans to synchronize their time with the time of the Greeks. In the
430s Hellanicus introduced a system that worked from the list of successive
9 Charles William Fornara, The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1983), 4–12; Peter Hunt, ‘Hecataeus of Miletos’, The Encyclopedia
of Ancient History (Wiley online library, 2012): https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1002/
9781444338386.wbeah08075
10 On these historians, see Charlotte Schubert, ‘Formen der griechischen Historiographie: Die
Atthidographen als Historiker Athens’, Hermes 138:3 (2010), 259–75; Felix Jacoby, Atthis: The Local
Chronicles of Ancient Athens (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1949).
20 Why History?
priestesses of Hera, and assigned noteworthy events to the nth year of the relevant
priestess. The point of these exercises was to connect events and people and con-
struct meaningful temporal frameworks around these connections, rather than
inserting events into an already given frame.11
Herodotus adopted Hecataeus’s distinction between the spatium mythicum
and the spatium historicum, though he went far beyond the work of genealogies
to study events in a way that is much more fully characteristic of subsequent
History.12 Naturally, events further in the past were apt to be more likely to fall
into the spatium mythicum, but again clarification is needed. Herodotus did not
think the spatium mythicum to be filled with what today we call myths, but rather
that the recountability of genuine History in that ‘space’ had been compromised
by the mythoi of poets who blended historical truth and fiction.13 The existence
of the distinction does not mean Herodotus was always correct in his claims
for what was verifiable, or that his sense of historical likelihood was like those
of twenty-first-century historians. With Hecataeus and Hellanicus, Herodotus
believed that the spatium historicum went back to the time of the supposed recon-
quest of the Peloponnese by the Heracleidae (descendants of Heracles), after the
Trojan War. He further believed that the Trojan War, dated to some time in what
we would now call the twelfth or thirteenth century bce, occurred in roughly the
manner assumed in Greek collective memory, as opposed to there simply having
been some sort of war at some point at a place dubbed Troy.14
In his view of what could be treated historically Herodotus was not arbitrary,
even if we might sometimes think him incorrect. When investigating the deeper
past he engaged with the engraved and written records of Egypt and the collective
memory of its priesthood, which he saw as more historically reliable than the
Greek epics.15 It was precisely his enquiries among non-Greek sources that
corroborated, to his satisfaction, parts of what were otherwise suspect Greek
accounts of the Trojan War. Equally, those enquiries influenced his circumspec-
tion about what could be claimed about the causes of the war.16 Further to the
11 Kai Brodersen, ‘Hellanicus of Mytilene’ and Denis Feeney, ‘Chronography’, both in The
Encyclopedia of Ancient History (Wiley online library 2012): https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/
10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah08076 https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/9781444338386.
wbeah08035
12 Muntz, Diodorus, 90–3.
13 Virginia J. Hunter, Past and Process in Herodotus and Thucydides (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1982), 87.
14 Ibid. 90; Nielsen, The Tragedy, 33–5; Fornara, The Nature, 9.
15 In general terms official record-keeping, which was the function of ‘the archive’, and an
important source of documented state memory, was better established in other, older Mediterranean
societies, be they Hittite, Babylonian, Sumerian, or Egyptian.
16 Suzanne Saïd, ‘Herodotus and the “Myth” of the Trojan War” ’, in Emily Baragwanath and
Mathieu de Bakker (eds.), Myth, Truth and Narrative in Herodotus (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2012), 87–106, here 88–92. Also on Egyptian sources, see Hunter, Past and Process, 74. Note that while
Herodotus lost faith in a Greek time of the gods, he still believed in a time of the gods, just a much
earlier one, corresponding to Egyptian chronologies.
question of evidence, Herodotus evinced a preference for recent history where

oral testimony was supposed to be most reliable; the great bulk of his focus is on
the period from roughly 100 years before writing, especially from Cyrus’s found-
ing of the Persian Empire in 560 bce.17 All this, simply put, was a matter of source
comparison and criticism.18
When Herodotus’s contemporary focus is combined with his geographical and
ethnographical range one can understand why Dionysius of Halicarnassus later
put him in the category of historians who organized their work by kata topous,
space, as opposed to those who organized by time, kata chronous.19 While this
categorization seems appropriate for the overall balance of Herodotus’s Histories,
he nonetheless often blended spatial and temporal organization. He thus brought
together in one historical work two themes that had been separate in Hecataeus,
who, in addition to his Genealogies, had produced a partly ethnographical narra-
tive geography of the known world, the Periodos Ges.20 Herodotus also recognized
discontinuities in the identities and customs of other groups, which stands as
corrective to those who see him as part of a longer trend of ethnographic enquiry
that depicts ‘others’ in a timeless present—a characterization which is just as
untenable as the one whereby Herodotus did have a sense of historical change but
that that sense was exceptional in his period. Furthermore, there is a parallel
between his ‘sensitivity to epistemological limits due to time’ and his ‘sensitivity
to the elusive nature of other kinds of knowledge, concerning geographically
distant places’, as expressed in the deliberately tentative nature of his reportage.21
Thus Herodotus has been called the father of anthropology as well as of History.
(Sometimes he has been called the father of lies too, and in the nineteenth-century
era of a professionalizing historical academy, that patronymic superseded others.)22
More reticent than Thucydides in overt judgement, he expressed sentiments that
are sometimes considered culturally relativist, albeit that his treatment of the
polygamous and oppressive ‘oriental despotism’ of Persia indicated a hard param-
eter to his thought, which is more openly curious and tolerant about different
17 T. James Luce, The Greek Historians (London: Routledge, 1997), ch. 3.
18 On which see the defence by Hunter, Past and Process, 91–2.
19 Carole Atack, ‘The Discourse of Kingship in Classical Athenian Thought’, Histos 8 (2014),
329–62, here 332.
20 On Herodotus’s blend, Baragwanath, ‘The Mythic Plupast’; on Hecataeus’s various contributions,
see Fornara, The Nature, 4–14. On the different strands of historical writing, Felix Jacoby, ‘Über die
Entwicklung der griechischen Historiographie und den Plan einer neuen Sammlung der griechischen
Historikerfragmente’, Klio, 9:9 (1909), 80–123.
21 Quotes and material from Baragwanath, ‘The Mythic Plupast’, 36. On alleged timelessness in
Herodotus, Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes its Object (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2014), 80, 196 n. 10.
22 J. A. S. Evans, ‘Father of History or Father of Lies: The Reputation of Herodotus’, The Classical
Journal, 64:1 (1968), 11–17; James Redfield, ‘Herodotus the Tourist’, Classical Philology, 80:2 (1985),
97–118. On the antiquity of the praise as well as the allegations, Momigliano, Classical Foundations,
39–40.
22 Why History?
lifestyles than it is strictly relativist.23 He was concerned with the synchronic

description of forms of life as well as diachronic analysis, addressed a range of
social and cultural issues, and had a marked and unusual concern for the study
of women. He often deployed the first person to opine, though such admissions of
perspectivalism, much rarer in Thucydides, did not always extend to critical
interrogation of the oral opinion on which he sometimes relied. Nor did he
explicitly profess the political utility of his work. That said, Herodotus was obvi-
ously interested in political and military matters. One point of describing cultural
diversity was precisely to invalidate imperialism, specifically the Persian imperial-
ism which had loomed in the Greco-Persian wars that occupied much of the first
half of the fifth century bce. Here Herodotus’s own form of allegorical exemplarity
came to the fore, as he hinted that Athens would succeed Persia in the cycle of
hegemonic powers, and awarded excessive credit to Athens in the struggle against
the Persians.24
In the intra-Hellenic Peloponnesian War of 431–404 bce between Athens and
its allies and Sparta and its allies, Thucydides was gifted a subject matter just
as momentous as was Herodotus with the Greco-Persian wars. If the choice is
between Herodotus and Thucydides, more straightforwardly politically minded
successors then as now preferred the latter. His approach was certainly the more
popular for many centuries, though this may be partly explained by his writing in
Attic Greek, which became the standard classicizing Greek. (Herodotus wrote in
Ionic.)25 The success of his tradition may further be explained by the fact that
Histories were quite widely consumed by policy-making elites with particular,
corresponding interests.26 Nevertheless, Herodotus continued to be held in high
esteem, and Herodotean Histories continued to be written. Herodotean markers
of temporality like ‘until my time’ and ‘even still today’ were quite often repro-
duced in subsequent Hellenic scholarship.27
Thucydides’ latter-day label as a ‘realist’ implies, as ‘realist’ international rela-
tions theory still does, that, beneath the superficial cultural differences of human-
kind’s sub-groupings there exists a basic similarity of attitudes towards material
power and its sources, and Thucydides also writes as if he is encapsulating
23 On relativist-sounding pronouncements: Herodotus, Histories, Book 3.38, cf. Book 7.152. See
also the discussion of Egyptian customs in Book 2. On Persia, see Paul Cartledge, ‘Historiography and
Ancient Greek Self-Definition’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to Historiography, 23–42, here 29. On
Herodotus as cultural pluralist, Thucydides as a monist, Lauren J. Apfel, The Advent of Pluralism:
Diversity and Conflict in the Age of Sophocles (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), Part Two.
24 Jonas Grethlein, The Greeks and their Past: Poetry, Oratory and History in the Fifth Century bce
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 204—and 135 on the deployment by Herodotus and
Thucydides of techniques used in the epics.
25 On dialect, Warren Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2010), 8.
26 Arnaldo D. Momigliano, ‘The Historians of the Classical World and their Audiences’, Annali
della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, 3rd series, 8 (1978), 59–75.
27 On Herodotus’s influence, Christopher A. Baron, Timaeus of Tauromenium and Hellenistic
Historiography (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013), ch. 10; for the specific phrases, 237.
anthropological universals more generally. Style seemed to mirror substance: his

writing has a quality of heroic literary realism to it. With the Homeric tradition
as well as Herodotus in mind, he pronounced that his proofs would ‘not be
disturbed either by the lays of a poet displaying the exaggeration of his craft, or by
the compositions of the chroniclers that are attractive at truth’s expense’. He sup-
posed that his approach would cost him some of his audience, but that this was a
price worth paying were his History of the Peloponnesian War to ‘be judged useful
by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the
interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must resemble if
it does not reflect’ the past.28
In this last clause there is a small qualification, raising questions about how
precise parallels can be, and, I would suggest, how far generalizations about
human nature can go. In his introductory dip into Greek history ‘from the earliest
times’, Thucydides thoroughly secularized the actors in the Trojan War and its
aftermath. He concentrated on mundane cause, effect, and motivation in his
observations on ancient political regimes, military preparedness, resources, and
the conduct of conflict, and, except in their brevity, the depictions are much as
they are when he moved on to discuss conflict in his own time.29 Yet he also noted
change in customs and attire over time, and these shifts are partly correlated with
variations in custom between peoples. He posits an early time in which ‘the same
mode of life was . . . equally common to all’, a mode of life with which Athenians
were the first to break. Others, in Asia but also in parts of ‘Hellas’, had apparently
not yet made that break. Thus ‘there are many . . . points in which a likeness might
be shown between the life of the Hellenic world of old and the barbarian of
today’.30 This attitude of superiority in difference, in which ‘others’ are viewed as
primitive versions of the self, is a trope common to much subsequent anthropo-
logical and indeed imperial thought.31 Albeit to a lesser degree than Herodotus,
Thucydides evinced just that sense of change in ways of life and dress that are
held by some to be innovations of Romans like Lucretius (c.94–55 bce), Virgil
(70–19 bce), or Horace (65–8 bce).32 In his conception of other peoples as
effectively living in stasis Thucydides was less acute than Herodotus, partly, one
assumes, because he was just less concerned with non-Hellenes than Herodotus
was; but such an attitude is only possible when one has a sense that one’s own
group has changed over time.
28 Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War: The Crawley Translation (New York: Random House, 1982),
Book I, 21–2.
29 Ibid. 9–19. See also Rosario Munson, cited in Muntz, Diodorus, 92.
30 Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, I.5–6.
31 The analytical philosopher of History Frederick Teggart long pre-empted Fabian’s exposition of
the point that for many Europeans, looking across to things like the transatlantic ‘new world’, different
cultures were understood as primitive versions of the European. Teggart, Theory, 93–5; cf. Fabian,
Time and the Other.
32 On the Romans, Burke, The Renaissance Sense, 139–41.
24 Why History?
What we may say is that one of the many ways in which Thucydides’ work
iffered from Homer’s, as from Hesiod’s myth of the ages in Works and Days, is
d
that in the epics the distinction between past and present is more greatly empha-
sized in virtue of the superiority of the denizens of the past, whether or not the
heroes were actually depicted as godly.33 Whether we understand this particular
difference between History and mythic poetry as large enough to be a matter of
nature as opposed to mere degree depends on one’s yardstick of measurement. An
argument for categorical difference is that while the poets and the historians all
deployed exempla for didactic purposes, the epic established the exalted, indeed
ideal(ized) standards set by its heroes, while History of the Thucydidean variety
sought to endure through its relationship to its readers, who would be bound
to each other across time by recognizing the constancy of key facets of their
own nature.34
An argument that epic and History differ in degree only comes from the
classicist Christopher Pelling. He writes that if the past of the poets provides ‘a
matrix for thought experiment’, it does so ‘because it allows moral issues to be
addressed with a smaller encumbrance of circumstantial detail than they carry in
real life, then encourages the reapplication of that thinking to make sense of the
more confusing everyday world’. In this sense, epic poetry is more like philosoph-
ical abstraction than the thick description one is apt to encounter in the novel, or
again historiography, which ‘does engage with that mass of real-life circumstance’.
Yet Pelling also writes that ‘The historians themselves are also extrapolating and
suggesting recurrent patterns to make sense of what-Alcibiades-did-and-suffered,
and helping readers to disentangle the telling facts from the purely contingent
to see how this might be a case study for broader truths about, say, Athens or
democracy or individualism or rhetorical flair’. Each sort of author does ‘part of
the thought-experimental work; in some genres and authors they do more and in
some they do less. But the rest is up to the audiences, both the immediate and the
long-term, both them and us.’35 At the junction of Homer with Thucydides, just
as in epic-like izibongo, evaluation of the ‘real’ or imagined past is judgemental
because it sees itself at some level as being commentary of general relevance.36
33 Cf. Jonas Grethlein, who substantiates a sense of the difference of the past in Greek epics as
opposed to its depiction in historical literature, but sees this difference as a somewhat different sort of
difference to that discerned between present and past-as-foreign-country in modern historiography.
See his and Christopher B. Krebs’s ‘The Historian’s Plupast: Introductory Remarks on its Forms and
Functions’, in Grethlein and Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’
from Herodotus to Appia. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2012) 1–16.
34 Jonas Grethlein, ‘“Historia magistra vitae” in Herodotus and Thucydides? The Exemplary Use of
the Past and Ancient and Modern temporalities’, in Alexandra Lianeri (ed.), The Western Time of
Ancient History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 247–63; Grethlein, ‘Homer and
Heroic History’, in Marincola et al. (eds.), History without Historians, 14–36, here 33.
35 Christopher Pelling, ‘Commentary’, in Marincola et al. (eds.), History without Historians, 347–65,
here 365.
36 Observations I owe to Whitaker, ‘History, Myth, and Social Function’, 386.
Rhetoric, Purpose, Truth
Talk of general relevance brings us to the funeral oration by the statesman and
soldier Pericles in Book II of Thucydides’ History. The speech was a compelling
piece of advocacy for the values of the Athenian demos, though like Pericles him-
self Thucydides was more oligarch than democrat. In this set-piece, Thucydides
departed from strict reliance on ‘proofs’ and instead took licence to imagine
the sort of thing that would have been said on such occasions, just as would
distant successors such as the medieval Geoffrey of Monmouth. These moments
of rhetorical flourish are not merely incidental, but are rather crucial for an
understanding of the narrative structure of Thucydides’ work. Specific examples
like the speech highlighted the exemplary nature of the entire text. At the
same time, undue focus on them can distract from the rest of Thucydides’
prose where plain-speaking could produce its own seductions. The scholarly
consensus has now moved more towards viewing Thucydides as an ‘artful
reporter’.37
What exactly is meant by describing someone as an artful reporter varies with
what one expects of them in the first place; how one understands what they were
trying to do, and how one understands contemporary audience expectations of
works of that sort. This is immensely complex terrain given that we are dealing
with the inception or very early development of a genre that existed in relations
with more established literary forms and overlapped with them often to a consid-
erable degree. Further, from fifth-century Greece through late antiquity, rhetoric
was considered one of the highest arts and no historian could ignore that even if
they desired to. They knew their audiences had literary expectations and wanted
their works to be embraced as literature as well as History, which helps explain
intertextual allusions as well as elegant digs at other historians. They pursued
celebrity just as much as the actors whose deeds they recounted—indeed
Thucydides and many of his successors had themselves been men of action (sol-
diers) earlier in life. The second-century ce Anabasis of Alexander by Arrian of
Nicomedia recounts a story of Alexander the Great laying a wreath at the sup-
posed tomb of his hero Achilles and noting Achilles’ good fortune in having a
poet—Homer—to celebrate his deeds and sustain his memory.38 Happy for the
historian that he was needed just as much as the hero! But he must be up to the
task, and better qualified than potential competitors, as a researcher, perhaps, but
also as a herald. Quite what doing justice to the achievements of an Alexander
might mean is a good question, since recording them was apt to be inseparable
37 Virginia Hunter, Thucydides the Artful Reporter (Toronto: Hakkert, 1973), and for an earlier
emphasis on Thucydides’ artistic side Francis MacDonald Cornford, Thucydides Mythistoricus
(London: Edward Arnold, 1907).
38 Arrian of Nicomedia, The Anabasis of Alexander, 1.12.1, at p. 53 of Arrian vol. 1, trans. E. Iliff
Robson (London: William Heinemann, 1967).
26 Why History?
from burnishing them in a way tailored to contemporary tastes and poetic con-
vention. Given appropriate substitutions, the same went for describing villains,
anti-heroes, and catastrophes. Let us try to take the bull by the horns and explore
the question of historians and truth in the light of rhetorical, literary, and other
concerns. That question has conventionally been at the forefront of comparisons
and contrasts between ancient and modern historiography.
It is a blunder to conceive rhetoric as necessarily opposed to truth and to see
it as illegitimate persuasion rather than effective communication. Of course
rhetoric can be opposed to truth: the Roman master of rhetoric, Cicero, had to
stipulate that while rhetoricians could stray from the path of truth when needed,
historians ought never to do so. More important for present purposes is establish-
ing the varieties of rhetoric’s more ‘positive’ relationships to the truth. Some his
torians deployed the technique of ecphrasis, which combines their immediate,
situated perspective as eyewitnesses to events, and their broader perspective as
historians who have colligated other viewpoints and after-the-fact knowledge.
Thus a historian might ‘recall’ things that he could not have been in a position to
see at the moment he purports to have seen them—such as fine details of an army
that was scores of miles distant—but this does not mean that such details were
made up.39 We can adapt the seventeenth-century historical theorist Agostino
Mascardi’s terms of the true verisimilar and the false verisimilar, with the former
denoting what the apostles of Christ were up to, and the latter denoting some-
thing purely fictitious, which may include but is not limited to deceit.40 As
Mascardi himself saw, it is not easy even for the historian who wishes to portray
things precisely as they were to avoid verisimilitude, but that would not have been
a surprise or a problem for very many centuries’ worth of historians. In Cicero’s
Latin (to which it is not illegitimate to refer at this stage given the debt of Roman
rhetoricians to Greece), the skills of elocutio (style), dispositio (organization),
combine with inventio, which Cicero considered the most important of the rhet
orical arts, and is embedded in ingenium, which pertains to creativity and origin
ality. Inventio means the ‘discovery’ of what ‘needs’ to be said, and is not to be
confused with the arbitrariness or bad faith of modern ‘invention’. Quintilian’s
Institutio Oratoria averred that it was never a question of truth itself, which was
absolute, but of ‘invented’ judgements as to the nature of the truth. Iudicium is the
faculty of judgement that most directly pertains to truth. Enargeia along with
concilium (prudence), kairos (the capacity to discern what is appropriate as well
as opportune), ethos (the establishment of credibility) and pathos (emotional con-
nection with the audience, often established by bringing the audience into the
39 Gavin Kelly, Ammianus Marcellinus: The Allusive Historian (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2008), 83–6.
40 Tutino, Shadows of Doubt, 66.
appropriate mode of receptivity for the message), can all augment logos (reasoned
argument) as well as betraying it.41
Then there is the question of the sort of truth that is to be conveyed. The most
common concept of historical truth today is something like accordance with par-
ticular facts about some bygone time. With Pericles’ speech, however, Thucydides
was depending by his own admission on a conception of truth as plausibility or
likelihood, which is not so very different from Homer recounting what might
have happened in the Trojan Wars.42 A related concept, and one that can also be
traced at least as far back as Hecataeus, was captured by Herodotus when he
called mythos not just that which was ‘incapable of proof ’ but that which was
‘unintelligent’, i.e. incompatible with evidence or reason. When it is not a question
of specific sources at issue there may be an appeal to a sort of common-sense
arbitration that can rely on the concept of a ‘mythical’ story as being one that
seemed ‘contrary to nature’.43 Then there is the idea of general/universal rather
than specific/particular truth—i.e. the desire to transmit the truth about wars as
such, as well as (or even instead of) the particular war under scrutiny. Since at
any point a historian might be using one of a range of rhetorical techniques to
indicate one of a range of types of truth, we get a sense of the multiple layers at
which works of History had to be read, the scope for confusion among those
unaccustomed to the salient techniques and concepts, and the space for historians
to introduce agendas of their own that might run contrary to this or that or every
concept of truth.
How far any particular sort of truth might be manipulated or abandoned varies
from case to case. One especially controversial instance emerges at the very end
of the period with which this chapter is concerned: Ammianus Marcellinus’ Res
Gestae, written in the 380s ce. In his study of Ammianus, the historian Gavin
Kelly nicely epitomizes his subject matter by declaring himself ‘agnostic and non-
committal on the question of veracity’, partly because ‘the question rarely admits
of definite proof ’, but also because the veracity question is ‘the wrong question’.
I take Kelly to mean that it is wrong to ask if Ammianus was a ‘romantic’ or
‘allusive’ historian as opposed to a ‘proper’ or ‘literalist’ one, because these binaries
are spurious ones within the context of classical antiquity—and, to some extent,
even now. After all, one cannot say that Ammianus has no interest in reporting
historical particulars as accurately as he can: frequently he does the mundane
41 Michael Comber, ‘Re-Reading the Roman Historians’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to

Historiography, 43–56, here 49–54; Tutino, Shadows of Doubt, 67–8; on inventio in particular, Jody
Enders, The Medieval Theater of Cruelty: Rhetoric, Memory, Violence (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1999), 29–32.
42 Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, I.22.
43 Emily Baragwanath and Mathieu de Bakker, ‘Introduction: Myth, Truth, and Narrative in
Herodotus’ Histories’, in Baragwanath and de Bakker (eds.), Myth, Truth and Narrative in Herodotus,
1–58, here 11–14; Saïd, ‘Herodotus and the “Myth” of the Trojan War”’, 92; on Hecataeus, Muntz,
Diodorus, 91; on Homer, Neilsen, The Tragedy, 32; on the rhetoricians, Fornara, The Nature of History, 10.
28 Why History?
work of establishing chronologies, particular battle strategies, or statistics of sol-

diers and wounded.44 The concept of historical reality in much the literal sense we
would understand it today is relevant in light of Ammianus’ own terms: as Kelly
records, Ammianus described his own ‘stretch[ing] reality’ for performative
effect.45 The adoption of standards in relation to some concept of truthfulness—
and implicitly therefore standards of the opposite, be that falsehood, deceit, bias,
or incompetence—is there in Herodotus and Thucydides and many of their most
important successors. Certainly the claim to particular trustworthiness was itself
a part of their rhetoric, a claim often buttressed by the rhetorical device of autopsy,
which means recounting something from one’s own eyewitness experience, minor
details and all, to give the impression of authenticity. But we already know rhet
oric is not ‘just rhetoric’: the claim to trustworthiness and authenticity cannot be
dissociated from the concept of truthfulness, even if the most trustworthy person
cannot be guaranteed to have found the truth. Likewise the longstanding classical
desire to allot praise or blame appropriately in one’s History cannot be divorced
from some claim to establish the facts of the matter about motives and actions:
the Greek αἴτιον/aítion, in Latin causa, connoted (moral) responsibility and aeti-
ology together. Such claims are thus open to contestation on evidentiary grounds.
Meanwhile, eyewitness reports are intrinsically evidential as well as serving a
rhetorical purpose and tended to be juxtaposed with reliance on questionable
past authorities. Indeed the general assumption amongst readers seems to have
been that the contemporary parts of any given History were the most historically
valuable precisely because of the availability of eyewitnesses, even when the
author started far earlier—which underlines how far historians’ practices were
also embedded in social expectations and savoir faire.46
For all of these reasons, whether or not any given historian was actually chal-
lenged about their truth claims, and many were, it is not anachronistic to conceive
them in relation to standards of truthfulness. It is just that in addition to estab-
lishing what the salient concept of truth was, one also needs to consider the
dimensions of any given History that cannot be accounted for under the rubric of
falsifiability and that may have been rather more important as selling points. Here
one can only hint at the range of performative functions that works of History
fulfilled. For instance, in relation to historical content, a historian might do
justice to some historical figure whilst really having within his sights some
44 Kelly, Ammianus, 64–5, 94; Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, 76. In terms of the contro-
versy over Ammianus—basically whether he should be viewed as a truth-seeking historian or be read
as a work of literature—Kelly forges a third way (not a splitting of the difference) against
John F. Matthews, The Roman Empire of Ammianus Marcellinus (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1989) and Timothy D. Barnes, Ammianus Marcellinus and the Representation of Historical
Reality (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998).
45 Kelly, Ammianus, 84.
46 Ibid. 69–70. On Ephorus’s much earlier preference for detail about contemporary events,
Fornara, The Nature, 9.
contemporary leader whom he wished to flatter or slight by allegory. Irrespective

of substance, historical narrative may be indistinguishable from myth at the for-
mal level, in the plots that each employ in the interests of giving coherence and
meaning. The fact that the structure of Herodotus’ work, like Thucydides’, was
informed by epic, especially tragic, traditions, is one important reason not to dis-
tinguish as clearly between the two ‘fathers’ as later historiographers often have.47
Each also had political purposes which helps explain their choices of topic at
least as much as it explains their treatment of that which they chose. While
Thucydides aimed more at instructing elites, Herodotus sought to encourage a
pan-Hellenic consciousness. Then we might consider the burgeoning of ‘local’
Histories after Hellanicus. Some Atthidographers took advantage of the chronog-
raphies developed in the fifth century to establish ostensibly clear lines of descent
from the mythical age to the present, in the process blurring, even erasing, any
distinction between spatium mythicum and spatium historicum, and trying to
render causal rather than purely genealogical accounts of relations between suc-
cessive states of affairs. Mythical founder-kings, especially Theseus, were at once
historically normalized and depicted as ideal exemplars of the virtues of citizen-
ship at a time of ongoing political strife. Reference to the mythical age empha-
sized the historical primacy of Athens over Sparta, bolstering patriotic pride
while distracting from recent failure. Political rhetoricians such as Isocrates
(c.436–338 bce) could then ‘cite their heritage of kingship to position their demo
cratic city as equivalent or superior to rising ethnos state monarchies such as
Macedon’—like Sparta, Macedon already had its king-lists. In place of intra-
Hellenic struggle, a common Athenian-shaped regional–cultural heritage could,
indeed should, be the basis for common action against genuine enemies like the
external Persians.48
Useful and Pleasurable History
In the generation after Thucydides, the most influential historian was Xenophon
(c.430–354 bce), a student of the great philosopher Socrates. While, like
Thucydides, he was an eyewitness to many of the events he narrated, sometimes
as a mercenary in Sparta’s service, he was not quite a match for Thucydides in the
quality of his research. His Hellenica continued Thucydides’ History from 411 to
362 bce, recounting Sparta’s declining fortunes after its costly victory in the
Peloponnesian wars. Xenophon was also party to an argument over the purpose
of historical enquiry, a debate whose terms were shaped by the cultural environ-
ment at the waning of the ‘golden age’ (i.e. the Classical period), after the
47 Jonas Grethlein, ‘Homer and Heroic History’.

48 Atack, ‘The Discourse of Kingship’, esp. 331–2, 339–40.
30 Why History?
Peloponnesian wars and the defeat of the Athenian-led Delian League. In essence
this historiographical controversy addressed the relative merits of ‘pleasurable’
History—History as Entertainment—as opposed to ‘useful’ history—especially
History as Lesson. Concerns about accuracy and analysis were integral to the
dispute.
Those demanding utility included Theopompus of Chios (c.380–c.315 bce)
and Ephorus (c.400–330 bce), author of a partly thematic History from the time
of the Heraclidae up to one of Philip of Macedon’s later victories in 340 bce.49
Their targets tended to be the scholars charged with taking most poetic licence
in their writing, prioritizing ‘vividness’ and the stimulation of emotion, such as
Ctesias, who produced a History of Persia around the turn of the fifth–fourth
centuries, and Duris of Samos (born c.350 bce). In latter-day scholarship, owing
probably to Polybius’s insinuations, Phylarchus of the early third century is some-
times thought of in the same category. Duris it was who responded to Ephorus
and Theopompus that their work offered neither a portrait nor pleasure for the
reader. History ought to depict life in the way tragedy does.50
A preliminary thought is that whatever Ctesias, Duris, and Phylarchus did or
did not do, we ought not assume that they were breaking any implicit contract of
trust with readers—nor that Ephorus et al. were themselves innocent of the ‘faults’
with which they charged others.51 This is partly because of audience expectations,
partly because what is pleasurable and what is useful are not mutually exclusive
categories. The pre-Socratic philosopher Gorgias (c.485–c.380 bce) influentially
argued that the reader, observer, or listener might be improved by enjoyment of
the sort promoted by arts like tragedy or poetry. This was a roundabout argument
to utility. The same point from the other side, and this is the argument to rhetoric
as broadly conceived, is that such utility as History was thought to have was best
served by rendering historical accounts digestible, attractive, i.e. in some way
pleasurable, by some combination of intelligent periodization and narration,
leavened perhaps by interesting digressions.52
‘Useful’ meant didactic in some sense, whether in fostering the facility of pru-
dence or in instructing the moral faculty more directly by use of moral examples.
49 Frances Pownall, Lessons from the Past: The Moral Uses of History in Fourth Century Prose (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2007).
50 Jan P. Stronk, Ctesias’ Persian History: Introduction, Text, and Translation (Düsseldorf: Wellem
Verlag, 2010), concludes that whatever Ctesias said about his Persian royal archival sources, his infor-
mation about them was oral and second-hand, and that rather than being assessed by the straightfor-
ward standards of historianship, even Herodotus-like historianship, he should also or even instead be
assessed by the standard of a novelist or a poet in the sense of a creative writer. Ctesias may well have
seen himself as a tragedian, as Duris saw himself. See pp. 42–3 on the discussion of Ctesias and Duris
together.
51 On contracts and different sorts of truth, Tim Whitmarsh, Beyond the Second Sophistic:
Adventures in Greek Postclassicism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013), 23.
52 Frank W. Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2015), 231–4.
In either case, the goal was to influence the praxis of the reader. Praxis is not any
old action. It is ‘action in the sense of a deed’, something which, when done, one
‘has’ as one’s work, or ergon. ‘What do I keep having from this ergon? The hexis
[habit] I have exercised in doing the praxis.’53 Hence the idea that History can
be a teacher of life: it is up to the student to live up to the lessons by actually
living them.
At the same the subject matter of much ‘useful History’ tended to be the behav-
iour of states and militaries, or individuals qua commanders or representatives,
and thus pertained to life in the polis, the public sphere. Obviously this does not
mean the History was evacuated of moral content. Clearly different moral consid-
erations might apply in public as opposed to public life, where such distinctions
exist, but this is a far cry from saying that public life has ever been free of moral
considerations.54 Thucydides is in this sense bound together with the more obvi-
ously moral-didactic agendas of Ephorus and Theopompus, both of whom had
been students of the sophist rhetorician Isocrates. Thucydidian international
relations ‘realism’ is predicated upon moral characterizations of the nature of
state actors and norms, as is abundantly clear in Thucydides’ famous Melian
dialogues.
The likes of Theopompus might also have common cause with the likes of
Thucydides in opposition to the likes of Duris on those occasions when the
‘pleasurable’ did seem to come into tension with the ‘useful’, as when the deploy-
ment of vividness was considered not to aid or give point to moral reflection but
to suborn it by sensationalization or prejudicial emotivism. Fear of subornment
along these lines was prominent in Polybius’s mind in the second century bce,
when targeting Phylarchus. Polybius was not uninterested in moral judgement
and its attendant instruction, but he believed that such judgement must be impar-
tial, in the sense of not being biased and not automatically favouring one party
over another. We ought not ‘shrink from accusing our friends or praising our
enemies, nor need we be afraid of praising or blaming the same people at differ-
ent times . . . We must therefore detach ourselves from the actors in our story, and
apply to them only such statements and judgements as their conduct deserves.’55
Judgement, explicit or tacit, must also be based on rigorous causal investigation in
order that whoever is blamed or praised, the grounds are correct. Here emotivism
may be an obstacle. So when discussing the Cleomenean War of 229/228–222 bce
between Sparta and the alliance of Macedon and the Achaean League, Polybius
53 Jill Frank, A Democracy Of Distinction: Aristotle and the Work of Politics (London: University of
Chicago Press, 2005) 34–5. On praxis/praxeis and res gestae, see Raoul Mortley, The Idea of Universal
History from Hellenic Philosophy to Early Christian Historiography (New York: Edwin Mellen, 1996),
ch. 2.
54 Pownall, Lessons from the Past, describes many of the relevant relations and tensions.
55 Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire, trans. Ian Scott-Kilvert (London: Penguin, 1979),
editor’s introduction 9–40, here 20–3; quotation from p. 55 (Book I.14 of Polybius’s Histories).
32 Why History?
was dismissive of Phylarchus, whose purpose he deemed to have been ‘to emphasize
the cruelty of Antigonus and the Macedonians and also that of Aratus and the
Achaeans’ in the victimization of the Mantineans. ‘In his eagerness to arouse
the pity of his readers and enlist their sympathy through his story’, Phylarchus
‘introduces graphic scenes of women clinging to one another, tearing their hair
and baring their breasts’. While there is an implied call for a sort of dry History,
as against Phylarchus’s ‘ignoble and unmanly’ account, this does not mean that
Polybius’s primary objection was to the emotive element per se. Rather, Polybius
believed that the Mantineans had brought their own misfortune on themselves,
and as such did not deserve the pity which Phylarchus’s description might elicit.
Had Phylarchus devoted more energy to explaining the causes of the Mantineans’
plight he would have realized this, Polybius was saying.56
In the period of Ephorus et al., one of the moments in which the political uses
of History came to a head concerned the use of the written word by a group of
aristocrats, Plato (420s–c.348/7 bce) in their number, to combat the oratory of
the Athenian democrats. Against earlier failures of oligarchy, and in the teeth
of the more radical democratic order, the best way to try to retain some control
over the future was to influence elite paideia, meaning, like German Bildung, a
sort of rounded cultural education. Access to the realm of prose was perforce
limited to men of a certain class, so textual historians could channel the past
through the written word to inculcate aristocratic norms. At the same time Plato
assailed the orators’ ‘abuse’ of the historical record in pursuit of their democratic
goals.57 This is the context for his mockery of the likes of the Atthidographers as
they stoked the fancy of the populace with tales of ‘the genealogies of heroes and
men . . . and the foundations of cities in ancient times’ (Hippias Major 285d), and
for his parody in Menexenus of the Thucydidean tradition of inventing speeches
for performative effect.58
That Plato needed rhetoric too is beyond contestation—again, who and what
rhetoric served was what was really at stake—as he acknowledged in his last work
on the topic, the Phaedrus. Yet his attitude remained consistent with his animus
towards the philosophy of Gorgias and thus towards poetry, in the broad sense of
something created by the writer or speaker, as opposed to something found or
identified in the present world or the historical record. In Plato’s philosophy the
entire sensible world was one of ‘seeming’ and ‘becoming’, a world of appearances,
impermanence, and fallible ‘common-sense’ (doxa) in rude approximation to a
realm of pure, eternal ‘being’ and logos, literally word, but here meaning pure
reason or truth. For Plato, philosophical theory, theoria (‘looking-on’), required
56 Polybius, Histories, II.56 (Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire, 167–8); Cf. Walbank, Polybius,
Rome and the Hellenistic World, 235–6. On pp. 231–41 Walbank has important observations to make
on the question of utility versus pleasure.
57 Pownall, Lessons from the Past, 38 ff. 58 Atack, ‘Discourse of Kingship’, 338.
laying aside practical matters in order to face the kosmos without any distraction
of contingent interest.59 Only with such an attitude could the dimensions of the
world beyond the mind be comprehended, and its well-ordered structure repli-
cated in the philosopher’s soul through the process of mimesis. Here the role of
even the least ‘fanciful’ History is unclear, since although History need not be
‘deceitfully’ creative as poetry is, the best that it can aspire to is recording the
world of becoming rather than the world of being, so it was already a diminished
sort of knowledge. One use of History became apparent when Plato moved from
the philosophical endeavour of ontology—a branch of metaphysics concerned
with the nature of existence—to the more mundane matter of political philoso-
phy and social science. His Republic and Laws are thus informed by data about
the past organization of different Greek poleis. The third book of the Laws, for
instance, shows the philosopher engaged in a comparative constitutional History.
This was at once a form of negative exemplarity, showing what measures to avoid
in the setting up of a new government from scratch, and an exercise in abstrac-
tion that produces the elements of the best conceivable social framework from
the existing models. That best framework is the closest available thing to an ideal
political arrangement.
From Greek to Roman Historiography
For all that Plato showed History could be deployed for the purposes of a social
science, historiographical innovations were tending to focus more on individual
political actors. Thus Xenophon’s life of Agesilaus II of Sparta, Theopompus’s
account of the exploits of Philip of Macedon, Philippica, and then Callisthenes’
slightly later The Acts of Alexander, wove together History as Lesson and biog
raphy, such that the lives became the exemplary acts.60 It was perhaps appropriate
to the monarchical nature of the Macedonian polity that Philip should be the
prism through which one explored Macedon prevailing over Athens and then
driving eastward. This personalization of history was the culmination of a trend
begun by the Atthidographers with their focus on past kings. The trend was per-
petuated by the continuators of Theopompus, whose works had in turn continued
Xenophon’s.
Two significant developments of third-century bce historical scholarship were
direct results of conquests by Philip’s son, Alexander ‘the Great’. One was an
expansion of ethnographic literature, as in the early-century work of the Ionian
Megasthenes on India. This sort of ethnography ‘did not simply describe the
59 On theoria, Eric Voegelin, Published Essays, 1953–1965 (Columbia: University of Missouri Press,
2000), 115.
60 On Philippica, see Cartledge, ‘Historiography and Ancient Greek Self-Definition’, 28, 34.
34 Why History?
world as it was; it created an imagined sense of where the world had been, where
it was now, and where it would be through the language of custom, habit, origins,
discovery, and exchange’.61 It was also partner to a revived chronographic project
of synchronizing timescales in ever more territories to provide the inclusive
chronological framework for new synthesizing Histories.62
Ethnographic interests spurred the study of Rome by Timaeus of Tauromenium
(c.356–c.260 bce), a historian and chronographer best known as the butt of later
criticism by Polybius, and perhaps the first historian to deploy the pan-Hellenic
Olympic games as a yardstick with which to integrate multiple political histories.
While only fragments of Timaeus’s works remain, there is evidence to suggest
that Polybius, in fact, had some respect for him, and was thus trying to discredit
him as a rival. It has been both claimed and denied that Timaeus identified the
growing significance of Rome, which would have made him the first Greek his
torian so to do. Irrespective, it is a mild coincidence that his probable date of
death was only a few years into the First Punic War (264–241 bce), which was the
first of the Roman Republic’s military engagements beyond the peninsula, into
Timaeus’s homeland of Sicily. Polybius (Histories, I.5.I) tells us that Timaeus
ended his History in 264, when the Romans arrived in Sicily.63
As far as we know, although again we only have the work in fragments, the first
major Roman prose History was written around the close of the third century by
Quintus Fabius Pictor (born c.270 bce).64 A senator at the time of writing his
History of Rome, Fabius had previously served in the army, and had seen some of
the Second Punic War (218–201 bce). He is generally assumed to have written in
Greek, though there is some doubt on this, and a suggestion that he may have
been translated from the Latin. In any case, his work evinces Greek literary influ-
ences as well as Roman civic pride by beginning the story at Rome’s mythic point
of Romulan origin. So many subsequent Roman works started ab urbe condita,
‘from the founding of the city’, and this was not true only of prose Histories. Thus
Fabius’s younger contemporary Quintus Ennius (c.239–169 bce) penned an epic
poem over eighteen books that spanned the fall of Troy and Marcius Porcius
Cato’s time as Roman censor, 184 bce. It became one of the most influential texts
on Roman history and was only supplanted as the canonical work of epic poetry
61 Todd S. Berzon, Classifying Christians: Ethnography, Heresiology, and the Limits of Knowledge in

Late Antiquity (Oakland: University of California Press, 2016), 34, 32.
62 Feeney, ‘Chronography’; Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, 11.
63 On predictions about Rome, W. R. Connor, ‘Historical Writing in the Fourth Century BC and
the Hellenistic Period’, in P. E. Easterling and B. M. W. Knox (eds.), The Cambridge History of Classical
Literature, Vol. 1, Part 3: Philosophy, History and Oratory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1989), 46–59, here 55 and Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the Hellenistic World, 172–6; cf. Baron,
Timaeus, ch. 3. See the final work more generally on Polybius’s relationship to Timaeus’s work, and
Timaeus’s ethnographic interests.
64 On Fabius in general, and on all of the other nineteen major Roman historians of whom fragments
remain prior to Livy, Julius Caesar, and Sallust, see Hans Beck and Uwe Walter, Die frühen römischen
Historiker, 2 vols. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2001, 2004).
by the Aeneid of the Roman Homer, Virgil (79–19 bce), which provided a
c ompelling vision of Rome’s foundation, the moment of constitution of the political
‘we’, via the myth of the Trojan refugee Aeneas’s arrival on Italy’s shores.65
Fabius’s History was also characteristic of later work in its elite political author-
ship which links author and author-ity (auctoritas) in the sense of position, quali-
fication, and experience. Another theme common to both Fabius and later writers
was the defence of Roman external policy. Fabius sought to blame the Second
Punic War on a few of the Carthaginian leaders, and to justify the course and
content of Roman action.66 Internal Roman developments are more often the
subject of criticism, albeit against the standards set by Roman traditional virtues.
Accordingly, Cato’s Latinate Origines criticized elements of the Roman political
elite after the Second Punic War for sins including arrogance and the mistreat-
ment of provincial subjects and allies, as measured against past achievements and
the wisdom of the citizenry at large.
Philosophy, Poetry, History: A Greek in Rome
The ‘universal’ Histories of the Greek politician and soldier Polybius (203–120
bce) stand in contrast to the particularist Roman narratives. He took up his
story from Timaeuss’ endpoint, 264 bce, working through Rome’s victory over
Macedon in 168 bce, and ending with the obliteration of Carthage in 146 bce.
Ephorus’s heir in the scale of his canvas, Polybius rejected Ephorus’s partly ethno-
graphic approach to focus more exclusively on political and military affairs. He
described the ascent of the Roman Empire with the purpose of instructing his
fellow Greeks in the nature of the force that had superseded their dominion and
gained Mediterranean hegemony in only a few generations. For all of his calls for
impartiality in explanation and judgement, one imagines that the project was not
disadvantageous to his personal prospects in Roman custody as a comfortable
hostage. Indeed, while it would not be until the 50s bce that Romans chronogra-
phers systematically aligned Roman consuls with Greek temporal markers,
Polybius took some important steps from the Greek side in the symbolically
important act of grafting the two timelines together.67
65 Virgil was not the first to do this, merely the most influential, presumably because he himself
was a Roman, giving Romans ownership of an idea once imposed upon them by the Greeks: he was
preceded by several centuries by Hellanicus of Mytilene.
66 For the orthodoxy on Fabius, and the characteristics of Roman historiography, Uwe Walter,
‘Annales and Analysis’, in Andrew Feldherr and Grant Hardy (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical
Writing: Beginnings to AD 600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 265–90, here 265–6. On the
question of Greek vs Latin, see A. J. Woodman, Lost Histories: Selected Fragments of Roman Historians
(Newcastle: Histos, 2015), 4–22. For an example of Polybian citation and contestation of Fabius on the
Second Punic War, Polybius, Histories, III.8–9 (Polybius, The Rise of the Roman Empire, 185–7).
67 On 50s bce Roman chronography, Feeney, ‘Chronography’.
36 Why History?
Polybius’s most famous contribution to the philosophy of history as an overall

process—as opposed to the explanation of particular segments of history—is his
anacyclosis. This was a conception of recurrent historical cycles that surely owes a
debt to Hesiod. However, Polybius also deployed a notion of a more linear, pro-
gressive narrative with a teleological element, making his a species of History as
Speculative Philosophy.68 While competing in some ways, and by no means ever-
present, these notions each served to divide an otherwise endless temporal con-
tinuum, whether homogeneous, heterogenous, or utterly random. They engaged
with the Platonic view of the mundane world as one of becoming, rather than
atemporal being, whilst also claiming for History a certain divinatory significance
that went beyond mere ex post facto accounting for what had happened.
This enhanced significance also served as a rejoinder to one notable claim by
Plato’s pupil, Aristotle (384–322 bce). Where Plato had seen poetry as the antith-
esis of philosophy, for Aristotle poetry was closer to philosophy than was History.
At the outset of Book IX of his Poetics, Aristotle wrote that it is the function of the
poet, whether tragedian or epic,
to describe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing that might hap-
pen, i.e. what is possible as being probable or necessary. The distinction between
historian and poet is not in the one writing prose and the other verse—you
might put the work of Herodotus into verse, and it would still be a species of
history; it consists really in this, that the one describes the thing that has been,
and the other a kind of thing that might be. Hence poetry is something more
philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the
nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars. By a universal
statement I mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probably or
necessarily say or do—which is the aim of poetry, though it affixes proper names
to the characters; by a singular statement, one as to what, say, Alcibiades did or
had done to him. In Comedy this has become clear by this time; it is only when
their plot is already made up of probable incidents that they give it a basis of
proper names, choosing for the purpose any names that may occur to them. . . . In
Tragedy, however, they still adhere to the historic names; and for this reason:
what convinces is the possible; now whereas we are not yet sure as to the possi-
bility of that which has not happened, that which has happened is manifestly
possible, else it would not have come to pass.69
Poetry performed a certain abstraction that gave it a more general utility than
History—and ‘general’ is a good way to understand what Aristotle means by
68 Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the Hellenic World, chs. 12 and 13.
69 Aristotle, Poetics, IX, in Aristotle, On the Art of Poetry, trans. Ingram Bywater (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1920), 43–4.
‘universal’. The poet imposed a conceptual order on the interpretation of human

affairs ‘as such’, or in general, that could not be established in the reportage of
particular human affairs that had actually materialized. The poem evinces an
inner logic by emplotment, i.e. the poet’s deployment of plot; the key to poetry is,
Aristotle wrote, ‘plots rather than verses’.70 Plots give the unity of a proper narra-
tive with a middle and an end foreshadowed in the beginning, and a moral-of-
the-story, as opposed to works of History where the chance intersection of rather
haphazard causal chains might explain what happened to X in year Y, but had
no wider significance. Aristotle also compares poetry to a ‘living creature’ in the
sense that the animal is a physiological entity rendered full by the harmonious
and necessary interrelationship of parts, as opposed to History where the rela-
tionships were merely contingent.71 As one latter-day literary scholar puts it,
Aristotle ‘claimed that stories were truer than history because stories show prin
ciples while history shows sequence’.72 By contrast with this one of Aristotle’s
accounts of History (we need always to bear in mind that elsewhere Aristotle
found utility in historical reflection), in Polybius’s claim that the historical chain
of events under his narration also constituted a body, one whose wholeness and
unity could be grasped by the historian’s sunopsis, we see the historian propound-
ing the general utility of his pragmatikē historia, responding to philosophers who
distinguished the particular importance of their pursuit as the way to conform
the self to the higher patterns of the universe.73
Polybius did not think every History comprised a unity in the organic sense,
just that his did. His was, in his view, a universal/general History, because it had
identified the force that unified all the other elements—Rome. From the begin-
ning of the Second Punic War in the 220s, ‘the affairs of Italy and of Libya have
been interwoven (sumplekesthai) with those of Greece and of Asia, all leading up
to one end’. One of the features of an account structured around periodizations—
he used the period between Olympiads—was that in any given period one could
easily move laterally, describing different elements in the overall picture across
place, showing both causal relations between ostensibly disparate events and the
ever-tightening connections that would ultimately bring unity out of diversity.
There was thus an important difference between Polybius’s conception of the
universal and Aristotle’s: the philosopher meant universal in the sense of general-
izable, whereas the historian used it in the sense of all-encompassing. At the same
70 Aristotle, Poetics, IX, in Aristotle, On the Art of Poetry, 44.

71 Aristotle, Poetics VII and XXIII, in Aristotle, On the Art of Poetry, 39–41 and 79–80
respectively.
72 Marshall Gregory, Shaped by Stories: The Ethical Power of Narratives (Notre Dame: University of
Indiana Press, 2009), 89.
73 François Hartog, ‘Polybius and the First Universal History’ and Peter Liddel, ‘Metabole politeia
as Universal History’, in Peter Liddel and Andrew Fear (eds.), Historiae Mundi: Studies in Universal
Historiography (London: Duckworth, 2010), 30–40, esp. 35–6; M. F. Williams, ‘Polybius’
Historiography and Aristotle’s Poetics’, Ancient History Bulletin 21 (2007), 1–64.
38 Why History?
time, Polybius had to keep something of Aristotle’s sense of necessity (as opposed
to accident) in order to address, beyond the question of interconnectedness, the
question of plot—which is why there is such a teleological element in his ‘all lead-
ing up to one end’. There had to be a ‘tragic’ element, and this came in the form of
tyche, here meaning something like an overweening force of historical destiny.
In detecting and reporting the operations of tyche, the work of the appropriately
insightful historian—meaning Polybius himself—was promoted to the level of
theoria, looking-on, rather than poetry, creation.74
As we shall see in the next chapter, tyche came in other manifestations than
grand destiny. One point of Polybius’s work, at the micro-level of practical
instruction, was to show by example how the study of the past could help readers
cope with capricious fortune rather than succumbing to fatalism. Another, at the
meso-level of institutional arrangements, was to suggest that the Roman adoption
of a mixed constitution could delay the operations of the historical cycle.75 Finally,
the grand explanatory exercise Polybius set himself presupposed the explicit
investigation of cause, as opposed to the less obviously analytical narration of
events as they occurred. Such explanation sometimes reached for the hand of
tyche, but his fame as a causal historian would scarcely have endured if this were
all there was to it.
Roman Historiography in the Late Republic
Historians Hans Beck and Uwe Walter credit Polybius’s achievements in causal
explanation as a key influence on what they call the ‘modernization’ of Roman
historiography. Other factors included the growth of a more erudite reading pub-
lic which demanded Latin imitation of Greek literary styles, and the extension
of the Republic in terms both of its territorial conquests and its emancipation of
non-Roman Italians. This modernization occurred in the period of the late
Republic, which is generally dated from 147 to 30 bce, and more precisely around
the end of the second century bce. Alas, the first wave of Roman historians that
Beck and Walter categorize as modernizers have only come down to us fragmen-
tarily. They include the likes of Coelius Antipater and Sempronius Asellio.76
The best-known of the Roman historians are renowned for their literary qual
ities and rhetorical facility, as Latin letters reached their golden age in the two
74 Hartog, ‘Polybius and the First Universal History’, esp. 35–9.
75 Connor, ‘Historical Writing in the Fourth Century BC and the Hellenistic Period’, 56–7;
Walbank, Polybius, Rome and the Hellenic World, 185–6, 239–41.
76 Beck and Walter, Die frühen römischen Historiker, 17 ff., and in connection with Lucius Coelius
Antipater, discussed at 35 ff. Further on Polybius’s impact and Greek borrowings more generally,
Dieter Timpe, ‘Memoria and Historiography in Rome’, in John Marincola (ed.), Greek and Roman
Historiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 150–74, here 166–7.
centuries either side of the birth of Jesus. How far a commitment to truthfulness
cohered with the demands of literary art varied from case to case, in the works of
writers such as Julius Caesar (100–44 bce), Sallust (86–35 bce), Livy (59 bce—ce
17), and Tacitus (c.56–c.120 ce).77 It is a reasonable hypothesis that artistic and
intellectual reflection was stimulated by the crises and military conflicts of the
long first century bce, corresponding to the period of the Late Republic. Putting
aside the many external wars of the period, the evidence from within suggests
that the institutions that might have been fit for a city state proved inadequate for
the administration of an expanding empire: that evidence includes the failed
‘Gracchan revolution’ of 133–121 bce, three slave wars up to 71 bce, the Social
War of 91–88 bce between Rome and its Italian allies, the civil wars of 88–80 bce
culminating in Sulla’s dictatorships, the Catiline conspiracy of 77 bce, and the
Triumvirate period and ensuing civil wars from 53 to 30 bce. The developments
of the long first century accentuated an existing tendency to venerate the distant
Republican past as against the present and help to explain the sense of historical
change that has been claimed as a feature of the work of those approximate con-
temporaries, variously poets, rhetoricians, and antiquarians, Lucretius, Virgil,
Horace, Cicero (106–43 bce), and Varro (116–27 bce).78
History under Monarchy
If we also categorize as historians Suetonius (born c.69 ce) and the Greek Plutarch
(46–120 ce), plus the first emperor himself (63 bce–14 ce), author of the self-
serving funerary inscription Res Gestae Divi Augusti (Deeds of the Divine
Augustus), we notice the recurrence of a historiographical pattern. As Rome
passed from Republic to Empire much the same historiographical shifts occurred
as had occurred during the transition, roughly speaking, from Thucydides to
Theopompus: a more pronounced emphasis developed on individuals at the
power centre. That might mean the emperor alone, or the emperor in relation to
senators, as in Tacitus, or, as in the case of Sallust, who did not live to witness the
Principate, an emphasis on plotters and other actors in the internecine political
warfare that presaged the downfall of the Republic. Plutarch wrote matched biog
raphies of Greek and Roman luminaries, and Suetonius recorded the lives of
twelve successive Julio-Claudian and Flavian caesars, beginning with Julius
77 On Sallust’s attitude see William Batstone, ‘The Drama of Rhetoric at Rome’, in Erik Gunderson
(ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rhetoric (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009),
212–27, here 221 ff.
78 On whom see Burke, Renaissance Sense, 139–41. On the distance of Rome’s ‘golden age’ and the
claim that ‘Recent history had for centuries been held to show a degeneration from this legendary
ideal’, see editor’s ‘Introduction’, p. xxxi, in Tacitus, Tacitus: The Annals and the Histories, ed. Hugh
Lloyd-Jones (New York: Washington Square Press, 1964).
40 Why History?
Caesar. Writing thematically, in aid of comparison, each life was for Livy a form
of History as Moral Lesson, as he deployed the range of rhetorical skills in
enkomium or damnation.
Writing ab urbe condita (‘from the birth of the city’) up to 9 bce, Livy’s vastly
popular and influential general History of Rome does not conform to this pattern.
With the declared intent ‘to record the story of the greatest nation in the world’,
his agenda was rather less subtle than that of Polybius, though like Polybius his
conception of history had both linear and cyclical aspects.79 As with almost all
classical historiography Livy had ample space for prominent individuals, such as
Hannibal and Scipio Africanus in his account of the Punic wars, but he also
resembled Herodotus in his ethnographic concern to recreate the ‘mood’ of a
time or place. A patriot writing in something of the spirit of Porcius Cato’s
Origines, the main object of Livy’s admiration was the Roman past, not its pre-
sent, and in this sense History had the task of holding up an improving mirror. In
‘the study of history it is especially improving and beneficial to contemplate
examples of every kind of behavior . . . From it you can extract for yourself and
your commonwealth both what is worthy of imitation and what you should avoid
because it is rotten from start to finish.’ More specifically,
I ask that each person pay close attention for himself to the following, namely
what was the way of life and the traditions, through which men[,] and by what
abilities, both civic and military, the empire was created and increased; next,
let him mentally trace those traditions as first they slipped, together with the
gradual decline of their proper inculcation, then collapsed more and more, and
then began to tumble headlong, until we have come to our current straits.80
This was History as Lesson and a critical form of History as Identity, looking
backwards for moral and practical inspiration as Virgil and Horace did. It was
clearly not pro-monarchist but nor was it anti-monarchist, since the rot had set in
during the Republican period whose earlier phase Livy venerated. Moreover,
while his attitude towards Augustus is not entirely clear, and coming to an estima-
tion on it is not helped by the fact that we do not know when he finished writing
his work, Livy was not insensible to the order that Augustan rule produced since
he wrote so much of his History in that context.
More than half a century ago one of Livy’s translators noted that Livy’s invita-
tion to ponder the degradation of the world was indeed ‘a solemn invitation; but
most people enjoy being collectively scolded for their wickedness, and Livy’s
79 On Livy’s cyclicism, see Gary B. Miles, ‘The Cycle of Roman History in Livy’s First Pentad’, The
American Journal of Philology 107:1 (1986), 1–33; on his linearity, Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’,
71–2. Livy quote from the opening paragraph of Book I.1 of Livy’s History of Rome, in Livy, The Early
History of Rome, trans. Aubrey de Sélincourt (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1960), 17.
80 Translation from Adam, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 268–9.
c ontemporaries accepted it with ardour’. The work did indeed sweep all other
accounts before it even if its length meant many people only encountered it in
abbreviated form. The ‘collective’ element is key here, more particularly the element
of collective memory, in light of Augustus’s own determination to ‘re-awaken’
Roman awareness of tradition. The conflicts under account were conflicts of the
collective past by the time Livy wrote, while the values he venerated might be
collectively renewed in modified circumstances. It was after all the people that
were at the centre of Livy’s thoughts, which may be explained by the fact that,
unusually amongst the other historians mentioned here, Livy himself was not an
active politician involved directly in power squabbles, but a more aloof rhetor or
man of letters. He seems to have conceived the people almost as an organism that
developed over time and had to adapt itself, but which still had a true nature to
which it should adhere.81
Like Livy, and setting off in his Annals from where Livy finished, Tacitus
(c.56–c.120 ce) engaged with the grand subject matter of warfare, but his abiding
concern is the workings and psychology of power. He is one of the great stylists,
though in the tradition of Sallust rather than Cicero or Livy.
Tacitus’s epigrams are like the thrust of a knife, clean and wounding; they imi-
tate, in their very unadorned economy, the terrible times they describe. Tacitus’s
antitheses are never pretty; they are images which contrast appearance and real-
ity with almost brutal concision, and always at the expense of reality. The
Romans are elegant in the forum and ruthless in the field: Solitudinem faciunt,
pacem appellant—‘They make a desert, and call it peace’. The Britons mistake the
trapping for the essence of culture: Humanitas vocabantur, cum pars serviutis
esset—‘They called it civilization, when it was part of servitude’.82
These famous phrases come not from the Annals, which covered the period from
the death of Augustus and Tiberius’s ascension to Nero’s death (14–68 ce), nor
the earlier-written Histories, which went from 69 ce to Domitian’s death in 96 ce,
but from a yet earlier work written in 98 ce, a laudation of Tacitus’s father-in-law
Agricola, who was at the forefront of the conquest of Britain. The Agricola might
as well have been written as a rejoinder to the recommendation in Sallust’s The
War with Catiline that ‘men should strive with all their resources not to pass their
lives unnoticed’.83 It shuns vainglorious resistance to overwhelming force while
81 On this and the previous paragraph see Adam, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 268–9, 271–2. For the
quote on collective scolding, Livy, The Early History of Rome, trans de Sélincourt, 13: emphasis added.
Further on the element of identity-construction, Andrew Feldherr, ‘Livy’s Revolution: Civic Identity
and the Creation of the Res Publica’, in Thomas Habinek and Alessandro Schiesaro (eds.), The Roman
Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 136–57. On Livy’s biography,
popular focus, and the organism idea, see Timpe, ‘Memoria and Historiography in Rome’, 169–70.
82 Peter Gay, The Enlightenment: An Interpretation (New York: Norton, 1966), 158.
83 Sallust quoted in Batstone, ‘Drama of rhetoric’, 221.
42 Why History?
recalling how a good man tempering decency with prudence could endure even
under bad rulers who sought to wield the imperial power structure as a tool for
their designs. Like Tacitus’s Germania (also 98 ce) with its ‘noble savage’ view of
Germanic tribes, and with as little first-hand experience, Agricola also contains
ethnographic reflections on Britain.
At first glance the Annals are straightforwardly anti-imperial, the latest instal-
ment in a long tradition of decline literature. With the advent of the Principate
‘the state had been revolutionized, and there was not a vestige left of the old
sound morality. Stripped of equality, all looked up to the commands of a sovereign
without the least apprehension for the present.’ Yet while Tacitus did not share
the opinion of Livy or the less well-known Velleius Paterculus (19 bce–31 ce) that
the imperial order could actually restore some Republican virtue, he nonetheless
saw it as important in the establishment of peace within the empire, and in the
return of law to corrupt provinces hitherto run by greedy governors. He was
critical of the emperor Domitian (81–96) in Agricola and in such parts of the
Histories as survive, but since Domitian was the last of his dynasty, the Flavian
line, this was hardly a challenge to successive new emperors, Nerva and Trajan.
Further ambiguity coloured Tacitus’s estimation of the prospects for the influ-
ence of the senatorial class—of which he and Agricola were members—under
an emperor. Yet, in the final analysis, there can be little doubt that his overall
approach bears the imprint of senatorial class consciousness.84 In insisting
on writing with reference to the consular year, as against the periodization
provided by the reigns of emperors, Tacitus was making a political as well as
aesthetic choice.
In his claim to write sine ira et studio, without anger or partiality (Annals I:1),
Tacitus was manifestly not promising to avoid evaluation, or to tell the story
aperspectivally. He was declaring sufficient detachment from the affairs under
scrutiny as to pass judgement where, and in the measure, due. This sentiment
stands alongside Polybius’s claim to avoid political bias, irrespective of the success
of either in adhering to his own standards, which for Tacitus were the exalted
norms of a class memory of yesteryear. Whatever we make of Tacitus’s avowed
judgementalism, it stands in as great a contrast to the moral exemplarity that pro-
vides a paean to current mores as it does to the History that purports neutrality.
It was of a piece with Cicero’s definition of historical truth as defined against sym-
pathy or favour, and Sallust’s refusal to be influenced by ‘hope, fear, or political
partisanship’.85
84 Tacitus, Annals, I.4 (p. 5) and the editor’s ‘Introduction’, pp. xxxi–xxxviii, in Tacitus, ed. Hugh
Lloyd-Jones; Ellen O’Gorman, ‘Imperial History and Biography at Rome’, in Feldherr and Hardy
(eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing: Beginnings to AD 600, 291–315, here 294, 300–8.
Further on Tacitus’s ambiguities, Momigliano, Classical Foundations, 117.
85 On Sallust and Cicero, Walter, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 276.
Pre- and Anti-Christian Influences
Before the expanded presence of Christianity in the empire, Hellenistic culture

remained the major non-Roman influence on Rome and actually expanded in
the first and second centuries ce as Roman elites embraced the Greek cultural
renaissance known as the Second Sophistic. Early Greek responses to the shock of
Rome overrunning Greece had included the comforting conceit that Romans
were really the protégés of the older civilization; Plutarch’s later paired biograph
ies continued the tradition of conjoining the two. In between, Dionysius of
Halicarnassus, who wrote his Antiquities of the Romans in the late first century
bce, effectively claimed that Romans just were Greeks. Dionysius was also a
major player in the Atticist movement, which adverted to the culture of the
Athens-centred ‘golden age’ and promoted a linguistic style which was at once
deliberately archaic—a clear affirmation of cultural change over time—and
something of a lingua franca across the Greek cultural sphere. In the following
centuries Atticism became a major strand in the Second Sophistic. Significant
historians with Atticizing tendencies included Arrian (born c.86/89 ce), Appian
of Alexandria (95–165), and Cassius Dio (c.155–235), all of whom were members
of the Roman political hierarchy.86 During the period spanned by these men the
symbiosis was such that it was not just Greeks who wrote in Greek—Italians did
too. The Atticizing tendency continued for centuries in the eastern—‘Greek’—
part of the Roman empire, and not until after the sixth century did any historians
in that tradition adopt an obviously Christian position. Between Tacitus and the
fourth-century Ammianus Marcellinus there is no record of a prose historian
who wrote contemporary History in Latin, and evidence of only two who wrote
in that tongue about Republican History.87
In the fourth century, Suetonius’s influence is present in the last known bio-
graphical series emerging from the Roman empire, the Historia Augusta. This was
written during the reign of Theodosius, the final ruler of both halves of the
empire, east and west. Theodosius it was who effectively made Nicene Christianity
Rome’s official religion, three-quarters of a century after Constantine had pro-
nounced tolerance of Christianity in 313. The Historia Augusta detailed emperors
and pretenders from Hadrian to Carinus, thus covering the period 117–285. It
also includes many fictional characters and invents historical sources and texts.
86 David S. Potter, ‘Greek Historians of Imperial Rome’, in Feldherr and Hardy (eds.), The Oxford
History of Historical Writing: Beginnings to AD 600, 316–45, here 316–17, 325, and 329 on the deliber-
ate archaisms; Sulochana R. Asirvatham, ‘Historiography’, in Daniel S. Richter and William A. Johnson
(eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 477–92.
On Cassius Dio’s Atticism, his archaisms, and his relationship to sophism and the Second Sophistic,
Brandon Jones, ‘Cassius Dio—Pepaideumenos and Politician on Kingship’, in Carsten Hjort Lange and
Jesper Majbom Madsen (eds.), Cassius Dio: Greek Intellectual and Roman Politician (Leiden: Brill,
2016), 297–315, here 297–9.
87 Potter, ‘Greek Historians of Imperial Rome’, 328.
44 Why History?
Another compendium of moral didactics, it was concerned amongst other things

with the quality of the men surrounding successive emperors. The belief that
advisers ‘made a Syrian [Severus Alexander, r. 222–35] into a good emperor, just
as their evil friends made Roman emperors the worst even to posterity’ reveals a
nice prejudice that, all else remaining equal, emperors of non-Roman extraction
were a bad idea.88 If the author was himself Gallic, as some suppose, this may be a
further instance of the Tacitean syndrome of ‘going native’ towards Rome.
Finally, we come to Ammianus (c.320s–c.390s). Part of his choice of topic—its
timespan—indicates a disregard for the other Histories of Rome since Tacitus, at
whose endpoint Ammianus began. His work is influenced by advocacy of ‘pagan’
culture, which helps explain his disregard of ecclesiastical history and his solici-
tousness towards the emperor Julian (r. 361–3), the last non-Christian ruler of the
Roman empire. Julian repays Ammianus in the text by being interested in History,
good at learning its lessons. Ammianus wrote, too, in the interests of preserving
the language and culture of Rome at a time of Greek cultural predominance:
though he was as fluent in Greek, and indeed raised in the Greek-speaking east,
his was the last major History in classical Latin. Trying to sustain the increasingly
antiquated view that Rome really still had claim to the leadership of the Roman
Empire, he prescribed a revival of moral vigour under an appropriate emperor.
This would remedy the defeat of the eastern Roman emperor Valens by a confed-
erated Gothic force at the Battle of Adrianople in 378, which closes the History.
Ammianus did not live to see the sack of Rome by Alaric’s Visigoth forces in 410.89
88 O’Gorman, ‘Imperial History’, 292–312.

89 Points on Ammianus variously from Kelly, Ammianus, 66, 71, 287 (and more generally 284–93),
316, 318–21 and Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, 68–79.
2
History, Faith, Fortuna
Introduction
Chronologically and conceptually, this chapter links classical antiquity to the

middle ages. Most of its focus is on the second to sixth centuries, and especially
the overlap of ‘late antiquity’ and the ‘patristic era’, or the era of the church fathers.
It addresses historical thinking in Christianity in the context of Christianity’s
relationship to Greco-Roman and Jewish influences. It is a story of intellectual
novelty, and of imposition, but just as much it is a tale of syncretism.
Of the rationales for History identified in the introduction, the two figuring
largest in this chapter are History as Speculative Philosophy and History as
Identity, the latter especially in its genealogical form. Along the way, attention is
devoted to the relationship between grand conceptualizations of the overall his-
torical process and the study of human choice and agency. That discussion illus-
trates similarities as well as contrasts in the way causal explanations can operate
in disparate sorts of historical account, whether or not divine or quasi-divine
forces are involved. The point looking forward is that at certain levels secular and
non-secular Histories need not conflict.
Classical–Christian Fusion
It was common to find counterparts of the ‘pagan’ Ammianus Marcellinus in

actual or former Roman territories: people who at once upheld Roman culture
and the Christian religion. Mirroring Dionysius’s claim that the Romans were
really Greeks, the cultural elites of what was latterly called Byzantium considered
themselves Romans to the end of the polity in 1453 ce, as well as sustaining a
Christian church that was for hundreds of years more stable and secure than
its equivalent to the west. In the west, we might consider proud Romans like
Boethius (c.480–c.524) and Cassiodorus (c.485–c.585), successive heads of govern-
mental and court services in the Ostrogothic Kingdom of Italy (483–553), who
sustained the Aristotelian and Ciceronian rhetorical tradition and incorporated
classical texts and techniques into Christian education. Cassiodorus also preserved
and reproduced sacred texts under threat from the Ostrogothic armies which
did not always act in accordance with the tolerant Arianism of their leaders.
46 Why History?
As historiographer to the Ostrogothic king Theoderic, he also pleasingly united

Goth and Roman antecedents in his Chronica.
On the doctrinal side, before Christianity was officially tolerated in the empire,
let alone endorsed at the expense of paganism, Christian theologians and propa-
gandists had established syncretic links with some of the foremost pre-Christian
philosophical and rhetorical traditions. Classicizing language was adopted by
evangelizers from the third century bce in order to draw pagans to the new faith
by means of a familiar cultural idiom, as in Eusebius’s work. Much earlier than
that, the biblical book Acts of the apostles by Luke seems to have drawn on Greco-
Roman techniques and styles as well as Old Testament Histories like 1 Maccabees.1
Cynic influence is detectable in Jesus’s and Paul’s teaching and rhetoric. Not far
from Cynic thought, Stoic morality bore comparison with the austere morality
of the church fathers, and the conception of conscience propounded under
Christianity reflects the thought of Stoics like Cicero and Seneca. Conscientia was
the word accurately used by Jerome in the fourth century when he translated the
Bible into Latin; the corresponding Greek word was syneidēsis, connoting reflex-
ive awareness (of, say, guilt) and it had a pre-Christian provenance.2
Theology and philosophy merged most explicitly in the Christian encounter
with the Platonic tradition, in particular with middle Platonists such as the
Hellenized Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria (c.20 bce–c.50 ce), and late
Platonists, latterly called Neoplatonists, most important among whom was Plotinus
(204/5–270 ce). Plato’s own thought was congenial to Christianity in positing an
immortal soul made in a divine image, and a supersensible, extramental realm
that constituted something like godly intelligence. Subsequent middle Platonist
and Neoplatonist admixtures emphasized a tripartite ontology analogous to the
Christian trinity—the first systematic Christian theologian, Origen Adamantius
(c.185–c.254 ce), who leant on Philo amongst others, gave the names Father,
Christ, and Holy Spirit to this triad. The triad of Origen’s younger contemporary,
Plotinus, comprised first the One, or the Good, which is a unitary first principle
from which all else emanates, and which is thus a version of a principle to be
found in some of the very oldest, pre-Socratic philosophy. Then there is Intellect,
i.e. the realm of the eternal, unchanging, perfect forms. Then there is Soul,
which acts in relation to the external natural world—that world whose material
things are the ‘image’ of the forms from the realm of Intellect, and which
includes the bodies of things that ‘contain’ souls. Soul also acts internally in rela-
tion to the realm of Intellect, which is Soul’s highest, purest activity because it
1 Palmer, ‘Acts and the Historical Monograph’, 373–5, 387–8.

2 Cynic influence on Jesus and the early church: F. Gerald Downing, Cynics, Paul and the Pauline
Church (London: Routledge, 1998), ch. 10; on Christian atticizers, Staffan Wahlgren, ‘Byzantine
Literature and the Classical Past’, in Egbert J. Bakker (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language
(Chichester: Blackwell, 2010), 527–38, here 530; Glenn F. Chesnut, The First Christian Histories:
Eusebius, Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoret, and Evagrius (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1986), 190.
History, Faith, Fortuna 47
involves working in the direction of return to the One/the Good. In other

words it is possible for human souls to gain some sort of access to the higher,
spiritual–transcendental realm of Intellect (equivalent to the Platonic realm of
Being, rather than the earthly realm of becoming), by a process of contemplation
that rids itself, ‘through quiet recollection, of deceit and of all that bewitches
vulgar souls’. This contemplation is Plotinus’s version of theoria.3
The Neoplatonic outlook was easily co-opted by Christianity, especially early,
underground Christianity with its otherworldly, spiritual focus. Any attachment
of the Soul to bodily or otherwise material things is an evil if it hinders the
movement of return. And while none of the varieties of Platonism quite had an
equivalent of the Christian incarnation—the word/logos being made flesh, as
in John 1:14—the platonic idea of the body as a temporary container of the soul
does come close. Indeed it was close enough for Augustine of Hippo (354–430 ce)
to have subscribed to Neoplatonism for a while and still be taken as a Christian.
Better put, there was a period in which Augustine’s Neoplatonic and Christian
beliefs overlapped with little tension, before the latter came to predominate.
Christians even concocted a historical account to explain the synergy in terms
favourable to themselves. Where Ambrose (Aurelius Ambrosius: c.340–397 ce)
had claimed that Plato had gleaned his wisdom from the prophet Jeremiah,
Augustine, who realized that Plato lived around a century too late to meet
Jeremiah, nonetheless felt that Plato could have become acquainted with the Bible
via Egyptian authorities.4 Neoplatonism was compatible with the Christian dis-
tinction between the body, romantic love, and the outside world of laws on one
hand, and the soul, spiritual love, and the realm of faith on the other. It is no
coincidence that the man who wrote of salvation by faith alone, Paul the Apostle,
was also one of the most prominent de-judaizers of Christian thought, scorning,
as Augustine later would, the Jews’ allegedly blind allegiance to the letter of the
commandments, and their supposed neglect of the spirit that lay behind them.
Christianity and Judaism
Besides traducing the Jewish religion, one of the easiest ways for theologians to
contrast Christianity with Judaism was to stigmatize Judaism’s adherents, notably
3 John Hermann Randall, Nature and Historical Experience (New York: Columbia University Press,
1958), 124–6; Rex Warner, The Greek Philosophers (New York: New American Library, 1958), 225–6.
4 On the adoption of Platonism see Dermot Moran, ‘Platonism, Medieval’, in Edward Craig (ed.),
Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, vol. 7 (London: Routledge, 1998), 431–9. On Plotinus, Lloyd
Gerson, ‘Plotinus’, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2014 edition), ed.
Edward N. Zalta, https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2014/entries/plotinus/ On Augustine,
C. W. Wolfskeel, De Immortalitate Animae of Augustine: Text, Translation and Commentary
(Amsterdam: Grüner, 1977), 10–20. On Origen, Edward Moore, ‘Origen of Alexandria’, Internet
Encyclopedia of Philosophy: http://www.iep.utm.edu/origen-of-alexandria/#SH5b
48 Why History?
with the allegation of deicide. This also helped divert responsibility for Jesus’s
death from Rome, facilitating coexistence with the worldly power and proselyt
ization amongst the empire’s peoples. At the same time the early propagandists
of Christianity also needed to sustain the link with Judaism to which their own
religion was said to be a successor. One contribution to the project of superces-
sion was the manipulation of extant works of History, notably the work of the
great Jewish historian Josephus (37–c.100 ce). Josephus’s Antiquities of the Jews
was prized for its wealth of material on early Christianity in the first century ce,
such that Cassiodorus later included it on his influential list of suitable Christian
reading alongside the major ecclesiastical historians of the fourth and fifth
centuries.5 Josephus supposedly said in his Antiquities, which was written around
the early 90s ce:
Now there was about this time Jesus, a wise man if it be lawful to call him a man,
for he was a doer of wonders, a teacher of such men as receive the truth with
pleasure. He drew many after him both of the Jews and the Gentiles. He was the
Christ. When Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men among us [that is, the
Jews], had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at first did not
forsake him, for he appeared to them alive again the third day, as the divine
prophets had foretold these and a thousand other wonderful things about him, and
the tribe of Christians, so named from him, are not extinct at this day.
(Antiquities 18:63–4)
The italicized sections were almost certainly inserted by subsequent Christian

copyists, in order to substantiate Christ’s divine nature, fortify charges of deicide,
and insinuate Christian sympathies on Josephus’s part.6
By claiming right of succession, Christianity also claimed inheritance of the
framework of Jewish history, and by extension of established Jewish chronological
linkages with other peoples. Thus Christianity was inserted into a deeper world
history which was important for legitimation in the competition of faiths, even
though the major warrant Christianity claimed was transcendent, not historical.
In one expression of this historical tendency, Matthew’s and Luke’s gospels both
claimed lineages from King David to the earthly family of Jesus. The Carthaginian
Tertullian (160–225 ce) in the west and the Greek Clement of Alexandria
(c.150–c.215 ce) in the east both made headway in annexing Jewish history, but
the major steps were taken by Sextus Julius Africanus (c.160–c.240). On the basis
5 For the reading list, Peter W. Edbury and John Gordon Rowe, William of Tyre: Historian of the
Latin East (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 34. Alongside Eusebius of Caesarea, we
encounter ‘Paulus’ Orosius, and the Historia tripartita which combined works of the Greek Christian
historians Socrates, Sozomenus, and Theodoretus.
6 David Patterson and Alan L. Berger, Jewish–Christian Dialogue: Drawing Honey from the Rock
(St Paul, MN: Paragon House, 2008), 82–3.
of the timespan for the creation of the world in Genesis, and the claim in Psalms
that a millennium was but a day in God’s eyes, the world was said to be scheduled
to last for 6,000 years after the creation plus another thousand years of rest to
match the seventh, Sabbath day. Christ was apparently born precisely halfway
through the world’s last standard millennium, in 5,500. After the second coming
of Christ, there would be a further, eighth ‘day’, a timeless, supramundane one.7
A complement to chronological synchronization was the way in which ‘figural’
readings of events and personages intimated religious succession, in keeping with
the basic proposition that the coming of Jesus was a fulfilment of Old Testament
prophecy. Tertullian again made notable developments in this line of thought.
A figura is partly metaphor, partly allegory. Figural reading is best understood in
its relation to the concept ‘prefiguration’, by which, for instance, Moses could be
tied to Jesus by the imputation of a reciprocal relationship. Moses presaged Jesus
and Jesus fulfilled Moses. Both were at once concrete historical individuals and
gained their shared significance as expressions of God, infused with vital force and
accorded special architectural powers by this shared essence.8 So on one hand, as
we have seen, Christians, like Romans, oriented their sense of time around key
moments in the past, meaning that their sense of time was always historical in
some fairly orthodox sense.9 On the other hand, some of their ‘historical’ think-
ing pertained to a realm out of time: Moses and Christ could not be linked in
any temporal, causal sense of one thing prompting another in ‘horizontal’, linear
fashion—their relationship could only work if ‘vertically’ referred to the atemporal
deity. According to the pivotal theorist of figural thought, Erich Auerbach, it was
this fusion of real historical event and ‘providential world-history’ which gave
Christianity its ‘tremendous powers of persuasion’, underpinning its medieval
hegemony.10
Figural reading was but one strand of a rich patristic and medieval interpret
ative tradition. Indeed within occidental history we might say that while the great
techniques of writing and speaking were elevated to a high level by the Greeks
and Romans, the techniques of reading and interpretation collectively known
as hermeneutics were honed to a finer point in the Christian world, as, amongst
other things it drew on rich Jewish traditions of scriptural exegesis. Both
7 Michael Whitby, ‘Imperial Christian Historiography’, in Feldherr and Hardy (eds.), The Oxford
History of Historical Writing: Beginnings to AD 600, 346–70, here 347–8.
8 David Dawson, Christian Figural Reading and the Fashioning of Identity (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2001), 88 ff., 163–4; Eric Auerbach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western
Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1957), 73 ff.
9 On historical as well as theological time, Rosamond McKitterick, ‘Constructing the Past in the
Early Middle Ages’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 6th ser. VII (1997), 101–29, here 104.
On foundational and original moments in ecclesiastical History, Momigliano, Classical Foundations,
ch. 6.
10 Terry Cochran, Twilight of the Literary: Figures of Thought in the Age of Print (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2001), 58–60. Auerbach’s text is ‘Figura’ in Eric Auerbach, Scenes from the
Drama of European Literature (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 11–76.
50 Why History?
monotheisms had sacred texts around which to orient their sense of past, present,
and future, and to provide life rules and morality tales. Interpreting these texts ‘cor-
rectly’ was therefore a task of the highest importance, with the promise of nothing
less than getting as close as possible to the thought of god.11 Given the breadth of
the texts’ contents, hermeneutics came to bridge theology, philosophy, and law. As
we shall see further in the next chapter, historical–critical study was increasingly
important to the interpretative endeavour, whence ‘History as Communion’.
Early in the third century ce, Origen had sketched a tripartite scheme of bib
lical exegesis, incorporating moral, literal, and allegorical levels of meaning.
John Cassian (c.360–435) added a fourth level and his quadriga became the
standard medieval reading scheme, though Cassian’s contemporary Augustine
practised a variation. The quadriga comprised (i) historical or literal, (ii) moral
or tropological, (iii) allegorical, typological or analogical, and (iv) eschatological
or anagogical readings. Figural reading is subsumed in the third of these category-
groups. The meaning of each group was elaborated in the mnemonic Litera, gesta
docet; quid credas, allegoria; moralis, quid agas; quo tendas anagogia; ‘The letter
teaches events, allegory what you should believe, morality what you should do,
anagogy what mark you should be aiming for’.12 One of the quadriga’s purposes
was to ensure that reading and learning were not passive exercises providing
once-and-for-all comprehension, but rather comprised an arduous, interactive,
and ongoing process.13 At the same time, multi-layered readings permitted the
circumvention of otherwise tricky contradictions, and the rationalizing of dis-
tasteful chronicle—not every level of interpretation needed to be applied together
to every text. Such reading practices helped reconcile the New Testament with the
Old. They also underwrote the legitimacy of separating some History from
knowledge of God, including thus separating some biblical facts from theological
interpretation.14
Early Christian Historiography
Alongside these reading practices, early Christianity produced its own written
History, of which that of Eusebius of Caesarea (c.255–339 ce) stands out for its
11 David R. Olson, The World on Paper: The Conceptual and Cognitive Implications of Writing
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 150.
12 Quote from the Glossa Ordinaria, cited in Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola, Pico della
Mirandola: Oration on the Dignity of Man: A New Translation and Commentary, ed. Francesco
Borghesi, Michael Papio, and Massimo Riva (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 72 n. 16.
13 Werner H. Kelber, ‘The Quest for the Historical Jesus’, in John Dominic Crossan, Luke Timothy
Johnson, and Werner H. Kelber, The Jesus Controversy: Perspectives in Conflict (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity
Press, 1999), 75–116, here 78 ff.
14 Peter Van Nuffelen, ‘Theology versus Genre? The Universalism of Christian Historiography in
Late Antiquity’, in Liddel and Fear (eds.), Historiae Mundi, 162–75; see also Momigliano, Classical
Foundations, ch. 6.
influence. We should actually distinguish between two Eusebian contributions of

different sorts, each buttressing the other. One was a chronography that he assem-
bled as Book II, the Chronological Tables, of his two-part Chronicle. The other was
his list of sources in Book I. In its final form the Chronological Tables ended in the
year 326 ce; Jerome continued the story up to 378. The work is not notable for
the novelty of the research, for almost all of its sources were themselves earlier
compilations—today we would call them secondary sources. Its key purpose was
linking biblical history with that of the pagan peoples of the Middle East and the
Mediterranean, thus expanding outward from the basis provided in Julius
Africanus’s work.
The Chronological Tables were divided according to the kings of the different
peoples. They began in what corresponds to our 2016 bce, which was supposedly
Abraham’s birth year. Monotheists therefore had priority here even though, by
Eusebius’s own reckoning, that date was also the first year of Egypt’s sixteenth
dynasty, the year in which, amongst other things, King Ninus of Assyria founded
the city of Nineveh. The monotheists had priority at the conclusion, too, though
they shared it with Rome. Given that Eusebius’s columns were allocated to kings,
so it was that when non-monarchical governments appeared peoples lost their
place in the table until they regained their royalty, if they did. This approach can
be partly explained by the difficulty of dating periods without reigns to punctuate
them, but there was also an ideological function to this particular assemblage of
data. From 70 ce, when the Romans took Jerusalem, only one column remained
in the Chronological Tables until the end: that of the Roman emperors whose rule
united the known world and under whom, ultimately, and despite periodic perse-
cutions, the Christian church had survived and expanded. Polybian assumptions
about Rome’s universal historical role were co-opted: the reduction of the table to
a single point was also a way of pointing towards a future of Roman-Christian
imperium. Unlike Julius Africanus, however, Eusebius did not believe it possible
to infer the time of Christ’s second coming from chronographical data.15
The Chronicle epitomized some of the subject matter of Eusebius’s History of
the Church, which was the first work to chart that path since the book of Acts and
the gospels, especially Luke’s gospel. As Eusebius said, his goals included tracing
The successions of the holy apostles along with the times extending from our
Saviour to our own day; the magnitude and significance of the deeds said to
have been accomplished throughout the ecclesiastical narrative, how many
governed and presided over these affairs with distinction in the most famous
communities; how many in each generation served as ambassadors of the
15 Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, ch. 2; Grafton and Williams, Christianity and the
Transformation of the Book, ch. 3, which also shows continuities between the Chronicle and Origen’s
Hexapla.
52 Why History?
Divine Logos [the word of God], either in unwritten form or through written
compositions; the identities, number and dates of those who, thanks to a yearning
for innovation, drove on to the heights of error and proclaimed themselves the
introducers of what is falsely called knowledge and mercilessly attacked Christ’s
flock like vicious wolves; and in addition, what befell the whole Jewish people
right after their plot against our Saviour; how many times and in what ways
war was waged against the Divine Logos by the Gentiles during each time
period; how great were the contests fought in each period on Its behalf, through
blood and torture, and in addition the martyrdoms of our very own day, and the
gracious and kind relief of our Saviour that came at last . . .16
The framing of divinely imposed punishment for Jews alongside Christian mar-
tyrdom and fortitude shows that this is far from a secular History in its purposes
and meaning. Nonetheless there are many mundane elements to it, including the
treatment of Jesus’s human life. It is better researched than Eusebius’s Chronicle,
notwithstanding its use of the altered Josephus. It makes extensive use of quota-
tions from works at Caesarea’s great library, including accounts of the lifetimes of
ancient writers (plucked ‘like the flowers of verbal fields’17), and some Roman
documentation as well as biblical sources.
If Eusebius’s Chronicle and History intimated a favourable teleology by tracing
the ascent of Christianity through Rome, the work of Augustine’s student ‘Paulus’
Orosius (born c.380–5 ce) reflected the challenges to Christian Rome during
its author’s lifetime. Orosius complemented Augustine’s theological treatise
Concerning the City of God against the Pagans with a more explicitly historical
tract aimed at the same target. His Historiae adversum paganos or (The Seven
Books of ) History against the Pagans served to counter the claim that Rome had
fallen because it had weakened by embracing Christianity—a claim Gibbon wove
into a wider explanation 1,400 years later. Orosius pointed to the extent of vio-
lence and disaster entailed in the expansion of republican Rome, arguing that it
was greater than anything that had occurred since Rome’s adoption of Christianity.
He was especially scathing of Roman conduct in the Punic wars. At the same time
the possibility of Christ’s intercession, once he had revealed himself, paved the
way for human improvement. More recent disasters could be rationally explained
as just punishment for wrongs, but also as the result of the continued existence of
pagans—and Jews. The sack of Rome was anyway mild in comparative historical
terms. Alaric and his fellow ‘Goths’ (Visigoths) had respected the sanctity of the
churches in Rome, and before long, by 417–18, so Orosius maintained, the city
16 Eusebius of Caesarea, The History of the Church: A New Translation, ed. and trans.
Jeremy M. Schott (Oakland: University of California Press, 2019), 39 (Book I, ch. 1, 1–2 of the
original).
17 Ibid. 40 (Book I, ch. 1, 4 of the original).
returned to normalcy. Above all else, this forced encounter with barbarians
enabled the fulfilment of Christ’s injunction (Matthew 24:14) to spread the gospel,
in this case into the lands from which the barbarians came. Emblematic of the
prospects for the future was the marriage in 414 between the Visigoth King
Ataulf, and Galla Placidia, daughter of the former Roman Emperor Theodosius.
Apparently Ataulf had thought to replace ‘Romania’ with ‘Gothia’ but had been
persuaded by his wife to restore and enhance Rome.18 Orosius’s account was
enduringly popular in medieval Europe perhaps because it fitted the conceits of
later Christianized European ‘barbarians’ who formed the martial and demographic
backbone of western Christendom.
Christian Philosophy of History
Orosius, Augustine, Julius Africanus, and Jerome all subscribed to some version
of the theory that came to be known as translatio imperii, transfer of dominion.
The most influential source of the idea of four successive dominant kingdoms is
the dreams and visions recounted in the Old Testament book of Daniel with its
apocalyptic overtones, whereby the end of the fourth kingdom brings the end
of days and the advent of god’s kingdom. In fact this is another motif that tied
together both of the monotheistic religions with some pagan traditions. The four
kingdoms idea may have originated in Persia and was certainly present in Greek
tradition well before the composition of Daniel. Herodotus listed Assyria, Media,
and Persia; after the successes of Alexander, Macedon or Greece could easily be
added. Polybius appended fallen Carthage to the list of Assyria, Media, and
Persia, which explains why Jerome thought Polybius necessary to interpret
Daniel.19 Most Jewish and Christian exegetes took Daniel to be alluding to the
Babylonian empire, the Medio-Persian empire, the Greek empire, and the Roman
empire. One can therefore imagine the significance attached to the seeming collapse
of the Roman empire and, conversely, to Orosius’s vision of Rome’s endurance in
a new form.
Looking forward from late antiquity and the fall of the western Roman empire,
it was of vital symbolic import when the title emperor was revived in 800, when
it was bestowed by Pope Leo III on the Christian Frank, Charlemagne. In 962,
after a series of early tenth-century disputes in which the title was lost by the
18 See especially David Rohrbacher, The Historians of Late Antiquity (London: Routledge, 2002),
135–49; also Richard Godden, ‘The Medieval Sense of History’, in Stephen Harris and Bryon L. Grigsby
(eds.), Misconceptions about the Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 2008), 204–12, here 206.
19 George Wesley Buchanan, The Book of Daniel (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 1999), 68; Conrad
Trieber, ‘Die Idee der vier Weltreiche’, Hermes, 27 (1892), 311–42. On Jerome and Polybius, Arnaldo
Momigliano, Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2012), 79.
54 Why History?
Carolingian line, the crown was given to the founder of the Ottonian dynasty,
Otto I. The position of Emperor was constantly occupied until the Napoleonic
wars and the dissolution in 1806 of what had by then long been known as the
Holy Roman Empire. As the translatio imperii concept developed, it was con-
tended, most influentially and perhaps originally by the chronicler and universal
historian Otto of Freising (1114–58), that history’s unfolding also involved a
gradual east to west movement of civilization.20 The ‘evolution’ from the Middle
East through the eastern Mediterranean through to the Holy Roman Empire,
and then by some estimates to France and then England, still has some pale echo
today, in the rhetoric of manifest destiny in a certain westerly successor to
Middle Eastern Christendom. By this account it is more than a literal observa-
tion that the sun rises in the east (the Orient, in German Morgenland, literally
morning-land) and sets in the west (Occident; Abendland; evening-land). It is
figuratively true.
Overall, Christian philosophies differed from most of their Greco-Roman pre-
decessors in three ways. The first difference concerned the nature of divinity and
the cosmos. As opposed to classical conceptions of the cosmos as possessing its
own immanent purpose or teleology, in the Christian conception god was outside
of the natural order entirely, though could intervene in it and even incarnate
‘himself ’ within it. Neoplatonic metaphysics blurred this distinction somewhat
with its conception of a sort of sliding scale of immaterial to material, divine to
mundane.
The second difference concerned the shape or pattern of human history. If the
most famous classical models depicted either constancy or a kind of cyclical or
spiralling passage of rise and fall (Hesiod, Polybius, even Herodotus) or some
sort of future recurrence-in-reverse-order of past events (as in Virgil21), then
the Christian model, like the Jewish model before it, was predicated upon a
more linear movement. The difference is certainly not absolute, given, on the
one hand, the linear aspects of Polybius’s and Livy’s work, which offered an
example helpful to smoothing over civilizational differences, and, on the other
hand, that ‘Christian time’ could also be circular or liturgical, basing its calcula-
tions on both Hebrew lunar and Roman solar elements. The annual cycle of festi-
vals was tied both to fixed points such as Christmas and the moveable feast that
was Easter.22
The third difference between the two sets of philosophies is less a matter of
pattern than of point, purpose, and meaning, as enshrined in what, for Christians,
20 Samantha Zacher, Rewriting the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon Verse: Becoming the Chosen
People (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 89; Marie-Dominique Chenu, Nature, Man, and Society in the
Twelfth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 186–7, 195–6.
21 Richard Jenkin, Virgil’s Experience: Nature and History; Times, Names and Places (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1998), 205.
22 Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 71–2; cf. McKitterick, ‘Constructing’, 104–6.
lay at the end of the historical process. Here we notice the particular continuity with
the ‘Old Testament’ conception of History, a continuity implicit in twentieth-
century historian Josef Yerushalmi’s observation that while Herodotus was the
‘father of History’, the ‘fathers of meaning in history were the Jews’.23 Again, the
difference between Judeo-Christian and Greco-Roman models is not absolute,
because Christian universal History retained some of the assumptions of Platonic
philosophy in its reliance on a fixed point of reference for whatever happened in
the mundane realm. This very contrast with the atemporal realm concerned not
just the mortal life of man but the life of the world. Time must, in other words,
run out—this was the eschatological dimension of Christian thought, meaning its
preoccupation with finality, with endings, and it was associated with the idea of
divine interventions in history from beyond it, and figural readings. The ques-
tions of when and how time would run out, and who had authority to interpret its
course, were of the essence in theological terms and increasingly, too, in terms of
the church’s worldly power.
Following the Protestant theologian Paul Tillich, we might divide the linear
visions of Christian future-oriented history into prophetic and apocalyptic ver-
sions. Both the prophetic and apocalyptic versions had the clearest of origin sto-
ries, and were carried along by a sense of history as unfolding divine reason and
improvement in consciousness of god’s grace.24 Both versions recognized kairoi
(plural of kairos, meaning event-like interruptions of continuous human history
around which it could be periodized) but the prophetic version was conservative
in the sense that it claimed that the final major earthly event had already occurred,
with Christ’s advent. Following Julius Africanus, Augustine tended to the con-
servative stance, albeit with some particular interpretative differences. The his-
torical process was, like the week, divided into seven stages, with earthly history
comprising six, of which Augustine fancied that he lived in the last.25 He antici-
pated the seventh, Sabbath stage of eternal rest, the end of time and the advent of
the heavenly city that was prefaced by final judgement. Augustine’s position may
also be called ecclesiastical in a particular sense. Ecclesia, derived from the Greek
ekklesia, the lawmaking assembly of Athenian citizens, means variously a literal
church building and something like the assembly of the faithful. In practice,
the claim to speak for this elect was arrogated to the church hierarchy, just as the
Athenian assembly comprised a small elite. Since its authority was based on
the view that history was in its final period, there was no ground for radical
23 Samuel Moyn, ‘Jewish and Christian Philosophy of History’, in Tucker (ed.), History and
Historiography, 427–36; analysis and quote from 428.
24 Andrew Fear, ‘Orosius and Escaping from the Dance of Doom’, in Liddel and Fear (eds.),
Historiae Mundi, 176–88.
25 The concept of six earthly stages and the idea of four successive kingdoms, while apparently in
tension, need not be so in fact. Both implied overall unity in the evolving experience of the known
world, and the sixth age and fourth kingdom were of the Romano-Christian present.
56 Why History?
critique of the order that it underpinned. The fourth-century church declared the
competing apocalyptic vision a heresy.
In that apocalyptic or ‘sectarian’ vision, which came to have revolutionary
connotations, the final event was yet to come. This vision borne by chiliasts, or
millenarians as they are sometimes dubbed, entailed a utopia on earth before the
end of days, a utopia of social justice in which the Holy Spirit was with everyone,
and intermediary authorities unnecessary. Joachim of Fiore (c.1135–1202) was
the most prominent high medieval sectarian, whose tripartite division of history
characterized the Old Testament period as the age of the father and of law, i.e. the
time of ‘man’s’ obedience to the laws of God, the New Testament period as the
age of the Son and of grace, with man as God’s progeny, and the impending (from
1260) age of the Holy Spirit and of love, when man and God would be in direct
contact. Joachim’s lead was taken by a group of radical Franciscans known as
the Spirituals, and his spirit endured through the Reformation and the English
revolution in the bodies of Taborites, Anabaptists, and certain revolutionary
peasants and Puritans.26 Despite the anti-Judaism of chiliasts such as Tertullian,
in some respects their beliefs accorded with Jewish theodicy conceived at a time
of political weakness, with its concept of a coming fulfilment by revelation of
what yet remained hidden.27 Apocalypticism could in principle promote a more
activist ethos than propheticism, and here too it bore some resemblance to Jewish
thought as opposed to the conservative prophetic mode which could encourage a
tendency simply to ‘mark time’ until the end.28
If in the vastly influential Augustinian theology the past comprised a text
communicating God’s message to man—with the ‘Old Testament’ not only being
history, but also constituting ‘the shadow of the future’29—then, at the same time,
doctrinal disputes and the very refusal of history to come to an end prompted
growing contestation about timings and meanings on all sides. It also prompted
some to give up on the prediction game in line with Eusebius’s doubts about the
predictive value of chronology. In but one example from the central middle ages,
26 Paul Tillich, The Protestant Era (London: Nisbet, 1955), 25–7; Marjorie Reeves, The Influence
of Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages: A Study of Joachimism (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2000).
27 On Jewish theodicy, Moyn, ‘Jewish and Christian Philosophy of History’, 428–9.
28 On Jewish philosophies of History, see chapter 3 of Berger and Patterson, Jewish–Christian
Dialogue, esp. 72. Note—and here I draw also on correspondence with the author of that chapter,
David Patterson—that ‘Israel’ means ‘one who strives with God’, implying interaction of the temporal
and eternal realms, where one ‘lives God’, as it were, by one’s comportment towards other people, as
commanded in the Torah. The holy Jewish calendar works not from the first day of creation but the
sixth, the day of the creation of the first human. In Judaism, one’s acts in this world towards others are
also actions towards God. And this world is a changing one, an unfolding, developing one, in much
the same way relationships—among humans and with god—unfold and develop.
29 Marc Bloch, Feudal Society (London: Routledge, 1989), 88–102, ‘the shadow of the future’ at 90;
Peter Haidu, The Subject of Violence: The Song of Roland and the Birth of the State (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1993), 16.
Henry of Huntingdon’s (1088–1157) epilogue to his History of the English People

dated his present moment as the
thirty-fifth year of the reign of the glorious and invincible Henry, king of the
English. The sixty-ninth year from the arrival in England, in our own time, of
the supreme Norman race. The 703rd year from the coming of the English into
England. The 2,265th year from the coming of the Britons to settle in the same
island. The 5,317th year from the beginning of the world. The year of grace
1135 . . . We are leading our lives, or—to put it more accurately—we are holding
back death, in what is the 135th year of the second millennium.
Henry reflected on the inhabitants of the corresponding year in the first millennium
and then spoke to the people of the year 2135, asking them to pray for him: ‘In the
same way, may those who will walk with God in the fourth and fifth millennia
pray and petition for you, if indeed mortal man survives so long.’ Against those
who would ask ‘Why do you talk in this way about future millennia when the
conclusion of Time will come in our own epoch and we are in daily and trembling
expectation of the end of the world?’ Henry provided his own reasons for the
great endurance of the ‘truth promised for many ages’, but he also noted that ‘no
one knows the extent of Time except the Father of all’.30
The obstinate determination of time to carry on was a problem in different
ways for the prophetic Histories and their apocalyptic competitors, though
Histories of both sorts continued to be produced. Not long before Joachim of
Fiore made his intervention, Henry of Huntingdon’s younger contemporary Otto
of Freising restored an eighth era to Augustine’s model. Variations on both sides
continued to be written for centuries, and recognition of variation gets us away
from the idea of two pure and purely opposed types of theological history. Even
Augustine’s theology, which was on the prophetic side of the divide, concerned
elements of interaction between God and man that were present in Jewish the
ology and in Origen’s increasingly disfavoured thought. This ambiguity had
connotations for understanding the course of human history as well as divine
intervention. If one’s metahistorical outlook was still shaped by a sense that men
could influence the destiny of humankind, history was open to reinterpretation in
light of earthly events as observers strained to locate the present in relation to the
moment of salvation.31 Amongst other things, this meant that ‘ordinary’ historians
were not irrelevant to the great philosophers of the historical process.
30 Henry of Huntingdon, The History of the English People 1000–1154, ed. and trans. Diana
Greenway (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 119–20. See also p. 146 for the editor’s note on the
problematic nature of some of Henry’s dating. Note too that, as the title of this edition suggests,
Henry’s work was revised up to 1154.
31 On relevant renaissance and modern scholars, see e.g. Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 73,
especially n. 40 and Godden, ‘Medieval Sense’, 204. Godden also explains the diversions from
58 Why History?
Ordinary historians did exist, if ordinary is taken to mean primarily occupied

with charting specific developments as opposed to explaining humanity’s entire
historical course. Little ordinary History was free of elements of the thought
defining the philosophies/theologies, but the proportions of the ingredients var-
ied significantly. We also need to distinguish between the philosophies/theologies
of history on one side, with their claims on overall meaning and predictability,
and Histories that invoked the divine in legitimation of some discrete earthly
cause or other. In the latter category fall many of the medieval chronicles that will
be considered in the next chapter. The point to stress is that while historiography
changed in some ways with the advent of Christianity, it nonetheless retained a
number of the purposes and functions that it had possessed in classical antiquity,
and multiple rationales could coexist happily within the same manuscript.
On Causation: Determinism and Human Agency
When establishing distinctions between philosophies of history and ordinary

History, a fundamental question is how each relates to the question of causation
and the space for genuine choice and agency on the behalf of earthly individuals
or groups. As we shall now see, even if determinism is accepted at one level, it
need not dictate a historical account at other levels. In any case the question of
determinism and its resolutions were not new to Christianity.
The philosopher Bernard Williams shows how ancient Greek poetry and
tragic plays wrestled with just these issues. Sometimes, as when in Aeschylus’s
Agamemnon the eponymous king kills his daughter to appease the goddess Artemis
and so produce weather fit for him to sail to Troy, necessity may present ‘itself to
the agent as having produced the circumstances in which he must act’ and choose.
In ‘other cases it shapes events without presenting itself at all. It may not be known
to the agent himself or known only after the event, or, most typically, it is known
before the event, but in some indeterminate, ambiguous, or riddling form, and it
comes to be determinately understood only afterwards.’32 Such a ‘state of affairs is
very characteristic of omens and oracles’, though it is not always clear what is or
Augustine. Further to the ‘ambivalence’ of Augustinian historical time, Jacques Le Goff, Time, Work,
and Culture in the Middle Ages (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 32. On Otto and
Augustinian theology and history, and on the relevant thought of Gerhoch of Reichersberg, see Peter
Claasen, ‘Res Gestae, Universal History, Apocalypse’, in Robert L. Benson and Giles Constable (eds.),
Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), 387–417, here 403
ff. On Otto and Joachim, Reeves, The Influence of Prophecy, 302. On Otto as propagandist for the
empire, Chenu, Nature, 186–96.
32 Also Tacitus, Annals, Book VI.22: ‘Most men . . . cannot part with the belief that each person’s
future is fixed from his very birth’, yet ‘some things happen differently from what has been told
through the impostures of those who describe what they do not know’, which ‘destroys the credit of a
science, clear testimonies to which have been given by past ages and by our own’.
is not an omen. In the Odyssey Eurymachus observes that ‘lots of birds fly around
under the rays of the sun, and they don’t all mean something’. An oracular vision
‘is usually an indeterminate prediction, or a determinate prediction that leaves it
vitally unclear by what route it will come true’. Only in some scenarios are we ‘told
that a certain thing will happen whatever we do, although it is just the kind of
thing we might hope to avoid by action. Moreover, if efforts to avoid the outcome
helped in fact to bring it about, this is a reliable sign, after the event, that the
supernatural has been at work.’ ‘So far from fatalism ruling out all effective action
of any kind, its characteristic quality, on the contrary, demands that some action
and decision do have an effect. It is not that people’s thoughts and decisions never
make a difference, but that, with regard to the vital outcome, they make no differ-
ence in the long run.’33
Procopius of Caesarea (c.500–c.554), widely viewed as the greatest Byzantine
historian of the sixth century, showed how Christian concepts could slip quite
easily into the structural role vacated either by the will of the gods or the more
arbitrary fortune of the later classical period. The weight of opinion now is that
Procopius was a Christian, though some still see him as a ‘pagan’. While a gulf
separates the religious elements of his works and those of other late antique ‘secu-
lar historians’ on one hand, and the work of ecclesiastical historians of the fourth
and fifth centuries from Eusebius onwards on the other hand, Procopius may
have emulated the ecclesiastical historians’ strategic incorporation of pagan con-
cepts. Part of the interpretative problem is that as a classicizing writer he was
constrained by a Thucydidean idiom and literary style, whilst in the socio-religious
context he was shaped by orthodox Christian views with a Neoplatonic influence.
So fortune, tyche, could sometimes appear to operate separately from God’s influ-
ence and even to work counter to it. On the whole, though, tyche seems either to
have been synonymous with divine will or to have been viewed as an intermedi-
ary servant of that will. The final conception is especially interesting, because it
coheres with the orthodoxy that God does not intervene directly most of the
time, and that ‘his’ will is mysterious. Given this mysteriousness, it was quite con-
sistent at once to submit to divine will but also to rely on one’s virtue (Arete) in
the negotiation of things that seem to be ‘up to us’.34
33 Bernard Williams, Shame and Necessity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 139–41.
34 On Procopius’s Christianity, Averil Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1985), especially 118–19 on conflicting religious and literary contexts,
and also harmonization of tyche and Christian divinity. Anthony Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004) claims paganism. See especially his pp. 217–18
on tyche coming ‘close to usurping the place of God’, on the tension between god and tyche, as in the
claim that tyche ‘never acts in the interests of justice’. Further to Christianity and the Neoplatonic
colouring that allowed for supernatural entities below god, like demons, see Treadgold, Byzantine
Historians, 210–11 andJames Murray, ‘Procopius and Boethius: Christian Philosophy in the Persian
Wars’, in Christopher Lillington-Martin (ed.), Procopius of Caesarea: Literary and Historical
Interpretations (New York: Routledge, 2018), 104–19, here 106–7. Murray also includes the point
about Arete and the things that are ‘up to us’. On the blending of Christian and pagan motifs, and the
60 Why History?
A common feature of Christian and pre-Christian scholarship was the presence

of portents. Medieval chroniclers evinced the uncertainty sometimes evident
in Homer about what it was that portents portended and whether they were
indeed portents after all. There were similar problems of establishing the scale of
time against which the meaning of portents could be gauged. In a passage that
could almost have come from Bernard Williams’s pen, we are told that medieval
chroniclers
hardly ever claimed personally to have foretold anything; they were simply mak-
ing, in retrospect—a fact which they made no effort to conceal—what appeared
to them or others to be reasonable connections between certain significant
events. Preternatural phenomena, after all, were evidence—like documents, or
like the personal testimony of reliable witnesses—and evidence was what a good
historian was meant to be interested in.35
The only real generalization that can be made is that the presence and role of the
divine hand was variable within works and between authors, as the following
rather random assemblage of scholars attests. The Ecclesiastical History of the
English People by the Northumbrian monk Bede (672/3–735) combines many
accounts of miracles—manifestations of the divine in human affairs—with more
mundane explanations of causation and accompanying human responsibility. The
courtier Einhard’s biography of his late patron, Charlemagne, testifies more in
form and rhetorical content to Suetonius’s panegyric to Augustus Caesar than to
any other influence (despite claims to the effect that such influences were min
imal until the Renaissance rediscovered classical literary styles). In Einhard’s Vita
Caroli, composed between 829 and 836, there is certainly no divine controller
directing Charlemagne’s actions.36 This is very different to the hagiographies,
which replicate in microcosm Christian philosophies of the historical process
as they illustrate the saint’s relationship to god.37 William of Tyre, the historian
of the First Crusade and the resulting Latin eastern kingdoms from c.1095 to
1184, drew through Einhard on Suetonius for many of his character sketches.
While his subject matter and his own ecclesiastical standing meant that he gave
God a commanding overall presence in history, William was parsimonious in
debt in this respect to the ecclesiastical historians of the fourth and fifth centuries, from Eusebius to
Theodoret, see Chesnut, The First Christian Histories, 190 n. 77.
35 Chris Given-Wilson, Chronicles: The Writing of History in Medieval England (London:

Hambledon, 2004), 31, emphasis in original, and more generally ch. 2.
36 Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of Charlemagne, trans., with introduction, Lewis
Thorpe (London: Penguin, 1969), 19–20; Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 43. On the claim about
Renaissance historians as opposed to medieval ones, Burke, Renaissance Sense, 131.
37 Peter Damian-Grint, The New Historians of the Twelfth Century Renaissance (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 1999), 189.
identifying specific moments of divine intervention, and gave ample credit to

human achievement and blunder, as in the logistical inadequacies of the
crusader–Byzantine expedition to Egypt in 1169.38 Polybius had attributed only
otherwise ostensibly inexplicable things to tyche, and Geoffroi de Villehardouin
(1160–c.1212), a knight in and chronicler of the Fourth Crusade, and as far as we
know the author of the first historical prose narrative in French, reached for the hand
of God with equal parsimony, as in accounting for military successes against all
the odds.39 The Chronik of the priest Jakob Twinger von Königshofen (1346–1420)
contained a universal History but also a local History of Strasbourg. It addressed
the ‘Black Death’ and the great massacres of scapegoated Jews that ensued across
Europe in 1348–9. Yet rather than blaming the Jews, as would have been the
easiest course religiously and politically, Jakob implied that their confessions had
only come about because of torture. As to the mass immolation of Strasbourg
Jewry on St Valentine’s Day 1349, he offered a mundane and highly plausible
explanation: ‘if the feudal lords had not been in debt to them, they would not
have been burned’.40
It is a modern stereotype that in ‘pre-modern’ Christendom everything from
politics to historiography was subordinated to theological concerns. As applied to
historiography the stereotype implies overly sharp lines of division between the
historianship of classical antiquity on the one side of medieval historical writing
and ‘early modern’ historianship on the other. It is a stereotype undermined by
the historiographical evidence and by the principles of human agency and ‘sec-
ondary causation’ to which many theologians subscribed (p. 92). Such myths die
hard, though.
38 Edbury and Rowe, William of Tyre, 39–43.

39 Jeanette Beer, Villehardouin: Epic Historian (Geneva: Droz, 1968), 58–65.
40 Jakob’s account excerpted and contextualized in Jacob Rader Marcus and Marc Saperstein, The
Jew in the Medieval World: A Sourcebook, 315–1791 (New York: Hebrew Union College Press, 2015),
154–7. Quote from 157.
3
The ‘Middle Age’
Introduction
This chapter, like all the chapters to one degree or another, is concerned with the
balance of continuity and novelty that shows how arbitrarily delineated a ‘period’
of history is. The balance did not just change over time but also differed between
contemporaries. There was not just one medieval sense of the past or rationale for
studying it, because the ‘medieval mind’ was no more homogeneous than that of
any other time. Sometimes it is difficult to establish what is novel and what con
tinuity, given that on the whole those in search of origins of ‘the modern’ have
started in modernity and worked backwards. That approach can well mean stop
ping when some precursor or ostensible caesura is located, without going yet
further back to ascertain whether the precursor had precursors or the caesura
was real. Since an element of what follows is to date some developments further
back it may be that this work falls into just the same trap, and ignores yet earlier
developments that confound or at least heavily qualify its claims about novelty in
period X. If this process of correction and qualification is taken back as far as it
can go, it may be that there just is not anywhere near as much novelty—whenso
ever dated—as most Histories of historiography suggest, only a changing balance
of emphasis distributed between strands of thought that were there in the earliest
historical accounts. All we are left with are fine judgements about the relative
significance of certain developments, and an awareness that old wine can appear
in new stylistic skins, while the endurance of old forms can conceal novelty in
content.
The first two sections of the chapter illustrate considerable continuity with
elements of late antique and classical historiography in the areas of History as
Identity, History as Memorialization, and History as Lesson. Remaining sections
show that within historically oriented medieval thought there were three tenden
cies for which the medieval world is not generally renowned: the conceptualization
of human cultural difference over time, with its associations of an awareness of
anachronism and accompanying debates over the relevance of the past to the
present; a literal sense of the past, with its associations of specificity and accuracy;
and the capacity for often quite sophisticated source criticism. This is not to say
that such tendencies denoted dominant trends, because dominance is relative to
interest, and interests varied.
The ‘ Middle Age ’ 63
As we traverse time and place, alongside the inheritance of multiple historio

graphical types from classical antiquity and the patristic age, distinctions between
Latin and vernacular Histories also become relevant, as do distinctions between, say,
monastic Histories and urban Histories, or baronial and royal genealogies.1 Each
of these sorts of History had the potential to imply a different scale and periodiza
tion of time—a different ‘temporality’—as did technical and economic develop
ments that affected the structure of the working day and diminished the
significance of the natural, seasonal cycle. Some of the Histories were also import
ant in making claims on legitimacy, which puts them into the bracket of History
as Identity. But other epistemic, didactic, and socio-political considerations come
in to play in shaping the purposes and means of historical enquiry.
A section is devoted to religious hermeneutics and theological-philosophical
shifts, some of which cohered with Christian History as Speculative Philosophy,
some of which ran separately to it, and some of which stood in tension with it. In
the eleventh–thirteenth centuries, as in, say, the sixteenth–eighteenth centuries,
technical developments in source evaluation were just as important to the shaping
of History as were beautifully written narratives. To the former developments,
across all of that time, the clergy made a disproportionate contribution in pursu
ance of History as Communion, and increasingly their endeavours took account
of the different contexts in which the sacred texts had been written and those in
which they were read.
Like preceding chapters, this one intersperses its main thematic and empirical
studies with discussion of particular conceptual points as they arise. Specifically,
it addresses the question of how historical change is conceived and measured, and
asks what is required for a historical account to be considered relativistic when it
addresses human variety across place or time.
Annals and Ancestry
Where the ancient Greeks had chronographies, Christian civilization, like pre-
Christian Rome, had annals. We are straight into muddy terminological waters
because at varying points, late antique (like Cassiodorus), medieval, and modern
writers have distinguished in different ways between annals, chronicles, and
Histories. For some, annals and chronicles were identical, with both terms being
used for long lists of yearly dates next to some of which successive, mostly
anonymous scribes listed events in a pro forma fashion. However, especially in the
1 For some of the new range see the early chapters of Sharon Dael, Alison Williams Lewin, and
Duane J. Osheim (eds.), Chronicling History (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press,
2007). For the inheritance from classical antiquity and the patristic age, Shami Ghosh, Writing the
Barbarian Past: Studies in Early Medieval Historical Narrative (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 27–38.
64 Why History?
first half of the second millennium ce, the kind of works we are now apt to term
Histories—substantial prose accounts recounting some event or development
or polity—were also apt to be called chronicles by their authors. The definitional
blur is appropriate because the genres were often far from distinct, but the initial
focus is on the simplest, ‘ideal type’ annal form.
In a faulty ‘orthodox view’, ‘the development of early medieval historical forms
[is] an evolutionary process in which the annal is forever portrayed as a primitive
specimen’.2 To be sure, at first glance one can imagine why uninitiated contem
porary readers would find bewildering entries like that for 776 in the Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle: ‘Here a red sign of Christ appeared in the heavens after the sun’s set
ting. And that year the Mercians and the inhabitants of Kent fought at Otford;
and snakes were seen extraordinarily in the land of the South Saxons [Sussex].’ It
does seem curious that serpents and skies merit more attention than the outcome
of the battle at Otford. Such laconic, apparently disconnected entries can appear
even for the first year of any given annal, where one might expect some sort of
introduction. These entries would fit only the most expansive definitions of a nar
rative and adding consecutive ones together might well not make any difference
given that yet other ostensibly disconnected issues were apt to be discussed in
following years, often with no attempt to refer to previous entries. Furthermore,
the annal has no proper ending in the sense of a conclusion, thus no ostensible
overall explanatory purpose.3
The first thing to be said to redress misunderstandings is that snakes and heav
enly phenomena were presumed to have meaning, even if the chroniclers were
not certain what the meaning was. In any case such symbols do not dominate the
majority of annal entries, and are absent from many. Nor are all entries as terse as
the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’s for 776. Different, even if now unknown, authors
within the same series could bring their own styles. Sometimes, especially when
working backwards to fill in years from before the beginning of their own contri
butions, as was the case with all of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’s entries for before
the end of the ninth century, the recorders import prose wholesale from more
‘conventionally’ historical accounts, or even from sagas. Eyewitness accounts are
occasionally included. And manifestly some annalists refused to be constrained
by the small, single-line spaces originally drawn on the manuscripts.4 The follow
ing is from the entry for 858 in the Annales Fuldenses, the Annals of Fulda,
2 Sarah Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of Form: Narrative in Annals and Chronicles’, in Nancy Partner
(ed.), Writing Medieval History (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005), 88–108, here 93.
3 Discussion of the 776 entry and the annals form in Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of Form’, 88 ff.; the
entry itself as used here is taken from the slightly different translation in The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles,
ed. Michael Swanton (London: Phoenix, 2000), 50.
4 Swanton, ‘Introduction’ to his edition of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, pp. xi–xxxv, here pp. xvi–xviii;
Cecily Clark, ‘The Narrative Mode of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle before the Conquest’, in Peter
Clemoes and Kathleen Hughes (eds.), England Before the Conquest: Studies in Primary Sources
Presented to Dorothy Whitelock (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 215–35. For much
that concerned the Kingdom of the East Franks, one of the portions of the
now-divided Carolingian empire. It concerns the background to the invasion of
West Francia by East Francian King Louis the German (Louis II). I did not choose
it quite at random, but nonetheless there are enough entries of similar quality
that it cannot be said to be unrepresentative of the Annals:
In July, after the armies had been gathered together and formed up and were
about to set out, suddenly the king [Louis] was burdened with a great weight of
troubles. For messengers came from the west, Abbot Adalhard and Count Odo,
asking him to comfort with his presence a people sore pressed and in peril. If he
did not do this swiftly and they were denied hope of liberation at his hands, they
would have to seek protection from the pagans with great danger to the Christian
religion, since they could not get it from their lawful and orthodox lords. They
declared that they could no longer bear the tyranny of Charles [‘the Bald’].
Anything that was left to them, after the pagans from outside had plundered,
enslaved, killed and sold them off without even a show of resistance being made
to them, the king destroyed from within with his evil savagery. There was now no
one left in the whole people who still believed his promises or oaths, and all
despaired of his good faith. Hearing these things, the king was very disturbed,
and found himself in a dilemma. If he acceded to the request of the people, he
would have to move against his brother, which would be wicked. If, however,
he spared his brother, he would have to turn back from liberating the people in
danger, which would be equally wicked. Besides this there was the not negligible
consideration that the people in general would suspect that all that was being
done in this matter was not done out of concern for the people’s well-being but
simply out of a desire to extend his kingdom, although the matter was quite dif
ferent from the vulgar opinion, as all those who knew of the king’s plans truly
testify. Thus placed beneath a weight of cares, he at length agreed to the advice of
his wise men and relied on the purity of his conscience, preferring to act for the
good of many rather than in agreement with the obstinacy of one man. He
yielded to the prayers of the legates and promised according to the people’s wishes
that with God’s help he would come to those who longed for his presence.5
Here we have the ingredients of an explanatory narrative that is internal to, and
largely independent of, the overall form of the annal as such.6 The same applies to
the same point as regards another set, see the editor’s introduction, Annals of St-Bertin ed. Janet
Nelson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991), 1–19, here 1–2.
5 The Annals of Fulda, ed. Timothy Reuter (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1992), 41–2
(year 858).
6 The idea of narrative internal to and separable from the annal as a whole needs to be taken into
account in assessing the credence of Hayden White’s claim that annals can have no plot because they
have no meaning-revealing ending: White, The Content of the Form, 20–1.
66 Why History?
many lengthy accounts of events that occurred within the parameters of a year.
The 858 narrative, written with due literary concern, tells of how a king came to a
decision to move against his brother in light of weighing moral issues and likely
outcomes. While Louis supposedly acts in the interests of the Christian religion
and the ‘good of many’, there is no divine determinism and no divine interven
tion, only hope for God’s endorsement of a decision already made, which is a
common feature of such accounts.
Sometimes in the annals, as in Sulpicius Severus’s hagiographic Life of Martin
(c.397), we see allusions the like of which the late antique secular historians were
proud: Sallust and Tacitus are invoked en passant.7 However ‘Christian’ the author
or the story, throughout the medieval world it would continue to be acceptable to
invoke classical authors and events from classical antiquity, as when the twelfth-
century historian of the crusades Bishop Guibert de Nogent used analogies with
the Trojan War.
Further to the Roman connection, the works of Sallust, Tacitus, and Livy all
corresponded more or less obviously to the year-by-year annalistic form, despite
the sometime mockery of this convention by Cato and Cicero. Thus within a few
pages, amidst some protracted descriptions of the events of particular years,
Livy’s History of Rome from its Foundation 2.15–2.19, moves through a number of
consular years in swift succession: ‘The consuls for the following year were
Marcus Valerius and Publius Postumius. During the year there were successful
operations against the Sabines . . .’; ‘The consuls of the following year, Opiter
Verginius and Spurius Cassius, proceeded at once to attempt the reduction of
Pometia . . .’; ‘In the following year Postumus Cominius and Titus Lartius were
elected consults’; ‘Nothing of importance occurred the following year, when the
consuls were Servius Sulpicius and Manlius Tullius; but the year after that, when
Titus Aebutius and Caius Vetusius were in office, saw the siege of Fidenae, the
capture of Crustumeria, and the secession of Praeneste from the Latins to Rome.’8
Organizationally speaking, such was the case with very many Histories since the
annalistic form had been pioneered in prose in the Annales of Calpurnius Piso
(born c.180 bce, consul 133 bce), and some of the reasons for the organization
are closely analogous to some of the Christian reasons.9 These commonalities are
especially noteworthy in anticipation of the next chapter, and the formative
impact on ‘Renaissance’ historiography of Livy and Tacitus, which is the sort of
influence so often contrasted to that of Christian chronicle.
7 e.g. Annals of Fulda, 59 (year 869), 78 (year 875). On the literary qualities of the Annals and the
absence of supernatural overtones, see Timothy Reuter’s introduction to the Annals, 1–14. On
Sulpicius Severus see Sulpicius Severus’ Vita Martini, ed. Philip Burton (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2017).
8 At pp. 106–9 of de Sélincourt’s translation, Livy, The Early History of Rome.
9 Walter, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 284–7 on Roman reasons, including reference to similarities in
content like mention of omens.
The formal similarities between the Roman works and Christian annals suggests
that on one axis of comparison we are better off conceiving of a continuum from
the sparsest annal on one end to the most obviously History-like work at the
other end. For a Christian example around a mid-point on this continuum, con
sider but the most important single source about the Merovingian dynasty up to
the 590s, the Ten Books of Histories, a.k.a. The History of the Franks, by Gregory
of Tours (538–95). Its essays focus especially on the Christianization of Gaul
that had begun in the third century, then the conversion to Nicene (‘Catholic’)
Christianity of Clovis I in 496, then the history of Merovingian rule in the
Frankish empire that Clovis in particular had expanded.10 Book V is illustrative.
A number of its chapters seem like random interspersions linked to others by
nothing other than their simultaneity (though had they been written in classical
antiquity we might describe this feature as a rhetorically attractive break from
dense narrative11). So we have: ‘6. In this year [576], the year in which Sigibert
died and his son Childebert began to reign, many miraculous cures were per
formed at the tomb of saint Martin . . .’; ‘7. I must now record the names of the
men who were summoned home by God this year . . .’; ‘11. Since our God is ever
willing to give glory to His bishops, I will tell you what happened this year to the
Jews in Clermont-Ferrand . . .’ . But we also have: ‘13. I must now return to my
subject’, with that subject being the major theme of the book, which concerns
developments in the dynasty relating to the kings Childebert and Chilperic.12
Another example is Part I of the sermon De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae,
The Ruin and Conquest of Britain, written by the British monk Gildas at some
point in the first half of the sixth century. This relatively short account is polem
ical in its denunciation of the leaders of the Britons, yet it is nonetheless ‘properly
historical’ in its presentation of an extended account purporting to provide a lit
eral explanation of a real set of developments. It deals with the period from the
Roman conquest to the Roman departure and then the parlous state depicted in
Gildas’s present, as the post-Roman Britons were engaged in warfare with Picts
and then the ultimately victorious Saxons.13 Gildas was not England’s Gregory,
however; Bede (c.672–735) was. He completed his Ecclesiastical History of the
English People in 731, and with it popularized the dating system of the Anno
10 Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, ed. Lewis Thorpe (London: Penguin, 1974).
11 Note that while on one hand the yearly annalistic structure of (for example) Livy might mean it
was easier to address the relationship between simultaneous events in multiple location (Walter,
‘Annales and Analysis’, 286), it can also hinder ‘setting out a logical sequence of events; [Livy’s] reader
sometimes feels as though he were reading a serial novel by Dickens, where several groups of characters
all have to have their quote in each new instalment, and must keep turning back to remind himself
how things stood. Sometimes we cannot see the wood for the trees.’ Betty Radice, ‘Introduction’ to
Livy, The War with Hannibal, trans. Aubrey de Sélincourt (London: Penguin, 1987), 7–22, here 12–13.
12 Walter, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 263–7.
13 Gildas, The Ruin of Britain, Fragments from Lost Letters, The Penitential, Together with the Lorica
of Gildas, ed. Hugh Williams (London: Bedford Press, 1899); for analysis, Karen George, Gildas’s De
Excidio Britonum and the Early British Church (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2009).
68 Why History?
Domini (ad) era, which in this book and elsewhere now is called the Common
Era (ce).14 Bede is relevant in illustrating that the same author could produce
works at different points on the History–annal continuum. He compiled a major
chronographic account, De ratione temporum, as well as a multi-book prose
History, much as had Eusebius, whose Historia Ecclesiastica inspired Bede’s title,
and whose Chronicon had been such a major influence on the proliferation of
annals from the fourth century.
Above all, even if elaborate prose entries did not exist, and all annals comprised
the barest and most laconic recordings, the progressivist view would still be
wrong in seeing these works as rude approximations to later, ‘proper’ History.
Equally, the intellectual historian Hayden White, while correct in rejecting the
view of the annals as an ‘infantile’ form of discourse, was incorrect, at least in one
important sense, in his alternative assessment. He came to see annals as a sort of
competitor to ‘proper History’, and possibly a superior one at that given that, in
his view, Histories impose a spurious continuity by their linkage of events across
time whereas the annals reflect and encourage a vision of discontinuity attendant
upon a sensibility of the sublime, with any order as there might be in the world of
events inaccessible to human cognition.15 White’s view is already weakened by
entries such as that in the Fulda annals of 858, which display ‘proper’ Histories,
meaning complete if brief narratives, within a particular year, but viewing the
annal form as a whole—rather than any given entry—through either the prism of
immature History or as a competitor to it in its grasp of the nature of ‘reality’ in
the earthly realm obscures a major function. The open-endedness of the annals is
a strong clue here, because of the association with ongoing chronology. The dates
are markers on a continuum that began with the incarnation and continues until
the end of all earthly affairs. The years are a story in themselves, as they had been
for Hecataeus, the Atthidographers, and the Roman annalists.16 What differs is
the biblical timeline and the religious lineage, but the purpose and form of the
annal genre are similar. For the Roman annalists, the time was Roman, traceable
to Rome’s deep origins, dictated to Rome’s dominions and associated with succes
sive annual magistracies who at once embodied and vouchsafed freedom for the
citizenry. The annalistic form was associated with the Roman tradition since
Fabius Pictor of writing ab urbe condita, from the foundation of the city, and drew
in turn on the Greek chronographic project. The name Annals, as in Tacitus’s
work, links the historian’s libri annales with the tabula annalis, annual pontifical
14 The ad system was invented by Dionysius Exiguus (c.470–544) though Eusebius’s chronologies
were an important step in that direction. Note that Dionysius used it to identify Easters in Easter
tables. One of the tributary origins of the Christian annals was probably marginal notes in Easter tables,
which helps explain why the annal entries were often small, especially early on.
15 White, Content of the Form, chs. 1–3, ‘infantile’ at 9.
16 This being a major argument of Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of Form’.
lists of important events ‘attested for pre-literary sacred record keeping’.17 For the
Christians Christ’s birth is one obvious point of originary interest, the creation
another. Thus, differing slightly from Julius Africanus’s estimates, the 6 bce entry
of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records that 5,200 years have passed since the
beginning of the world, and occasionally thereafter the reader is reminded of the
current tally.
Annals also had a political role for Christian rulers, as they did for Rome. They
provided historical or historio-religious legitimation, with genealogical and fig
ural functions intertwined.18 Wars and the deaths of kings and bishops are a regu
lar feature. The marking of holy days gives a sense of reassuring continuity
alongside linear unfolding (much the same had been achieved in Roman annals
by recounting rituals like consular inauguration, the priests’ work of expiation,
and sacrifices19), and serves to indicate the piety of favoured subjects, namely
royal families. The Royal Frankish Annals of 741–829—predecessor of the Annals
of Fulda, though covering the whole of the Carolingian empire—constitute a
story of the Frankish people since the death of Charles Martel, as embodied in the
Carolingian dynasty. It is these rulers and their people who become associated
with the temporal framework measured from the incarnation, and thus associ
ated with God’s design.20
The precise proportions of political and religious legitimation could vary. If the
Royal Frankish Annals constitute an especially clear-cut example of annal-writing
as a vehicle for expressions of the identity of a ‘national’ people, it is a matter of
debate as to the role of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle vis-à-vis the Angelcynn, i.e. the
English. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle was begun in the early 890s but recorded
back to 60 bce and the advent of the Romans, and continued to be updated in one
version well into the twelfth century. Probably initiated under the auspices of
17 On which, including the quotation, see Timpe, ‘Memoria and Historiography in Rome’, 163–4.
Walter, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 286–7 considers additional factors, including the relation to consular
years and elections. (Note that even under the principate elections were still held for the key magis
tracies.) Moreover while Tacitus wrote with reference to imperial reigns, he also used consular
years—ibid. 284–5.
18 On the figural element of the History of the Franks, Martin Heinzelmann, Gregory of Tours:
History and Society in the Sixth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001).
19 Walter, ‘Annales and Analysis’, 286.
20 For such reasons one needs to take issue with White (Content of the Form, 8) when he writes of
the Anni Domini in the left-hand column of most annals that ‘We should not too quickly refer the
meaning of the text to the mythic framework it invokes by designating the “years” as being “of the
Lord”, for these “years” have a regularity that the Christian mythos, with its hypotactical ordering of
the events it comprises (Creation, Fall, Incarnation, Resurrection, Second Coming’), does not pos
sess. The regularity of the calendar signals the “realism” of the account, its intention to deal in real
rather than imaginary events. The calendar locates events, not in the time of eternity [what, one asks
of the point of departure implicit in ‘Anno Domini’?], not in kairotic time, but in chronological time,
in time as it is humanly experienced.’ To reiterate the point of the main text here and of Foot, ‘Finding
the Meaning of Form’, what is inconvenient for White’s argument is the way that earthly political
concerns can fuse with concerns about divine legitimation through the association of temporal and
kairotic time.
70 Why History?
Alfred the Great, it was the first effectively continuous History in the vernacular
(Old English) of any European population group. In one school of thought the
Chronicle illustrated the agenda of unifying Anglo-Saxon ‘England’ out of its
diverse kingdoms.21 The alternative view is that while the Chronicle was clearly
keen on showing the triumph of the West Saxon dynasty from which Alfred came,
it was less concerned with promoting a vision of pan-English unity.22 If the latter
view is correct then it highlights a tension with Bede’s eighth-century vision of a
unified England. Now for Bede, properly observed Christianity was the force that
would unify all the inhabitants of the island.23 Indeed since his loyalties finally lay
with Rome, the real significance of the deeds of kings was tied up with conversion
to and maintenance of a disciplined Roman Christianity. For kings themselves,
and for many of their chroniclers, the dictates of the Church were not insignifi
cant but they were not the only major considerations. Looking forwards, for
twelfth-century historians like Henry of Huntingdon, William of Malmesbury,
and Geoffrey of Monmouth, the kings were at the centre of the picture as the
genealogical, even genetic thread linking the state through history.24
When thinking of biological connections, we should not allow accounts of the
modern construction of nationhood and the modern provenance of biological
racism to blind us to earlier iterations of nation and race: religious and civili
zational genealogies might well be fused with kinship associations of a more
genetic type. Origines gentium, tales of the foundational moment of discrete
groups, were known in post-Roman Europe from the sixth century at the latest.
Along with the Old Testament, which was a repository of inspiration in early
medieval Europe given the story of the flight of the tribes of Israel from Egypt,
the fall of Troy inspired tales of ethnogenesis as the result of the defeat and dis
persal of a people, with the hope of redemptive triumph as a new Rome.25 More
than this, Trojan antecedence was claimed for some non-Roman peoples,26 and
would continue to be in certain circles for the best part of a thousand years
21 Foot, ‘Finding the Meaning of Form’, 96–102; Sarah Foot, ‘The Making of Angelcynn: English
Identity before the Norman Conquest’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 6th ser. 6 (1996),
25–49. Swanton, ‘Introduction’, p. xx. Further on the issue of national consciousness, Patrick Wormald,
‘Engla Lond: The Making of an Allegiance’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 7:1 (1994), 1–24.
22 The most substantial critique of the Angelcynn argument is George Molyneaux, The Formation of
the English Kingdom in the Tenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University 2015), ch. 5, esp. pp. 201–6, with
a salient contrast on p. 206 to the Royal Frankish Annals.
23 Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. Leo Sherley-Price and D. H. Farmer
(London: Penguin, 1990). On unity from diversity, see Farmer’s introduction, 19–38, here 27; Foot,
‘Finding the Meaning’, 100–1.
24 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 163–4.
25 Len Scales, ‘Central and Late Medieval Europe’, in Donald Bloxham and A. Dirk Moses (eds.),
The Oxford Handbook of Genocide Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 280–303, here
284–5; Charles F. Briggs, The Body Broken: Medieval Europe, 1300–1520 (London: Routledge 2011),
284; Joseph H. Lynch and Phillip C. Adamo, The Medieval Church (London: Routledge, 2014), 206–7.
26 Rosamond McKitterick, History and Memory in the Carolingian World (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004), 7–8, 208–9; Gabrielle M. Spiegel, The Past as Text: The Theory and Practice of
Medieval Historiography (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 96–7, 106.
thereafter. Important in the Frankish embrace of the Trojan myth was quite
widespread embrace of the Chronicle of Fredegar, which did for a people what the
Atthidographers did for cities.
As is common in the genre, the Fredegar chronicle (or annal, depending on
precise definition) accepted and continued earlier chronicles, whose authors had
done the same in their turn. Eusebius had been translated and continued by
Jerome, who was built on by Hydatius and Gregory, who were then incorporated
alongside other earlier chronicles into the Chronicle of Fredegar. Just as interesting
as the entries after Gregory’s account and up to 642 are the ‘interpolations’ or
additions. In this case the additions made to the incorporated chronicles of the
Liber Generationis, Jerome, and Hydatius are unsourced. They served to fuse
Judeo-Christian and classical-Trojan ancestry, whereas Gregory had only estab
lished the former lineage. The Trojan King Priam is depicted as the first king of
the Franks, himself descended from one of Noah’s three sons, Japeth. The Trojans
supposedly split into two major groups of which one, the Frigii, under King
Francio, ended up between the Rhine and the Danube, where, along with the
Saxons, they provided the only successful resistance against the Romans.
Ultimately the author of the additions established the harmony of kinship
between Franks and Latins by claiming Friga, of Priam’s house, as the brother of
Aeneas. Thus the Franks gained historical independence amongst, but also con
nection to, the other major influences in Christendom, namely the Papacy and
Byzantium. Modifications to established chronicle narratives build a ‘bridge
between universal history into which Frankish matter is interpolated and
Frankish history into which universal matter is interpolated’. The ego of the
Franks was stroked. ‘Fredegar’ promoted the gens Francorum, via its elite, to the
status of binding element in the Merovingian regnum of the time, bringing
together political and ethnic considerations.27
Exemplarity, Allegory, and the Presence of the Past
Complex prose rarely falling into one genre alone, many of the Histories with a
genealogical identity function also had an exemplary purpose. In the use of
27 J. M. Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Fredegar and the History of France’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library,
40 (1958), 527–50, quote from 539; 97–114; Ghosh, Writing the Barbarian Past, 97–114; Robert
Flierman, Saxon Identities, ad 150–900 (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), 74–5. For an extensive recent
treatment of Fredegar in connection with the universal History and ethnicity questions, see Helmut
Reimitz, History, Frankish Identity and the Framing of Western Ethnicity (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2015), ch. 7, especially p. 174 to the effect that the Fredegar chroniclers ‘were aiming
to underscore the fact that the name of the Franks did not represent a local identity or a single region
at the edge of the regnum. It stands for the governing class, which from the start had preserved the
destiny and continuity of the gens Francorum and bound the different areas and populations of this
regnum to each other.’
72 Why History?
History as Lesson we see significant continuity in historians’ practices across the

classical–Christian divide. Gregory opened the History of the Franks with the res
onant reflection that ‘many things keep happening, some of them good, some of
them bad’.28 In 844 Lupus of Ferrières, to whom Einhard had devoted one of his
works, enjoined Charles the Bald, king of the west Franks, to read about the
Roman emperors in order to learn ‘what you should imitate or what you should
avoid’.29 In the century after Gregory, Bede dispatched a copy of his Ecclesiastical
History to King Ceolwulf with the reflection: ‘Should history tell of good men and
their good estate, the thoughtful listener is spurred on to imitate the good; should
it record the evil ends of wicked men, no less effectually the devout and earnest
listener or reader is kindled to eschew what is harmful and perverse.’30 Four hundred
years later, Henry of Huntingdon’s Historia Anglorum similarly averred that ‘The
recorded deeds of all peoples and nations, which are the very judgements of God,
clemency, generosity, honesty, caution, and the like, and their opposites, not only
provoke men of the spirit to what is good and deter then from evil, but even
encourage worldly men to good deeds and reduce their wickedness’. Henry also
drew on the classical tradition, citing Horace’s praise of Homer’s work for its
superiority over the abstruse tomes of systematic philosophers.
Whereas Crantor and Chrysippus sweated to produce many volumes of moral

philosophy, Homer showed, as clearly as in a mirror, the prudence of Ulysses,
the fortitude of Agamemnon, the temperance of Nestor, and the justice of
Menelaus, and on the other hand, the imprudence of Ajax, the feebleness of
Priam, the intemperateness of Achilles, and the injustice of Paris.31
And so on and so forth, through the ‘middle ages’ and beyond. Writing at the close
of a fourteenth century riven with Anglo-French conflict, Jean Froissart provided
the standard justification for his endeavour: the hope ‘that the h onourable enter
prises, noble adventures and deeds of arms which took place during the wars waged
by France and England should be fittingly related and preserved for posterity, so that
brave men should be inspired thereby to follow such examples’.32
With the continued deployment of History as Lesson came the familiar range
of levels of truth and meaning:
There is no doubt that chroniclers, who included numerous accounts of mili

tary engagements in their works, were concerned to present the ‘facts’ of those
28 Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, 63.

29 McKitterick, Carolingian World, 208; Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of
Charlemagne, 15.
30 Bede, The Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 3.
31 Henry of Huntingdon, The History of the English People 1000–1154, prologue, 3–4.
32 Jean Froissart, Chronicles, ed. Geoffrey Brereton (London: Penguin, 1978), 37.
engagements—numbers on each side, the principal manoeuvres and tactical

decisions, captures, casualties, terrain and so forth—as correctly as they could.
There is, however, a troubling sameness about many of their descriptions . . .
Victorious armies, for example, are usually shown maintaining strict discipline on
their way to battle, arriving in good order under unified and purposeful com
mand, devoutly committing their cause to the arbitration of God . . . Armies
about to be vanquished, on the other hand, behave in an ill-disciplined fashion
before the battle (they pillage the countryside, seize provisions without payment,
commit atrocities), arrive at the battlefield in confusion, and suffer from irreso
lution and divisions between their leaders.33
The words are those of historian Chris Given-Wilson. His work on medieval
chronicles makes important contrasts between what medieval chroniclers did and
modern conceptions of History. Accordingly, implied in the second half of Given-
Wilson’s passage is a moral explanation for success, which contains a ‘universal
truth’ about fighting battles as much as a point about any particular battle. The
‘classical’ concept of truth as plausibility (see p. 27) was also deployed in medieval
chronicles, as for example by the Thucydidean use of invented speeches.34
Medieval historians also followed their classical forebears in parading their
qualifications as authorities about the past in order to impart the quality of trust
worthiness to their accounts. Sometimes this was achieved by the rhetorical device
of admitting ignorance. Eyewitness testimony—of the author or suitably accredited
informants—remained of great importance throughout the middle ages, though
the bureaucratic revolution of the central middle ages provided a larger supply of
written records than hitherto and produced a number of historians who inserted
reference to documentary sources as well as other Histories into their text. A
position of giving credence to earlier accounts appears to have been the default
one, as with Herodotus vis-à-vis orally transmitted memory, and sometimes truth
was actually conceived as the faithfulness of one text to another, earlier one.35
Significant continuity across the centuries can also be traced in the sex of most
historians and the sexed and gendered nature of their subject matter. Nevertheless,
beside wealthy women patrons of male historians there were a few renowned
female scholars like the Ottonian Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim (c.935–c.1002),
author of a History of the Ottonian dynasty up to 965 and a History of the
Gandersheim house monastery, and, assuming she actually wrote what is attrib
uted to her, the Byzantine Anna Komnēnē (1083–1153).36 Christine de Pizan’s
33 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 2. 34 Ibid., ch. 1; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 37.

35 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, ch. 1; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 197–200 and passim on the
source-references of the twelfth-century Anglo-Norman estoires.
36 Elisabeth van Houts, ‘Women and the Writing of History in the Early Middle Ages: The Case of
Abbess Matilda of Essen and Aethelweard’, Early Medieval Europe, 1 (1992), 53–68; van Houts (ed.),
Medieval Memories: Men, Women and the Past, 700–1300 (New York: Longman, 2001); Janet L. Nelson,
74 Why History?
Book of the City of Ladies (1405), a study of exemplary female lives drawn from
across time and from myth, was in its subject-matter an exception to a pretty firm
rule, though not unprecedented: she took inspiration from Giovanni Boccaccio’s
Concerning Famous Women (composed 1361–2), most of whose biographical
subjects came from the history and mythology of classical antiquity. Meanwhile
even if chroniclers were reluctant to identify them as eyewitness informants, it is
probable that not a few women nonetheless featured in that capacity.37
Of broader sociological import in the relationship between present and past
was the involvement of many more women and girls in a range of day-to-day
memorial practices, such as preserving family genealogical information or par
ticipating in communal exercises, like the ninth-century dancers of the farandole
to celebrate the gesta of the likes of King Clothar II and Bishop Faro of Meaux two
centuries earlier.38 In Carolingian society as in others, women, especially of the
elite, were not merely supposed to pass on instruction but were also expected to
embody moral examples in their everyday lives, partly because of gendered doc
trines stemming from Jerome, partly because they had wider access than did
clerics to other women, children, and social ‘inferiors’. At once this role enhanced
their social significance and opened them further to criticism should they be
perceived to fall short.39
Illiterate populaces as a whole were likely to encounter some version of the past
via the compendia of exempla used for sermons by preachers who realized the
efficacy of philosophy by example.40 For the commonality, the orally transmitted
epics also provided a storehouse of metaphors just as well stocked as the scrip
tures and the hagiographies of saintly lives. The composition of these popular
chansons de geste was not always insulated from the officially sanctioned charters
and chronicles.41
As for the literate orders, while a healthy circulation of undetected documen
tary forgeries points to the limits of a certain sort of critical concern, this does not
The Frankish World, 750–900 (London: Hambledon Press, 1996), ch. 11. In terms of focus on women
in historically minded works, it is interesting that pictorial miniatures in a number of late medieval
vernacularizations of the Aeneid depict women—Dido, Camilla—in ways that challenge conventional
gender roles: Christopher Baswell, Virgil in Medieval England (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1995), 25–8.

38 Nelson, Frankish World, 185; more generally Elisabeth van Houts, Memory and Gender in
Medieval Europe, 900–1200 (London: Palgrave, 1999).
39 Valerie L. Garver, Women and Aristocratic Culture in the Carolingian World (New York: Cornell,
2009), esp. ch. 3.
40 See generally on religious literature and exemplarity Jean Thiébaut Welter, L’Exemplum dans la
littérature religieuse et didactique du moyen âge (Paris: Occitania E. H. Guitard, 1927). Apparently this
exemplary literature reached its peak in the thirteenth century, partly because of its use by
mendicants.
41 Bloch, Feudal Society, 88–102. On the historical references and variable historical quality of the
chansons, see Joseph Duggan, ‘Medieval Epic and History in the Romance Languages’, in Konstan and
Raaflaub (eds.), Epic and History, 280–92.
detract from the historically oriented belief system that the stories sustained.
Moreover there is evidence that when it really mattered to them, clerics were
competent in distinguishing forgeries, just as they were in, for instance, question
ing the Frankish myth of Trojan antecedence or rejecting stories about the legend
ary Merlin.42 Geoffrey of Monmouth’s grand fantasy Historia Regum Britannie
(1136), History of the Kings of Britain, which was replete with tales of Merlin,
Kings Arthur and Lear, and ‘Old King Cole’, back to the arrival of the mythical
Trojan Brutus in the twelfth century bce, met with specialist scepticism within a
few decades. Nonetheless, its main lines of interpretation were absorbed into col
lective historical memory and resurfaced in subsequent Histories, partly because
it provided a useful origin story and chimed with general assumptions about the
origins of peoples in principle, partly because it fitted with prevailing literary
fashion and helped idealize the present in the same manner as it did the past.43
Especially when it came to allegorical or analogical reading, it was not neces
sarily a question of medieval people’s lacking a sense of the past’s difference, or
being blind to matters of source criticism. Rather, such interpretative practices
were oriented to the historian’s and reader’s self-understanding as actors in the
present. The point of allegorical reading was to reveal the eternal or necessary
beneath the chaff of the contingent; Aristotle’s criticism of History as opposed to
poetry was thereby rebutted. The imagery is that of the linguist rendering some
thing from a foreign or archaic idiom into the language of the present in order to
preserve what merited preservation. Such a conception still had its adherents
until at least into the eighteenth century, with the philosopher-historian Henry
St John, Viscount Bolingbroke (1678–1751) citing the poet Nicolas Boileau-
Despréaux (1636–1711) on the art of translation:
To translate servilely into modern language an ancient author phrase by phrase,

and word by word, is preposterous: nothing can be more unlike the original
than such a copy. It is not to shew, it is to disguise the author . . . A good
writer . . . will jouster contre l’original, rather imitate than translate, and rather
emulate than imitate: he will translate the sense and spirit of the original into his
own work, and will endeavour to write as the ancient author would have wrote,
had he writ in the same language.44
By definition of translation between idioms, it was impossible to separate the his

torical from the rhetorical. The importance of rhetoric lay not just in how the past
was contemplated, but in judgements about what was worth contemplating, and
42 McKitterick, Carolingian World, 25, 210. On forgery detection and myth criticism, Andrew
Jotischky, The Carmelites and Antiquity: Mendicants and their Pasts in the Middle Ages (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2002), 319–20; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 206.
43 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 3–6; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 195–6.
44 Henry St John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, Letters on the Study and Use of History (London:
T. Cadell, 1779), 51.
76 Why History?
what the rewards of contemplation were. Equally relevant, therefore, is the

Aristotelian–Ciceronian conception of topics, topoi, literary formulae that pre
sent the subject matter in the form of ‘arguments that can be transferred to many
cases’. The topical framing of historical examples must promote the capacity for
active reflection rather than entailing a level of literalist contextualization that
renders the examples non-transferable, rote-learned instances.45 Inventiones were
frequently oriented to highlighting the revealed truths of Christianity rather than
to establishing the truths of physical reality present or past. This was a choice,
ideological and practical, not a poverty of faculty. Sometimes the two sorts of
truth-seeking ran in parallel. When push came to shove the allegorical truth was
generally more important than the other, though in the coming centuries that
balance would shift gradually.46 The historians engaged in the exercise were in
their own minds exponents of the true verisimilar (see p. 26).
In her landmark work Ancient and Medieval Memories the medievalist Janet
Coleman claims that a difference between medieval and renaissance conceptions of
history on one hand and modern conceptions on the other is that moderns see the
past as ‘over and done with’.47 Whether she is correct about moderns is a matter for
later on, and it depends on the sense in which the claim is interpreted. As for
medievals, we can certainly see a replication of Orosius’s achievement in reconcil
ing secular shifts with some sense of continuity. Hans-Werner Goetz’s work on
‘historical consciousness’ in the high middle ages and Bernard Guenée’s broader
survey recount the ongoing depiction of a past in which mutability was reconciled
with stability. In the Jena manuscript of Otto of Freising’s chronicle, for instance,
the Roman Augustus, the Frankish Charlemagne, and the Germanic Otto I are
depicted in chronological order but the reassuring continuity of tradition—the
genealogical element that complements the figural element—is denoted by similar
ities in their garb and posture, much in the way that in the Grandes Chroniques de
France48 the monks of Saint-Denis mirrored the monarchical succession inscribed
in the sculptures on the western face of Notre Dame. On that face, the ancient
Hebrew kings were dressed in the clothes of the Capetian monarchs.49
45 Wendy Olmstead, Rhetoric: An Historical Introduction (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), 54–5; on the
medieval inheritance of the classical device of topoi, see Justin Lake (ed.), Prologues to Ancient and
Medieval History: A Reader (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013), pp. xiii–xiv.
46 Monika Otter, Inventiones: Fiction and Referentiality in Twelfth-Century English Historical
Writing (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996).
47 Janet Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories: Studies in the Reconstruction of the Past
48 These were vernacular translations of the chronicles produced in Latin by the monks of Saint-
Denis. In the thirteenth century the monks were official historiographers to the French monarchy.
49 Hans-Werner Goetz, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewußtsein im hohen Mittelalter
(Berlin: Orbis mediaevalis, 1999); cf. Bernard Guenée, Histoire et culture historique dans l’Occident
médiéval (Paris: Aubier Montaigne, 1980), especially ch. 8. See also Hans-Werner Goetz, Die
Geschichtstheologie des Orosius (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1980). On Notre
Dame and the Grandes Chroniques see Spiegel, The Past as Text, 105–7.
The more cyclical, liturgical aspects of medieval historical consciousness were,

as Gabriel Spiegel describes, concerned with resurrecting select parts of the past
rather than merely representing it.50 We can identify two senses of liturgical, each
derivable from the root of ‘communion’, and each thus relevant to History as
Communion. Liturgical means forging a vertical connection with the divine, or
the cosmic order; it also means establishing a horizontal community of values
with other liturgists. In a modern idiom, we might also contrast a professional
academic historiography with ‘heritage’, whose job, in the vein of the second sort
of liturgical History, is to keep some version of the past alive for the community
that ‘owns’ it, as when one historian of collective memory describes museums as
cathedrals for an age of many religions and none.51 This sort of liturgical History
fits the definition of a very important strand of History as Identity.
Periodization and the Conceptualization of Change
We owe the stereotype of the ‘middle ages’, as we owe the epithet itself, to the
‘Renaissance’, which was in turn a term coined by Jules Michelet in the nineteenth
century that captured the sense among sixteenth-century Italians of there having
been in recent centuries a rinascita or rebirth of learning and artistic skill that
harked back to the classical past. Among the motivations of a few notable inhabit
ants of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to reinvent their present we might
count disillusion in the face of protracted warfare, long-term conflict between
papacy and Holy Roman empire, papal scandal and the Great Schism of 1378–1417,
and the Black Death—a series of crises whose cumulative force ultimately
exceeded the cohesive power of the metaphor of the body of Christ that notion
ally held Christendom together. ‘Italian’ states in particular were set at odds from
the twelfth century in the battle between Guelphs and Ghibellines and competing
factions within those states.
An especially famous expression of disaffection with elements of the prevailing
culture was the ‘Letter to Posterity’ of Boccaccio’s older contemporary Petrarch
(1304–74), who has variously been dubbed ‘the first modern man of letters’, ‘the
first modern writer of autobiography’, and, almost inevitably, ‘the first modern
man’. He wrote:
Among the many subjects which interested me, I dwelt especially upon antiquity,
for our own age has always repelled me, so that, had it not been for the love of
those dear to me, I should have preferred to have been born in any other period
50 Ibid.184.
51 Jay Winter, ‘Museums and the Representation of War’, Museum and Society, 10:3 (2012), 150–63.
On heritage see Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country and The Heritage Crusade.
78 Why History?
than our own. In order to forget my own time, I have constantly striven to place
myself in spirit in other ages, and consequently I delighted in history.
Petrarch has also been called the first modern tourist, which may allude to the
capacity to objectify his world about him as if a tourist rather than an indigene. It
also concerns his trading in the metaphorical as well as literal dimensions of
travel, as a wide-ranging wanderer in time and space.52 But whatever the innov
ations of Renaissance humanism, European self-reflection was aided by events
that can only be excluded from the definition of ‘medieval’ by sleight of hand.
Let us mention the ‘twelfth-century Renaissance’, of which the monastic ‘refor
mation’ of that century was an integral part, and before that the ‘Carolingian
renaissance’ of the eighth and ninth centuries. As the Carolingian renaissance had
synthesized aspects of Roman, Christian, and Germanic tradition for its own pur
poses, restored Latin as a language of literature, and preserved much Roman
prose and poetry in its copying-schools, so the twelfth-century Renaissance leant
on the recovery of more of Aristotle’s oeuvre, as well as borrowings from Arabic
mathematics, medicine, and astronomy with their Platonic influence. Under
some of these influences nature could be ‘read’ as a self-sufficient, seamless ‘text’
of physical revelation with its own internal, horizontal relations, as opposed or in
addition to the vertical relations stressed in the patristic approach as it linked
natural entities to higher spiritual truths.53
The sense of secular periodization that broke up the flow of the chronicler’s
continuous time is famously attributed to the post-Petrarchian Renaissance,54
though the idea of a ‘middle age’ (medium aevum, Mittelalter) may have been
popularized more by sixteenth-century Lutherans, especially Philip Melanchthon,
to stigmatize the period between their present and a purer, pre-medieval
Christianity, thereby distinguishing between the papacy that they disliked and the
early church.55 Whatever the novelty of this particular periodization, tripartite
52 Petrarch passage from Kenneth R. Bartlett (ed.), The Civilization of the Italian Renaissance:
A Sourcebook (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011), 28. For the epithets, and an effective
endorsement of them, see Arthur Augustus Tilley, The Dawn of the French Renaissance (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1968), 4. For the tourism issue, see Henk van Oort, The Inner Rainbow:
An Illustrated History of Human Consciousness (Sussex: Temple Lodge, 2014), 56–7 and
Theodore J. Cachey, Jr, ‘Petrarchan Cartographic Writing’, in Stephen Gersh and Bert Roest (eds.),
Medieval and Renaissance Humanism: Rhetoric, Representation and Reform (Leiden: Brill, 2003),
73–92, here 74 ff.
53 Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1927). On the hermeneutic implications, Peter Harrison, The Bible, Protestantism,
and the Rise of Natural Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). See also the useful
review of this book by James Altena, ‘Secular Hermeneutics’, Touchstone 14:6 (2001), 50–5, some of
which I have paraphrased here.
54 From at least Wallace K. Ferguson, The Renaissance in Historical Thought (New York: Houghton
Mifflin, 1948) onwards.
55 Harold J. Berman, Law and Revolution II: The Impact of the Protestant Reformations on the
Western Legal Tradition (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2003), 22.
divisions were scarcely unknown to a civilization whose dominant religion was

based on a threefold conception of the divine: see the work of Joachim of Fiore
discussed previously (p. 56). Putting aside the periodizations stemming from the
book of Daniel, the Bible alludes to three periods in the existence of humankind:
before the Flood; from then until Christ’s first coming; and from that point to
Christ’s second coming.56 The twelfth-century Renaissance brought its own
intimations of periodization, notably in the changing valence of a distinction—
again, not a distinction original to that period—between ‘ancients’ and ‘moderns’.
Perhaps the earliest recorded distinction between antiqui and moderni was
made by Cassiodorus under Ostrogothic rule, but since his Byzantine contem
porary the historian Procopius made a similar one we can assume it had wider
purchase. It may be that only the arbitrariness of documentary survival prevents
us from locating an earlier iteration. The following excerpt from Procopius, who
accompanied the Byzantine general Belisarius on various campaigns in former
imperial provinces, including against the Ostrogoths in Italy (535–54), is espe
cially noteworthy for its insistence on the superiority of some elements of the
present, given the author’s general veneration of the classical past. From the pro
logue to his History of the Wars:
It will be evident that no more important or mightier deeds are to be found in

history than those which have been enacted in these wars,—provided one wishes
to base his judgement on the truth. For in them more remarkable feats have
been performed than in any other wars with which we are acquainted; unless,
indeed, any reader of this narrative should give the place of honour to antiquity,
and consider contemporary achievements unworthy to be counted remarkable.
There are those, for example, who call the soldiers of the present day ‘bowmen,’
while to those of the most ancient times they wish to attribute such lofty terms
as ‘hand-to-hand fighters,’ ‘shield-men,’ and other names of that sort; and they
think that the valour of those times has by no means survived to the present,—
an opinion which is at once careless and wholly remote from actual experience
of these matters. For the thought has never occurred to them that, as regards the
Homeric bowmen who had the misfortune to be ridiculed by this term derived
from their art, they were neither carried by horse nor protected by spear or
shield. In fact there was no protection at all for their bodies; they entered battle
on foot, and were compelled to conceal themselves, either singling out the shield
of some comrade, or seeking safety behind a tombstone on a mound, from
which position they could neither save themselves in case of rout, nor fall upon
a flying foe. Least of all could they participate in a decisive struggle in the open,
but they always seemed to be stealing something which belonged to the men
56 The concept of the ‘three ages of man’ preceded Christianity.

80 Why History?
who were engaged in the struggle. And apart from this they were so indifferent
in their practice of archery that they drew the bowstring only to the breast, so
that the missile sent forth was naturally impotent and harmless to those whom it
hit. Such, it is evident, was the archery of the past. But the bowmen of the pre
sent time go into battle wearing corselets and fitted out with greaves which
extend up to the knee. From the right side hang their arrows, from the other the
sword. And there are some who have a spear also attached to them and, at the
shoulders, a sort of small shield without a grip, such as to cover the region of
the face and neck. They are expert horsemen, and are able without difficulty
to direct their bows to either side while riding at full speed, and to shoot an
opponent whether in pursuit or in flight. They draw the bowstring along by the
forehead about opposite the right ear, thereby charging the arrow with such an
impetus as to kill whoever stands in the way, shield and corselet alike having no
power to check its force. Still there are those who take into consideration none
of these things, who reverence and worship the ancient times, and give no credit
to modern improvements.57
So much for the elucidation of change via content; Procopius’s work made the
same point by form, in much the same way as earlier Atticists like Cassius Dio.
Procopius was careful not to confuse with terms like ekklesia, given its earlier
Athenian meaning, when he was talking about a Christian church building.
Ironically, here, his use of the antiquated ‘high style’ of Attic Greek, as exempli
fied in Thucydides, at once put him at a disadvantage in terms of communicating
with a contemporary audience with a somewhat differing grammar and vocabu
lary, and kept him and the audience attuned to the fact of the changing referents
of certain linguistic signifiers by a forced self-distancing from the present. So we
have ‘one of the priests whom they call “bishops” ’, and so forth. While it modified
itself somewhat, this tradition of writing endured to the very end of the Byzantine
empire.58
Procopius’s content and form pose problems for a common modern concep
tion of the medieval sense of the past, a conception illustrated by Reinhard
Koselleck’s reflections on Albrecht Altdorfer’s 1529 painting Alexanderschlacht,
which depicted the Battle of Issus in 333 bce. Altdorfer had tried scrupulously
to obtain information as to the number of combatants, dead, and prisoners.
Nonetheless, the armies could be taken for medieval fighters, with the Persians
looking like the Ottoman forces who had besieged Vienna in the year of the pic
ture’s painting. Koselleck holds these features to support his argument that in the
middle ages the ‘present and the past were enclosed within a common historical
57 Procopius, History of the Wars, trans. H. B. Dewing (London: Heinemann, 1914), I. i. 6–17.
58 Ibid. II. ix.14; J. A. S. Evans, ‘The Attitudes of the Secular Historians of the Age of Justinian
towards the Classical Past’, Traditio 32 (1976), 353–8, here 357.
plane’, that temporal ‘distance was not more or less arbitrarily eliminated; it
was not, as such, at all apparent’.59 Yet alternative explanations of Altdorfer’s
approach are possible. One is that, as in so much pre-modern History, Altdorfer
was knowingly blending different sorts of truth, literal (combatant numbers) and
otherwise, and thus the anachronism was quite conscious given the belief that for
specific purposes the differences between 333 and 1529 were less important than
the similarities.
Cassiodorus made his ancients–moderns distinction not to embrace change
but rather to ensure maximal preservation of Roman culture under the new con
ditions of Ostrogothic rule.60 This is the same sort of thinking evinced by the
Romans who had themselves venerated the established even while innovating
furiously. There is a sense in which someone can be instrumental in huge novelty
even whilst professing renewal, just as one can think oneself a revolutionary
whilst actually carrying forward much of the inheritance of the past. The ancient
Greek rhetorician Isocrates had it about right: he tacitly recognized that it would
always be a matter of some blending of continuity and change when he wrote
about the effect of talking of old things in new ways or vice versa.61
In understanding ‘medieval’ attitudes to change two tendencies are noteworthy,
and while in some ways they dovetailed, in other ways they sat in tension.
On one hand was the distinction between a conception of change as creation
ex nihilo, out of nothing, and the conception of change as creating something
out of something else. From at least Augustine the assumption was that only
God could create ex nihilo, though the belief may be traced to the Aristotelian
tendency to consider humans and the human soul as part, albeit a privileged
part, of the natural order, such that human laws should imitate natural laws
rather than aspire to complete originality.62 This assumption led to an idea of a
basic ontological stability outside periods of divine intervention. On the other
hand there was an idea, expressed from Hesiod through Virgil’s contemporary,
Ovid, and translated fairly straightforwardly to a medieval view of early
Christianity, of an ideal past order of which the present was merely a degenerate
version.63 Both tendencies encouraged fidelity to what had gone before, either
because what had gone before still pertained or because it provided an ideal
standard, yet the latter doctrine contradicted the former in portraying real change
rather than basic continuity.
59 Koselleck, Futures Past, 9–10.

60 Tilo Schabert, ‘Modernity and History I: What is Modernity?’, in Athanasios Moulakis (ed.), The
Promise of History: Essays in Political Philosophy (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1986), 9–21, here 9.
61 Isocrates cited in Atack, ‘The Discourse of Kingship’, 339.
62 Ernst Kantorowicz, ‘The Sovereignty of the Artist: A Note on Legal Maxims and Renaissance
Theories of Art’, in Millard Meiss (ed.), De artibus opuscula XL. Essays in honour of Erwin Panofsky,
vol. I (New York: New York University Press, 1961), 267–79.
63 On Ovid, The Metamorphoses of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt Brace,
1995).
82 Why History?
If one side of the coin was fighting the tide of the new with innovations,
the other side was modifying the old dispensations in recognition of the new.
The Benedictine cleric Regino of Prüm (died 915) was author of a famous
chronicle that continued the Royal Frankish Annals, and a collection of canons
on ecclesiastical discipline, Libri duo de synodalibus causis et disciplinis ecclesias-
ticis. He warned that he had felt obliged to incorporate newer provisions in the
latter work, ‘things which I have deemed more pertinent to these our perilous
times’, because of a range of new offences ‘which were unheard of in olden times
because they were not committed and thus were not written and condemned in
established rulings’.64 With the spread of individual confession some three hun
dred years later we encounter concerns about priestly laxity in the imposition of
penance as against the harsher penances prescribed by the early church fathers.
Alain de Lille’s late twelfth-century Liber Poenitentialis argued that the relaxation
of standards was legitimate on the grounds that ‘human nature used to be stronger
once’, which meant that his contemporaries could not bear what had once been
thought necessary.65
By Regino’s time the inflection of ‘modern’ had already changed somewhat in
influential strands of thought. The historian and theologian Walafrid Strabo
(808–49) announced the arrival of ‘saeculum modernum’ (‘the modern age’) in
the era of Charlemagne.66 Antiquity, as opposed to modernity, was at that point
understood in different ways; sometimes it was conceived as including ‘pagan’
classical antiquity plus the time of the early church fathers, though Augustine
himself had announced the Christian era as ‘new’. Equally modernity could be
conceived as a more longstanding state or the description of the immediate pre
sent.67 In his biography of Charlemagne, Walafrid’s contemporary Einhard
recorded the life of ‘the greatest man of all those living in his own period’, one
whose achievements could ‘scarcely be matched by modern men’.68 The palm was
still offered to the past, but it was conceivable that exceptional ‘moderns’ were
worthy of their forebears, and by Alain’s time in the twelfth century a more exten
sive re-evaluation of the modern was well in train, even if not everyone could
agree on how to periodize it.
Sometimes ‘modernity’ was designated by the period for which historians
could rely on evidence before their own eyes, rather than on books written
by others. In the prologue to his Abbreviationes chronicum, Ralph of Diceto
64 Zubin Mistry, Abortion in the Early Middle Ages, c.500–900 (York: York Medieval Press, 2015), 205.
65 Alexander Murray, Conscience and Authority in the Medieval Church (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2015), 75; Thomas N. Tentler, Sin and Confession on the Eve of the Reformation (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1977), 17–18.
66 Elisabeth Gössmann, Antiqui und Moderni im Mittelalter: eine geschichtliche Standortbestimmung
(Paderborn: Schöningh, 1974), 35–6; Chenu, Nature, 317.
67 Gössmann, Antiqui und Moderni, 35, 37.
68 Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of Charlemagne, 52. On Notker as well as Einhard
see Gössmann, Antiqui und Moderni, 36.
(1148–1202) divided historical events into three: the oldest, pagan times, vetustis-
sima; old times, the Christian era, vetera; and modern times, moderna, since the
year of his birth. Ralph’s contemporary Walter Map (1140–c.1210) identified the
most recent one hundred years as modernitas.69
As to the glorification of ‘modern’ men by History as Memorialization, it was
certainly in Map’s interest as a courtier of Henry II of England to petition for liter
ary recognition of the king’s ‘generosity’, and to bolster his case with reference to the
‘reverence’ accorded to the Roman emperor Nero, despite Nero’s ‘tyranny’. But Map
also made the broader point that while the deeds of the ancients were preserved, the
same was not true of the achievements of recent times, even those achievements
that offered ‘something not unworthy of “the buskin of Sophocles” ’. The problem
was not, indeed, a dearth of ‘the illustrious deeds of modern men of might’, but
rather a dearth of poets in an age where blame came more easily than veneration.70
As was the case with Arrian (pp. 25–6), whose work Map invoked, writers were as
important in memorialization as the great men that constituted their subject matter.
Indeed Map recognized the creative element of the writer’s task generations before
Dante and Plutarch noted the complementarity of Caesars and poets, arma et litte-
rae, whereby eternal recognition was attained ‘by both war and ingenium’, tam bello
quam ingenio. This is important since the self-consciousness of creation from the
original mind of the author is another of those things attributed to the Renaissance
‘mind’ as it supposedly departed from its ‘medieval’ predecessor.71
The twelfth-century biographer of Alexander the Great, Walter of Châtillon,
bemoaned that ‘we moderns stray from the footsteps of our ancestors’, rather as
Eusebius had vilified those whose ‘yearning for innovation’ drove them to ‘error’
(p. 52), but by Walter’s time his was but one side in a dispute about whether mod
ern ways were superior to the ancient. The dispute might be characterized by the
competing propositions from Job (12:12) that ‘with the ancient is wisdom’ and
from Paul’s call for the Ephesians (4:22–4) to ‘put off the old man, and put on the
new man, who has been created according to God’. Paul certainly removed some
of the stigma of ‘newness’ or novelty, redolent as that was of novissima, the end of
the world, indicative of the move to the last of ‘man’s’ three phases of life. Within
the theological realm the church fathers were denied a monopoly on doctrinal
interpretation and the twelfth century saw a telling juxtaposition of the fathers
and their adherents to the magistri moderni, monkish ‘masters’ who were not
cloistered, but were teachers in the new universities.72
69 Chenu, Nature, 190.

70 Walther Map, De Nugis Curialium (Courtier’s Trifles), ed. and trans. Frederick Tupper and
Marbury Bladen Ogle (London: Chatto and Windus, 1924), 254–5.
71 On Dante and Petrarch, Kantorowicz, ‘The Sovereignty’, 276–7, and passim on the relationship
between canon law jurists and Renaissance conceptions of the artist as creator ex nihilo.
72 Ernst Robert Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1991) 254 ff.; Kwame Gyekye, Tradition and Modernity: Philosophical Reflections on
the African Experience (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 268; Goetz, Geschichtschreibung, 235;
84 Why History?
It remains fashionable to date philosophies of tradition-disavowing progress

only to the time of Europe’s scientific, political, industrial, and philosophical
revolutions, i.e. the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The historically minded
political theorist Hannah Arendt gave heft to this belief when she dated to Francis
Bacon’s time (he lived from 1561 to 1626) the salient ‘shift in the understanding of
Time, the emergence of the Future to the rank formerly occupied by the Present
or the Past’.73 It is surely true that it was only in the late seventeenth-century
‘querelle des Anciens et des Modernes’ that ‘Anciens’ like Boileau-Despréaux were
overwhelmingly on the losing side, and that the attacks on precedent knowledge
and the whole Aristotelian–scholastic framework by the likes of Bacon became
especially, self-consciously aggressive. It may also be true that, in contrast to ‘the’
Renaissance, the renaissance of the twelfth century had a sense of renewal of what
was already there rather than having been lost. But as we have been at pains to
illustrate, twelfth-century ‘reform’, as the word suggests, was both retrospective
to an original (‘authentic’) ideal and prospective to change, which had pretty
much been Cassiodorus’s situation. Whichever way the cake is cut, ‘the relationship
between tradition and innovation is also what the monastic “reformation of the
twelfth century” was about’.74 Thus, for instance, members of (then) new religious
orders like the twelfth-century Augustinian canon Anselm of Havelburg sought,
against the Benedictines, to vindicate innovation as indicating growth and flour
ishing rather than decadence and confusion.75
Theology, Religious Hermeneutics, and History as Communion
The disputes between ‘ancients’ and ‘moderns’ from the twelfth to the fourteenth
centuries were not primarily historians’ disputes; they were much more import
ant. They were mainly conducted between theologian-philosophers, though they
especially Jacques Le Goff, ‘What Did the Twelfth-Century Renaissance Mean?’, in Peter Linehan and
Janet L. Nelson (eds), The Medieval World (Oxford: Routledge, 2001), 635–47. Albert Zimmermann
and Gudrun Vuillemin-Diemand (eds.), Antiqui und Moderni: Traditionsbewußtsein und
Fortschrittsbewußtsein im späten Mittelalter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1974), contains essays on most salient
aspects of the advent of the moderni.
73 Arendt, The Life of the Mind, 152. See also 154, 214.
74 Jotischky, The Carmelites and Antiquity, 306; Giles Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth
Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), introduction; Beryl Smalley, ‘Ecclesiastical
Attitudes to Novelty, c.1100–c.1250’, Studies in Church History 12 (1975), 113–31; and for the relation
ship between tradition and reform in an area of direct relevance to this book, see Joachim Ehlers,
‘Monastische Theologie, historischer Sinn und Dialektik. Tradition und Neuerung in der Wissenschaft
des 12. Jahrhunderts’, in Zimmermann and Vuillemin-Diemand (eds.), Antiqui und Moderni, 58–79.
75 R. W. Southern, History and Historians: Selected Papers of R. W. Southern, ed. R. J. Bartlett
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 42–3.
extended into the realm of legal hermeneutics, at this time of the codification of
canon law.76 They were disputes about ways of justifying knowledge in the deepest
sense. In fact they are fundamental in a long-term shift in the development of
philosophy, away from ontology, which is, remember, the study of what exists in
the most basic sense, to epistemology, which is the study of what/how we can
know about what exists. The History practised by Christian chroniclers was in
one of its functions an auxiliary science to the study of religion, just as chronicle
was a lower activity than biblical hermeneutics: the main science is more signifi
cant than the auxiliary, but the relationship means that changes in the nature
of religious authority and scriptural exegesis were related to changes in the arts of
reading past religious texts, which should be set alongside secular, political influ
ences on and changing popular uses of History. We may thus diverge slightly
from Anthony Grafton, one of the most brilliant contemporary intellectual his
torians, when he differentiates humanists from scholastics by endorsing claims
for the ‘modernity’, in the form of the ‘fundamentally historical approach’, of the
Renaissance philologist and poet ‘Poliziano’ (1454–94):
[U]nderstanding of earlier thought must rest on textual exegesis—on an exegesis

the exponents of which read the texts in the light of the fears and aspirations of
their authors and the prejudices and assumptions of their first readers. The scho
lastics had read their texts as structures, systems of interlocking propositions
that they tested for coherence as an engineer tests the load-bearing parts of a
building. The humanists read theirs as clouded windows which proper treat
ment could restore to transparency, revealing the individuals who had written
them. The scholar could thus come to know dead men as they had really been,
and the serious effort to obtain that sort of knowledge became the first charac
teristically modern form of intellectual life.77
It would be foolish to deny any innovations to Poliziano or others around his

time. Yet a more extensive examination of the legal and theological scholasticism
that humanism occluded might more deeply contextualize humanism’s innov
ations, suggesting that they were matters of technique and emphasis more than
philosophy. The blanket contention is wrong that ‘the medieval conception of his
tory as a self-consciously literary and textual artifact’ differed from ‘the later idea
that it was a transparent medium through which one could view past realities in a
76 Janet Coleman, Piers Plowman and the Moderni (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1981),
20; Andrea Padovani and Peter G. Stein (eds.), The Jurists’ Philosophy of Law from Rome to the
Seventeenth Century (Dordrecht: Springer, 2007), 143.
77 Anthony Grafton, Defenders of the Text: The Traditions of Scholarship in an Age of Science, 1450–1800
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 8–9; see also 55.
86 Why History?
quite different way from the genre of fiction’.78 Prominent scholastics sometimes
maintained the coherence of their systems by historical enquiry, not just by logic.
Arguably the greatest mind of high medieval Christendom, Thomas Aquinas
(1225–74), who tried to fuse Hellenic naturalism with monotheistic supernatur
alism, endorsed the hermeneutic quadriga but insisted that the literal sense was
foundational.79 Here Aquinas was consistent with a trend that began with Anselm
in the eleventh century and was especially evident in the work of the legal thinker
Ivo of Chartres (c.1040–1115). Ivo set off along the path that would be followed
in the first half of the twelfth century by Peter Abelard (1079–1142) and the
Bolognese monk, Gratian. Gratian’s Decretum is regarded as the foundation-stone
of canon law, and was itself composed from biblical sources, writings of the early
church fathers, the decrees of the papacy and church synods and councils, and
Roman law, as passed down primarily through the Digests compiled under
Justinian in the sixth century, and rediscovered in 1070. Abelard’s competitors at
the Abbey of St Victor in Paris, Hugh (1096–1141) and Andrew (c.1110–75), pur
sued their own line of historical-theological exegesis which pointed towards his
torical literalism, though in a slightly different way to that taken up by Aquinas.
In this process, they and other Augustinian canons at St Victor were greatly aided
by the renewal of contact with Jewish exegetical traditions, through the work
of Joseph Karo, Samuel ben Meir, and in particular Rashi (acronym of Rabbi
Shlomo [Y]Itzhaki, 1040–1105),80 who also influenced Aquinas’s influence, Moses
Maimonides (1135–1204). The wider twelfth-century circulation of commentaries
by or attributed to the fourth-century father John Chrysostom was also relevant—
Chrysostom’s ‘Antiochene’ tradition of more literal exegesis differed from the
allegorizing ‘Alexandrian’ tradition which was better known to that point in Latin
Christendom.81
Hugh of St Victor claimed that ‘our task is to commit history to memory, as
the foundation of doctrine’. Hugh was a teacher, tasked with ensuring that his
78 In an otherwise highly stimulating piece: Alexandra Walsham, ‘Migrations of the Holy:
Explaining Religious Change in Medieval and Early Modern Europe’, Journal of Medieval and Early
Modern Studies 44:2 (2014), 241–80, here 265. In places this piece does show sensitivity to the signifi
cance of high medieval developments for what are often thought of as Reformation questions.
79 Christopher Ocker, Biblical Poetics before Humanism and Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge
80 Sara Lipton, Images of Intolerance: The Representation of Jews and Judaism in the Bible moralisée
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 73; Beryl Smalley, ‘L’Exégèse biblique du 12e siècle’, in
Maurice de Gandillac and Edouard Jeauneau (eds.), Entretiens sur la renaissance du 12e siècle (Paris:
Mouton, 1968), 273–83, here 273–5; Rainer Berndt (ed.), Schrift, Schreiber, Schenker: Studien zur Abtei
Sankt Viktor in Paris und den Viktorinern (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2005), 97 ff. on discerning authorial
intentions; passim on the intellectual context and antecedents of Andrew’s work. On differences to
Aquinas, Ocker, Biblical Poetics, 40.
81 On differences between Alexandria and Antioch, Wilhelm Dilthey, ‘The Development of
Hermeneutics’, in Dilthey: Selected Writings, ed. H. P. Rickman (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1976), 246–63, here 252.
students learned deeply and properly. The capacity to memorize was highly
valued then, and for a few centuries to come. It was sometimes contrasted
with the act of committing things to paper, which might retard the ability to
internalize, and was thus a species of forgetting, which is one further reason
why it is not helpful to look only to chronicles to understand medieval engage
ments with the past.82
While Hugh was not greatly successful in stimulating historical study in
general, his Chronicon, or Liber de tribus maximis circumstantiis gestorum, id
est personis, locis, temporibus (Book of the three main circumstances of history,
namely persons, places, times) had manifold significance. It fed into Helinand
of Froidmont’s (c.1160–c.1237) and Vincent of Beauvais’s (c.1190–1264) later
chronicles of known world history from Adam onwards. For Hugh’s own students,
this detailed set of lists, plus his ‘glosses’ to the historical books of the Old
Testament, became a cardinal aid in establishing the literal meanings of scripture.
Hugh’s and Andrew’s commentaries, along with Walafrid Strabo’s Glossa Ordinaria
and Josephus’s Antiquities, underpinned Peter Comnestor’s (died 1179) Historia
Scholastica, a comprehensive running literal commentary on the historical
books of the Bible which, in its establishment as a standard text for the teaching
of sacred scripture in the schools, furthered Hugh’s goal of entrenching biblical
History as the ground for biblical reading. This achievement aroused the ire of
affiliates of the ecclesiastical reform movement, who emphasized the practical
pastoral and orthodox theological instruction of clerics over Hugh’s goal of devel
oping the contemplative mind. Thus Peter the Chanter (died 1197) decried a ten
dency that sounds to have something in common with the more prosaic of today’s
Histories of material culture as it supposedly encouraged the examination of
superfluities, such as the exact location of places, the number of years and
periods, genealogies, the mechanical dispositions in building, such as the dis
position of the tabernacle, the temple, even the imaginary temple [i.e. the temple
vision of Ezekiel]. Holy Scripture is not given to us to search for idle and super
fluous things in it, but to search for faith and moral lessons . . .83
82 On Hugh, Frans van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2014), 159; Franklin T. Harkins, ‘Fundamentum omnis doctrinae: The Memorization
of History in the Pedagogy of Hugh of St. Victor’, Pecia. Le livre et l’écrit 14: Texte, liturgie et mémoire
dans l’Église du Moyen Âge (2012), 267–93. On the principles of memorialization, Given-Wilson,
Chronicles, 58.
83 Southern, History and Historians, 41–2; cf. van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible,
158–63, which provides most of the material on Hugh and his influence—see also p .142 on
Chrysostom and Origen as different sorts of hermeneut. On Origen and Josephus, and the extent of
Comnestor’s debt to Josephus and other Jewish sources, plus the significance of Comnestor’s work:
Louis H. Feldman, Studies in Hellenistic Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 302, 317–26, 343–4. On
Hugh, Andrew, and Josephus, Mark Somos, Secularisation and the Leiden Circle (Leiden: Brill,
2011), 345–6.
88 Why History?
For Andrew of St Victor, sometimes called ‘the second Jerome’, literal reading
had meant an increasing focus on grammar, on recovering original wording,
and on the surface meaning of words, even to the point at which he produced a
non-Christological reading of books of the ‘Old Testament’.84 The author’s
inferred intention should also determine what counts as a figurative meaning,
which is where Andrew’s and Hugh’s debt to Rashi is perhaps most obvious. For
Rashi, the literal sense meant recapturing what the authors of scripture had
intended to communicate to their primary, contemporary audiences. This quest
required historical contextualization, as with his endorsement of peshat (literal,
contextual reading) over homiletic midrash traditions.85 Ironically, it may be that
Hugh had turned to Jewish scholarship in the first place to further his own literal
ist interests precisely because of the enduring Christian stereotype, attributable to
Paul and Augustine, that literal reading without deeper symbolic understanding
was all that the benighted Jews were capable of.86
While, as Coleman observes, the sensus historicus of medieval hermeneutic
was often identical with the sensus grammaticus, with the historical truth of what
was written being accepted as literal truth once the grammatical meaning of it
had been established,87 ascertaining authorial intention demanded contextual
understanding that looked beyond individual texts in a non-figurative sense: it
could be History in today’s sense of the word, as the medievalist biblical scholar
Frans van Liere observes.88 Checking text against text, setting one authority
against another, was also a form of source criticism, as Abelard showed in a con
troversy over the biography of the first-century convert to Christianity, Dionysius
the Areopagite.89 Comparison of the original Hebrew of the Old Testament could
reveal inaccuracies in later translations. By extension, such inaccuracies could affect
the figural relations established between episodes in Old and New Testaments.90
Further, as Abelard and Peter Lombard demonstrated via their dialectic methods,
84 Smalley, ‘L’Exégèse biblique du 12e siècle’.

85 Timothy Ward, Word and Supplement (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 31–4; Olson,
World on Paper, 149–54; Patricia K. Tull and Claire Mathews McGinnis (eds.), ‘As Those Who Are
Taught’: The Interpretation of Isaiah from the LXX to the SBL (Atlanta, GA: SBL, 2006), 173–7; Kelber,
‘The Quest for the Historical Jesus’.
86 For this suggestion, see the ‘The 12th century’ part of the entry ‘Hebraists, Christian’, in the Jewish
virtual library at http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/judaica/ejud_0002_0008_0_08624.html
87 Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories, 574.
88 Indeed, van Liere, An Introduction to the Medieval Bible, 171, actually distinguishes the gram
matical sense and historical sense in some connections. The major point is that the historical sense is a
literal one in terms of establishing what original authors meant, which means putting utterances in
contexts including but not limited to the grammatical one.
89 Denis/Dionysius the Areopagite, who is said had been converted by Paul, was patron saint of
the monastery of St Denis. In a heated debate as to his personal History, Abelard returned to Jerome
and Eusebius to refute Bede whilst also refusing to rely on the other St Denis monks’ preferred
authority, Hilduin. Peter Abelard, Letters IX–XIV, ed. Edmé Renno Smits (Groningen: Bouma,
1983), 138 ff.
90 R. N. Swanson, The Twelfth-Century Renaissance (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1999), 131; Nikolaus M. Häring, ‘Commentary and Hermeneutics’, in Benson and Constable (eds.),
Renaissance and Renewal, 173–200, here 195–7.
comprehension of the differing ‘gestalts’, the differing psychological and political

context-structures to which conflicting statements by various authorities—fathers,
popes, and synods—belonged, was the key first step in the desired project of
harmonizing underlying meanings.91
How far meanings could be harmonized is an interesting question to which the
twins of legal and theological hermeneutics had dedicated anxious attention not
just since Ivo, but in fact since at least the eighth and ninth centuries in reflection
on Augustine’s teaching, notably his theory of historical ‘accommodation’, which
meant accommodation not just of the ‘ignorant’ but of those living in different
circumstances.92 In Contra Faustum, Augustine had asserted ‘that all things writ
ten in the books of the Old Testament are to be received with approval and admir
ation [. . .] and that those precepts which are no longer observed outwardly are to
be understood as having been most suitable in those times, and are to be viewed as
having been shadows of things to come’.93 This is standard Christian supersession
ism, whereby the New Testament superseded the Old. However in Contra Faustum
Augustine also explains why even some of the New Testament laws of the apostles
should be understood as historically specific, and no longer applicable to the time
of his writing, c.400 ce. The laws he has in mind are from Acts, in which the
apostles agree to lift many of the Old Testament prohibitions on foodstuffs, and
reduce the old rules down to just four prohibitions: ‘abstain from food polluted by
idols, from sexual immorality, from the meat of strangled animals, and from
blood’ (Acts 15:19–29). In accounting for the apostles’ retention of some of these
prohibitions, Augustine pointed to prevailing political conditions in the first
century; his argument was that now the relationship between Jews and Christians
was different from previously, the relevant prohibitions were anachronistic. Thus:
[When] the apostles did on that occasion require Christians to abstain from the
blood of animals, and not to eat of things strangled, they seem to me to have
consulted the time in choosing an easy observance that could not be burden
some to any one, and which Gentiles might have in common with the Israelites,
for the sake of the Cornerstone [i.e. Christ], who makes both one in himself [. . .]
But since the close of that period during which the two walls of the circumcision
and the uncircumcision, although united in the Cornerstone, still retained some
distinctive peculiarities, and now that the Church has become so entirely Gentile
that none who are outwardly Israelites are to be found in it, no Christian feels
91 Paul Tillich, A History of Christian Thought, ed. Carl E. Braaten (New York: Touchstone,
1968), 169–70.
92 On elements of Augustine’s theory of accommodation, Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the
History of Religion’, 1131; Betty Jo Teeter Dobbs, The Janus Faces of Genius: The Role of Alchemy in
Newton’s Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 59–60. However, for the point
about eighth- and ninth-century thought, and indeed for my entire discussion of Augustine here,
references to Augustine’s work and all, I am indebted completely to Rick Sowerby.
93 Augustine, Contra Faustum, 32.14, repr in Augustine, The Works of Aurelius Augustine: A New
Translation, ed. Marcus Dods, vol. 5 (Edinburgh: Clark, 1872), 541.
90 Why History?
bound to abstain from thrushes or small birds because their blood has not been
poured out, or from hares because they are killed by a stroke on the neck with
out shedding their blood. Any who still are afraid to touch these things are
laughed at by the rest.94
Returning to the topic of the central middle ages, the legal scholar Gabriel
Le Bras noted that the early canonists marked ‘off from principles of eternal
validity the variable elements of the law, which had been suggested by particular
circumstances, whether of time, place, or persons’, and he concluded on ‘the
relativity of rules’. More strongly, Donald R. Kelley detects ‘geographical and
historical relativism’ in their thought, amid a ‘process of “historicization” ’ in the
interpretation of canon law, and a third scholarly authority, R. L. Benson, sees
‘historical relativism’ in the thought of Gratian and his immediate successors,
the decretists.95 It is difficult to detect relativism in this train of thought: all the
medieval thinkers in question insist on distinguishing unchangeable elements
of the law from variable parts. Gratian, for instance, was prepared to countenance
the revision of ancient law, but only in order that it align more closely with
divine law, which no human law might contradict. Ultimately his goal was dis
pensing with customs that did not correspond to reason and conscience.
Focusing on the variable elements of law, Benson alludes to Gratian’s dictum
that ‘if among the several things which were done by our predecessors and
ancestors there are some things which were able to be [done] without guilt, and
afterward turned into error and superstition, then without hesitation and with
great authority, they ought to be destroyed by those who come later’.96 As much
as anything this passage illustrates the balancing act between recognition of past
and present papal legislative legitimacy. Such diplomatic phrasing does not
mean that ‘what once was good can turn bad as a result of the changing of the
times’.97 Saying that something might have been done without guilt is not
the same as saying it was good, only that the doer was not culpable. The limited
circumstance in which two contradictory rules could be true, according to
Gratian’s prologue to the Concordance of Discordant Canons, was when they
related to a law which was variable and the contradiction stemmed from a
94 Augustine, Contra Faustum, 32.13, repr in Augustine, The Works of Aurelius Augustine: A New
Translation, vol. 5, 540–1.
95 Gabriel Le Bras, ‘Canon Law’, in C. G. Crump and E. F. Jacob (eds.), The Legacy of the Middle
Ages (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1943), 321–61, here 326; Kelley, Foundations of Modern Historical
Scholarship, 154. Benson cited in Achim Funder, Reichsidee und Kirchenrecht: Dietrich von Nieheim als
Beispiel spätmittelalterlicher Rechtsauffassung (Freiburg: Herder, 1993), nn. to pp. 292, 334. Note that
Kelley also claims strains of cultural relativism in the work of the twelfth-century bishop and philosopher
of History Otto of Freising: Kelley, Faces of History, 129. I cannot see relativism in Otto but obviously
that does not mean it is not there.
96 Stanley Chodorow, Christian Political Theory and Church Politics in the Mid-Twelfth Century
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), reproduces this passage and contextualizes it on p. 140.
97 Funder, Reichsidee, 292: ‘was einmal gut gewesen ist, kann sich durch die Veränderung der
Zeiten zum schlechten wenden’.
dispensation allowed in a special case.98 Relativism this was not, but Gratian
does evince that sense of anachronism, i.e. the sense of not applying standards
and perspectives to past people who did not have them, that is so often held to
be a post-medieval attitude.
Another contextualizing exercise by Maimonides has led some scholars to talk
of historicism and historicization in relation to his work, especially passages in
his Guide for the Perplexed (c.1190 in Judeo-Arabic, translated into Hebrew
in 1204).99 Those scholars do not equate historicism or historicization with a
relativistic view, but since historicism is sometimes given those connotations, and
in light of the previous paragraph, a brief digression on relativism is merited.
Relativism is a philosophical outlook predicated upon recognition of multiple,
perhaps infinite accounts of the good and right (moral relativism), and/or the
beautiful (aesthetic relativism), and/or the true (epistemic relativism). In its sim
plest ‘descriptive’ form relativism just acknowledges the fact of the diversity of
systems of value or belief. It is doubtful that ‘descriptive relativism’, as it is called,
really qualifies as relativism, because one could easily contend that some or all
or all-but-one of these manifold systems of belief is faulty. More properly relativ
ist is the argument that there is no standpoint or yardstick external to all cultures
that provides an ultimate vindication for different belief/value systems or renders
their differing terms mutually commensurable (see p. 326). Accordingly, any
claim to universal standards of judgement is a form of self-deceit, a spurious uni
versalization of one culture’s standards. The only standards of, say, good and bad
are those that develop within cultures, in the plural. Maimonides clearly does not
hold such a position.
Like Aquinas, Maimonides was concerned with reconciling Aristotle with
scripture, or at least with creating some insulation where conflict was likely. He
also tried to interpret some of the apparently more arcane biblical injunctions,
without allegorization, for a contemporary Jewish readership. Thus he accounted
for initial divine approval of sacrifice as a concession to ‘the custom which was in
those days general among all men, and the general mode of worship in which
the Israelites were brought up’. It was a concession to reality, much as in Islamic
jurisprudence—which may have been one of the many Islamic influences on
Maimonides—the Koran’s acceptance of polygamy was seen as a concession to
pre-Islamic practices. And just as more recent Muslim exegesis has argued that
Koranic limits on the scale of polygamy suggest a tendency towards the reduction
98 Harold J. Berman, Law and Revolution, the Formation of the Western Legal Tradition (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 145–6 on this point and on Gratian weeding out problematic
custom.
99 Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion’, 1131, including extensive notes to rele
vant scholarship. Note that Maimonides’ historical thinking plays an important role in Funkenstein’s
thought about the origins of modern historicist thinking—see Moyn, ‘Amos Funkenstein’. It should be
clear that I would argue that Maimonides’ contribution to a sense of acculturated human difference
across time is only one among many such contributions in and around his period.
92 Why History?
and eventual elimination of the practice, so for Maimonides the concession was a
transitional measure. Manifestly there is here a sense of acculturated difference
and cultural change across time. Maimonides’ idiom is at once of an anthropo
logical psychology in which it is in ‘the nature of man, who generally cleaves to
that to which he is used’, but also of tutelage from infancy to adulthood, as
Maimonides talks of young mammals being weaned from milk to solids.100
So such tolerance as exists of the earlier practice may be sympathetic, but it is also
paternalistic and provisional, as one might indulge a child. It is this psychological
contextualization that distinguishes Maimonides’ account from Augustine’s
theory of accommodation with its more circumstantial focus. (See pp. 122–3 for
elaboration.)
The focus on literalism and historical contextualism as opposed to allegorical
meaning in reading practices was accompanied by an increased attention to liter
ary quality as a constituent of the written account and as an index of interest in
the human author. The concept of the auctor shifted its meaning somewhat
between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. Sharing a root with auctoritas,
meaning approximately authentic truth, it implied authority that commanded
respect, and was the sort of thing that historians and others strived to achieve.
Conventionally, God was seen as the author of the sacred texts, and the scribe
merely as conduit, but as—especially under the influence of the Victorines—
questions turned to matters of how, where, when, and from what materials the
scribe had compiled his account, they also considered why. The ‘why’ concerned
the personal ends of the flesh-and-blood writer, which had to be considered as an
additional causal factor alongside the ultimate divine ‘causes’ of the work.
The concept of ‘four causes’ which systematically elucidated different types of
influence was, by the way, a major part of the thirteenth century’s Aristotelian
inheritance.101 His Physica and Metaphysica entered university curricula at that
time, having mostly been translated into Latin by around 1200, while the Latin
occupation of Constantinople (1204–61) facilitated a further engagement with its
treasures. Aristotle’s concepts had been only partially retrieved before then. Now
they proved valuable not just for hermeneutics but for hermeneuts, who could
become auctors themselves, as Walter Map had obviously aspired to be in the
realm of secular History (p. 83), rather as latter-day literary theorists have been
able to market their criticism as literature. The idea of a writer as an ‘author’ can
be contrasted with the label compilator or compiler that medieval chroniclers
often applied to themselves. For the interpreting reader, the idea of multiple
causal influences also meant that it was possible to be more explicitly critical
towards canonical texts, since one was not criticizing the word of God so much
100 Moses Maimonides, The Guide for the Perplexed, trans. M. Friedländer (New York: Dover,
1956), ch. XXXII at 322–7, all quotes from 322–3.
101 On Aristotelian categories and causation, William J. Connell, ‘The Eternity of the World and
Renaissance Historical Thought’, California Italian Studies 2:1 (2011), 1–23.
as a human-influenced amalgam.102 Scholars who study the sixteenth and seven
teenth centuries should be careful in arrogating to their period the innovation of
debates on how to reconcile the biblical authority, ‘which was divine, with its his
tory, which was more and more evidently human’.103 When Grafton writes of
‘humanists’ reading their texts ‘as clouded windows which proper treatment
could restore to transparency, revealing the individuals who had written them’, he
makes a vital point about the recognition that texts reveal as much about their
own authors and origins as about their explicit subject-matter.104 But however
much humanists may have developed this critical principle any sharp contrast
with prior scholasticism does not quite work, for reasons already provided.
If Aquinas was merely one hugely influential part of a longer movement in the
direction of prioritizing literalism, a further step in the subjective reading not just
of actual texts but of the world as a text was provided by William of Ockham
(c.1287–1347). He was not the earliest but he was the most famous medieval
‘nominalist’. The debate between nominalists (formerly ‘vocalists’) and ‘realists’
corresponded to some instantiations of the debate between moderni and antiqui,
and had begun in the twelfth century, especially in the crucible of Abelard’s
thought. While Aquinas was not of the moderni, he was clearly influenced by
them. As ever beneath the headline bifurcation, the lines of distinction between
travellers on the via antiqua and via moderna vary very much from person to
person. Perhaps the most important crack that Aquinas created in Catholic
orthodoxy, the crack that nominalism forced much wider and deeper, was his
contention that while God was of course immediately certain for himself, he was
not immediately certain to humans.105 The nominalist challenge brought epis
temological and metaphysical questions together.
Let us open the discussion of nominalism with the dispute concerning God’s
role in allocating salvation. In an answer to the question, which had distinct
echoes of Plato’s asking whether the gods will what is just/reasonable or is the
just/reasonable what the gods happen to will, the antiqui banked on the regulata
ble certainties of the former. Nominalism effectively reversed the order of priority.
Only if God’s will was supreme could ‘his’ power be truly unlimited, truly free.106
This conclusion also militated against any notion emerging from the study of
102 Michel Zimmermann (ed.), Auctor et auctoritas. Invention et conformisme dans l’écriture médiévale
(Paris: École des Chartes, 2001); A. J. Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes
in the Later Middle Ages (London: Scolar, 1984), ch. 1 but also pp. 190–210 on how ‘compilation’ became
a literary form of its own; Sara S. Poor, Mechthild of Magdeburg and her Book: Gender and the Making of
Textual Authority (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 2–4.
103 Noel Malcolm, ‘Hobbes, Ezra, and the Bible: The History of a Subversive Idea’, in Malcolm,
Aspects of Hobbes (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 383–431, here 420, cited and endorsed by Levitin,
‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion’, 1126–7.
104 Grafton, Defenders of the Text, 8–9. 105 Tillich, Protestant Era, 71.
106 Lauri Haikola, Gesetz und Evangelium bei Matthias Flacius Illyricus: eine Untersuchung zur
Lutherischen Theologie vor der Konkordienformel (Lund: Gleerup, 1952), 32 ff.; Jörg Dierken,
Selbstbewusstsein individueller Freiheit: religionstheoretische Erkundungen in protestantischer
Perspektive (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 135–6, 203–4.
94 Why History?
Greek naturalism that God might have to be reconciled with the laws of nature.
As against a metaphysically ‘realist’ position that one could know the universe in
itself as the manifestation of a divine, hierarchical order, nominalists believed that
the human mind was left with articulating its own systems on the fragmentary
evidence of experience and reason. For the same reasons nominalists conducted a
cull of those atemporal, abstract entities that metaphysical/ontological realists
like Plato had called eternal ‘forms’—the sorts of entities that for prior theolo
gians had divinely vouchsafed the interlinked order of the natural world. Words
were increasingly seen as arbitrary signs allocated to contingent entities and
linked to each other by grammatical convention—and as the tool of human auc-
tores rather than anything else. They were not indicators of spiritual realities or
divine natural order. Religious hierarchs were in no better position to determine
the higher meaning behind the literal word than any other literate person profi
cient in the use of reason. Logic of thought and grammatical logic of written and
spoken language were the only reliable tools of analysis at human disposal, but
they were uncoupled from metaphysics. Everything else was at God’s unknowable
disposition, leaving the individual human with faith alone, and a terrifying free
dom to choose his or her way in the world during those times when God did
not intervene. Concrete, mundane individuals existed on their own, albeit in
virtue of God’s omnipotence and in some way in ‘his’ image, certain only of their
own inner states.107
The development of nominalism as a theological position prior to and
through William’s early fourteenth-century work was accompanied socially by a
thirteenth-century evangelical explosion in which men and a growing number of
women took on the roles of auctores, seeking to embody and disseminate the
principles that Christ had exemplified in his life, disavowing worldly goods and
preaching in the vernacular.108 Intellectually, a particular sort of subjectivism was
enhanced, with the emphasis on the human mind rather than the accumulated
authority of institutions and the all-encompassing order of the divine which intel
lectual systems were supposed to map. For related reasons, nominalism was an
essential precursor of the Reformation since the Protestant belief that salvation
comes from faith and God’s grace alone (the meeting of the two comprising the
kairos), not from the good works of man, stems from the rejection of inferable
divine reason. For the nominalists as for Luther, one side of the interpretative
coin was a recognition of how much could be inferred, unassisted, by the applica
tion of human reason to texts, and the other side of the coin was a claim about
how much must remain obscure without the aid of revelation and grace.109
107 Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories, 530–6 and passim; Gordon Leff, William of Ockham:
The Metamorphosis of Scholastic Discourse (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1975), 54–5.
108 Poor, Mechthild, 4.
109 Robert B. Pippin, Modernism as a Philosophical Problem: On the Dissatisfactions of European
High Culture (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1999), 19.
Socio-Economic Change and the Function of Genealogies
The new dispensations of philosophy and theology emerged roughly in tandem

with Europe’s high medieval commercial revolution.110 The changing relationship
between ‘man’, nature, God, and given hierarchy was mirrored in a changing rela
tionship between people and money, and, relatedly, between people and time. The
expansion of the cash nexus and the development of a merchant class brought
with it a challenge to the prejudice against wealth that had not been acquired by
inheritance or labour. Profiting from the products of others’ labour, or from
money itself, which was conventionally considered wealth dishonestly acquired,
started to fire a system in which money and goods circulated widely rather than
being consumed, exchanged, or gifted in local markets or in the context of sub
sistence or client–protector relationships. In the developing system, new human
networks cut across established social hierarchies and configured time less around
events divine or mundane than around activities.111 As late as the fourteenth cen
tury, one Franciscan decreed that it was wrong to demand greater payment from
he who could not settle his account immediately than he who could, lest the mer
chant profit from time itself, which belonged not to him but God. But credits and
loans, investment, and purchase for future resale all hinged on a profane sense of
the value of time. If, as one theorist of late capitalism has suggested, a humanistic
sense of history, awareness of anachronism and all, presupposed ‘a sundering of
secular time from sacred time’, the social and economic developments of the elev
enth century onwards had long since helped in breaking this link.112 Nevertheless,
barely any of the studies of the ‘modern’ conceptions of time take cognizance of
the medieval emergence of ‘merchant time’ and its challenge to church time, with
trading hours gaining some of the significance of the hours of prayer and of
natural, seasonal rhythms. In particular the historian Jacques Le Goff shows how
work bells became as common as church bells in fourteenth-century Flanders’
cloth-producing towns, at the centre of the export business. Work bells marked
the beginning and end of the working day, and interval breaks. Many cloth work
ers were solely wage earners, not disposing of any of the products of their labour
and being reliant only on the wages that could be negotiated pro rata—hence
ensuing arguments about just how long a working day should be.113
110 On some interesting conceptual linkages between theological debates and economics, see
Siegfried Van Duffel, ‘From Objective Right to Subjective Rights: The Franciscans and the Interest and
Will Conceptions of Rights’, in Virpi Mäkinen (ed.), The Nature of Rights (Helsinki: Societas
Philosophica Fennica, 2010), 63–91.
111 A distinction identified by Moishe Postone, Louis Galambos, and Jane Eliot Sewell, Time, Labor,
and Social Domination: A Reinterpretation of Marx’s Critical Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge
112 Dipesh Chakrabarty, ‘The Death of History? Historical Consciousness and the Culture of Late
Capitalism’, Public Culture 4:2 (1992), 47–65, here 56.
113 Postone et al., Time, Labor, 209–11.
96 Why History?
Manifold were the background factors against which such ostensibly technical
developments might be ascribed significance, but among those factors were the
increasing scepticism of the ‘moderns’ about divine time-schemas devised by
‘ancients’, and the nominalist relegation of time to the realms of the unpredictable
dispensations of the divine. Mundane time was freed up along with much of
the natural world as a resource for individuals and their managers, at around the
same point as Christendom’s sense of space was being expanded by encounters
at its margins, with both developments being conducive to commerce.114 Neither
of these changes coheres with Michel Foucault’s claim that it was only in the
seventeenth and eighteenth century that a ‘new mechanism of power’ was invented
‘which permits time and labor, rather than wealth and commodities, to be
extracted from bodies’.115 Neither coheres with anthropologist Johannes Fabian’s
claim that ‘Enlightenment thought’ (for there is apparently only one such kind,
like the ‘medieval’ equivalent) breaks with ‘a conception of time/space in terms of
a history of salvation to one that ultimately resulted in the secularization of Time
as natural history’.116 Both are obscured by studies of high medieval historiog
raphy that focus on the new eschatological speculative philosophies written in the
high middle ages by Otto of Freising and Orderic Vitalis amongst others. As ever,
these speculative philosophies are not categorically different in all respects to
other more ‘secular’ Histories of the period, but their different emphases and
purposes mean that they cannot be considered representative of the mass of
historically oriented scholarship in the period, far less of the historical thought
investigated in the previous section.117
The label ‘renaissance’ was applied to the twelfth-century crucible of nominal
ism and so much else, by twentieth-century medievalists keen to undo some of
the damage done to the name of the middle ages by the propagandists of the
better-known Renaissance. The ‘monastic reformation’ of the twelfth century also
anticipates ‘the’ fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Reformation. Such labels may
serve merely to antedate the origins of ‘the modern’ to the twelfth century, but
that would be insufficient. Instead, as Le Goff and others have posited, the lan
guage of culmination may be more appropriate in highlighting the development
of ‘medieval’ Christian civilization by its own lights. After all, it was only at the
outset of the twelfth century that ‘Christendom’ arrogated that name to itself,
after Gregorian reform and at a time of centralization and state-building. This
sort of thinking prompts a reassessment of the nature of distinctions between
114 Le Goff, Time, Work, and Culture, 29–41.

115 Michel Foucault, Society Must be Defended, ed. Mauro Bertani and Alessandro Fontana
(New York: Picador, 2003), 35–6.
116 Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other, 26.
117 e.g. the first two sentences of Ray C. Petry, ‘Three Medieval Chroniclers: Monastic
Historiography and Biblical Eschatology in Hugh of St. Victor, Otto of Freising, and Ordericus Vitalis’,
Church History 34:3 (1965), 282–93. The main focus of the article is on Orderic and Otto. Otto is also
the supposedly representative medieval historian in Connell, ‘The Eternity of the World’, 6.
‘modern’ and ‘pre-modern’ or ‘medieval’, as of symmetries between humanism and

antiquity, since it puts the origins of some humanist, ‘modern’, and indeed post
modern developments in the very heart of modernity’s ‘other’, the middle ages.
What one does with thoughts about the relationship between ‘the medieval’
and ‘the modern’ at the normative level is a good question. In light of the conven
tional pejorative caricature of the middle ages, it is interesting to note the recent
reversal of fortunes whereby scholars of modernity are at pains to stress moder
nity’s violent, exclusionary potential and the problematics of its professed ‘ration
ality’ just as some medievalists are attempting to de-brutalize and contextually
rationalize their period. On one plane this just shows how recent thought on
‘modernity’, especially by ‘postmoderns’, has sustained the clichéd medieval–
modern distinction even if inverting some of the valences attached to it.
Nevertheless we need to bear in mind that, alongside the ‘enlightenment’ and
‘renaissance’ of high medieval Europe the eleventh and twelfth centuries also saw
a surge in the violent ‘othering’ of Jews, Muslims heretics, and even lepers, as
tainted Christians whose bodily deficiencies betrayed something of their spiritual
condition. This upsurge in intolerance, expropriation, and sometimes mass mur
der did not stand in contradiction to the flowering of medieval Christian civiliza
tion. It was part and parcel of the process of sharper self-identification that came
with both the assertiveness of Rome and monarchical policies of centralization.118
This process was in train well before the clampdown on certain strains of thought
that had been unleashed by the twelfth-century ‘enlightenment’ contributed to
the dogmatism of which humanists were so critical.119
The attempted expansion of papal power and the growth of more centralized
monarchies, especially in England, during the high middle ages entailed a prolif
eration of bureaucracy and thus involved the widening of the circle of the literate,
as well as the growth of the archival record. Furthermore historically oriented
literature proliferated in the vernaculars. Most medieval chansons de geste—geste was
the old French form of the Latin gesta, deeds, but increasingly meant ‘narrative’—
are dated from the eleventh–twelfth centuries and after, even though their subject
matter is generally drawn from the eighth and ninth centuries.120
Always significant, gestes were deployed in important new discursive contexts
at a time of socioeconomic change and political contestation. Where the predom
inant kinship system from the fall of the Roman empire had been cognatic or
bilineal, this was overlaid and complicated from the eleventh century onwards
by the agnatic or patrilineal system. The bilineal system was ‘ego-focused’, in the
118 R. I. Moore, The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Authority and Deviance in Western Europe,
950–1250 (Oxford: Blackwell, 2007).
119 Le Goff, ‘What Did the Twelfth-Century Renaissance Mean?’; Peter von Moos, ‘Das. 12.
Jahrhundert—eine “Renaissance” oder ein “Aufklarungszeitalter”?’, Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch, 23
(1988), 1–10. See also the locus classicus, Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century.
120 Bloch, Feudal Society, 99–107; Damian-Grint, New Historians, 189.
98 Why History?
sense that kinship was determined by relative distance from the living person
(man or woman, both of whom had inheritance rights), with salient distances
measured in degrees from that person. The patrilineal system was ‘ancestor-
focused’; it posited an absolute anchorage in the past and a line of ever-growing if
now purely male extension into the present and beyond. Connection to the past
was announced by the adoption of the agnatic family name, alongside coats of
arms, and mottoes, with the systematic use of heraldry emerging in the mid-
twelfth century. The new emphasis on patrilineage was attributable on one hand
to the partial success of the church’s push from the Gregorian reform period to
enforce monogamy and a new marriage ethic on the nobility, and on the other
hand to the matter of land resources. In an increasingly delineated Europe, nei
ther the fruits of pillage nor new land were easy to come by, and in the interests of
maintaining extant landholdings, rights of inheritance were limited, with females
being most adversely affected.121 A reciprocal relationship developed between
nobles organizing themselves patrilineally and the literary genre of genealogy
that expressed the lineage’s self-consciousness. This new ordering principle
shaped the narrativization of the past by fusing the chronography of the chronicle
with the vita or biography. While legitimating hereditary rule by projecting it as
an unbroken chain into the distant past (a continuity principle), in a way similar
to the origin myths of Christianity in which Eve sprang from Adam and Christ
from the Father (a religious principle), genealogical narrative also established the
most important periodization (a discontinuity principle) with reference to human
generational change (a secularity principle). Altogether, this produced a fusion of
religious-literary tradition with the demands of new social realities. In place
of the chronicler’s time or a divine scheme inferable by figural thought, dynastic
or political time now became more pronounced as an organizing principle for the
histories of kingdoms, fiefdoms, and abbeys, along with the requisite acts of
procreation, marriage, and heroism. Spiegel explains that
Genealogy enabled chroniclers to organize their narratives as a series of gestes

performed by the successive representatives of one or more lignages [lineages],
whose personal characteristics and deeds, extensively chronicled in essentially
biographical modes, bespoke the enduring meaning of history as the collective
action of noble lineages in relation to one another and to those values to which
their gestes gave life.122
121 David Herlihy, Women, Family and Society in Medieval Europe (Oxford: Berghahn, 1995), 143–7;
on heraldry, but also on the plurality of agnatic and cognatic lineages into the twelfth century and
beyond, see David Crouch, ‘The Historian, Lineage and Heraldry 1050–1250’, in Peter Coss and
Maurice Keen (eds.), Heraldry, Pageantry and Social Display in Medieval England (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 2002), 17–37.
122 Spiegel, The Past as Text, 104–110, quotation from 108–9; Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 87, 157.
Clearly gestes were supposed to provide eternally valid exempla, but the sense of
time measured by human life and experience, and of that life in turn being illu
minated by purposive action, provides further evidence against assertions like
that by Benedict Anderson of a medieval ‘conception of temporality in which
cosmology and history were indistinguishable’.123
History and Developments in Political Identity
Moments of secular rupture like the Norman Conquest stimulated greater inter
est in secular cultural changes within Christendom and effected fundamental
shifts in the periodization of English and British Histories. More broadly, a curs
ory glance at the History of Europe in the eleventh and twelfth centuries reveals
great developments in state formation, centralization, and colonization in which
emperors and popes fought over whether primacy was to be accorded to the
priestly sword or the royal one. Shared legal systems were a key source of indi
viduating collective identity against other collectives, too. The growing pan-state
influence of Roman law, the ius commune, while competing in some ways,
favoured secular authority as against ecclesiastical law.124 That was but one of the
ways in which the secular past was increasingly imbricated in the mundane regu
lative structures of life: while canon law was predicated upon the ancient texts,
secular law depended upon secular precedent, if also on Roman law texts, hence
the importance of jurists in the early development of European historiography,
and the continued influence of historians of laws and constitutions even into the
modern period. All of this was in place from hundreds of years before Anderson
allows the development of any patriotism distinct from a non-territorialized
Christendom.125 In fact some of these politico-legal developments, which had
roots in the post-Roman sixth and seventh centuries, pre-dated the very concept
of Christendom, and were not eradicated by that concept during its relatively
brief and never unchallenged dominance.
The very concept of the body politic that would be so central to early modern
theories of state was a twelfth-century invention even if it was disguised as being
classical in origin. John of Salisbury (1120–80), a product not of the Empire but
of a Chartres education and the ‘modern’ Anglo-Norman kingdom, propagated a
positivist science of the state whose administration was based on functions and
elements of meritocracy rather than feudal oaths. He helped pave the way for the
123 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London: Verso, 2006), 36.

124 Briggs, The Body Broken, 92–4; Joseph Canning, The Political Thought of Baldis de Ubaldis
125 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 12–19, 36.
100 Why History?
thirteenth-century reception of Aristotle’s newly translated moral philosophy,

which further disseminated the idea of men—and especially of princes and kings—
as political animals, animals of the polis, rather than just men of individual con
science or soul. Why would medieval rulers not heed ‘the philosopher’, the man
who had advised the greatest of all ancient monarchs, Alexander? Aristotle’s Ethics
and Politics became incorporated into the most important instruction manuals, the
‘mirrors for princes’, that proliferated in the later Middle Ages.126
Secular political and administrative considerations did not have to conflict
with religious precepts, especially when one could identify God’s will with the
fortunes of peoples under administration. Where the chronicle of the crusades
Gesta Francorum (c.1100–1) pertained to all of the Franks, Guibert de Nogent’s
slightly later Gesta Dei per Francos, ‘God’s deeds through the Franks’, focused on
that subset of Franks who would later be called the French, i.e. the inhabitants of
what had been West Francia, which had been ruled by Carolingians until 987.
Since then, under the Capetian dynasty, West Francia had gained a separate
identity, and was known more often as simply Francia—in 1190 Philip II called
himself King of France, and the name stuck. We should note that the moment of
Guibert’s writing—c.1108–12—was a propitious one to make a claim for divine
approval as against those other ‘Franks’ of the Germanic Empire, given the conflict
between empire and papacy that had been in train for decades.
The late eleventh and twelfth centuries saw a more intensified, overtly political
use of origines gentium not just for kingdoms but also for barons and monastic
orders.127 These competitive claims to antiquity were temporal in various senses
of that word, seeking as they were the earthly legitimation and veneration that
came with the greatest longevity. In a latter-day idiom, the claims were at least as
much neo-conservative as properly conservative, with their proponents looking
forwards while harking backwards. Often, those proponents simply invented
useful pasts, as was the case with that late medieval English historiography that
sought to establish royal lineages, the origins of parliament, and thus the English
‘constitution’, in a far remote time. Such pedigrees proved useful in the fourteenth
century in substantiating claims for the independence of the Ecclesia Anglicana
from the Roman Curia, which marks the beginning of the process that culmin
ated in Henry VIII’s proclaiming himself head of the Anglican Church.128
Returning to the twelfth century, roughly from the 1140s to the 1190s the
Anglo-Norman kingdom was the scene of a very particular historiographical
126 Briggs, The Body Broken, 93–7; Chenu, Nature, 196–7; S. H. Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry: Chaucer’s
Knight’s Tale and Medieval Political Theory (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 13–14 on the pseudo-Aristotelian
Secretum Secretorum. For references as to how Aristotle’s works were known at second hand before the
thirteenth century, see pp. 15, 85–6.
127 Susan Reynolds, ‘Medieval Origines Gentium and the Community of the Realm’, History, 68:224
(1983), 375–90; on origines ordinum, Jotischky, The Carmelites and Antiquity, 305–11.
movement reflecting an equally particular issue of political identity. The estoires

were vernacular verse Histories written in Old French. They appeared before the
first vernacular prose History in that language (Villehardouin’s) and before devel
opments of a similar type elsewhere in Europe. The development of this genre,
whose prime exponents were Geffrei Gaimar, Wace, and Benoît de Sainte-Maure,
owes much to the vernacular tradition of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the
translation of Bede and of Orosius’s Historia contra paganos from the Latin dur
ing the Alfredian revival. It also bespeaks a thirst for something more authorita
tive in the vernacular than the epic chansons de geste, and Gaimar et al. were
studious in stressing the distinction between the two verse forms, as notably by
their source-references. One of the purposes of the estoires appears to have been
to provide second- and third-generation Anglo-Normans with historical accounts
which, whilst being written in their main language (French), nonetheless spoke
to their increasing sense of Englishness. Thus the verse historians picked up on
extant origin stories. Gaimar’s Estoire des Engleis rendered the Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle to those unversed in archaic Old English; Wace’s Roman de Brut was
ultimately more successful as it developed Geoffrey of Monmouth’s tale of deep
Trojan ancestry.129
In terms of prose History, in one key respect high and late medieval England
was an exception to a wider rule. In the abbey of Saint Denys on Paris’s outskirts,
from the 1120s generations of Benedictine monks sought to write French history
from a royalist perspective which, in identifying monarchs with the realm and in
twinning the story of the latter with the lineal successions of the former, triedto
inculcate an ‘idea of France’ avant la lettre. In the next century in Iberia, Alfonso
the Wise of Castile, and James the Conqueror of Aragon both commissioned
histories of their realms with similar purposes. However in England through the
fifteenth century there was no real equivalent of these prose Histories or of the
earlier Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Given-Wilson plausibly suggests that this pattern
reflects the relative post-invasion stability, territorial integrity, and centralization
of the English state vis-à-vis other states and England’s own past. Accordingly,
England’s monastic chroniclers enjoyed significant interpretative freedom and
evinced great diversity in their accounts of the past, often displaying deep scepti
cism about the actions of England’s kings.130
‘Others’ Present and Past
As providential Histories were gifted to a range of peoples, some of these narra

tives inevitably clashed with others, but when it came to physical clashes the most
129 Damian-Grint, New Historians, passim. 130 Given-Wilson, Chronicles, 152–4, 211–12.

102 Why History?
extreme European violence tended to be enacted where ethnic difference

coincided with religious difference. While the crusades encouraged a notion of
Latin Christendom acting in unison, they also enhanced the sense of shared
‘Frenchness’ of those Normans and Burgundians brought together in common
martial endeavour. Arabic and Turkic Muslims, like Slavic and other eastern and
north-eastern European pagans, were the ‘others’ against whom various collective
‘selves’ could be defined. ‘Others’ also included the widely imagined and utterly
imaginary ‘dogheads’—the name is self-explanatory—to the east and possibly in
Scandinavia, as depicted on various high medieval mappae mundi.131
The existence of an Islamic presence to Europe’s east and south-east seemed to
confirm the prophecy of ‘civilization’s’ westward movement. At the same time,
the thirteenth-century experience of Mongol invasion in eastern Europe, and the
subsequent trading opportunities through central to east Asia facilitated by
the pax Mongolica, further expanded Christendom’s spatial and cultural horizons,
and with that came new historical re-imaginings. The way for some of this had
already been paved in the Anglo-Norman kingdom by twelfth-century vernacular
translations of classical sources, which evince interest in the
merveilleux—not, by and large, the other-worldly marvels of the Breton

legends . . . but rather the exoticism of the East, with its fabulous wealth and its
strange plants and animals (and humans), together with a depiction of techno
logical marvels in connection with Byzantium (mechanical statues, artificial
lighting, hot and cold running water) and Alexander (submarines, engines of
war producing poison gas, waterproof doors to close the Caspian Gates).132
The thirteenth-century Berlin Eniet (Aeneid) manuscript of Heinrich von Veldeke

symbolizes geographical distance with exotic creatures and alerts the reader to
some continuities between past and present as if continuities had to be argued
for rather than simply assumed; a stretcher is made for a corpse ‘just as we still
do today’ (an echo, probably unwitting, of Herodotus’s ‘even still today’—p. 22).
Aeneas is distinguished as an ancient leader by his outer cloak, the chlamys. The
mid-fourteenth-century illustrations of Guido delle Colonne exoticize distances
of time via distances of space. The Trojan War is relocated to an exotic east. The
Greeks and Trojans are no longer depicted as medieval Europeans but as ‘orien
tals’ with flowing hair and beards. Such ‘visual exoticism’ continued to indicate
‘imaginative distance’, as later in Sebastian Brandt’s illustrated Virgil of 1502:133
the past as foreign country, as one might say.
131 Robert Bartlett, The Natural and the Supernatural in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2008), ch. 3.
132 Damian-Grint, New Historians, 4.
133 Baswell, Virgil, 28–9; on the broader context, Chenu, Nature, ch. 5. On Herodotus, Baron,
Timaeus, 237 f.
As to conceptualizing foreign countries as the past, let us conclude with

Giraldus Cambrensis, Gerald of Wales (c.1146–c.1223), archdeacon of Brecon
and clerk to Henry II.134 Bearing in mind Dionysius of Halicarnassus’s categories
of ‘space’ and ‘time’ as competing organizational principles for historians, and
Petrarch’s twinned ‘tourism’ and historicization, note that Gerald’s historical
reflections on Ireland appeared in his Topographica Hibernia, Topography of
Ireland (1186–7). Written more than a century before Petrarch’s birth, and a few
years before Maimonides’ Guide for the Perplexed, this series of sketches fuses
many familiar themes. Gerald saw his writings as a route to fame and ingratiation
with the monarch who had led the recent invasion of Ireland, and the account of
the Irish is as prejudicial as accounts of the colonized by the colonizer generally
are. The theory of translatio imperii is incorporated in the ‘civilizing’ solution:
Henry, ‘our Alexander of the West’, ‘stretched out [his] arms from the Pyrenean
mountains to the farthest and most western borders of the ocean’.135 Most import
antly for present purposes, the theory of westward movement was reinforced with
a self-consciously modernizing rationale for conquest, and while Gerald found
support for the rationale in scripture there was much more to it than that.
Warming to Ephesians (p. 83), Gerald found that ‘putting off the old man, and
putting on the new . . . is the highest pitch of excellence, when the former acts are
surpassed by being followed by those which are better’.136 None should ‘condemn
anything because it is new, which, as time passes on, while it is accused of novelty,
ceases to be new. Let there be found here both what the present age may blame,
and posterity applaud; what the one may rail at, the other read; what the one
may condemn, the other love; what the one may reprove, the other approve.’137 By
contrast the Irish comprised
a people that has not yet departed from the primitive habits of pastoral life. In
the common course of things, mankind progresses from the forest to the field,
from the field to the town, and to the social condition of citizens; but this nation,
holding agricultural labour in contempt, and little coveting the wealth of towns,
as well as being exceedingly averse to civil institutions, lead the same life their
fathers did in the woods and open pastures, neither willing to abandon their old
habits or learn anything new.138
Note ‘learn’, for, alongside a description of ‘progression’ that would not have been
out of place among eighteenth-century stadial theories of human socio-economic
134 On the significances of Gerald, including the ethnographic ones, see Robert Bartlett, Gerald of
Wales, 1146–1223 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982). On the imperial context, see John Gillingham,
‘The Beginning of English Imperialism’, Journal of Historical Sociology 5 (1992), 392–409.
135 Gerald of Wales, Giraldus Cambrensis The Topography of Ireland, trans. Thomas Forester, rev.
and ed. Thomas Wright (Cambridge, ON: In Parentheses, 2000), Distinction III, ch. XLVII.
136 Ibid., Distinction I, ch. XIII. 137 Ibid., introduction to Distinction II.
138 Ibid., Distinction III, ch. X.
104 Why History?
development (Chapter 5), Gerald had the rudiments of an explanation for that
progression. He wrote that ‘habits are formed by mutual intercourse’. The sup
posed problem for the Irish was that they ‘inhabit a country so remote from the
rest of the world, and lying at its furthest extremity, forming, as it were, another
world, and are thus secluded from civilized nations, they learn nothing, and prac
tise nothing but the barbarism in which they are born and bred, and which sticks
to them like a second nature’.139
For Gerald, to look west was to look back in time. The same attitude has been
identified in other actors, and the anthropologist Fabian called it the ‘denial of
coevalness’, the ‘tendency to place the referent(s) of anthropology in a Time other
than the present of the producer of anthropological discourse’.140 Yet this attitude
has been associated with much later developments, developments perhaps begin
ning with Europe’s embarkation on transatlantic colonialism and encounter with
the ‘new world’ three centuries after the Topography of Ireland, and crystallizing
in the Enlightenment.141
There is an irony in Fabian’s work, and it relates to his aforementioned claim
that ‘Enlightenment thought’ breaks with ‘a conception of time/space in terms of
a history of salvation to one that ultimately resulted in the secularization of Time
as natural history’.142 Fabian’s Time and the Other is a fine study of the role of
‘modern’ concepts of time as they have influenced anthropological thinking and
shaped constructions of ‘others’ as backward. Yet in order to establish these con
cepts as distinguishing marks of modern thought, Fabian performs that now
familiar construction of a contrasting, monolithic medieval mindset by his char
acterization of ‘the’ medieval comprehension of time; to highlight the supposedly
distinct quality of Enlightenment thinking, he conflates the medieval and the
Christian and reduces both to a single and exclusive temporal sense related to ‘a
history of salvation’. By Fabian’s account it would have been impossible for Gerald
of Wales to have written what he wrote.
139 Ibid. 140 Fabian, Time and the Other, 31—in the original this sentence is italicized.
141 Ibid. 146–7. 142 Ibid. 26.
4
Renaissances and Reformations
Introduction
This chapter concerns the time from around 1400 to around 1700. If the title gives
a clue as to some of the major intellectual influences on historical thinking during
the period, we ought not ignore additional cultural shifts and political and tech
nical developments.
On the political side, conquest and sovereignty change remained as important
as ever in stimulating new thinking, but the designs of monarchs with increas
ingly absolutist tendencies added a further element. Overtly political factors
chimed with different regional strains of humanism and the religious movements
of Reformation and Counter-Reformation insofar as all three clusters of thought
pertained to History as Identity, in the sense of a profound concern with origins
and legitimation.
Technically, the invention and diffusion of printing stands above all else. The
growth of literacy which it presupposed was greatest in the Italian city-states
where mercantile wealth brought education well beyond ecclesiastics and the
nobility. With an expansion of readers came an expansion of writers, resulting in
a significantly greater widening of perspectives than had come in, say, late medi
eval Britain, as secular clergy broke the previous monastic monopoly on histor
ianship. Even though churchmen continued to play a major role over the next few
centuries, there was now something of a return to the classical convention
whereby men of political experience asserted their authority on what mattered in
the study of the present and of the past. All these developments help explain a
greater scholarly focus on the study of human achievement in the mundane
sphere, the studia humanitatis, from which we get umanisti, humanists, and, at
one further remove, the ‘humanities’ as a group of disciplines. As the printing
press supplied the reading market it also supplied scholars with copies of texts
ancient, medieval, and contemporary, that thitherto only existed as scarce manu
scripts in limited circulation. A proliferation of scholarly materials facilitated the
acquisition of erudition and the comparison of sources.
Publications also catered to existing preferences, however, and it would be mis
leading to think that what was held to be interesting or politically important
changed abruptly or completely. In 1476–7, the Grandes Chroniques de France
became the first French-language work to be printed in Paris, and other annalistic
accounts recent and more venerable, including the work of Gregory of Tours,
106 Why History?
were reproduced and read for at least a century thereafter. In the Germanic lands,
the same went for the Fredegar chronicle and its ilk.1 Social stratification mat
tered here, whether in terms of purchasing power or assumptions of propriety.
Putting aside that of which we know least, that which Markus Völkel calls ‘wild
historical knowledge’ produced from below rather than above, there were major
differences in the sort of historical product to which people might be exposed. In
the Germanic context from the Reformation to the Enlightenment, Völkel indi
cates the prominence of ‘the broadsheet, the pseudohistorical romance, or the
even more unconsolidated form of the “yearly reports” drawn from the periodical
press’.2
On the cultural level, the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries saw widespread
encounter with more ‘new’ worlds, whether via more expansive commercial
engagement, further Iberian exploration of Africa, or the invasion of the Americas
with their particular human cultures and strange animal and vegetable species.
Jean Bodin (1530–96), that embodiment of the French Renaissance, mused
‘Who can doubt that the Christian religion is the true religion or rather the only
one? . . . Almost all the World.’3 The transatlantic venture in particular altered the
mental map characterized by the mappae mundi by showing that Jerusalem was
not the centre of the world and that the landmass of Asia, Africa, and Europe
was not the only one. At the same time, though, if French literature is any indica
tion, in the sixteenth century more was produced and consumed about European
encounters with the ‘Near’ and ‘Far East’ than with the Americas, and the discrep
ancy only increased over time.4
In the interplay of spatial and temporal thought, the informative encounter
with foreign worlds in the present was matched by learning from prior worlds,
including via the ancient geographical descriptions of Ptolemy. Encounters with
the past were perforce historical in the broad sense, and they demanded particu
lar interpretative skills. In specialist historiographic terms, the literary forms and
style of classical works of History were at least as influential as their content:
hence the term ‘renaissance of letters’. Other innovations with knock-on effects in
historiography came in the fine arts, literature and poetry, political philosophy,
and through re-engagement with a wider range of Platonic texts than had been
1 On Florentine literacy and other elements of the Italian context, William J. Connell, ‘Italian
Renaissance Historical Narrative’, in José Rabasa, Masayuki Sato, Edoardo Tortarolo, and Daniel
Woolf (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2015), 347–63, here 348–9; on French publishing, Chantal Grell, ‘History and Historians in France,
from the Great Italian Wars to the Death of Louis XIV’, in the same volume, 384–405, here 384–5. On
the Fredegar Chronicle’s printing, Wallace-Hadrill, ‘Fredegar’, 528–9.
2 Markus Völkel, ‘German Historical Writing from the Reformation to the Enlightenment’, in
Rabasa et al. (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 324–46, here 327.
3 Jean Bodin, Colloquium of the Seven about Secrets of the Sublime (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1975), 163. See also Auerbach, Mimesis, 282.
4 Denys Hay, Europe: The Emergence of an Idea (New York: Harper, 1966), 99.
Renaissances and Reformations 107
available earlier to the bearers of the Neoplatonist flame at Chartres and the
Dominican School of Cologne.
Running in a different direction to Platonism and Neoplatonism, radical ‘pyr
rhonian scepticism’ was also resurrected along with the works of Sextus Empiricus
(160–210 ce). Pyrrhonian scepticism affected humanist more than scientific
thought in the sixteenth century, and its influence was supplemented in the fol
lowing century by René Descartes’s assessment of History: amongst other things
Descartes wrote of exemplar historians that the omissions they make in the inter
ests of relevance ensure that ‘the remainder does not appear as it really was’—
le reste ne paroît pas tel qu’il est—and those who model their behaviour on such
exempla ‘are prone to succumb to the extravagances that ail the Paladins of our
romances, and to conceive designs which exceed their powers’.5 Ironically, the
humanist Francesco Robortello (1516–67) may have helped promote Sextus by
trying to dismiss him when, in his De historica facultate disputatio (1548),
Robortello penned a not entirely coherent defence of History against his yet rela
tively obscure opponent. Latin translations of two of Sextus’s major works in the
1560s brought him squarely into public view.6 Bodin’s influential Methodus ad
facilem historiarum cogitionem (Method for the easy comprehension of History)
of 1565/6 addressed scepticism about History’s reliability by providing readers
with criteria for discernment and writers with a manifesto on content.7
The main body of this chapter begins with general reflections on History’s
place within the wider intellectual developments of Renaissance Italy. Then it
shows how the historiographies of various states, as well as their political doc
trines, were to one degree or another influenced by particularistic tendencies in
Italian humanism, as well as by the impact of the Reformation. France is accorded
particular attention, and then more briefly England and parts of the Holy Roman
Empire. Then the chapter addresses the central historiographical battles that cor
responded to the religious conflicts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
These were battles of ecclesiastical History, centring on ancient sources. The
polemical nature of some of the disagreements and the accompanying instru
mentalization of the documentary record reinforced existing scepticism as to
History’s ‘epistemic’ status, which means that they buttressed doubts about the
reliability of historical knowledge claims. Yet an increasingly bipartisan critical
methodology developed, based on a combination of humanist philology and new
5 Descartes, Discourse on Method, 40.

6 On the reception of Sextus, Luciano Floridi, ‘The Rediscovery and Posthumous Influence
of Scepticism’, in Richard Bett (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Ancient Scepticism (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2010), 264–87; Duncan Pritchard, ‘Doubt Undogmatized: Pyrrhonian
Scepticism, Epistemological Externalism and the “Metaepistemological” challenge’, Principia, 4:2
(2000), 187–214. On Robortello, points 5–6 of Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Paris, 1647: un dialogue sur fiction et
histoire’, Vox-poetica, 25 March 2011, and points 8 and 9 of his first chapter in Threads and Traces: True
False Fictive (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012), 13–14.
7 Jean Bodin, Method for the Easy Comprehension of History (New York: Octagon, 1945).
108 Why History?
palaeographical techniques, with established religious hermeneutics playing their

part. Here the dictates of self-serving confessional History as Identity sometimes
stood in tension with the demands of a proceduralist History as Methodology even
as all sides agreed on the importance of History as Communion. The chapter
concludes by considering the place of historical thinking in a ‘scientific’ seventeenth
century for whose dominant intellectual figures historical enquiry supposedly
had little use.
Like previous chapters, this one addresses conceptual concerns of a general
nature as they arise. Especially important are issues of context and contextualiza
tion. Different sorts of contextualization are considered, along with their varying
implications for thinking about the past. In particular there is the question of how
a heightened attention to historical contextualization could be reconciled with
ongoing demands for the relevance of History as Lesson for the present. Topical
reading was one established solution, but another was resurrected with the
ancient doctrine of similitudo temporum.
Re-Encounters
The most immediately evident influence of humanism on historianship was in the

form of philology. Indicative is the fact that one of two men with claim to being
the greatest historian of the early Quattrocento, the bestselling author Leonardo
Bruni (1370–1444), was once a disciple of Coluccio Salutati, Chancellor of the
Florentine Republic. Amongst other things, Salutati charted changes over time in
the Latin language and tried to revive its Ciceronian form.
We can trace the revival of Roman literature, classical Latin, and the classical
world as a whole to before Petrarch’s time,8 nevertheless, there is a good case that
it is ‘the return of Greek to western Europe’ that ‘overshadows all other advances
in the Renaissance and more than anything else entitles it to that name’.9 The
‘return’ in question is that of the Greek language, specialist Greek scholarship,
and ancient texts, but again we need to think in terms of degrees of scale rather
than absolute novelty since there were well-established trading contacts between
Italy and Constantinople, which facilitated a general circulation of ideas and cul
ture, and the Venetians had ruled tracts of Byzantine territory through most of
the thirteenth century as a consequence of the Fourth Crusade. Salutati had a
hand to play in facilitating the return of Greek, and with it the return of Platonism,
8 Schiffman, The Birth of the Past, 152; Christopher Celenza, ‘Humanism’, in Anthony Grafton,
Glenn W. Most, and Salvatore Settis (eds.), The Classical Tradition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2010), 462–7, here 463.
9 Michael D. Reeve, ‘Classical Scholarship’, in Jill Kraye (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to
Renaissance Humanism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 20–46, here 32, emphasis
added.
but this was a matter of seizing an opportunity. The opportunity came from
another instance of cross-cultural encounter, as more classical texts washed up on
‘Europe’s’ shores, along with the experts in their interpretation, in the face of the
Ottoman annexation of Greece and the threat, and then, in 1453, the actuality, of
the conquest of Constantinople.
In 1390 the classical scholar Manuel Chrysoloras led a Byzantine delegation to
Venice to beg the assistance of Christian powers against the Ottomans, where
upon he impressed the Italian cognoscenti enough for Salutati later to invite him
to Florence to teach Greek literature and grammar. Chrysoloras’s grammar of
ancient Greek, later to be published courtesy of Gutenberg’s press, became a basic
text of the proliferating humanist scholars of that language, while his sometime
student Bruni translated a number of Plato’s Dialogues and letters. His archaeo
logical insights into ruins, as in his Comparison of Old and New Rome (1411) are
said to have marked ‘a significant step beyond Petrarch’, one ‘fundamental to the
Renaissance recovery of classical culture’ in the sense of reading ‘the remnant as
signifying an ideal whole’. Reliefs on statues, columns, and tombs revealed, in
Chrysoloras’s words ‘how things were in past times and what the differences were
between peoples’, offering ‘eyewitness knowledge [autopsía] of everything that has
happened’.10 Another influence was Georgius Gemistos ‘Plethon’ who arrived as
part of the Greek delegation at the councils of Florence–Ferrara in 1438–9, which
took abortive steps towards the reconciliation of Eastern and Western churches
in the context of the Ottoman rise and the Hussite wars. When not in session
Plethon gave a number of lectures contrasting Aristotelian and Platonic philoso
phy, which stimulated the Florentine Platonist intellectual movement.
Shortly before the Florence–Ferrara gatherings, Nicholas of Cusa (1401–64),
or Cusanus, met Plethon in a formative visit to Constantinople. Cusanus had
been exposed to humanist ideas during his education in Padua and had also been
educated at the Neoplatonist stronghold of Cologne. He shared Plethon’s desire
for a harmonious unitas ecclesiae, but we should not see this as yet another
Romano-Christian wish for the development of unity out of initial diversity, as
earlier seen in Eusebius’s chronography and Bede’s vision of the unifying of pagan
Britons under Christianity. Rather, Cusanus’s thought had connotations, within
limits, of unity-in-diversity, diversity as a descent from an initial unity in ‘the one’.11
10 Patricia Fortini Brown, Venice and Antiquity: The Venetian Sense of the Past (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1996), 76–7. Brown also tells us that the idea of ancient artifacts and images offering
‘unmediated testimony—“autopsía” . . . would become one of the fundamental tenets of modern
archaeology’.
11 Jasper Hopkins, A Concise Introduction to the Philosophy of Nicholas of Cusa (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1978), 4, and passim; Marica Costigliolo, ‘Organic Metaphors in
“De concordantia catholica” of Nicholas of Cusa’, Viator 44:2 (2013), 311–21, here 312, 314. See also
(for some suggestive oppositions between Cusanus and the humanists on one hand and nominalism
on the other) parts 10–11 of the ‘Sequence on Political Ontology’ of John Milbank, Beyond Secular
Order: The Representation of Being and the Representation of the People (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2013).
110 Why History?
His On the Peace of Faith (1453), written at the time of the fall of Constantinople,
was an imagined dialogue between different Christian confessions, representa
tives of Islam, Judaism, and even of religions that would have been conceived
as ‘pagan’. While clearly prejudiced in favour of Christianity, and sometimes
dismissive of the beliefs of Jews, it sought to remove grounds for antagonism by
casting religious disagreements as misconceived on the basis that behind their
different ‘rites’ each religion tacitly shared the same assumptions and thus paved
the way to the higher truth. Within constraints, ‘diversity’ is accepted and even
welcomed.12 Such ideas influenced Marsilio Ficino (1433–99), who published the
Complete Works of Plato in translation in 1484.
Ficino, who was the first significant philosopher to win fame during his life
time as a result of the printing press, subsequently produced translations of major
Neoplatonists including Plotinus, whose rethinking of Plato was central to the
Neoplatonic revival. Ficino also translated the work of one ‘Hermes Trismegistus’,
supposedly an Egyptian priest who some accounts dated to around Abraham’s
time. We now know that the major texts of hermeticism were written at some
point in the first to third century ce, but the relevance is that ‘hermeticism’ may
well have helped draw humanists to Plato and Neoplatonism, linking Plato to the
ancient Hebrews, substantiating the idea that Platonic doctrine prefigured the
revelation of Christianity, and portraying Hermes as the medium of God’s revela
tion to Jews and pagans. Obversely, Florentine hermeticism was of a distinctly
Platonic tinge. Ficino gave the name prisca theologia to the single true theology
that is supposedly to be found within every religion. Hermeticism was also bound
to Neoplatonism in the work of Ficino’s student Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola,
author of the famous Oration on the Dignity of Man (1486). Neoplatonists of
following generations included Giordano Bruno and the Augustinian biblical
scholar Agostino Steuco (On the Perennial Philosophy, 1540) who wrote that Jews,
Egyptians, and Chaldaeans had bequeathed to the ancient Greeks doctrines
chiming with Christianity, like the creation of the world and the immortality of
the soul. The space for this sort of thought would be radically reduced over the
sixteenth century with the advent of Reformation and Counter-Reformation
demands on orthodoxy, but it survived nonetheless, and had an important role to
play in later historiography (see Chapters 5–6).13
12 Translated text of De Pace Fidei, in Jasper Hopkins, Nicholas of Cusa’s De Pace Fidei and Cribratio
Alkorani: Translation and Analysis (Minneapolis: The Arthur J. Banning Press, 1994), 633–70: see
especially Part XVIII, §66 and Part XIX, §§67–8 of De Pace Fidei at pp. 68–70. On Cusanus’s ‘plural
ism’, see Markus Riedenauer, Pluralität und Rationalität: Die Herausforderung der Vernunft durch
religiöse und kulturelle Vielfalt nach Nikolaus Cusanus (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2007).
13 On hermeticism, see Florian Ebeling, The Secret History of Hermes Trismegistus (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 2007), esp. ch. 3. For other material see Frederick Purnell Jr, ‘Concord, Philosophical’,
in Anthony Grafton, Glenn W. Most, and Salvatore Settis (eds.), The Classical Tradition (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 233–4, and ch. 4 of Richard H. Popkin (ed.), The Pimlico History
of Western Philosophy (London: Pimlico, 1999). On the Greek influence in particular, see Marios
Romans, Greeks, Goths
While boosting a religious philosophy of harmony in diversity, the engagement

with Greek thought was also characterized by more culturally narcissistic tenden
cies. The Italian relationship to contemporary Greece could be interpreted as a
classical Roman relationship to classical Greece, with all the connotations of
cultural competition as well as indebtedness that that entailed. Salutati’s 1396
invitation letter to Chrysoloras recalled the ancient Romans’ admitting
through the mouth of their greatest authors that from the Greeks they received
all aspects of knowledge: the verdict of our own Cicero confirms that we Romans
either made wiser innovations than theirs by ourselves or improved on what we
took from them, but of course, as he himself says elsewhere with reference to his
own day: ‘Italy is invincible in war, Greece in culture’.14
In virtue of their language and knowledge, the ‘Byzantines’ were being cast as
Greeks by their world-historical successors, even though the Byzantines generally
regarded themselves as eastern Romans. They claimed heritage of an unbroken
imperial-cultural tradition from classical antiquity—and of a powerful strand of
Christianity.
An intriguing adjunct to the story is Plethon’s influence, via one of his students,
in the self-redefinition of Byzantines as Greeks rather than Romans. The classi
cizing Histories (1450s) of Laonikos Chalkokondyles (c.1430–c.1465) imitated
Thucydides in language and Herodotus in content, depicting the triumph of
oriental forces—now Ottoman Muslims rather than Persians—over occidental
ones. Chalkokondyles wrote in a secular vein, with no polemical hostility towards
Islam or ‘Turks’, and propounded a cultural–linguistic more than religious or
institution-based sense of Hellenism, which was appropriate at a time when the
‘Byzantine’ political structure had come crashing down. This sort of thinking
would be useful for members of the Greek émigré community in Italy, although
Chalkokondyles himself did not emigrate, as they tried to retain their cultural
distinctiveness and resist Italian condescension, while hoping that ‘westerners’
might some day retrieve Anatolia from the Ottoman grasp.15
Philippides and Walter K. Hanak, The Siege and the Fall of Constantinople in 1453: Historiography,
Topography and Military Studies (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), 194–5.
14 Reeve, ‘Classical Scholarship’, 33.

15 Laonikos Chalkokondyles, The Histories, 2 vols., ed. Anthony Kaldellis (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2014); Anthony Kaldellis, A New Herodotus: Laonikos Chalkokondyles on
the Ottoman Empire, the Fall of Byzantium, and the Emergence of the West (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2014); Han Lamers, Greece Reinvented: Transformations of Byzantine Hellenism in
Renaissance Italy (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 44–52.
112 Why History?
In a sentiment that has been held to embody a Renaissance sense of classical

renewal and authorial creation, Salutati wrote ‘I must imitate antiquity not simply
to reproduce it, but in order to produce something new.’ The idea is that one can
only talk about antiquity in this way when first one realizes that it has in fact
passed away—this is the sort of realization that some suppose was unavailable to
medieval thinkers. Whether it constituted imitation or innovation, Salutati was
certainly interested in associating his Florence with ancient Rome as a matter of
genealogy and thus identity: hence his reference to ‘we Romans’. With the same
concern for primacy amongst Italian cities, but different reference-points, the
later Praise of the City of Venice (Laus urbis Venetae, 1493) by the Venetian histor
ian Marin Sanudo emphasized the superiority of Venice because it was founded
by Christian aristocrats, while Rome was merely the work of pagan shepherds.16
As an archival historian Salutati silenced doubters about Florence’s Roman prov
enance, while proclaiming that the city had been founded before the Roman
Republic was subjected to autocratic rule. In any case the Roman Republic was
still an empire even if it had no monarch, a nicety that allowed Salutati, and Bruni
in his Panegyric to the City of Florence (1403–4), to wax on the twin themes of
republican liberty and imperial liberty-bringing expansion.
The Panegyric is explicit about the enduring significance of origin stories. ‘As
one usually does in discussing an individual, so we want to investigate the origins
of the Florentine people and to consider from what ancestor the Florentines
derived and what they have accomplished at home and abroad in every age. As
Cicero says: “Let’s do it this way, let’s begin at the beginning.” ’ To begin with,
then, ‘the fact that the Florentine race arose from the Roman people is of the
utmost importance. What nation in the entire world was ever more distinguished,
more powerful, more outstanding in every sort of excellence than the Roman
people?’ As an heir of Rome, to Florence ‘belongs by hereditary right dominion
over the entire world and possession of your parental legacy. From this it follows
that all wars that are waged by the Florentine people are most just, and this people
can never lack justice in its wars since it necessarily wages war for the defence and
recovery of its own territory.’ To a quasi-legal claim on inherited rights was added
claim to an almost genetic inheritance of virtue, whence the significance of the
timing of Florence’s birth:
when Florence was founded the city of Rome flourished greatly in power, liberty,
genius, and especially with great citizens. Now; after the Republic had been
16 Marin Sanudo, ‘Praise of the City of Venice, 1493’, in David Chambers, Brian Pullan, and
Jennifer Fletcher (eds.), Venice: A Documentary History, 1450–1630 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 4–21,
with reference to shepherds at 4 and primacy at 5 and 16–17. Thanks to David Laven for this
reference.
subjected to the power of a single head, ‘those outstanding minds vanished,’ as

Tacitus says. So it is of importance whether a colony was founded at a later date,
since by then all the virtue and nobility of the Romans had been destroyed;
nothing great or outstanding could be conveyed by those who left the city.17
Bruni’s verbiage deliberately conflated Florence’s regional influence with Rome’s

imperial influence. By allusive anachronism he used the same classical terms—
socii and amici—to denote Florence’s allies and otherwise friendly states as had
once been used to indicate the ‘free states’ under Roman suzerainty. As Rome had
presented itself as the communis patria of all Italians, so other Italian states in the
present would retain a sort of semi-independent status with citizenship for their
peoples if they agreed to follow the rightful heir. Much the same idea had also
been propounded by thirteenth-century Guelphism, which had set itself against
the Holy Roman Empire and for the Rome of the papacy, and of which the city-
state of Florence had been a major proponent.18
The twentieth-century scholar of the Renaissance, Hans Baron, claimed nov
elty for Bruni’s historical scholarship, especially the twelve-volume History of the
Florentine People (1442) on the grounds of its having broken with any superhis
torical, medieval concept of Roma aeterna. Bruni dealt in secular terms with the
History of an ethnos, a people with a culture, and with the story of Florence ab
urbe condita, from its foundation. He sometimes deployed a naturalistic idiom to
encapsulate the suffocation of ancient Rome and the draining of its vital virtú
on the sack of Rome. Conversely, some breathing and growing space had been
created for northern Italians after the ejection of the Germanic Lombards (who
had ruled from 568 to 774 after the Byzantine defeat of the Ostrogoths) and the
establishment, initially under the overall authority of the Holy Roman Empire,
of increasingly autonomous communes-then-city-states, which had finally pro
duced the likes of Petrarch.19 While Bruni differed from Petrarch on the relation
ship of the present with ancient Rome, the two were united in their attitude to
the interim period, and that attitude was the opposite of the historico-religious
orthodoxy prevailing since Orosius. It rejected the conception of unity and con
tinuity embodied in the translatio imperii theory, cutting directly across the idea
of an enduring fourth kingdom of Rome. This is the basis of Petrarch’s implicit
and Bruni’s explicit tripartite division of history, the division that has led to
17 All quotes from the translation of Bruni’s Laudatio Florentinae Urbis or Panegyric to the City of
Florence (c.1403–4), online at https://www.york.ac.uk/teaching/history/pjpg/bruni.pdf
18 Mikael Hörnqvist, ‘The Two Myths of Civic Humanism’, in James Hankins (ed.), Renaissance Civic
Humanism: Reappraisals and Reflections (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 105–42, here
121–9.
19 Hans Baron, ‘Das Erwachen des historischen Denkens im Humanismus des Quattrocento’,
Historische Zeitschrift 147 (1932–3), 5–20, here 11–16.
114 Why History?
Bruni’s also unhelpfully being dubbed the first modern historian.20 Bruni’s third
historical phase began in the year 1250, which remains a popular point of departure
for Histories of the ‘late medieval’ or ‘early humanist’ periods. It was the year of the
death of Emperor Frederick II, which brought to an end the struggles between
the Hohenstaufen dynasty and northern Italian cities, permitting the consolidation
of the latter’s independence.
Bruni’s periodization suggests that for all the novel elements in his work it has
that familiar quality whereby concepts of temporal and cultural difference are
interwoven. While Salutati mixed respect for ‘Greeks’ with his condescension
towards them, both Petrarch and Bruni, so aware of the role of the historian in
fostering a cultural consciousness, ended up constructing and ‘othering’ a his
torical period by their scorn for the foreign cultures with which they associated
it. Indeed, this cultural stigmatization drove the periodization. Thus, whereas
Orosius had the Visigothic King Ataulf opting to develop Romania instead of
replacing it with Gothia, for Bruni this was just sophistry: if anything of the old
Rome endured, it was the name alone.21 In Petrarch’s Africa, the epic that made
this scion of Tuscany into Rome’s poet laureate, Petrarch has Scipio Africanus
the elder prophesying the downfall of Rome, whereupon ‘strangers of Spanish
and African extraction will steal the sceptre and the glory of the Empire founded
by us with great effort. Who can endure the thought of the seizure of supreme
control by these dregs of the people, these contemptible remnants, passed over by
our sword?’22 The ‘African’ and Spaniard he had in mind were probably the
emperors Septimus Severus and Theodosius. Spaniards and Africans were, how
ever, not the major targets of Petrarch or Bruni; ‘Goths’ were. By the sixteenth
century at the latest, the pejorative ‘Gothic’ was attached to high medieval archi
tecture (‘irrational’) and art, but it was used in the fifteenth century in relation
to architectural ornaments and ‘barbarous’ handwriting. ‘Goth’ was a catch-all
category for ‘Germanic’, or, still more broadly, ‘northerner’, which in turn denoted
anyone from the Visigoths through the Ostrogoths, the Lombards, the Franks,
and the inhabitants of much of the Holy Roman Empire latterly.23 Successive
emperors were not really Roman at all, and thus arguably not even legitimate
emperors: in a letter of 1333 Petrarch wrote of Charlemagne as ‘King Charles
who, by the cognomen of “the Great”, barbarous peoples dare to raise to the level
of Pompey and Alexander’.24
20 On the origins and endurance of this label, Gary Ianziti, ‘Leonardo Bruni: First Modern
Historian?’, Parergon 14:2 (1997), 85–99.
21 Baron, ‘Das Erwachen’, 14.
22 Theodor E. Mommsen, ‘Petrarch’s Conception of the “Dark Ages”’, Speculum 17 (1942), 226–42,
here 234–5.
23 On usages and referents, see variously Nick Groom, The Gothic (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2012), ch. 2; E. P. Goldschmidt, The Printed Book of the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge
24 Mommsen, ‘Petrarch’s Conception’, 235.
Developments in Source Criticism?
The fight against barbarisms, and by extension the ‘othering’ of barbarians,

underpinned perhaps the most famous Renaissance work of critical historical
philology, by Lorenzo Valla (1407–57). Valla may well have been the first to have
used ‘Gothic’ to stigmatize a form of handwriting, in the preface to his Latin
handbook, On the Elegancies of the Latin Language (Elegantiae linguae Latinae,
1444), which he wrote ‘to restore the language of Rome to the Romans’.25 He also
helped undermined the papacy’s temporal authority by exposing the so-called
Donation of Constantine as a forgery in a treatise of 1440.
Since its fabrication, probably in the eighth century, the Donation had author
ized papal rule over vast territories in the southern, eastern, and northern
Mediterranean, on the supposed authority of the converted Roman Emperor
Constantine. Valla, who had vainly sought employment under Pope Eugenius,
then found patronage from King Alfonso of Aragon and Sicily, who as it happens
was contesting the papacy’s client, the house of Anjou, for control of Naples. Valla
proved beyond reasonable doubt that Constantine could never have written the
Donation.26 Yet, despite the great significance conventionally attributed to Valla’s
work, suspicion of the Donation’s authenticity well preceded him. Moreover,
Valla’s work had few immediate political ramifications: it was not even published
that century (see p. 139) Just as important for the present narrative is the nature
of Valla’s interrogation of the Donation, which is often presented as a quintessen
tially historical, and thus supposedly novel, form of philology. In that popular
view of Valla, awareness of anachronism is the founding principle of his text. But
a competing argument can be made that the founding principle is actually the
same principle as that underpinning the later Elegantiae, namely restoring to the
Roman language ‘the purity that was its glory before the barbarian corruption’.27
Before elaborating on Valla’s text, we need to understand the varieties of
anachronism. The simplest is the failure to recognize that event Y happened
before event Z. We might say of societies that evince this failure that they lack an
interest and/or facility in establishing the temporal order of Y and Z. Clearly,
given the classical and medieval preoccupation with chronography, ancients
and medievals had both the interest and the facility, even if the facility was not
infallible. That Valla evinced this capacity, as for instance in his recognition that
temples mentioned in the ‘Donation’ were only built after Constantine’s death, is
unremarkable. Another form of anachronism is the failure to recognize that
25 Goldschmidt, Printed Book, 2; de Grazia, ‘Anachronism’, 24.

26 Valla, On the Donation of Constantine, ed. G. W.Bowersock (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
27 De Grazia, ‘Anachronism’, 21, 24, 25. The interpretation hereafter is taken from De Grazia’s
essay, which also provides references to those who have praised Valla for his acute awareness of
anachronism.
116 Why History?
things of the sort Z could not have happened/been said/been thought at time Y
because of different cultural or socio-economic contexts, differing linguistic
idioms, and so on. It is the alleged failure of medieval thought in this second
respect that Valla is supposed to have overcome. Now on one hand we have
already seen that medieval scriptural exegetes had earlier developed something of
that which is attributed to Valla. On the other hand, it seems that whilst Valla
clearly possessed a sense of linguistic-cultural difference in his juxtaposition of
linguistic ‘barbarisms’ and classical purity, this awareness was associated less with
matters of temporality, asynchronicity, and anachronism than with cultural issues
that still pertained in the present, however much they also obtained in the past.
Germanic ‘barbarians’ still exist and write barbarically as they did before. The
major juxtaposition is not Constantine’s fourth-century-ness and the forger’s
likely eighth-century-ness. Parenthetically, partly because some of his assump
tions about classical purity were just assumptions, Valla ended up deploying the
critical standard of probability and likelihood which was familiar to medieval
chroniclers as much as to Herodotus.28
One major historian with a great historical interest in language but less of a
concern for rhetorical self-presentation was Flavio Biondo (1392–1463), to whom
Valla may well owe some of his critical insight.29 Biondo authored the massive
Decades historiarum ab inclinatione Romanorum imperii (Decades of History from
the Deterioration of the Roman Empire). Its title and span, from the sack of Rome
in 410 up to his present in 1440, indicate Petrarchian preoccupations. Given his
suspicion of partisan eyewitness testimony, a central concern of Biondo’s was
comparing and contrasting earlier narratives and other sources, to the point
where much of his writing was more of a disquisition on evidence and the work
of other historians than a continuous narrative. (This exercise in ‘showing one’s
working’ in the final written product rather than the seminar debate would peri
odically resurface in popularity, most recently from the late twentieth century.)
Tacitus, Sallust, and Orosius all fell grist to his critical mill. Among his critical-
linguistic concerns was the impossibility of channelling the vogue for classical
Latin into an accurate account of post-classical history. Thus, whilst ‘imperator’
had once signified a supreme military commander, now, in Biondo’s day, it meant
the Holy Roman Emperor. Gary Ianziti sees this sort of attention to language as a
new historiographical feature.30 It does not delegitimate all of Ianziti’s arguments
to point in qualification to Procopius’s excursus on the different sorts of combatant
indicated across time by the common term bowmen (pp. 79–80).
The critical use of a wide range of often conflicting sources was a signal feature
of Bruni’s work as much as Biondo’s, though in this respect we should only measure
the distance of either from previous historiography in relatively fine degrees not
28 Ibid. 20–4 (quotation from 23–4. 29 Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 61–2.
30 Ibid. 64–9, 82–4.
nature.31 In Bruni’s case his critical endeavours were not purely the expression of
commitment to rigour in principle so much as a matter of casting the net widely
to substantiate new historical interpretations which had their own political con
notations. As with the twelfth- and thirteenth-century barons who shaped new
genealogical Histories, novelty was born of necessity. But a blow had still been
struck against the partly observed norm of accepting the verdicts of previous
generations of historians—this blow was the historiographical equivalent of the
earlier changes in the concept of auctoritas in scriptural exegesis. The earlier ‘con
vention’ had permitted many students of contemporary history to assume a solid
foundation upon which to construct their own edifices, which would in turn be
accepted as given. The revisionist attitude had the potential to keep everything
permanently open, as regards the past at least: the ever-moving present was a dif
ferent matter. Implicit in Bruni’s work, and more clearly in that of his follower
Matteo Palmieri and of Biondo, is the sense that the contemporary cannot be
written of in the same register as the past. Partly this is to do, as Valla noted in the
context of inscribing the deeds of his patron King Ferdinand, with the extra pres
sures involved in writing about the living and the still-influential. (Nothing new
there: see Polybius, Cassiodorus, and Henry of Huntingdon plus a long tradition
of criticism by allegory.32) But just as much, this problem arose from the fluidity
of the present and the sense that one does not have the same perspective on it as
one has on the past. For Biondo this sense was supposedly enhanced by rapid
change in the public and private spheres as well as technologies of warmaking.33
Here again, Procopius’s ‘bowmen’ are relevant to the historiographical debate.
Changed Circumstances, Contested Purposes
One development in History’s purposes from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries
onwards was the deployment of historically oriented exemplarity in the service of
a more fully fledged theory of autonomous political ethics. Bruni’s vitam et mores
et res gestas of Cicero preceded Machiavelli in separating questions of personal
31 As to ‘innovations’ in source criticism, bear in mind that the likes of Abelard had already
done some source-comparison work—p. 88. Additionally on medieval source criticism, Haskins,
Renaissance, 236; Charles C. Rozier, ‘Repairing the Loss of the Past: The Use of Written, Oral and
Physical Evidence in the Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis (c.1113−42)’, Historical Research,
92:257 (2019), 461–78.
32 Henry of Huntingdon devoted close attention to Henry I (r. 1100–35) much of it while Henry
was still on the throne. Around five years after the king’s death (c.1140), the historian wrote: ‘As usu
ally happens when a man dies, the frank opinions of the people came out.’ In his frank opinion he was
critical of the erstwhile monarch’s greed and cruelty. That opinion was radically revised later in a
substituted passage when it became apparent that the present king, Stephen, would be succeeded by
Henry’s grandson (Henry II). See Henry of Huntingdon, The History of the English People, 65, 134.
33 For all the themes of this paragraph, Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, especially 64–5, 68–9,
74–80.
118 Why History?
morality from the political morality of the man of power: thus was History as
Lesson adapted to what the sociologist Max Weber would call the ethics of
responsibility of office. Like Machiavelli later, and Polybius long before, Bruni was
aware of the potentially advantageous or disadvantageous elements of his own
political context and the advancement his work might bring: Books VII–XII of
his History of the Florentine People accordingly served to vindicate the Medici oli
garchy which had come to power by the time of their writing or publishing. This
context might help explain his attitude to the exercise of political power. Previous
mirrors of princes had prioritized secular authority, but the extent of moral lee
way here (as judged against Christian teaching) was new. Unlike Plutarch, Bruni
did not see Cicero as failing because of personal shortcomings like excessive
ambition, and unlike Petrarch he did not see Cicero as innately flawed by his
ignorance of Christ. Rather, he saw that political struggles have their own rules,
the moral parameters of which are governed by matters like state survival.34 This
vision need not entail atheism. For Bruni, who influenced Machiavelli more than
did the theorist Valla, God provided an ultimate parameter, but that parameter
was a long way in the background. The ends of politics had not necessarily
changed, but in Bruni’s theory the means had.
By Machiavelli’s time, the political context had changed again, and it was above
all this context, in particular the ‘Italian wars’, also called the ‘Habsburg–Valois
wars’, that gave his work its urgency and edge. These wars lasted on and off from
1494 to 1559 and involved most of the Italian states in changing alliances with the
others and with one or other of the great powers, France, Spain, and the Holy
Roman Empire, that invaded parts of the peninsula at various points. At a time of
gross violence and destruction in Italy, it seems rather perverse that one of the
early consequences of the French invasion was an enhanced French Italophilia,
even if this could take the form of grand theft from Italian libraries. Another
expression of Italophilia was the royal patronization of an Italian, Paolo Emilio, to
write a celebratory History of France (De rebus gestis Francorum, 1516–19) in the
best humanist style.35 While interventions and attempted interventions in Italian
internal affairs by France and the Empire were by no means unprecedented, the
‘Italian wars’ shattered the relative peace northern Italy had enjoyed for a few
decades, and threatened Bruni’s vision of Florentine ascent.
34 Gary Ianziti, ‘A Life in Politics: Leonardo Bruni’s Cicero’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 61:1
(2000) 39–58, here 50–1, 56–8. Ianziti, Writing History in Renaissance Italy: Leonardo Bruni and the
Uses of the Past (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), Part II on the Florentine Histories.
On classical and medieval views of the connection between elite ethical conduct and the wellbeing of
the state, see Briggs, The Body Broken, 94.
35 On Italomania and plunder, Grell, ‘History and Historians in France’, 386–7, 394; on the
phenomenon of Italian humanists writing national histories for foreign monarchs, Markus Völkel,
‘Rhetoren und Pioniere. Italienische Humanisten als Geschichtsschreiber der europäischen Nationen.
Eine Skizze’, in Peter Burschel, Mark Häberlein, and Volker Reinhardt (eds.), Historische Anstöße
(Berlin: Akademie, 2002), 339–62.
Political and military affairs could not be anywhere but at the centre of a
scholarly attempt to get to grips with the Italian situation, and while Machiavelli
wrote an orthodox historical work, the vernacular Florentine Histories, he is best
known today for crossing the line that divides exemplar History from political
theory grounded in historical thought. Machiavelli’s attitude to religion is a
matter of controversy. In separating political from Christian morality, or at least
Christian morality as interpreted by the church, he at once felt himself to be
describing elements of how ‘princes’ had actually behaved and encouraging
clearer thought about how they should behave. As constituted, Christian other
worldliness was unsuitable as a basis for civic virtù or political theory in a brutal
world.36 While the de facto situation had changed in the middle ages with the
growth of secular papal power, the de jure status of Christian morality remained,
creating a problematic tension. Machiavelli was actually true to a longstanding
tradition of trying to separate church and politics.37 In that sense he was also not
far from his contemporary Luther: both fancied themselves realists about worldly
politics, and, in their desire to end illusions about how government was run and
how it ought to be run—i.e. free from supervening ecclesiastical influence—both
gave secular governance the honour due to it.38 All this in turn reminds us of the
strength of the arguments that draw parallels between Machiavelli’s thought and
thought influenced by nominalism: theologically realist ‘ideas’ and conceptions of
divinely bequeathed order were replaced with rediscovered, capricious fortuna;
God-given moral rules gave way to flexible, prudential, and strategically immoral
leadership. One had to fall back on the mental synthesis of sensual experience
backed up by and systematized in historical enquiry—enquiry, that is, into the
way other humans had handled the world.39
In one sense Machiavelli’s work had the project of historical contextualization
at its core. It was predicated on the idea that the highest good, order, stemmed not
from fiat of higher authority but from the efforts of rulers in particular situations
36 Christian veneration of ‘humility, abnegation and contempt for mundane things’ were to be
contrasted with the ‘magnanimity, bodily strength’ and boldness encouraged in pre-Christian Rome.
Niccolò Machiavelli, The Discourses of Niccolò Machiavelli, vol. 1, ed. Leslie Walker (London: Routledge,
2013), II.2.6–8 (at p. 364).
37 Paul-Erik Korvela, ‘Machiavelli’s Critique of Christianity’, in Kari Palonen (ed.), Redescriptions:
Yearbook of Political Thought and Conceptual History, vol. 9 (Münster: LIT, 2005), 183–213, which also
invokes the work of Victoria Kahn on rhetoric. On new political means and old ends, Quentin Skinner
The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978),
134–5.
38 R. H. Murray, The Individual and the State (London: Hutchinson, 1946), ch. 4; Quentin Skinner,
The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 143.
39 Brian Harding, Not Even a God can Save Us Now: Reading Machiavelli after Heidegger (Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2017), ch. 3; for the nominalist connection, Michael Allan Gillespie,
The Theological Origins of Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 134–8; at the nexus
of nominalist influence and historiography, Janet Coleman, ‘Machiavelli’s Via Moderna: Medieval
and Renaissance Attitudes to History’, in Martin Coyle (ed.), Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince: New
Interdisciplinary Essays (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995), 40–65.
120 Why History?
in which their judgement as to the dictates of necessity was paramount. Yet he

expounded some of his own philosophy of statecraft in a commentary on Livy,
and in The Prince—that new mirror of princes, that ‘typology of innovators and
their relations with fortuna’—he spoke on Moses and Cyrus in the same breath as
the Renaissance states. Here is testament to his belief that beneath shifting polit
ical discourses lay historically derivable precepts of political behaviour (rather
than strict laws) which it was immoral as well as unwise to ignore, even when
obeying those precepts demanded immoral means. He was concerned that, if
superficially conducted, comparative study would reveal only difference across
time and place at the expense of important similarities and continuities. Above
all, examples must be very carefully chosen and if necessary—here the delicate
balance that had to be struck—they must be manipulated to reveal the deeper
truth.40 This was effectively a response to Aristotle’s criticism of History as
revealing only the contingent, not the necessary, but it was not the same reply
as Polybius’s rejoinder, which had been to try to make History into a science of
universal connections (pp. 36–8). In Machiavelli’s work, as with the inventiones
of religious history, the ragged edges of literal truth sense could be trimmed to
whatever topos (topic/theme) was seen to be essential. At the same time, while
princes could learn prudence from reading and imitating, with changing circum
stances such imitation must also be innovative. Here, too, there are echoes of
Aristotle on the problem of applying general moral rules to particular cases. The
topical framing of historical cases in this version of History as Lesson must pro
mote the pragmatic capacity for present-oriented reflection rather than entailing
a level of literalist contextualization that renders the examples into pointlessly
imbibed historical stories (p. 76).41
It was a difference of emphasis that set Machiavelli off from his friend, critic,
and fellow member of the ‘generation of 1500’, the lawyer-historian-statesman
Francesco Guicciardini (1483–1540). Guicciardini’s psychological approach led
him to judgement on the characters and motives of his historical objects, but
he doubted the broad applicability of Machiavelli’s assumptions. Like Aristotle,
he viewed the future as fundamentally unpredictable, whatever one’s knowledge
of the past. He was deeply concerned with the problem of contextualization
in exemplarity, and drew deflationary conclusions that also had an element of
Aristotle’s view on History: ‘governing oneself by examples is undoubtedly very
40 On Machiavelli see M. C. Lemon, Philosophy of History (London: Routledge, 2003), 96; Ernst
Cassirer, The Myth of the State (Hamburg: Meiner Verlag, 2007), 126–8; Robert Kocis, Machiavelli
Redeemed: Retrieving his Humanist Perspectives on Equality, Power and Glory (New Jersey: Associated
University Presses, 1998); Eugene Garver, ‘After Virtù: Rhetoric, Prudence and Moral Pluralism in
Machiavelli’, in Robert Hariman (ed.), Prudence: Classical Virtue, Postmodern Practice (University
Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 67–97, here 89; Grafton, What was History?, 214;
Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories, 585. For the parenthetical quote about The Prince, which is
originally from J. G. A. Pocock, see Olmstead, Rhetoric, 55.
41 Olmstead, Rhetoric, 54–5.
dangerous if similar circumstances do not correspond, not only in general but in

all particulars, and if things are not managed with similar judgement, and if, aside
from all other fundamentals, one does not have similar good fortune on one’s
side’.42 This passage is from his masterwork, written at the end of his life, the
Storia d’Italia (History of Italy, NB: Italy, not of any particular state therein), in
which Guicciardini focused on the politics and wars of the peninsula from 1490
to 1534, finding relevance in proximity and drawing together the stories of differ
ent Italian states. The governing construct ‘Italy’ builds on Biondo’s Italia Illustrata
(Italy Illustrated, 1458), but the particular temporal focus of Guicciardini’s History
constitutes a riposte to Biondo about the possibilities of contemporary History.
The ample documentation available to Guicciardini, plus his own memories
of the conflicts in question, facilitated an account in which temporal flow and the
threading of causality from event to event have been noted as pathbreaking
features. The influence of Biondo-esque source criticism marks this work, even if
by the time of the final draft successive stages of composition had smoothed away
the artisanal elements of ‘working’ into an artistic narrative.43
Here seems to be the rub for those working from Guicciardini’s principles:
if exemplarity was compromised by contextualization, wherein lay its practical
utility? Given topical thinking, we might ask whether the choice was really that
stark. With subsequent debates about the development of critical historiography
in mind we might also ask whether the exemplar versus contextualist ‘dilemma’
mapped on to the dilemma of misleading anachronism versus useless antiquar
ianism.44 Even today, when the greatest influences on the historical profession
have come down firmly on the side of particular sorts of contextualism, ‘we’ have
not as a collective disavowed the idea of the past’s relevance, and so we do not
view ourselves as ‘antiquarians’ in the pejorative sense. We merely continue to
work out different iterations of the relevance of History to the rationale ‘philoso
phy by example’—a process of adjustment that is ongoing. Of the situation a
century or so after Guicciardini, in light of further source-critical advances,
Grafton writes:
Writers and practitioners of the ars historica claimed that they knew how to
walk the tightrope that stretched between practical application and pure his
toricism. In fact, however, they could not explain even to themselves how the
42 From Guicciardini, Storia d’Italia (1537–40), cited in Mark Phillips, Francesco Guicciardini: The
Historian’s Craft (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977), 27. More generally on Guicciardiani,
Nicolai Rubinstein, ‘The “Storie fiorentine” and the “Memorie di famiglia” by Francesco Guicciardini’,
Renascimento 4 (1953), 171–225.
43 Woolf ‘From Hystories to the Historical’, 43–4; Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 67; Connell,
‘Italian Renaissance Historical Narrative’, 360.
44 For the phrasing of the latter dilemma, see the editor’s introduction to Frederick Beiser (ed.),
The Cambridge Companion to Hegel and Nineteenth Century Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge
122 Why History?
modern reader was supposed to go about both setting his texts back into their
own times, with all the skill of a philologist, and making them relevant to his
own day, with the bravura of a rhetorician.45
We should perhaps take ‘historicism’ here in the limited sense of being historically
contextualized and thus non-transferable, rather than as having the connotations of
relativism that some latter-day historicisms do. But the distinction is not always an
easy one to make, as further reflection on the concept of ‘contextualization’ shows.
An oddity of a profession whose practitioners so regularly invoke the practice
of contextualization is how rarely that practice is subject to conceptual scrutiny.46
Consider two main sorts of contextualization: functional and cultural. The prop
osition underlying functional contextualizations is ‘If I were in their situation
I would act as they do’, as for instance when one considers the extremity of human
behaviour in wartime or other situations of duress. This approach posits a basically
shared human rationality and value system. If functional contextualization con
cerns ‘people like us’ albeit in particular situations, cultural contextualization
concerns people who are ‘just different to us’ in their rationality and/or value
system. Cultural contextualization is involved when historians talk about ‘under
standing people in the context of their own time’ and it is implicit in the
description of the past as a ‘foreign country’. Thinking back to the previous chapter,
Maimonides’ theory of accommodation has more of the element of ‘cultural’
contextualization whereas Augustine’s theory is based more on a ‘functional’
contextualization in terms of its focus on political conditions (p. 89–92). But the
distinction between these two forms of contextualization is not always clear-cut
and what at first glance looks like a cultural argument may in fact be a functional
argument. Thus if one observes that different societies can have very different
birthrates one might automatically lean to a cultural interpretation, only to factor
in more functional thought when the correlation is revealed between birthrate
and poverty. Conversely, if one is exposed to new (functional) circumstances for
long enough, one becomes acculturated/socialized into/by those circumstances.
Since a certain amount of confusion still reigns about the nature of contextualiza
tion and since the above sorts are only entirely distinct in their ideal types, one
who searches for perfect clarity in contextualization now or previously is on a
45 Grafton, What was History?, 228.

46 For relatively rare historians’ forays see E. P. Thompson, ‘Anthropology and the Discipline of
Historical Context’, Midland History 1 (1972), 41–55; Peter Burke, ‘Context in Context’, Common
Knowledge 8:1 (2002), 152–77. Intellectual History has produced more explicit work on the concept of
context than other fields, with a debt to Quentin Skinner: for relevant recent references and its own
contentions on the limitations of the work, see Daniel Wickberg, ‘Conclusion: The Idea of Historical
Context and the Intellectual Historian’, in Raymond Haberski Jr and Andrew Hartman (eds.),
American Labyrinth: Intellectual History for Complicated Times (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
2018), 305–21, with references especially at n. 1 on p. 318. For an influential essay by a non-historian,
see Jacques Derrida, Margins of Philosophy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 307–30.
fool’s errand. The matter is yet further complicated when one factors in contrast
ing historical interests that produce focuses on different aspects of the past.
One especially salient contrast concerns focuses on the ‘external’ element of
action in the world as against focuses on the internal element of thought and
spirit. To explore this contrast, let us juxtapose Roman annals and medieval
chronicles with scriptural hermeneutics. The relevant distinction concerns the
emphasis on elucidating gestae (deeds), with its associations with genealogical
and exemplar History, versus the emphasis on interpreting meaning, with its
associations with History as Communion. Again, the distinction is of an ideal
nature, since the elucidation of events and the interpretation of meaning can
go together, in the sense of understanding the motive that led to a deed or the
significance that the historical actor attributed to the deed, just as one can
devote intensive hermeneutic endeavour to divining the meaning of some event
described in the scriptures. Nonetheless there can be a significant difference of
emphasis between the more ‘exterior’ and more ‘interior’ approaches and it has
ramifications for what ‘contextualization’ is taken to mean. For instance, a focus
on the visible externalities of events might serve to immortalize actors and monu
mental deeds in a way that renders irrelevant the passage of time, whereas a focus
on the internal ‘Gestalt’ of some ancient mind or church synod requires some
distancing historicization in the first place even if just as a prelude to locating
what is really relevant today after the historicization has been conducted.
Ultimately, we have four poles at the respective ends of two axes—interior
versus exterior interest, functional versus cultural contextualizations—and can
produce various permutations. Since these axes have any number of points
between the poles the number of potential permutations when we move away
from ideal forms is limitless. Any given permutation could produce a History that
was novel, but that is very often the case with combinations, and novelty in this
sense is not necessarily profound. What we may safely say is that all four ‘poles’
were present in historiographical thought for centuries before Guicciardini and
his successors, and, accordingly, the potential for all manner of different permuta
tions had also existed even if not all those permutations had been realized.
To turn the same point around, if the potential for conflict between different
interests and contextualizations pre-dated the Italian Renaissance, then the
ability to reconcile or at least ameliorate such conflict was also present, and
continued to be so. In the period covered by this chapter, whether or not the
choice between emphasizing contextualization or exemplarity was really a choice
between assumed opposites, exemplarity did remain one of the major rationales
for historical scholarship.47 And as we shall now see, Polybius’s cyclical doctrine
47 For the opposition, Grafton, What was History?, 228 and Ianziti, ‘Humanism’s New Science’, 60,
though there Ianziti also stresses the general reaffirmation at the time, contra Guicciardini, of the
‘paradigmatic nature of past experience’ and thus the idea that historia magistra vitae. On the latter,
124 Why History?
of History, anacyclosis (p. 36), and its close relation, the stoic concept of similitudo
temporum, which was associated with Tacitus, provided one way among others to
square exemplarity with at least some sorts of contextualism.
The Return of Similitudo Temporum
Without naming Polybius, more and more of whose work had become available
in translation since its rediscovery at the start of the fifteenth century, Machiavelli’s
work reveals the influence of the anacyclosis concept, while Book I, chapter 2 of
the Discourses on Livy draws extensively on Polybius’s sixth book. Machiavelli was
less interested in tracing historical cycles than in apprehending Polybius’s lesson
in how human actors might intervene to influence the cycle—as in Polybius’s
example of the creation of the mixed Roman constitution.48 Similitudo temporum
was explored by Bodin, the Flemish jurist and historian François Baudouin
(1520–73), and other influential contemporaries in the sixteenth century. The
concept helped move the focus away from individuals, whether in the classical
and medieval garb of res gestae or the late medieval and early humanist clothing
of biography and ‘life-writing’, and towards other times as a whole, especially cri
sis moments.49 With the rebirth of similitudo temporum, as it were, one could
acknowledge historical periodization and past–present contextual difference in
principle while, in practice, also availing oneself of those select bits of the past
that were deemed relevant to the present. Alternatively, as with the later Lutheran
theologian Georg Calixtus (1586–1656), one could use the birth of Christ as a
mirror point, with each numbered century working back from him finding some
reflection in the events of the corresponding century working forward.50 By the
lights of similitudo temporum Tacitus could be appropriated as an effective con
temporary, as in a number of seventeenth-century images that depict him as an
early modern scholar.51 It was indeed Tacitus, whose Annals and Histories were
brought to Florence in the 1390s and became increasingly widely known from the
1420s, who became the greatest classical beneficiary of the classical theory,
though uses of him were often intertwined with uses of Polybius.
Rüdiger Landfester, Historia magistra vitae: Untersuchungen zur humanistischen Geschichtstheorie des
14. bis. 16. Jahrhunderts (Geneva: Droz, 1972).
48 Brian C. McGing, Polybius’ Histories (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 212–15.

49 On life-writing, Ianziti, ‘A Life in Politics’, 39.
50 Christian Thorsten Callisen, ‘Scientia temporum & rerum: History or Antiquarianism? The
Collection of Examples in Georg Calixtus’ De studio historiarum oratio (1629)’, in Historiography
and Antiquarianism, 12–14 August 2011. Available online at https://eprints.qut.edu.au/45909/1/
Callisen%2C_Scientia_temporum_et_rerum.pdf
51 Saúl Martínez Bermejo, Translating Tacitus: The Reception of Tacitus’s Works in the Vernacular
Languages of Europe, 16th–17th Centuries (Pisa: Edizioni Plus, 2010), 92 ff. on images and rhetoric.
Montaigne was taken with Tacitus’s psychological approach, dubbing his work
‘a seminary of moral, and a magazine of politique discourses for the provision
and ornament of those that possess some place in the managing of the world’,
whilst Francis Bacon borrowed from his style as well as his History.52 Tacitus fell
into that select category of historians whom Montaigne felt had ‘a right to assume
the authority for moulding our beliefs on theirs’, who could infer the motives of
princes from their ‘characters and humours’, and who ‘put appropriate words into
their mouths’. (In Montaigne’s view those lesser historians who were aware of
their own limitations stuck to the compilation of facts, while the commonest sort
of historian made judgements but with insufficient wisdom to justify their pre
sumption to judge.)53 The catastrophic conflict scarring the mostly Protestant
Netherlands—the Dutch Revolt from 1568 to 1648 against Spain under the
Habsburg Philip II—provided the classicist Justus Lipsius with the justification of
historical analogy to publish a major edition of Tacitus’s work in 1574. The doc
trine of similitudo temporum led Lipsius to compare the prevailing political
context to that of imperial Rome, hence his view of Tacitus as velut theatrum
hodiernae vitae, ‘in sum, a theatrical representation of life today’.54 Polybius pro
vided substantive advice to go with the historical analogy. Book 6 of his Histories
was not just applicable to Machiavelli’s preoccupations with governance, but
owing to its detail on the Roman military, prompted Lipsius to write the Five
Books on the Roman Army. A Commentary on Polybius (1595) that shaped the
military reforms of William of Nassau who went on to end Spanish hegemony in
the Netherlands.55 Christopher Watson’s English translation of Polybius in 1568
picked out the Greek historian’s ‘holsome counsels and wonderful devices against
the inconstances of fickle Fortune’.56
As with any instance of History by analogy, all manner of opportunities pre
sented themselves to the skilled rhetorician, and if the truth be known, Lipsius
sometimes forewent the principle of careful comparison between periods in the
interests of self-serving example-grabbing.57 His Tacitus was dedicated to the
Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian II and he had taught Maurice, Prince of
Orange, whereas two centuries later Orangists were denouncing the use of
52 Montaigne cited in J. H. M. Salmon, ‘Stoicism and Roman Example: Seneca and Tacitus in
Jacobean England’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 50:2 (1989), 199–225, here 210; on Bacon, Francis
Bacon, Essays (London: JM Dent and Sons, 1972), pp. xvii–xviii.
53 Michel de Montaigne, Essays, ed. J. M. Cohen (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976),169–70.
54 Daniel Simhon, ‘Similitudo Temporum: Agrippine et Medea, Marie et Médéé’, in
Richard G. Hodgson (ed.), La Femme au XVIIe siècle (Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 2002), 97–114, here 114
for the quote and 97 and passim for Lipsius’s general significance.
55 McGing, Polybius’ Histories, 215. 56 Polybius, The Rise, introduction, 19.
57 On this variation, see Harro Höpfl, ‘History and Exemplarity in the Work of Lipsius’, in Erik De
Bom, Marijke Janssens, Toon Van Houdt and Jan Papy (eds.), (Un)masking the Realities of Power:
Justus Lipsius and the Dynamics of Political Writing in Early Modern Europe (Leiden: Brill, 2010),
43–73, here 70–1; Bermejo, Translating Tacitus, 92 ff.
126 Why History?
similitudo temporum by Republicans seeking historical legitimation for their

cause.58 Jesuits like Famiano Strada saw Tacitus as subversive: in Strada’s opinion
the historian was a witness and as such should provide testimony (testimonium)
not judgement (iudicium). If Strada’s fears would be confirmed by Tactitus’s
popularity among Puritans, and then Parisian and Bostonian republicans, there
was also an alternative Tacitus, ‘black’ rather than ‘red’. This duality befits a man
who wrote so ambiguously on Nero’s persecution of Christians and was selective
in which emperors he criticized. Unlike the revolutionary red Tacitus the black
Tacitus could be seen as offering some succour to tyrants.59
No clear dividing line separated genealogical from exemplary uses of the past.
Either, or both together, could serve political purposes: the special power of simil-
itudo temporum was that as well as making the past relevant by analogy it could
provide a secularized version of figural reading, linking the generally classical
past to a self-consciously post-medieval present. The act of ‘contextualization’
could actually help in making such connections. At the same time, even when
contextualization manifestly indicated disconnection, the idea of the irrelevance
of the salient past did not necessarily follow. A case in point is a sixteenth-century
French historiography noted for its sensitivity to differing historical contexts,
which emerged from a young tradition of legal exegesis known as the mos galli-
cus, or ‘French way’, as opposed to the Italian way, the mos italicus. The ‘national’
orientation of these schools of thought is itself important and allows us to work
in the next section from the issue of legal-historical interpretation to the more
general patterns and preoccupations of French humanist historianship.
Sixteenth-Century French Historiography
Florentine humanist philology was a central influence on the practitioners of the

mos gallicus, so it is ironic that the French way should end up being contrasted
with the Italian. The mos italicus had connotations of medieval scholasticism, and
was specifically associated with the University of Bologna, which had been the
centre of Roman law exegesis since its founding shortly after the rediscovery of
Justinian’s Digest in 1070. A common but misleading characterization of the
Italian tradition has led to the conclusion that: ‘throughout the Middle Ages the
Code of Justinian . . . was regarded as the quintessence of human law, applicable in
virtually every situation’.60 In such readings the Code was the basis of a concep
tion of law as a ‘timeless philosophy’: apparently ‘the medieval approach to
58 On the eighteenth century Dutch debates, Wyger R. E. Velema, Republicans: Essays on Eighteenth
Century Dutch Political Thought (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 69–70; Bermejo, Translating Tacitus, 92 ff.
59 Tutino, Shadows of Doubt, 62; Ronald Mellor, Tacitus (New York: Routledge, 1994), 145;
Momigliano, Classical Foundations, 117.
60 Zoe Lowery, Historiography (New York: Britannica Educational Publishing, 2016), 34–5.
Roman law was, like so much else, completely ahistorical, with no awareness of
the many differences between Roman and medieval society’.61 In correcting such
views one first needs to recall the historical endeavour that had already gone into
harmonizing legal-moral thought in the twelfth century (p. 90), prior to the pro
duction in the early thirteenth century of the collection of legal interpretations
( glossae) known as the Glossa ordinaria. But much more needs to be said by way
of nuance and partial rebuttal.
An important context is that Roman law of any sort was only thought to
endure with force of law in parts of Italy and southern France; beyond those
areas it could only ever exercise influence on the legal systems that were in place
prior to the rediscovery of the Digest, and thus always existed in tension with
other precepts, whatever the desire for jurisprudential harmony. This tension
helps explain the evolution of the ‘post-glossators’, pre-eminently Bartolus de
Sassoferrato (1313–57), who certainly did not treat ‘Roman law as an internally
consistent body of universal law, to be freely interpreted for application to the
modern world’. (Note that the label mos italicus applies to both the glossators and
the post-glossators in whose ranks Bartolus figured.) Bartolus opened the door
to compromises with customary legal systems in a way that actually made some
version of ‘applied’—as opposed to ‘pure’—Roman law quite attractive to codifiers
of customary law, ensuring that it retained wide influence for a long time to
come, even in Britain which had no ‘continental’ civil law tradition. Roman law
would also influence the Code Napoleon of 1804, which standardized the legal
system in France and is not generally thought of as an instance of medieval
anachronism.62
Furthermore, to contrast the post-glossators or their predecessors with a point
edly named ‘historical school’ of jurisprudence63 obscures the fact that some
of the thinkers generally placed in the historical school by no means jettisoned
all Bartolist precepts. The man sometimes identified as the pioneer of the anti-
Bartolist historical study of the law in France, Guillaume Budé (1468–1540),
seems on closer inspection not to fit that picture either.64
61 Stephen Davies, Empiricism and History (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 15.
62 The ‘universal law’ quote from Schiffman, On the Threshold, 19, as contrasted with
Daniel R. Coquillette, The Civilian Writers of Doctors’ Commons, London (Berlin: Duncker and
Humblot, 1988), 42–3; Walter Ullmann, The Medieval Idea of Law as Represented by Lucas de Penna
(Routledge, 2010), ch. 1 and the introduction by H. D. Hazeltine; Michèle Ducos, ‘Legal Science in
France in the 16–17th Centuries’, in Gerald N. Sandy (ed.), The Classical Heritage in France (Leiden:
Brill, 2002), 297–314, here 312.
63 As for instance Schiffman, On the Threshold, 18; Davies, Empiricism and History, 16.
64 See generally the discussion in Ducos, ‘Legal Science in France’; Ullmann, The Medieval Idea of
Law, pp. xxvii–xxix; J. G. A. Pocock, The Ancient Constitution and the Feudal Law (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1987), 23–5, on Jean Bodin and ‘neo-Bartolism’. On Budé,
Douglas J. Osler, ‘Budaeus and Roman Law’, Ius commune: Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts
für Europäische Rechtsgeschichte, vol. XIII, ed. Dieter Simon and Walter Wilhelm (Frankfurt am Main:
Klostermann, 1985), 195–212.
128 Why History?
Finally, some of those who did set their faces against Bartolus were effectively
just claiming to do the same thing better. Take Andrea Alciato (1492–1550), an
Italian lawyer who spent much of his career teaching in France and helped intro
duce the new humanist-critical style that came to characterize the mos gallicus.
For Alciato, the purpose of the philological exercise was to clear away latter-day
accretions from the Roman law in order to access the purified original, rather
than engaging extensively with glosses that merely confused the issue further. He
was just as presentist as the scholastic hermeneuts in the quest for relevance,
merely disagreeing about what it was that needed to be rendered relevant.65
The most extensive historicization of law—here meaning the contextualization
of legal doctrines according to the different historical junctures at which they
were established—was triggered almost by accident, and its fullest ramifications
were not widely accepted. The critical skills wielded by Budé and Alciato, who
were themselves indebted to Valla’s and Poliziano’s philology, were passed down
to the next generation, including Bodin and Baudouin, but for such scholars the
intellectual implications of the analysis were negative as much as positive, for
reasons that ought now to be familiar: if the Digest was a product of its times,
which were far removed, what interest did it have for anyone other than the anti
quarian? Some legal theorists like Jacques Cujas (1522–90) may have been pre
pared to accept the basic irrelevance of Roman law, but that was not the prevailing
view, and since some Roman law continued to hold influence in parts of France
the matter could not be ignored. There was a more general principle at stake
about the relationship between past and present. Ostensibly the most fervent his
toricizer of Cujas’s and Baudouin’s generation of mos gallicus students, François
Hotman (1524–90), wrote at length in his Anti-Tribonian (1567)66 about the
unreliability of the Justinian Code as a guide even to anything ancient, as well as
denying its transferability to the present. Yet he concluded the work commending
something like Plato’s project in his third book of the Laws (p. 33) in much the
same way as Bodin had done very recently in the Methodus: putting aside specific
regulations, Hotman felt one ought to study Roman and other law codes in the
search for general underlying principles ‘founded on a natural justice, reason, and
equity’.67 Here, ‘contextualization’ meant contextualizing in order to arrive at a
point beyond contextualization.
Baudouin’s Institutio historiae universae (On the Institution of Universal History
and its Conjunction with Jurisprudence, 1561) also sought to understand the past
65 Ducos, ‘Legal Science in France’, 300–1.

66 Tribonian (c.485–542 ce) had overseen the production of the Digest for Justinian. The process of
selection from and harmonization of earlier texts was seen by Hotman and others as one of the major
causes of confusion in latter-day legal exegesis.
67 Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 11–14. The quote is from Schiffman, On the Threshold, 21,
though Schiffman’s interpretation of Hotman is different to Pocock’s. For Bodin’s view, Bodin, Method,
2–8.
on its own terms and as fully as possible in order to establish what principles from
the past still obtained in the present, and what was historically variable. Baudouin
viewed the marriage of history and jurisprudence as the way to provide lessons
for the running of a state. He therefore endorsed the ‘classical’ notion of ‘pragmatic’
history as ‘the form of history that exerts itself to explain and wisely and usefully
demonstrates what it narrates, so that it describes not only events, but their
causes, and gives events with their counsels’.68 His work was more a guide to the
researching of History than the writing of it as he weighed and distinguished
between primary and secondary sources, examining eyewitness evidence and
other historical scholarship. The conjunction of his opus and Bodin’s Methodus
only five years later underlines the continuing advances in the ars historica.
Bodin advocated a vastly ambitious study of human affairs, including geo
graphical, climatic, and even cosmological influences, down to social and govern
mental arrangements, and how they changed over time. In his quest for causes
and deep principles and patterns, which suggests the influence of Polybius’s
theory of cycles, he was influential, though not original, in rejecting the ‘four
monarchies’ theory of translatio imperii (p. 53). His prescriptions for the content
of historical enquiry presupposed the capacity critically to appraise the historian
ship upon which one was reliant in all of these wide-ranging investigations.
He emphasized some critical historiographical principles, including the process
of comparing and contrasting existing works of History, and reflecting on the
subject-position of authors.
Universalistic and particularistic elements both appeared in Bodin’s work as
much as they did in Italian humanism, and while they sometimes jostled they
could also complement each other. The element of cultural nationalism in the
Methodus marks Bodin as a ‘man of his times’, times which included not just the
wars of religion of 1562–98 but also the spread of Lutheranism and Calvinism
into France from 1520 that supplied much of the tinder—the ‘French Reformation’
is said to have begun in 1534. A more specific context was the atmosphere after
France’s decisive defeat by the Habsburgs in the Italian Wars at Pavia in 1525.
Hispanophobia waxed; Italophilia waned. Rabelais might still try to distance him
self from ‘the Goths, who had dealt all literature a death blow’, but the equally
humanist Etienne Pasquier (1529–1615) was stung by Italian scorn for the ‘bar
barian’ French into trying to raise the cultural level of French vernacular letters.69
Legislation about the official use of French evinced a determination to replace
Latin as a language of culture, and the distancing of Roman law paved the way for
68 Grafton, What Was History?, 70–2; Jacques Bos, ‘Nineteenth-Century Historicism and its
Predecessors: Historical Experience, Historical Ontology and Historical Method’, in R. Bod, J. Maat,
and T. Weststeijn (eds.), The Making of the Humanities, vol. 2 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University
Press, 2012), 131–47, here 136.
69 On Rabelais see Schabert, ‘Modernity and History I’, 10. On Pasquier, Schiffman, On the
Threshold, 39.
130 Why History?
a stress on the relevance of French customary law, which fed into a growing
interest in the particularity of French customs and culture tout court.70
A new myth of national origins replaced that one associated with classicism. Its
first point of reference was ancient Gaul, with Julius Caesar’s Commentaries on the
Gallic Wars being a prime source of both History and inspiration. Gallic culture,
portrayed as enduring under Roman rule, providing a supposedly unbroken if
sometimes subterranean line to the French present.71 The link is explicit in the
title of Hotman’s 1574 book Franco-Gallia. Pasquier’s Recherches de la France
(1560) began not, as per medieval convention, with mythic diasporic Trojans, but
with Gauls.72 There are elements of prefiguration in the story, as in so many
genealogical accounts where links are made across large tracts of time, but the
story was ethno-national rather than religious in content, which may explain
why moderate Huguenots like Hotman and self-styled independent minds like
Pasquier were prominent in propounding it.73 Where confession divided, custom
might unite. The characteristics of custom, as in customary law, also made it more
relevant to historians shaped by the precepts of the mos gallicus, who might
otherwise historicize the deeper past into oblivion. Indeed while the mos gallicus
denoted a particular French school of thinking about law, we can associate it with
a wider set of customary concerns that included but were not limited to law.
Custom, as studied in Pasquier’s pathbreaking collection of essays in the his
torical ethnography of his own country, complicates any sharp ‘othering’ of the
past. The logic went that, unlike written law, which can be pinned to specific
meanings of time and place, customary law develops with the society bearing the
custom. As almost a living, evolving force in Hotman’s depiction, custom creates
a conduit from past and present, discarding what is no longer needed, preserving
that which is necessary: what exists, what remains, has proved its worth.74 In the
narrower terms of the development of historiography, a concern with custom was
married to a concern with causation. It was no longer enough just to establish a
lineage from deep past to present. Now one had also to explain how state of affairs
A developed into state of affairs B and so on down to the present.
This building-block method of linking past to present, with a focus on culture
and institutional structures rather than ‘accidental’ events, is well exemplified in
70 Ducos, ‘Legal Science in France’; Peter Stein, Roman Law in European History (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2012), 77–9; Schiffman, On the Threshold, 19, 39.
71 Claude-Gilbert Dubois, Celtes et Gaulois au XVIe siècle: Le développement littéraire d’un mythe
nationaliste (Paris: Vrin, 1972).
72 Étienne Pasquier, Les Recherches de la France d’Estienne Pasquier (Paris: Pierre Menard 1643),
3 ff. On the Trojan question, 37.
73 On some of the contrivances of Pasquier’s image, Catherine Magnien-Simonin, ‘Étienne
Pasquier (1529–1615) ou la dissidence discrète’, Les Dossiers du Grihl (online) (January 2013): http://
journals.openedition.org/dossiersgrihl/5748
74 Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 15.
the work of the Huguenot Lancelot Voisin de la Popelinière (1541–1608).75 His

preoccupation with origins as a first cause matches that of Bruni on the founding
of Florence, as if the Urpunkt were a seed that contained and constrained all the
possibilities of a culture or polis as it developed over time. ‘Origin’ and ‘cause’
become synonyms in some usages, and that was effectively the case here. The self-
imposed demands of La Popelinière’s historical coverage forced a break with the
literary conventions of humanistic scholarship, even as he contrasted his causal
explanation most starkly with chronicles. Whatever the scale of his literary talent,
there is principle in the way he, like Pasquier, subordinated style to substance,
suasion to substantiation. Narrative flow was almost inevitably hindered by the
quotation of original documents, sometimes in their entirety, and the production
of references in support of claims, as well as an expanding, perhaps undiscerning
concern for detail.
In the spirit of nigh infinite expansion and regress, La Popelinière also penned
a manifesto for a History that contemplated all peoples and times. In the historio
graphical volume Histoire des Histoires (1599) he defined History as ‘the narrative
of times, preserved in the memory of all things and a true collection of everything
that pertains to every form of state: and particularly a narrative of everything that
relates to all human orders and conditions’. As such History ought to ‘compre
hend the diverse nature, habits, customs and ways of doing of the people about
whom she talks. Specifically the origin, progress, changes and all other notable
occurrences that happened to them.’76 This agenda feels like a natural extension of
the interest in the deep History of one unique people, but it also chimes with the
hermetic–Neoplatonic tradition whose cosmopolitanism coloured humanist
thought and leavened its more culturally particularist aspects.
Quite how or how far hermeticism and Christian Neoplatonism shaped any
given thinker is not always easy to establish, given that, like so many intellectual
influences, each could be inchoate and incomplete. The ‘cult of ancient wisdoms’
and the idea of prisca theologia are given a Gallic twist in one historical work
that appeared near the heyday of the ‘new History’: the 1570s. Guy Lefèvre de la
Boderie’s epic poem La Galliade ou la Révolution des Arts et Sciences has as its
hero the fictitious ancient Gomer Gaulois, who provides a link between Noah and
the subjects of the first book of Pasquier’s Recherches, namely the ancient Gauls
and their priestly druidic class. The poem details the passage of the wisdom ori
ginating in early teaching through a range of civilizations, Egyptian, Hebrew,
Greek, and Roman, back to its point of departure in now-contemporary France.77
75 See Schiffman’s On the Threshold, 31–3 and passim, for most of the analysis in this paragraph.
76 La Popelinière, L’Histoire des histories: L’Idée de l’histoire accomplie, cited in Costas Gaganakis,
‘Thinking About History in the European Sixteenth Century: La Popelinière and his Quest for “Perfect
History” ’, Historein, 10 (2010), 20–7, here 23.
77 On La Boderie and the hermetic and Neoplatonic connection, including the popularity of such
thinking in particular French intellectual circles, Frances A. Yates, Ideas and Ideals in the North
132 Why History?
The association of Gomer with Noah shows a link to the monotheisms that is also
posited by the Egyptian ‘Hermes’’ alleged contemporaneity with Abraham and
by Plato’s supposed knowledge of Jewish scripture.
Bodin’s Methodus combines French boosterism and respect for Jewish
antiquity. Bodin was also taken with druidic wisdom, but where La Boderie saw a
divine light being passed from discrete civilization to discrete civilization, and
where La Popelinière advocated a culture-by-culture accounting, Bodin, like
Gerald of Wales before him, stressed the interaction of civilizations as they learn
from and mingle with each other. Jewish primacy comes from Bodin’s conviction
that only Jews ‘can boast about the antiquity of their origin and the great age
of their race’.78 Elements of advance through interaction/exchange and of prisca
theologia-type belief in the inner truth of different (but still broadly occidental)
traditions are both present in Bodin’s Colloquium of the Seven About Secrets of the
Sublime, manuscripts of which were circulated after its completion in 1588. In the
vein of Cusanus’s On the Peace of Faith in the previous century, Bodin’s convers
ing seven are: a Catholic, a Lutheran, a Calvinist, a Jew, a Muslim, a sceptic, and a
philosophical naturalist.79
Modern Contextualization?
In modern scholarship on sixteenth-century French historical thought it has

tended to be the more apparently forward-leaning or emergent aspects that have
taken centre-stage at the expense of the ostensibly more esoteric Neoplatonic and
hermetic components.80 This is often the case given the search for the origins of
the modern in historiography, as in other fields, and is not intrinsically problem
atic (anachronistic), since all historians have perforce to pursue some particular
interest. As in all other areas, the conclusions from such investigations need to be
assessed on their own merits. Now the overall combination of elements culminat
ing in the work of Pasquier and La Popelinière does indeed deserve the epithet
‘new’ applied to it by the latter at the close of the sixteenth century, but we have
already posited that combinations are frequently novel. Latter-day historians as
acute as J. G. A. Pocock and Zachary Schiffman have, however, each singled out
one particular element as new in a significant way.
In Pocock’s words the novel element comprises ‘reconstructing the institutions
of society in the past and using them as a context in which, and by means of
European Renaissance (London: Routledge, 1999), 117–18, quote on ‘cult of ancient wisdoms’ from
117. See also Henry Hornik, ‘Guy Lefèvre de La Boderie’s La Galliade and Renaissance Syncretism’,
Modern Language Notes, 76:8 (1961), 735–42.
78 Bodin, Method, ch. 9, quote from p. 362. 79 Bodin, Colloquium.

80 As noted by Yates, Ideas and Ideals, 117–18.
which, to interpret the actions, words and thoughts of the men who lived at that
time’; ‘postulating that there existed, in the past of their own civilization, tracts of
time in which the thoughts and actions of men had been so remote in character
from those of the present as to be intelligible only if the entire world in which
they had occurred were resurrected, described in detail and used to interpret
them’.81 Certainly, the degree to which the contexualizing approach was then
practised does appear to be different to anything previous. But however extensive
contextualizing History was in the sixteenth century, or is now, it could not meet
Pocock’s exacting standard whereby an ‘entire world’ is reproduced in order to
shed light on meanings and deeds. Who is to decide if enough relevant settings
from the past have been described and whether they have been described in suf
ficient ‘detail’, especially since before this level of contextualization was applied
historians did not unreasonably think themselves capable of rendering certain
actions and deeds ‘intelligible’? A standard of proper History is being invoked by
Pocock, but in the absence of a total contextualization, which might be a descrip
tion that never stopped, there will always be arguments about which aspects of
which contexts ought to be emphasized. It is manifestly not the case that no pre-
sixteenth-century History took a concern to contextualize anything at all since
some act of contextualization is inextricable from the act of explanation and thus
an account of causation. In fact there is no difference between a context and a
cause; they are names we pragmatically give to different parts of an explanation.
Saying that Jill kissed Jane out of love is to say that love belongs to the causal
explanation of Jill’s kiss, but we might just as well call love a context for the kiss.
As soon as a historian offers any causal (part) explanation for anything she is
providing a (part) contextualization.
Schiffman’s concern to identify what is ‘modern’ is more philosophical than
methodological. He talks of a culturally relativistic outlook amongst the ‘new his
torians’ of the sixteenth century who were informed by the mos gallicus. More
precisely he sees them as having ‘the experience of relativism’ without going the
whole hog and embracing the ‘doctrine of relativism’. In fact he portrays a retreat
from the implications of relativism on the part of the historians concerned, with
out making clear whether this was a conscious or unconscious reaction. For all
the brilliance of his textual exegesis, he provides little evidence for the claim that
it was just too much for the sixteenth-century historians to follow through with
the relativistic implications of their findings. His reasoning is hamstrung from the
outset in that he never defines relativism in a precise fashion. It is difficult to see
what is meant by the ‘experience of relativism’ as separate from the ‘doctrine’ of it,
since relativism is nothing if not a doctrine. Schiffman describes the experience
of relativism as ‘an awareness of the human world as being filled with unique
81 Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 1.

134 Why History?
historical entities, such as laws, institutions, and states’, but such an awareness has
no logical consequences for relativistic doctrine-building from which a retreat
had perforce to be beaten if the consequences were too much to bear. To think
otherwise is to elide ‘is’ and ‘ought’: awareness of uniqueness might provide the
grist for relativism but it might also provide the grist for scepticism about values
or a neutralist withholding of any value considerations or an attempt to prove one
set of unique institutions superior to another.82 Indeed it would require some
extensive argument to reconcile La Popelinière’s position with relativism. He has
a distinctly ‘progressivist’ view, stating that his present civilization ought to be
‘superior in all things’ to earlier versions partly because of its own historical
knowledge. Furthermore, one rationale for his studying the indigenous peoples of
the Americas is that they are on the same ‘primitive’ level as ancient civilizations.83
The wider importance of the point is that Schiffman sees a later, more complete
embrace of relativism as being the moment when historical thought became fully
modern. To borrow from the title of his first book, On the Threshold of Modernity,
the sixteenth-century historians refused to cross the threshold. The title of his
second book, The Birth of the Past, purports to show how scholars of the seven
teenth and eighteenth centuries took this decisive step. Now it is true that strands
of relativism—here meaning moral–cultural relativism—have been important in
shaping important historiographical norms in recent centuries, much more so than
the epistemological relativism that has been much discussed in recent decades.
Here Schiffman displays more self-awareness than many practising historians of
recent generations, who if they ever discuss the matter may distance themselves
from relativism even while tacitly endorsing it in the name of a certain interpretation
of ‘historicization’. But other influences have also shaped modern historiographical
norms, such as the pressure for neutrality or impartiality (see Chapter 6), and
these tendencies are not the same as relativism even if sometimes they appear to
promote a similar outlook. In his imprecision about the conditions and meaning
of relativism Schiffman actually epitomizes a disciplinary confusion that still
reigns about how we do, and should, orientate ourselves towards the pasts on
which we write (see Chapter 8).
Montaigne
‘Relativist’ is not the correct epithet for Michel de Montaigne (1533–92), who is
far better known than the new historians of the sixteenth century and just as con
cerned with human diversity. The major classical influence on his moral thought
82 Schiffman, On the Threshold, p. xii.

83 Brian Brazeau, Writing a New France, 1604–1632: Empire and Early Modern French Identity
(London: Routledge, 2016), 78–9.
was scepticism: Sextus Empiricus’s concerns were at least as much about ethical
convictions as knowledge. The doctrines of scepticism and relativism are actually
not good bedfellows, since relativism is one of those strong conclusions that the
sceptic is chary of endorsing, or at least endorsing strongly. It is scepticism that
underpinned Montaigne’s anti-dogmatism. While recognizing the strong attach
ment to belief that acculturation brings, he professed uncertainty about any
specific belief-system. To explain his stance, we might look to the context of
burgeoning religious strife and also his stint as Mayor of Bordeaux, holding the
city for Henri III, France’s most sexually controversial monarch, who could not
but have benefited from Montaigne’s elaboration of varying sexual mores from
around the world. Looking backwards in time, Montaigne approved of Ammianus
Marcellinus as a ‘pagan’, classicizing historian who was nonetheless fair to
Christians and critical of the religious policies of the emperor Julian. Looking out
to the wider world Montaigne’s argument for religious toleration went hand-in-
hand with reflections such as his essai ‘On Cannibals’.
On the whole, Montaigne seems to have viewed the differences between
peoples as being superficial rather than deep, and thus at some level reconcilable.
He also tacitly subscribed to some moral absolutes, and, alongside proposing
arguments that appealed to ‘nature’, he believed in a superior rationality. His
admiration of the martial courage of indigenous south American peoples was less
an instance of taking them on their own terms than finding commonality with
the Greek culture that he so admired. He identified with the ‘cannibals’’ viewpoints
when that helped in rendering self-criticism of French and European society. At
the same time, in ‘On Cannibals’ the opposed categories of ‘barbarian’/‘savage’ are
revealed to be a matter of perspective rather than objective judgement. ‘Savages’’
mechanisms of leadership selection might compare favourably with allowing
children to accede on the basis of heredity alone, while European inequalities
exceeded anything that the old inhabitants of the ‘new world’ had to offer. It was
not obviously worse to eat other men than to eat one’s own god by way of com
munion; in any case, eating the bodies of the dead was better than torturing the
bodies of the living. Overall, self-reflection is Montaigne’s point—self-reflection
as an ethos, making an enemy of dogmatism and blind assumptions of superior
ity or rectitude in light of agonizing schisms in his own civilization. The reversal
of the gaze at the end of ‘On Cannibals’, where French society is seen through the
eyes of indigenous Americans, indicates the capacity to estrange one’s own ‘mores’,
to see them from the perspective of an outsider to them.84
84 Montaigne, Essays, 113, 114, 118–19, 184; Edwin M. Curley, ‘Skepticism and Toleration: The
Case of Montaigne’, Oxford Studies in Early Modern Philosophy, 2 (2005), 1–33; Ann Hartle,
‘Montaigne’s Accidental Moral Philosophy’, Philosophy and Literature 24:1 (2000), 138–53; Katherine
Crawford, The Sexual Culture of the French Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2010), pp. ix–xii. Finally, thanks to Felicity Green for her thoughts on these matters.
136 Why History?
Church, State, and Historianship: A Comparative Perspective
Some of Montaigne’s overtly political pronouncements led him to be associated

with the ‘politiques’.85 Badouin and Bodin were also politiques, which was the
name given to a loose grouping largely comprising moderate Catholics and
Huguenots (like Hotman) who sought the unity of the state as a means to reli
gious coexistence. Membership of the tendency did not determine one’s specific
prescription for peaceful order. In the face of the fragmentation of French polit
ical power during the wars of religion, Bodin came to advocate something like
absolutism, based in part on his reading of the black Tacitus; a ruler placed above
the fray would alone have the power to end it. An alternative model was provided
by the historians of customary law for reasons already given: while Roman law
emphasized the ultimate decision of the sovereign lawgiver, customary law was
not based on any sovereign decision. It was, perforce, an inherited constraint on
the prerogatives of any leader. Its premises dovetailed with the Calvinist belief
in the limits of royal authority, a conviction shared by contemporary Scottish
Presbyterians. The case was given great force amongst Calvinists in France by
the implication of King Charles IX in the St Bartholomew’s Day massacres of
Huguenots in 1572, in the aftermath of which Hotman’s Franco-Gallia was
published. But customary law principles had a wider appeal, including to nobles
seeking to preserve their prerogatives in the face of royal centralization. Their
failure and the success of the absolutist agenda from the end of the century
correlated with the decline of France’s ‘new history’, which meant a move back
from the history of culture and society to that of the crown.86 Parenthetically,
Huguenots did gain some rights and peace under nascent absolutism, at least for
a few generations, under the terms of the Edict of Nantes (1598).
The Reformation caused somewhat fewer ructions in church and state in
sixteenth-century England than in contemporary France or Scotland because
royal authority was not really challenged over either institution. Historiography
mirrored the situation. When English historians from the mid-sixteenth century
addressed religious questions, as most famously in John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments
(1563), they sought on the whole to buttress the lineage of the independent
English church under the monarch. In this vein Elizabeth I (r. 1558–1603) cast
herself, rather than Sylvester (Pope 314–35 ce), as a direct successor to the
‘champion’ of Christianity, Constantine, who had been proclaimed emperor
at York in 306. Thereby the English church was heir to a purer early church.
85 Philippe Desan (ed.), Montaigne politique (Paris: Honoré Champion Éditeur, 2006), contains
essays exploring all sides of the issue, including the central question of the tension between
Montaigne’s public role and his role as a private intellectual.
86 This explanation for the decline of the ‘new history’ is broadly George Huppert’s in The Idea
of Perfect History: Historical Erudition and Historical Philosophy in Renaissance France (Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 1970).
A similar propagandistic function was served by ‘King Lucius’, a fictitious

monarch of the first or second century who had been brought to Christianity by
Pope Eleutherius of that selfsame primitive, uncorrupted ecclesia. Such lineages
had become more useful than the myths of Trojan ancestry propagated by
Geoffrey of Monmouth et al.87 So, like the ‘new’ French historiography of about
the same time, we have a revision of deep historical antecedents, in both cases
away from Trojans, but whereas the French alternative, the Gauls, bespeaks a
more demotic interest in culture, the English alternative, early monarchs, indi
cates dynastic and institutional concerns, underlining the more extensive political
centralism already achieved in England.
Only in the seventeenth century, after Charles I’s absolutist aspirations threat
ened the economic prerogatives of the landed class while his religious stance
antagonized puritans, do we see an English version of the ‘new’ French historians’
interest in custom in earlier societies. A concern with supposed Anglo-Saxon
arrangements prior to the imposition of the Norman ‘yoke’ now served argu
ments for limiting monarchical power. It was particularly relevant during monar
chical restoration after regicide (1649) and republic (1649–60), given fears of a
renewed absolutism that would wrest sovereignty back from the nation’s parlia
mentary representatives.88 During the English civil wars themselves, waged on
and off from 1642 to 1651, the earlier coherence of most English historianship
disintegrated along with the efficacy of clerical and governmental censorship, as
all sides, religious and political, sought to vindicate themselves by book as well as
pamphlet.89 As the parliamentary side in the civil wars constituted the embryo
of the English Whig party, against the Tories with their Royalist antecedence, so
the anti-absolutist scholarly emphasis on a deep and continuous if sometimes
threatened strand of customary authority comprised a key element in what would
come to be called Whig History, even as the function of the Norman conquest
varied in that History, mirroring its role at different stages in the historical thinking
of William of Malmesbury centuries earlier (see p. 198).
The Holy Roman Empire could not centralize in the fashion of England or
France because it was not a state. It was an idea and tradition more than a polity,
and a powerful idea too when one thinks of its title and the theory of translatio
imperii. Yet it became the epicentre of military as well as religious strife from 1522
to 1648 for reasons directly related to the multiplicity of political forms existing
within it. In the decades prior to the 1520s, the influence of humanism plus a
87 De Grazia, ‘Anachronism’, 24–5. Daniel Woolf, ‘Historical Writing in Britain from the Late
Middle Ages to the Eve of Enlightenment’, in Rabasa et al. (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical
Writing 1400–1800, 473–96, here 478–81.
88 Pocock, The Ancient Constitution. On William of Malmesbury, see R. M. Thompson, ‘William of
Malmesbury’s Diatribe against the Normans’, in Martin Brett and David A. Woodman (eds.), The Long
Twelfth-Century View of the Anglo-Saxon Past (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), 113–22.
89 Woolf, ‘Historical Writing’, 482–3.
138 Why History?
reaction against Italian Renaissance arrogance had produced a cultural origin

story that transcended myriad Germanic state boundaries. Where France’s Gallic
myth drew on Julius Caesar’s writing, the Germanic myth drew on Tacitus, whose
writings adverted attention to the fact that the Roman Empire had never con
quered Magna Germania, stopping at the Rhine. As in France’s myth, Tacitus’s
account aroused cultural ‘memories’ of Germanic liberties and egalitarianism as
against Roman imperial authority and hierarchy. The attitudes thus engendered
partly cut across and partly reinforced attitudes towards Rome-as-papacy, atti
tudes which were also shaped by the established idea of the empire as protector
of the ungrateful Roman church, but they did not determine orientations
towards Catholicism in the coming schism. In the first instance, Lutheranism
spread by top–down reform as Luther gained the support of the rulers of various
northern states. Then, after ensuing warfare between Protestant principalities
and the forces of the Catholic Emperor Charles V, the Peace of Augsburg (1555)
decreed that princes could align the confessions of their realms with their own
religious consciences. Amongst many other things, the Augsburg dispensation
established the deepest cleavage in ‘German’ historiography over the next two
centuries. It is not that all historiography developed a preoccupation with reli
gion, but rather that it reflected the general confessionalization of politics and
culture.90 Nonetheless, historical scholarship on religion was a central issue at the
time and, by no coincidence, was important in the technical development of
the discipline of History.
Ecclesiastical History and Source Criticism
At the same time as History was enjoying a mutually beneficial relationship with
philology, via jurisprudence, it continued to be shaped in tandem with an older
partner: religious hermeneutics. Baudouin features in both relationships, for
he was sometime collaborator of the man often viewed as the father of ‘modern’
or at least Protestant hermeneutics—Matthias Flacius Illyricus.91 Like Luther,
Flacius (1520–75) was a traveller on the via moderna first paved centuries earlier
by men such as Ockham, who, for Luther, was ‘magister meus’, ‘mein lieber
90 Markus Völkel, Geschichtsschreibung: eine Einführung in globaler Perspektive (Cologne:

Böhlau, 2006), ch. 10.2–10.4; Völkel, ‘German Historical Writing’, 324–46; Völkel, ‘The “Historical
Consciousness” of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation (Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries)’,
in R. J. W. Evans, Michael Schaich, and P. H. Wilson (eds.), The Holy Roman Empire, 1495–1806
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 323–45. On the general reaction of German humanists to
Italian cultural condescension, A. G. Dickens, The Age of Humanism and Reformation (London:
Prentice Hall, 1977), 133.
91 On Baudouin and the doctrine, see Gregory B. Lyon, ‘Baudouin, Flacius, and the Plan for the
Magdeburg Centuries’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 64:2 (2003), 253–72, here 263–71. See also Bos,
‘Nineteenth-Century Historicism and its Predecessors’, 136.
Meister’.92 Flacius provided theological heft to an exegetical style that drew on

the Humanist ars critica. Emblematic of the contribution of the ars critica to the
Protestant cause is Luther’s use of Valla’s work on the Donation of Constantine
after it was finally published in 1517, the same year Luther advertised his 95 the
ses. Flacius contributed to the mix his version of traditions of reading that go
back to the school of Antioch, via medieval hermeneuts such as the Victorines,
with their particular grammatical-historical slant.93 Though the nominalist-
influenced trend towards literal reading is evident in their thinking,94 note that
neither Flacius nor Luther reduced Christian hermeneutics to the bare literalism
often associated with ‘modern’ historiography. How could they, given that one of
the abiding conceits of Christianity vis-à-vis Jews, and of Luther vis-à-vis ‘papists’,
was the hermeneutic concern for the ‘spirit’ as well as the ‘letter’? For the
Lutherans the literal-historical and the prophetical still ran together, with God’s
purpose being the sinew that linked past, present, and future. The theologian
Kelber tells us that
A gospel, for example, was perceived to be a story narrated by an evangelist and

representing the history of its subject matter. There was a coherence between
the narrative depiction and the reality it referred to. The narrative plot and the
narrative’s assumed historicity were still united in [Luther’s] literal sense which
for believers was the Word of God.95
Talk of gospels reminds us what was so important about Lutheran hermeneutics:

exegesis was applied directly and principally to scripture. Rome’s claim to cumu
lative institutional interpretative authority on the tenets of the faith was based on
an assertion of the obscurity of meaning in the faith’s founding documents, so
scriptural ambiguity could only be reconciled by churchly pronouncement. Now
one could undermine ecclesiastical authority by consulting the scriptures anew,
armed with new devices for critical comprehension that aided discovery of ‘true’
biblical meanings for oneself.
The challenge to the institutions of the church was not supposed to render
the fabric of Christendom asunder but rather to construct a new narrative in
which evangelism was revealed as the true if hitherto unrecognized expression of
Christianity. In order to perform this grand exercise in persuasion, hermeneutics—
the art of reading texts—was not enough. History was needed, in the sense of
writing a text about the past. Where Hugh of St Victor had written that ‘our task is
92 Matthias Kossler, Empirische Ethik und christlicher Moral (Würzburg: Königshausen und
Neumann, 1999), 312.
93 Dilthey, ‘The Development of Hermeneutics’, 252–3. 94 Kelber, ‘The Quest’, 80.
95 Ibid. 82. On continuities between Luther and trends from the high middle ages, Dierken,
Selbstbewusstsein, 203–4; Ward, Word and Supplement, 32–3; on Flacius and the via moderna, Haikola,
Gesetz und Evangelium, 32 ff.
140 Why History?
to commit history to memory, as the foundation of doctrine’, Flacius cut out the
middleman of ‘memory’, which was easier to do in the age of the printing press,
and essential when one was not just in the business of training other clerics:
historia est fundamentum doctrinae—‘History is the foundation of doctrine’:
I wish then, that a church history would be written in which would be shown in
definite order and according to chronology, how the true church and its religion
gradually fell from its original purity and unity in apostolic times into evil ways,
this partially from the negligence and ignorance of its teachers and also partly
through the wickedness of the godless. It should also be shown how the church
now and then has been reinstated by several truly pious men . . . until finally in
these our times, when the truth appeared almost completely wiped out, true
religion in its purity has once more been established through the immeasurable
goodness of God.
Here was a mission statement for the great collaborative research project Flacius
led, the thirteen-volume History of the church popularly known as the Magdeburg
Centuries (1560–5).96 The endeavour set in motion a historiographical battle
against which the tremors caused by chapters 15 and 16 of Gibbon’s Decline and
Fall two centuries later paled in comparison.
The major Catholic riposte to the Lutheran challenge came courtesy of the
cardinal and ecclesiastical historian Cesare Baronio, in the form of the twelve-
volume Annales ecclesiastici a Christo nato ad annum 1198 (The Ecclesial and
Secular Annals from the Birth of Christ until the Year 1198, 1588–1607). As well as
their impact, with sales constituting 13 per cent of the Plantin Press’s income in
1590–5, the Annales further buttressed historical literalism with the antiquarian’s
concern for minutiae and precision in the interests of grander projects of persua
sion.97 Ecclesiastical History was utterly bound to original principles, which is
why ‘the sources’ might connote not just ‘the evidence’ but ‘the origins’. (Centuries
later the philosopher Jacques Derrida made play of the relationship between ‘the
archive’ and the arche, or origin.) The analogy of ‘cause’ and ‘origin’ was strong for
humanist historians from Bruni to La Popelinière. Since the Universal Church—
which all parties to the Reformation and Counter-Reformation believed in,
differing only on what its essential principles were—had historical beginnings,
96 Magdeburger Zenturien (Jena, 1560–5): for the intellectual origins and thematic-cum-rhetorical
shaping of the project, which is by no means only organized by centuries and shows Baudouin’s
input, see Heinz Scheible, Die Entstehung der Magdeburger Zenturien. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der
historiographischen Methode (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1966). The lengthy quotation from Flacius in
the main text is in Wilhelm Preger, Matthias Flacius Illyricus und seine Zeit (Erlangen, 1859), vol. 2,
416–17, cited, contextualized, and translated in Earle Hilgert, ‘Protestantism—Revolt or Reform?’,
Ministry Magazine (July 1953), online at https://www.ministrymagazine.org/archive/1953/07/research
97 On sales statistics, Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion’, 1118. Levitin’s article
more generally considers the historiographical significance of the ecclesiastical History debates.
then re-establishing principles and recreating origins, i.e. metaphysical and

chronological-empirical concerns, ran together. Teams of historians returned to
whatever documentary sources could be located, to Eusebius, and to Jewish
historians of the early church period, in order to assess matters like St Peter’s
position and the evolution of ecclesiastical hierarchy and certain sacraments.
In the battle for title, rhetoric was scarcely dispensed with but the bona fides of
documentary substantiation, when documents were not simply reproduced, came
in the form of notes—marginal notes rather than footnotes, as it happens, but
the principle is the same. If, as the discussion of the middle ages above implies,
the mid to late sixteenth century was not the moment at which enargeia/evidentia
as vividness was supplanted by evidentia as evidence in the more recent sense,
it clearly was a hugely important moment given the stakes involved as western
Christianity was split into competing confessions and History became a key
battleground in the theological struggle.98
While Thomas Carlyle later claimed that the Reformation brought ‘a return
to Truth and Reality in opposition to Falsehood and Semblance’, in reality the
‘Protestant’ hermeneutics of early modern Europe produced champions just as
dogmatic as those propounding the dogma they fancied themselves to have dis
credited.99 Just like Baronio’s Annales, the Magdeburg Centuries was more critical
of the positions it attacked than it was of the evidence on which its own position
was based. Each fuelled an ideological conflict and, in virtue of providing an
especially prominent example of the relationship between current agenda and
reading of the past, encouraged sceptics in their critique of all History. The priest
hood of all believers, printed, vernacular bibles in hand, were given only limited
space in which to draw their own inferences either about churchly or secular
powers, as new orthodoxies tried to force the genie back into the bottle.100 On the
technical front this was because the stress on authoritative literal interpretations
demanded that exegetes advert to Greek and Hebrew original texts, which per
force excluded the great majority who could not read those languages. No more
than pre-Tridentine and Tridentine Catholic hermeneuts did Lutheranism pro
pose a radical social agenda of self-instruction as far as moral, religious, and
98 Momigliano, Classical Foundations, ch. 6; Tutino, Shadows of Doubt, 67–70; Ginsburg, Threads,
20–3; Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion’. For Derrida’s contribution on ‘the
archive’, see Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1996).
99 Thomas Carlyle, Heroes and Hero Worship, repr. in Carlyle, Sartor Resartus, Heroes and
Hero-Worship, Past and Present, ed. G. T. Bettany (London: Ward, Lock and Co., 1892), 93;
cf. Kelber, ‘The Quest’, 80; Jean Grondin, Sources of Hermeutics (New York: SUNY Press, 1995),
19–21.
100 For examples of attempted usages of the scriptures in a political-critical spirit by the
Reformation writers Anne Askew, Anne Lock, and Anne Dowriche, see Elaine V. Beilin, ‘ “The World
reproov’d”: Writing Faith and History in England’, in Margaret Mikesell and Adele Seeff (eds.), Culture
and Change: Attending to Early Modern Women (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2003),
266–80.
142 Why History?
political conduct was concerned. Luther was notorious for relegating problematic
biblical passages to secondary status within the canon, and for writing prejudicial
commentaries and introductions to the scriptures—as well as for disavowing
Thomas Müntzer’s militant ‘peasants’ who mistakenly thought that the reformers’
message might have some relevance for their existence outside their souls and
before their deaths.
Nevertheless, critical historical scholarship did gain its own momentum
during this period within small but important communities of scholars of a range
of confessions. This is very far from a stereotype whereby ‘Protestants wrote
histories of the church’s corruption by the papacy, Roman Catholics of its
unchanging adherence to papal tradition, and both of the ancient Jews as God’s
unique chosen people’, and whereby ‘real’ non-dogmatic, critical History only
appeared under the influence of seventeenth-century deism or of eighteenth-
century Enlightenment as represented by works such as David Hume’s 1757
Natural History of Religion.101 (How alike in condescension is the Enlightenment
caricature of rigid orthodoxy in prior ‘early modern’ History to the Renaissance
depictions of medieval scholasticism!) Sixteenth and seventeenth-century reli
gious scholarship incorporated the study of ancient Judaism, and paganism,
including pre-Islamic Arabic History, and was facilitated by the circulation of
many documents and manuscripts that had been torn from cathedrals and mon
asteries during the Wars of Religion. It was fired by the likes of the revolutionizer
of ancient and biblical chronology, Joseph Justus Scaliger (1540–1609) and his
fellow Huguenot, the Hebraist Isaac Casaubon, whose ‘spiritual quest’, in the
words of Joanna Weinberg and Anthony Grafton, ‘knew no denominational
boundaries’. The philosophical point at stake is that these scholars were not just
involved in the politics of the period but were also engaged in a search for what
they conceived as literal truth. In the aforementioned scholarly communities, his
torians of all confessions were recognized only as historians by other members
of the communities if they subscribed to critical precepts. And if ideology could
influence historical enquiry, some of the scholarly developments of the period
showed that the reverse could also be true as clerics drew on the interpretative
skills of humanists of the respublica litteraria. All this is what historiographical
disputes typically tend to produce, and this was one of the most important such
disputes in occidental history, and the most sophisticated thitherto. The result
was what the intellectual historian Dimitri Levitin calls ‘a sociology of knowledge
that transcended both politics and confessions’. Indeed some of the eighteenth-
century philosophes realized their scholarly debt to those who had disdainfully
been dubbed mere érudites, but were too embarrassed to declare it in light of the
101 Levitin, ‘From Sacred History to the History of Religion’, 1119–20, who rightly criticizes this
vision.
belief that French neo-classicism was intellectually superior to and different from
all that had gone before.102
Catholic and Protestant scholars differed amongst themselves as much as with
each other: Jesuits, for instance, might be set against Jansenists. Most embraced
historical literalism, as well as some Jewish exegetical assistance, as long as they
could keep hold of some typological/figural thought. Thus the Jesuit ‘Bollandists’
embraced the spirit of criticism in defence of the Catholic Church, and in so
doing, via the Acta Sanctorum (Deeds of the Saints) project initiated in 1607,
acknowledged as a starting point the fictitious nature of almost all saints’ lives
produced thereto. The quest as they saw it—and still see it, since Bollandism con
tinues to this day in Brussels—was to establish such historical reality as could be
gleaned from beneath the embellishments of hagiography.103
A relatively late entrant to the scene was one of the most influential players.
The Benedictine monk Jean Mabillon (1632–1707) worked in the traditions of the
‘Maurist’ school which was active from 1618–c.1730. He was at least as concerned
to combat pyrrhonian scepticism and criticize Bollandist works as he was to
engage in the battle against Protestantism for which his school had actually been
set up. In a trio of works, the most famous of which is De re diplomatica (1681), in
which the word ‘diplomatic’ pertained to ‘diplomas’, meaning official documents,
he all but founded the modern discipline of palaeography. Where philology is
concerned with the internal, linguistic features of texts, which may have con
notations for ageing and verification related to authorship, palaeography is the
study of scripts, which includes their materiality as well as their textual content.
Mabillon’s external criteria of criticism demanded expertise in parchments, ink,
and paper. Of the text itself, alongside language and internal coherence, he stressed
coherence with other texts, a.k.a. evidence.
The intellectual courage of some of the aforementioned figures may be inferred
from the disapprobation with which their work was received by the churches whose
ends they nominally served. In 1695 the fourteen volumes of the Bollandists’ Acta
Sanctorum published to that point were condemned by the Inquisition. The
Histoire critique du Vieux Testament (Critical History of the Old Testament) of the
Oratorian Richard Simon (1638–1712) antagonized his fellow French Catholics
as well as Protestants: he was expelled from his order. It did not help Simon’s case
that he was associated with the thought of the excommunicate Jewish philosopher,
Baruch—Benedictus—de Spinoza (1634–77). Spinoza had declared that much of
what appeared to be prophetically divined morality was not actually written by
102 Ibid. 1160; on Casaubon, Grafton and Weinberg with Alastair Hamilton, ‘I have always loved
the Holy Tongue’: Isaac Casaubon, the Jews, and a Forgotten Chapter in Renaissance Scholarship
(Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 2011), 43. See also Grafton, Joseph Scaliger: A Study in the History of
Classical Scholarship, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983, 1993).
103 On the Bollandists, Raymond E. Wanner, Claude Fleury (1640–1723) as an Educational
Historiographer and Thinker (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1975), 79.
144 Why History?
the prophets and was more in the way of a social code for a specific society, the
ancient Hebrews, than a general code for all peoples. Spinoza mirrored Hobbes,
Grotius, and yet others in arguing that the Pentateuch had not been written by
Moses, though some doubts about Mosaic authorship had been raised as early as
the tenth century by the Jewish Neoplatonist Isaac ben Suleiman. One of Spinoza’s
major hermeneutic tools was the awareness of anachronism, a word that unbe
knownst to him probably entered the English language during his lifetime, amid
the ruptures across the channel from the Netherlands. The principle was applied
in a way that had many precedents in legal-historical thought. In order to detach
the necessary from the contingent, the transcendent from the transient, one had
first to historicize in order to establish the immediate contexts of enunciation that
needed to be stripped away.104
Shortly after Spinoza, another member of a minority whose beliefs had caused
him trouble with authorities published his Dictionnaire Historique et Critique
(1697). Pierre Bayle was a Huguenot, who had fled France for the Netherlands,
and like his sixteenth-century predecessors thus had personal cause to promote
irenic thought. His dictionary deployed detailed historical study alongside strict
reasoning and a highly sceptical spirit in order to argue against inherited theo
logical tenets and thus religious dogma, and in favour of religious toleration. Both
Bayle and Spinoza influenced the eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher Hume;
Spinoza has been described as writing a ‘natural history of religion’ (i.e. not a
supernatural or dogmatic one), and one Hume expert opines that without him
Hume would not have been able to write his influential treatise of that name.105
Now we know that the picture is more complicated, and the intellectual debts yet
wider and deeper. Spinoza’s commendation that the Bible be read like any other
text had secularizing overtones but these need to be distinguished from irreligious
overtones, not least because he obviously perceived a god of sorts and had a long
Jewish hermeneutic tradition on which to draw—in this connection we might
note the publication and popularity of Maimonides in the seventeenth-century
Dutch Republic.106 Furthermore, some of Spinoza’s conclusions had been antici
pated in detail by the likes of yet another Huguenot, Isaac La Peyrère (c.1596–1676),
and the Quaker Samuel Fisher (1605–65).107 Spinoza’s premise that Adam was
104 J. Samuel Preus, Spinoza and the Irrelevance of Biblical Authority (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2001), 37, 182–3; on ‘anachronism’, Christopher Hill, Reformation to Industrial
Revolution, vol. 2, 1530–1870 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976), 198. On Isaac ben Sulieman and Ibn
Ezra: John H. Hayes, ‘The History of the Study of Israelite and Judaean History from the Renaissance
to the Present’, in V. Philips Long (ed.), Israel’s Past in Present Research (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns,
1999), 7–42, here 19.
105 Steven Nadler, Spinoza: A Life (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 271;
Richard H. Popkin, ‘Hume and Spinoza’, Hume Studies, 5:2 (1979), 65–93, here 70.
106 Aaron Katchen, Christian Hebraists and Dutch Rabbis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1984).
107 Travis L. Frampton, Spinoza and the Rise of Historical Criticism of the Bible (New York: T&T
Clark, 2006), 15–16, 41–2.
not the first man was actually the founding assumption of La Peyrère’s ‘polygenetic’
theory of multiple human origins, as expressed in his Praeadamitae (1655): the
Jewish people might be ‘Adamite’ but since the Bible was only the History of
the Jewish people, no one else was.108 Recent scholarship has suggested we can
go significantly further back than these for similar critical comment on the Old
Testament,109 though it is still reluctant to accredit the relevant high medieval
thinkers. In other words, we should see Spinoza as pouring oil on living flame
rather than putting spark to tinder. The strength of the reaction against him is
explained less by the novelty of his historical and scriptural interpretations
than by how much of a premium was put on the literal truth of the scriptures at
the time of his views gaining notice, and perhaps above all by the fact that his
general religious views were so radically heterodox, when hitherto more critical
historical methods had been developed and adopted largely independently of
heterodox belief.
History in the Scientific Seventeenth Century
Since one object of this book is relating historical thought to other intellectual-
cultural trends, and since the seventeenth century is associated with the Scientific
Revolution more than any historiographical turn, it is interesting to recall the role
of some medieval thought in this apparently least medieval of developments.
Nominalist hermeneutics, and elements of nominalism’s aftermath in Reformation
thought, provide a cultural bridge between the Renaissance humanist focus on
the human sciences and the later sixteenth- and seventeenth-century develop
ments in natural science. Nominalism moves towards non-symbolic readings of
the natural world. Protestantism, while stridently insisting on the marriage of the
spirit and the letter in interpretation, nonetheless created a sharper dualism
between the cities of man and of god. Accordingly it paved the way for a contrac
tion of ‘the sphere of the sacred, forcibly stripping objects, natural and artificial,
of the roles they had once played as bearers of meaning’, and opening the way for
what are in hindsight more recognizably scientific, mechanistic explanations
and models of relationships. Purged of immanent spiritual meaning, nature was
rendered more fully as the servant of human material needs.110 All of this con
stitutes a significant series of steps down the road to what its most influential
theorists would later depict as quintessential characteristics of ‘modernity’—
namely a ‘mathematical-scientific desire to understand and relate to what there is
108 Richard H. Popkin, Isaac La Peyrère (Leiden: Brill, 1987), ch. 9.

109 Malcolm, ‘Hobbes, Ezra and the Bible’.
110 Quote from Harrison, The Bible, 117; Altena, ‘Secular Hermeneutics’; Nisbet, Progress, 127.
On the twelfth century, see Le Goff, ‘What Did the Twelfth-Century Renaissance mean?’, 643–6.
146 Why History?
in terms that are expressive not of revelation but of empirical verifiability,

instrumental reason, and formal . . . models of thought’.111 In the move from con
templation and veneration of the world to its practical mastery, the subject should
not address the object in the attempt to come to know it as it was ‘in itself ’, but
know it in a way that permitted possession and exploitation so that humans might
become ‘the lords and masters of nature’.112 Knowledge, as that devout Protestant
Francis Bacon had it, was power, and by knowledge Bacon meant the sort that
had recently produced gunpowder, the printing press, and the nautical compass—
those things which the seventeenth-century modernes held up to the anciens in
evidence of the superiority of new ways over old. This was the authentic voice of
inquiry as technē rather than theoria. It represents the consummation of a long-
evolving shift from the Platonic, Aristotelian, and theologically ‘realist’ conception
of a physis that is basically benign and accommodating to humans, and revela
tory of the divine, to a conception of a more neutral but ultimately malleable
world that can be rendered into a more perfect fit for humankind.113 The shift
also complements the tendencies, at least to the west of the Elbe, of movement
from local to national economies; the emergence of the calculating and recording
practices of early modern capitalism; and the centralization of proto-industry
and the expansion of pure wage labour (partly driven by mid-sixteenth-century
inflation).114 But the fact that so many of these intellectual developments were
congruent with theological enquiry rather than necessarily a rejection of it helps
explain why the Scientific Revolution easily coexisted with a seventeenth-century
religious resurgence. Whatever their misgivings, many ecclesiastics realized it
was in their interests to accommodate to new thinking rather than engage in a
confrontation in which they were not certain of victory. Galileo had helped
forced the question, but once his findings gained acceptance, it could be conveni
ent to consecrate the separation of the realm of religion and spirituality from that
of science and empirics. Alternatively, clerics could ally themselves with the likes
of Bacon and Newton, who saw themselves as explaining the works of God, not
explaining ‘him’ away.
In many of these developments historical enquiry was downgraded in the
same measure as the wisdom and authority of the past was downgraded.
Empiricism and rationalism flourished. Whatever their differences, both placed
the emphasis on the individual subject as separate from the world, and in that
sense were embedded in a long Augustinian tradition, though both had decidedly
111 Espen Hammer, Philosophy and Temporality from Kant to Critical Theory (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2011), 71.
112 Descartes, Discourse on Method, editor’s introduction 1–32, quote on ‘lords’ at 10.
113 On changing views of the world Philip J. Kain, Nietzsche and the Horror of Existence (Lanham,
MD: Lexington, 2009), 10.
114 Richard W. Hadden, On the Shoulders of Merchants: Exchange and the Mathematical Conception
of Nature in Early Modern Europe (Albany: State University of New York, 1994).
anti-traditional implications. Empiricism now stood against inherited precept and

dogma in its emphasis on individual learning by experience of the phenomenal
world, and gained from the heft of Newton in practice and Locke in principle.
Rationalism, with Descartes’s authority behind it, based its claims to superiority
on the capacity of the intellect to establish systems like mathematics that owed
nothing to traditional metaphysics or fallible experiential taint. Whatever its
merits, History, along with other ‘human sciences’, was considered insufficiently
rigorous and systematic anyway, hence Descartes’s judgement in Discourse on
Method.115 Then we have the application of scientifically influenced materialist
philosophies to the arena of human motivation and political organization, as with
Hobbes. Whether or not it is correct to think of Hobbes as the first bourgeois
philosopher,116 it is certainly true that seventeenth-century philosophy was
unprecedented in its sharp focus on freedom and its dialectical twin, determin
ism, and the thought of Hobbes, Spinoza, and Locke ‘coincided’ with the battle of
moneyed men for liberation from the constraints not just of absolutism but
of certain conventional mores, whatever the different directions in which the
philosophies pointed.117 Most importantly, the major developments in political
theory in the sixteenth and especially the seventeenth centuries, namely argu
ments to the ‘divine right of kings’, social contract theories, and claims on the
force of natural law, were each in some sense arguments to a basic principle. They
were not arguments about historical origins, and strictly speaking their ‘proof ’
required no historical argument, which seems to reflect the emergence of novel
international and intra-state arrangements from the Peace of Augsburg in 1555
to the Treaty of Westphalia in 1648. All of this, along with enduring scepticism
about historians’ biases and sources, helps explain why, as one influential historian
has it, ‘the vogue for politics dwarfed that for history’ in seventeenth-century
universities.118
Whether the downgrading of History was so extreme is debatable, especially
if the claim were to be extended to the ‘public sphere’ more generally. Indeed, in
the British case, Daniel Woolf actually charts a significant increase in the social
circulation of historical knowledge through 1700.119 This should not surprise
since while non-historical reasoning could influence political theory it could not
115 Gerard Delanty, Social Science: Philosophical and Methodological Foundations (Maidenhead:

Open University Press, 2005), 15–16.
116 Peter Hayes, ‘Hobbes’s Bourgeois Moderation’, Polity, 31:1 (1998), 53–74.
117 Theodor W. Adorno, History and Freedom: Lectures, 1964–1965, ed. Rolf Tiedeman (Cambridge:
Polity Press, 2006), 193–4; Herbert Marcuse, Reason and Revolution: Hegel and the Rise of Social
Theory (Boston: Beacon, 1960), 226.
118 The final quote from Grafton, What was History?, 230. For some of the other reasons mentioned
in this paragraph as regards Britain and the Italian mezzogiorno in the early 1700s, see Pocock, The
Ancient Constitution, 235–45 and Pocock’s notes on pp. 16 and 18. On scepticism about bias and
forged ‘sources’, Peter Burke, ‘History, Myth, and Fiction: Doubts and Debates’, in Rabasa et al. (eds.),
The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 261–81.
119 Grafton, What was History?, 230, cf. Woolf ‘From Hystories to the Historical’, 35–6.
148 Why History?
touch the areas of identity reached by genealogical and figural History. Even at
the level of specialist political and legal argumentation the evidence is more
nuanced, beyond cases like that of Locke, whose political theory evinced a lack
of interest in History, even as his Essay on Human Understanding set out some
arguments about differing levels of certainty that would have aided historians in
their fight against pyrrhonian scepticism.120 For Spinoza, say, ‘reason’ alone could
reveal knowledge of a god and should promote the golden rule of loving it and
one’s neighbour as oneself, but we have seen that he deployed complementary
historical-hermeneutic enquiry.121 Similarly, if the Dutch humanist lawyer Hugo
Grotius (1583–1645) was one of the major seventeenth-century legal-political
theorists, he too, like the later jurist-philosopher Samuel Pufendorf (1632–94),
wrote works of History alongside his better-known theoretical tracts. In support
of his theoretical contentions, he followed the well-trodden path of working
through the historical and geographically variable ‘positive’ laws of human groups
in order to identify a universalist core in ‘natural law’. He has been accused of
historical cherry-picking to this end, though that scarcely distinguishes him from
Lipsius or Machiavelli, and if anything it reminds us of the ongoing significance
of some version of historical exemplarity.122 Consider for instance the use of
Thucydides, whose pedigree in influencing the classically educated is as well
established as that of Tacitus, and who has been deployed with equally varied
results. Among students of the Peloponnesian War we can count the English phil
osopher Hobbes and the American statesman John Adams. Hobbes translated
Thucydides in 1629 and there are notable similarities between Hobbes’s descrip
tion of the ‘state of nature’ and Thucydides’ account of the Corcyraean revolution
(427 bce) whose bloodshed Hobbes used to illustrate anarchy and to substantiate
his argument for a Leviathan-absolutism. Later, Adams (1735–1826) used the
same events to illustrate the atavism of ‘human nature’ in order to substantiate his
argument for a republican regime in which warring influences would hold each
other in check by the separation of powers.123 Finally, let us dwell for a moment
on the ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688 and the 1689 Bill of Rights, of which Locke is
seen as effectively the official philosopher. The events do seem to have reduced
‘Whig’ reliance on deep historical accounts of English liberties, but while they can
be interpreted as an interpellation of reason divorced from tradition, the turn
from deep History could just as well be explained by an interpretation of 1688
as a new foundational moment, a sort of year zero, in the lexicon of later
120 For the nuance and Locke’s exceptionality, see Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 235–42.
On Locke and degrees of certainty, Burke, ‘History, Myth, and Fiction’, 274–5.
121 Preus, Spinoza and the Irrelevance of Biblical Authority, 37, 182–3.
123 Marshall Sahlins, The Western Illusion of Human Nature (Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press:
2008), 8–11.
revolutions. Such moments, as in the Roman preoccupation with dating ab urbe

condita, are themselves manifestly historical, even if they happen to be recent.124
So some caveats need to accompany claims to the effect that ‘the founding
myth of seventeenth-century political thought—the state of nature—emerged
from accounts of travel rather than study of history and historians’.125 Besides,
rather than their being recent arrivals on the scene which jockeyed for attention
with historical study, travel accounts had themselves served a quasi-historical
purpose from Herodotus and Thucydides through Gerald of Wales, Bodin, and
La Popelinière. Jumping forward a little in time to another state-of-nature thinker,
‘quasi-historical’ is perhaps the best way to describe the arguments in Jean-
Jacques Rousseau’s Discourse on the Origin of Inequality (1755). Its concern with
origins is also a concern with development, since inequalities of wealth, status,
and by extension disparities in people’s estimation of their self-worth, are not
seen by Rousseau as part of any given, natural state of affairs, but rather a product
of human combination in society. The Discourse is quasi-historical in that it does
not follow the likes of La Popelinière in establishing how state B emerged out of
state A in any particular society, but instead conjectures as to how state B might
have emerged in societies-in-general out of a hypothetical state A. In that sense it
coheres quite strongly with one still healthy trend of philosophical enquiry, the
sort of ‘genealogy’ undertaken by, say, the twentieth-century philosopher Bernard
Williams as he reflected on the development of truthfulness as a corollary of the
need for cooperation between humans.126
While Rousseau implied that the disagreeable qualities he identifies in
European society are a strong possibility in all societies, he nonetheless did iden
tify actual other societies with different practices and arrangements and as such
illustrated that likelihood is not inevitability. It was not a matter of seeing ‘Caribs’
and ‘Hottentots’ as living in some pre-social situation or an early form of society,
as La Popelinière had done, but rather of seeing them as having undertaken his
torically different paths of development. In this sense Rousseau comes closer to
the sort of genealogy conducted by Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer
in their Dialectic of Enlightenment (1944/47) which pathologizes long-term devel
opments in occidental thought of which in some way both capitalism and fascism
are seen as characteristic outcomes. The point of this sort of critique—and
Rousseau may be seen as one of the progenitors of ‘critical theory’—is to diagnose
a malaise and if not to prescribe a cure, then at least to raise awareness that alter
natives are possible precisely because the established way is not the only or the
natural way. As Rousseau wrote to Voltaire, he ‘showed men how they bring their
124 Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 235–42, contains much of the evidence on which I make
these assertions, though Pocock bears no responsibility for any errors in my rendering.
126 Bernard Williams, Truth and Truthfulness: An Essay in Genealogy (Princeton: Princeton
150 Why History?
miseries on themselves and hence how they might avoid them’.127 Little under the
sun being entirely new, there were antecedents to Rousseau’s agenda of what
Marxists would call ‘de-reification’, the denaturalization by examination of their
aetiology of arrangements assumed to be natural. In 1453 Nicholas of Cusa wrote
that ‘the earthly human condition has this characteristic: viz., that longstanding
custom, which is regarded as having passed over into nature, is defended as the
truth’.128 But in any case in Rousseau’s letter we have the fundaments of the justifi
cation for studying the past that this book dubs History as Emancipation.
Since science and religion did not necessarily stand in tension, religious
views of History were not necessarily threatened by science any more than
non-religious views of History were threatened by philosophy. Sometimes reli
gious views were even reinforced. Puritans, with their apocalyptic philosophies of
History, contributed disproportionately to the scientific endeavour. For some
puritans, ‘Progress in the arts and sciences [was] held to be at once a sign of the
imminence of the golden age of the spirit on earth and a cause of this imminence’,
thus fusing the Greek concept of advancement through the arts and sciences
with theological millenarianism.129 History also performed an exemplar function
in the basic Reformer conviction that scripture provides reconstructable historical
models for forging the commonwealth in the here and now. Even when that design
was thwarted in Europe it might still be pursued across the Atlantic.130
Elsewhere, views of the course of history long endorsed by Rome were repro
duced or renovated. While medievals had more than just the great theologies of
history available to them to understand the past, many inhabitants of the ‘early
modern’ world were still exposed by book and tutelage to those selfsame theolo
gies of history that we think of as quintessentially pre-modern. In Italy, where the
forces of Catholic orthodoxy were especially strong for much of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, secular historiography having retreated somewhat since
Machiavelli and Guicciardini, the Jesuit Antonio Foresti reproduced the tenets
of sacred History, divine interventions and all, in his Mappamondo istorico
(Historical Map of the World, 1690–4). The work was translated into German, and
reproduced by a Venetian printer as the opening part of a more global History
featuring volumes on the Islamic world and China as well as Europe.131 Most of
127 Frederick Neuhouser, Rousseau’s Critique of Inequality (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 2014), esp. 5–8, 210–12. Quote at 212.
128 De Pace Fidei, Part I, §4, in Hopkins, Nicholas of Cusa’s De Pace Fidei, 634.
129 Nisbet, Progress, 127.
130 On the biblical template for the contemporary commonwealth, see Beilin, ‘ “The World
reproov’d” ’, 269–70.
131 William J. Bouwsma observed of Italian historianship after Machiavelli and Guicciardini that
it ‘moved from the piazza into the studio, detached itself from active politics and reflected a steady
decline in human confidence’: cited in Woolf ‘From Hystories to the Historical’, 34–5. For the rest
of the material up to this point in this paragraph, Edoardo Tortarolo, ‘Italian Historical Writing,
1680–1800’, in Rabasa et al. (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 364–383,
here 372–3.
all we need to consider the popularity of the work of Bishop Jacques-Bénigne

Bossuet (1627–1704), who amongst other things bears some responsibility for
the seizure of Richard Simon’s Histoire critique du Vieux Testament (see p. 143).
Bossuet’s Discours sur L’Histoire Universelle appeared almost simultaneously with
Mabillon’s methodological opus; the contrast is marked. A vigorous Counter-
Reformation Gallican apologetic, it was written for the son of Louis XIV. Edifying
the Dauphin with exempla, this modified princes’ mirror met Simon, Spinoza,
and the other biblical historicists with a trenchant multi-stage restatement of
providential history that leaned on the book of Daniel’s prophecy of the succes
sion of kingdoms. Regnal and sacerdotal blades were smelted into one as Bossuet
pronounced:
It is the progress of these two particulars, I mean that of religion, and that of
empires, that you ought to imprint upon your memory; and as religion and
political government are the two hinges, whereon all human things turn, to see
whatever concerns those particulars summed up in an epitome, and by this
means to discover the whole order and progression of them, is to comprise in
thought all that is great among men, and to hold, so to say, the thread of all the
affairs of the world.132
Bossuet’s was the last great explicitly religious philosophy of history, with elem
ents of Augustine and his concept of the ‘two cities’, but the Discours was notable
for its incorporation of humanist sentiments and aspects of civic morals, and its
general attempts at fairness to a range of parties, so it was not entirely antithetical
either to Baudouin’s earlier work or to the ‘modernizing’ religiosity of the pur
itans.133 It was admired by some ‘Enlighteners’ for its range and its account of
causation. While it was concerned with God’s relationship to humanity, Bossuet’s
concept of ‘secondary causes’ meant that God’s direct influence did not always
need to be established, which kept the linkage between sacred and profane his
tory whilst simultaneously opening the way for a more secular analysis of change
for those not interested in or sceptical of the divine side of things.
If Bossuet’s passion was winning Protestants back to Catholicism, one of his
correspondents, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), sought to end religious
antagonism with a philosophy of tolerance and he produced a novel metaphysics
to match. In Bossuet’s 1688 tome Histoire des variations des Églises protestantes
(History of the Variations of the Protestant Church), with the evidence of different
Protestantisms already before his eyes, he had argued that once a dissident church
132 Quotation from the English translation of the 13th edition of Bossuet’s original: An Universal
History from the Beginning of the World to the Empire of Charlemagne (New York: Robert Moore,
1821), 13; on Daniel e.g. 77 f.; 174–87.
133 Nisbet, Progress, 141–2.
152 Why History?
had rejected the idea of a worldly sovereign interpreter of scripture, that church
was apt to continue fragmenting in exegetical dispute. Leibniz effectively welcomed
diversity and gave it a philosophical justification in his Theodicy (1710) and
Monadology, which was published in 1714 but conceived in the 1670s–1680s,
when religious warfare was fresh in the memory and Louis XIV was breaking the
international peace and ending religious toleration at home, via the Revocation
of the Edict of Nantes (1685). Leibniz had tried to effect reconciliation between
Protestants and Catholics before concentrating on intra-Protestant relations. In
these works, like Cusanus, Ficino, and Bodin before him, he sought to identify
the unity that could be traced through diversity.134
Leibniz was influenced by the Neoplatonic theory of emanationism, in which
all things issue and descend—with decreasing perfection and increased concrete
ness—from one perfect/divine source. Of particular importance for subsequent
conceptualization of the diversity of religions, nations, and individuals is his
reworking of the ancient concept of the monad as part of a new metaphysics of
existence. For Leibniz, God was ‘the primitive unity’ (Monadology135 §§47–8),
and each of the monads he created had the quality of a sort of soul, or ‘entelechy’.
There was no direct conversation between the monads; they ‘have no windows’ (§7).
Each had its own integrity as part of a whole that was nonetheless in some way
connected: as ‘the same city viewed from different directions appears entirely
different’ there are ‘as many different universes, which are, nevertheless, only per
spectives on a single one’ (§57). Or, as Leibniz put it in another work, each monad
represents the universe from ‘its point of view’.136 While each monad itself com
prised smaller monads (§§65, 67), some types of monad had a higher conceptual
character than others—if ‘each living body has a dominant entelechy’ (§70), some
elect ‘souls are elevated to the rank of reason and to the prerogative of minds’
(§82). Unlike ordinary entelechies/souls, ‘minds’ are ‘images of the divinity itself,
capable of knowing the system of the universe, and imitating something of it
through their schematic representations of it, each mind being like a little divinity
in its own realm’ (§83). The idea of reasoning monads of the same level coexisting
side by side legitimated varying conceptions of god—varying confessions—but
could easily be adapted to pertain to varying social orders aligned with different
confessions and ways of viewing the world, and to different cultures more gener
ally. Such an elaboration need not entail relativism, since in the Leibnizian scheme
diversity was reconciled in the ultimate unity of God, but given that the God’s-eye
134 On some of the context, Nicholas Rescher, G. W. Leibniz’s Monadology: An Edition for Students
(Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1991), 5, 8, and C. A. van Peursen, Leibniz (London: Faber
and Faber, 1969), 9. On Protestant and Catholic relations and theology see Irena Backus, Leibniz:
Protestant Theologian (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016).
135 Leibniz, ‘Monadology’, in Steven M. Cahn (ed.), Classics of Western Philosophy (Indianapolis:
Hackett, 1990), 604–13.
136 Leibniz, ‘Principes de la nature et de la grâce fondé en raison’, in Leibniz, Oeuvres de Leibniz, ed.
M. A. Jacques (Paris: Charpentier, 1846), 479–87, here 480. Emphasis added.
perspective was not available to any person, or any people, the doctrine was one
further step down the road to relativism in the sense of human unfitness to
judge other ways of living and believing. As we shall see in Chapter 6, in the
German idealist tradition towards which Leibniz’s thought contributed, a trad
ition which reached its heights in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and
found its historiographical expression in German historicism, discrete peoples,
ultimately nation-states, were accorded the attributes of higher-level monads in
their supposedly self-sufficient wholeness and their moral integrity as reflections
of the divine.
As far as the next chapter is concerned, just as important as Leibniz’s views on
synchronic diversity was his account of diachronic change. In recognition of
change over time, but in fidelity to his idea that monads were windowless, Leibniz
claimed that each monad must be moved by an ‘internal principle’. Monads must
have some internal plurality of properties even in their unity: ‘since all natural
change is produced by degrees, something changes and something remains’ at
any one time. Given ‘every present state of a simple substance is a natural conse
quence of its preceding state’, he claimed, in words that would ring down the
centuries, ‘the present is pregnant with the future’ (Monadology §§10–13, 22).
Leibniz’s theory of change was not a fully fledged philosophy of history, but it had
dialectical overtones.
5
Society, Nature, Emancipation
Introduction
This chapter is predominantly concerned with the thought tendencies grouped

under the heading ‘the Enlightenment’, with regulation caveats about variations
in character, national and otherwise, of the intellectual traditions denoted by the
term. The chapter works from Montesquieu and his contemporaries to Marx,
which gives a reasonable idea of the conceptual as well as chronological span. The
unifying theme is the relationship between historical and philosophical thought.
The thinkers addressed here tended to have their eyes on a broad horizon, as
they tried to make sense of the broad sweep of human variety and development.
Some cast their net very wide indeed, which was appropriate enough in the context
of an eighteenth century that saw yet more colonial, commercial, and intellectual
interaction across the globe, as Spanish, Mughal, and Ottoman power declined
and European competitors came in to fill the gaps. Some believed that the devel-
opment of human societies was a law-governed process. Accordingly, in the absence
of evidence they were apt to make assumptions as to how things had probably
been in the past, as they came up with stadial theories of human development
and proposed motors of change from one state of civilization to the next. In circu-
lar fashion, those assumptions sometimes served as a criterion of relevance
and plausibility in the deployment of such evidence as was deemed relevant;
confirmation bias remains an investigative problem, if not an insoluble one.
When explaining the broad sweep, providential accounts of the course of
human History were replaced by secular accounts, but in some instances the
secular accounts were structurally similar to the religious ones and also fall under
the rubric of History as Speculative Philosophy. We also encounter ‘philosophical
Histories’ that perceived a grand historical process, and invited the reader to see
herself within it, without claiming that this process had a point of culmination
towards which it was working. They purported to identify motors of historical
change rather than metahistorical ‘meaning’, and they illustrate the influence of
scientific upon historical thought. Their heirs today are the likes of the historical
sociologist Michael Mann, author of the multi-volume, multi-epochal The Sources
of Social Power: indeed, as indicated by David Hume’s 1739 call for a ‘Science of
Man’, their creation is contemporaneous to, and linked with, the early develop-
ment of the social sciences. With exceptions like Rousseau, or at least the ‘quasi-
historical’ Rousseau of the Discourse on the Origins of Inequality (p. 149), most of
Society, Nature, Emancipation 155
the thinkers under consideration had a view of history as progress. On one hand,
as already implied, this sort of thinking was not necessarily teleological—one
could imagine a never-ending process of civilizational improvement without
some culmination—and indeed it need imply no causal determinism either—it
could just reflect optimism, or a sense of what would happen were human poten-
tialities fulfilled. Yet on the other hand it could tend towards the self-congratulatory
and was easily bowdlerized for popular consumption into some partisan claim on
destiny, as a species of History as Identity.
On the whole the scholarship under examination evinced a liberal and peace-
able spirit as regards confessional and national differences, though it was fre-
quently marked by a partiality to occidental civilization, and traces of national
bias may often be detected. The dynastic and religious wars of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries had induced suspicion about dogmatism and scepticism as
to the motivation of great men. This helps explain a shift away from the study of
religious and political institutions and towards—or back towards, insofar as there
was some crossover with the French ‘new History’ of the sixteenth century—civic
morals, culture, and the structural conditions of social life. History expanded fur-
ther from being an instruction in statecraft for public men to proffering more
rounded edification in the form of vicarious experience of different spheres of life,
which had the effect of producing more female historians and readers.1
At the same time, the injection of new ideologies into politics from the six-
teenth and seventeenth centuries meant that it was possible to recast wars between
states as conflicts between political systems rather than peoples. Whereas certain
medieval chronicles and the French ‘new historians’ had focused on deep ethnic
origins as an index of national difference and particularity, at least one strand of
British historiography in the eighteenth century reflected on the common ‘gothic’
roots of different European peoples, such that ‘the craven, despotic and Roman
Catholic “other” of the Continent was not wholly alien, but a deformed and cor-
rupted version of the hardy libertarian Goth’. While the likes of the ‘Whiggish’
historian Catharine Macaulay evinced an ethno-cultural chauvinism to go with
her radical politics, for others the problem was not ethnic so much as political in
the broadest sense, and accordingly could be solved by political changes.2
The interpretative battles in which Macaulay and her interlocutors engaged
reminds us that there is no clear line separating (for shorthand) Enlightenment
historiography from its predecessors and that equally fruitful lines of enquiry
persisted and developed alongside the ‘archetypal’ Enlightenment sort. The
1 On the last sentence, Karen O’Brien, ‘English Enlightenment Histories, 1750–c.1815’, in Rabasa
et al. (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 518–35, here 521–2, 531–2.
2 Colin Kidd, British Identities Before Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999),
ch. 9, quote from p. 211. This may simply reflect the fact that the British historiographical tradition
was less deeply rooted in ethnic thought than its French or German equivalents, for aforementioned
reasons of focus on dynastic rather than ethnic matters up to the seventeenth century.
156 Why History?
Académie Royale des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, founded in 1663, produced

historical works such as Joseph de Guignes’s History of the Huns, Mongols, and
Tartars (1756–8) as part of a programme that was less concerned with stadial
thought and universal categories than tracing genealogies and migration patterns
from antiquity onwards. This programme had as much in common with Bodin as
with the philosophes, though de Guignes published a pair of essays in 1758–9
which focused on Egyptian rather than Judaic civilizational primacy.3
Macaulay’s eight-volume History of England (1763–83) is proof that national
Histories continued to be written, but even as a more ‘Enlightenment’ interest
in ‘manners’ as opposed to high politics infused other sorts of History, the latter
did not necessarily have the conjectural nature of the ‘classic’ Enlightenment
Histories. From the late eighteenth century, indeed, we see the production of
works with the attention to source and detail that we associate with nineteenth-
century professionalization, and a diversity of focus that we think of as the pre-
serve of twentieth-century cultural History: works on medieval and Icelandic
literature, Histories of the novel, art, domestic life, women, sports and pastimes.4
On the whole, such work is absent from this chapter because of the governing
concern with the most theoretically self-conscious attempts to establish the utility
of History as a general way of understanding the human experience in light of
influential concepts like Volksgeist, circonstance, esprit général, représentations,
and even ‘relations of production’, that elucidated human diversity across time
and place. So attention is not devoted to, say, the medievalist Ludovico Muratori
(1672–1750), one of the greatest eighteenth-century historians in the more con-
ventional sense, and a man whose short- and long-term influence on the historian’s
practices, within and outside Italy, was much greater than that of Giambattista
Vico, who is addressed below.
The chosen thinkers alternately placed themselves within and beyond the flow
of human life and interaction. Variously they prescribed, described, schematized,
abstracted, incorporated, and in some cases relativized ways of life. Differences in
orientation may sometimes be explained by the varying political circumstances
in which they worked—from the relative peace of the early eighteenth century
after almost unbroken European warfare from 1688 to 1714 to the resurgence of
general hostilities in the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–8) and the Seven
Years War (1756–63), then the French Revolution and Napoleonic wars, and,
relevant for Marx in particular, the beginnings of industrialization—though
political and military strife could stimulate pacific, cosmopolitan sentiment just
as often as inflaming partisanship. Marx, however, not only produced a theory of
3 Guido Abbattista, ‘The Historical Thought of the French Philosophes’, Rabasa et al. (eds.), The
Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 406–27, here 413–14, 424–5.
4 O’Brien, ‘English Enlightenment Histories’, 531–2.
history based on a particular sort of conflict—class conflict—but gave a tremendous

boost to History as Emancipation.
While the thinkers collected here fully discredit any notion that the ‘age of reason’
was uninterested in the past, they were historical thinkers rather than historians
in the more parochial sense. Then again, today’s intellectual division of labour
did not yet obtain and few university scholars had ‘historian’ as their title. Only
gradually throughout the nineteenth century did discrete academic departments
of History develop, with the exception of Germany, where Göttingen had blazed a
trail in the eighteenth century. To that exception the present chapter attends, to
show amongst other things how the agenda of the Göttingen historians was but a
variant of a wider pattern of philosophical History.
Prelude: Bolingbroke and Vico
The Tory politician and political philosopher Henry St John, Viscount Bolingbroke
(1678–1751) set some of the terms of the intellectual debate with which this
chapter is concerned. He married a generalized classical view of History as
‘teacher of life’ (magistra vitae) with a particular conviction, perhaps shaped by
his own fraught endeavours to promote Anglo-French peace in the last years of
Queen Anne (d. 1714) and Louis XIV (d. 1715), that History could help extin-
guish ‘those national partialities and prejudices that we are apt to contract in our
education’.5 A preacher of confessional tolerance, in the tradition of Montaigne he
also used the wider world to challenge prevailing assumptions of superiority, as
when he suggested that ‘the Mexican with his cap and coat of feathers, sacrificing
a human victim to his god, will not appear more savage to our eyes, than the
Spaniard with a hat on his head, and a gonilla around his neck, sacrificing whole
nations to his ambition, his avarice, and even the wantonness of his cruelty’.6 His
historical scepticism—perhaps with a nod to Descartes he once suggested that
much History was just ‘authorized romance’—was reflected in the fact that his
best-known contribution to the discipline is a series of letters and thoughts rather
than a historical narrative. We may also detect some of the influence of the new
English political settlement of 1688–9 in his belief that remote areas of History
were not only difficult to know but also useless to learn about because of their
irrelevance to the problems of his present day. ‘An application to any study, that
tends neither directly nor indirectly to make us better men and better citizens, is
at best but a specious and ingenious sort of idleness . . . and the knowledge we
acquire by it is a creditable kind of ignorance, nothing more.’7 If this was a rather
unforgiving standard it once more pressed the question of the utility of historical
5 Ibid. 522, 493. 6 Bolingbroke, Letters, 26. 7 Ibid. 12–14.

158 Why History?
enquiry given contextual differences across time and given the challenges of
philosophy which worked from principles rather than precedents. Secular
philosophy of History was one answer to that question.8
The road from theology to secular philosophy of History passes through the
work of a pious Catholic, Vico (1688–1744). While not much acknowledged at
the time, Vico’s work anticipated the themes of many of the other scholars we are
to encounter, while sharing some elements with Leibniz’s thought. It was written
in conversation with Descartes, whose thought dominated Latinate philosophical
circles in the seventeenth century and whose politely dismissive opinions on
History we have already encountered: Descartes was also suspicious of rhetoric as
something that obscured the ‘clear and distinct’ ideas that formed the founda-
tions of reliable systems of belief, or, worse, provided false promise as to same.9
Vico was additionally engaged with social contract theories.
Against Hobbes and Locke and in line with David Hume, Vico observed that
humans were more likely to be joined in sociability by shared emotional ties,
pasts, and associated myths, than by rational agreement. Enculturated similarity
was a precondition of the capacity for rational agreement, which meant that
what was considered rational would vary from culture to culture. As opposed to
the rationalist students of the natural world, he claimed that humans could not
bracket this sensual quality in their consciousness. Working from the claim that
certain knowledge could be achieved only in mathematics, he observed that this
was because principles, postulates, geometrical forms, and so on, were of human
creation, and so were more like human social and cultural institutions than
was the natural world—note the difference with Platonic thought in which ideal,
universal forms like perfect circles had higher (metaphysical) reality than mere
‘concrete’ reality. Only that which ‘man’ had created could he know, in a way
beyond utilitarian acquaintance such as he had with the natural world. The philo-
sophical thrust was that there was no clear Cartesian distinction between investi-
gating subject and object in the human sciences; self-understanding and historical
understanding illuminated each other given the appropriate ‘historical conscious-
ness’. Historical enquiry could not be modelled on the paradigm of the natural
sciences and could not rely on a concept of explanation modelled on scientific
principles of causation. In such ‘scientific’ thinking, ancient myths were dismissed
as simple misunderstandings of the way the world worked, or ‘at best’ seen as
allegorical ways of expressing accurate knowledge of the world. For Vico, this was
the high road to an anachronistic misunderstanding of the cultural worldviews
that these myths had created. It also resulted in a mistaken view of the way in
which the present had developed out of the past in question, which was for the
8 I owe to Pocock, The Ancient Constitution, 246–8, this link from Bolingbroke to Vico and other
philosophers of history.
9 Giambattista Vico, On Humanistic Education (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), 25–6; Isaiah
Berlin, Vico and Herder: Two Studies in the History of Ideas (London: Chatto and Windus, 1980).
historian a misunderstanding of ‘himself ’ as a creature-in-time. For Vico myths

were poetic in the sense of being creative; they construed the world in a way that
called for hermeneutic investigation into their meaning and meaning could not
be reduced to some better or worse approximation to a universal functionality.
Moreover, unlike the study of series of events, myths bequeathed something
about collective consciousness, shared meanings, internal life (though not just of
individuals), and concepts of the transcendent. Insofar as Vico clarified and codi-
fied these distinctions he helped to shape the concept of the Geisteswissenschaften
or human/spiritual sciences as opposed to the natural sciences, though the sort
of contextualized understanding at issue was roughly what the French sixteenth-
century ‘new historians’ and even others before them had been attempting.
What Vico added was a strong element of discursive/linguistic constructivism,
wherein the creative power of language, particularly in narrative form, had to be
taken seriously as a causal/contextual strand in any account. Indeed, when one
was working oneself ‘back’ into the thought-worlds of past peoples, a grasp of
the way they used language, or, rather, the way they thought-through language,
was vital.10
Vico certainly admired the mathematical and scientific thought of his age,
but he addressed it within the context of human systems of meaning, asking not
whether any mathematical claim was accurate but what mathematical thinking
told the observer about contemporary human life. One conclusion was that, as a
quintessentially human-cultural product which was geared to human purposes,
such thinking actually represented just the sort of alienation from the spiritual
world and the god-given natural world that occurred with the Fall of humanity.
In a primordial, prelapsarian state, he posited on the basis of mythological read-
ings, humanity was at home in the natural world, seeing itself as continuous with it,
rather than seeing the world as something to be worked on via abstracting
thought. Here Vico shares affinities with Adorno’s and Horkheimer’s twentieth-
century vision of the rise to social dominance of a form of exploitative instru-
mental rationality, and with Martin Heidegger, who feared the alienating impact
of technological civilization. For Vico the development of this sort of abstract
thought within Christian civilization was nonetheless redolent of crises in the
life-courses of other peoples. It is part of what we have good reason to call the
dialectical quality of Vico’s thought (just as Adorno and Horkheimer called their
most famous work Dialectic of Enlightenment), that a civilizational advance like
that of the sciences—and he did see it as an advance—should also contain the
seeds of civilizational crisis.11
10 Joseph Mali, The Rehabilitation of Myth: Vico’s New Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1992); Robert C. Miner, Vico: Genealogist of Modernity (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame
Press, 2002).
11 Ibid.; on the Heidegger comparison Ernesto Grassi, Vico and Humanism: Essays on Vico,
Heidegger, and Rhetoric (New York: Peter Lang, 1991).
160 Why History?
Vico’s reflection on the development of human institutions in the book Scienza

Nuova (The New Science: editions in 1725, 1730, 1744) led him to blend some
of the prescriptions of classical antiquity with those of Christian theologians
including Augustine, Isidore of Seville, and Joachim of Fiore, and the proponents
of similitudo temporum, as he suggested a universal pattern of historical develop-
ment. He called it ‘a system of the natural law of nations’ based on the ‘common
nature of nations’ which highlights his jurisprudential qualifications and his debts
to Grotius. All peoples passed upwards through three ‘ages’—Vico claimed the
concept of three ages could be traced back to ancient Egypt—if at different speeds
and in light of unique cultural modalities: the ages of gods, heroes, and men.
First, in the age of the gods, ‘the gentiles believed they lived under divine govern-
ments, and everything was commanded them by auspices and oracles, which
are the oldest institutions in profane history’. Then, in the next age, the heroes
‘reigned everywhere in aristocratic commonwealths, on account of a certain
superiority of nature which they held themselves to have over the plebs’. Finally,
in the age of men, ‘all men recognized themselves as equal in human nature, and
therefore there were established first the popular commonwealths and then the
monarchies, both of which are forms of human government’.12 One stage is suc-
ceeded by another as certain tendencies of friction develop from within, and then
the chain starts again although it as unclear as it is in some of the Greek theories
of history whether this is a never-ending circle of repetition or whether there is a
spiral of gradual improvement with each cycle.
Vico’s is specifically a study of the ‘gentile nations’, i.e. of non-Jews, and is mod-
elled with reference to the experience of the Roman Empire and other antique
cases.13 Like Bodin, Vico believed the Hebrews to be the first people, and like
Bodin his thought evinces Neoplatonic and hermetic influences.14 But there is
also a more orthodox Augustinian strain in the exception he made for Jews
among the nations. He thought that they were the subject of sacred, providential
history, divine revelation meaning that they did not have to experience the ‘ideal
eternal history’ of all other peoples. It may be that the focus on gentiles meant
Vico was freer to develop his basic claims about humans creating their own his-
tory by their poetic capacities, which fitted with his humanism, whereas the
activities of the Inquisition in the Naples of his day rather militated against con-
sidering a biblical people in this context. This interpretation is bolstered by the
fact that elements of the New Science do seem to pertain to Christians and pagan
peoples are sometimes depicted as receiving a sort of revelation. At the same time,
12 Giambattisa Vico, New Science, §31 in Giambattisa Vico, The New Science of Giambattista Vico:
Unabridged Translation of the Third Edition (1744), trans. Thomas Goddard Bergin and Max Harold
Fisch (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), 20.
13 Ibid.
14 Giuseppe Mazzotta, The New Map of the World: The Poetic Philosophy of Giambattista Vico
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 115–19.
Jews and by extension Christians provide a standard against which ‘gentiles’

are measured.15
Vico’s social theory moves away from a monist model, in which a universal or a
best/ideal human character is posited, to a pluralist paradigm in which culture
and its varieties occupy the centre ground. But this move is not complete. Since
all people shared the same basic capacities, all societies had the potential finally to
achieve a fully developed, rational sort of human, with past cultural arrangements
being deemed better or worse in terms of their role in developing those capacities.
The concept of the three ages was hierarchical, with only the age of men contain-
ing the potential for realization of the ‘immutable law of the rational humanity,
which is the true and proper nature of man’—an idea which had a direct influence
on the early Marx. Christianity was the true religion because of its spiritualism
and rationality, as opposed, say, to the outlook of classical Greece (too much
rationalism) or of Islamic societies (too much dogmatism):
religions alone can bring the peoples to do virtuous works by appeal to their
feelings, which alone move men to perform them; and the reasoned maxims of
the philosophers concerning virtue are of use only when employed by a good
eloquence for kindling the feelings to do the duties of virtue. There is, however,
an essential difference between our Christian religion, which is true, and all the
others, which are false. In our religion, divine grace causes virtuous action for
the sake of an eternal and infinite good. This good cannot fall under the senses,
and it is consequently the mind that, for its sake, moves the senses to virtuous
actions. The false religions, on the contrary, have proposed to themselves finite
and transitory goods, in this life as in the other (where they expect a beatitude of
sensual pleasures), and hence the senses must drive the mind to do virtuous
works.16
The French Enlightenment
Although the approach adopted by Montesquieu (1689–1755) was similar to

that of Vico in terms of its stress on comparative social analysis, Montesquieu’s
analysis extended to a far wider range of societies than Vico’s focus on ancient
societies of the eastern Mediterranean, and his work has great significance in
terms of its economics and anthropology. In the spirit of Bayle and with some
British empiricist influence too, his On the Spirit of the Laws (1748)—he had once
15 Joseph Mali, Mythistory: The Making of a Modern Historiography (Chicago: University of

Chicago Press, 2003), 68–70; cf. (on contrast to the standards of the monotheists) Miner, Vico.
16 Quotes from Vico, New Science, §§973 and 1110, in Vico, The New Science of Giambattista Vico,
359 and 426 respectively. For the reflections on monism and implicit hierarchies: Bhikhu Parekh,
Rethinking Multiculturalism (Basingstoke: Macmillan 2006), 50–5.
162 Why History?
been a practitioner of law—was a significant theoretical step towards understand-

ing codes of law and morality purely as products of human societies rather than
as emanations of the divine. In other words what Vico and Leibniz (and after
them Hamann and Herder: pp. 173–8) did for the study of myths, religions, and
languages, what the historian J. J. Winckelmann (1717–68) did for art, and what
the theorist Anne-Louise Germaine de Staël (1766–1817) was to do for literature
(p. 218), Montesquieu did for laws. He interpreted laws not just as influences on
collective life but expressions of the same, windows into collective thought and
imagination.
On the Spirit of the Laws also produced yet another tripartite classification:
government by monarchy, republic, and despotism. The triad indicates the cen-
trality in his work, as later in Edward Gibbon’s, of the relationship of individual
liberty to politico-legal structures. The point of such classifications is on the
whole to abstract from a range of scenarios. Some historians today would regard
such abstraction as a problem, but it is just one of the things that now distin-
guishes social science from History. Furthermore, Montesquieu did pour a great
deal of empirical content into his concepts, especially the sort of concepts that
historians tend now to refer to when they invoke ‘the context of the times’. The
Marxist theorist Louis Althusser traced back to Leibniz, through Montesquieu
and Hegel, a sort of social theory that he dubbed ‘expressive’. By this he meant that
the theory proposed a sort of internally generated social essence that suffused the
whole, meaning that all socio-cultural, economic, and political institutions had
a similar basic orientation. Individual humans were more like expressions of
the systems rather than being architects of them. In these systems, according to
Althusser, ‘the structure of historical existence is such that all the elements of
the whole always co-exist in one and the same time.’ However far Montesquieu’s
secularism was from Leibniz’s religious metaphysics, both were strongly holistic
in their conceptualization of internally coherent mini-worlds.17
Like Montaigne, Montesquieu used the perspectives of non-occidental cul-
tures to bring his own under critique, notably in his Persian Letters of 1721. His
earnest desire to understand foreign practices rather than to evaluate them led
him to be accused by contemporaries of endorsing unchristian customs such as
polygamy. That mischaracterization is as enduring as its nominal opposite, the
assumption that comprehension and judgement are incompatible. Montesquieu’s
assessment of different practices as being ‘juste’ within their system was more
likely an acknowledgement of their ‘aptness’ for such-and-such a society at such-
and-such a stage, rather than their normative ‘rightness’ simpliciter. In any case,
Montesquieu was no cultural relativist, however much he advocated sympathetic
understanding.
17 Louis Althusser and Étienne Balibar, Reading Capital (London: New Left Books, 1970), 94–7,
186–9; Althusser, For Marx (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969), 103.
Like Bodin before and Winckelmann after, Montesquieu saw peoples as

shaped by their geographical and climatic contexts—temperatures, resource
endowments, and so forth. However, some peoples had managed to emancipate
themselves from these determinations. Only these latter sorts of people—and
here the bias towards the occident—had ‘proper’ histories of change, and thus
of politics which arbitrated change. Non-European peoples, while sharing the
‘innate’ love of ‘liberty’ (as defined in a rather European way) common to all
humans, had not yet produced the genius lawgivers who could facilitate the ful-
filment of their desires by liberating them from that great Other of the occident:
‘oriental despotism’. In that sense, Montesquieu’s main modern points of refer-
ence were European, and more specifically Anglo-French, as he reflected on
the Glorious Revolution and the improvement in Anglo-French relations after
Louis XIV’s death.18 Montesquieu’s main point of ancient reference was Rome,
with his Considerations on the Causes of the Grandeur and Decadence of the
Romans (1734) constituting his major strictly historical work. The power that
the Roman experience continued to wield over the imagination of Europe’s
most innovative social thinkers is remarkable indeed, if we but think that along-
side Vico, Edward Gibbon (1737–94), William Robertson (1721–93), and Adam
Ferguson (1723–1816) all devoted historical attention to it as a source of analogy
and an anvil on which to hammer out their more general theories of history and
human behaviour.
Voltaire (1694–1778) was Montesquieu’s rival for the title of France’s most
influential historian of the eighteenth century, and their competition also
extended to political outlook. Voltaire called his Essai Sur L’Histoire Universelle
Depuis Charlemagne (1756)—translated into English as An Essay on Universal
History, the Manners, and Spirit of Nations—a philosophy of history. It was the
first work to attach that name to itself, in order to contrast it with Bossuet’s ‘the
ology of history’. Voltaire was Spinoza’s heir in his quest for a rational political
order freed of arbitrary customary power as well as his deism/theism, but he also
desired a systematic, general History that would replace Christian teleology and
self-referentiality. His earlier Le Siècle de Louis XIV (The Century of Louis XIV,
1751) had deployed a version of similitudo temporum, with France constituting a
modern Rome to the Renaissance states’ Athens as self-aware, dynamic human
polities, emerging out of the voids of stagnation. But Voltaire’s work was also
noteworthy for its attempt at a general History in which the narrative of the west
was decentred amid examinations of a wider range of empires and cultures,
beginning with China rather than Egypt or the ancient Hebrews. At points vari-
ous of these cultures are at the forefront of humanity’s progress. A principal goal
was to discredit Christian ‘universal history’ in favour of ‘l’histoire de l’esprit
18 Parekh, Rethinking Multiculturalism, 55–67.

164 Why History?
humain’. At the same time, certain formal similarities between his and Bossuet’s
work are undeniable:
parallel to the providential presence of the Holy Spirit was the intramundane
esprit humain; parallel to the apocalyptic transfiguration of the end of days
was the ecumenic spread of politesse; the historical extinction, rebirth, and pro-
gress of the human spirit were the secular equivalent to the Christian drama of
the fall of humanity in the story of Adam, the redemption of humanity in the
story of Christ, and the transfiguration of humanity in the evocation of the Last
Judgment.19
Voltaire encapsulates the difference between the French and German

Enlightenment, the former being more political, rationalist, anti-clerical, and
critical of revealed religion, the latter more contemplative and coloured by
Lutheranism. Voltaire sometimes wrote in criticism of the Christian and medieval
institutions from which he saw his own epoch as emancipating itself—a sort of
History as negative Moral Lesson directed at a civilization rather than an indi-
vidual historical actor. In this criticism he found allies in France and in Britain,
some of whose traditions of thought he helped to introduce to France. The Scottish
philosopher Dugald Stewart (1753–1828) wrote of ‘a long night of Gothic barba-
rism’ before the dawn of the eighteenth century’. The historian John Pinkerton
(1758–1826) invoked an earlier Scotland overrun by a tide of ‘weeds and vermin,
which its ebb has left on the shore’.20 Like the philosopher and historian Hume,
Gibbon was especially scathing of the dogmatism of institutionalized monothe-
isms; he wrote of ‘the triumph of barbarism and religion’ at the end of the Roman
empire, with Christianity’s erosion of classical culture facilitating the ‘barbarian’
triumph and the fracturing of the Roman empire. By extension the subsequent
‘dark’ and ‘middle’ ages were indicted too.21 Unlike Hume, Gibbon never pro-
fessed an epistemology that differed from his historical method. Gibbon fancied
himself to have discovered historical laws, including the principal law that the
loss of civic liberty leads to civilizational decay. The subject of his opus The Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–88) contrasted with the majesty of the English
constitutional settlement of 1688–9.22
In the same contrastive vein, Condorcet (1743–94), author of Sketch for a
Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind (1793–4), described History
19 Barry Cooper, Eric Voegelin and the Foundations of Modern Political Science (Columbia:
University of Missouri Press, 1999), 218–19.
20 Quotes from David Allan, ‘Scottish Historical Writing of the Enlightenment’, in Rabasa et al.
(eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1400–1800, 497–517, here 514.
21 Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. David P. Womersley,
vol. 3 (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1995), 1068.
22 Michael Bentley, ‘Introduction: Approaches to Modernity’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to
Historiography, 395–506, here 403–5.
as ‘man’s confession’ of bygone fanaticism and superstition.23 The strength of

Condorcet’s convictions may be inferred from the fact that he penned this
panegyric to anticipated human emancipation while in hiding from the Jacobin
Committee of Public Safety. He tended more to the prophetic than the apocalyp-
tic mode of philosophy of History (see pp. 55–6), presenting his world as standing
on the cusp of utopia: ‘how welcome to the philosopher is this picture of the
human race freed from all its chains, released from the domination of chance and
of the enemies of its progress, advancing with a firm and sure step in the path of
truth, virtue, and happiness! How this spectacle consoles him for the errors,
crimes, and injustices that still defile the earth, of which he is often the victim!’
At the same time, he embodied a scientistic or ‘positivist’ approach to human
affairs: ‘The only basis for belief in the natural sciences is the idea that, whether
we know them or not, the general laws governing the phenomena of the universe
are necessary and constant. Why should this same principle be less true for the
development of the intellectual and moral capacities of humankind than for other
natural processes?’24 While anticipating an age of enlightened equality across the
globe, and critical of foregoing European imperialism, Condorcet was thoroughly
Eurocentric in his idea of who was to lead the liberating charge, and rather unori
ginal in his focus on Greece as the point at which occidental civilization had
departed from the norm of serried backward, obscurantist peoples.25 His work
sometimes deployed a ten-part schema in which human history progresses from
a state of nature to the one Condorcet foresaw. Ten stages are more appropriate
than three for the atheist who favoured decimal classification in a number of
spheres, but tripartite divisions would nonetheless continue to exert a peculiar
hold over ‘progressive’ French social theorists, notably Henri de Saint-Simon
(1760–1825) and, under his influence, Auguste Comte (1785–1857).26
Condorcet’s ‘social science’ was one of a number to evolve in the generations
around the French Revolution. The veneration of natural science certainly helps
explain this development, but so too does the establishment of the nation-state with
its break with tradition and its provision of a veritable social experimentation
chamber. As had been the case with myths earlier, the relationship between social
world and the social sciences was not one way: the theories influenced societies as
well as analysing them.
23 Breisach, Historiography, 207.

24 Condorcet, ‘Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind: Tenth Epoch’,
trans. Keith Michael Baker, Daedalus, 133:3 (2004), 65–82, here 65, 81—see also 82 on ‘paradise’.
25 Ibid. 67–71; Breisach, Historiography, 205–7; David Allen Harvey, The French Enlightenment and
its Others: The Mandarin, the Savage, and the Invention of the Human Sciences (London: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2012), 197 ff.
26 On the social sciences, see Harvey, French Enlightenment; for the whole text and other support-
ing documentation, including particular elaborations of some of the ten-stage periodization:
Condorcet, Tableau historique des progrès de l’esprit humain: projets, esquisse, fragments et notes
(1772–1794), ed. Jean-Pierre Schandeler and Pierre Crépel (Paris: L’Institute National d’Études
Démographique, 2004).
166 Why History?
The Scottish Enlightenment
The significance of the earlier Hume (1711–76) in these connections was not
his faith—he had none—in grand interpretative historical schemes or linear
developmentalism, but his reflection on psychology within the ‘science of man’.
Psychology was a central element in any systematic thinking about causation in
human affairs and linkages between people across time and place. For Hume, as
for Vico, the science of man was a foundation for considering the other scientific
investigations on which ‘man’ embarked, but Hume perceived a more thorough
going constancy in human nature. It was this, perhaps, that allowed him to sub-
scribe to most of the Greek rationales for writing History simultaneously. At one
point he averred that ‘the advantages found in history seem to be of three kinds,
as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the understanding, and as it strengthens
virtue’,27 and at another time that ‘History, the great mistress of wisdom, furnishes
examples of all kinds; and every prudential, as well as moral precept, may be
authorized by those events, which her enlarged mirror is able to present to us’.28
He also suggested that whoever wanted to know ‘the sentiments, inclinations, and
course of life of the Greeks and Romans’ should study ‘the temper and actions of
the French and English’.
Mankind are so much the same, in all times and places, that history informs us
of nothing new or strange in this particular. Its chief use is only to discover the
constant and universal principles of human varieties of circumstances and situ
ations, and furnishing us with materials from which we may form our observa-
tions and become acquainted with the regular springs of human action and
behaviour. These records of wars, intrigues, factions, and revolutions are so
many collections of experiments, by which the politician or moral philosopher
fixes the principles of his science, in the same manner as the physician or natural
philosopher becomes acquainted with the nature of plants, minerals, and other
external objects, by the experiments which he forms concerning them.29
To use the terms deployed earlier (p. 122) this is a more functional ‘men of their
place’ argument than a culturally-oriented ‘men of their times’ stance, but Hume
was aware that other cultures and times held divergent values, and insisted that
people should only be judged by the standards prevailing locally, even if one
disapproves of those standards. Because he believed that relatively superficial
27 S. K. Wertz, ‘Moral Judgments in History: Hume’s Position’, Hume Studies, XXII:2 (1996), 339–68,
here 342.
28 David Hume, The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution in 1688,
vol. VII (London: T. Cadell, 1778), 150.
29 David Hume, On Human Nature and the Understanding, ed. Antony Flew (New York: Macmillan,
1962), 94–5.
differences could be reduced under inspection to commonalities, he certainly did

not adopt a relativistic position. Even for those with a more variegated under-
standing of culture, the psychological approach was central to explaining, for
instance, the mythical origins of religion. This mode of explanation provided
basic building blocks for further non-religious accounts of human institutions
and history.30
Hume’s History of England (1754–62) was deflationary in that psychological
explanations undermined grander ideological explanations for political actions.
He also sought to ‘refute the speculative systems of politics advanced’ in
Britain, which is one of the hallmarks of the conservative, mistrustful of the
capacity of grand designs to do justice to the messy complexity of real life, and
aware of the rule of unintended consequences. That aim reflects his emphasis,
common to other Scottish Enlightenment thinkers, on the importance of custom
in social evolution, as opposed to great lawgivers and individual intentions.
Hume was similarly opposed to mythologies of the past for their distorting,
polarizing effects on political discourse. Given the historical success of variants
of Protestantism in Britain and the success of Protestant powers in the Seven
Years War, it tended to be Protestant claims on legitimacy and providence that
sounded most stridently, such that Hume’s friend William Robertson, who
was at once Edinburgh University’s principal and a leader of the Church in
Scotland from the 1760s, found himself combating Protestant dogmatism in his
historical scholarship.
At the same time Robertson played his own part in sublimating Protestant
philosophies of history into a secular theory of stadial development built on
universalistic precepts, most notably in the prologue to The History of the Reign of
the Emperor Charles V (1769) and in A History of America (1777), which detailed
pre-Columbian American history and then the collision of ‘old’ and ‘new’ worlds.31
One wonders how much of the inspiration for such a study, as for the general
fecundity of Scottish historical philosophizing around this time, was due to the
great social and economic changes wrought on the country following the ’45,
the failed Jacobite rising against the Hanoverian dynasty. Robertson wrote that a
‘human being, as he comes originally from the hand of nature, is every where
the same . . . the talents he may afterwards acquire, as well as the virtues he may
be rendered capable of exercising, depend entirely upon the state of society in
which he is placed’. This view combined egalitarian universalism as regards a
general human condition with the potential for prejudice against actual human
societies. Indeed it seems to have been premised on the familiar assumption that
30 Frank Edward Manuel, The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1959); Peter Melville Logan, Victorian Fetishism: Intellectuals and Primitives (Albany:
State University of New York, 2009), ch. 1.
31 Allan, ‘Scottish Historical Writing’, 504–6.
168 Why History?
indigenous Americans were effectively living in a state of nature that could be

observed, and out of which they could be cultivated given appropriate institu-
tional arrangements. This is not to suggest that he in any way endorsed the vio-
lence of the invading Europeans.32
Robertson’s contemporary Adam Ferguson made the contrary point that the
state of nature was a myth, one designed to cover gaps in a theory and justify
some arrangement preferred by the ‘social contract’ theorist. On one hand this
implied the improbable assumption that no contract theorist realized the artifi-
ciality of their heuristic exercise; on the other hand, it pointed to the inherent
sociality of people, the fact that when conceiving some actual person or set of
people as without culture one is just showing oneself to be blind to their accul-
turation. As his Essay on the History of Civil Society (1767) unfolded, Ferguson
also claimed to have identified the motor of historical development, in the
human ingenuity brought forth to satisfy material needs. Ferguson did not see
this as a contradiction, a return to a pre-cultural depiction of the human,
because even if certain needs were clearly universal, the human capacity for
invention in order to meet them was indicative of the broader capacity for dif-
ferent human groups to constitute themselves historically, and thus culturally:
‘of all the terms we employ in treating of human affairs, those of natural and
unnatural are least determinate in their meaning’. So ‘we speak of art as distin-
guished from nature, but art itself is natural to man’, and ‘man’ is ‘in some meas-
ure the artificer of his own frame, as well as his fortune’. It would be left to
Adam Smith to elaborate a theory of why there were qualitative as well as quan-
titative changes over time in the way of meeting needs—changes from hunter-
gatherer society to a pastoral mode, then an agrarian one, and then ‘commercial
society’. These Smith attributed to necessity stemming from population growth,
with the accompanying ‘invention’ not issuing from the genius of any one indi-
vidual, but rather from the self-interested and basically short-sighted actions
of the many.33
Robertson, Smith, and Ferguson are characteristic of so much Enlightenment
historical thought in moving away from the conscious designs of gods and great
men and towards the significance of what was known among their French contem-
poraries as ‘circonstance’: circumstance. Acting at the interface of needs, impulses,
mores, collectives, and institutions, their work also showed how hard it can be after
a point to distinguish between a ‘functional’ and a ‘cultural’ contextualization.
32 Ibid. 506.

33 Roger Smith, ‘The Language of Human Nature’, in Christopher Fox, Roy Porter, and Robert
Wokler (eds.), Inventing Human Science: Eighteenth-Century Domains (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1995), 88–111, here 104; Craig Smith, Adam Smith’s Political Philosophy: The Invisible
Hand and Spontaneous Order (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006), passim on Smith and, on Ferguson,
26–33; Allan, ‘Scottish Historical Writing’, 507–9.
The German Enlightenment and Early Romanticism
Arguably the greatest Enlightenment philosopher, Immanuel Kant (1724–1804),

addressed the same contextualization problem in his lectures on anthropology
when he observed that the ability to create different natures is part of the general
human endowment. But when he entered the lists of ‘pragmatic’ History—really a
speculative venture which he explicitly distinguished from empirical historical
inquiry—in his 1784 essay Idea for a Universal History from a Cosmopolitan Point
of View, the result was teleological and its ‘universalism’ Eurocentric.34 The impli-
cation of his theory of knowledge was that individuals everywhere partook of a
‘psychic unity’, and he did not subscribe to the polygenetic theory. Nevertheless,
at points he clearly believed in distinctions within the human race, correlated
with skin colour and sometimes—as in the thought of Montesquieu and Bodin—
with climatic conditions. Some of this was straightforwardly racist, and even at
the end of his life he did not approve of ‘race-mixing’, though alas that scarcely
puts him in an extreme position at the time. He was not consistent in many of his
views, which may be explained by the clash of personal and cultural prejudices
with his theoretical propositions about the nature of cognition. Sometimes he
described Africans or indigenous Americans as pre-moral, sometimes as access
ible within the moral universe if on its peripheries, but over time he grew firmer
in his commitment to including all within his theory of cosmopolitan right
(Weltbürgerrecht) in a world of ever-greater connectivity. His Towards Perpetual
Peace (1795) and The Metaphysics of Morals promoted criticism of colonial
practices and the slave trade, and played on the concept of ‘savages’ in much the
same way Montaigne did.35 Proposing that all people effectively shared the same
34 Immanuel Kant, Idee zu einer allgemeinen Geschichte in weltbürgerlicher Absicht, trans. in Kant:
Political Writings, ed. Hans Reiss (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 41–53. For wider
contextualization, Thomas Sturm, Kant und die Wissenschaften vom Menschen (Paderborn: Mentis,
2009) chs. VI–VII. On Kant’s particular understanding of ‘pragmatic’, and its place in his scheme, see
John H. Zammito, Kant, Herder and the Birth of Anthropology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
2002), 348–9.
35 For changes over time and inconsistencies and consistencies, including the difference between
Kant’s personal prejudices and the implications of his theories: Sturm, Kant und die Wissenschaften
vom Menschen; Robert B. Loud, Kant’s Impure Ethics: From Rational Beings to Human Beings
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 99, 195, 209; Pauline Kleingeld, ‘Kant’s Second Thoughts
on Race’, The Philosophical Quarterly, 57:229 (2007), 573–92; and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty and
James Schmidt (eds.), Kant’s ‘Idea for a Universal History With a Cosmopolitan Aim’: A Critical Guide
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 184. On ‘race-mixing’, Mark Larrimore, ‘Antinomies
of Race: Diversity and Destiny in Kant’, Patterns of Prejudice, 42:4/5 (2008), 341–63. For anti-colonial-
ism and the entry of the world’s peoples ‘in varying degrees into a universal community’ in the light of
connectivity in Towards Perpetual Peace, see the reproduction of the essay in Kant: Political Writings,
ed. Reiss, 93–130, here 106–7, and, for the Montaigne-like quotation on ‘savages’, 103: ‘the main differ-
ence between the savage nations of Europe and those of America is that while some American tribes
have been entirely eaten up by their enemies, the Europeans know how to make better use of those
they have defeated than merely by making a meal of them. They would rather use them to increase the
number of their own subjects, thereby augmenting their stock of instruments for conducting even
more extensive wars.’
170 Why History?
capacities for reason, Kant nevertheless suggested in Towards Perpetual Peace that
how explicit those categories are in the mind, and thus how they are actualized,
varies according to time and place.36
Just as important as Kant’s reflections on history and diversity were his
thoughts—and, as we shall shortly see, the reaction to those thoughts—about
how people conceived themselves in time and in regard of reason and the world
beyond the mind. Against the pure rationalism of Descartes (in one of his modes),
Baconian and Newtonian empiricism soon showed how experimental observa-
tion of the world could confound deductive theory, but likewise it was apparent
that the mind was not a blank slate on which the truths of empiricism were
inscribed—instead the mind had a synthesizing quality. The very act of ‘making
sense’ undermined the concept of mental perceptions as uncomplicatedly mirror-
ing the world as it was, being then elucidated by transparent language. But rather
than concluding that strong scepticism was therefore vindicated, Kant rejected it
along with rationalism and empiricism in his ‘transcendental idealism’. Kant’s
‘Copernican revolution’ required seeing the subject as actively constituting its
experience by means of a synthetic activity that it undertakes. Such a synthetic
activity, according to Kant, operates by means of the ‘forms of intuition’, i.e. space
and time, which give experience a temporal and spatial order, and by means of
apriori conceptual categories like quantity, quality, and relation that allow that
experience to be subsumed under judgements. It is only through the judging
activity of the subject that it comes to have any experience of objects in the first
place. Human thought was no longer to be assessed for its capacity as a more or
less leaky vessel for knowledge whose origin lay beyond the subject (in God, in
the world, or whatever). Rather, the mind itself was the origin of knowledge.
Human subjectivity, in that sense, was the grounding of objectivity, but this is
subjectivity in the sense of a general human capacity, not a unique possession of
one individual. Note that what Kant called the transcendental (not transcendent)
ego is to be distinguished from what he called the empirical ego. The empirical ego
was the expression of unique, individual character. The transcendental ego was
a characteristic of every subject, but as the very basis of subjective thought, it
could only be approached by philosophical reflection not empirical enquiry.
Moral philosophy too relied on the capacity to create and access a generalizable
structure of reason.
Kant combined the sovereign quality of the self as legislating to itself with a
rationally constituted social glue whose generally recognized legitimacy would
replace that provided by revealed religion. In Kant’s view, all agents of sufficient
rationality could come to articulate the moral law for themselves, by virtue of
reasoning that they themselves were prepared only to live with norms that they
36 Michael N. Forster, Hegel’s Idea of a Phenomenology of Spirit (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1998), 363.
would themselves be prepared to legislate for all rational beings. This position
he termed the ‘categorical imperative’. In principle, all inherited and otherwise
external sources of moral or interpretative authority were supplanted by human
reflection on the finite world of experience and appearance, and the capacity for
reason. While the apriori categories were the structuring condition of thought
and understanding, the exercise of the latter faculties was an achievement in
human spontaneity, giving both freedom and responsibility to the subject. This
was at once uplifting—transient mortal existence need no longer be contrasted
with the uncorrupted and superior version—and salutary—for the soul’s
immortality had conventionally alleviated the burden of physical finitude, and
furthermore responsibility for identifying the moral life for the sake of that life
itself now lay absolutely with the human. Another nail was driven into the coffin
of human orientations towards the ancestral-traditional past or the eternal.
Though Kant himself was still committed to a ‘rational theology’, in subsequent
thought humans were now oriented towards an open-ended future in which their
projects needed no sanction from inherited meanings and, as long as the pro-
jects respected other rational beings, could be pursued with the deployment of
fungible natural resources exploited for their instrumental value against clock
time as that determined everyday secular activity.37 A perfect philosophy, then,
for a bourgeois-capitalistic modernity in which community dissolves into self-
directed individualism, bonds into contracts of exchange, technological control
obviates natural rhythms, and accelerated change demands prediction and con-
trol of the future?38 If Kant would not have endorsed these conclusions, and if
they are in many ways an absurd reduction of his magnificent achievement,
for travellers on the via antiqua they would have seemed but a logical extension
of the process by which the productive mystery of the Bible had been obliterated
in construction of the via moderna.39
Consonant with a world of predictable rhythm, one of whose historiographical
expressions was the increased circulation of History in Britain identified by
Woolf (p. 147), eighteenth-century Germany witnessed a gradual and uncertain
shift in the concept of ‘pragmatic history’, though Polybius, the historian who
had coined that term, had anticipated most of the variations on the theme. While
in a manifesto of 1714 Johann David Köhler associated pragmatic History with
orientation in civic life, especially political affairs, Johann Christoph Gatterer
(1727–99), of Göttingen’s influential Royal Institute for Historical Sciences,
understood it as developing ‘the whole system of causes and effects, of means and
37 On this aftermath, Martin Shuster, Autonomy after Auschwitz: Adorno, German Idealism, and
Modernity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), ch. 2; Hammer, Philosophy and Temporality,
71–5.
38 Ibid. 41–53, chs. 3 and 4. For the relation to historical consciousness, see Koselleck, Futures Past,
passim.
39 Kelber, ‘The Quest’, 81.
172 Why History?
intentions . . . Nothing should hinder [the historian] or lead him astray in this

undertaking, neither the distance between areas, nor the intervals in time, nor the
different types of events themselves.’ We might call Gatterer’s ‘pragmatic’ History
conjunctural, as opposed to the conjectural sort of the Enlightenment’s philosopher-
historians. Gatterer’s quest to locate historical enquiry in the ‘overall connection of
things in the world’, ‘nexus rerum universalis’, whereby no incident anywhere was an
insular matter, shows the debt that a burgeoning ‘science of man’ owed to the mech-
anistic conception of the world. It also evinces similarities to the aims of Jean
d’Alembert, co-editor of the great Encyclopédie that appeared in the 1750s–1760s.40
In terms of a realized History, one French comparator is the project to which
Diderot contributed, but which was mainly written by Guillaume Thomas Raynal,
a Philosophical and Political History of the Settlements and Commerce of the
Europeans in the two Indies (1770–80). This work considers the role of overseas
colonialism and trade in influencing far-flung places and in turn influencing the
interactions of European states. While looking through European eyes, and seeing
European civilization as pre-eminent, it also evinces a dialectic-of-Enlightenment
quality, in that it was critical of the violence, enslavement, deceit, and greed by
which European actions were marked, and European morals undermined. It was
concerned with charting a path to pacific exchange, which highlights the centrality
of global connections to the work.41
Like other historians before and after them the Göttingen historians were keen
to rebut the deprecation of History by rationalists like Descartes and Christian
Wolff, and to prove History an equal ‘science’ to the natural sciences, albeit one
that had its own aesthetic principles and inductive methodology. A claim to gen-
eral explanatory utility was seen as crucial to this disciplinary self-validation.
Gatterer’s conception of pragmatic History matches the latter side of a distinction
made by Walter Schmitthenner between ‘theoretical’ and ‘practical’ universal
History. Schmitthenner describes the practical variety as ‘concerned with causal-
ity, relating dispersed occurrences, where possible, by determining their inter
dependence and establishing priorities in time’.42 It is not primarily concerned
with establishing meaning and overall direction, and so may be ‘universal’ in
aspiration without constituting a ‘speculative philosophy of history’, whether
religious or secular.
40 On ‘Nexus rerum universalis’: Wolfgang Proß, ‘Die Begründung der Geschichte aus der Natur—
Herders Konzept von “Gesetzen” in der Geschichte’, in Hans Erich Bödeker, Peter Hanns Reill, and
Jürgen Schlumbohm (eds.), Wissenschaft als kulturelle Praxis, 1750–1900 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
und Ruprecht, 1999), 187–225, here 194; other quotes and analysis from Peter Hanns Reill, The
German Enlightenment and the Rise of Historicism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975),
42–3 and Sturm, Kant und die Wissenschaften, 309–32, esp. 313–15. On the ‘science of man’, see
Zammito, Kant, Herder, 336 ff.
41 On which see Cecil P. Courtney and Jenny Mander (eds.), Raynal’s ‘Histoire des deux Indes’
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015); Abbattista, ‘French Philosophes’, 420–4.
42 Walter Schmitthenner, ‘Rome and India: Aspects of Universal History during the Principate’, The
Journal of Roman Studies, 69 (1979), 90–106, here 90.
As important a distinction divides practical ‘Universalhistorie’ of Gatterer’s

sort from the ‘Geschichte der Menschheit’, or History of humanity, practised by
Johann Gottfried Herder (1744–1803) and in a different way by his contemporary
Christoph Meiners. Quite unlike Hume’s interests in events as experiments and
Gatterer’s interest in events within broader causal relationships, Meiners’s and
Herder’s studies were concerned with matters like language, belief systems, forms
of law and government, eating habits, education of children, family life, senses of
honour, shame and communal obligation, along with theories of the relation-
ship between geography, climate, technology, and aspects of physical and psy
chological constitution. Both were comparative thinkers with broad interests in a
worldwide range of peoples, and both were interested in the nexus of culture and
‘nature’, but Meiners was a racist and a polygenist. Herder was not, though his
ideal conception of differently acculturated peoples living in discrete places meant
that he was either ambivalent or outrightly hostile to diasporic peoples like Jews,
Romanies, and ‘Turks’ in Europe. On the whole he disavowed human hierarchies
and the ethnocentrism characteristic of much philosophy of history and much of
the anthropology that was to come later on.43 Part of the German Frühromantik
tradition, Herder was a product of the Enlightenment who felt that many of its
thinkers had gone insufficiently far in self-critique. His This too a Philosophy of
History for the Formation of Humanity (1774) criticizes self-regarding teleological
philosophies of moral progress, the selection of favoured bits of the past by
historians, and imperialism and ‘civilizing missions’. As with other thinkers of
human diversity, spatial-cultural and temporal elements were intertwined in his
thoughts. In This too a Philosophy he wrote both that ‘Each nation has its centre of
happiness in itself, like every sphere its centre of gravity!’ and that each age ‘has
the centre of its happiness in itself !’44 He drew deeply on the thought of Johann
Georg Hamann (1730–88), who at once shared Luther’s scepticism about the
prospects for human reason and rejected dualistic Kantian distinctions between
the world of human affect and experience on one hand and the world of reason
on the other. To Hamann we must first attend, as a seminal thinker in the ‘early
romantic’ or so-called ‘Counter-Enlightenment’ tradition of which it has been
said that ‘no other intellectual initiative has played so great a role in fashioning
attitudes to modern historical thinking’.45
43 The contrast between Meiners’s and Herder’s approach to History on one hand and Gatterer’s
approach on the other from Proß, ‘Die Begründung der Geschichte aus der Natur’. For Herder’s
attitude to diasporic groups, Karol Sauerland, ‘ “Die fremden Völker in Europa”: Herder’s unpolitische
Metaphern und Bilder zu den höchst politischen Begriffen Volk und Nation’, in Gesa von Essen and
Horst Turk (eds.), Unerledigte Geschichten: Der literarische Umgang mit Nationalität und Internationalität
(Göttingen: Wallstein, 2000), 57–71.
44 Johann Gottfried von Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Michael N. Forster (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2002), 297 and 299 (emphases in original).
45 Michael Bentley, ‘Introduction: Approaches to Modernity’, 406.
174 Why History?
Applying Paul’s concepts in 2 Corinthians, and consistent with Luther’s view

on consubstantiation, in which Christ’s body and blood and bread and wine were
all present in the Eucharist, Hamann disavowed any opposition between the spirit
and the letter in the interpretation of language. The same went in Hamman’s
thought for the interpretation of the world of nature and the flesh as ‘texts’ more
broadly defined—he had something akin to a ‘realist’ medieval view of the world
as a divine text, the ‘book of god’. Language had a symbolic quality as well as ref-
erential and straightforwardly communicative capacities; it was embedded in
everyday life as well as having formal properties; and the spiritual and cognitive
elements were irreducibly intertwined.46 Before the Fall Adam and Eve had direct
access to divine or ‘angelic language’. Afterwards humans were forever engaged in
a form of interpretative translation ‘out of angel-speech into human language,
that is, thoughts into words,—things into names,—forms into signs’. This was not,
however, interpretation ab initio. Regarding the material world, the imagination
and cognition worked on the experience of the senses. Authorial intent of, say,
scripture, meanwhile, might be inferred and argued over, while the letter
remained as a guide. When Hamann wrote that ‘man’ must ‘take his external
sense as a help, must be attentive to the given letter as the only vehicle of the Spirit
which can be grasped’ we can see the Neoplatonic element of his thought by
which the divine and the human sphere are not entirely separate even while
humans can never be certain of their interpretative ground. While language dis-
tances the user from original, divine meanings it is also still somehow a trace of
the same, providing an oblique, mediated insight, like ‘a solar eclipse which is
looked at through a glass of water’.47 Any attempt to subjugate language in the
name of complete human autonomy and control was akin to the hubristic attempt
to build the Tower of Babel. Reason presupposed a language in which it could be
expressed, and language was unavoidably interpretative, making the reader or
speaker into a participant in the construction of meaning as they operated from
contexts that were irreducibly social and historical as well as sensuous.48 ‘In the
language of every people we find the history of the same . . . The invisible being of
our souls is revealed through words.’49
There is a Vico-like quality to much of this thought, especially the reflection on
humankind’s prelapsarian state, but within the German tradition Leibniz had
already emphasized language as a generator of meaning as well as a condition of
reflective thought. Leibniz had written: ‘I really believe that languages are the
46 Kenneth Haynes, Hamann: Writings on Philosophy and Language (Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 2007), pp. xiii–xviii; Robert Alan Sparling, Johann Georg Hamann and the
Enlightenment Project (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2011), 93.
47 Ibid. 48–9, 81, 93; quotes from W. M. Alexander, Johann Georg Hamann, Philosophy and Faith
(The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1966), 84.
48 Gwen Griffith Dickson, Johann Georg Hamann’s Relational Metacriticism (Berlin: de Gruyter,
1995), 170.
49 Alexander, Johann Georg Hamann, 85.
best mirror of the human mind, and that a precise analysis of the significations
of words would tell us more than anything else about the operations of the
understanding.’50 Hamann had linked events in the Garden of Eden and in
‘Babel’ rather as they are linked in the book of Genesis. In Genesis, Adam’s and
Eve’s rebellion, then the attempt to build a tower as a monument apart from god,
each resulted in dispersal and alienation, first of people from god, then of peoples
from each other.51 For his part, Herder saw the linguistic-cultural diversity that
supposedly resulted from the Babel episode as something to be celebrated, with
any future conceptualization of human unity having first to take account of
diversity.52 The religious references were more by the way of adornments than
architecture in the work of this erstwhile clergyman, however.
Herder replaced Hamann’s historical-theological admixture with an account
of historical-social evolution in which environmental factors and human reflec-
tion on sense-data also played a role, and differing religions were the products
of those different circumstances.53 He also deployed the classical concept of
humanitas/Humanität to express a basic human commonality to set alongside his
awareness of rich and very deep human cultural-linguistic differences. All groups
must, he felt, have possessed some concept of humanity as a ground for social
obligation: ‘The human heart has always remained the same in inclinations, just
as the mind has in abilities.’54 He sought ‘to gather historical examples of how far
the diversity of human beings can extend, to bring it into categories, and then to
try to explain it’, for the history of diverse creatures is ‘the history of our nature’.55
There was no way to short-circuit the process of historical and ethnographic
enquiry by some process of rational deduction, and presentism went hand-in-
hand with ethnocentrism as an obstacle to thought on the human condition.
‘People who, ignorant about history, know only their own age believe that the
current taste is the only one and so necessary that nothing but it can be imagined.’
‘Time has changed everything so much that one often needs a magic mirror in
order to recognise the same creature beneath such diverse forms.’56
Herder’s conception of the relation of culture to nature is expressed by his
comment: ‘How different is the world in which the Arab and the Greenlander, the
soft Indian and the rock-hard Eskimo, live! How different their civilization, food,
50 Leibniz quote from John Leavitt, Linguistic Relativities: Language Diversity and Modern Thought
(Cambridge University Press, 2011), 51–2.
51 James Austin, The Tower of Babel in Genesis (Bloomington: Westbow, 2012).
52 Michael Morton, Herder and the Poetics of Thought (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State
University Press, 1989), 34–6, 62, 65–6.
53 Ibid. 34–6; John R. Betz, After Enlightenment: The Post-Secular Vision of J. G. Hamann
(Chichester: Blackwell, 2012), ch. 6; Proß, ‘Die Begründung der Geschichte aus der Natur’.
54 Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, 268. See also 213–14: ‘Humanity is the noble measure
according to which we cognize and act’. On Humanität more generally: Hans Adler and Wulf Koepke
(eds.), A Companion to the Works of Johann Gottfried Herder (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2009),
104 ff.
55 Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, 249. 56 Ibid. 255.
176 Why History?
education, the first impressions that they receive, their inner structure of sensa-
tion! And on this structure rests the structure of their thoughts, and the offprint
of both, their language.’57 Mental reflection (Besonnenheit) on the sensual, reflec-
tion which is coextensive with language, permits abstraction within the limits of
given conditions. Historical and sensual conditions account for the heteronomy
of human value-systems.58
Herder’s views on morality sometimes reached the level of proper, thorough
going relativism of the sort sometimes described today as meta-ethical moral
relativism (see p. 326). There was no common denominator or yardstick outside
the very general parameters set by the yet-to-be established ‘nature’ by which to
assess differing moral outlooks. Of ‘moral virtue and human beings’ happiness’, he
wrote that
For both of these we not only still lack a correct criterion, but it could even per-
haps be that human nature had such a flexibility and mutability as to be able to
form out for itself in the most diverse situations of its efficacy also the most
diverse ideals of its actions into what is called virtue and the most diverse ideals
of its sensations into what is called happiness, and to be able to maintain itself
therein until circumstances change and further formation occurs.59
External evaluation not only seemed to make no sense, it also missed the point
about something akin to what Althusser called ‘expressivism’ in relationship to
Montesquieu’s thought. Laws and norms could not be transferred piecemeal from
one society to another because those societies were tightly interconnected wholes
that had developed organically together and set their own, incommensurable
criteria of right and wrong. ‘Shortcoming and virtue always dwell together in one
human hut’, Herder wrote, and ‘good and evil are only relational terms’.60 The
one depends on the other, and they both stem from the same Volksgeist or folk-
national-spirit. What we see here is the transposition of a certain burgeoning
Enlightenment conception of individual people as self-contained, consistent sub-
jects to the conceptualization of human collectives. The result, for Herder, was a
cultural essentialism that sits easily with his cultural relativism: essences-of-peoples
were not unchanging, but at any one time they are there, which also explains
Herder’s difficulty with diasporic minorities that sat amongst otherwise supposedly
discrete peoples.
57 Ibid. 220, Herder’s text from editor’s note.

58 On Spinozan questions: Proß, ‘Die Begründung der Geschichte aus der Natur’, and Mack,
Spinoza, 60–3. On Besonnenheit, Helmut Gipper and Peter Schmitter, Sprachwissenschaft und
Sprachphilosophie im Zeitalter der Romantik (Tübingen: Narr, 1979), 72–3, 151.
59 Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, 270.
60 Ibid. 295, and similar sentiments about internal relations on 294.
Herder’s cultures and linguistic communities have the quality of Leibniz’s

‘monads’ (pp. 152–3), and that legacy endured in subsequent German historical
scholarship that linked human groups to folk ‘spirits’.61 Herder saw multiplicity as
an intrinsic good in Leibnizian fashion. Commerce and contact between peoples
were to be applauded as a way to broaden sympathies and enhance mutual
and self-understanding, but this did not justify interference by one culture in
another’s affairs. ‘Providence itself is the best converter of peoples’, he wrote,
meaning changes in ‘sensations, needs, and situations’.62 Herderian relativism is
what one gets when one removes the religious metaphysics from Leibniz: without
the deity in whom all otherwise-incommensurable monadic perspectives are rec-
onciled, ‘meta-ethical moral relativism’ is what is left.
Herder was a progenitor of important strands of latter-day anthropology, not
ably that of Franz Boas in the late nineteenth century. Boas’s anthropology is often
described as ‘historicist’ owing to its focus on the internal development of human
groups ‘on their own terms’, as opposed to the diffusionist or social evolutionist
(Comtean) strands of social scientific that had dominated hitherto. Perhaps it is
no mere happenstance that German late Enlightenment thought should be so
important in the development of the study of culture. After all, it was distin-
guished from French and British thought by its institutional context, namely the
lack of correspondence between Volk and state. As Laonikos Chalkokondyles
(p. 111) had started to think in more purely ethno-cultural terms as the Byzantine
state disappeared, leaving only a nascent and partly diasporic ‘Greekness’, so
Herder lived in a world where Germandom was subdivided across innumerable
states, in some of which Germans were in the minority. At the same time we
should note that Herder was keen to encourage national consciousness; this was a
matter for Historians who could depict the journey of the Volk through time, but
others would have to join in the distinctly political work of ‘promot[ing] the unity
of the territories of Germany through writings, manufactures, and institutions’.63
Of great importance for the human sciences subsequently was Herder’s—
and Hamann’s—linkage of language-study to the hermeneutic method of com-
prehension. Insofar as other cultures were of the past, deciphering their texts was
vital. The salient technique Herder called Einfühlung, ‘feeling the way into’ the
mental structures that generated the verbal traces. It pursued an idiomatic
61 A heritage made explicit for instance in Ernst Troeltsch, Der Historismus und seine Probleme:
Erstes Buch, ed. Friedrich Wilhelm Graf and Matthias Schlossberger (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008 [orig.
1922]). 402–3, 987–9. On the links between Herder and Leibniz’s monadological thought: Ulrich
Eisel, ‘Individualität als Einheit in der konkreten Natur: Das Kulturkonzept der Geographie’, in
Parto Teherani-Krönner (ed.), Humanökologie und Kulturökologie (Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag,
1992), 107–52, here 118 ff.; Samuel Fleischacker, Integrity and Moral Relativism (Leiden: Brill,
1992), 217.
62 Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, 221.
63 Paul Bertagnolli, Prometheus in Music: Representations of Myth in the Romantic Era (London:
Routledge, 2007), 146.
178 Why History?
understanding born of extensive immersion in the language, history, culture, and

geography in which texts were produced. The goal was not that of sharing the
feelings or sensations of distant authors, but rather of engaging in painstaking
historical and philological study, often by textual comparison, of the range of
meanings that authors were likely to bring to their work and evince by their
expressions, based on the principles of contextualization beyond the text and
holism within it (i.e. a sense that one could only understand the parts in the
context of the whole). Herder warned against hostility towards the people and
cultures that had produced specific texts but also against over-identification with
them, since both dispositions were liable to distort the ‘feeling’ necessary for
authentic interpretation.64 His torch was carried forward by the hermeneutic
philosophers from Friedrich Schleiermacher (1768–1834) through Wilhelm
Dilthey (1833–1911), as well as by opponents of positivism within sociology such
as Georg Simmel (1858–1918).
Hegel
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) may for present purposes be seen as
fusing Kant’s thought with the holism of Herder, Montesquieu’s interest in institu-
tions, and elements of Aristotelian teleology. The concept of esprit was central to
his philosophy but it did not have the same connotations as Voltaire’s. Hegel saw
‘spirit’, or Geist in his German, not as something that had to be liberated from
institutions and the hold of history, but as something that developed across time
in tandem with ‘circonstance’ and institutions. Hegel’s importance to this volume
is partly indirect, in the reactions which his work provoked in thinkers as differ-
ent as Marx and Leopold von Ranke, but it is also direct, in that Hegel was not
only deeply interested in the History of philosophy but tried to do philosophy in a
way that related it to historical change. He was a significant early contributor to
and product of a general historical infusion of many non-historical disciplines,
though most historians would come to regard him as not being historical enough,
given the teleological element in his philosophy. He was wary of History as Lesson
and scorned Hume’s comparisons of ancient Greeks with modern Frenchmen:
‘No difference could be greater than that between the nature of those ancient
peoples and our own time.’65 One purpose of his work was nonetheless to link
ancient Greeks and occidental moderns through an analysis of the entire
‘historical process’ that drew on inductive-empirical historical scholarship but
was underpinned by a speculative philosophy whose subject was Geist.
64 Editor’s introduction to Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, pp. xiv–xxi.
65 G. W. F. Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History with an Appendix from The Philosophy of
Right, trans. Leo Rauch (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1988), 8–9.
In common with the wider Frühromantik movement, Hegel sought to recon-

cile rationalism, with its anti-historical, anti-traditional connotations, with the
world of experience and stabilizing convention. The French Revolution and
Revolutionary Wars gave increased urgency to Hegel’s quest, but his project was
in genesis prior to Napoleon’s conquest of Prussia and consolidation of many
German statelets. Elements of the fusion had been established in Prussia in the
age of ‘enlightened absolutism’ but, as a member by birth of Württemberg’s pro-
fessional stratum, in the 1780s–1790s Hegel was at once first-hand witness to the
belated, destabilizing impact of ‘enlightening’ reform in that more ‘backward’
state, and saw himself as being qualified to suggest a remedy for its malaise. While
Kant provided inspiration for radical reform amongst those prepared to build an
earthly ‘Kingdom of Ends’ in which people made their own laws, Kant’s philosophy
also seemed part of the problem, given that it was based on various dualisms,
including mind:world dualism and the dualism of the transcendental ego and the
empirical egos of individual humans. Kant had purchased an austere, disembod-
ied morality of conduct—an ‘empty formalism’, in Hegel’s words—at the expense
of an embedded ethics of living and an Aristotelian pursuit of fulfilment in
which one did the right thing gladly, increasingly spontaneously, rather than
out of a calculation as to duty.66 If the goal was to actualize ‘man’s essence as an
autonomous subject . . . with the revolutionary task of creating an integrated
ethical community in the sphere of concrete natural and historical existence’,
Kant’s emphasis on formal reasoning only spoke to half of the matter. What of the
gemeinsame Sittlichkeit, or shared ethical sensibility of a civil society which medi-
ated between individual morality and the law? Indeed Kant’s reasoning contained
a paradox. If to be an agent (on Kant’s reckoning) requires that someone gives
themselves the moral law (autonomy), then it becomes mysterious how someone
could give themselves the law without first being an agent. Hegel’s solution to this
problem involved the Aristotelian concept of upbringing and a focus on how one
is formed.67 For Hegel, the tools of reason were to be employed to effect a recon-
ciliation between the situated, finite self and the ‘others’ of nature and society, i.e.
between subject and object of subject’s attentions. In a variation on Vico’s claims
on the prelapsarian state, Hegel and others believed that the desired harmony had
naturally existed in pre-Socratic Greek thought. Harmony had been fractured by
later philosophical and theological developments, as humans started to see
themselves as radically separate from nature and each other. Such developments
represented a conceptual advance in terms of Geist’s growing ‘consciousness’ of its
66 G. W. F. Hegel, The Philosophy of Right, trans T. M. Knox (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1952),
quotation from 89–90.
67 See John Edward Toews, Hegelianism: The Path toward Dialectical Humanism, 1805–1841
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), chs. 1–2, quote from 34. On ‘The Kantian Paradox’,
Terry Pinkard, German Philosophy 1760–1860: The Legacy of Idealism (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), 59–60, 227.
180 Why History?
own nature, Hegel thought, but—and here the omnipresent dialectical element of
his doctrine—it had come at the cost of Geist’s alienation. The alienation from the
world beyond the mind was expressed through objectifying that world.68
Since Hegel claimed that philosophy ‘has no other object but God and so is
essentially rational theology’ it is not surprising that Geist can be interpreted as
either a spiritual or a rational, almost social-scientific, concept, but in either case
it is supra-personal.69 Let us explore the social-scientific valence first, which is
also the reading that has been most influential recently. Recall Adam Smith’s idea
of an invisible hand that makes sense of an infinite number of often competing
and dissonant human actions and interactions: in the social scientific reading
of Hegel, Geist pertains to the subject of humankind in the same way. To be
sure, Hegel did identify ‘world-historical’ characters—invariably occidental—like
Socrates, Jesus, Caesar, or Napoleon whose exceptional thoughts and deeds
embodied the shift from one epochal order to the next rung of Geist’s ascent, but
the actors were not necessarily aware of the deep meaning of their own actions:
they were simply especially prominent vessels of Geist. Thus, just as Smith’s self-
interested trader unwittingly consolidates the capitalist order even though he has
no comprehension of economic theory so the historical function of individual
actions is to embody and consolidate some particular stage of Geist. Accordingly,
such ‘progress’ as humans make can only be assessed at the level of humankind,
not of individual people. Throughout history, Geist has been embodied in the
dominant political, legal, social, religious, and cultural institutions of social
orders. Thinking along Aristotelian lines, these institutions provided the forms
for the social content of human interaction. They were objectifications of Geist,
familiar representations of the social order to its inhabitants, and they could be
‘read’ by later generations with the help of the hermeneutic method that provided
empirical complement to speculative reflection. At any given time, particularly
insightful thinkers—especially philosophers like Hegel himself—could give indi-
vidual expression to the nature of Geist at that phase of its existence, becoming its
spokespersons as it were, but even they were generally incapable of exceeding
its general structural parameters, and so were better at divining what had already
become manifest than predicting the future as one order ended and another
began as the result of some world-historical act or change in interactive patterns.
(This is the meaning of Hegel’s famous claim that ‘the owl of Minerva spreads its
wings with the coming of the dusk’.) Thus, for Hegel, whatever constitutes the
structure of reason, and so of society, at any one time is a social, historical
construction, not an individual one or a metaphysical one.70
68 Toews, Hegelianism, chs. 1–2.

69 Cited in Paul Redding, Continental Idealism: Leibniz to Nietzsche (London: Routledge, 2009),
198.
70 On the final sentence, Pinkard, German Philosophy, 249.
Periods of relative or apparent stasis exist betwixt epochal advances, all the
while building up forces that are ready to be unleashed at the next ‘phase transi-
tion’, or revolution. Individuals may suffer in this process, because it is not an
even upward march, but, in dialectical fashion, may feature ostensible setbacks.
At one point Hegel categorically states, in contradiction of one of Kant’s iterations
of the categorical imperative, that flesh-and-blood individuals ‘come under the
category of means’ rather than ends-in-themselves. History is ‘the slaughter-
bench, upon which the happiness of nations, the wisdom of states, and the virtues
of individuals were sacrificed’. By one contested reading of Hegel this suffering is
not just necessary for the final outcome, it is redeemed by that outcome, ‘the
ul
tim ate goal for which these sacrifices were made’.71 Before attending to
the end-state, talk of redemption prompts us to see how that state might be
approached in accordance with the more religious reading of Hegel.
When exploring the developmental elements of Hegel’s thought the link
between reason and religion is provided by Neoplatonism, though Hegel also
evinces broader pantheistic influences. Hegel’s Geist has much in common with
Plotinus’s nous, as something that may be translated as ‘spirit’ but also connotes
reason, which is why some also translate Geist as ‘mind’. Contrary to the domin
ant Christian metaphysics, for Hegel the universe was not voluntarily created by
God in a one-off act. God cannot exist separately from the universe, which is an
emanation of himself—while impersonal, ‘he’ exists in all aspects of his creation
and must reveal himself in it. Dialectically, that creation is necessary for God to
become aware of, and so to perfect, himself. Hegel differed from Augustine, who
also saw struggle as movement, because for Augustine divine redemption was not
the direct consequence of historical development. For Hegel, enlightenment was
the point at which humankind realized that it had the answer to humankind’s
questions—at this point it was a creation reaching its own state of self-aware
perfectibility. This was the moment of Geist’s self-conscious reach for reason, as
opposed to previous orders under which people had looked to external divine
forces for guidance, or invoked quasi-divine entities like the extra-mental Kantian
‘noumenal’ world that still somehow conditioned human reason even if it could
never be apprehended by the mind. In Hegel’s vision reason triumphed at the
point of nothing more and nothing less than the free exchange of reasoned argu-
ments, untrammelled by mistaken metaphysical considerations. At the same time
the ‘right’ metaphysical thought is that the ultimate unity of subject and object are
revealed by human subjects contemplating themselves as elements in a holistic
world, parts of a unifying Geist. Scientific categories and law may not be inherent
71 Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History, 23–4, 32–8, 70, 101; Marcuse, Reason and
Revolution, 227–34. For contestation see Shuster, Autonomy after Auschwitz, ch. 4 and Terry Pinkard,
Does History Make Sense? Hegel on the Historical Shapes of Justice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
182 Why History?
in the object but creating those categories and laws furthered the self-knowledge
of Geist. This is Hegel’s update of the old idealist idea that knowledge of laws is
knowledge of the thought of God: one knows God because one knows oneself.
The advance of reason was thus intrinsically bound up with knowledge of the
state of human freedom, for only under those circumstances was it possible
to have the equal, intersubjective discussion whereby one could reach agreed
norms via reasoned exchange. Where in the apocryphal oriental despotisms from
which the Greeks had advanced the state of Geist was such that only the despot
was known to be free, and where in Greco-Roman antiquity only the citizens were
known to be free, after the Reformation with its doctrine of spiritual freedom, all
were known to be free. What was then needed were the social institutions in
which this freedom could be expressed, which brings us back to the more secular
and sociological Hegel.72
In Hegel’s thought the state should be understood as an organic entity housing
the modern-day ecclesia, rather than a string of bureaucratic institutions for
which Hegel had some fetish. The state actualizes the freedom of the people.73
Some states—most obviously German ones in his time—had a role as world-
leaders, Hegel thought. What he called ‘world-historical national spirits’ took
the lead among the community of national spirits, in promoting freedom and
awareness thereof. A reading of the Reformation as spiritual liberation and the
progression of equality and freedoms enshrined in law were essential for the
claim to German primacy, for by the early 1820s post-Napoleonic reforming
Prussia had come for Hegel to symbolize the substantial, though certainly not
complete, reconciliation of rational rule and communal sensibility, form and sub-
stance, particular and universal. But the deeper point about modern states as such
is that they supposedly provide sites for something like the institutionalization or
materialization of self-aware Geist. In his examination of the balance of and inter-
relation between personal rights, property rights, and state rights, and between
different social structures from the family to the social ‘estates’ to the world of
contractual exchange, we see Hegel at his most sociologically acute. Giving sys-
tematic form to social life, these arrangements prompt individuals to identify
their own freedom with the substantial order of which they were part—again,
reconciling subject and object.74
72 Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History, 17–18, 20–1, 99–103. John Laughland, Schelling
versus Hegel: From German Idealism to Christian Metaphysics (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), 142–3;
Thomas Albert Howard, Religion and the Rise of Historicism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2000), 84–5; Adorno, History and Freedom, 147–9. On nous, Bertrand Russell, History of Western
Philosophy (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1947), 312–13. Also Anthony Kenny, The Rise of
Modern Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006), 113–16, 163–4, and, on intersubjective agreement
and reason-giving, Pinkard, German Philosophy, 359–62.
73 See Alan Patten, Hegel’s Idea of Freedom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).
74 Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History, 26, 40–56; Toews, Hegelianism, ch. 3; Marcuse,
Reason and Revolution, 236–9.
Despite caricatures of his thought, Hegel did not see his contemporary world
as constituting history’s culmination, even if he did regard it as having reached
the highest point so far. Whatever the teleological element in his philosophy of
history he was decidedly pessimistic about the possibility of attaining true har-
mony between individual and whole. He was also aware of how tenuous the
Prussian political synthesis was and perceived threats to it from populist
nationalism and unreflective political reaction, while his intellectual world was
under constant threat of impingement by committee intervention and censor-
ship. Consciousness of freedom, and the thought that went with such con-
sciousness, would have always to be active, and so might well come into conflict
with the very state whose existence facilitated that freedom in the first place.
With an eye to continuities across the millennia, he squarely replicated a sense
of the westward movement of History, from ‘the Orient’ through Greece, and
Rome. The Mediterranean comprised the ‘centre of world history’, but the ‘land
of the future’ was not Germany: it was the westernmost outpost of the occident,
America.75
So much, then, for the conservative Hegel, or the statist patriot, or the
Olympian justifier of all suffering in the name of progress. There were other
visions of him at the time, as is appropriate for one whose name is synonymous
with dialectic thought. If, as he famously said ‘the real is rational’, then rulers
might fear that only what is rational is actually real in the philosophical sense,
and that the self-conscious mind might adjudge contemporary realities as
irrational and therefore ephemeral—there was more than enough autonomous
reason in Hegel’s system for that outcome. If individual events from terrible suf-
fering to heroic triumph were vectors of deeper processes, then what seemed con-
crete and given at any one time might turn out to be merely fleeting. In the more
sociological reading of Hegel, the ‘negative’ element in his thought pertains to the
ways in which various configurations—forms of life, shapes of spirit—break down
under their own weight and contradictions. In the more metaphysical reading the
‘negative’ element in his thought existed precisely to question what actually
existed at any given moment, in line with the basic ontological problem of why
some things existed but not others. Here, indeed, we witness echoes of Leibniz’s
so-called esoteric philosophy, which is by no means as favourable to the status
quo as his conventionally understood position which Voltaire mocked as
‘Panglossian’. Certain entities, Leibniz wrote, are not ‘compossible’—they cannot
coexist, so it is a matter of either-or, which is to be decided metaphorically speak-
ing in a sort of competition between possibles after god has made the choice to
create something. Similarly, for Hegel, the establishment of that which is, is also
an alienating repression or repulsion of that which is not (but might have been
75 On Hegel’s misgivings, Toews, Hegelianism, ch. 3; on contingency, Pinkard, German Philosophy,
361; on matters geographical, Hegel, Introduction to the Philosophy of History, 83–91.
184 Why History?
and might yet be). In Hegelian terms, that which is purports to constitute an
organic whole but is in fact mutilated, incomplete. Negative thought is not nega-
tive in the sense of unconstructive, but in the sense of subversive, in the way that
the literature and poetry of the avant-garde sought to establish a new language
uncontaminated by the ‘facticity’ of a certain brand of realism, and modernist art
rejected mimesis and classical concepts of representation, as well as Christian
concepts of incarnation. Not for nothing did Friedrich Wilhelm IV of Prussia
condemn Hegel as sower of the ‘dragon seed’ of revolution.76
One response to Hegelian negative philosophy, as to French revolutionary
rationalism and scepticism, was positive philosophy—‘positivism’. For Comte in
restoration France, see the legal theorist F. J. Stahl in Germany. The ‘universalism’
of Comte and the nationalist-particularism of Stahl are different: the former
espoused a tripartite stadial theory of ‘social evolution’ that supposedly applied to
every people, at the final, highest, ‘scientific’ stage of which (his present) social
thought would be governed by analogy to physiology; the latter was embedded in
the specificity and historical prerogatives of the state, had debts to idealism, and
set itself against universalistic concepts like natural law. But both opposed the
‘insubstantial’, speculative element of Hegelian dialectical thought.77
Marx
Whatever else he was, Karl Marx (1818–83) was a child of the Enlightenment,
bringing together German, Scottish, and French influences. He ultimately dis
agreed that the historical process evinced any intrinsic rationality or meaning in
Hegel’s sense, but at all times he felt it could be rationally understood, which was
essential to intervening in it. His very claim to scientific status entailed rejecting
moral judgement as an obstacle to analysis, prediction, and emendation, even as
moral outrage coloured so many of his deliberations. In his mode as speculative
philosopher of the historical process Marx’s was the obviously apocalyptic coun-
terpart to Hegel’s ostensibly prophetic view of history, and he rejected the redemp-
tive aspects of Hegel’s theory as obscenely complacent in the face of what they
were held to redeem. He replicated Hegel’s conception of successive historical
stages but replaced the idealist conception of Geist’s self-actualization with aspects
of Adam Smith’s materialist stadialism. The product of all this, at least as indicated
in his early Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts (1844), was a historical
subject that only attained its fullness at the last historical stage. What Marx
called alienation denoted the perversion and frustration of many potentialities.
76 Marcuse, Reason and Revolution, pp. vii–xi, 231, 325–6; Norman Levine, Marx’s Discourse with
Hegel (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 9. The Leibniz connection is my own.
77 Marcuse, Reason and Revolution, 323–74.
Wage-labourers, despite having freely, contractually entered into employment, were

alienated from the final product of their work by the division-of-labour principle
and the fact that that product belonged to someone else. They were each alienated
from their fellow humans by being placed into competition with them in relations
determined by structures beyond their vision. There is no proper intersubjectivity
within a shared Hegelian ethical order here, but rather a variant on the estrange-
ment which Vico had identified. The structures also impaired the quintessentially
human quality of creativity. Overall, we can detect the influence of Rousseau’s
dictum about the destruction of human self-esteem.
In his earlier work Marx foregrounded the relationship between mind-subject
and natural world-object. Nature was important to Hegel’s scheme, in the sense of
seeing humankind within the natural order, but he had been less interested in the
reciprocal or mediated relationship between humankind and the material world.
Marx and Engels wrote in The German Ideology (1845–6) that while one may
‘look at history from two sides and divide it into the history of nature and the
history of men’, both ‘sides are, however, inseparable: the history of nature and the
history of men are dependent on each other so long as men exist’.78 Labour fuses
the natural and social worlds. The continuation of social life depends upon the
exchange of the products of labour and so upon the laws and mechanisms of that
exchange. Labour is the mechanism of the worker’s emancipation from the
Kantian realm of necessity to his world of freedom, a world of shared material
bounty. On this point of the development of truly human potentials after needs
had been more easily satisfied, there is nothing between Marx, Smith, and, later,
John Maynard Keynes. Whereas from Aristotle’s Greece through the feudal ages
labour had signified ignobility, the creative capacity to harness the natural world
was now, at least potentially, a sign of man’s dignity as well as his power. Though
Marx himself did not put it like this, consider the shift from laboratores, the
working order beneath oratores and bellatores in the medieval social pile, to
laboratories, those modern nerve-centres of technological progress. It should
never be forgotten that Marx saw in capitalism a progressive force of a certain
sort, one of vast power that unleashed a number of potentials and achieved
notable rational outcomes. Marxism as a vision of the future is a post-capitalist
ideology rather than an anti-capitalist ideology, albeit that Marxism as a social
critique is preoccupied with criticism of capitalism’s tendencies.
The philosopher and social scientist Helmut Fleischer usefully distinguishes
three aspects of Marx’s thought. One, the ‘anthropogenetic’ sort, is more char-
acteristic of the earlier writings, especially the 1844 Manuscripts. The ‘anthropo-
genetic’ Marx has as his concern the process of the realization of the human qua
human. It is in these works, where a species-essence is invoked, that the idea of
78 Karl Marx with Friedrich Engels, The German Ideology, including Theses on Feuerbach and
Introduction to the Critique of Political Economy (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 1998), 34.
186 Why History?
alienation has its broadest existential meanings. The other two aspects of Marx’s
thought Fleischer calls ‘pragmatological’ and ‘nomological’. The essence of the
pragmatological type is encapsulated in the famous claim of Marx’s most famous
historical essay, The 18th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon (1852), that ‘Men make
their own history, but they do not make it just as they please. They do not make it
under circumstances chosen by themselves but under circumstances directly
encountered, given and transmitted from the past.’79 The pragmatological
approach is context-sensitive and allows for divergent paths, albeit that—and here
few historians of any stripe would disagree—the range of possible paths is con-
strained by paths already taken. Marx and Engels had arrived at this approach by
the time of The German Ideology, where they criticized Hegelian philosophy of
history for its determinism and mocked his dialectics. It was later, from the late
1850s, that they sometimes deployed what came to be called (by others) a dialect
ical materialist philosophy of history of the sort Fleischer calls nomological. As its
name suggests, the nomological (i.e. law-making) form does present an overarch-
ing, unilinear theory of history.80 Whatever the weaknesses of the nomological
interpretation, many left-wing workers and intellectuals took inspiration from its
optimistic sense of inevitability, just as many Protestants took inspiration from
the idea that God was on their side. But scientific and pseudo-scientific develop-
ments related to the theory of evolution also seemed to push in the same direction,
as with the Lamarckianism evinced in the thought of Karl Kautsky and Georgi
Plekhanov in the Second International of 1889–1914. Plekhanov was the man
who introduced the term ‘dialectical materialism’ to Marxist theory, and that
was taken up and ‘refined’ by Joseph Stalin, though Leon Trotsky claimed to be a
dialectical materialist too.81
While it is impossible to reconcile the nomological and pragmatological
strands in their purest forms and in their entirety, it is possible to reconcile elem
ents of each, and after all we must recall that each is only a tendency in Marx’s
thought rather than the all-controlling element at any given stage. Here is one
attempt at partial reconciliation.82 In the case of capitalism, Marx did see
inevitability in the development of crisis, thus in Leibnizian terms the present
was pregnant with the future, but not necessarily in the direction of resolution of
79 Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte (New York: International Publishing,
1969 [orig. 1852]), 15; Helmut Fleischer, Marxism and History (New York: Harper, 1973);
Alvin W. Gouldner, The Two Marxisms: Contradictions and Anomalies in the Development of Theory
(Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1993).
80 S. H. Rigby, Engels and the Formation of Marxism (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1992), 81–3, 97, 187–98.
81 On naturalism and the Second International, see Alex Callinicos, ‘Marxism and the Status of
Critique’, in Brian Leiter and Michael Rosen (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Continental Philosophy
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 210–39, here 212. For Stalin’s 1938 ‘Dialectical and Historical
Materialism’, see J. V. Stalin, Problems of Leninism (Peking: Foreign Languages Press, 1976), 835–73,
online at https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/stalin/works/1938/09.htm
82 I draw heavily here on Marcuse, Reason and Revolution, 310–19.
crisis. Dialectical thought, with its emphasis on rise and fall, stresses and strains
in a Leibnizian interconnected whole, was predicated upon the emergence of
internal contradictions, or the self-negation of capitalism. The contradiction
springs from ever-increasing capital accumulation and concentration to the point
where monopoly displaces competition. Paralleling that development is ever
more intensive, competitive labour exploitation. At the same time technological
advance means the value of human labour depreciates. Reduced popular purchas-
ing power, but especially the rising ‘organic composition of capital’,83 reduced the
rate of profit of the surviving industries which, trapped in the logic of constant
accumulation through utilization of capital, overproduce, and the search for new
resources and markets prompts international warfare and expansion. Meanwhile,
domestically, political repression is needed to complement workplace ‘discipline’
as discontent arises. Thus far, the emphasis is all on the ‘objective’ factors rather
than on human agency and consciousness. The introduction of ‘subjective’ factors
is key for the transition to a socialist order—here again the Hegelian synthesis of
subjective and objective, which we might also call the conjunction of agency and
structure—in the form of the working class’s awareness of its own predicament
and opportunity and of self-conscious proletarian organization in the political
sphere. But the advent of that subjective factor is not inevitable, as stressed by
Marx at points and by that notable applied theorist Lenin.
Different Marxist thinkers are free to pick-and-mix between different Marxes,
but we can make some rough generalizations as to affinities. Historian Steve
Rigby observes that the split between pragmatological and nomological Marxisms
tends to be linked to whether, within the general Marxist emphasis on the eco-
nomic base, they emphasize the role of productive forces as the key determinant of
historical change or the relations of production. The productive forces are the
technological and other skills and equipment available at any one time, say the
hand-mill before it is replaced by the water-mill and that in turn by the steam-
mill. The ‘relations of production’ means the way in which primary, technical, and
human ‘resources’ are arranged, and thus includes class structure. Emphasis on
relations of production corresponds more with pragmatological consideration of
the divergence of paths and the role of class-oriented political action at specific
‘under-determined’ historical conjunctions. Emphasis on the causal primacy of
society’s growing productive forces tends to be associated with a nomological
account of history as an inevitable process.84
Moving from the constituents of the economic base to that of what Marxists
call the political and ideological superstructure, Marxism has often been seen as a
83 S. H. Rigby, Marxism and History (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), 49–50.
84 Ibid., chs. 3–6 on the first tendency and chs. 7–8 on the second. See also on divergence Robert
Brenner, ‘Agrarian Class Structure and Economic Development in Pre-Industrial Europe’, Past and
Present 70 (1976), 30–74, and on underdetermined conjunctions, Althusser, For Marx, 228–9.
188 Why History?
claim that there is a one-way determination of the former by the latter (‘vulgar
Marxism’), even though Engels went out of his way to correct this conception and
even though Marx’s own historical writings, most notably the 18th Brumaire, dis-
play an awareness of the active historical role played by politics and ideas.85 Many
of Marx’s balder statements about the historical primacy of base-material factors
should be seen in the polemical context of his struggle with the powerful German
idealist tradition. Certainly, important later Marxists have distanced themselves
from vulgar Marxism, as when Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937) invoked the con-
cept of ‘hegemony’ as part of his argument that proletarian (‘subaltern’) submis-
sion was the product not just (sometimes not even) of coercion but was also
achieved at the cultural level, through which workers came to acquiesce in the
moral authority of those above them. Base and superstructure might also inter-
penetrate, as for instance with laws affecting economic activity, meaning that
they are not really separable in the first place for one to determine the other.
As the Marxists Maurice Godelier and Ellen Meiksins Wood have argued, feudal
law, which ‘vulgar Marxism’ might see as a part of the superstructure, is actually
central to the definition of feudal classes by which the base is constituted.86
If one wanted to identify continuities in Marx alongside the changes, one could
look to the focus on unmasking, which is also central to the project of undermin-
ing cultural dominance/hegemony shared later by Gramsci and his contemporary
György Lukács (1885–1971). Unmasking, which also fits some definitions of
‘de-reification’, is what the introduction to this chapter alluded to when associat-
ing Marxist historiography with the agenda of History as Emancipation. It is a
matter of removing illusions of naturalness or ordained-ness. In his 1843 essay
‘Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right’, Marx wrote that ‘The
abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of men, is a demand for their real
happiness . . . The criticism of religion disillusions man so that he will think, act
and fashion his reality as a man who has lost his illusions and regained his reason.’
In the German Ideology of 1845–6 he wrote that communism ‘overturns the basis
of all earlier relations of production and intercourse, and for the first time con-
sciously treats all natural premises as the creatures of hitherto existing men,
strip[ping] them of their natural character’.87 Denaturalization was one of the
major themes of Marx’s Introduction to A Contribution to the Critique of Political
Economy (1859) while the Preface to that work contained Marx’s most famous
criticism of any Kantian idea of a self-authoring sovereign subject: ‘The mode of
production of material life conditions the social, political and intellectual life
process in general. It is not the consciousness of men that determines their being,
85 Rigby, Engels and the Formation of Marxism, 165–9.

86 For references and the summary of the argument, see S. H. Rigby, ‘Marxist Historiography’, in
Bentley (ed.), Companion to Historiography, 889–928, here 911–12.
87 Marx with Engels, The German Ideology, 89.
but on the contrary, their social being that determines their consciousness.’88
And again, in Capital (1867): ‘the advance of capitalist production develops a
working class, which by education, tradition, habit, looks upon the conditions of
that production as self-evident laws of Nature’.89 The raising of consciousness
about the artificiality of the whole set-up was a precondition for the reversal of
‘self-estrangement’.
At the same time Marx’s views did develop as to precisely what it was that
would be un-self-estranged or unalienated. In the more ‘anthropogenetic’ 1844
Manuscripts he talked of humans being estranged from their creative species-
essence by the mechanisms of capitalism, whereas later he dropped such meta-
physical talk about what humans ‘really are’, used ‘alienation’ in a more limited
sense, and reflected on the variable cultural construction of ways of being. When
‘man’ first takes up tools, he changes the world and thus himself.90 So while in
some ways Marx becomes less historically contingent (less ‘pragmatological’)
and more law-oriented (more ‘nomological’) over time as regards the analysis of
social-economic change, he becomes more ‘historical’ over time in his under-
standing of the relationship of human conditions in the plural to changing socio-
economic orders and the environment.
In principle there is nothing new in Marx’s agenda of denaturalization. It is
implicit in anthropological ventures from Hippocrates onwards, and explicit in
the words of Rousseau and of the historian of ancient Rome Barthold Georg
Niebuhr (1776–1831). Niebuhr wrote that History revealed what ‘even the
greatest and highest spirits of our human race’ do not understand, namely ‘how
their eyes only acquired by chance the way in which they see’.91 Marx’s older
contemporary John Stuart Mill (1806–73), a positivist liberal-utilitarian, asked
rhetorically: ‘was there ever any domination which did not appear natural to
those who possessed it?’ Alongside the examples of racial and sexual repression,
past and present, with which he illustrated the point, Mill wrote that ‘acquaintance
with human life in the middle ages, shows how supremely natural the dominion
of the feudal nobility over men of low condition appeared to the nobility them-
selves’ and ‘hardly . . . less so to the class held in subjection’.92 The novelty of
Marx’s intervention is not critical historicization in general, but the radical
nature of the agenda to which he attached it. The particular focus of his critique
88 Introduction repr. in Marx with Engels, The German Ideology, 1–23; Preface repr. in Karl Marx
and Friedrich Engels, Collected Works, vol. 29: Marx 1857–61 (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 2010),
261–5, with quote at 263.
89 Karl Marx, Capital: A New Abridgement, ed. David McLellan (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1999), 372.
90 Graeme Campbell Duncan, Marx and Mill: Two Views of Social Conflict and Social Harmony
91 Niebuhr, Lebensnachrichten über Barthold Georg Niebuhr, vol. 2 (Hamburg: Perthes, 1838), 480.
92 John Stuart Mill, J. S. Mill: ‘On Liberty’ and Other Writings, ed. Stefan Collini (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2003), 129–30.
190 Why History?
was the current economic order and its sustaining philosophies, which brings
us briefly back to Adam Smith.
To take Ockham’s razor to Smith’s account, ‘commercial society’ is a product of
the ‘natural’ inclinations to ‘truck, barter, and exchange’, after a certain point and
under certain conditions. Given all the necessary ‘positive’ developments pro-
duced by demographic pressures and sufficient ‘primitive accumulation’, what
is needed are negative measures, the removal of restrictions that inhibit and
distort the ‘natural’ inclinations. Smith had in mind as restrictions patterns of
landholding and land use associated with certain classical and medieval orders
plus the mercantilism of the age of absolutism. Their removal would produce a
‘spontaneous order’ much more economically effective and respectful of freedoms
than any that could be manufactured: realized, indeed, is the principle of the ‘sys-
tem of natural liberty’. For Marx, clearly enough, the capitalist order is anything
but the outcome of natural tendencies unleashed in the right circumstances—it is
a distinctly historical achievement, a cultural development in the broadest sense
of culture. Marx also saw that capitalism had more far-reaching connotations
than Smith allowed. It does not leave intact the sort of ‘natural’ ties of sympathy
that Smith saw as the restraining moral context for the exercise of self-interest:
Smith’s Wealth of Nations should always be read against the backdrop of his
earlier Theory of Moral Sentiments. For Marx, conversely, capitalism creates a con-
cept of the human by its own particular ‘laws’ of motion, principles of competitive
production, reinvestment, and profit maximization. The social serves the eco-
nomic not vice versa. ‘Primitive accumulation’ may be necessary for this cultural
shift but is by no means sufficient.93
Marx’s conception of false consciousness and exploitative relations of produc-
tion posed a full-frontal challenge to the romantic-idealist conception of society,
replacing it with one of competing class interests and identities. This set him at
odds with most other sociology of the nineteenth century, as well as with the
dominant German historical school of his time, which rejected Hegel’s overarch-
ing philosophy of History but kept the element of Herderian social holism.
93 Ellen Meiksins Wood, The Origin of Capitalism: A Longer View (London: Verso, 2002), 21–5,
34–7; on ‘spontaneous order’, Smith, Adam Smith’s Political Philosophy, with ‘system of natural liberty’
at 90.
6
Nationalism, Historicism, Crisis
Introduction
The relationship of the most influential nineteenth-century History to the classic

eighteenth-century Enlightenment historical theories recapitulates that between
French royalist historiography of the seventeenth century and the ‘new’ History
of the sixteenth century. In both instances the horizons of enquiry narrowed after
expanding, which once more shows us how misleading it is to conceive any uni-
linear trajectory of historiographical change. In the nineteenth century the trend
was away from grand comparative stadial theories and towards particularist
accounts in which the world beyond Europe—save sometimes for the ‘ancient
civilizations’ of Asia and Egypt—was accorded less attention. Histories of and for
the nation dominated especially in the second half of Europe’s nineteenth century
and the early twentieth century, as they did in areas beyond Europe that evinced
European influences. Whether tracing genealogical linkages to the deep past,
documenting monumental achievements, charting high political developments, or
providing collective ‘self-knowledge’, the dominant historical rationale of the age
was that of History as Identity, specifically national Identity.
Inevitably, as with earlier historiographical turns, not everything changed and
that which did change did not do so all at once. Walter Scott is a name synonym
ous with the romantic reaction to Enlightenment thought. His first novel
Waverley (1814), manifestly romantic in style, nonetheless evinced elements of
‘Enlightenment’ stadialism as he addressed the interface of less ‘advanced’ high-
land culture and its lowland and English counterparts around the Jacobite rising
of 1745.
There is no European nation which, within the course of half a century or little
more, has undergone so complete a change as this kingdom of Scotland. The
effects of the insurrection of 1745,—the destruction of the patriarchal power of
the Highland chiefs,—the abolition of the heritable jurisdictions of the Lowland
nobility and barons,—the total eradication of the Jacobite party, which, averse to
intermingle with the English, or adopt their customs, long continued to pride
themselves upon maintaining ancient Scottish manners and customs,—com-
menced this innovation. The gradual influx of wealth and extension of com-
merce have since united to render the present people of Scotland a class of
192 Why History?
beings as different from their grandfathers as the existing English are from those
of Queen Elizabeth’s time.1
An ‘Enlightenment’ scope and a disregard for recent methodological advances

was evinced in the multi-volume World History (Weltgeschichte) of one of
Germany’s most popular (and populist) historians of the first half of the nine-
teenth century, Friedrich Christoph Schlosser (1776–1861).2 Some of the temper
of Enlightenment historiography also endured in the work of the Hungarian
noble and historian József Eötvös. At a time of heightened, resentful Hungarian
nationalism after the Russian and Habsburg crushing of the Hungarian revolu-
tion/war of independence in 1848–9, his The Influence of the Dominant Ideas of
the Nineteenth Century on the State (1851–3) sought to reconcile nationalism with
equality as well as liberty.3 Sometimes we see the adaptation of certain
Enlightenment concepts rather than their outright rejection: while nineteenth-
century historians tended to disavow grand philosophies of world history along-
side the universalism of their Enlightenment forebears, a teleological element was
nonetheless evident in the work of not a few, with the end-point being nation-
statehood or some particularly conducive version thereof. In each successive gen-
eration French historians could be found declaring that the July Monarchy
(1830–48), the Second Republic (1848–52), the Second Empire (1852–70), and
the Third Republic (1870–1940) respectively represented the proper culmination
of the historical process.4 If few historians embraced Hegel’s particular concept of
world-spirit many embraced Herder’s concept of Volksgeist, national-spirit.
Turning to emergent challenges rather than continuities from the eighteenth
century, historical approaches modelled on the social and even physical sciences
grew in influence, especially from the mid-point of the nineteenth century.
Nonetheless, even where such positivist influences were strongest, as in France
with its Comtean legacies, especially during the 1860s–1880s heyday of Ernest
Renan (1823–92) and Hippolyte Taine (1828–93), the new Histories did not
dominate until well into the twentieth century. In Britain, with the major excep-
tion of Henry Thomas Buckle’s History of Civilisation in England (1858–61) their
ethos barely threatened at all until after 1945. The intellectual conservativism of
the increasingly professionalized British and American disciplines meant that the
German Methodenstreit (conflict over method) of the late nineteenth century was
1 Walter Scott, Waverley, or ’Tis Sixty Years Since (Edinburgh: Adam and Charles Black, 1854), 316.
2 Alongside Friedrich Christoph Schlosser’s famous biographies, note his Weltgeschichte in zusam-
menhängender Erzählung, 4 vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Varrentrapp 1815–41); Weltgeschichte für das
deutsche Volk, 19 vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Varrentrapp 1844–57).
3 Monika Badr, ‘East-Central European Historical Writing’, in Stuart Macintyre, Juan Maiguashca,
and Attila Pók (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2015), 326–48, here 335–6.
4 Pim den Boer, ‘Historical Writing in France’, in Macintyre, Maiguashca, and Pók (eds.), The
Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945, 184–203, here 190–1, 201.
Nationalism, Historicism, Crisis 193
largely ignored. In Germany the story was of a certain ‘historicist’ thought affect-
ing other disciplines like economics much more than those disciplines affected
the work of historians. There the method conflict was decisively won by the
political-institutional tendency of historiography over competing tendencies
associated today particularly with Karl Lamprecht (1856–1915). The victory owed
less to intellectual vindication than weight of numbers and institutional position
and to the broader political and cultural climate in Germany.
The first section of this chapter addresses the general political context of so
much historical thought across the Continent, with the French Revolution and its
aftershocks especially prominent in the explanation. It seeks to draw connections
between different sorts of national situation and different sorts of national
Identity History, paying particular attention to British and French historiograph
ical trends.
The second section narrows the focus as it examines the dominant trends of
German historiography in the nineteenth century. Why Germany? Because
German thought was especially significant in fostering ‘national consciousness’ in
central, eastern and south-eastern Europe. As well as Herder, the geographical
breadth of the Göttingen historian August Ludwig von Schlözer’s (1735–1809)
interests was an important source of inspiration in eastern Europe and indeed
beyond the Continent, while it is worth noting, for instance, the intellectual debt
accrued in Berlin to Leopold von Ranke by the historian, ideologue of the 1848
Moldavian Revolution, and later Prime Minister of Romania, Mihail Kogălniceanu
(1817–91).5 Moreover, German historianship was the first to professionalize in
Europe and indeed the world, and what happened in the German academy
shaped institutional development elsewhere. At the same time, we have already
hinted at challenges to the prevailing German model of historiography. Key
challenges in the 1860s from Switzerland and France are examined in the third
section.
Given the grand fluctuations in German political fortunes in the nineteenth
and early twentieth centuries, and the accompanying turmoil in historical phil
osophy, Germany also features quite heavily in most of the remaining sections of
the chapter. Here we examine how the particularizing, relativizing, tendency of a
brand of historical thought turned in upon itself from around 1870, as some of
the ontological certainties of the nation-through-history were undermined by the
effects of modernization and world conflict, and the social function of the
5 Gyula Szvák, ‘The Golden Age of Russian Historical Writing: The Nineteenth Century,’ in
Macintyre, Maiguashca, and Pók (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945, 303–25,
here 305–6, 308; Badr, ‘East-Central European Historical Writing’, 330, 336, 340–1 (though note
exceptions to the generalizations about Geist as regards Poland, with its more monarchical-based
nationalism), 345. As mentioned, among the imitators of the Monumenta Germaniae Historica were
the Monumenta Hungariae historica (Magyar történelmi emlékek) and the Monumentae Historiae
Bohemica. On the circumstances of the founding of the Monumenta Germaniae Historica see Ian
Wood, The Modern Origins of the Early Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 156–7.
194 Why History?
historian became the subject of renewed debate. One upshot was a series of mani-
festos for scholarly neutrality, and a proceduralist emphasis on History as
Methodology alone.
As the influential German model of national History was weakened in the first
half of the twentieth century, more space was created for competing methodolo-
gies within Germany too, especially those associated with the social sciences. The
final section of this chapter considers some of the alternative German models as
they developed in relationship to their forebears.
Nationalism, Romanticism, Whiggery
It would be beyond the scope of the present book to rehash well-rehearsed

debates on the origins of nationalism, but they cannot be entirely ignored because
nineteenth-century historical scholarship, along with twentieth- and twenty-first-
century critiques of it, are at the forefront of some of the debates. Put bluntly,
nineteenth-century historianship has been accused of creating spurious narra-
tives of continuity across time, producing teleological and otherwise distorted
readings, especially of the medieval period. Instead of identifying some pre-existing
essence of the nation, we are told that this essence was actually constructed in
the historiography of the nineteenth century, with prior history being shaped to
fit the narrative. Hence the idea of the modern construction of the nation in
the name of nationalism, and, by extension, the idea of the modernity of
nationalism.
Nineteenth-century Histories certainly did more than reflect the ideology of
nationalism; they helped to constitute it, as Herder had commended. The most
famous Greek historian of his generation, Konstantinos Paparrigopoulos, author
of History of the Greek Nation (1850–74), wrote that ‘the first condition for the
salvation of nations is an exact knowledge of their true state’, and he believed this
knowledge could only be gleaned historically. In his address at the opening of the
course on national History at the Mihăileană Academy in Iaşi in 1843,
Kogălniceanu opined that ‘History makes us spectators of the battles and revolu-
tions that have taken place since the beginning of time; it unearths our ancestors
and shows them to us alive, with their virtues, passions and traditions.’ History
‘connects us to eternity, establishing communication between the past and us and
our offspring, with whom we share our deeds’.6
Of at least equal significance in the construction of identity were proliferating
historical artworks and monuments, and the fact that many of the major museums
founded in the nineteenth century were explicitly designated as national
6 Marius Turda, ‘History Writing in the Balkans’, in Macintyre, Maiguashca, and Pók (eds.), The
Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945, 349–66, here 349–50, 361.
museums. Historian Stefan Berger reminds us that grand national narratives were
produced beyond the precincts of universities and the circles of trained histor
ians. ‘In many parts of Europe, it was civil servants, members of the clergy and
the aristocracy, middle-class writers, and intellectuals as well as politicians who
were the authors of key historical national narratives. These “amateur” historians
formed historical associations and museums and edited journals as well as major
source editions.’7 Document editions included the Monumenta Germaniae
Historica.8 This publication series of primary sources pertaining to all places of
Germanic influence from the end of the Roman Empire through the medieval
period was established in 1819. The motto of the series, which encouraged Czech
and Hungarian imitations, was Sanctus amor patriae dat animum, ‘holy love of
the fatherland gives spirit’. The first volume of what are now more than 300 was
printed in 1826. The Russian interior minister from 1809, N. P. Rumiantsev, initi-
ated the publication of official documentation, and one of his recruits, Pavel
Mikhailovich Stroiev, copied and catalogued a vast corpus of non-state sources to
complement the central archives. The first series of the Complete Collection of
Russian Annals were published under the auspices of the Ministry of Education in
the 1830s and publication has continued to the present day.9 In the same decade,
that in which, under the July Monarchy, historical instruction was formalized in
French schools and teacher-training instituted, the Committee for Historic and
Scientific Works was formed and began publishing the Collection of Unpublished
Documents on the History of France.10
For all that, it is consistent with earlier warnings about sharp distinctions
between ‘modernity’ and the pre-modern to advise caution about attributing too
much of the ‘invention of national traditions’ to the nineteenth century. Invention
there surely was, but not a little of it had happened much earlier. From a millen-
nium and more before the nineteenth century, remember, origines gentium tales
had served the purposes of political legitimation by genealogical pedigree. Even
when they furthered elite interests they were often ethno-cultural, even quasi-
racial, in reference, whether in the widespread invocation of Trojan roots or the
construction of the Angelcynn or the Franks as chosen people. There was more to
the political ideology of nationalism—the claim of a ‘nation’ of people to exclusive
ownership of a territorial state, i.e. a nation-state—than this, but these older elem
ents were nonetheless congruent with many modern nationalisms and they con-
stituted the raw materials on which those nationalisms depended. Much the same
7 Stefan Berger, ‘The Invention of European National Traditions in European Romanticism’, in

Macintyre, Maiguashca, and Pók (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945, 19–40,
here 38.
8 Now searchable online at https://www.dmgh.de/
9 Szvák, ‘The Golden Age of Russian Historical Writing’, 306–7.
10 Collection des documents inédits sur l’histoire de France: den Boer, ‘Historical Writing in France’,
189. The collection is searchable online at https://cths.fr/ed/liste.php?monocrit=c&collection=18
196 Why History?
went for the association of particular ethnic groups with particular confessions,
and, within broad confessions, particular churches; the nineteenth century saw a
multiplication of the ‘national churches’ whose origins can be traced not just to
the Reformation but the earlier establishment of increasingly distinct English and
French Catholic churches.
The French Revolution interacted in different ways with existing philosophies
of differentiation between peoples owing to its own combination of universalism
and particularism. A movement that invoked a general will rather than a dynasty
accentuated the tendency, inherent in pre-existing contract and natural law the
ories and in Anglo-Saxon constitutional developments, to move the locus of sov-
ereignty from the crown. ‘We the people’ was the formula for reconfiguring the
basis of legitimate authority, however the ‘we’ was defined. The revolutionaries
and then Napoleon threatened to generalize this conceptual model through con-
quest and the stimulation of insurgence against existing rulers elsewhere in
Europe—however tyrannical revolutionary and Napoleonic rule was in practice.
Constitutions were exported alongside other ‘modernizing’ and ‘rationalizing’
reforms abroad, such as Napoleonic educational policy in the short-lived French
protectorate of Illyria which ignited national-historical interests amongst Croat
and Slovene scholars. Constitutions unleashed tendencies that could not just be
forced back into the genie’s bottle by the 1815 settlement. Nor did post-Napoleonic
rulers desire to force them all back in—including French rulers, especially from
the overthrow of the restoration regime in 1830. Rather, the rulers wished to
exploit these new tendencies while controlling them, with memories fresh as to
the potency of a revolutionary ‘nation in arms’. The logic and the result could be
much the same whether one embraced the inspiration of French reforms or
reformed oneself in order that one was strong enough to resist conquest by the
likes of France (both apply in some way to Prussia) or (as in the case of Russia or
in its own way Britain) where one’s ‘national consciousness’ had been ‘enhanced’
by resisting France. The key was to project, via some balance of rhetoric and
policy, the idea that the interests of elites and broader swathes of the population
were roughly the same. The project became especially important as the century
progressed, and with it the upheavals and potential for class conflict attendant
upon industrialization. Of particular symbolic use was the emphasis on shared
history, culture, and language which we associate with romanticism.
Whatever else it was linked with, the revolutionary era was linked with French
intrusion into other peoples’ affairs. The fact that intrusion came in the name of
universalism and issued forth from France prompted a rejection of universalism
along with French dominance in favour of philosophical and ethno-national par-
ticularism. Disruption in the lives of Europe’s states and peoples (including in
France) then and during industrialization brought forth an emphasis on the con-
tinuous and the historical. This helps explain nineteenth-century medievalism,
which was very different in character from the disdain for the middle ages evident
in some French and British Enlightenment historiography. The medieval world
was seen as the incubator of modern peoplehood, and the depth of bonds thereby
intimated stood in contrast to the supposed shallowness of Enlightenment ration-
alism. There was functional and patriotic value to such an outlook, given the
invocation of universal, natural law by the French revolutionaries. The failure of
Prussian arms at Jena and Auerstadt need have no metaphysical significance if set
against a theory positing the difference but not inferiority of Germanic traditions
against French. What was needed to put things right, in the commendation of the
philosopher Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814), was the consolidation of
Germany’s own folk-consciousness, the awakening of the German nation, whose
political iteration was the drive for a solely German state. Indeed it was the
Prussian reformer vom Stein who, fresh from disappointment that the 1815
Congress of Vienna did not promote German unification, set up with his own
funds the society that produced the Monumenta Germaniae Historica in order to
instruct Germans about their past. He was also instrumental in establishing
Berlin University, as if acting under Herder’s injunction to ‘promote the unity of
the territories of Germany through writings . . . and institutions’ (p. 177). In prin-
ciple an anti-universalist outlook was at least pluralistic, and possibly relativistic.
This may appear ironic when one considers how German traditions were later
promoted to the status of inherently superior after success against France in
Bismarck’s final war of unification. Yet Fichte himself had intimated that
Germany’s inherently cosmopolitan and spiritual outlook gave it a privileged
place in leading the European peoples forward now that the French had forfeited
their right to leadership.11
Emphasizing civilizational depth might entail focusing on longstanding insti-
tutions or on ethnic commonality. Sometimes these foci complemented each
other, as in England, where there was extensive and enduring overlap between the
territorial state and its institutions and the ethnos in question. The concept of
‘Anglo-Saxon liberties’ connoted the ethnic and the institutional at once, and such
a concept underlay some of the most famous statements of ‘whig’ history, as did
an ethos of Anglicanism. When one talks of the ‘whig’ tendency in English his
toriography the immediate associations are of constitutional History, bringing
together the political and the legal across large tracts of time in an optimistic
story of progressive change whereby underlying continuities are given their due
and the wrong sort of change is repelled. Neither explicitly cultural nor explicitly
social in approach, whig History nonetheless clearly felt itself to be bringing out
something of the national ‘character’, and it was nationalist in its sense of English
exceptionalism. The joinder of this exceptionalism with universalism is also no
11 On vom Stein, Wood, Modern Origins, 156–7.

198 Why History?
contradiction. The development of English liberties under law, with associated

property rights and economic arrangements, arrangements all seemingly valid
ated by imperial and economic hegemony from the second quarter of the nine-
teenth century, cast England as the pioneer and unique embodiment of a form of
polity to which all should aspire.
One ought to stress England and English rather than Britain and British. This
is relevant not just because of the ethnocentric nature of whig History but because
the nature of relations between England and its insular neighbours in the nine-
teenth century had been settled, insofar as they were settled, more recently than
many of the major touchstones of the whig account. In modern history the whigs
focused particularly on the civil war era, 1688–9, and the early years of George
III’s reign, which began in 1760, during which the principles of 1688 were felt to
be under threat. Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800–59) saw the 1688 revolution
as ‘restorative’, ‘a vindication of ancient rights’. ‘It is because we had a preserving
revolution in the seventeenth century that we have not had a destroying revolu-
tion in the nineteenth.’ The failure of the 1848 revolutions on the European con
tinent confirmed Britain’s unique path of stable development and reinforced the
ideal of continuity.12 John Mitchell Kemble (1807–57), E. A. Freeman (1823–92)
and William Stubbs (1825–1901) cast their nets wider, Kemble’s History of the
Anglo-Saxons in England (1849) appearing the year after Macaulay’s History of
England from the Accession of James the Second. The medievalist Freeman com-
pared two Williams: the Norman Conqueror and William III, England’s ‘deliverer’
in 1688. We can perhaps detect the traces of a figural reading (cf. p. 49) when he
wrote: ‘In one case the invader came to conquer, in the other he came to deliver;
but in both cases alike the effect of his coming was to preserve and not to destroy;
the Conqueror and the Deliverer alike has had his share in working out the con-
tinuous being of English law and of English national life.’13
As to yet another William, the rigour of William of Malmesbury’s eleventh-
century historical investigations was not its only attraction for Freeman (p. 5).
Whatever William had had to say in criticism of the Norman conquest he had
leavened with praise as he prided himself, a man of mixed Norman and Anglo-
Saxon heritage, on historical balance. Not least among the Norman achievements,
apparently, had been a religious resurgence in England. We have seen that in
medieval historiography in the centuries after William, the relative stability of
England meant that historians could be more critical of monarchs, less inden-
tured to the royal perspective, than was the case in, say, Spain (p. 101). In the
seventeenth century and into the eighteenth the absolutist threat was met with
arguments invoking the Norman ‘yoke’ as against established liberties. In the
nineteenth century the Normans were integrated into the narrative of liberty even
12 P. B. M. Blaas, Continuity and Anachronism (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1978), 111, 117.
13 Freeman cited in Bentley, ‘Introduction: Approaches to Modernity’, 437.
if sometimes by the reaction that their advent excited. Stubbs’s Constitutional

History of England (1874–8) claimed that Norman rule had ‘invigorated the whole
national system; it stimulated the growth of freedom and the sense of unity, and it
supplied . . . a formative power which helped to develop and concentrate the
wasted energies of the native race’.14
Prior to 1789 France could also boast continuity in core territory, population,
and institutions, but the revolution precipitated a debate about French identity
that raged into the second half of the twentieth century. In the introduction to his
Histoire de la Révolution Française (1847), Jules Michelet (1798–1874) set
Christianity and Revolution against each other, and taken on its face that was not
an unfair explanation of the basic political tension for generations after his death.
As royal and ecclesiastical reaction from 1815 relied on History and the invoca-
tion of tradition, so the bearers of the revolutionary flame scoured the past for
their own discursive weapons. Familiar themes like the impact of the Franks on
Gaul and the precedent of early ‘national’ assemblies were given another working-
over, while Augustin Thierry (1795–1856) influentially illuminated the origins of
the ‘third estate’ in medieval History as a counterweight to the historiographical
and political weight of the first and second estates. Which part of the third estate
received most attention varied according to the political inclinations of respective
anti-Restoration historians, however, and after 1830 and the advent of the July
Monarchy, different strands of the revolutionary tradition were set against each
other. Liberals like Thierry and Francois Guizot, the statesman and historian
responsible for many of the innovations in historical education and document
publication in the 1830s, became apostles of the Orléanist constitutional mon
archy. Against those with increasingly radical republican agendas were the likes of
Michelet and his fellow historian Edgar Quinet (1803–75), whose respective
translations of Vico and Herder had been published in France in 1827. The intro-
duction of universal manhood suffrage upon the 1848 revolution echoed
Michelet’s and Quinet’s concern for ‘the people’ as a whole rather than just the
bourgeois elements of the third estate.15
While juxtaposing Christianity and Revolution Michelet did not mean that he
saw the forces as distinct. Rather, the revolution ultimately promised an order in
which justice and liberty were in balance, producing a society that embodied the
ideal attributes of religion as it replaced previous societies that had been more
overtly religious yet had embodied a diminished Christianity. Michelet drew on
Vico’s historical philosophy and fused it with elements of the old theory of trans-
latio imperii, plus Montesquieu’s concern with the relationship between culture
and geography. Civilization advanced across time from east to west in a tale of
14 William Stubbs, The Constitutional History of England in its Origins and Development, vol. 1
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874), 247.
15 Den Boer, ‘Historical Writing in France’.
200 Why History?
ascending liberty and consciousness as it gradually emancipated itself from an

‘oriental’ identification of the divine with the natural to a focus on the realm of
pure mind and spirit. At the same time, this focus on the spiritual became dis-
torted in the history of Christian civilization to bear overwhelmingly on the mat-
ter of grace, that arbitrary divine favour which Michelet equated with
injustice—injustice that he saw as incarnated in the society of the ancien régime.
The revolution marked the return of justice, which, as an essential element of love
and the original Christian ideal, also restored grace by breaking its association
with repression. France self-consciously authored itself in accordance with the
principles of freedom and harmony and was a light unto all other nations.
‘O France, you are saved! O World, you are saved’, Michelet wrote in nationalist-
exceptionalist vein of 1789. In light of events in revolutionary History after
1789—Michelet was writing in 1847—one can imagine how Fichte would have
taken these words had he been alive to read them.16
Michelet is generally classed as a romantic historian along with Thierry and
likewise Carlyle and Macaulay in Britain. If romanticism could therefore coexist
with a range of political views, binding its exponents together was a concept of
History as a creative and consciously interpretative as well as investigative endeav-
our. Literary style served to evoke and reanimate, and the reader was further
engaged by details of individual agency, whether that be, as in Carlyle’s later work,
the agency of the ‘hero’ or great man, or, as in the work of Michelet, the agency of
a collective ‘people’. Events, in all of their stark, glorious, and bloody detail,
assumed a dimension that they had lost under some of the broader-brush
Enlightenment History, and as with Michelet their study could be based on exten-
sive archival research. Nonetheless, as with Romantic art, Romantic historians
sought to locate the greater transcendent reality of forces and collective ideas
behind the immediate event or object, which is where narrative emplotment and
symbolism played as large a role as specific argument. Romanticism’s heyday in
and beyond France was the second quarter of the nineteenth century.
As the short-lived Second Republic became the Second Empire (1852–70) via
coup d’état, Catholic and imperial historiography was reinvigorated. The repub
lican historiography of the 1789 revolution, ascendant in the 1840s, was forced to
confront a new triumphal national teleology with an alternative vision of his
torical progress. Beyond this particular disorientation for the philosophy of revo-
lutionary progressivism (a disorientation that did not impede Michelet’s writing!),
romanticism tout court was under challenge by artistic naturalism and realism,
and by the pervasive influence of mid-century scientific developments. Comte’s
16 Ceri Crossley, French Historians and Romanticism: Thierry, Guizot, the Saint-Simonians, Quinet,
Michelet (London: Routledge, 1993), 193–204; Tom Conner, ‘Writing History: Michelet’s History of the
French Revolution’, in Gail M. Schwab and John R. Jeanneny (eds.), The French Revolution of 1789 and
its Impact (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1995), 13–22.
Course in Positive Philosophy had appeared between 1830 and 1842, and the final
two volumes concerned the prospect of a social science that would remove the
‘theologico-metaphysical philosophy’ with which he felt the theorizing of even
the finest minds of his day was still suffused. In Comte’s own tripartite stadial
analysis, a social science would properly be based on the empirical principles of
positive science.17 The experimental method gained in prestige subsequently via
the achievements of Marcellin Berthelot in chemistry and Claude Bernard in
medicine. In France, romanticism’s literary and philosophical pretensions were
cast as suspect in a shift much more accentuated than the rejection of Macaulay’s
romanticism by later English whig historians.18 The application of more scientific
methods to History as the century progressed promised—spuriously—to obviate
or transcend divisive politics.
Unlike France and England, in most ‘national’ cases early in the nineteenth
century there was no even approximate coincidence of ethnos on one hand and
territory or institutions on the other hand. Ultimately the wish to reconstitute
borders and institutions to correspond to supposedly discrete ethnic groups tri-
umphed in the period 1866–1923, though all manner of political and military
contingencies paved the way. Beyond the twisted paths to Italian and German
‘unification’, especially significant was the First World War that shattered the
multinational Romanov, Habsburg, and Ottoman empires.19 Certainly the major
nationalist thinkers of the early nineteenth century did not think in quite such
apocalyptic terms. We know that political nationalism was initially conceived in
relation to liberalism and Enlightenment ideas of equality, partly based on the
analogy of collective to individual self-determination, partly because of the
connection between broadened political representation and recognition of ‘the
people’ as a source of authority. Following Herder, the vision could be of self-
authorizing collectives living in harmony with each other. Elements of the flower-
ing of vernacular literature and serried cultural renaissances of the nineteenth
century did indeed evince that spirit. But since that self-same ‘flowering’ indi-
cated vigorous efforts to create the nation as much as to express it, we ought to
remember that creation involved definition as well as a great deal of archaeological
excavation in the name of ‘recovering what had been lost’, be that through
17 Comte, The Positive Philosophy of Auguste Comte, vol. 2, ed. Harriet Martineau (London:
Trübner, 1875), 1.
18 On these challenges see Ceri Crossley, ‘Historiography: France’, in Christopher John Murray
(ed.), Encyclopedia of the Romantic Era, 1760–1850 (London: Fitzroy Dearborn, 2004), 505–7;
den Boer, ‘Historical Writing in France’, 195–6.
19 On the matter of contingency, it is also important to stress that nationalism was not always the
dominant discursive framework of discontent in the multinational empires. In the Habsburg case, for
instance, many of the challenges to Vienna’s authority that used History were not national, but local in
character. Equally, the Habsburgs were perfectly capable of annexing the Histories of their subject
peoples to the History of the multinational empire. The statue of Jan Hus in Prague was erected under
the Habsburgs; the Titian memorial in the Frari church in Venice was used to stress the harmony of
Venetian, Italian, and Austrian interests. Thanks to David Laven for these thoughts.
202 Why History?
Histories of folklore, or recreations of ‘pure’ languages and tales of earlier civiliza

tions as well as great deeds and leaders. Creation might involve Histories that
were so keen to single out the nation that they ignored other peoples, as with the
disregard of the German-speaking population of Bohemia in František Palacký’s
influential The History of the Czech Nation in Bohemia and Moravia (1848–76).20
It might involve claims like those by Bulgarian nationalists that all Slav-speaking
Macedonians were really Bulgarians, or the competing claim that southern and
eastern Macedonians were closer to Serbs.21 In other words, one might seek either
to excise or to assimilate, which in practice meant dominate—imperialism thus
resulting from nationalism. One of the most important ways of maximizing verti-
cal integration across classes was to minimize horizontal integration across real
or conceptual borders, to sharpen a sense of ‘otherness’ as a way of consolidating
‘us-ness’. In Russia, for instance, especially after the French Revolution and the
Polish Rebellion of 1830–1, autocracy was justified as a part of a national trad
ition, alongside Orthodoxy, as against ‘western’ rationalism and secularism. At
the same time Britain defined itself against illiberal, Orthodox Russia much as in
the previous century its ‘other’ had been Catholic, authoritarian France.22
Sometimes boundaries were created between ethno-religious-linguistic groups
within the same polity as groups nursed grievances, real or imagined, of historical
dispossession and exploitation along collective lines. Slovak subjection by
Magyars was a significant theme in Slovak nationalist historiography, for instance.
Such grievances were magnified as increasingly literate populations consumed
the products of the vernacular efflorescence, and by the internal policies of multi
national empires as they sought to sustain themselves in the face of novel pres-
sures by varying combinations of ‘modernizing’ reform and anti-liberal
repression. The failure, from a nationalist and liberal perspective, of the rebellions
and revolutions of 1830 and 1848 was key to the development of historical schol-
arship amongst some national groups in the Russian and Austrian empires, as it
was amongst those Germans who sought unification. In Russia, as had occurred
at points with Habsburg policies of ‘Germanization’, and as would occur later on
in the Ottoman empire, the state response itself could take the form of ‘nationali-
zation’: ‘Russification’ of non-Russians, as in Poland after the crushing of the 1863
rising, squared Russian nationalism with imperium. Such policies were more
than just linguistic and cultural—they also affected the material interests and pre-
rogatives of elites of the minority ethnic group, giving the latter a stake in
nationalism.
20 Badr, ‘East-Central European Historical Writing’, 333–4.

21 Turda, ‘Historical Writing in the Balkans’, 355–6.
22 Linda Colley, Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707–1837 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005);
Szvák, ‘The Golden Age of Russian Historical Writing’, 307–8.
One should not just focus on the multinational empires in this connection,
however, for no state was without grievances or divisions that titular elites feared
might thwart the project of national unification. The nation-state was, and
remains, an ideal rather than a reality. The ‘differences’ that had to be transcended
or eradicated in the nation-building process were not just ethnic or ethnoreli-
gious ones, though these tended to be the ones over which most blood was to be
shed outside of the USSR. Differences of regional dialect and local loyalties could
be just as problematic, and extant peasant culture was as much of an obstacle as
any nascent ‘class consciousness’ in the creation of unity and more integrated
and ‘rationalized’ national economies, as the project of ‘making peasants into
Frenchmen’ in late nineteenth-century France revealed. Even after ‘unification’ in
nineteenth-century Italy or Germany, and ‘liberation’ in Bulgaria (1878) or
Poland (1919), states had to try to foster the national consciousness, loyalty, and
togetherness that unification was supposed to express. In one sense this indicates a
contradiction, but in another sense it reinforced the sense of continuity-in-process
over time, as when American politicians invoke the ongoing effort to create the
‘more perfect union’ of which the Constitution speaks.
Historicism and Developmental Thought
For better or for worse, Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886) has become synonym
ous with the mainstream tradition of nineteenth-century German historiography,
the tradition known as historicism—Historismus in German. Ranke’s prefaces,
like those of Tacitus or Thucydides, contain some of the most quoted manifestos
of the discipline, although, as with his classical forebears, if one relies on the pref-
aces to characterize the historian, one is apt to miss a great deal. Ranke’s vast
scholarly output includes volumes-worth of source discussions to underpin some
of the historical narratives that precede them, while an appendix to his first
monograph, Histories of the Latin and Germanic Peoples [Völker], 1494–1535
(1824), is his best known methodological contribution. Ranke taught many stu-
dents and pioneered the Berlin seminar with its focus on archival documents and
source criticism, which was used inter alia as the model for the first US History
PhD programme at Johns Hopkins University.
While Ranke conducted extensive research, often in hitherto closed archives,
not everything he wrote was in accordance with his own strictures; more import
antly, given that few of us are innocent of hypocrisy on that score, many of these
strictures were not new. What Ranke supposedly did for the study of modern
sources, Barthold Georg Niebuhr had already done for Roman sources. Putting
aside the contributions to critical historical scholarship of scholars in other coun-
tries and before the eighteenth century, and focusing only on the immediate
204 Why History?
German hinterland, mention should be made of luminaries like Justus Möser

(1720–94), Johann Martin Chladenius (1710–59),23 the Göttingen scholars
(pp. 171–2),24 and late eighteenth-century German historical-critical treatment of
the Bible and the life of Jesus.25
Ranke was a conservative incrementalist whose outlook was coloured by
Romantic idealism with its religious tint. He reacted against ‘enlightenment’ his
toriography alongside aspects of the French Revolution but nevertheless felt that
revolutions could be midwives to a reshaped order of peoples that better reflected
their differing traditions and outlooks, hence his obvious sympathy for Serbia in
The Serbian Revolution (1829).26 He was not a German nationalist but a Prussian
patriot who appreciated the Holy Roman Empire’s aspiration to embody a civil
izational ideal. His Histories of the Latin and Germanic Peoples, which assured
him of his appointment to Berlin University in 1825, concerned the two major
groups of peoples in the empire. It claimed, in a way that chimed with the relevant
interpolations in the Chronicle of Fredegar (p. 71) but contradicted centuries of
differentiation between Italians and northerners (or Romans and Goths), that
‘Latins’ and ‘Germans’ really comprised an ‘Einheit’ or unity. This twinning had
the effect of distinguishing the two groups from Slavs and Magyars in particular,
and helps explain why, whatever Ranke’s interest in the European state system, he
did not find ‘Europe’ (which included Balkan ‘Turks’) or ‘Christendom’ (Latin or
otherwise) to be entirely satisfactory categories. After a whistle-stop introductory
chapter beginning with the Visigoth Ataulf in Rome, and Orosius appearing in its
first footnote, the book addressed, as Ranke put it, ‘on one hand, the founding of
the Spanish monarchy, the loss of Italian freedom, and on the other hand, the
formation of a dual opposition—a political opposition through France and a reli-
gious opposition through the Reformation: in sum, that division of our peoples
into two hostile camps upon which all modern history [neue Historie] is based.’27
He also thought that the Latin and Germanic peoples were possessed of a par-
ticularly strong ‘ascending spiritual force’ that some ‘Asian’ peoples had lost and
that was not present in all peoples at all times—which brings him close in this
respect to Hegel and anticipates Engels on the contrast between ‘historical’ and
‘unhistorical peoples’.28
23 Beiser, The German Historicist Tradition, ch. 1 on the significance of Chladenius.

24 On the general significance of the Göttingen historians for the later historicist movement, see
Ulrich Muhlack, Geschichtswissenschaft im Humanismus und in der Aufklärung: Der Vorgeschichte des
Historismus (Munich: Beck, 1991).
25 Howard, Religion and the Rise of Historicism.
26 Leopold von Ranke, Die Serbische Revolution. Aus Serbischen Papieren und Mittheilungen
(Hamburg: Perthes, 1829).
27 Leopold von Ranke, Geschichten der romanischen und germanischen Völker von 1494 bis 1535
(Leipzig: Reimer, 1824), pp. iv–v, xvii.
28 Ranke invoked ‘eine von Stufe zu Stufe sich entwickelnde geistige Macht’: ‘Auszug aus Rankes
Vorlesungen zur Weltgeschichte (1854)’, repr. in Leopold von Ranke, Über die Epochen der neueren
Ranke’s name is often associated with the idea of History as a science, but this
is apt to induce confusion if it is not appreciated that the German Wissenschaft
has broader connotations than the natural sciences and applies to any body of
systematic enquiry. The term does not merit the specific interpretation given to it
by many scholars outside Germany. Not for the last time, ideas originating on the
European continent found less critical application when applied in the Anglo-
Saxon world.29 The translator of the 1887 English edition of the Histories of the
Latin and Germanic Peoples not only singularized Histories to History, thus
removing Ranke’s gesture to modesty, he only saw fit to reproduce the following
sentence from Ranke’s original—1824—preface, nourishing the idea of Ranke as a
naïve fact-fetishist: ‘A strict representation of facts [Thatsache in the original], be
it ever so narrow [bedingt; better translated as conditional or contingent, as
opposed to the philosophically ‘necessary’] and unpoetical [unschön], is, beyond
doubt, the first law.’30 But in Germany too lesser minds reduced the thoughts of
their heroes to what they themselves found most palatable—or manageable—and
Ranke’s emphasis on source criticism and validation became for some the alpha
and omega of his message. Consider the following, written at the turn of the
1880s by George Prothero, not yet professor at Edinburgh University, of erstwhile
hosts in Bonn who evinced a ‘tendency to stop at a collection of facts, to let the
facts speak for themselves, or rather remain dumb . . . They don’t seek enough to
get at the great laws of history, development of nations, differences of national
character . . . One wants a people with more imagination . . . to extract the essence
from the material they collect . . .31 This is actually one version of Ranke criticizing
another. While encapsulating aspects of his method, the scholars whom Prothero
depicted had failed to address Ranke’s more philosophical concerns.
Establishing a ‘regulative ideal’ rather than praising his own Olympian view-
point may well have been Ranke’s own meaning when he wrote that historians
should try to efface themselves from what they wrote, and that his work on the
Latin and Germanic peoples ‘will bloss sagen wie es eigentlich gewesen’. This line,
written in the proximate context of Ranke’s use of Venetian archives, means that
Ranke ‘wants/seeks merely to tell how it [i.e. the past] actually/essentially was’,32
though invariably the phrase is repeated or modified without the initial modal
‘wants/seeks’ or the adverb ‘merely’. Certainly the interpretation to modesty is
Geschichte. Historisch-kritische Ausgabe, ed. Theodor Schieder and Helmut Berding (Munich:
Oldenbourg, 1971), 53 ff.
29 See for instance the reception of ‘Rankean’ ideas in the USA: Peter Novick, That Noble Dream:
The ‘Objectivity Question’ and the American Historical Profession (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1999).
30 Leopold von Ranke, History of the Latin and Teutonic Nations from 1494–1514, trans.
P. A. Ashworth (London: George Bell and Sons, 1887), p. vi.
31 Cited in Michael Bentley, Modernizing England’s Past: English Historiography in the Age of
Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 99. Emphasis added.
32 Ranke, Geschichten der romanischen und germanischen Völker, p. vi.
206 Why History?
supported by Ranke’s stated aspiration elsewhere ‘to see with unbiased eyes the
progress of universal history and in this spirit to produce beautiful and noble
works[:] Imagine what happiness it would be for me if I could realize this ideal,
even in a small degree.’33 What exactly is denoted by ‘eigentlich’ remains a matter
of some debate, as indicated. The differing interpretations ‘actually’ and ‘essen-
tially’, in the sense of ‘in essence’, can both be justified if one holds to the view that
Ranke leaned on the 1821 paper of the philosopher and educational theorist
Wilhelm von Humboldt, ‘On the task of the historian’ (Geschichtsschreiber), for
that address implies each meaning at different points.34 This volume’s contention,
given how rationalists had fostered an inferiority complex among so many histor
ians, is to place Ranke and probably Humboldt too in relation to that passage in
The Discourse on Method in which Descartes writes of exemplar historians that
the omissions they make in the interests of relevance ensure that ‘the remainder
does not appear as it really was’ and who thus mislead by their partial exempla.
Ranke might well have agreed with Descartes’s criticism but wanted to render it
redundant by his own approach to History.
As relevant as the content of Ranke’s aspiration to tell the past ‘wie es eigentlich
gewesen’ was that with which he juxtaposed the aspiration. He prefaced the
famous words by a resignation from other tasks that had been conferred on
History over the previous centuries, including the ‘office of judging the past, of
instructing the present for the benefit of future ages’. Humboldt was just as scep
tical of the exemplary rationale.35 In fact Ranke was not entirely consistent on the
matter of exemplarity—elsewhere he also wrote of the guidance that might be
provided by discrete ‘examples of ancient and modern times’—and, as we shall
see, he did think History could instruct in some way.36 But there were reasons
pragmatic as well as philosophical for disavowing History as Lesson, so we should
by no means think of Ranke as purely an advocate of the procedural rationale of
History as Method, whatever his insistence on scholarly rigour. Like Humboldt
he had his own substantivist rationales related to his own ontology or concept of
fundamental reality.
When he avowed an interest in ‘der Sinn jede Epoche an und für sich selbst’, i.e.
in the meaning/significance of every epoch on its own terms, and wrote that all
33 Final sentence cited in Leopold von Ranke, The Secret of World History: Selected Writings on the
Art and Science of History, ed. Roger Wines (New York: Fordham University Press, 1981), 259.
34 Wilhelm von Humboldt, ‘On the Historian’s Task’, History and Theory, 6:1 (1967), 57–71, espe-
cially the opening pages. For the influence of the Humboldt essay see Georg G. Iggers, ‘The Intellectual
Foundations of Nineteenth-Century “Scientific” History: The German Model’, in Macintyre,
Maiguashca, and Pók (eds.), The Oxford History of Historical Writing 1800–1945, 41–58, here 43–4.
35 For contextualization see Ulrich Muhlack, ‘Leopold von Ranke und die Begründung der
quellenkritischen Geschichtsforschung’, in Jürgen Elvert and Susanne Krauß (eds.), Historische
Debatten und Kontroversen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2003), 23–33, here 27–8.
On Humboldt’s views, Humboldt, ‘On the Historian’s Task’, 60–1.
36 Leopold von Ranke, The Theory and Practice of History, ed. Georg G. Iggers (London: Routledge,
2011), 82.
ages were equidistant from eternity, or ‘umittelbar zu Gott’, immediate unto God,
Ranke was opposing the idea, associated with Hegel, that epochs or peoples were
merely vectors of some progressing general spirit.37 In his lectures to Ludwig II of
Bavaria in the 1850s he anticipated Nietzsche in criticizing the ‘Hegelian’ idea that
‘each generation surpasses the preceding one, so that the latest is always the most
favoured and the preceding generations are only the bearers of those that follow.’38
Contrary to historian Charles Bambach’s claims, Ranke did not generally think in
terms of a ‘Hegelian pageant of world history’, and while he professed thoughts
tantamount to the idea that ‘universal history was organized according to provi-
dential design’ he did not claim to decipher the design. He did not conceive of a
‘unitary narrative’ or ‘a historical continuum with equally measured intervals
where one can . . . “see with unbiased eyes the progress of universal history” ’ (how
misleading these partial quotations can be), and he did not envisage time ‘as pure
temporal succession’ in a way that supposedly ‘undergirds . . . the modernist logic
of overcoming’ and ‘opens the path for . . . the “end of history” ’.39 While Ranke did
talk of progress in a rather unclear way, and while in his very long career and
intellectual development he sometimes invoked spiritual tendencies as under
lying motors of visible change, most of Bambach’s assertions are explicitly dis
avowed in Ranke’s lectures on World History of 1854 and his notes on History
and Philosophy in his World History of 1881–8.40 To be sure, his uncompleted,
multi-volume work on world History was Eurocentric, not least because it was
interested in the impact of powerful Europe on the rest of the world, but this was
a study of connections and influences between states and peoples, not a tale of
rational global advance to destiny. Whatever Ranke’s reservations about the
approach of the earlier Göttingen historians, the philosophy of his world History
owed more to Gatterer, even Bodin, than Hegel’s concept of historical development,
even if he and the great philosopher are bound together by some idealist precepts.41
37 Quotes from Daniel Fulda, Wissenschaft aus Kunst: Die Entstehung der modernen deutschen
Geschichtsschreibung, 1760–1860 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996) 183–4.
38 Cited in Lionel Grossman, Basel in the Age of Burckhardt: A Study in Unseasonable Ideas
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 216.
39 All quotes from Charles R. Bambach, Heidegger, Dilthey, and the Crisis of Historicism (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1995), 8–9.
40 From the 1854 lectures, in Ranke, The Secret of World History, 160–1: ‘We can assume in the
areas of material interest an absolute progress, a highly decisive ascent which would require an enor-
mous upset to bring about a decline. But we cannot find a similar progress in moral affairs. . . . From
the viewpoint of the divine idea, I can think of the matter only this way: humanity contains within
itself an endless variety of developments which come to view from time to time, according to laws
which are unknown to us, more mysterious, and greater than we can conceive.’
41 For the philosophy of his world History see Leopold von Ranke, Weltgeschichte, ed. Alfred Dove
and Georg Winter, vol. IX, part II (Leipzig: Duncker and Humblot, 1888), pp. vii ff. Generally on
Ranke’s world history, François Hartog, ‘Von der Universalgeschichte zur Globalgeschichte?
Zeiterfahrungen’, Le Débat, 154 (2009), 53–66, here point 14; Ulrich Muhlack, ‘Das Problem der
Weltgeschichte bei Leopold Ranke’, in Wolfgang Hardtwig and Philipp Müller (eds.), Die
Vergangenheit der Weltgeschichte: Universalhistorisches Denken in Berlin 1800–1933 (Göttingen:
208 Why History?
Though Ranke was not much of a practitioner of History as Speculative

Philosophy in the sense of deciphering a suprahistorical process, elements of his
thought accord with the classical desire to apprehend the structure of the uni-
verse. If Rankean particularism sat uneasily with Enlightenment universalism
as well as judgementalism, the evidence of his thoughts on world History sug-
gests that he was certainly concerned with the universal. Friedrich Meinecke
(1862–1954), who was both a historian of ‘historicist’ thought and one of its last
major practitioners, hinted at the difference in approach when he defined the
‘core’ of historicism as ‘compensation, through individualizing reflection, for a
generalizing view of historical-human forces’.42 The conservative Geoffrey Elton
(1921–94) showed historicism’s more than residual influence later in the twentieth
century: ‘All good historical writing is universal history in the sense that it
remembers the universal while dealing with part of it.’43 He also echoed Ranke in
writing that ‘no argument exists which successfully establishes a hierarchy of
worth among historical periods or regions as such’.44 Balance between the par-
ticular and the universal is at issue here, but Ranke and others meant that they
believed the universal could only be approached via the particular. Ranke believed
that God’s light was refracted through the multiplicity of cultures; God’s design
could be beheld, if only indirectly. Thus understood, History was a species or t heoria
different to that envisaged by Polybius in his rebuttal of Aristotle; it was also a
species of History as religious Communion different to that practised by the
interpreters of sacred texts. The viewpoint stemmed from a variety of panentheism,
of which Meinecke also partook, namely the basically Plotinian belief that the
universe is contained within god or is an emanation of god. Panentheism is differ-
ent to pantheism in which the universe and god are one and the same thing. The
outlook chimed with Leibniz’s monadological thinking and with the longer-
standing Christian hermeneutic concern for the reciprocal illumination gained
from considering parts and wholes in their relations. It combined the precepts of
idealism and the established religious belief that individuals carried within them
the spark of the divine. If nations are thoughts of god, and if, as with Spinoza, the
mind’s highest good is the knowledge of god, then one aspired to see the world
sub specie æternitatis, from the perspective of eternity.45 As Ranke put it, ‘instead
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010), 143–72. On reservations about the Göttingen approach by Ranke
and Herder, see Fulda, Wissenschaft aus Kunst, 183 ff.
42 Cited in Robert A. Pois, ‘Two Poles Within Historicism: Croce and Meinecke’, Journal of the
History of Ideas, 31:2 (1970), 253–72, here 253.
43 Geoffrey Elton, The Practice of History (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1967), 16.
44 Ibid. 13.
45 On Spinoza, Russell, History of Western Philosophy, 597. On Ranke’s panentheism, Carl Hinrichs,
Ranke und die Geschichtstheologie der Goethezeit (Gottingen: Musterschmidt, 1954)—thanks to
Reinbert A. Krol for the reference. On Meinecke’s panentheism, Krol, ‘Friedrich Meinecke:
Panentheism and the Crisis of Historicism’, Journal of the Philosophy of History, 4 (2010), 195–209,
here 206 ff.
of the fleeting conglomerations that the [social] contract theories invoke like
cloud formations, I perceive spiritual essences, original creations of the human
spirit—one might say thoughts of God’.46
From this perspective we can also understand why historicists developed a
particular focus on the state and a particular attitude towards its power. The
focus, by no means all-consuming—after all, Ranke wrote not only histories of
multiple major European states at key periods of their development and the
papacy as a political as well as religious force, but also on Italian poetry47—was
partly a matter of the availability of sources, partly of elitist concerns. It was also a
reflection of the times themselves, in which successive European revolutions and
processes of state formation seemed to indicate the overwhelming importance of
politics and warfare.
The idealist legacy is apparent in Ranke’s idea of public institutions as the locus
of something like ‘objective spirit’. The state had a will and character of sorts, and
both were shaped not just by the people comprising the body politic at any one
point, but by the traditions that had developed over time. The state guaranteed
the liberty and expressed the individuality of nations on the stage of world his-
tory. As such, not only was it owed loyalty, it was itself a moral entity, as Samuel
Pufendorf and Hegel also maintained. This is not to say that Ranke felt that the
state could do no wrong: in keeping perhaps with the Neoplatonic elements of his
thought, the purest entities were the highest up the chain of being, the least
coloured by the mundane and the physical. But precisely because states and their
leaders had to act in an imperfect world it would be wrong either to expect per-
fection of them or to denigrate them for their imperfection. It would, he wrote,
‘be infinitely wrong to seek only the effects of brutal forces in the struggles of his
torical powers . . . no state has ever existed without a spiritual basis and a spiritual
content. A spiritual essence appears in power itself, an original genius with its
own particular life.’48
Since the state was a moral entity, its prerogatives were not easily limited by
recourse to the concept of external wills and moralities; its duty was at once to
protect the people and express its ‘moral energy’. This was the thrust of Bismarck’s
emphasis on the primacy of foreign policy, the arena in which the state preserved
its existence—hence the nineteenth-century resurgence in popularity of the
Renaissance high priest of raison d’état.49 Equally, the true statesman should
imbibe History in order to acquaint himself with the appropriate way to act
46 ‘Statt jener flüchtigen Konglomerate, die sich dir aus der Lehre vom Vertrag erheben wie
Wolkengebilde, sehe ich geistige Wesenheiten, originale Schöpfungen des Menschengeists,—man darf
sagen, Gedanken Gottes’: Ranke, ‘Politisches Gespräch’, Historisch-politische Zeitschrift, ed. Leopold
Ranke, vol. 2 (1833–6), 775–807, here 794.
47 Leopold von Ranke, ‘Zur Geschichte der italienischen Poesie’, Abhandlungen der Königlichen
Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot, 1835), 401–85.
48 Ranke, Weltgeschichte, vol. IX, part II, p. xi. 49 Cassirer, The Myth of the State, 125.
210 Why History?
within national traditions and the potentialities of the age. This was one way in
which the statesman, like anyone else, might benefit from the enhanced sense of
his own historicity, his own nature as a being-in-time and as a product of his
torical forces, that he might also act with such forces. In this sense historicist
thought was political through-and-through, even though its proponents saw
themselves as above mere party politics. Historians working in this tradition of
History as political-cultural rather than religious Communion might lay claim to
divining the normative order of their state, establishing its ‘common-sense’,
and nowhere is such a tendency clearer than in the inaugural issue of the journal
the Historische Zeitschrift, which was first published in 1859 and spawned imita-
tors internationally in the following decades.50 The editor, Heinrich von Sybel
(1817–95) claimed to:
plan a historical periodical, not an antiquarian or political one. On the one

hand, it is not our aim to discuss unresolved questions of current politics, nor to
commit ourselves to one particular political party. It is not contradictory, how-
ever, if we indicate certain general principles, which will guide the political judg-
ment of this periodical. Viewed historically, the life of every people, governed by
the laws of morality, appears as a natural and individual evolution, which—out
of intrinsic necessity—produces the forms of state and culture, an evolution
which must not arbitrarily be obstructed or accelerated, nor made subject to
extrinsic rules. This point of view precludes feudalism, which imposes lifeless
elements on the progressive life; radicalism, which substitutes subjective arbi-
trariness for organic development; ultramontanism, which subjects the natural
and spiritual evolution to the authority of an extraneous Church.51
Ranke and his successors saw themselves battling for interpretative supremacy
in the human sciences as a whole. History could take its place as the cardinal
humanistic discipline by making a virtue of the diverse particularities that con-
ventional philosophy was not equipped to consider, while the spiritual-idealistic
side of historicism ensured that a concern with empirics did not degenerate into a
preoccupation with detail for its own sake. To this day, individual historians may
spend so much time on ‘the facts’ because some are theory-shy, but History the
discipline as such remains especially concerned with the particular, either alone
or, as with Ranke, as a component and reflection of the universal. (In this line of
thought the primary importance of fact is its expression of particularity, albeit
that many latter-day arguments about the nature of History have focused upon
50 Margaret F. Stieg, The Historische Zeitschrift: The Origin and Development of Scholarly Historical
Periodicals (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1986).
51 Editorial trans. and repr. in Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History, 171–2.
the fact’s role as guarantor of truth interpreted as ‘correctness’.52) Ranke wrote:

‘From the particular, one can carefully and boldly move up to the general; from
general theories, there is no way of looking at the particular.’53 By no coincidence,
such empirical work was also the way that the judicious—i.e. moderately con-
servative—politician was supposed to reason, unlike the reckless radical reformer
(or the Hegelian philosopher!) who worked from abstract universals to rough
reality or even downplayed existing reality in the pursuit of ‘negative’ thought.54
This particular historical philosophy exerted far wider influence than the
History seminars in which documentary sources were the entry point into
the hermeneutic circle linking evidence with an empathetic understanding for the
accultured minds that had produced such deposits. It characterized a general his
torical inclination across a range of disciplines, from linguistics through law and
economics. The common factor in all was the rejection of an abstract-theoretical
approach predicated upon, say, the posited general truths of David Ricardo’s eco-
nomics, or the universal applicability of social contract theory, in favour of one
illuminating how different cultural traditions shaped economic and social behav-
iour in different ways. In this sense it was a more descriptive tradition, which is
not to say that it was antediluvian or lacking in sophistication. Whatever the
peculiarities of German historiography in this period, whatever elements have
been discarded along the way, it has left a vastly influential legacy in this priori
tization of a particular conception of context—especially cultural—in its consid-
eration of human diversity. The name ‘historicism’ came to be applied to the
Rankean tradition, but it is still applied, if loosely, to denote an approach to any
given past that focuses upon its ‘difference’ from other pasts and from the present,
and can have relativist connotations.
Historicism also stressed temporal concepts like growth or development.
Where Otto of Freising had followed Augustine and Aristotle in contrasting the
mutabilitas rerum (or miseriae mutationum)55 of earthly life with the atemporal
plane, historicism sought to establish growth, change, flourishing, as the nature of
reality at the most basic level. As with Vico and Herder, the historicist’s way of
understanding his or her unique object was through its internal development
across time. History became a species of process philosophy, and Christlieb Julius
Braniss (1792–1873) was one philosopher to merge his idealistic philosophy with
52 Nathan Rotenstreich, ‘From Facts to Thoughts: Collingwood’s Views on the Nature of History’,
Philosophy, 35:133 (1960), 122–37, here 129. My point may or may not be an adaption. For an inter-
rogation of the narrow conception of truth as correctness, Robert Piercey, The Uses of the Past from
Heidegger to Rorty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 53–7.
53 Cited in Peter Koslowski (ed.), The Discovery of Historicity in German Idealism and Historicism
(Berlin: Springer, 2005), 42.
54 Beiser, The German Historicist Tradition, 278–9.
55 Claasen, ‘Res Gestae, Universal History, Apocalypse’, 401.
212 Why History?
a species of historicism.56 In place of what the philosopher E. A. Burtt called ‘the

logico-mathematical world-view’, historicism implanted a worldview that was
genealogical.57 A rudimentary justification for this is the analogy of the seed
or the acorn, cross-sectional analysis of which will not reveal what the plant
will look like that emerges from it. Only the passing of time tells.58 During the
nineteenth century evolutionary thought drew the bio-sciences towards devel-
opmental models as opposed to the mechanistic-causal models associated with
physics. Recall that evolutionary thinking preceded Darwin in the nineteenth
century—his genius was to identify the motor of evolution. The conjunction of
historicism and evolutionism gave vast intellectual and cultural power to a
new metaphysics of existence—a new ontology—in which development, or
‘becoming’, became more important than atemporal ‘being’, revising Plato’s
ontological hierarchy.
While History contributed to and benefited from this intellectual atmosphere,
it was not just trying to redefine its relationship to the moral, political, and social
sciences, but trying to distinguish itself from literature, in which, for instance, the
didactic Bildungsroman was also concerned with development over time. Perhaps
it is not chance that one of the most prominent opponents of Ranke’s insistence
on archival rigour, Schlosser’s student Georg Gottfried Gervinus (1805–71), was a
historian of literature and its relationship to politics and morality. Gervinus’s five-
volume History of the Poetical National Literature of the Germans (1835–42)59 was
stimulated by the desire to render ‘art fruitful for the present situation’. Ranke’s
rejoinder, shortly after Gervinus’s death, was that in order for Wissenschaft/science
to be relevant to life,
56 Gunter Scholtz, ‘Historismus’ als spekulative Geschichtsphilosophie: Christlieb Julius Braniss
(Frankfurt: V. Klostermann, 1973). Braniss was a convert from Judaism, but we should note that the
German-centred Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah) itself evinced elements of idealism similar to
Ranke’s, while the developmental element of Hegelian and then historicist thought gave a new twist to
the historical character that had never been absent from Jewish theology. Thus Immanuel Wolf in his
1822 ‘On the Concept of a Science of Judaism’ (which reflected the thought of the Society for the
Culture and Science of Judaism established by Hegel’s student Eduard Gans (1797–1839)): ‘man needs
time in order to raise himself from the world of the physical and the many to that of the universal
unity, the all-embracing and all existing Monas’ (Monas stemming from the Greek monos, from which
we also get ‘monad’); ‘peace and permanence are alien to the realm of the spirit, which is truly living.
It is in the nature of the spiritual world to be in constant motion, and never to cease development’; ‘It
is manifest everywhere that the fundamental principle of Judaism is again in a state of ferment, striv-
ing to assume a shape in harmony with the spirit of the times.’ See also Nahman Krochmal (1785–
1840): ‘just as the king of a nation binds it together and unifies it with regard to readily visible
externals, so too the manifestation of the divine which it contains unifies and binds it together intern
ally with regard to place and time, from generation to generation’. Wolf and Krochmal contextualized
and excerpted in Davis Biale (ed.), Judaism (New York: Norton, 2015), 514–23, quotes from 518, 519, 521.
57 D. Villemaire, E. A. Burtt: Historian and Philosopher (Dordrecht: Springer, 1992), 19.
58 Randall, Nature and Historical Experience, 15; 72 ff.
59 Georg Gottfried Gervinus, Geschichte der poetischen National-Literatur der Deutschen, 5 vols.
(Leipzig: Engelmann, 1835–42).
it must, first and foremost, be Wissenschaft, for it is impossible to adopt a point

of view in life and then carry it over into scholarship, because then it is life that is
influencing scholarship, and not scholarship life. . . . We can only have a real
influence on the contemporary world if we first turn our eyes away from it and
lift ourselves to the plane of free objective scholarship.60
As we approach the end of this section, reflection on quite what objectivity might
mean brings us to Gustav Droysen (1808–84), who also disapproved of Gervinus’s
approach. One of Droysen’s significances it that he contributed to a shift in
emphasis away from the idea of History as high art or literature to that of it as a
form of scientific labour with a unique and rigorous methodology; any given
individual specialist was but one contributor to a wider progressive process of
understanding.61 His concept of Historik, or ‘historics’, as in the title of his meth-
odological work Grundriß der Historik (Outline of the Principles of History,
1857/8), had been deployed, inter alia, in an earlier work of Gervinus’s where it
stood in relation to History much as Aristotle’s Poetics (c.335 bce), in German
Poetik, stood to literature.62 The contrast, from Droysen’s perspective, of Historik
and Poetik is as significant in its own way as is Droysen’s criticism from a hermen
eutic perspective of Thomas Buckle’s positivist historianship.63 Yet for all of his
emphasis on empirical research as opposed to Hegelian speculation, Droysen was
much influenced by Hegelian concepts of deep historical forces, and both his
philosophical reflections on History and his historical works evince teleology:
while contributing to methodical debates, Droysen also sought to systematize and
encourage a specific, disciplined historical way of thinking to enable historians to
place their present in relationship to the past and to the future with reference to
the deeper unfolding forces.64
Droysen is as deserving as Ranke of the epithet ‘great man’ historian, though
there is a clear Hegelian sense of some of his great men as bearers of world-
historical Volk-spirits (pp. 180–2). His precocious breakthrough work was his
History of Alexander the Great (1833), shortly followed by his History of Hellenism.
The link between the achievements of Alexander’s father and Philip II in
‘unifying’ Greece under the Macedonian kingdom, then Alexander in expanding
60 Gordon A. Craig, The Politics of the Unpolitical: German Writers and the Problem of Power,
1770–1871 (Munich: Beck, 1993), 146, 154.
61 Wolfgang Hardtwig, ‘Geschichtsreligion—Wissenschaft als Arbeit—Objektivität. Der Historismus
in neuer Sicht’, Historische Zeitschrift, 252:1 (1991), 1–32, here 19 ff.
62 Christiane Hackel, Aristoteles-Rezeption in der Geschichtstheorie Johann Gustav Droysens (Berlin:
de Gruyter, 2019), 147.
63 On Buckle see Johann Gustav Droysen, ‘Erhebung der Geschichte zum Rang einer Wissenschaft’,
Historische Zeitschrift, 9 (1863), 1–22, which was reproduced in the 1882 edition of Grundriß der
Historik (Leipzig: Veit, 1882), 47 ff.
64 Arthur Alfaix Assis, What Is History For? Johann Gustav Droysen and the Functions of
Historiography (New York: Berghahn, 2016), ch. 2; Beiser, German Historicist Tradition, ch. 8.
214 Why History?
the reach of Greek civilization, provide a clue to Droysen’s scholarly future.65

Despite the title of the tradition he initiated, the ‘Prussian school’, Droysen’s
nationalism represents a step away from Ranke’s brand of Prussian patriotism, and
the political issue is relevant for understanding Droysen’s opposition to what he
saw as Ranke’s conservative and arid concern with source criticism at the expense
of a more active embrace of one’s historicity that clarified one’s choices and capacity
for agency. For Droysen, as for many German Bildungsbürger, not to mention
socialists, the end of revolution in 1848–9 brought frustration and disappoint-
ment. He had entered the revolution, during which he served as a politician in the
revolutionary Frankfurt parliament, pushing a kleindeutsch unification under
Prussian auspices as opposed to the grossdeutsch option of German unification in
which the ‘reactionary’ Habsburg empire would be so obviously prominent. For
the likes of Droysen, Prussian-led unification meant that there was no contradic-
tion between Prussian patriotism and German nationalism. (It was not unusual
in nineteenth-century historiography for particular regions to be allocated a spe-
cial, ‘chosen’ role in national unification projects—Piedmont in Italy is another
example.) To the displeasure of that different historicist, Ranke, Droysen’s History
of Prussian Politics (1855–86), was marked by teleology, as if the Hohenzollern
dynasty from the fifteenth century were somehow inveigled in grand Prussian
designs from before the state of Prussia actually existed.66
When Droysen mocked ‘eunuch-like objectivity’, he had Rankeans in mind,
but he was not attacking shared scholarly standards, and in his lectures and writ-
ings on Historik he went further than Ranke in systematizing critical principles.
Nor was he propounding a subjective approach in the sense of a romantic orien-
tation springing uniquely from the creative ethos of an individual investigating
subject. At the simplest level, a vast but fragmentary and contradictory source-
base, combined with the need for the historian to come to it with ready-made
questions and interests, meant that the order thus imposed would be of the his
torian’s making, rather than being inherent in the past. Moreover, since interests
and concepts were the products of acculturation, the History that was written
according to the most impeccable professional standards would reflect the per-
spective of that acculturation and would be as accurate a ‘take’ on the past as
another account written with the same care from within a different acculturated
historian—in keeping with earlier monadological thought, such a perspective
would contribute one facet of the ‘truth’ among others, rather than constituting a
65 Droysen, Geschichte Alexanders des Grossen (Hamburg: Perthes, 1833); Geschichte des
Hellenismus, 2 vols. (Hamburg: Perthes, 1836–43).
66 Droysen, Geschichte der preussischen Politik, 14 vols. (Leipzig: Veit, 1855–86). For Ranke’s view,
Wilfried Nippel, Johann Gustav Droysen: ein Leben zwischen Wissenschaft und Politik (Munich: Beck,
2008), 287.
God’s-eye view.67 But Droysen went further still, actively embracing this perspec-
tivalism: ‘Insofar as I consider the past from my standpoint, from the thoughts of
my nation and state, from my religion and past, I stand high above my individual
ego. I think, as it were, from a higher ego, in which the slag of my little person has
been melted away.’ Thus we encounter not Ranke’s famed (and caricatured) aspir
ation to self-effacement before the past, but self-effacement before the cultural
traditions through which the particular historian investigates the past, the indi-
vidual only ever being a less complete whole than the greater and higher whole of
the collective.68
If we can abstract a little, moving away from Droysen’s particular preoocupa-
tions, and focusing on the logic of such pronouncements, we see that they raise as
many questions as they answer. Hippolyte Taine implied the superfluity of the
Romantic artists’ injunction il faut être de son temps, ‘one ought to be of one’s
times’, since one was ‘of one’s times’ whether one liked it or not.69 The same pre-
sumably went for one’s own nation, state, religion. Furthermore, in the event that
one tried consciously to embrace the relevant context(s), by that very effort one
would actually be adding something over-and-above general acculturation and
thus would have done the opposite of melting away the slag of one’s own personal
idiosyncrasies. One might add that there is no way a reader could establish
whether any given historical interpretation was an authentic expression of the
accultured author or of something else altogether, irrespective of what the author
claimed, not least because no culture or ‘time’ produces a monolithic expression
of itself. Droysen’s prescription was either unactualizable, meaningless, a recipe
for creating uncertainty in the reading audience as to whether they had been mis-
led about the historian’s agenda, or a pseudo-philosophical justification of his
nationalist position.
This debate also shows how historicism could progress from an ontological
claim about the relationship between particulars and universals to an epistemo-
logical claim, a claim about the nature of knowledge. The argument would go like
this: if peoples are different from each other in some fundamental way with their
outlooks being set by their national ‘essence’ or at least their national ‘experience’,
then they are not capable of taking a perspective from above the fray, and indeed
members of one people are not really capable of grasping the perspective of
67 For varying contextualizations and interpretations of Droysen on ‘eunuch-like objectivity’ and
related matters, see Beiser, German Historicist Tradition, 305–7; Assis, What Is History For?, 66–71;
White, The Content of the Form, ch. 4.
68 Droysen quote from Beiser, German Historicist Tradition, 307; further from Droysen: ‘Der ein-
zelne wird nur relative Totalität; verstehend und verstanden ist er nur wie ein Beispiel und Ausdruck
der Gemeinsamkeiten, deren Glied er ist und an deren Wesen und Werden er teilhat . . .’. Cited in
Christian-Georg Schuppe, Der andere Droysen: neue Aspekte seiner Theorie der Geschichtswissenschaft
(Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998), 25. All the works cited in this and the previous note are also relevant to the
exegesis of these quotes, and thus also to my discussion in the following paragraphs.
69 Linda Nochlin, Realism (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), 104–5.
216 Why History?
members of another people. Even in the event that competing group perspectives
are believed to be perspectives on a higher truth, which is rather less popular as
an idea today, there is no way of accessing that truth, so all we have is perspectives
that are irreconcilable by human beings (and by extension potential ethical prob-
lems in writing about other groups than one’s own for those who are not inter-
ested in celebrating their own perspective). This reasoning is one of the tributary
streams to the ‘crisis of historicism’ that we will turn to shortly.70
Alternatives to the Dominant German Model in the 1860s
The tension between what we might call the ‘longitudinal’ and ‘latitudinal’ elem
ents of historicism contributed to the ‘crisis’ too, which brings us to the Swiss
Jacob Burckhardt (1818–97). Like his teacher, Ranke, Burckhardt had once been a
theology student. He felt that a growing emphasis on laborious research as the
basis of understanding threatened the aesthetic qualities of historical understand-
ing and the poetic status of History, reducing it to a specialist guild science rather
than an element of a rounded cultural education.71 With Ranke he repudiated
‘theorists’ who used History to advocate or accuse, and was as vociferous in his
rejection of any mechanistic ‘laws’ of the historical process. But where Ranke’s
dissertation had concerned Thucydides, Burckhardt’s interest was in Herodotus,
and this showed in his masterpiece, The Civilization (or Culture: Cultur in the first
edition, Kultur in subsequent editions) of the Renaissance in Italy (1860). The
high cultural elements of his interests, married to his social elitism, were some
distance from the ‘cultural turn’ of late twentieth-century historians, but much
less alien was his Herodotean and Vico-like interest in the importance of myths to
the understanding of society, and his concerns with festival, popular religion, and
mores.72
Burckhardt’s was a departure in emphasis from the political focus of so much
German historicism, though one does not wish to exaggerate the point since his
initial chapter established political and structural developments as a condition of
possibility for what he characterized as the Renaissance. Perhaps more important
on the political front was his implication that the state might be a potentially sup-
pressive/repressive element in aspects of socio-cultural life, as well as an expres-
sion and protector of cultural tendencies. Further, within Burckhardt’s interest in
70 On connections between Droysen and the ‘crisis of historicism’ see Beiser, German Historicist
Tradition, 320–1.
71 John R. Hinde, Jacob Burckhardt and the Crisis of Modernity (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s
University Press, 2000), 212. On the significance of Burckhardt’s theological training, Howard,
Religion, 110 ff.
72 On ‘theorists’, Jacob Burckhardt, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy (London: Penguin,
2004), 271. On Thucydides and Herodotus and myths, Richard Franklin Sigurdson, Jacob Burckhardt’s
Social and Political Thought (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 78 ff.
historicization, in the sense of integrating beliefs and tendencies into greater

wholes in which they made unique sense, the emphasis on a specific moment in
Italian development, a moment with its own dynamics, products, and internal
architecture, tended less towards diachronic cultural holism, or to development
over time, and more towards synchronic holism.73 In other words, he was con-
cerned with Zeitgeist, or the ‘spirit’ of some particular historical moment, as well
as Volksgeist, the spirit of a people. The psychological element of his examination
of the Zeitgeist was to be a significant influence on the cultural and comparative
work of Karl Lamprecht in later decades.
On Volksgeist Burckhardt wrote:
It may be possible to indicate many contrasts and shades of difference among

different nations, but to strike the balance of the whole is not given to human
insight. The ultimate truth with respect to the character, the conscience and the
guilt of a people remains for ever a secret; if only for the reason that its defects
have another side, where they reappear as peculiarities or even as virtues.74
These were grounds for his conclusion that ‘the people of Europe can maltreat,
but happily not judge one another’, which intimates the clash of irreconcilable
national perspectives discussed just now, and illustrates how a relativistic outlook
on values is itself no obstacle to conflict with those bearing other perspectives.75
Almost simultaneously to Burckhardt, Fustel de Coulanges was working on
The Ancient City (1864), which in a more overtly sociological fashion explored
another Zeitgeist, in the form of the relationship between political institutions
and religion in those ‘foreign countries’, the Greek and Roman city states. With
his focus on the regularities of institutions rather than on variable actions or
‘events’, and in his analysis of the socio-political function of religion, Fustel was to
be one of the major influences on his student, the great sociologist Émile
Durkheim.76 Fustel defined the ‘true object’ of history idealistically as ‘the human
mind: it should aspire to know what this mind has believed, thought and felt in
the different ages of the human race’.77 Other scholars in the nineteenth-century
French historiography of society and culture went further than Burckhardt or
Fustel in their attempts to codify the relationship between longitudinal and latitu-
dinal factors, crosshatching changes over time with differences in national and
73 Daniel Fulda, ‘Historicism as a Cultural Pattern: Practising a Mode of Thought’, Journal of the
Philosophy of History, 4 (2010), 138–53.
74 Burckhardt, Civilization, 271.
75 Ibid.
76 Steven Lukes, Emile Durkheim, his Life and Work: A Historical and Critical Study (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1985), 60–4.
77 Fustel, The Ancient City, 76.
218 Why History?
other characteristics. In this project they could draw on romantic and positivistic
influences.
The intellectual hinterland included Germaine de Staël’s On Literature
Considered in its Relations to Social Institutions (1800), which had set itself the
task of examining ‘the influence of religion, morals and laws on literature’,
and conversely ‘the influence of literature on religion, morals and laws’.78
Charting changes in this relationship in what from today’s perspective is a fairly
orthodox series of periodizations from Homer through Christianization and the
Renaissance to her present, she also divided literature in what she called the mod-
ern period—with its particular characteristics including the specific nature of its
consideration of women—according to different national-cultural and regional
tendencies in Europe, and furthermore she factored in political ideologies. Her
imprint, as well as that of Comte, can be detected on Hippolyte Taine’s work on
the psychology of art and the History of English literature in the 1860s. In the
latter Taine ascribed the qualities of literature at any one moment not to the ori
ginality of the individual mind but to the nexus of three different contexts—‘la
race, le milieu et le moment’—whose weights of influence could be calculated.79
Painting with too broad a brush, Taine claimed that Enlightenment thinkers
believed ‘men of every race and century were all but identical: the Greek, the bar-
barian, the Hindoo, the man of the Renaissance, and the man of the eighteenth
century’. ‘They did not know that the moral constitution of a people or an age is as
particular or as distinct as the physical structure of a family of plants or an order
of animals.’80
In German historiography, as in historically influenced German economics,
there was less space for social-scientific or comparative approaches and the polit
ically oriented historicist tradition remained supreme through the later nine-
teenth and early twentieth century. In the generations after Ranke’s period of
pre-eminence, the philosophy of historicism was embodied in Droysen, whose
influential reaction against positivism indicated its growing strength beyond
Germany, in Ranke’s student von Sybel, and Sybel’s editorial successor at the
Historische Zeitschrift, Heinrich von Treitschke (1834–96). Parenthetically, all
three taught Meinecke at points and so it was no surprise when he received the
baton of the journal in the 1890s.
Sybel introduced the Rankean seminar to the University of Munich on his
arrival in 1856, before his anti-Catholicism and pro-Prussianism prompted a
departure from Bavaria, to Bonn. His major works of modern History addressed
78 Germaine de Staël, De la littérature considérée dans ses rapports avec les institutions sociales,
vol. 1, 2nd edition (Paris: de Crapelet, n.d.), 27.
79 Hippolyte Taine, Histoire de la littérature anglaise, 5 vols. (Paris: Hachette, 1863–4), vol. 1, preface,
part V; cf. Taine, The Philosophy of Art (New York: Holt and Williams, 1873), 180–5.
80 Cited in Kenan Malik, The Meaning of Race: Race, History and Culture in Western Society
(New York: New York University Press, 1996), 142–3.
the French Revolution and The Founding of the German Empire under Wilhelm I
(1889–94), while he bound together his medieval and modern interests with the
short 1862 work The German Nation and the Empire [Kaiserreich], which explored
the relationship between the universalist elements of the Holy Roman Empire,
the polynational character of the Habsburg polity, and the particular story of the
German people.81
Treitschke had been taught by the historian and politician Friedrich Christoph
Dahlmann (1785–1860), agitator of the ‘Schleswig Holstein question’ and author
of Histories of the English and French Revolutions, which had given him a privil
eged position to proselytize for constitutional monarchy as well as Prussian-led
German unification.82 Treitschke’s own major historical work was the History of
Germany in the Nineteenth Century,83 but his philosophy of History may be
inferred from his essays on contemporary politics. He rather personifies the ter-
minal point of the shift in German nationalism (and other nationalisms too) from
early and mid-nineteenth-century liberalism to later nineteenth-century chau-
vinism; from the nationalism of self-determination to the nationalism of imperi-
alist self-assertion; from cosmopolitan nationalism to intolerant ethnocentrism,
meaning in Treitschke’s case anti-Semitism, anti-Catholicism, and anti-Polonism.
The Rankean sense of the state as a moral power remained, but it was coloured by
‘social Darwinism’.
Reactions to Historicism
The attitude to power of Treitschke’s British contemporary, (Lord) John Dalberg-

Acton (1834–1902), is summed up in his best-known aphorism: ‘power tends to
corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’. Acton combined an admiration
for Rankean rigour with a healthy appreciation of perspectivalism in writing the
past. ‘The difficulty’, he stated in a way that rather disarms caricatures of him as a
naïve believer in objectivity, is ‘to select from the mass of information, and of
course there are not two men who would choose alike’.84 When he declared that
his discipline could be scientific, he was not being scientistic/positivistic. Rather,
the science to which he referred was a moral science, which also set him against
81 Heinrich von Sybel, Die Begründung des deutschen Reiches durch Wilhelm I, 7 vols. (Munich:
Oldenbourg, 1889–94); von Sybel, Die deutsche Nation und das Kaiserreich (Düsseldorf: Buddeus,
1862).
82 Friedrich Christoph Dahlmann, Geschichte der englischen Revolution (Leipzig: Weidmann,
1844); Dahlmann, Geschichte der französischen Revolution bis auf die Stiftung der Republik (Leipzig:
Weidmann, 1845).
83 Heinrich von Treitschke, Deutsche Geschichte im Neunzehnten Jahrhundert, 5 vols. (Leipzig:
Hirzel, 1878–94).
84 John Emerich Edward Dalberg-Acton, Historical Essays and Studies (London: Macmillan, 1908),
491. See also 352–6, 427 for praise and criticism of Ranke.
220 Why History?
speculative philosophies of history: ‘the marrow of civilised history is ethical not

metaphysical, and the deep underlying cause of action passes through the shape
of right and wrong’.85 It is ‘the office of historical science to maintain morality as
the sole impartial criterion of men and things, and the only one on which honest
minds can be made to agree’.86
Because he believed that God’s purposes were not discernible in the study of
particular events, Acton was suspicious of any History that promised to promote
historical success as the main criterion of praise.87 Such was the belief embodied
in Schiller’s phrase—popular in an age of increasingly unrestrained international
power politics, where antagonistic conceptions of international relations had
replaced Newtonian conceptions of balanced harmony—that das Weltgeschichte
ist die Weltgerichte, the history of the world constituted the world’s tribunal. Hegel
used the expression at least three times.88 In its most powerful terms the idea was
that the fait accompli was the measure of morality, success was predicated upon
providential destiny, God’s blessing was inferred from that which ‘he’ tolerated on
earth. Conversely, spurning such a doctrine placed an important duty in the
hands of the historian to ensure that powerful historical actors were not exoner-
ated by default of their position as arbiters of worldly affairs. The Actonian histor
ian should act as the conscience of humanity, since upholding the ‘inflexible
integrity of the moral code is . . . the secret of the authority, the dignity, the utility
of History’.89 Acton’s approach thus differed from Tacitus’s view that it is ‘from the
experience of others . . . that most men learn to distinguish right and wrong’.90
Nevertheless he would have concurred with Tacitus’s belief ‘in a historian’s fore-
most duty to ensure that merit is recorded, and to confront evil deeds and words
with the fear of posterity’s denunciations’.91 And he certainly believed that this
duty should be fulfilled ‘without anger or partiality’ (p. 42). For Acton the judge-
ment conventionally associated with History as Moral Lesson was intrinsic to the
proceduralist ethos of History as Method. Judging past actors was important for
the moral fibre of the judge, lest the historian act as ‘the weaker man with the
sponge’ following ‘the strong man with the dagger’.92 By extension, judgement
was important for the society that historians wished to help into being, since
85 Ibid. 362. 86 Ibid. 437. See also 354–5. 87 Ibid. 437.
88 I can take no credit for the counting: see Carlo Ginzburg, The Judge and the Historian (London:
Verso, 1999), 123 n. 10.
89 Acton, Historical Essays and Studies, 436–7, 504–6. Lord Acton, Lectures on Modern History
(London: Fontana, 1960), 38: ‘I exhort you never to debase the moral currency or lower the standard
of rectitude, but to try others by the final maxim that governs your own lives, and to suffer no man
and no cause to escape the undying penalty which history has the power to inflict on wrong.’
90 Tacitus, Annals, 4.33. 91 Ibid. 3.65.
92 Lord Acton, Lectures on the French Revolution (London: Macmillan, 1920), 92. See also Acton,
Lectures on Modern History, 30: ‘It is by solidity of criticism more than by the plenitude of erudition,
that the study of history strengthens, and straightens, and extends the mind.’
without their discernment, that society might fall into the error of worshipping
false idols who were successful at the cost of moral rectitude.93
The author of Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900), makes
a curious bedfellow for Acton, but this is so only up to a point. After all, the ascent
of Hegelian immanent reason was one target of both and Christian teleology
another. Acton’s point about holding power to account was also close to
Nietzsche’s belief that Rankean anti-Hegelianism, while it could lead to respect
for all forms of life rather than just the final one, might also lead to automatic self-
validation of any present, a sort of self-immunization against the criticism of pos-
terity. Both men advocated taking the responsibility implied in judgement, and
both were aware of the hold of the past on the present, and thus of the historian’s
social influence. Nietzsche’s penchant for talking about History may obscure the
fact that his is more a tale of the impact of historical thought on philosophy than
vice versa.
Nietzsche’s interest in what historical thinking could fruitfully instil, and when
it was a burden from which humans needed to be liberated in order to flourish,
led him to describe different forms of History and prescribe particular combin
ations of these. The emergence of the state of Germany stimulated one of his
‘untimely meditations’, entitled ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for
Life’ (1874), which is his most cited pronouncement on History.94 It was shaped
in the particular context of his reaction against the public (ab)uses of History in
the immediate, triumphalist aftermath of war-driven unification. Those reserva-
tions were shared by Gervinus, and in fact when representing Nietzsche’s attitudes
to History, it is important to appreciate how much his thinking at the time of this
piece was characterized by an animus to a general sub-Hegelian, propaganda-
fuelled sense of riding history’s wave from glory unto glory. Nietzsche also feared
an overly historical disposition among moderns whose consciousness could no
longer integrate past and present in a beneficial way, who wished to live in the
present alone but could not find the wherewithal to forget or otherwise discard
the past: in short, he feared, in Goethe’s words, that ‘even the best history always
has something corpse-like, the smell of a tomb’.95 He argued for a delimitation of
History’s purview, and at the same time stipulated the directions it might take.
The past could be used for inspiration, focusing specifically on ‘monumental’
History that dwelled on moments of past significance as a way of making use of
93 Ibid. 20, 38.

94 Friedrich Nietzsche, ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life’, in Friedrich Nietzsche,
Untimely Meditations, ed. Daniel Breazeale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 56–123.
On the significance and context of that essay, and its relationship to Nietzsche’s wider oeuvre, see
Thomas H. Brobjer, ‘Nietzsche’s View of the Value of Historical Studies and Methods’, Journal of the
History of Ideas, 65:2 (2004), 301–22; Christian J. Emden, Friedrich Nietzsche and the Politics of History
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
95 Nicholas Rennie, Speculating on the Moment: The Poetics of Time and Recurrence in Goethe,
Leopardi, and Nietzsche (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2005), 65–6.
222 Why History?
‘memory’. ‘Antiquarian’ History was self-affirmative in establishing one’s own

antecedents and heritage. ‘Critical’ History was a way of escaping tradition by
undermining it. He moved from advantage to disadvantage for each sort of
History before moving on to the next, and his own recommendation for a balance
of historical philosophies was Aristotelian in seeking harmony and moderation
between extremes. Little was new in his typology of historical practice, though it
provides some interesting variations on the typology presented in Hegel’s intro-
duction to his Philosophy of History. Nietzsche’s Monumental History combines
History as Lesson and History as Memorialization. Antiquarian History involves
the sort of genealogical thinking that spans medieval noble family biographies
on one hand and Droysen’s work on the other; most of its articulations fall into
the category of History as Identity. Critical History is a variant on Marxist
consciousness-raising, i.e. History as Emancipation.
In a perspective that takes into account Nietzsche’s entire oeuvre, thus includ-
ing his later writing, he appears as historically minded in a relatively orthodox,
contextualizing way.96 He was respectful of rigorous historical thinking just as he
was respectful of the rigour of the natural sciences, reserving his ire for those who
fell into scientism as a philosophy of life or who adopted History as a secular
substitute for the spurious providential reassurance of religion. He had himself
trained as a classical philologist, was acquainted with heirs of the critical his
torical school, admired Taine, and was a friend as well as a cheerleader of
Burckhardt, whose influence is manifest in The Twilight of the Idols (1888) when
Nietzsche invoked historical grounds for the belief that ‘culture and the state’ were
‘antagonists: “Kultur-Staat” is merely a modern idea’. A number of works were
historical or, as with Rousseau, quasi-historical in approach. His On the Genealogy
of Morality: A Polemic (1887), the successor to Beyond Good and Evil (1886), criti
cized earlier, especially ‘English’ psychological philosophers, including the intel-
lectual descendants of the Scottish Hume, for inadequate historical sense.97
In Human, All Too Human (1878) Nietzsche had claimed ‘everything has
become: there are no eternal facts, just as there are no absolute truths. What is
needed from now on is historical philosophizing, and with it the virtue of modesty
[sic]’. ‘Everything has become’—Alles ist geworden—was a central pillar of his
Lebensphilosophie. In the same vein, he declared in the Genealogy of Morality that
‘only something which has no history can be defined’.98 ‘Man’ has history, and so
96 Brobjer, ‘Nietzsche’s View’; Emden, Friedrich Nietzsche.

97 Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, ed. Keith Ansell-Pearson (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2006), First Essay, §§1–2, at pp. 10–12, to be read against Ansell-Pearson’s
clarification at p. xvii. Quote from Twilight of the Idols at: Friedrich Nietzsche, The Portable Nietzsche,
ed. Walter Kaufmann (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1983), 509-10.
98 Quotes from R. J. Hollingdale, Nietzsche (London: Routledge, Kegan and Paul, 1973), 61, with
emphases in Nietzsche’s original, and Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, Second Essay, §13 at
p. 53. See also Jos de Mul, The Tragedy of Finitude: Dilthey’s Hermeneutics of Life (New Haven: Yale
may shape ‘his’ own character in his present, though that cannot be achieved by
mere fiat. To enable the relative freedom of choice by which humans, or at least
the best among them, could fulfil their creative potential, the critical work of
liberation was necessary vis-à-vis inherited frameworks of thought and meaning,
especially morality. Nietzsche concerned himself with ‘the question of what origin
our terms good and evil actually have’, with ‘the descent of our moral
prejudices’.99
In rudimentary terms some of the argument of the Genealogy of Morality can
be compared to what is today known as the ‘just world fallacy’. The just world
belief, that the world is basically fair—i.e. good—in its allocation of outcomes is
popular in the same measure that arbitrariness is unpalatable. It promises to ren-
der the world potentially controllable given the ‘right’ behaviour, and thus appeals
to a desire for cognitive mastery. One consequence of the idea of personal con-
trollability is to rationalize inequalities, without questioning the way the world is
and how it might be altered, by proposing that the less well situated (rather than,
say, structured inequalities) are to blame for their situation. That belief is not just
entertained by the powerful or well-to-do, since even for the victims of misfor-
tune, there is a certain reassurance of orderliness in the idea that remediable
behaviour brought about their situation. It has also been the province of a range
of religions to inculcate a sense of sin or imperfection twinned with the promise
of next-life improvement consequent on a certain mode of behaviour in this
world, thus implying ultimate controllability beyond death, alongside quietism in
this life. Indeed Nietzsche ties the development of a particular concept of moral-
ity as meek, ascetic self-denial to the Judeo-Christian tradition, especially in light
of the historical weakness of Jews and early Christianity. The Judeo-Christian
values which occidental civilization claims as its own were, he believes, defined
against the self-assertive strength and nobility of Rome, and as such were shaped
by that repressed envy and hatred which internalizes itself under the name ‘con-
science’. Nietzsche’s is a story of group psychology as a particular human culture
cooks up something that it calls morality, then persuades itself that this is the only
true morality, while forgetting its contingent origins and development and tra-
ducing alternative value systems. Occidentals forgot the violence involved in
establishing rules of law, the violence involved in domesticating human beings to
observe a set of precepts, and the fact that punishment only gradually came to
mean something more ‘profound’ than vengeance. They forgot that guilt was
invented where once the concept of debt (Schuld) alone had existed, even as they
conceived themselves beholden—indebted—to god. All this was concealed
beneath a glorious origin story, but was nonetheless carried forward within the
structure of the whole system of belief and value. Now despite the book’s subtitle,
99 Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, Preface, §§2–3, at p. 4. Emphases in original.

224 Why History?
it was not just a polemic: Nietzsche believed that the Judeo-Christian ‘slave revolt’
in morality made humans more interesting since it somehow fostered their sub-
jectivity and it was in some ways to be respected since it gave otherwise weak
creatures power over physically stronger creatures. As at once a measure of
humans and a limit on them, however, Nietzsche found this morality unsatisfac-
tory, and he was especially concerned to ask what humans would do in an age in
which religious faith, which was fundamental to the whole moral framework, was
in question.
While Nietzsche used a species of historicization as a tool of existential liber
ation he also tried to work through the possible problems of such historicization.
He feared its capacity, if followed through to one of its possible relativistic conclu-
sions, to replace faith in the transcendent, or in a given historical ‘character’, with
faith in nothingness, i.e. with nihilism, which was just as problematic. Moreover,
whatever his thoroughly immodest claim that there are no eternal facts or abso-
lute truths, there was still enough of a conventional, dare one say it Enlightenment,
philosopher in Nietzsche for him to resist all of the implications of contextualist
historicization—indeed this was implicit in his agenda of emancipation from
established precepts, moral and otherwise, and embracing new values. In 1888 he
wrote that the philosopher’s duty was to try to ‘overcome his age in himself, to
become timeless’, by way of trying to establish some capacity to assess one’s times
as if from beyond them.100 Earlier, in ‘On the Uses and Disadvantages of History
for Life’ he talked of the suprahistorical (überhistorisch) powers of art (and inter-
estingly of religion), with the implication that some residue remained in great art
once one had exhaustively historicized all that could be historicized in it. ‘I call
“suprahistorical” the powers which lead the eye away from becoming towards
that which bestows on existence the character of the eternal and stable.’101 Some
of his historical heroes and their deeds have a timeless quality too, while he
appears to have seen a generally desirable disposition in the Homeric Greeks. He
had a certain philosophy of history of his own—not a stadial or teleological one,
but one in which civilizational tendencies that were already present in ancient
Greece circulated across time in different combinations and with different expres-
sions.102 All this is Nietzsche’s structural alternative to matters like the ‘universal’
or the highest ‘one’ that Neoplatonism and Rankean historicism had invoked.
For a more systematic attempt to work through the implications of variety, his-
toricity, and flux for thought about ‘the human condition’, we need to turn to the
100 Daniel Conway, Nietzsche and the Political (London: Routledge, 1997), 63–4. The quotation is
from Nietzsche’s Der Fall Wagner (1888).
101 Nietzsche, ‘Uses and Disadvantages’, 120.
102 Otto Gerhard Oexle, Geschichtswissenschaft im Zeichen des Historismus (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1996), ch. 3; F. R. Ankersmit, ‘The Ethics of History: From the Double
Binds of (Moral) Meaning to Experience’, History and Theory, 43:4 (2004), 84–102, here 102; Katrin
Meyer, Ästhetik der Historie: Friedrich Nietzsches ‘Vom Nutzen und Nachteil der Historie für das Leben’
(Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 1998), 131–3.
thought of yet another erstwhile theology student, and son of a Lutheran pastor,
Wilhelm Dilthey (1833–1911). For Dilthey, when one was trying to understand
oneself, Cartesian introspection or Kantian regressive analysis towards the apriori
categories concealed the historical conditions of one’s existence. All being was
being in time (Zeitlichkeit), which also meant being-in-relation-to a range of
external influences present and past. At the same time, he did not accept that
these influences were determinant. They shaped the pre-conscious hypotheses
that are necessary for any initial encroachment on an infinitely complex reality,
but could be reduced in significance by the products of induction from empirical
study. In other words, an investigator is culturally and temporally situated, but is
not inevitably constrained to reproduce her own cultural thoughtworld or, when
acting as an historian, to project that thoughtworld onto the historical-cultural
others that she studied.103
Dilthey owed some conceptual debts to Droysen’s emphasis on understanding
one’s own historicity and his elaboration of the way in which hermeneutic tech-
niques could be expanded from the reading of texts to the contemplation of wider
human worlds, including the relationship of the historian to his or her own con-
texts. For Dilthey, however, the major flaws of historicism à la Droysen were its
overly subjective elements and its abiding emphasis on uniqueness that prohib-
ited systematic comparative study, and thereby cut historicists off from pasts that
were not the pasts of ‘their own’, their monad. One key way of thinking outwards
and comparatively was through contemplating some of the shared ways in which
life was expressed and structured. Just as in everyday life the individual gains a
sense of self from interaction with others around her, so, at a higher level of reflec-
tion, the historical thinker learns to appreciate the particular character of her own
niche in space-time by communing with other times. Past mental worlds could be
inferred from the hermeneutic interpretation of the material products or ‘objecti-
fications’—art, architecture, but especially literary products—created by minds
from those ages. Where Hegel focused on institutions as reason-bearers, Dilthey
was concerned with all creative manifestations of human interaction with the
natural world as expressive of human value. Moreover, he was as concerned with
103 My account of Dilthey in this and the following two paragraphs is distilled, doubtless to the
dissatisfaction of any given one of them, from the insights of: Rudolf A. Makkreel, ‘The Productive
Force of History and Dilthey’s Formation of the Historical World’, Revue internationale de philosophie,
226 (2003/4), 495–508 and more generally Rudolf A. Makkreel, Dilthey: Philosopher of the Human
Sciences (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992); Eric S. Nelson, ‘Empiricism, Facticity, and the
Immanence of Life in Dilthey’, Pli: Warwick Journal of Philosophy, 18 (2007), 108–28; Hajo Holborn,
‘Wilhelm Dilthey and the Critique of Historical Reason’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 11:1 (1950),
93–118; Thomas Teo, ‘Karl Marx and Wilhelm Dilthey on the Socio-Historical Conceptualization of
the Mind’, in C. Green, M. Shore, and T. Teo (eds.). The Transformation of Psychology: Influences of
19th-Century Philosophy, Technology and Natural Science (Washington, DC: APA, 2001), 195–218;
Jacob Owensby, Dilthey and the Narrative of History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994); Reinhold
Niebuhr, Faith and History: A Comparison of Christian and Modern Views of History (New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1949), 18–20.
226 Why History?
the literally individual mind as with what Hegel would have called the objective,
or social-institutional mind. Dilthey’s individuals were constituted at the meeting
points of various social, cultural, economic, and political institutions and influ-
ences. So while agreeing with Marx that the division of labour differentiated
people in one way, Dilthey believed many other inputs also needed to be considered.
Just as importantly, individuals did not give the entirety of themselves to their
various societal roles, so those roles in turn did not exhaust the content of their
individuality. It might be impossible for the historian to penetrate to that excess
of absolute individuality once relational, contextual thought had been exhausted,
but from working ‘inwards’ from general cultural patterns that were evident even
in the most original thinkers, down through the mid-range institutional influ-
ences, one was nonetheless establishing a logic of individuation. Hermeneutic
understanding was realized when one recognized something of the self in the
historical or cultural ‘other’. This was History as Communion, not in a religious or
nationalist sense, but in the broadest humanist sense.
One could use the hermeneutic understanding of the intersection of different
contexts to think in a way that was both historical and existential. The enquiring
subject, aware of her own structured existence in time, transcends some of the
given-ness of the present by recalling the choices and changes that had led to the
present. Some of these choices were hers, which illustrate her capacity to influ-
ence the future in new ways; some were not hers, which illustrates the influence of
larger conceptual and situational structures. At the same time the enquirer
expanded her own horizons, as she conceived of herself within ever-larger and
more inclusive historical contexts up to the point of a universal, shared
humanity.
Dilthey’s thought seemed at the time to fall between a number of stools. The
philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–1976), whose concept of historicity, of
being in time-and-culture—his most famous work was Sein und Zeit, Being and
Time (1927)—shows clear commonality of interest with Dilthey, nonetheless
criticized him for being too close to the Cartesian–Kantian aspiration to ascend
to some point outside history.104 Dilthey scarcely satisfied those Kantians who
still thought in terms of the transcendental, self-authoring subject. And he was
considered methodologically problematic and too relativistic by Ernst Troeltsch
(1865–1923), who wrote of the ‘crisis of historicism’ and was itself one of its prod-
ucts as he struggled to reconcile his historian’s belief in the historical develop-
ment of competing religions and sects with his theologian’s reluctance to accept
the relativity of Christian truth.105
104 Bambach, Heidegger, 13–17, 165.

105 Troeltsch, Der Historismus; Fritz, Ethos und Predigt, 54; Johann Heinrich Klaus, Die Jesus-
Deutung von Ernst Troeltsch im Kontext der liberalen Theologie (Tübingen: Mohr, 1997), 53. On
Troeltsch and Dilthey, Gregory Baum, The Social Imperative (New York: Paulist Press, 1979), 247–8; cf.
Peter Ghosh, Max Weber and the Protestant Ethic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 105 n. 8.
Whether the crisis of historicism is a good name for one of the many ‘crises’ in
this period depends on what we take the subject of the crisis of historicism to be.
The crisis was one in which historicism suffered, if by historicism one means the
hegemony of the German critical historical school, and the agendas of some of its
key members, wherein the past was a source of meaning and an assurance of a
certain existential coherence. Abetted by growing intra-societal tensions, the
sense of mutability across time and place became increasingly detached from
speculative philosophies of the historical process, or at least progressive ones, and
any sense of the ontological security that some had found in the Volksgeist and
others in religion. But in the broader sense of the abidingly influential particular-
istic historical outlook that this book calls neo-historicism, the crisis—dating
approximately from the 1870s through the interwar period—was one to which
historical thought contributed, even though historians were not prominent in
working through its philosophical ramifications. The crisis gained its purchase
from the late nineteenth century because of the wider ‘crisis of liberalism’ and
theology with which it intersected, plus associated material and political
change.106 The primary protagonists of the crisis were increasingly philosophers,
Jewish and Christian theologians (like Troeltsch), and some nationalists, because
these were the people primarily concerned with the justification of absolute,
metaphysical, originary, or essentialist positions.107 This is not to say that nation-
alism itself dwindled during this period—quite the opposite, it reached an aggres-
sive crescendo in which there was an obsession with internal loyalty and unity in
the face of outside forces.
Classical historicism of the Rankean sort was threatened by fractures within
the Volk, or national community, and/or the state. In the later nineteenth century,
fears of degeneration and the destruction of traditional values multiplied amid
population growth, industrialization and urbanization, the rise of the organized
left, and demands for new forms of representative politics. The 1870s, with its
stock market shock, the beginnings of repeated rural depression, and the ‘second
industrial revolution’, instituted what the Marxist historian Giovanni Arrighi later
dubbed the long twentieth century, which superseded the era of British world
106 On the importance of the collapse of liberal Protestant thought in stimulating new reflection at
this time, see A. James Reimer, Paul Tillich: Theologian of Nature, Culture and Politics (Münster: LIT,
2004), 162. On the many tributaries and differing manifestations of the ‘crisis of historicism’, see
Herman Paul, ‘Religion and the Crisis of Historicism: Protestant and Catholic Perspectives’, Journal of
the Philosophy of History, 4 (2010) 172–94. On the ‘crisis of historicism’ and the success of professional
historianship: Beiser, German Historicist Tradition, 24–6.
107 Paul, ‘Religion and the Crisis of Historicism’; David N. Myers, Resisting History: Historicism and
its Discontents in German-Jewish Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003); Troeltsch,
Der Historismus. Herman Paul, ‘A Collapse of Trust: Reconceptualizing the Crisis of Historicism’,
Journal of the Philosophy of History, 2 (2008), 63–82, notes the important distinction between doubts
about universal or objective value and doubts about being able to justify such value in the light of the
collapse of historical certainties in this period. He is surely right that the latter tendency was more
prevalent.
228 Why History?
financial and commercial hegemony. Arnold Toynbee’s relativistic, rhythmic phil

osophy of History identified the onset of ‘post-modernity’ in that decade;108
others see the very advent of high modernity. Between that time and 1914 medi
evalism reached new heights in European culture, where the triumphalism of
empire and industrial growth were accompanied by enhanced apprehension
about what was being lost, and a critique of empty or degenerate bourgeois civil
ization. The romantic drive for preservation renders the study of the past ‘for its
own sake’ something more than a banality.109 Growing appreciation of Gothic art,
architecture, and literature found their sociological parallel in the work of Émile
Durkheim and Ferdinand Tönnies, with their distinctions between the ‘trad
itional’ sentimental bonds of community, or Gemeinschaft, and the contractual
bonds of ‘modern’ society, or Gesellschaft. The critique of modernity was espe-
cially strong in Germany, as a ‘nation’ of people that had but a few decades ago
been bound by culture alone across manifold lines of different state jurisdictions,
and whose image as a land of idealists and philosophers had been somewhat
compromised since around 1848 by material(ist) factors, i.e. industrialization.
The incremental, evolutionary model of change proposed by classical historicism
could not easily accommodate rapid change. Then the likes of Lamprecht tried to
turn the focus away from the symbols of political unity and towards economic
and social conditions and mass movements and mentalities—just the sort of
thing that the powerful German socialists wished to focus on.110
The Franco-Prussian war signalled a major power shift, while the violent col-
lapse of the Ottoman Empire in south-eastern Europe in 1875–8 changed the
political map drastically and brought what the diplomat and historian George
Kennan saw as a caesura in European diplomatic relations. Thereafter, the scram-
ble for Africa and a fin de siècle explosion of competitive imperialism elsewhere
projected European tensions outwards in murderous fashion. Such tensions were
enhanced by the unpredicted socio-economic impact of widespread adoption of
the gold standard and the rise of protectionism in Europe. The lines of the First
World War military alliances were established by the 1890s.
If, with all the ruptures of the period in Europe, we see an increasing sense of
the foreignness of one’s own past, as in the writings of ‘post-whig’ historians like
the great legal historian Frederic William Maitland (1850–1906),111 actual foreign
countries once again contributed to the process of disorientation. On the eve of
108 Arnold Toynbee, A Study of History, abridgement of vols. I–VI by Robert Somervell (Oxford:
Oxford University Press 1946), 39.
109 Coleman, Ancient and Medieval Memories, 593.
110 Paul, ‘A Collapse of Trust’, 79–80. The most relevant of Lamprecht’s works in this connection is
his Deutsche Geschichte, 12 vols. (Berlin: Gaertner, 1891–1909), but see also his earlier Deutsches
Wirtschaftsleben im Mittelalter, 4 vols. (Leipzig: Dürr, 1885–6).
111 Patrick Wormald, Legal Culture in the Early Medieval West (London: Hambledon, 1999), 58–60.
the First World War, Lord Bryce recorded the expansion in the recent scope of
enquiry in historical studies, as broadly conceived.
We have now come to regard history as a record of every form of human effort
and achievement, concerned not any more definitely with political events and
institutions than with all the other factors that have moulded man and all the
other expressions his creative activity has found . . . [T]he historian, who in the
days of Thucydides needed to look no further than to Susa on the east and
Carthage on the west, must now extend his vision to take in the whole earth.112
The new wave of intellectual endeavours accompanying imperial expansion but-

tressed the impact of Darwin in furthering European scepticism about the truth
of western religious beliefs, as well as encouraging biological racism as a way of
framing the difference between peoples.
The special theory of relativity contributed to a general intellectual-cultural
discombobulation by undermining what had appeared axiomatic, namely
Newtonian physics’ absolute concepts of time and space. In the interwar period
the reconceptualization of quantum theory detracted from ideas of deterministic
predictability at the minutest physical level and blurred scientific distinctions
between investigating subject and investigated object by showing how the act of
observation could affect the behaviour of observed phenomena. Though the
thinking involved only applied by the very loosest of analogies to reflection on
historical and cultural affairs, in the general climate of intellectual revolution
shaped by the new discoveries the ‘New Physics’ found nominal kinship with
the American James Harvey Robinson’s presentist, revisionist The New History
(1912), and with Robinson’s fellow ‘new historians’ like Charles Beard (see
pp. 238–40).113
New Philosophies of Historical ‘Neutrality’ from

the Later Nineteenth Century
In much of Europe, and to an extent even in Germany itself, the 1880s saw an
anti-historical ‘synchronic turn’ in the study of linguistics and languages, though
historicism veritably flourished in the area of German cultural studies. Historically
influenced philosophy in Germany was somewhat moderated by the temporary
112 Cited in Teggart, Theory, 79–80.

113 H. I. Rodgers, ‘Charles A. Beard, the “New Physics,” and Historical Relativity’, Historian, 30
(1968), 545–60. Further to cultural ramifications of developments in physics, Paul Forman, ‘Weimar
Culture, Causality, and Quantum Theory’, Historical Studies in the Physical Sciences, 3 (1971), 1–116.
James Harvey Robinson, The New History: Essays Illustrating the Modern Historical Outlook
(New York: Macmillan, 1912).
230 Why History?
ascension to academic supremacy of neo-Kantianism from around the 1870s,

even as some neo-Kantians moved away from Kant’s concern with critical-
transcendental principles of epistemology to consider matters from a more
empirical—anthropological and historical—perspective. New statistical techniques
and the development of modelling as a useful theoretical abstraction challenged
historicist thought in many fields, as exemplified in Germany in the differing eco-
nomic approaches of the deductivist ‘Austrian School’s’ Carl Menger and the
inductive, historically minded Gustav von Schmoller.114 The battle between dif-
ferent sorts of approach—manifested in a less stark contrast between the work of
a Lamprecht and a Treitschke—became known as the conflict over method, or
Methodenstreit, to which was related the Werturteilsstreit, or conflict over the
relationship of the social sciences to value judgements. Max Weber (1864–1920)
merits special attention given his contribution to both conflicts.
Weber recognized that the human objects of the human sciences were value-
bearing and value-creating entities and since varying values influenced behaviour
in variable ways conceptions of causation could not easily be transplanted from
the natural sciences and generalization was a precarious business. Nonetheless he
did synthesize some of the principles of generalizing explanation, or Erklären,
with interpretative hermeneutic Verstehen. The ‘useful fiction’ of the ‘ideal types’
was the product of this synthesis. Any given ideal type only pertained to certain
sorts of society at certain times. An ideal type was devised after inference about
the world of governing human purposes and meanings that had created a par-
ticular set of contingent civilizational characteristics, with its amalgam of bureau-
cratic, legal, spiritual, and economic tendencies. For heuristic purposes the
imposition of such a scheme on social reality must entail isolation, even exagger
ation, of certain factors and exclusion of others, but the whole stands or falls by
the testable utility of its approximations and abstractions. Clearly Weber recog-
nized that values vary within particular time-places as well as between them, and
human scientists ought not claim the capacity to arbitrate value claims; indeed
they could not call themselves scientists if they did. ‘Science today is a “vocation”
organized in special disciplines in the service of self-clarification and knowledge
of interrelated facts. It is not the gift of grace of seers and prophets dispensing
sacred values, nor does it partake of the contemplation of sages and philosophers
about the meaning of the universe.’115 This was a manifesto for scholarly neutral-
ity underpinned by a particular ontology and an accompanying distinction
114 Edward Sidelsky, Ernst Cassirer (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 167–8; Peter
Uwe Hohendahl, ‘The Crisis of Neo-Kantianism and the Reassessment of Kant after World War
I’, Philosophical Forum, 41:1–2 (2010), 17–39; Wotaru Koyama, ‘The Rise of Pragmatics: A
Historiographic Overview’, in Wolfram Bublitz and Neal R. Norrick (eds.), Foundations of Pragmatics
(Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 139–66, here 149 ff. On cultural studies, Otto Gerhard Oexle (ed.), Krise
des Historismus— Krise der Wirklichkeit (Gottingen: Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, 2007).
115 Max Weber, ‘Science as a Vocation’, in Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, ed. H. H. Gerth and
C. Wright Mills (New York: Oxford University Press, 1946), 129–56, here 52.
between the roles of the human scientist on one hand and the politician or citizen
on the other hand.
Weber was influenced by Nietzsche on the end of religious certainty as a guar-
antor of values,116 and was himself a theorist of modernization, with its implica-
tions of fracture and flux. He saw that meanings and values were made rather
than located in the historical record or the objective patterns of the natural world:
‘The fate of a cultural epoch that has eaten of the tree of knowledge is that it must
know that we cannot learn the meaning of the world from the results of its ana
lysis, however perfect that analysis may be, but must instead be in a position to
create this meaning for itself.’ Such a recognition entailed acknowledgement of
different, potentially competing worldviews and prescriptions, with no higher
criteria for deciding between them based on claims about the nature of reality.117
In the present, human scientists could advise on the implications of this or that
social policy, just as the teacher could advise the student, but it was still for the
political leader to decide the policy.118 It followed that insofar as social scientists
advised on the implementation of policy, they should act in neutral terms towards
that policy, irrespective of who the winners were and who the losers—while in
full awareness that there would be winners and losers, in the sense of people
whose interests and values were better or worse served by this or that
dispensation.
Value-judgements might well be involved in one’s choice of an object of study
but the investigator’s professional ethic of responsibility—as opposed to the poli-
tician’s ethic of conviction as to the choice of governing values—was expressed
through refraining from evaluation of this subject matter once it had been
chosen.119 Investigators were to remain descriptive of value-significance, not pre-
scriptive of how that significant value should itself be evaluated. Whether per-
taining to study of the present or the past, Weber observed the logical distinction
between the investigator’s subjective evaluation of social or historical facts and
the scholarly task of relating those facts to values. As one of his contemporaries
put it, ‘Valuations must always involve praise or blame. To refer to values is to do
neither.’120 For Weber, ‘the investigator and teacher should hold as uncondition-
ally separate the establishment of empirical facts (including what he establishes
as the “value-oriented” conduct of the empirical individuals whom he is
116 On the influence of Nietzsche, Horst Baier, ‘Die Gesellschaft—ein langer Schatten des toten
Gottes’, Nietzsche-Studien: Internationales Jahrbuch für die Nietzsche Forschung, 10–11 (1981–2), 6–33.
117 Max Weber, ‘Die “Objektivität” sozialwissenschaftlicher und sozialpolitischer Erkenntnis’,
Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik, 19:1 (1904), 22–87, here 30. Emphasis added.
118 Weber‚ ‘Science as a Vocation’, 151–2.
119 On the ethic of responsibility versus the ethic of conviction (Gesinnungsethik), Weber, ‘Science
as a Vocation’ should be read against Max Weber, ‘Politics as a Vocation’, in Max Weber: Essays in
Sociology, ed. and trans. Gerth and Mills, 77–128.
120 The contemporary was the neo-Kantian Heinrich Rickert, cited in Makkreel, Dilthey:
Philosopher of the Human Sciences, 41.
232 Why History?
investigating) and his own practical evaluations of those facts as commendable or

reprehensible (including among such facts the evaluations made by empirical
individuals that are the object of an investigation)’.121
When taking aim at ‘seers and prophets’, ‘sages and philosophers’, Weber was
taking a controversial stand against an imperial German academic and bureau-
cratic brotherhood that viewed itself as the privileged interpreter of the supra-
political, unifying Geist of the monadic nation-state. Perhaps this explains the
inverted commas problematizing the concept of Geist in the 1920 title of
Weber’s work ‘Die protestantische Ethik und der “Geist” des Kapitalismus’122
(‘The Protestant Ethic and the “Spirit” of Capitalism’; the inverted commas were
lost in later versions), even as Weber deployed this idealist term against Marxist
materialism. Weber was separating intellectual enquiry from politics as a corol-
lary of recognizing the social value pluralism that he, like Troeltsch, feared as
disharmonious, but that he was prepared to confront, not least to prevent Marxists
exploiting it. The corollary of academics disavowing value judgements in their
work, i.e. de-politicizing themselves, was that they could ask empirical questions
of anything with implications for social and economic life, irrespective of whether
those matters fell within the grounds of interest of the basic political consensus.
Once the line had been strictly drawn between the factual and the evaluative,
academics should investigate the factual without fear or favour. They should
follow wherever their interests and conclusions lead, repelling along the way the
political incursions of intruders from the other side of the empirical–evaluative
border who in the name of value-commitments would try to ban some such
investigations. Academic freedom was secured and pluralistic politics buttressed
by the circumscription of what it meant to be an academic.123
Weber’s scholar was the sort of ‘researcher’ who is so prevalent today and might
invoke Weber to justify value-neutrality. No longer engaged in theoria in the
grand classical sense, nor exemplary judgement, that scholar had a technical-
exploratory specialist role. Insofar as Weber’s disciple was a historian, she was
engaged in Forschung, specialist research, rather than Humboldt’s or Ranke’s
grand Geschichtsschreibung.124 In decreeing the separation of enquiry from value
judgements in the human sciences, Weber was automatically pushing a certain
sort of historian—i.e. German historicists—back into their studied pasts anyway,
cutting them off from the present to which their judgements were actually
directed.
121 Max Weber, ‘Der Sinn der “Wertfreiheit” der soziologischen und ökonomischen Wissenschaften’,
in Max Weber: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Wissenschaftslehre. Hrsg. von Johannes Winckelmann. 6.,
erneut durchgesehene Auflage, (Tübingen: Mohr /Siebeck, 1985), 489–540, here 499.
122 Two journal essays—both in the Archiv fur Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik, 20:1 (1904),
1–54 and 21:1 (1905), 1–110—were grouped together under the problematizing title in Max Weber,
Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie, vol. 1 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1920), 17–206.
123 Beiser, German Historicist Tradition, ch. 13.
124 Hardtwig, ‘Geschichtsreligion’, 17–20, 32.
Two questions might be asked of Weber’s reasoning about value-neutrality. The

first, and the issue that has received most scrutiny, is whether that reasoning
worked as regards social sciences like sociology or economics.125 The second
question is whether, even if the reasoning does work for social scientists, it per-
tains in the same sort of way to the work of historians: are the nature and ramifi-
cations of value judgements necessarily the same in History as in the social
sciences? The second question is the one of major concern in this book, and it has
received surprisingly little attention, especially when we consider that Weber’s
most extensive arguments against scholars introducing value judgements into the
substance of their work came in the context of addresses where his major focus
was on the social sciences.126 Weber made no systematic analysis of the similar
ities and differences between the disciplines in this regard. Nor did he distinguish
between the German historicist tradition and the sorts of judgements that might
be made by historians in other traditions; compare his position to Acton’s very
different response to historicism.127 From the perspective of the historical discip
line internationally, Weber’s was ‘just’ another important voice warning against
partisanship in the name of a particular interpretation of science. In my original
Greek categories of History’s utility, he is the arch modern proceduralist, evangel
ist of History as Method, similar in his conclusions to, though often more coher-
ent in his reasoning than, other scholars who had already adopted some similar
stances elsewhere.
Distinguishing History as a new ‘oeuvre scientifique’ that was separate from
artistic endeavours, Charles-Victor Langlois and Charles Seignobos gave the lat-
ter their due as the vocations whose products were possessed of eternal youth,
eternal value. Using terms similar to those deployed later by Weber in his famous
lecture ‘Science as a Vocation’, Langlois and Seignobos argued in their 1897
Introduction to Historical Studies that science was different: unlike artists or nov-
elists, investigators would find no celebrity in posterity, but only the gratification
of ‘their research, corrected or even transformed by subsequent research, being
incorporated into the body of knowledge that constitutes the scientific heritage of
humanity’. The problem, so long as History was conceived as a branch of litera-
ture, was that the public would prefer its literary form over its substantiated
125 On social science, neutrality, objectivity, and value judgements, see John Lewis, Max Weber and
Value-Free Sociology (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1975); Colin Loader, The Intellectual
Development of Karl Mannheim (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 98–100; Jay A. Ciaffa,
Max Weber and the Problems of Value-Free Social Science (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University
Presses, 1998), 63 ff.
126 The social sciences figure in the full titles of Weber, ‘Die “Objektivität” ’ and Weber, ‘Der Sinn
der “Wertfreiheit” ’; note also that Weber began ‘Science as a Vocation’ (p. 129) by referring to himself
as a ‘political economist’. For dissent from Weber’s arguments about value neutrality in History, see
Donald Bloxham, History and Morality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020).
127 The concluding pages of the present book address the difficulties historians face in removing all
intimations of value judgement, and they question the desirability of such a divestment (pp. 353–7).
234 Why History?
contents. Thus Thierry, Carlyle, and Michelet were read long after their death,
despite having been interpretatively superseded. Conversely, the public would
read on the natural sciences whatever the author’s style, since there the content
was what mattered.128 This does not mean that Langlois and Seignobos were
(social) scientific positivists in the search for social laws: they were not, and
indeed the political paradigm for historiography that they adopted was one of
the objects of critique and modification in the establishment of the journal
Revue de synthèse historique (1900) and in the work of Lamprecht’s friend Henri
Pirenne (1862–1935). What Langlois and Seignobos had in mind was a particular,
ascetic approach to research which eschewed speculation and focused on the
empirically verifiable.
Well before this point romantic style and literary quality had been associated
with rhetoric in the sense of illegitimate persuasion, as we know, but there were
now additional political reasons for distancing oneself from the work of a Thierry.
Whatever the specifics of his own role as cheerleader of the July Monarchy,
Thierry’s anti-clerical, pro-revolutionary stance, first established in print in the
teeth of the Restoration regime, drew the intellectual focus towards class conflict.
With the downfall of the Second Empire in 1870, then further defeats at Prussian
hands, and the advent and crushing of the Paris Commune in early 1871, the
social and ideological divisions that had never disappeared in French society
gained the significance that, beyond constituting an argument about France’s path
internally, they were a source of weakness in its external relations. French frag-
mentation contrasted with Prussian, now German, unity, and catalysed the sort of
reappraisal of French institutions that Napoleonic conquest had prompted in
other states at the beginning of the century.
The educational system in general, and universities in particular, were
reformed, and within the universities historical research and teaching was profes-
sionalized decades after similar developments in various German states. German
historiography was seen as one of the keys to German unity of historical sense
and present purpose, even as Germanophobia was entrenched in so much French
political discourse.129 In La Monarchie franque (1888) Fustel reflected on the
motto of the Monumenta Germaniae Historica, i.e. ‘the love of the fatherland gives
spirit’. ‘The motto is beautiful’, he wrote, ‘but it is perhaps not appropriate for sci-
ence’, before going on to observe how in German historical scholarship of the
previous fifty years historical theory and patriotism had been in striking
128 Charles-Victor Langlois and Charles Seignobos, Introduction aux études historiques, ed. Pierre
Palpant (electronic edition, 2005 [orig 1898]), 167–8: http://classiques.uqac.ca/classiques/langlois_
charles_victor/intro_etudes_historiques/seignobos_etudhisto.pdf See also Weber, ‘Science as a
Vocation’, 137–8.
129 Isabel DiVanna, Reconstructing the Middle Ages: Gaston Paris and the Development of
Nineteenth-Century Medievalism (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2008).
harmony.130 While he proclaimed that science and patriotism ought not to be

conflated, he also wrote in 1871 that ‘imperfectly observed, history divides us; it is
through history properly understood that conciliation must begin’. It is hard to
see this desire for national conciliation as apolitical and it is equally unclear who
decides what a proper understanding is, but what is clear is that Fustel’s route to
what he thought of as the proper understanding was circular, since it involved
gaining knowledge that is ‘exact and scientific, sincere and without bias’.131 The
multi-volume work in which La Monarchie franque appeared, Fustel’s Histoire des
institutions politiques de l’ancienne France (1874–92), pursued a conciliating
agenda of sorts. Stimulated by France’s recent conflict with Germany and running
at odds to Thierry’s Récits des temps mérovingiens (1840) with its story of racial
subjection, Fustel rejected the narrative whereby conquering Franks had revolu-
tionized the institutions of Gaul via the introduction of such things as feudalism.
Instead, Fustel argued, the Frankish impact was minimal. The property order that
endured from Merovingian times in some form up to the French Revolution was
not a Germanic imposition that needed to be rejected by the sorts of high medi
eval freedom-seeking urban (‘bourgeois’) communards honoured by Thierry—it
was part of the deeper historical way of doing things, with roots in Roman law.
While Fustel himself was no opponent of the 1789 revolution, he was certainly
opposed to ongoing arguments about the socio-economic set-up.132
Similar conceptual tensions about History’s social role are present in the
thought of Jacques Monod (1844–1912), like Fustel one of the central figures in
the reorganization of the French historical academy from the 1870s. Monod
founded the Revue Historique in 1876, partly in imitation of the Historische
Zeitschrift—in the preface to the first issue Monod and his co-editor Gustave
Fagniez noted the loss of French superiority in historical research—and partly as
a liberal alternative to the royalist and Catholic Revue des Questions Historiques.
Espousing ‘impartiality’ and ‘severity of methodology and of criticism’, the editors
demanded ‘original contributions, based on original sources’ and rejected ‘rhe
toric’ and the work of scholars who used ‘history as a weapon in defense of their
religious or political ideas’; contributors should ‘avoid contemporary controver-
sies’. Yet the editors also recognized the ‘national importance’ of ‘the study of
France’s past’ and sought to give to France ‘the unity and moral strength she needs
130 N. D. Fustel de Coulanges, Histoire des institutions politiques de l’ancienne France, vol. III:
La Monarchie Franque (Paris: Hachette, 1905 [orig. 1888]), 31.
131 N. D. Fustel de Coulanges, ‘L’Organisation de la Justice dans l’antiquité et les temps modernes’,
Revue des Deux Mondes, 94 (July 1871), 536–56, here 538.
132 N. D. Fustel de Coulanges, Histoire des institutions politiques de l’ancienne France, 6 vols. (Paris:
Hachette, 1874–92); Augustin Thierry, Récits des temps mérovingiens précédés de Considérations sur
l’histoire de France, 2 vols. (Paris: Tessier, 1840).
236 Why History?
by revealing her historical traditions and, at the same time, the transformations
these traditions have undergone’.133
In Britain politics was somewhat less pressured but some of the foregoing
themes are recognizable. In his 1903 inaugural as Regius Professor of History at
Cambridge, J. B. Bury reinforced the notion that History was not a branch of lit-
erature and should also disavow ‘her old associates, moral philosophy and
rhetoric’.134 The prefatory note to the first issue of the English Historical Review in
1886 laid out the journal’s philosophy in order to ‘avoid the suspicion of partisan-
ship in such political or ecclesiastical questions as are still burning’. It is a bit of a
hodge-podge:
Some topics it will be safer to eschew altogether. In others fairness may be shown
by allowing both sides an equal hearing. But our main reliance will be on the
scientific spirit which we shall expect from contributors likely to address us. An
article on the character and career of Sir Robert Peel will be welcome, so long as
it does not advocate or deprecate the policy of protective tariffs; and President
Andrew Jackson may properly be praised or blamed if the writer’s purpose be
neither to assail nor to recommend, with President Cleveland in his eye, the sys-
tem of party appointments to office. Recognizing the value of the light which
history may shed on practical problems, we shall not hesitate to let that light be
reflected from our pages, whenever we can be sure that it is dry light, free from
any tinge of partisanship.135
Fear of political division and the accusation of partisanship in the reflection

thereof could reinforce a common worldview that was the enemy of certain forms
of critical thought while presenting itself as the acme of critical thought. Peter
Novick highlights the problem in his study of the American historical profession
at the turn of the twentieth century. He illustrates a shared political outlook stem-
ming from a shared sociocultural milieu and evolutionist worldview amongst the
relatively small number of practitioners, and shows how their philosophy of his-
tory functioned to minimize tensions over, say, the causes of the American Civil
War. Eager to bolster their discipline and their individual reputations with it,
these historians found mutual reinforcement in the common projection that they
were actually apolitical avatars of a new, objective scholarship which involved
downplaying clashes in the past.136 They constitute an instance of what
133 Text of preface trans. and repr. in Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History, 172–4, with quotes from
173–4. Stern’s introductory remarks on the journal at p. 171.
134 Doris S. Goldstein, ‘J. B. Bury’s Philosophy of History: A Reappraisal’, The American Historical
Review, 82:4 (1977), 896–919, here 897.
135 Preface repr. in Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History, 176.
136 Novick, That Noble Dream, chs. 2–4.
sociologists of knowledge call ‘epistemic communities’, akin to that of successive

editor-gatekeepers of the Historische Zeitschrift in their claim to arbitrate what
was objective, and to render the ‘objective’ normative. As with the editors of the
Historische Zeitschrift, validating certain views of the past in the interests of the
present was also a process of marginalizing in the present the dissenting perspec-
tives that might otherwise be identified from within the past.
Much depended upon whether one had in mind a national audience or the
international forum. The national unity approach to historiography presupposed
international competition; what of those who wished to create an alternative
model of relations? If the past was a country to be approached with care, relations
with other countries in the here and now had to be borne in mind. The French
chemist Jean-Baptiste Dumas had called science ‘this neutral and pacific ground
of Natural Philosophy, where defeats cost neither blood nor tears’;137 in Bury’s
vision historical study provided a similar forum for nations to come together in
common enterprise. Of his own ambitions for the multi-volume, multi-author
Cambridge Modern History (1902–12), Acton asked: ‘Can an Englishman or an
Irishman, a German or a Frenchman be expected to emancipate himself from his
national predilections, and write history that gives no hint of national affiliations
or loyalties?’ The answer was obviously supposed to be in the affirmative, which
also meant that the chosen authors were expected to live up to Acton’s strictures
on writing without fear or favour. The work was intended as a synthesis of per-
spectives in the fullest sense, though Acton did not clarify how that was to work
when matters of contested moral purport were under examination. ‘Contributors
will understand . . . that our Waterloo must satisfy French and English, Germans
and Dutch alike; that nobody can tell, without examining the list of authors,
where the Bishop of Oxford laid down the pen and whether Fairbairn or Gasquet,
Liebermann or Harrison, took it up.’138
Bury’s ambitions could not be said to have been realized before 1914, but they
were completely undermined when Europe descended into war. Historians
cleaved to national camps in much the same way as most other intellectuals and
most members of the supposedly international movements of workers and femin
ists. They pitched in on either side of the war guilt question and of what historian
Herbert Butterfield ironically dubbed the ‘war for righteousness’, with some
British scholars eagerly anticipating the end of the ‘age of German footnotes’ and
of the ‘dry chaff of [German] historical research and criticism’.139
137 Dumas quoted in René Vallery-Radot, The Life of Pasteur (London: Constable, 1928), 251.
138 Acton quoted in Breisach, Historiography, 284.
139 Herbert Butterfield, Christianity, Diplomacy and War (London: Epworth, 1953), 4. On foot-
notes, Niall Ferguson, The Pity of War (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 233.
238 Why History?
‘Progressive’ History
In the interwar years the American historian Charles Beard (1874–1948) drew
out some of the self-deceptions of the neutralists, including those among his
compatriots. He noted that historians were apt to be ‘disturbed, like their fellow
citizens, by crises and revolutions occurring in the world about them’, and drew
explicitly on the work of the Italian philosopher historian Benedetto Croce, the
sociologist Karl Mannheim, and the theologian and author of The Crisis of
Historicism (1932), Karl Heussi, in observing that ‘so-called neutral or scientific
history reached a crisis in its thought before the twentieth century had advanced
far on the way’. These crises affected different countries in different ways, largely
dictated by their relationship to the course of the First World War and the inter-
war order. At the time of speaking, the outset of the New Deal period in 1933,
Beard was optimistic enough to foresee history’s ‘forward’ movement to a ‘collect
ivist democracy’.140
Beard was one of the foremost members of the ‘Progressive’ American his
torical movement, alongside Robinson, Carl Becker, and Mary Beard. Becker was
waxing Weberian when he averred that the historian’s own concept determines
the choice of facts, not vice versa, and observed the difficulty of distinguishing
‘facts’ from ‘theories’.141 Beard: ‘no historian can describe the past as it actually
was’ (a dig at a vision of Ranke) and ‘every historian’s work—that is, his selection
of facts, his emphasis, his omissions, his organization, and his methods of presen-
tation—bears a relation to his own personality and to the age and circumstances
in which he lives’. Despite the notoriety of his remarks about the historian’s situat-
edness, the reformist-socialist Beard stressed that he was only repeating the
received wisdom of ‘a century or more that each historian who writes history is a
product of his age, and that his work reflects the spirit of the times, of a nation,
race, group, class, or section’. It is just that such opinions had not tended to receive
much of an airing in previous presidential addresses to the American Historical
Association, many of whose members were still in thrall to the ‘scientific’ Ranke.
As it happens, Beard approved of the ‘scientific method’, seeing in it, in the fateful
year of Hitler’s ascent but from a safe distance, ‘the chief safeguard against the
tyranny of authority, bureaucracy, and brute power’—but he felt in rather
Nietzschean fashion that ‘science’, while a good servant, was a poor master.142
Some of his own historical investigations look more like orthodox leftist critiques
based on an orthodox process of inference from evidence, so we could take his
views on perspectivalism as descriptive rather than necessarily prescriptive of a
140 Charles A. Beard, ‘Written History as an Act of Faith’, American Historical Review, 39:2 (1934),
219–31, here 221, 228. See also Karl Heussi, Die Krisis des Historismus (Tübingen: Mohr, 1932).
141 Carl Lotus Becker, Detachment and the Writing of History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press,
1958), 24, 10–11.
142 Beard, ‘Written History’, 227.
new way of writing History. His earlier An Economic Interpretation of the

Constitution of the United States (1913) pointed to the entrenchment of vested
material interest in the civil structure of a supposedly egalitarian society. It was
anti-idealist in both the philosophical and commonplace sense of ‘idealism’, and
in many places straightforwardly materialist in the Marxist sense, with a doctrine
of base and superstructure, interest and exploitation. Thus: ‘party doctrines and
“principles” originate in the sentiments and views which the possession of various
kinds of property creates in the minds of the possessors; class and group divisions
based on property lie at the basis of modern government; and politics and consti-
tutional law are inevitably a reflex of these contending interests.’143
Other Progressivists, or New Historians, were prepared to prescribe historical
content: it has been said that for them ‘history became a parade of human solu-
tions to temporal problems of existence’.144 In a 1918 article on the need to create
a ‘Usable Past’ the historian and literary critic Van Wyck Brooks urged a new gen-
eration of writers to turn away from current interpretative hegemony in literary
criticism and search for alternative traditions that had temporarily been sub-
merged. The ‘spiritual past has no objective reality’, yielding ‘only what we are able
to look for in it’, he wrote. ‘It yields up, now this treasure, now that, to anyone who
comes to it armed with a capacity for personal choices.’145 At the same time
Brooks had already argued in rather historicist fashion that ‘all true originality
immediately reconciles itself with tradition, has in itself the elements of tradition,
and is really the shadow of tradition thrown across the future’.146 Just as the past
provided the opportunities from which the present selected so the present would
always be linked with the past no matter what. One ought not fear change.147
It was an important difference of nuance whereby Robinson, in the words of
one of his admirers, believed that ‘to give meaning to the present, history must be
treated as an ever-continuous genetic development in which the present is illu
minated by perceiving anachronisms or the often-irrational origins of our ideas
and institutions’.148 There is an element of Nietzsche here but it also suggests
another turn of the wheel as regards the utility of historical thought. From scho-
lastic reading practices onwards, identifying anachronism meant jettisoning
irrelevant accretion to the kernel of real truth, up to the point of reinterpreting
that truth for present conditions. Gradually anachronism also—and ultimately
instead—came to mean a fear of applying contemporary values retrospectively.
For Robinson anachronism did not denote misrepresenting the past by presentist
143 Charles A. Beard, An Economic Interpretation of the Constitution of the United States (New York:
The Free Press, 1965 [orig. 1913]), 15–16.
144 Villemaire, E. A. Burtt, 15–19.
145 Van Wyck Brooks, ‘On Creating a Usable Past’, The Dial, 64:7 (11 April 1918), 337–41, here
338–9.
146 Van Wyck Brooks, The Wine of the Puritans (London: Sisley’s, 1908), 138.
147 Villemaire, E. A. Burtt, 15–19. 148 Ibid. 18–19, quoting Harvey Wish.
240 Why History?
interpretation so much as preventing the past’s unwarranted intrusion into the

present. The emphasis was less on the interpretation of truth than its
replacement.
The Decline of Historicism and the Rise

of German Social History
The interwar atmosphere was altogether more extreme in Germany, the country
whose intellectuals had helped set the American ‘new historians’’ thoughts in
train and whose cultural crisis was aggravated by the economic crises of the era.
Shortly after Brooks’s essay appeared, and only a year after Weber had written
along similar lines about the creation rather than the location of meaning, the
German-Jewish pacifist Theodor Lessing published his once-censored Geschichte
als Sinngebung des Sinnlosen. The title translates as ‘History as the conferral of
meaning on the meaningless’ and is a characterization of the discipline that
became one of Hayden White’s clarion calls about half a century later.149 Lessing’s
work dissected self-serving dealings with the past, especially teleological
readings.
It was overshadowed within a year by the best-selling work of philosophy of
History in the twentieth century: Oswald Spengler’s two-volume Der Untergang
des Abendlandes, The Decline of the Occident, which fused the portentous tone of
the medieval theologians of history with the assumptions of epistemic and cul-
tural relativism. Like Toynbee’s later twelve-volume A Study of History (1934–61),
Spengler’s work become something of a case study in the sort of cherry-picking
historians ought not to engage in. This should not obscure its immense popular-
ity at the time. While it had been substantially completed before the war, giving it
a prophetic character, it appeared between 1918 and 1923, thus chronologically
bracketing Troeltsch’s Der Historismus und seine Probleme (1922). Many among
Spengler’s German audience read Untergang as ‘downfall’ or collapse, and inferred
from the book a pessimism that Spengler himself purported not to share. Yet the
work had broader implications than for German nationalists and anti-democrats.
It was a species of monadology modified for a godless moment, decentring the
occidental experience and removing any fixed point of reference beyond the lives
of peoples. Spengler regarded a unilinear ancient–medieval–modern develop-
mental conception of History as analogous to the discredited Ptolemaic, earth-
centred view of the physical universe. He compared himself to Copernicus as a
revolutionizer of thought and perspective, again illustrating the cultural signifi-
cance of revolutionary scientific thinking in that era.
149 Theodor Lessing, Geschichte als Sinngebung des Sinnlosen (Munich: Beck, 1919).
For Spengler, cultures were not linked in some developmental chain; they
enjoyed their own isolated and apparently predetermined patterns of birth, life,
and death. Where Toynbee contrived to reduce the ‘major civilizations’ of the past
and present world to 21–23 in number, and attributed monadic qualities to them,
he, like Troeltsch, denied that such entities were windowless monads, or
Ganzheiten, self-enclosed wholes.150 Spengler, whose ‘high’ or ‘mature’ world-
historical cultures numbered precisely eight, leaned more towards Leibniz in that
insofar as his Ganzeiten came into contact with each other, they only left superfi-
cial impressions, one never influencing the other’s essence. Spengler sought to
illustrate the contention of radical difference with an example from the most
logical of disciplines: for the ancient Greeks, mathematics was about magnitude;
for modern Europeans living with the insights of Euclidean geometry, mathemat-
ics was a matter of function. Thus, while a modern German might be able to learn
the ancient Greek word for ‘mathematics’, she would not understand the same
thing by it as the ancient Greeks did—the concepts were incommensurable, and the
idea of incommensurability hangs over Spengler’s book in tandem with that of
relativism, though he only occasionally used the term itself.151 Common to most
of ‘incommensurability’s’ definitions is the absence of a common denominator or
external standard of measurement, which associates the concept with relativism.
There is no set of higher co-ordinates on which, say, different ethical values or
mathematical precepts can be plotted, probably because their functions within
their respective systems are just different. For Spengler, a culture’s essence lay in
its relationship with its environment, and, in the absence of any aperspectival
notification of the relationship, discerning this relationship was a matter of the
historian’s subjective judgement. The historian should not be a moralist and, in
her striving for understanding at the level of essence, she should not forget that
she was an aesthete more than a scientist. Spengler’s work was admired by some
of Dilthey’s followers and the first volume of Untergang was awarded a prize by
the Nietzsche archive.152
If the collapse of the ‘Third Reich’ sounded the death-knell for classical his
toricism as a national German approach to History, the statist and high political
focus had been influentially challenged in the interwar period from further to the
right. The catastrophe of the First World War fed competing waves of German
nihilism and cultural despair, dialectical materialism, and aggressive organicist
nationalism that broke in the intellectual ferment of the Weimar Republic.
150 Toynbee’s position in Michael Palencia-Roth, ‘On Giants’ Shoulders: The 1961 Salzburg Meeting
of the ISCSC’, Comparative Civilizations Review (Spring 2010), 142–58. Troeltsch, Der Historismus, 987.
151 Spengler, Der Untergang des Abendlandes (Munich: Beck, 1998), 87 ff. on Euclid and the
‘inkommensurable’.
152 Eugene F. Miller, ‘Positivism, Historicism, and Political Inquiry’, American Political Science
Review, 66:3 (1972), 796–817, here 799 n. 9. William Dray, Perspectives on History (London: Routledge
and Kegan Paul, 1980), part 3, has influenced my discussion here.
242 Why History?
A range of philosophies took concepts like Volksgeist and rebirth and, like Martin
Heidegger, applied them in highly political ways ‘appropriate’ to Germany’s situ
ation during and after the conflict.153 Germany’s territorial diminution in the
Versailles peace treaty, and this so soon after the vast eastward expansionist
agenda set forth in the March 1918 treaty of Brest-Litovsk, highlighted the misfit
between the boundaries of the state and of the Germanic people, or Volk. As had
been the case in the historiography of other peoples before they had gained state-
hood, or in Chalkokondyles’ case after the state had been lost, the historical focus
shifted directly to the ethnos, as opposed to the political entity that housed it. This
emphasis on the Volk was also thoroughly characteristic of Nazism, so practi
tioners of the new Volksgeschichte, like Werner Conze (1910–86) and Theodor
Schieder (1908–84), and of the related Landesgeschichte, like Otto Brunner
(1898–1982), found an especially conducive political environment after 1933. If
not necessarily outright Nazis, such historians were generally of the hard con-
servative right, whose agenda of territorial revisionism, ethno-nationalism, and
anti-socialism dovetailed with Nazism in many respects. The Ostforschung of the
Volks-historians, including work on ‘lost territories’, ethnic Germans in eastern
Europe, and the legitimacy of German empire over ‘inferior’ peoples, provided
intellectual sustenance for Hitler’s imperialism, and indeed some of these scholars
acted as direct advisers to the Nazis.154
As to historicists in the older vein, Germany’s experience in both world wars
and under Nazism even caused Meinecke to recant his faith in the moral primacy
of the nation-state. He now criticized the idealization of power that had drawn
German away from the ideals of Goethe to those—allegedly—of Machiavelli. He
defected from Ranke to Burckhardt. Meinecke was followed in his disenchant-
ment with statist moral-legal positivism by a number of colleagues, especially
after Nazi Germany’s decisive defeat at Stalingrad at the turn of 1942–3. To be
sure, Meinecke did not desist from seeking solace in his historical interpretations.
Having earlier reflected in rather Weberian form that the principal concerns of
the historian were values and causation, and that these two were intrinsically
linked, by the time of The German Catastrophe (1946) causation, in terms of the
rise of Nazism, had become for Meinecke a matter of sheer (mis)fortune.
153 Forman, ‘Weimar Culture, Causality, and Quantum Theory’; Sidelsky, Ernst Cassirer, 167–8;
Hohendahl, ‘The Crisis of Neo-Kantianism’.
154 For distinctions and relations between Volksgeschichte and Landesgeschichte: Willi Oberkrome,
Volksgeschichte: Methodische Innovation und völkische Ideologisierung in der deutschen
Geschichtswissenschaft, 1918–1945 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2011), including 22 ff. on
the anti-Versailles agenda and 56 ff. and 211 ff. on ‘Ostforschung’. Extensively on Conze: Thomas
Etzemüller, Sozialgeschichte als politische Geschichte: Werner Conze und die Neuorientierung der
westdeutschen Geschichtswissenschaft nach 1945 (Munich: Oldenbourg, 2001), including 70–89 on
Otto Brunner.
Germany’s crimes beyond Germany were marginalized; the ‘catastrophe’ was one
that Nazism may have produced but Germany experienced.155
The trope of Nazism as an aberrant interlude was a popular one, especially for
nationalist conservatives. Included in that number was Meinecke’s student Hans
Rothfels (1891–1976). A Jewish convert to Lutheranism, Rothfels, like his own
student Conze, had opposed the Weimar republic and endorsed German imperi-
alism in eastern Europe. He reluctantly fled Germany in 1938 under pressure of
racist persecution. His 1948 work The German Opposition to Hitler embodied his
view that the conspirators involved in the July 1944 plot on Hitler’s life repre-
sented the essence of German conservative and militaristic traditions, whereas
Nazism was an interloping force. The non-Nazi conservative nationalist historian
Gerhard Ritter (1888–1967), who had actually been incarcerated for his member-
ship of the circle involved in the 1944 plot, had a similar vision of the true
Germany, one he had developed before the war. He conceived a fundamental
break in 1918, which introduced an unwelcome era of ‘mass democracy’ that
included the Weimar and the Nazi periods, and could be traced back to the for-
eign influence of the French Revolution. Nonetheless Ritter sensed enough of a
problem in the longerstanding traditions of German historianship that in 1949 he
urged the convention of the German Historical Association to stop taking reality
for granted. He seems to have meant this in the sense of not giving normative
status to the powers that be simply because they be, which is one implication of
Ranke’s claim that each epoch is immediate to god—he equally rejected the
Rankean view of war as a ‘struggle of moral energies’. Instead historians should be
prepared to apply political and moral judgement to discern between more and
less appealing options in any given historical context.156
In light of the decline of classical historicism, it is one of History’s and history’s
little ironies that the post-war decade was the incubation period for a vital late
development in the hermeneutics that had bound philosophy to historicism.
Where some hermeneuts had prided themselves that they might know the
authors of historical texts better than those authors knew themselves, and
Humboldt suggested that one’s understanding of the objects of one’s investiga-
tions would always be deficient, Hans-Georg Gadamer, erstwhile student of
Heidegger, came to a third conclusion. He wrote that ‘there is no understanding
or interpretation in which the totality of this existential structure [the structure
shaping the consciousness of the investigator] does not function, even if the
155 Meinecke, Burckhardt und Ranke (Berlin: Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaft, 1948);
Meinecke, Die Deutsche Katastrophe (Wiesbaden: Brockhaus, 1947), passim, but see especially
comments on p. 125; Hardtwig, ‘Wissenschaft als Arbeit’, 10.
156 On Rothfels’s pre-war scholarship and thought, Oberkrome, Volksgeschichte, 132 ff.; Etzemüller,
Sozialgeschichte, 24–5. On Ritter: Klaus Schwabe, ‘Change and Continuity in German Historiography
from 1933 into the Early 1950s: Gerhard Ritter (1888–1967)’, in Hartmut Lehmann and James Van
Horn Melton (eds.), Paths of Continuity: Central European Historiography from the 1930s to the 1950s
(Washington, DC: German Historical Institute, 2003), 83–108, esp. 104 ff.
244 Why History?
intention of the knower is simply to read “what is there” and to discover from his
sources “how it was”. ’157 This did not mean that the hermeneut merely read the
present into the past. Such meanings as historical texts evince will be the fusion of
the horizons of meaning of the contemporary interpreter with the meanings of a
text that was produced against a different horizon. That fusion, rather than the
comprehension of the ‘original meaning’, is not a misunderstanding; it is just what
‘understanding’ is. It is not clear from Gadamer that he thought the subject could
fuse horizons with the pasts, or, one assumes, the presents, of significantly differ-
ent human groups, and this may be another area in which he differs from Dilthey
as from Herder. Thinking within the boundaries of one’s ‘own’, however, a phil
osophy of fusion across time implied that even when revolution or defeat—in
1789, 1918–19, or 1945—appeared to have established a clear break with the past,
there were always points of inheritance, and thus continuity. For German liberals
and leftists, conversely, the inherited traditions of ‘life’ were precisely what needed
to be brought under critique.
Left-leaning German intellectuals, many sociologists among them, had been
decimated under Nazi rule, leaving little in the way of more radical opposition
voices. For a revolution in West German historianship generational change was
needed, and a related shift away from two decades of post-war political domin
ation by the conservative Christian Democratic Union. The propitious cultural
environment of the later 1960s coincided with the intellectual diversification
attendant upon the expansion of the German university system, with academics
and students more than quadrupling in numbers from 1960 to 1975.158 The year
1975 also saw the first edition of the journal Geschichte und Gesellschaft, whose
title, ‘History and Society’, indicates the sort of History in question. Whatever has
subsequently been said about it, though, this historiographical ‘revolution’
inhered more in the political philosophies of the new historians than in their
methods and focus; the latter were only new when contrasted with the Rankean
model that had already been brought into question.
Hans-Ulrich Wehler (1931–2014), arguably the pre-eminent social historian of
Germany’s later twentieth century, acknowledged his debt to the interwar eco-
nomic historianship of Hans Rosenberg (1904–88) and Eckhart Kehr (1902–33),
and their identity as marginalized émigrés from Nazi Germany bolstered the
‘critical’ credentials of his project, yet in terms of method and approach he owed
as much to Conze. In 1957, from a chair in Heidelberg, and along with another
former Volks-historian, Eric Maschke, Conze established an Institute for
Economic and Social History and was a key player in the simultaneous creation
of the Working Group for Modern Social History. Conze’s anti-socialist
157 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (London: Sheed and Ward, 1979 [orig. 1960]), 232.
158 For the statistics and elements of the context, David Blackbourn, Populists and Patricians:
Essays in Modern German History (Abingdon: Routledge, 2014), 10.
philosophy of social or, as he called it, ‘structural’ History prompted work on the
transformations of German society since the eighteenth century at the agrarian
and industrial levels. Many of the supposed innovations of post-war social History
can be traced to the interwar period; the Volks-historians’ multi-dimensional
concern with society necessitated engagement with folklorism, dem og
raphy,
geography, ethnology, and sociology.159 Conze had even reflected on an attenu-
ated sense of common historiographical revisionism with the French Annales
school, which is considered on its own terms in the next chapter.160
Where Wehler would presumably have displeased his doctoral supervisor
Schieder was in the political thrust of his work and that of the whole ‘Bielefeld
school’ of social History with which he became synonymous. Another leading
Bielefeld light, Jürgen Kocka (1941–), once mused that there might have been
more friction between Germany’s historical profession and Nazism had the for-
mer been more suffused with the cosmopolitan, comparative, indeed ‘Enlightened’
outlook of the likes of Gatterer, Vico, Voltaire, and Adam Ferguson, rather than
the heritage of nineteenth-century historicism with its emphasis on national
particularity.161 The historical project of Kocka, Wehler, and others means that
both they and their conservative protagonists were very obviously fighting battles
of their present by the discussion of its immediate Nazi, Weimar, and Wilhelmine
historical background. Rejecting not just the organicist thrust of historicism but
the hermeneutic approach that could serve merely to comprehend the dominant
forces of the nation-state-monad on its own terms, the more social-scientific
approaches of the new German social History were aligned to emancipation and
national self-critique as much as explanation, even as they focused more on
longer-term processes and structures than individual agents. Key goals included
exposing social structures that might still dominate suppressed social groups and
identifying continuities between Nazism and the Kaiserreich that problematized
the comforting view of Nazism as aberration. This was the ‘negative Sonderweg’
thesis, i.e. the counterpart to the complacent, self-regarding conservative view of
German History that had emphasized the superiority of German institutions and
spirituality.162
159 Peter Lambert, ‘Social History in Germany’, in Peter Lambert and Phillipp Schofield (eds.),
Making History (Abingdon: Routledge, 2004) 93–108, here 93–6; and Etzemüller, Sozialgeschichte.
160 For the nature and limits of these links, see Etzemüller, Sozialgeschichte, 1, 54–9; Traian
Stoianovich, French Historical Method: The Annales Paradigm (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1976),
45–6; Peter Schöttler, ‘Das “Annales-Paradigma” und die deutsche Historiographie (1929–1939)’, in
Lothar Jordan and Bernd Kortländer (eds.), Nationale Grenzen und internationaler Austausch
(Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1995), 200–20.
161 Jürgen Kocka, Geschichte und Aufklärung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1989),
142–4.
162 Arguably the cardinal document of the negative Sonderweg theory was Wehler, Das Deutsche
Kaiserreich, 1871–1918 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1973). For a succinct summary of
the positive and negative Sonderweg debates, see Blackbourn, Populists and Patricians, 1–12.
7
Turns to the Present
Introduction
The work of Wehler and others in Germany was part of the broader north Atlantic
ascent of social History from the later 1950s to the peak of the 1970s and early
1980s. Social History took different forms in different countries depending on
their political constellations and the relative significance of related disciplines.
From the 1980s social History was gradually supplanted in prominence by a clus
ter of related historiographical developments concerned with language and cul
ture. In the last fifteen years or so newer fashions have waxed, and to those too
this chapter will attend, but in terms of major new lines of occidental historiog
raphy with consequences in justifications for History, social History and what for
shorthand we may call the linguistic and cultural turns remain of particular
importance.
In a broader historical perspective, the oscillation between social and linguistic-
cultural concerns looks like a reprise of the eighteenth-to-nineteenth-century
battles between ‘German’ culturalism and ‘French’ sociological thought. There is
truth to the comparison, but such dyads obscure as much as they reveal, since by
no means all social History was conducted with the social science method, and by
no means all cultural History focused on the more internalized understanding
and exploration of subjective meaning that we associate with hermeneutics.
Social History, especially History ‘from below’, as the French socialist politician
and historian Jean Jaurès (1859–1914) may have been first to call it,1 could be just
as interested in matters of ‘subjective’ individual and social ‘consciousness’ as
matters of ‘objective’ social ‘existence’, and it could focus on the interpenetration
of material and cultural elements rather than the determination of one level by
the other. Cultural History could be concerned with culture as a separate sphere
to ‘the social’ or ‘the economic’, but it could be just as all-encompassing in its
approach as social History had sometimes attempted to be. Under precepts influ
enced by the linguistic and cultural theory of structuralism and its descendants,
cultural History could be conducted according to ‘scientific’ (scientistic?) prin
ciples of explanation at least as much as hermeneutic principles of interpretative
understanding.
1 See Georges Lefebvre, The Coming of the French Revolution, ed. and introduced by Timothy
Tacket (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), p. xi.
Turns to the Present 247
Claims for the utility of History varied according to practitioner but a few sub
stantivist rationales stand out. Social-scientific social historians were more apt to
assert History’s predictive value or at least its pragmatic contemporary import
ance at a time of industrialization beyond the north Atlantic—this was an update
of History as Practical Lesson. More methodologically ‘traditional’ qualitative
social historians were more likely to be found revising prevailing conceptions of
the past with a view to altering politics in the present—disturbing ‘whiggish’ nar
ratives, or inserting the marginalized into the historical record to fortify their
voices now. This was a species of History as Identity fused with History as
Emancipation. ‘New cultural historians’ specialized in a version of History as
Travel as they invoked exotic worlds past. They, like the many historians under
the influence of Michel Foucault, who addressed culture through the prism of
power, might adapt the Travel rationale, contrasting past ways of doing things
with present ways in order to underline/unmask the conventional, made and
remade, character of social relations and of human-being, and thus the possibility
of changing them. This was a Marxist agenda of History as Emancipation adapted
for a post-Marxist philosophy. Its proponents discarded Dilthey’s definition of
hermeneutic understanding as recognizing the self in the historically distant
Other, and focused more exclusively on the differences. The element of History as
Communion that had underlain so many hermeneutic approaches to the evi
dence of the past was abandoned in this philosophy.
Like History as Emancipation, the other relatively new rationale for History in
the period, ‘History as Therapy’, owes more to thought incubating in the nine
teenth century than to any of the self-conscious theoretical radicalism of the later
twentieth century. Since History as Therapy is less popular a rationale than
History as Emancipation or indeed any of the other rationales, further discussion
of it is postponed until the final chapter where all are revisited. The words of
the sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002) nonetheless illustrate how closely
the therapeutic and emancipatory agendas can be associated as he broadened the
associations of the ‘unconscious’ from those in Schelling’s philosophy and psy
choanalysis. He used it in relation to his concept of the ‘habitus’, the set of norms,
skills, and, tastes that we each develop according to our socialization:
In practice, it is the habitus, history turned into nature, i.e. denied as such, which
accomplishes practically the relating of these two systems of relations [i.e. the
relations between objective structures, subjective practices, and the uncon
scious], in and through the production of practice. The ‘unconscious’ is never
anything other than the forgetting of history which history itself produces.2
2 Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

2003), 78.
248 Why History?
Note that each of the three uses of ‘history’ has a different meaning. The ‘history’
that is forgotten is the way that the present emerged contingently from the past.
The ‘history’ that induces the forgetting of the past is a sort of official account, a
realization, perhaps of what the Marxist theorist György Lukács (1885–1971)
conceived as the aim of ‘bourgeois’ thought: ‘an apologia for the existing order of
things or at least the proof of their immutability’ as supposedly ‘eternal laws of
nature’. ‘As Marx points out,’ Lukács wrote, ‘people fail to realise “that . . . definite
social relations are just as much the products of men as linen, flax, etc.” ’3
Bourdieu’s solution to that second sort of ‘history’—i.e. his recommended device
for reversing the ‘denial’ of the contingency of historical developments and their
presentation as given ‘nature’—was a third form of history, which is my upper-
case History, that which in some instantiations has claim to be called critical
enquiry into the past. Thus, in Bourdieu’s words:
All sociology should be historical and all history sociological. In point of fact,
one of the functions of the theory of fields that I propose is to make the oppos
ition between reproduction and transformation, statics and dynamics, or struc
ture and history, vanish . . . [W]e cannot grasp the dynamics of a field without a
historical, that is, a genetic, analysis of its constitution and of the tensions that
exist between positions in it, as well as between this field and other fields.4
If this chapter is mainly concerned with what was added to History’s tapestry in
the north Atlantic centres of professional historiography, we must as ever
acknowledge that which was not new but which was retained from the past, i.e.
political History and related areas of elite interest like diplomatic History and
‘traditional’ international History. Especially from the 1960s the popularity of
political History dwindled signally among professional historians, though much
less so amongst general reading publics. Along with many other strands of his
toriography it has reinvented itself, as we shall see at the end of the chapter.
Structures and Superstructures
The First World War shook what was left of the stuffing from the British ‘Whig’
tradition that had developed out of the progressivist confidence of the eighteenth
century and peaked during Britain’s mid-nineteenth-century world dominance.
The power of the whig narrative had been waning for at least a generation by
3 Georg Lukács, History and Class Consciousness: Studies in Marxist Dialectics (Cambridge, MA:
MIT Press, 1971 [orig. 1922]), 48.
4 Pierre Bourdieu and Loïc Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Cambridge: Polity,
1992), 90.
1914, consistent with ‘crisis-thinking’ across the Continent, and now it was criti
cized by a new breed of ‘modernist’ historians who rejected its ‘picturesqueness’
and rhetorical tendencies in the name of a forensic discipline.5 Some of their
barbs were not a world removed from the criticisms which the later nineteenth-
century whigs had directed at Macaulay before them. In 1929 the historian of
Anglo-Saxon England Frank M. Stenton (1880–1967) wrote sniffily of Stubbs’s
Constitutional History of England (1874–8; pp. 198–9) that ‘the details of medieval
finance [and] law are frequently interrupted by moral reflection in which a liter
ary purpose is powerfully present’.6
The epithet ‘modernist’ has been applied to the likes of Stenton by the historian
Michael Bentley and it helps to understand what Bentley means to read the label
as denoting contrast both to ‘whigs’ beforehand and ‘postmodernists’ afterwards.
Alongside a conviction that secure atomic facts could be established by archival
research and then used as firm bases on which to construct or test interpretations,
these modernists rejected speculation and suasive prose—and in the process they
rather rejected reflection on their own subject-positions and the literary and
otherwise creative (‘poetic’) nature of their own products. Bentley writes of a gen
eral sensibility, ‘the modernist feel for realizable truth and a consistent implica
tion that the past was out there as a visitable place’.7 Arguably these scholars did
come close to the barest historical literalism, the diminution of the already
reduced Lutheran hermeneutics to half of its purpose, but this literalism was not
the same as credulity. The ‘modernists’ were skilled in source criticism—as such
they were a world away from literalists as pejoratively understood—and while
they may have fancied themselves to be detached students of the past, there was
no general subscription to any simplistic liberal theory of context-free human
being as regards the people they studied. In that sense they were guilty of the
same sins of self-exemption or performative contradiction (where one’s practice
gainsays what one preaches) that marks a huge number of historians. Whilst
ditching some of the self-conscious narrative tendencies of historicism they
maintained and even enhanced its contextualism.
Most august of these modernists, Lewis Namier (1888–1960) was what the
social historian E. P. Thompson called an ‘inverted Marxist’: a man of the political
right who believed interests shape values. Namier also commended his friend
Freud’s insight into non-rational and unconscious motivations. Above all, he may
be said to have tied high politics to social History. His parliamentary History
assumed that the political behaviour of members could only be understood with
5 Bentley, Modernizing, 98, citing Tout. 6 Ibid. 107.

7 Ibid., and Bentley, ‘Approaches to Modernity’, 488. See also Mark Bevir, ‘The Contextual
Approach’, in George Klosko (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of Political Philosophy (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2011), 11–23, here 12.
250 Why History?
reference to their biographies, social backgrounds, class interests, and so forth.8

The titular ‘structure’ of Namier’s magnum opus, The Structure of Politics at the
Accession of George III (1929), was firmly contrasted to ‘narrative’; he called his a
‘static’ History, redolent of Burckhardt’s historical cross-sections. In this study of
the composition and functioning of the House of Commons around 1760 he
warned the reader that between eighteenth-century politics ‘and the politics of
the present day there is more resemblance in outer forms and denominations
than in underlying realities’ and illustrated his contentions in the fashionable
idiom of scientific revolution:
A system of non-Euclidean geometry can be built up by taking a curve for basis

instead of the straight line, but it is not easy for our minds to think consistently
in unwonted terms; Parliamentary politics not based on parties are to us a non-
Euclidean system, and similarly require a fundamental readjustment of ideas
and, what is more, of mental habits.9
Along with other ‘modernists’, Namier performed a task which postmoderns

would endorse, as they combated cultural essentialism across time and the con
ception of unity in the past. A phobia of anachronism became almost a watch
word as the modernists broke down grand narratives to reveal just how little
continuity there might be in—say—the British constitutional past, once sufficient
attention was paid to the changing meaning of similar-sounding legal concepts.
‘While ideas outlive reality, names and words outlast both’, creating ‘an illusion of
stability . . . which is apt to give rise to wrong inferences.’10 Namier’s scientific ana
logy and his ‘static’, synchronic cross-section suggested that Spengler’s ‘incom
mensurability’ might be applied across eras as well as across nations; the past as
foreign country.
The point is made clearer if we jump a few decades ahead for a moment, to the
early work of Foucault (1926–84), whose sometime title—‘Professor of the
History of Systems of Thought’—gets at the heart of the matter. Foucault wrote of
successive ‘epistemes’, the Renaissance, Classical, and Modern epistemes, which
were conceptual structures that gave a characteristic form to what was held to be
scientific knowledge in any given era. One episteme was incommensurable with
another, which was important in a broader sense as regards the philosophy of
history; while he embraced the sort of epochal categorization characteristic of
8 The ‘history of parliament’ project was the grandest expression of this philosophy. On
Thompson’s description, and Freud, Kevin Passmore, ‘History and Historiography since 1945’, in
Roger E. Backhouse and Philippe Fontaine (eds.), A Historiography of the Modern Social Sciences
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 29–61, here 34.
9 Lewis Namier, The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III (London: Macmillan, 1973),
pp. x–xi.
10 Lewis Namier, ‘History’ (1952), excerpted in Stern (ed.), The Varieties of History, 373. More
generally on anachronism see Blaas, Continuity and Anachronism.
stadial History, Foucault did not present one stage as an advance on previous
ones. His famed project of creating a ‘historical ontology of ourselves’, i.e. a his
torical picture of successive human conceptions of what it was to be human, is a
sharpened elaboration of the nineteenth-century Francophone History in the
tradition of Taine, whose message was that ‘Each epoch of history . . . had its dis
tinctive institutions. Men were molded and remolded by these changing social
forms. Thus men could not be regarded as the same throughout history’; each
period had its ‘peculiar institutions and . . . corresponding psychology’.11 In the
first edition of Foucault’s Folie et déraison: Histoire de la folie à l’âge classique
(1961), the later English version of which was called Madness and Civilization, he
talked of producing ‘a structural study of an historical ensemble—notions, insti
tutions, juridical and police measures, scientific concepts’.12 Overall, there is a
Namier-esque quality both to the ‘static’ analysis of some of Foucault’s work and
the determination to show discontinuity across time in matters like scientific con
cepts. When objecting to ‘the philosophical myth of history’ as a ‘grand and
extensive continuity’, he repeatedly credited practising historians in general with
having destroyed this myth, and when he identified any particular historians, he
noted not just some of his own French predecessors but ‘the English historians’.
‘Modernist’ historians like Namier, with their preoccupation with anachronism
and suspicion of Whiggery, were, I propose, precisely the English historians he
had in mind. Others of the same stripe included Maitland (pp. 228–9), who in
turn bears the influence of the philosopher Henry Sidgwick, of whom it has been
said that he used the past ‘not to construct patterns of historical dynamics but to
discredit them’ along with ‘grand schemes of social evolution’.13
Namier’s title, like some of Foucault’s aforementioned vocabulary in Folie et
déraison, also hints at affinities with the structuralism that was fashionable in
interwar Continental linguistic theory and is most associated with the Swiss
Fernand de Saussure (1857–1913). Saussure rejected the conception of language
as relating the mind directly to the things of the external world. Thus far he was
consistent with romantic theories of language since Leibniz, and with nominal
ism. However he also opposed the conventional historical approach to language
that seemed irrelevant to the actual lived experience of the language community
and the psychological reality of the language user at any given moment. He made
11 Martha Wolfenstein, ‘The Social Background of Taine’s Philosophy of Art’, Journal of the History
of Ideas, 5 (1944), 332–58, here 337.
12 Translated and criticized in Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, ed. Alan Bass (London:
Routledge, 2005), 53.
13 Thomas R. Flynn, Sartre, Foucault and Historical Reason, vol. 1 (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1997), 246–7. For further remarks as to the role of artisanal historians in undermining the
myths of philosophical History, see Michel Foucault ‘Discourse on Language’ (1971) published as
appendix to Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (New York: Pantheon, 1972), 215–37, here 230;
and the quotations in Flynn, Sartre, Foucault and Historical Reason, vol. 2, (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2005), 50–51, 115–16. On Maitland and Sidgwick, Wormald, Legal Culture, 60–1.
252 Why History?
the comparison between economic and linguistic systems that were not just
transactional but value-creating. Meanings are generated by language itself, by
syntax (word order), grammar, and relations of opposition (left versus right, etc.).
Given the highly contextual, web-like quality of meaning-production, one could
not actually dissociate the expression of an ostensibly simple ‘matter of fact’ or a
‘truth of reason’ from all of the other conventional understandings that structured
the intelligibility of the proposition.14
Why spend so much time on a linguistic theory? Because structuralist prin
ciples were later adopted in the human sciences well beyond the discipline of lin
guistics: indeed they were adopted there even as they were being challenged in
linguistics. Saussure himself had thought to develop a general theory of semiotics
on the principle that language was only the most obvious system of signs by
which humans made sense of the world and oriented their behaviour. A more
general semiotics (the study of sign-systems) sheds light on the unspoken but
omnipresent set of taboos, prompts, and community-specific forms of expres
sion, from facial markings to eating rituals to architectural forms, that make up
the thing we call a culture. The anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss asked this
question, to which his answer was positive: ‘Although they belong to another
order of reality, kinship phenomena are of the same type as linguistic phenomena.
Can the anthropologist, using a method analogous in form (if not in content) to
the method used in structural linguistics, achieve the same kind of progress in his
own science as that which has taken place in linguistics?’15 This marked the
advent of structuralist anthropology, as against Boas’s historicist anthropology.
Moreover, structuralism fed a general intellectual atmosphere that was already
receptive to broadly similar ideas. Structuralism has some similarities with, and
possibly roots in, the side of Kant’s thought that dealt with the transcendental ego,
with its focus on structures shaping the cognitive faculties that were brought to
bear on the phenomenal world. Forms of psychology bear comparison to struc
turalism too, in the idea of a subconscious influencing conscious behaviour.
Structuralism can also be seen as analogous to the Marxist concept of relations of
production defining social (class) arrangements, i.e. the economic base determin
ing the socio-cultural superstructure, but also in the mutually constituting nature
of oppositions/relations (left–right, bourgeoisie–proletariat). In each case some
subterranean force shapes surface enunciations, as when Herbert Butterfield criti
cized Namier for explanatory resort to a vague but determinant underlying ‘struc
ture of politics’.16
14 On truths of fact and truths of reason see Willard Van Orman Quine, ‘Two Dogmas of
Empiricism’, The Philosophical Review, 60 (1951), 20–43.
15 Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1963 [orig 1958]), 34.
Emphases in original.
16 Butterfield, George III and the Historians, cited in Paul Franco, Michael Oakeshott: An
Introduction (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 138.
However, such analogies only work so far. Kant’s transcendental ego has to go
by the board along with anything else resembling a universal structure of reason:
under structuralism, while there is a purely formal similarity of law-giving struc
tures across all cultures and language, substantively there is no way of comparing
language X or culture Y with an overarching supracultural standard. Structuralism
therefore has strong relativist connotations, and indeed from the mid-twentieth
century structuralist relativism reinforced the relativist connotations of classical
historicism even as classical historicism was discredited by the world wars. Lévi-
Strauss wrote of the role of myths, in creating a sense of cultural discontinuity ‘by
the radical elimination of certain fractions of the continuum’; ‘a discrete [cultural]
system is produced by the destruction of certain elements or their removal from
the original whole’.17 The same idea applied diachronically too, judging by Lévi-
Strauss’s criticism of certain sorts of History as giving a false sense of continuity
across time.18 Sharper differentiation across time as well as place is the essence of
neo-historicism, as this book calls it.
Something is also lost in the analogy of psychological theory and structural
ism. In order to render mental material malleable enough to accord with struc
turalism without remainder, Lévi-Strauss had to evacuate on one hand any
element of recalcitrant individual uniqueness à la Jung, and on the other hand
any of the innate, universal drives that Freud conceived.19 Similarly, the strength
of the analogy with Marxism varies according to the type of Marxism chosen.
Those who think less in terms of the determination of the superstructure by the
base, and more in terms of the interpenetration or reciprocal influence of the two
elements, will find the analogy less satisfactory. Where Marxism of any sort (and
psychoanalysis) differs from structuralism is that it purports not just to describe
but to diagnose and where possible amend. Nonetheless, the spirit—less often the
letter—of structuralist, psychological, and Marxist thought is in evidence in so
much of what was novel in twentieth-century occidental historianship.
Marxist-inspired History made significant inroads from the margins after the
Bolshevik revolution. Marx’s historian followers have increasingly discarded
Marx the dialectical philosopher of History but regard Marx the historian, econo
mist, and sociologist as having created important analytical tools. In the USA the
early influence of Marxism showed itself in the diluted form of the ‘progressive’
New History. In the UK, the development of social History was shaped in the
interwar period by a group of interdisciplinary left-wing historians, social scien
tists, and policymakers at the London School of Economics, that product of
17 Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986), 52–3: my
attention was drawn to this passage by Gillian Gillison, ‘From Cannibalism to Genocide: The Work of
Denial’, The Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 37:3 (2007), 395–414, here 412.
18 Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Savage Mind (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1966), 256–64.
19 Gillison, ‘From Cannibalism to Genocide’, 411–13.
254 Why History?
Fabian social democratic principles.20 The cohort including the medievalist

Eileen Power, R. H. Tawney, Barbara Hammond, J. L. Hammond, Beatrice Webb,
Sidney Webb, and G. D. H. Cole stand comparison with any in Britain before
or since.
Alongside the ‘English historians’, Foucault named Marc Bloch and Lucien
Febvre as having dealt a mortal blow to ‘history as philosophy’, which brings us to
the Annales school and its relationship to psychology and structuralism. From the
1920s–1930s under Bloch’s and Febvre’s leadership the Annales scholars embraced
a whole range of intellectual approaches and methodologies that, in combination,
supposedly opened the way to histoire totale, a History of the totality of the
inputs—or contexts—shaping human experience. These early Annalistes, as they
have been called, put particular emphasis on the deeper structures of reality, but
for them these structures were not metaphysical, as with Hegel and Ranke, but
were rather psychological and material, and even sometimes quite literally elem
ental—geological, or geographical.21
In exposing all these levels and their relations, the Annalistes could draw on an
impressive new range of techniques developed in the sciences and social sciences,
but it merits emphasis that Bloch and Febvre still saw a suitably revised History as
the master discipline, and in that sense followed in Ranke’s footsteps even though
he had exemplified a different approach. This iteration of the battle between
History and the social sciences had been joined well before the 1920s: around the
turn of the century Paul Lacombe and François Simiand stood against Seignobos
as they enjoined History to become concerned with the normal, the general, and
the predictable rather than the idiographic.22 The Annalistes adopted some of
Simiand’s proposed topics and methods, including an enhanced focus on the
rule-bound and repetitive rather than the unique, the social rather than the indi
vidual, with the use of modelling and collaborative research products to gather
and process the relevant data, but they worked to ensure that History remained
the unifying discipline.23
This goal perforce implied that History and sociology could/should not be
identical or otherwise it was merely a matter of semantics as to which of the two
prevailed. One way in which the disciplines could sometimes be distinguished is
by reflection on Durkheim’s claim that once History raised itself above the study
20 Maxine Berg, A Woman in History: Eileen Power 1889–1940 (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1996), 162 ff.
21 e.g. Lucien Febvre, Philippe II et la Franche-Comté (Paris, Champion, 1912), esp. ch. 1 for the
geographical context; Febvre, La Terre et l’évolution humaine: Introduction géographique à l’histoire
(Paris: La Renaissance du Livre, 1922).
22 Charles Seignobos, La Méthode historique appliquée aux science sociales (Paris: Alcan, 1901); cf.
Paul Lacombe L’Histoire considérée comme science (Paris: Hachette, 1894) and François Simiand,
‘Méthode historique et science sociale’, Revue de Synthèse historique, 6 (1903) 1–22, 129–57.
23 François Dosse, New History in France: The Triumph of the Annales (Chicago: University of
Illinois Press, 1994) 13 ff.; Hartog, ‘Von der Universalgeschichte’, point 11.
of unique particularities it was already a social science. For all of their adoption of
social scientific methods and suspicion of high political History it is not clear that
the Annalistes were moving from the particular to the general in the way
Durkheim commended. One might just as well say that they had larger-scale par
ticulars in mind, since geography, geology, and deep structures of belief were not
the same everywhere, and the historians in question did not seek to abstract away
from those particularities so as to create a general, lawmaking science of human
kind, or even of humankind at particular stages of development. Bloch himself
was an early advocate of comparative History, though comparison may be con
cerned as much with differences as similarities. Works like his Les Caractères orig-
inaux de l’histoire rurale française,24 however bold in scope, still had a high level
of specificity as to the (three) types of agrarian community in France, and the
influence of these patterns over centuries into the French present, with the impli
cation that France was different in that respect to, say, the British present. Finally,
however long the spans of time with which Annalistes concerned themselves, they
still took the temporal, processual element seriously, and did not deal in the time
less models characteristic of structural linguistics or econometrics.
The Annalistes rejected as subjective and unsystematic any concept of History
as the study of individual meaningful actions and events embedded in contingent
causal sequences, phenomena whose character was only ascertainable through
the lens of a potentially infinite number of actor-perceptions as to their ‘meaning’.
With their focus ranging from the early development of the capitalist system to
topography through the full range of subjects studied by the human sciences in
their broadest definitions, the Annalistes were above all concerned with the over
arching, or perhaps underpinning, environmental, economic, psychological,
technical, and social frameworks within which different peoples lived. All this
helps explain Bloch’s opposition to moral evaluation of individuals who partook
of broader ‘mentalités’, which were a creation of forces beyond their comprehen
sion and which comprised the condition of their consciousness rather than being
its creation. The contrast is sharp with the prevailing orthodoxies of the historical
discipline at the outset of the twentieth century, when political History accounted
for more than half of all French History theses and biographical studies for more
than 30 per cent.25 In other countries political History was yet more dominant.
The concept mentalité, nearer in determinative strength to ‘episteme’ than
‘Zeitgeist’, and partly defined against intellectual ‘ideas’, is the product of Febvre’s
call for ‘historical psychology’, and perhaps also of Bloch’s experience of collective
behaviour during the First World War. As in Georges Lefebvre’s The Great Fear of
1789 (1932),26 on popular unrest in the build-up to the French Revolution, the
24 Oslo: Aschehoug, 1931. 25 Dosse, New History in France, 13.

26 Georges Lefebvre, La Grande Peur de 1789 (Paris: Armand Colin, 1932).
256 Why History?
notion of mentalité leans on positivistic concepts like Gustav Le Bon’s ‘psychology

of the crowd’ or Karl Lamprecht’s Massenpsychologie,27 and on Durkheim’s ideas
of collective psychology and collective representations. Only to a significantly
lesser degree does it draw on Freud’s work, and then more on his thoughts on
mass psychology. We see mentalité at work in Bloch’s Les Rois thaumaturges
(1924),28 where he sought to explain beliefs in medieval France and England that
monarchs could cure scrofula and other diseases by their touch. Alongside exam
ination of the rites and symbols associated with this supernatural power, and of
the function of the royal claim to possess it (i.e. legitimation of royal power,
including against Rome, by association with the divine), Bloch launched a cri
tique of latter-day scholars who had sought to provide ‘rational’ explanations of
the royal touch that made sense according to the lights of those scholars—for
instance explanations to the effect that medieval people were confused in their
understandings. Mentalité was also under investigation in Febvre’s enquiry into
the very possibility of atheism in the climate of thought prevailing in sixteenth-
century France, The Problem of Unbelief in the Sixteenth Century.29 Lévi-Strauss
offered an assessment of that book’s major contributions, in support of his obser
vation that while
the anthropologist applies his analysis primarily to the unconscious elements of

social life, it would be absurd to suppose that the historian remains unaware of
them . . . Thus any good history book (and we shall cite a great one) is saturated
with anthropology . . . Febvre constantly refers to psychological attitudes and
logical structures which can be grasped only indirectly because they have always
eluded the consciousness of those who spoke and wrote—for example, the lack
of terminology and standards of measurement, vague representation of time,
traits common to several different techniques, and so forth. All these pertain to
anthropology as well as to history, for they transcend documents and inform
ants’ accounts, none of which deals with this level, and rightly so.30
Lévi-Strauss also observed that economic History often dealt preponderantly in

terms of unconscious, structural causation,31 and while Annales scholarship was
important in the interwar rise of economic History it was by no means uniquely
so. The Economic History Review, coedited by Tawney and Ephraim Lipson, was
first published two years before the initial edition of the journal Annales d’histoire
économique et sociale (later Annales: économies, sociétés, civilisation). The inau
gural edition of the former celebrated the fact that the International Congress of
27 André Burguière, L’École des Annales. Une histoire intellectuelle (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2006), 42–3.
28 Strasbourg: Istra, 1924.
29 Lucien Febvre, Le Problème de l’incroyance au XVIe siècle (Paris: Albin Michel, 1942).
30 Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, 23–4. 31 Ibid.
Historical Studies had had an economic section for some time. The influence of
German nineteenth-century historical economics was noted, alongside the work
of Pirenne, French studies of the impact of the French Revolution on local eco
nomic life, and, in Britain, the work of Arnold Toynbee senior (1852–83).32
It may be that economic History benefited in popularity from the same ten
dencies that boosted intellectual History between the wars (though not in the
work of the early Annalistes), as the study of high politics and diplomacy came
under the same sort of critique as the high politicians who had led the continent
into destruction.33 But the stock market crash of 1929 guaranteed greater atten
tion to impersonal economic forces, and by coincidence the Annales journal was
first published in that year. In a famous 1933 book, Ernst Labrousse deployed
quantitative methodology to gauge the movement of prices and revenue in
eighteenth-century France,34 and capitalized on the immediate interest in the
present conjuncture and the enduring interest in the causes of the French
Revolution. His was only the best known of a number of investigations into the
history of economic fluctuations at the time from the very first issue of Annales
onwards, and in the work of Simiand.35
Structures and Events
Labrousse juxtaposed long-term societal ‘structures’ with shorter-term ‘conjunc

tures’, and in so doing introduced to modern historiography a conceptual division
of timespans, the most famous of which was a tripartite model proposed by
Fernand Braudel. Braudel’s longue durée was the measure of ‘geographical time’,
measured against the glacially slow movement of the natural environment, but
also against civilizations as understood in the very broadest sense: the sense by
which we might speak of a Christian civilization that stretches from the patristic
age to the present. Then came ‘social time’ of the sort indicated by Labrousse’s
‘structures’ or Fustel’s and Durkheim’s institutions, measured as it was by the life
span of socio-economic and technological structures and mentalités. Then we
have ‘individual time’ measured against the doings of particular people and
32 William Ashley, ‘The Place of Economic History in University Studies’, The Economic History
Review, 1:1 (1927), 1–11.
33 D. R. Woolf, ‘The Writing of Early Modern European Intellectual History, 1945–1995’, in Bentley
(ed.), Companion to Historiography, 307–35, here 309.
34 Ernst Labrousse, Esquisse du mouvement des prix et des revenues en France au XVIIIe siècle
(Paris: Dalloz, 1933).
35 François Simiand, Les Fluctuations économiques à longue période et la crise mondiale (Paris:
Alcan 1932); Simiand, Recherches anciennes et nouvelles sur le mouvement général des prix du VXIe au
XIXe siècle (Paris: Domat-Montchrestien, 1932). For the Annales journal, merely consult the contents
pages.
258 Why History?
groups in the sphere of ‘events’, happenings—the sort of thing constituting the

focus of what Lacombe and Simiand called l’histoire événementielle.36
The significance of ‘événements’ varied slightly between Annalistes. Some
implied that these ‘events’ had causal significance but only within the confines set
by the structures corresponding to the longer timescales. Sometimes ‘events’
appeared less as causes in their own right than as symptoms of changes on the
deeper levels, which is where a quite strong affinity with the subterranean caus
ation of structuralism is evident: Braudel compared them to ‘surface disturbances,
crests of foam that the tides of history carry on their strong backs’.37 Only in 1974
did the Annales-affiliated cultural historian Pierre Nora announce a concerted
return to the ‘event’, though not loudly enough for the philosopher Jacques
Rancière, who issued his own grand summons in 1992.38 By that time, as it hap
pens, French philosophy had developed a major specialism in the contemplation
of ‘events’, spurred on by the unpredicted événements of May 1968 and the clarion
call ‘structures don’t take to the streets’.39
Note the quotation-marks around ‘events’. Events could only ever have disap
peared from Annales scholarship if they were defined in a particular way, gener
ally in the sense of something like political events of a special, ostensibly
status-quo-disturbing nature, or in the sense of products of individual agency, as
in what Braudel dismissed as Treitschke’s ‘proud and unilateral declaration: “men
make history” ’.40 Yet such definitions of the event are arbitrary. Think of the con
cepts with which ‘events’, less arbitrarily defined, might be contrasted. ‘Processes’
is one possibility, but then we might just as well say that all events are themselves
processual, and all processes can be broken down into constituent events.
‘Continuity’ is another, but then we should remember that continuities are not
characterized by nothingness but by acts/events/processes of reproduction and
repetition. ‘Structures’ is another, but then we see that structures are themselves
constructed and modified processually, i.e. event-fully. The final possibility, and
the only one that really works as a contrast, is to define events not against sub
stantive structures in the sense of prisons or bureaucracies or even coastlines and
climates, but against the purely formal, abstract, timeless relations idealized in the
doctrine of structuralism. Clearly enough this is not the contrast Braudel was
making. Even Braudel’s longue durée is still a durée. As he well knew it was not
36 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 1
(London: Collins, 1972 [orig. 1949]), 21.
37 Ibid.
38 Pierre Nora, ‘Le Retour de l’événement’, in Jacques Le Goff and Pierre Nora (eds.), Faire de
l’histoire, 3 vols. (Paris, Gallimard, 1974), I, 285–308; Jacques Rancière, Les Mots de l’histoire. Essai de
poétique du savoir (Paris, Seuil, 1992).
39 François Dosse, History of Structuralism, vol. 2: The Sign Sets, 1967–Present (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1998), 116.
40 Fernand Braudel, On History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 10.
timeless: coastlines erode by myriad event-ful processes; climates change

likewise.41
Foucault stressed that ‘events’ had not really disappeared in the salient his
torical scholarship:
We frequently credit contemporary history with having removed the individual

event from its privileged position and with having revealed the more enduring
structures of history. . . . I do not think one can oppose the identification of the
individual event to the analysis of long term trends quite so neatly. On the con
trary, it seems to me that it is in squeezing the individual event, in directing the
resolving power of historical analysis onto official price-lists (mercuriales), title
deeds, parish registers, to harbour archives analysed year by year and week by
week, that we gradually perceive—beyond battles, decisions, dynasties and
assemblies—the emergence of those massive phenomena of secular or multi-
secular importance. History, as it is practised today, does not turn its back on
events; on the contrary, it is continually enlarging the field of events . . .42
If the relationship of events and structures needs clarification, confusion may also
arise over the relationship of structures to structuralism, though what is at issue is
merely a semantic similarity. Structuralism pertains to elements in an interrelated
system; those elements may be structures in the substantive sense, but simply
talking about structures is not to subscribe to structuralism, and as soon as one
attends to the specificities/contents of substantive structures one has already
shifted emphasis away from the precepts of structuralism with its emphasis on the
productive quality of relations between elements. It does, however, help to explain
the prominence of ‘the event’ in French philosophy in the second half of the
twentieth century if we see it as something conceived as in ontological contradic
tion to ‘the system’ or whatever is seen as the underlying determinant of the social
order—as if that order were not itself the product of event-ful processes, or as if
there were some difference in metaphysical kind between ‘the event’ and those
other events.
Whatever the difference between talk of structures and of structuralism, struc
turalism’s inability to account for change is related to its lack of interest in his
torical analysis, but also to the coherence that it implies for any given order as it
stands. On the whole, historical thought influenced by structuralism tends either
to ignore change, via static descriptions, or posits some revolution-like eruption
in a way that may be inspired by Marxist thought. Beyond adapting Weberian
41 See Braudel’s awareness of the contestableness of his definition of ‘event’: Fernand Braudel, The
Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, vol. 2 (Berkeley: University of
42 Foucault, ‘The Discourse on Language’, 230.
260 Why History?
legal-rationalization theory in his work on disciplinary institutions,43 Foucault

was not strong at accounting for the why of the inception of new structures of
thought and their accompanying practices even as he was preoccupied with
showing the what of the changes that had been wrought—see The Birth of the
Clinic, 1963; Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, 1975. That which
A. J. Rowse said of Bolingbroke’s Letters on History is roughly true of Foucault in
his work on historical epochs: ‘he thinks of successive periods as a series of water-
tight compartments, with nothing to account for the transition from one to
another except catastrophes or breakdowns.’44 The same could go for talk of revo
lution: in the study of scientific History, Gaston Bachelard, who was one of
Foucault’s great influences, talked of periodic ‘epistemic ruptures’, prefiguring the
work of Thomas S. Kuhn, whose work The Structure of Scientific Revolutions45
met the challenge of a theory of change from one scientific ‘paradigm’ to
another—say from Aristotelian to classical mechanics, or Euclidean to non-
Euclidean geometry. These paradigms had more than a passing resemblance to
what Foucault called epistemes, though they were more narrowly disciplinary in
applicability, which also gave them some similarity to what Foucault was to call
‘discourses’. Kuhn laid equal emphasis on the pull exerted on scientists by the
paradigm and on the infrequent ‘revolutionary’ moments when one ‘paradigm’
was put under enough explanatory stress to lead (unforeseeably) to its replace
ment by another.
Associations of ‘the event’ with rupture, revolution, and so forth, help us to
explain Braudel’s turn away from the political sphere. Braudel’s choice of focus
was itself political, in much the same way as were Fustel’s and Monod’s prescrip
tions for the historical discipline in the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian war.
While The Mediterranean was published in 1949, most of the work had gone into
it in the interwar period in which France was concerned with sustaining peace at
home and in Europe. Braudel sought unity and an end to the social antagonisms
fuelled by Marxism or the event-centric political History that had traditionally
been so divided over the meaning of the French Revolution. Where Bloch had
issued a ban on moral judgement in historiography, Braudel cautioned distrust of
that ‘traditional history’ of events ‘with its still burning passions , as it was felt,
described, and lived by contemporaries whose lives were as short and as short-
sighted as ours’.46 To contemplate the undercurrents over a long period was to
perceive a world of slower, evolutionary change in which people’s differences
mattered less than they tended to think. This was a ‘French’ doctrine of
43 John O’Neill, ‘The Disciplinary Society: From Weber to Foucault’, British Journal of Sociology,
37:1 (1987), 42–60.
44 A. J. Rowse, The Use of History (Harmondsworth: Pelican, 1971), 85.
45 Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961.
46 Braudel, The Mediterranean, vol. 1, p. 21. On moral judgement, Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft
(New York: Vintage Books, 1953 [French orig. 1949]), 139, 142.
continuity that differed in certain respects from the classical historicist ‘German’
doctrine of the same.
Braudel realized that the broader the historical canvas upon which one wishes
to paint, the less significant individual or even collective agency will seem, up to
the point where the individual and even the war or revolution is erased entirely.
But it is just a matter of choice as to whether one focuses most of one’s energy on
addressing the longue durée or on shorter ones, on the impersonal or the per
sonal—neither approach reveals ‘the truth about history’ as a process. The answer
one gets is a function of the question one has set oneself, and there is no intrinsic
hierarchy of importance of such questions. Nor is there any inherent incompati
bility in studying different durées. Bloch’s study of feudalism certainly seems to
have little to do with the later microstoria or ‘microhistory’ of Carlo Ginzburg and
Natalie Zemon Davis, and indeed microhistory was a reaction to the vast sweep
of earlier Annales scholarship. But the microhistorians had an eye on the bigger
picture, however ostensibly small their focus, on the principle that a case study
well conducted can cast wider light whether its focus is on a civilization, a
sixteenth-century Friulian miller (Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms, 1976) or
an impostor in a Pyrénéan village of the same period (Davis, The Return of Martin
Guerre, 1983). Giovanni Levi, author of The Immaterial Inheritance: Career of an
Exorcist in Seventeenth-Century Piedmont (1985), wrote of his desire to ‘address a
more complex social structure without losing sight of the individual’s social space
and hence, of people and their situation in life’, noting that the ‘minutest detail/
action of say somebody buying a loaf of bread actually encompasses the far wider
system of the whole world’s grain market’.47 Writing in the 1990s, Hans Medick
claimed that his local history of the Swabian village of Laichingen from 1650
to1900 could be a ‘micro-historically grounded’ form of ‘general History’ (allge-
meine Geschichte).48 Braudel’s student Emmanuel le Roy Ladurie navigated
between the macro level, with his study of the peasants of the Languedoc from
the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, and the meso level, with his account of
a single village over thirty years.49 The concept of mentalité guided a number of
these scholars, though they would differ amongst themselves and with other
microhistorians as to the relationship between mentalité and the individual
capacity for reflection and agency. On the whole, the sharper the focus on
47 Giovanni Levi, ‘On Microhistory’, in Peter Burke (ed.), New Perspectives on Historical Writing
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), 93–113, here 99, 104; Giovanni Levi,
L’Eredità Immaterial: Carriera di un Exorcista nel Piemonte del Seicento (Turin: Einaudi, 1985); Carlo
Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller (London: Routledge,
1980 [Italian orig. 1976]); Natalie Zemon Davis, The Return of Martin Guerre, (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1983).
48 Hans Medick, Weben und Überleben in Laichingen, 1650–1900: Lokalgeschichte als Allgemeine
Geschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 13.
49 Emmanuel le Roy Ladurie, Les Paysans de Languedoc, 2 vols. (Paris: Mouton, 1966); Montaillou,
village occitan de 1294 à 1324 (Paris: Gallimard, 1975).
262 Why History?
individual lives, the greater the impression of agency and of the capacity for
self-fashioning.
From Interwar to Post-War
Allied victory in 1945 ensured the continued rise of the Annales as an institution,
though it was only in the 1970s with English language translations of the major
works that its influence thoroughly percolated the American academy. While the
editorial philosophies of the journal changed somewhat along with personnel,
maintaining a distance from the emotions of contemporary politics was a consist
ent feature of the Annales ethos from Bloch through Braudel and Ladurie. This
ethos chimed with ‘Weberian’ neutralism even while it had its own distinct
genealogy. Both stances met with a full-frontal challenge in the political circum
stances of the time. In France, as elsewhere, the Second World War and then the
advent of the Cold War ignited further History wars along the lines of political
identity.50
As around the 1914–18 conflict, the issue of moral righteousness came to the
fore for professional historians as well as politicians. In the USA in 1949 the presi
dent of the American Historical Association enjoined historians to enlist in ‘total
war’, supporting certain values as absolute, and censoring themselves by the rec
ognition that some historical matters were not ‘appropriate for broadcasting at
street corners’.51 Writing in 1952, the American historian of slavery Kenneth
Stampp noted the ongoing debate within his country’s historical profession
between ‘scientific’ and ‘subjectivist-relativist-presentist’ schools as to the validity
of moral judgement in works of History.52 In Britain in the decade from 1953,
Toynbee, Isaiah Berlin, Geoffrey Barraclough, C. V. Wedgwood, David Knowles,
and E. H. Carr pitched into the same argument. Herbert Butterfield held fairly
constantly to the nuanced anti-judgementalism that he had established before the
advent of Nazism.53 A chasm separates the agendas of Braudel’s Mediterranean or
Laudurie’s Paysans de Languedoc on one hand and on the other hand those of
Germany’s Hans Rothfels and his British counterpart Barraclough as they set
50 Pieter Lagrou, The Legacy of Nazi Occupation: Patriotic Memory and National Recovery in
Western Europe, 1945–1965 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000).
51 Conyers Read, ‘The Social Responsibilities of the Historian’, American Historical Review, 55
(1949–50), 275-85, here 283–4.
52 Novick, That Noble Dream, 351.
53 Arnold Toynbee, ‘The Writing of Contemporary History for Chatham House’, International
Affairs, 29:2 (April, 1953), 137–40; Isaiah Berlin, Historical Inevitability (London: Oxford University
Press, 1954), 30–53; Geoffrey Barraclough, History in a Changing World (Norman, OK: University of
Oklahoma Press, 1956), 1–7; Barraclough, ‘History, Morals, and Politics’, International Affairs, 34:1
(1958), 1–15; C. V. Wedgwood, Truth and Opinion: Historical Essays (London: Collins, 1960), 47–54;
E. H. Carr, What Is History? (New York: Knopf, 1962), 75–6; David Knowles, The Historian and
Character (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963), 12–15.
about entrenching ‘contemporary History’ as a discrete object of study, building

on interwar foundations set by such as the French historian Ernest Lavisse.54
Barraclough rejected the more longitudinal cultural relativism of classical his
toricism and its emphasis on continuity: he was another student of rupture, of
‘the fortuitous and the unforeseen . . . the new, the dynamic and the revolutionary,
which breaks through untrammelled by the past, at every great turning-point in
human history’. This view lent itself to a periodization based on ‘when the prob
lems which are actual in the world today first take visible shape’.55 The years
1890–1960 were a whole in this respect, he felt—even if he did not reserve the
title ‘contemporary history’ for that period. Such a periodization had a significant
overlap with the era of the World Wars and totalitarianism that most of Europe’s
other new ‘contemporary historians’ took, and often still take, as their centre of
historical gravity.56 Given Rothfels’s view of Nazism as a totalitarian interruption
of the course of Germany history (p. 243), contemporary History for him began
around the First World War, the chaotic aftermath of which provided the
ground for takeover by demagoguery. Rothfels became the first director of
Munich’s Institute for Contemporary History, which from 1953 published the
Vierteljahreshefte für Zeitgeschichte, the Contemporary History Quarterly.
Given the international context from the late 1940s onwards, the left–right
division was inevitably central to so much political debate, yet the constitution of
that division was in flux. The philosopher Stephen Toulmin once observed that
the political dissenter in the present tends to be a moral critic, and this is borne
out to some degree in the world of historians by the stance of leftwingers (broadly
speaking) like R. H. Tawney alongside Toynbee.57 Likewise there is a rough cor
relation on the other side of the argument with historians of conservative political
persuasion warning their fellows against allowing any presentist concern to con
taminate historical study or simply enjoining them, as did H. S. Commager in his
The Search for a Usable Past (1967), to ‘refrain from the folly and vanity of moral
righteousness about the past’.58 ‘Conservatives’ could be of the left or the right,
however, depending on which enjoyed hegemony. Given cultural retrenchment in
the north-west, wars of decolonization and imperial aggression by the capitalist
states, and Soviet imperial repression in Hungary and then Czechoslovakia, both
54 Ernest Lavisse (ed.), Histoire de France contemporaine, depuis la revolution jusqu’à la paix de
1919, 10 vols. (Paris: Hachette, 1920–2).
55 Geoffrey Barraclough, ‘The Historian in a Changing World’, in Hans Meyerhoff (ed.), The
Philosophy of History in Our Time (New York: Doubleday, 1959), 28–35, here 30–2; Barraclough,
Introduction to Contemporary History (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1967), 20.
56 Kristina Spohr Readman, ‘Contemporary History in Europe’, Journal of Contemporary History,
46:3 (2011), 506–30.
57 Stephen Toulmin, The Place of Reason in Ethics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950),
171, 223.
58 Bédarida, ‘The Modern Historian’s Dilemma’, 339–40. H. S. Commager, The Search for a Usable
Past (New York: Knopf, 1967), 316.
264 Why History?
old left and right looked like the forces of repression to the ‘revolutionaries’ of
the 1960s.
The social upheavals of the Sixties made due impact on the mainstreams of
western professional historiography, though the themes of rights, repression, and
liberation were taken up in the first instance more at the margins of the academy.
As to the influence of social scientific theories, those that were most evident in
the mainstream historical work of the 1960s and 1970s were precisely the ones
that the conflicts of 1968 brought into question.
Social History, Sociology, Modernization
In the mid-1950s Richard Hofstadter wrote that ‘the most important function
which the social sciences can perform for the historian is that they provide
means . . . by which he can be brought into working relationship with certain
aspects of the modern intellectual climate’.59 By modern thought he meant the
sort of thing celebrated by his fellow historian Thomas C. Cochran around the
same time when Cochran said that ‘at the center of any comprehensive and mean
ingful synthesis, determining its topical and chronological divisions, should be
the material and psychological changes that have most affected, or threatened
most to affect, such human conditioning factors as family life, physical living con
ditions, choice of occupations, sources of prestige, and fundamental beliefs’.60
Hofstadter may have known that his criticism as to ‘means’ was not valid for
Annales historiography of the time, and from the 1970s that French influence
shaped the ‘intellectual climate’ of American historiography, as did American soci
ology. However, this was no radical hybridization since both Annales scholarship
and US sociology had Durkheimian lineages. Furthermore, French–American
intellectual cross-fertilization in the field had been encouraged in order to counter
French anti-Americanism by such means as the Ford Foundation’s grant for the
establishment of the Maison des sciences de l’homme in 1959.
Hofstadter and Cochran were speaking to an American audience of historians
who still overwhelmingly practised political History, though their points about
absences pertained equally to mainstream British and German historiography of
the time. Historicism had dealt in terms of monads rather than laws, of unique
individual entities and the grandest wholes, but even as it tried to hold the part
and the whole in balance, it maintained the dichotomy, leaving the middle ground
to the social scientists. The ‘comparatively constant’ was the purview of the sorts
59 Richard Hofstadter, ‘History and the Social Sciences’, in Stern (ed.), Varieties of History, 359–70,
here 363.
60 Thomas C. Cochran, ‘The Social Sciences and the Problem of Historical Synthesis’, in Stern (ed.),
Varieties of History, 348–59, here 357.
of social scientists on whom historians could most fruitfully draw. This was the
realm of approximate similarities and recurrences, whether in forms of govern
ance or economy, or patterns of elite or mass behaviour. Scholars might also make
lawlike generalizations delimited by temporal or cultural boundaries, building
on the Weberian ideal type.61 The American economic historian Alexander
Gerschenkron, who had been trained in Austrian-school economics with its anti-
historicist doctrine, described historical research as ‘application to empirical
material of various sets of empirically derived hypothetical generalizations and in
testing the closeness of the resulting fit, in the hope that in this way certain
uniformities, certain typical situations, and certain typical relationships among
individual factors in those situations can be ascertained’. Cochran deployed a
Braudelian idiom of political events as ‘surface manifestations that are not of the
highest importance’ and so commended the study of threatened or realized deep
‘material and psychological changes’ in human patterns of life.62 Whereas the
French Revolution had once been a paradigm for political historiography and a
point of contrast for the Annalistes, and whereas May 1968 was to become a para
digm for philosophical thought about resistance to authority, the new social his
toriography had ‘modernization’ as its paradigm.
Sociology’s stock was already high in the USA as enhanced federal funding
promoted a discipline that had suggested its utility during the New Deal and
in wartime administration and would be needed for harmonious integration
and the analysis of post-war ills. Equally important was the ‘productivist’
Fordism of the American economy, and its concern with societal regulation
and predictability.63 Talcott Parsons, the dominant sociologist of mid-century
America, and another student of society persuaded by the utility of psychoanalysis,
put his focus on the preconditions for stability, seeing abrupt or disorderly
change as a sign of systemic dysfunction rather than the expression of emancipa
tory tendencies. In this intellectual environment, ‘modernity’ and ‘modernization’
were sociological buzzwords whereas unsurprisingly ‘capitalism’, dialectics, and
the class struggle were not so fashionable. In some quarters ‘class’ was used less to
denote position in the relations of production, and came to mean something
more akin to the Weberian concept of ‘status’ in the sense of ‘the relative position
of actors or social groups in a subjectively defined hierarchy of honour and
61 Helen P. Liebel, ‘Philosophical Idealism in the Historische Zeitschrift, 1859–1914’, History and
Theory, 3:3 (1964), 316–30, here 330.
62 Gerschenkron and Cochran quotes from Cochran, ‘The Social Sciences’, 348–9.
63 George Steinmetz, ‘American Sociology before and after World War Two’, in Craig Calhoun
(ed.), Sociology in American: A History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 314–66; Tony
Judt, ‘A Clown in Regal Purple: Social History and the Historians’, History Workshop Journal, 1 (1979),
66–94, here 81; for History’s interaction with social sciences in different countries, Passmore, ‘History
and Historiography since 1945’.
266 Why History?
prestige’.64 Attention was shifted from a contest-based dynamic to a sort of

epochal succession with a rough similarity to Comte’s or Condorcet’s vision.
Elements of neo-Comteanism were present in Walt W. Rostow’s Stages of
Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto (1960), which substituted nations
for classes as historical actors, and industrialization for capitalism as that which
demanded explanation. Rostow purported to have identified five phases through
which all societies passed in the ascent from ‘traditional’ to ‘modern’ status. As it
had been for Marx, Britain was an important case study for Rostow, even if he did
not attribute to it quite the paradigmatic status that some historians of Britain
were keen to impute to his work for the sake of validating their own interests.
Whether received as evidence of Britain’s pathbreaking for the modern world or
further evidence that history was on the side of the USA, the modernization the
ory that Rostow so helped popularize allowed other developmental paths, princi
pally of the socialist or the German Sonderweg sort, to be presented as unhealthy
deviations from the ideal route.65
As it happens Britain constitutes a problematic focal point for any such study
since it had been the major incubator of capitalism in the world and so, uniquely,
never had to play the game of force-paced catch-up. Moreover when it came to
contrasts between Britain and Germany, one had to be careful not to idealize
Britain’s institutional development in ‘whiggish’ fashion, or indeed underestimate
the authoritarian qualities of any other nineteenth-century states with which
Germany might be compared. Conversely, it was easy to stereotype Prussia and
Germany’s post-1848 trajectory as ineluctably authoritarian, to stress the alleged
imbalance between the Kaiserreich’s economic development and its ‘pre-industrial’
monarchical-aristocratic-militaristic political power structure, most of which
supposedly survived into the Weimar republic, while ignoring the elements of
political ‘bourgeoisification’ that did occur in the late nineteenth century and
underplaying the novelty of the Nazi brand of right-wing politics and the
circumstantial contingencies by which Hitler rose to power. Such criticisms
were made by the British social historians David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley in
their Mythen deutscher Geschichtsschreibung (1980), later revised and translated
as The Peculiarities of German History, which questioned the very idea of a
normative ‘modernity’ against which candidate countries should be measured.66
64 Gareth Stedman Jones, ‘From Historical Sociology to Theoretical History’, The British Journal of
Sociology, 27:3 (1976), 295–305, here 302.
65 For Rostow’s historiographical significance, Passmore, ‘History and Historiography since 1945’,
35–40. On misreadings of Rostow, Guy Ortolano, ‘The Typicalities of the English? Walt Rostow, The
Stages of Economic Growth, and British History’, Modern Intellectual History, 12: 3 (2015), 657–84.
66 David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley, Mythen deutscher Geschichtsschreibung. Die gescheiterte
bürgerliche Revolution von 1848 (Frankfurt am Mein: Ullstein, 1980); The Peculiarities of German
History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth Century Germany (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1984).
In most of the relevant sociological thought, ‘modern’ equated to industrial

and urbanized, and ‘modernizing’ to industrializing and urbanizing. Given the
focus on the crises and challenges of modernization, the History influenced by
such sociology tended to address what Braudel called ‘social time’ rather than the
longue durée, and generally sidelined the world before the middle of the eight
eenth century—this was true for German as much as American historiography.
The ‘modern’ and indeed contemporary focus also made some sense in a global
perspective, since at that point new postcolonial states were trying to develop
their own industries to keep afloat in a competitive international system, often
from scratch. Politicians in those states, like some historians, also had their own
nationalist reasons for presenting independence as a thoroughgoing caesura.
Nonetheless there is a telling contrast between most of the sociological social
History of the 1960–1970s and the work of Marxist historians like Rodney Hilton
or Christopher Hill on the medieval and early modern periods respectively. They,
and for different reasons a growing band of postcolonial theorists, would have
recoiled from the traditional/modern dyad deployed by certain American social
historians. In their work on women’s labour and the family in nineteenth-century
Europe Joan Wallach Scott and Louise Tilly used unproblematized Durkheimian
concepts like ‘traditional values’ and ‘traditional families’, implicitly the binary
opposite of ‘modern’ values and families as depicted in modernization theory.67
In the north-western academy, building on some Annales foundations, the
1960s–1970s saw a spate of modelling, regression analysis, quantification and
aspirant-lawmaking that merits the epithet methodologically positivistic far more
than does any Rankean History. The individual, the quixotic, and the political
might find themselves submerged beneath objectively measurable trends,
cohorts, and abstractions like the not always well defined ‘society’ and not always
elaborated but scientific-sounding ‘social structure’.68 But one ought not to claim
too much about methodology or for that matter political orientation—and the
same goes for the historiographical tendencies against which social historians
most often defined themselves.69 The very real issues denoted by the term
67 Joan W. Scott and Louise A. Tilly, ‘Women’s Work and the Family in Nineteenth-Century
Europe’, Comparative Studies in Society and History, 17:1 (1975), 36–64, here 42, 50. On traditional
versus modern in modernization theory, Ortolano, ‘The Typicalities of the English?’, 658.
68 On the final points, Jones, ‘From Historical Sociology to Theoretical History’, 301–2.
69 These ‘tendencies’ are those of political historians. Take the case of political historians in Britain’s
historical profession, which had (has?) a reputation for theory-averseness. What was alleged as intel
lectual conservatism on the basis of focus of historical interest and method did not necessarily equate
to political Conservatism—compare A. J. P. Taylor to Lewis Namier—and political Conservatives dif
fered as much in their methods as Geoffrey Elton and Maurice Cowling. And note that in the German
case, while we have seen on one hand that it was eminently possible to have very rightwing social his
torians, equally on the other hand it was not just social historians who took up cudgels against nation
alist political historiography and the positive version of the Sonderweg thesis. Well before Wehler’s
contribution Fritz Fischer’s Griff nach der Weltmacht (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1961), English translation
Germany’s Aims in the First World War, was amongst other things a study of political decisions, pres
sure groups, and decision-making resting on official documentation.
268 Why History?
‘modernization’ defined much of the basic problematic, but how and with what
motivations one picked up on any of the range of related topics varied greatly.
One could be just as interested in explaining the social roots of rebellion as the
social process of adjustment to new norms and practices.
On the methodological side, any given historian could combine competence in
qualitative and quantitative skills, just as she or he might blend the approaches of
Erklären and Verstehen: for one or both of these combinations see for instance the
works of Ladurie, Scott and Tilly, Paul E. Johnson, William J. Sewell, Eric
Hobsbawm, and George Rudé. And while quantification seemed to promise an
objectivity lacking in hitherto dominant qualitative historical models, a prolifer
ation of empirically rich ‘small-N’ comparisons marked the take-off of detailed
comparative history after earlier prompts by Weber, Pirenne, and Bloch. A land
mark in this respect was the establishment of the journal Comparative Studies in
Society and History in 1958 by the social historian of the Middle Ages Sylvia
Thrupp, a former student of Eileen Power. Theda Skocpol explained what a ‘small-
N’ approach means, while exemplifying it in her discussion of the discontents of
modernization in States and Social Revolutions: A Comparative Analysis of France,
Russia and China (1979): ‘the comparative method is nothing but that mode of
multivariate analysis to which sociologists necessarily resort when experimental
manipulations are not possible and when there are “too many variables and not
enough cases” ’. In her version of comparison, the comparativist ‘looks for con
comitant variations, contrasting cases where the phenomena in which one is
interested are present with cases where they are absent, controlling in the process
for as many sources of variation as one can, by contrasting positive and negative
instances which otherwise are as similar as possible’. So the cases of Japan,
Germany, and pre-1905 Russia were studied as contrasting instances of ‘non-
social revolutionary modernization’. For all the social-scientific verbiage, Skocpol
recorded her determination to read extensively on the Histories of her chosen
countries prior to engaging the sociological models of revolution, of which she
was suspicious.70 Her comparative method was influential on important histor
ians, though we should not forget alternative comparative approaches.71 She
herself was a historical sociologist, and that breed was probably at its most influ
ential in the 1960s–1970s by virtue of her work and that of Barrington Moore,
70 Skocpol, Social Revolutions in the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1994), 135; States and Social Revolutions: A Comparative Analysis of France, Russia, and China
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), preface.
71 On both Skocpol’s influence and alternative models, Mary Fulbrook, Piety and Politics: Religion
and the Rise of Absolutism in England, Württemberg and Prussia (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1983), 184–6. On the interface between the work of many historians and historical sociologists,
and the range of comparative models, Theda Skocpol, ‘Emerging Agendas and Current Strategies in
Historical Sociology’, in Skocpol (ed.), Vision and Method in Historical Sociology (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 356–91.
Reinhard Bendix, Shmuel Eisenstadt, Immanuel Wallerstein, Seymour Martin

Lipset and Stein Rokkan, Hugo Heclo, and Charles Tilly.72
It is also important to stress that in the absence of a comparable quality of
source material to that enabling, say, Ranke’s lives of the popes, or Burckhardt’s
high cultural study of the Renaissance, the social historian’s embracing quantita
tive methods entailed no necessary denial of the human element. See, for instance,
the work on patterns of family life, The World We Have Lost,73 by Peter Laslett,
who was a founding member of the Cambridge Group for the History of
Population and Social Structure. Given the available sources, often specific mean-
ing could only be inferred from general patterns of social behaviour, and given
disparities of power, purposes could only be significantly pursued in the fields of
social reproduction and transformation at the level of collective agency.
At the same time, price and wage series, historical demography, and economic
models were not just means to compensate for absent evidence of different sorts.
When the right questions were asked of them they contributed in ways other
sorts of evidence could not to the understanding of the conditions of life for large
numbers of people in the past. Getting away from the idea of great figures and the
paramountcy of individual agency might entail a turn from the hermeneutic
approach, with its interest on the ‘inside’ of personalities, to a more exteriorized
approach, but, as ever, it was possible to combine different philosophies just as to
combine different methodologies.
As to political outlooks, the likes of Scott and Sewell were clearly on the left,
and Charles Tilly’s historical concerns overlapped significantly with those of the
British Marxist Hobsbawm.74 Paul E. Johnson, whose A Shopkeeper’s Millennium:
Society and Revivals in Rochester, New York, 1815–1837 (1978) examined the rela
tionship between religious revivalism and the ‘market revolution’, later recalled
his training as a quantitative social science historian at UCLA in the late 1960s—a
regime that he would later characterize as ‘the last gasp of positivism’.75
Much of this was acted out with mad-scientist bravado. One well-known quanti
fier said that anyone who did not know statistics at least through multiple
regression should not hold a job in a history department. My own advisor told
us that he wanted history to become ‘a predictive social science.’ I never went
that far. I was drawn to the new social history by its democratic inclusiveness as
72 Skocpol, ‘Emerging Agendas’; James Mahoney and Dietrich Rueschemeyer, Comparative

Historical Analysis in the Social Sciences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), editors’
introduction, 3–40, esp. 7–9; Edwin Amenta, ‘What we Know about the Development of Social Policy’,
ibid. 91–130.
73 London: Methuen, 1965.
74 Geoff Eley, A Crooked Line: From Cultural History to the History of Society (Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 2005), 45–6.
75 In Paul E. Johnson’s preface to the 25th anniversary edition of A Shopkeeper’s Millennium: Society
and Revivals in Rochester, New York, 1815–1837 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1994).
270 Why History?
much as by its system and precision. I wanted to write the history of ordinary
people—to historicize them, put them into the social structures and long-term
trends that shaped their lives, and at the same time resurrect what they said
and did. In the late 1960s, quantitative social history looked like the best way to
do that 76
Johnson’s aim was different to that of the French and Scottish Enlightenment
historians who addressed ‘manners and mores’ in the sense of general culture. It
was not, however, altogether new. Michelet had made a great point of writing
‘ordinary people’ into the historical record, seeking to retrieve the memory of the
‘too-forgotten dead’, those ‘miserabiles personae’ like widows and orphans, each of
whom ‘leaves but a small property, his memory, and asks that it be cared for. For
the one who has no friends, the magistrate must supply one. . . . This magistracy is
History.’77 French nineteenth-century historiography had preceded Marx in
examining social classes, with Marx dubbing Thierry the ‘father of the class strug
gle in French historiography’.78 In the interwar period Georges Lefebvre brought
Michelet’s and Thierry’s interests together from a Marxist perspective with his
study of the northern French peasantry during the Revolution.79 The US ‘progres
sive’ historians, like the British left-wing historians of Tawney’s generation, had
fused their economic interests with concerns for the lives of non-elites. In Eileen
Power’s case, the result was studies of the life of a Carolingian peasant, a fourteenth-
century Parisian housewife, and an Essex clothier during the reign of Henry
VII.80 Alice Clark, Annie Abram, and Ivy Pinchbeck, who all wrote their doctor
ates at the London School of Economics, produced Social England in the Fifteenth
Century, The Working Life of Women in the Seventeenth Century, and Women
Workers and the Industrial Revolution in 1909, 1919, and 1930 respectively; and
Lina Eckenstein published Women under Monasticism before any of them, in
1896.81 African American historiography had made significant strides early in the
twentieth century, as we shall see shortly. What was unprecedented from the late
1960s was the number of historians in different countries who were starting to
think in this way—and further unprecedented was the range of different groups
whose historical presence was to be considered.
76 Paul E. Johnson, ‘Reflections: Looking Back at Social History’, Reviews in American History, 39:2
(2011), 379–88, here 380.
77 Jules Michelet, Histoire du XIXe siècle, vol. II: Le Directoire, Preface, repr. in Roland Barthes,
Michelet (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 101–2.
78 Quote in Ralph Raico, Classical Liberalism and the Austrian School (Auburn, AL: Ludwig von
Mises Institute, 2012), 187.
79 Georges Lefebvre, Les Paysans du Nord pendant la Révolution française (Lille, Camille Robbe,
1924).
80 Eileen Power, Medieval People (London: Methuen, 1924).
81 Ann Oakley, Women, Peace and Welfare: A Suppressed History of Social Reform, 1880–1920
(Bristol: Policy Press, 2019), 12.
Social History, Experience, Identity
In the western bloc, Marxism played a greater role in British social History than
American, while for specific reasons it featured barely at all in the most influential
West German social History.82 British social History also evinced international
influences earlier and more markedly than US social History. Past and Present: A
Journal of Scientific History, established in 1952, immediately incorporated
Annaliste and eastern European scholarly approaches. The journal’s subtitle, later
to be changed as it became less Marxist, hinted at its embrace of social scientific
methodologies, which set it apart from the mainstream of British historiography
quite as much as did the political orientation of its founders. Only with the pro
liferation of British universities and the liberalization of British society from the
1960s would British social History encroach from the margins, and even then
some of its leading Marxist lights found difficulty gaining conventional academic
posts.
Geoff Eley gives us some of the flavour of his national context when he recalls
‘the pompous and sentimentalized nationalist history delivered by conservative
patriots during the first two postwar decades in Britain, for which the grandiose
multipart television documentary celebrating Churchill’s war leadership, The
Valiant Years, was the epitome’. In Eley’s dispiriting initiation to Oxford University
in 1967 ‘the first term brought only Gibbon and Macaulay, de Tocqueville,
Burckhardt, and—last but not least—the Venerable Bede’. There was no sense that
the syllabus had been established with a view to comparing some classic models
of yesteryear with more contemporary and novel approaches, since the latter went
unmentioned. The Swinging Sixties this was not. For approaches that better
matched his social concerns at Oxford, Eley had to look to the intellectual mar
gins of the History faculty, to historians at the new universities, and to other
disciplines.83
If the social science with which British social historians established the closest
working relationship was economics, we need to resist any assumption of a nar
row materialist doctrine. Marx was, after all, the presiding sociologist, and in
both his more and less determinist modes he insisted on the connectedness of
all facets of life, differing only on the causal relationships between them.
Furthermore, while the influential Cultural Studies Movement associated with
Stuart Hall did not include many historians, it grew out of the same post-war
Marxist milieu as the Communist Party Historians Group (1946–1956/7) and
shared many of the group’s broad intellectual concerns. When social History fell
out of fashion in the USA in the final two decades of the century it was replaced
82 On the German context, including the Berufsverbot, see Eley, Crooked Line, 73–4.
83 Ibid. 1–2 and passim. Additional information from personal correspondence with Geoff Eley.
272 Why History?
by the ‘new cultural History’ (pp. 281–8), but many of Britain’s most prominent
social historians had long since transcended that divide.
The Annaliste concept of mentalité influenced the famous school of British
Marxist historians but these scholars also had ‘western Marxist’ theory, from
György Lukács onwards, to prompt and feed their interest in culture and other
matters that Marxists had once consigned to a secondary, ‘superstructural’ status.
The question of proletarian consciousness came to occupy western Marxists in
light of the failure of enduring socialist revolution outside the USSR. Lukács had
demurred from the economic/materialist determinism of the likes of Stalin,
focusing on the importance of proletarian ‘consciousness’ as against bourgeois
‘ideology’, but the essays in his History and Class Consciousness (1922) had been
compiled in 1917–22, against a backdrop of revolutionary success in Russia and
his native Hungary, which may explain why, even while claiming that the emer
gence of a revolutionary consciousness was not an automatic development, he did
not provide a thorough analysis of how such a consciousness actually came into
being. Conversely Antonio Gramsci did his most important theorizing under fas
cist rule, in prison. His concept of hegemony sought to account for the strength of
obstacles to the establishment of revolutionary consciousness, which drew his
attention to the cultural sphere—the sphere of norms, traditions, legitimacy, and
the sense of the possible. Hegemony was a function of what Lukács called the
ruling classes’ ‘overwhelming resources of knowledge, culture and routine’.84
While E. P. Thompson’s monumental The Making of the English Working Class85
was criticized by later cultural historians for allowing too much influence to the
economic ‘base’, it was also criticized by more materialist Marxists for being too
concerned with the ‘superstructure’, culture and all. In a 1978 essay, Thompson
sought to counter ‘the notion that it is possible to describe a mode of production
in “economic” terms; leaving aside as secondary (less “real”) the norms, the cul
ture, the critical concepts around which this mode of production is organised’.86
Such concerns had already been ventilated through historical investigation in the
work of the literary theorist Raymond Williams in his Culture and Society,
1780–1950.87 All those historians who retained a focus on Marxist categories and
concepts, including Dorothy Thompson, Victor Kiernan, Hilton, Hill, Hobsbawm,
and Rudé, found the ‘pragmatological’, historically divergent Marx much more
useful than the ‘nomological’, determinist Marx (pp. 186–7).88 This was appropri
ate for a group of scholars who were concerned not just with social structures but
84 Lukács, History and Class Consciousness, 197.

85 Harmondsworth: Pelican, 1968 (orig. 1963).
86 E. P. Thompson, ‘Folklore, Anthropology and Social History’, Indian Historical Review, 2:2
(1978), 247–66, here 262. See also Thompson, ‘Anthropology and the Discipline of Historical Context’.
87 London: Chatto and Windus, 1958. See also Williams, ‘Base and Superstructure in Marxist
Cultural Theory’, in Raymond Williams, Problems in Materialism and Culture (London: Verso, 1980),
31–49. The essay was originally published in 1973.
88 Rigby, Marxism and History.
with bottom–up agency, whether in the English Peasants’ Revolt of 1381 or the
self-constitution of the English working class from the late eighteenth century.
Hilton’s work on medieval peasant movements, like Rudé’s work on the French
Revolution, exploded the stereotype of the mindless mob that was common to
anti-revolutionaries at the time of both sets of events and to some of the contem
porary ‘modernization’-oriented sociology.89
As well as straightforward historical analysis, the work of the British Marxists
often fulfilled the functions of monumental exemplarity regarding the possibil
ities of change in the present, as they reflected on past moments of actual or frus
trated change. Their work, married to a memorial commitment to the lowly and
the forgotten, is marked by an interest in revolutions, civil wars, rebels, and dis
senters. Thompson’s The Making combined the functions of History as Lesson,
Memorial, and Identity—in the sense of critical reflection on identity—as he
revealed the social struggles and ‘lost causes’ that lay beneath the surface of com
forting narratives of British institutional evolution.90
For Thompson, ‘class’, as in the self-manufacture of ‘the working class’, was a
popularly generated cultural response to changing material circumstances and
norms. We can see some of the same ideas at work in the Subaltern Studies
Collective on South Asian History, which took off from beginnings at the
University of Sussex in 1979–80. The title of the group and its anthologies indi
cated a debt to Gramsci.91 The work of its first leading light, Ranajit Guha, on
peasant society, ‘peasant consciousness’, and the associated character and under-
appreciated political significance of rural insurgency under imperialism, brought
together now familiar elements of Marxism inflected with a concern for non-elite
agency and the lives and worldviews of those so often left out of national political
narratives. Quite how far the early agenda of the journal Subaltern Studies, first
published in 1982, simply adopted the approaches and concerns of British Marxist
historians is debated, but the inheritance is significant.92 Both, in any case, inter
sected with the wider interest in ‘History from below’.
89 Rodney Hilton and Hyman Fagin, The English Rising of 1381 (London: Lawrence and Wishart,
1950); Rodney Hilton, Bond Men Made Free: Medieval Peasant Movements and the English Rising of
1381 (London: Routledge, 2003 [orig. 1973]). George Rudé, The Crowd in the French Revolution
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959). See also Eric Hobsbawm and George Rudé, Captain Swing (London:
Lawrence and Wishart, 1969) and E. P. Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the
Eighteenth Century’, Past & Present, 50 (1971), 76–136. For the historiographical contextualization,
Passmore, ‘History and Historiography since 1945’ and Eley, Crooked Line.
90 Thompson, The Making, 13.
91 See in particular Ranajit Guha, Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India
(Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983) and, for a further tribute to the significance of Gramsian cat
egories, Guha, Dominance without Hegemony: History and Power in Colonial India (Cambridge, MA:
92 Dipesh Chakrabarty, ‘Subaltern Studies and Postcolonial Historiography’, Nepantla: Views from
South, 1:1 (2000), 9–32, who contests Arif Dirlik’s and Edward Said’s arguments about the extent of
the borrowing. Conversely, and for a position which this author sees as more persuasive, see e.g. Arif
274 Why History?
History from below was not constrained, or certainly not necessarily, by con
cerns about ‘the working class’ as a class. The German version was Alltagsgeschichte,
the History of everyday life. It was pioneered by the likes of Alf Lüdtke, who fought
for a place for mundane experience and actor perspectives as against the structur
ally oriented and impersonal work—elite actors sometimes excepted—of major
powerbrokers like Wehler.93 In Britain, a pathbreaker was the History Workshop
Movement, with its openness to non-academics and associations with adult educa
tion. Methodological innovations included oral History. New work in women’s
History consolidated the progressive legacy of Power, Abram, and Clark at the LSE.
With its more radical character, more marginal status, and broader range of
interests tying ‘new’ and ‘old left’ together, British social History of the
1950s–1960s had a little more in common on the average than did sociological
American social History with the historiographical developments invigorated by
the US civil rights struggle. In the USA the civil rights struggle led the way as a
political model for new forms of mass association and political-intellectual vocal
ization. The struggle was by no means limited to the 1950s–1960s—it began much
earlier, albeit that those decades were important in the process of a very gradual
‘mainstreaming’ of African American History, which also meant that white US
historians started to make a substantial critical contribution after decades when
African American scholars largely worked alone, barring exceptions like the
Jewish Marxist historian Herbert Aptheker (1915–2003), whose American Negro
Slave Revolts appeared in 1943.94 Later nineteenth- and early twentieth-century
historiographical foundations had been laid by, amongst others, John Wesley
Cromwell (1846–1927), author of The Negro in American History (1914),
W. E. B. Du Bois (1868–1963), author of Black Reconstruction in America (1935),
and Carter G. Woodson (1875–1950). From the 1910s through the 1930s
Woodson wrote key Histories on aspects of African American social life and slav
ery in the antebellum period, and he also founded the Association for the Study
of Negro Life and History in 1915 and the Journal of Negro History in 1916, which
was renamed the Journal of African American History in 2002. In 1926 he estab
lished ‘Negro History Week’, the precursor of today’s Black History Month. A
conducive intellectual and political context in the 1920s was the Harlem
Renaissance, with its emphasis on African American culture, while in the 1930s
Dirlik, ‘The Postcolonial Aura: Third World Criticism in the Age of Global Capitalism’, Critical
Inquiry, 20:2 (1994), 328–56, here 340.
93 Alf Lüdtke (ed.), Alltagsgeschichte: zur Rekonstruktion historischer Erfahrungen und Lebensweisen
(Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1989).
94 Herbert Aptheker, American Negro Slave Revolts (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943). I
stress ‘critical contribution’ as against apologetic accounts, e.g. Ulrich Bonnell Phillips American Negro
Slavery (New York: Appleton, 1918), which influenced ‘mainstream’ scholarship through the 1950s, as
testified to by David Brion Davis, ‘Reflections: Intellectual Trajectories: Why People Study What they
Do’, Reviews in American History, 37:1 (2009), 148–59, here 157.
interest in the life of an oppressed minority dovetailed with some of the concerns
of Progressive US historiography, and was fed by the slave narratives collected
under the auspices of the New Deal Federal Writers’ Project. Pushing into the
1940s Benjamin Arthur Quarles (1904–96) published his doctoral dissertation on
the abolitionist Frederick Douglass in 1948 and went on to become one of the
major African American historians of the third quarter of the century. John Hope
Franklin’s (1915–2009) autobiographical Mirror to America (2005) appeared
more than sixty years after his 1943 volume The Free Negro in North Carolina,
1790–1860.95
Was the project of attending to the history of non-elites a matter of showing
what the relevant group had historically experienced, or what it had done? The
answer, predictably enough, is either and both. Accounts of slavery and discrim
ination perforce pointed to black experiences, but, especially in response to slav
ery Histories that caricatured slaves as passive victims, the portrayal of experience
fused with that of deeds of resistance in all senses of the term—spiritual, familial,
physical, political. Emphasis on deeds, whether in African American or feminist
scholarship, helped combat allegations of inferiority. Uniting the study of doing
and being was the political desideratum of registering historical presence. ‘If a
race has no history, if it has no worthwhile tradition’, wrote Woodson in the
inaugural Black History Week pamphlet, ‘it becomes a negligible factor in the
thought of the world and it stands in danger of being exterminated’. The Jamaican-
born political theorist Marcus Garvey (1887–1940) likewise felt that ‘a people
without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree with
out roots’.96 Towards the other end of the century, in Staying Power: The History of
Black People in Britain (1984), Peter Fryer observed that ‘traces of black life have
been removed from the British past to ensure that blacks are not part of the
British future’ so he sought to help in ‘setting the record straight’.97
In the date of its appearance, Hidden from History: 300 Years of Women’s
Oppression and the Fight Against It (1973), by the British feminist theorist
and historian Sheila Rowbotham, was in harmony with historiographical
95 Quarles’s early publications include Frederick Douglass (Washington, DC: Associated Publishers,
1948) and The Negro in the Civil War (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1953). John Hope Frankin, The
Free Negro in North Carolina, 1790–1860 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1943);
Mirror to America (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005). John Wesley Cromwell: The Negro in
American History (Washington, DC: American Negro Academy, 1914). W. E. B. Du Bois, Black
Reconstruction in America (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co., 1935). Woodson’s works include: The
Education of the Negro Prior to 1861 (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915), A Century of Negro
Migration (Washington, DC: Association of Negro Life and History, 1918), The Negro in Our History
(Washington, DC: Associated Publishers, 1922).
96 Woodson: Jeffrey Aaron Snyder, Making Black History: The Color Line, Culture, and Race in the
Age of Jim Crow (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2018), 96–7. Garvey, and similar sentiments by
Malcolm X: Rufus Burrow, Jr, James H. Cone and Black Liberation Theology (Jefferson, NC: McFarland,
1994), 21.
97 Peter Fryer, Staying Power: The History of Black People in Britain (London: Pluto Press, 1984),
399. Thanks to Tony Kushner for pointing me to this quote.
276 Why History?
developments across the Atlantic. In the USA, Barbara Ehrenreich’s and Deirdre
English’s Witches, Midwives and Nurses appeared in the same year; Elizabeth
Gould Davies’s The First Sex two years earlier. The 1970s were as crucial for wom
en’s History as for second-wave feminism. Rowbotham wrote of her aspiration to
turn ‘up the top soil in the hope that others will dig deeper’, adding, ‘I know
already the woman’s movement has made many of us ask different questions of
the past’.98 There is, again, a heuristic distinction to be made between sorts of
History: on one hand writing women back into the past (‘women’s History’) and
on the other hand addressing the facts and mechanisms of patriarchy with a view
to liberation in the present (‘feminist History’). Clearly these agendas could be
fused in any given work, as Rowbotham’s title and subtitle indicate. Gerda Lerner,
who, like Rowbotham and Joan Kelly, enjoined the recovery of women’s pasts,
made her justification for History explicit with the observation that ‘patriarchy as
a system is historical: it has a beginning in history. If that is so, it can be ended by
historical process.’99
Since they were often aimed more at non-academic or only partly academic
audiences, newer Histories benefited from and contributed to the rise of ‘radical
publishers’. Neither in the mass-sales mainstream nor the university press trad
ition, these publishers routinely produce some of the most stimulating intellec
tual output in the areas of feminist, anti-racist, and socialist scholarship. Both
Rowbotham and Fryer were published by Britain’s Pluto Press, founded in the
1970s.100 Witches, Midwives and Nurses was published by the Feminist Press,
founded as a non-profit organization in 1970.
If some of the new Histories were politically forthright, or romanticizing, this
was not without good reason.101 Sometimes their authors felt more obligation to
those groups than to the national professions—not to mention states—that had
marginalized them. Much more importantly, while establishments might charge
these new Histories with politicization, such a response could elide distinctions
between History written for political reasons, History with political ramifications,
History in which uncomfortable or thesis-challenging evidence had been
excluded for political ends, and History whose content was manipulated by parts
of its audience for political reasons. As in all such discussions, we need to con
sider what this ‘politicized History’ was implicitly being contrasted with, and to
disavow any presumption of the sort evinced in the opening editorial of the
98 Sheila Rowbotham, Hidden from History (London: Pluto Press, 1973), p. x; Barbara Ehrenreich
and Deirdre English, Witches, Midwives and Nurses (New York: Feminist Press, 1973); Elizabeth
Gould Davies, The First Sex (New York: Penguin, 1971).
99 Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Patriarchy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 6, cited in
Dorothy Ko, ‘Gender’, in Ulinka Rublack (ed.), A Concise Companion to History (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2011), 203–25, here 207–8.
100 Thanks again to Tony Kushner for this observation.
101 See Barbara Ehrenreich’s and Deirdre English’s reflective introduction to the second edition of
Witches, Midwives and Nurses (New York: Feminist Press, 2010).
Historische Zeitschrift (p. 210) that more established sorts of History were more
objective or apolitical. Nor was romanticization the sole preserve of any group or
historical school.
Nor, again, was ‘identity politics’ confined to any one identity group, which is
important to bear in mind as the aforementioned historical tendencies are cor
ralled under the heading History as Identity. History as Identity has been around
as long as History has existed, but the term identity politics was coined and
accepted into academic discourse in the 1960s–1970s. The basic idea of identity
politics is similar to the Marxist idea of class consciousness as self-awareness of
collective predicament, as opposed to the liberal bourgeois conception of politics
as negotiation of individual self-interest. Some of the manifestations of identity
politics can be described in the argot of ‘political emotion’, which is relevant in
virtue of a shift in the meaning of ‘empathy’ from its nineteenth-century meaning
as a form of cognition to the sort of affective/emotional valence that it often pos
sesses today, where it has taken on some of the meaning of ‘sympathy’. This shift
gave an added significance to the potentially essentialist claim, which can be
traced back at least as far as Gustav Droysen on the other side of the political
spectrum (pp. 214–16), that only members of group X could empathize with or
‘really understand’ the historical experience of group X—and thus that members
of other groups were actually not competent to write Histories of X.
Looking forward, a certain homogenization of within-group ‘experience’ and
‘identity’ presented problems for scholars working within the aforementioned
traditions as they sought to preserve the initial emancipatory drive of their

historical-theoretical project against contradictions emerging from within those
traditions. Alltagsgeschichte sounded problematic when one got to the Nazi period,
since German Jews were systematically excluded from the ‘everyday’ of non-Jews.
Joan Scott illustrated that Thompson’s The Making of the English Working Class was
a tale of English working men as the rational, political actors of their class, with
class given a correspondingly masculine character, and women, barring some
exceptions that proved the rule, largely in domestic or support roles.102 Equally,
social and gender History in the USA and beyond could be very shortsighted
on matters of ‘race’ as the critical social theorist bell hooks observed.103 The
postcolonial theorist Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak asked whether there really was
a homogeneous ‘peasant consciousness’ among Indian subalterns.104
There is certainly a real sense in which, as historian Priya Satia notes, inclusion
begets inclusion; once one goes down the path of amending omissions and
102 Joan Wallach Scott, Gender and the Politics of History, 30th Anniversary Edition (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2018), ch. 4.
103 bell hooks, Ain’t I a Woman? Black Women and Feminism (Boston, MA: South End Press, 1981).
104 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ‘Subaltern Studies: Deconstructing Historiography’, in Ranajit
Guha and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (eds.), Selected Subaltern Studies (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1988), 3–32.
278 Why History?
digging down, one is more apt to be aware of hitherto unnoticed omissions and
hitherto unappreciated depths.105 But one cannot focus on everything at the same
time. As often as not the ‘classic’ triumvirate of social cleavages—race, class, and
‘gender’ (which really meant ‘sex’ for a long time)—joined later by sexuality, com
peted for representational space in History books, as they do up to the present.
The tensions have been ameliorated but not averted by intersectional analysis,
and it is unclear that they can be averted. If one is thinking in the emancipatory
vein, the prospect of a ‘rainbow alliance’ of the marginalized and repressed is an
attractive one, but once one has transcended binary divisions of society where the
lines of battle and solidarity are straightforward, one encounters criss-crossing
lines of power, privilege, and prejudice that can make potential allies in one
sphere into opponents in another.106
What we may say with safety is that the culture wars of the 1960s highlighted
the limitations of any purely or even primarily material analysis of society, and in
that sense dovetailed neatly with the cultural concerns of ‘western Marxism’. The
‘new left’ that emerged empowered from these conflicts was at least as concerned
with matters of identity as place in the relations of production. The fortunes of the
old left were additionally damaged by the (further) discrediting of the USSR in
Hungary and Czechoslovakia, the actions of communist parties like the PCF that
opposed the ’68ers just as much as did de Gaulle, by the end of Keynesianism in
the early 1970s, and by the rise of neo-liberalism.
Language and Culture
Where sociology and economics had provided the main external disciplinary
inputs to north Atlantic historiography in the second and third quarters of the
twentieth century, the final quarter saw more extensive borrowings from linguis
tics, Continental philosophy, and anthropology. The ensuing historiographical
developments have sometimes been described under the headings of the ‘linguis
tic turn’ and the ‘cultural turn’. Rather than allowing the focus to be determined
by labels that mean slightly different things to different people, the intention of
this section is to probe relevant linkages and distinctions between linguistic and
cultural matters, especially with regard to different elements of the historian’s
activities. To begin with, though, let us consider another, largely non-taken ‘turn’,
this time of a literary-aesthetic sort. This discussion, while seeming further to
complicate matters, ultimately helps in clarification.
105 Priya Satia, ‘The Whitesplaining of History is Over’, The Chronicle of Higher Education,
28 March 2018, The Chronicle Review.
106 Rainbow alliance reference and problematization: Rosalind O’Hanlon and David Washbrook,
‘After Orientalism: Culture, Criticism and Politics in the Third World’, in Vinayak Chaturvedi (ed.),
Mapping Subaltern Studies and the Postcolonial (London: Verso, 2012), 191–219, here 200.
The literary-aesthetic movement can be encapsulated in a person: the intellec

tual historian Hayden White (1928–2018). Were this book directly concerned
with the nature of historical narrative, then it would address his contributions at
length. Yet while White’s work is relevant to reflection on History’s purposes, for
better or worse its central element has made little impact on the order of justifica
tions most frequently offered for History. His thought on the tropological or
figurative character of language, and differing modes of narrative ‘emplotment’,
certainly has been fruitfully co-opted for historical research: he enhanced the
ability of historians to read different, especially non-literal levels of meaning, in
their source materials in a way not dissimilar to certain pre-modern religious
hermeneutic practices. But few historians have met his challenge when it comes
to writing, to the ‘emplotment’ of their own accounts, rather than reading. If, pace
Weber, Nietzsche, and Lessing, the only non-literal meaning to be found in a his
torical account is that imputed to it by the historian, White wanted historians to
embrace the responsibility of meaning creation for the present by the ways in
which they phrased and structured their accounts. He urged them to embrace the
‘poetic’, i.e. creative, side of their endeavour, to see their works as literary products
as well as fact-based investigations. White made his prescription on aesthetic
grounds but also on moral and political grounds, on the principle that the way
one tells a tale shapes the moral of the story.107
Distinguishing White’s particular literary preoccupations from other phenom
ena under consideration does not mean that we can always make a sharp distinc
tion between the inputs of literary theory, cultural theory, and linguistic theory.
Consider the career of structuralism: after starting out as a linguistic theory about
the nature of language, around the same time as it became a theory about cul
tures, structuralism was also adopted as a literary theory, i.e. a way to read literary
texts. With structuralism’s emphasis on the ‘internal’ and conventional rather
than external and referential nature of meaning (pp. 251–2), it cohered, as previ
ously noted, with so much pre-twentieth-century ‘romantic’ hermeneutics from
Leibniz to Hamann, Herder, and beyond. The symbolic cultural anthropologist
Clifford Geertz was indebted to Dilthey’s hermeneutics, and he hinted at the join
der of hermeneutics and literary theory when commending reading cultures as
one would a text. The cultural historian Robert Darnton chimed in: ‘one can read
a ritual or a city, just as one can read a folktale or a philosophic text’.108
For their part, cultural and linguistic matters can often be grouped together
insofar as cultures and languages are systems of symbols or signs. The word ‘semi
otics’ is rooted in the Greek word for sign or mark and connotes the study of their
use and interpretation. Signs and symbols should be understood in the broadest
107 Hayden White: Metahistory; The Content of the Form; and Tropics of Discourse (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1978).
108 On Geertz and Darnton, Burke, What is Cultural History?, 37–8.
280 Why History?
sense to include images, from TV advertisements to icons, and rituals, from

church processions to styles of massacring, from grammatical systems to body
art. Here we may also advert to Foucault, translations of whose work from the
1970s brought him great celebrity in America especially, but elsewhere too. His
conception of power as not emanating from a royal decree or any other centre of
subjective human intention, but rather circulating impersonally, had a notable
affinity with the operation of language, and the affinity is only underlined by his
concept of ‘discourses’ (perforce verbal entities) that define the parameters of
intelligibility and, where relevant, propriety, in any formal precinct of know
ledge.109 Yet whatever the overlap in approaches for analysing culture and lan
guage, interpretations of the relationship of language and culture vary. Under a
broad enough definition of culture, language is a subset of it; at the same time,
thinking in terms of the interpretative schemes by which we interpret the world,
there is a significant body of thought that places language as primary.
When it comes to the relationship between theories of culture and/or language
on one hand and History on the other hand, much depends, as with the assimila
tion of White’s work, on the direction in which the theories are predominantly
applied. Are they applied more to the past world under investigation or to the
historian herself as an acculturated being embedded in a particular set of sign
systems? This may sound like a false dichotomy, given that, pace Gadamer on
interpretation (pp. 243–4), the reading of evidence from the past may provide some
‘fusion’ of the historian’s world of understanding and that of the world under
investigation. But ‘fusion’ is a capacious concept and no one commended just let
ting fusion happen without the interpreter first equipping herself with all neces
sary theories and skills. There is no reason why this self-equipping cannot include
the investigator’s first ‘theorizing’ herself in the relevant sense before moving on
to investigate some past world: that very project goes by the name reflexivity, or
self-reflectivity, and major impetus for it was provided by anthropologists, as,
aware of the implication of the earlier implication of their discipline in imperial
ism, they strove to divest themselves of preconceptions emerging from their own
society to enable them to address their investigated societies non-instrumentally,
and more fully ‘on their own terms’.
The problem for the reflexivity agenda is that it can never be fulfilled, and one
cannot know what ramifications self-reflection has actually had for one’s studies.
One’s deepest preconceptions are the most difficult things on which to gain crit
ical purchase, and even if one does divest oneself of them this does not mean that
one will be without preconceptions: they will just be different preconceptions to
the previous ones. Ultimately, any interpretation of foreign countries past (as pre
sent) will be judged in relation to its use of evidence and its internal consistency,
109 Jonathan Hearn, Theorizing Power (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 90–2.
not in relation to the level of conscious self-theorizing in which the investigator

has engaged, and it is unclear that one can establish, in non-circular fashion, a
causal relationship between conscious self-theorizing and superior quality of
interpretations. So it is not necessarily a wilful disregard of the reflexivity agenda
that leads historians and other investigators to focus their interpretative skills on
the evidence, buttressed by such interpretative techniques, hermeneutic and
otherwise, as they are acquainted with. For centuries any hermeneutic theory
worth its salt has already begun from the premise of at least partly different men
tal or cultural worlds.
Much more can be said about investigatorial uncertainty and—with the
anthropologists’ reflexivity agenda in mind—the investigator’s power as a repre
senter of ‘others’. Some of it will be said in the next section on ‘Theory and
History’, which is especially pertinent for those for whom History’s interface with
linguistic theory and Continental philosophy is captured by the term poststruc
turalism and the name Derrida. The rest of this section concentrates on the aims
and pay-off of theories of culture and language as historians have brought them to
bear directly on the study of the past.
As with social History, it helps in understanding the varied remit of semiotic
ally oriented History to know what its practitioners defined themselves against.
Some social historians defined themselves against political historians by claiming
that ‘the (high) political’ and ‘the social’ were just different spheres of life; social
History was just more relevant to those with more demotic, less elite interests.
Other social historians, especially those with economic interests, might posit the
greater importance of ‘the social’, seeing high political developments as an expres
sion or reflection of more fundamental shifts in the socio-economic ‘base’. Others
were interested in interaction and interpenetration between the spheres. Similarly,
cultural historians reacted against the materialist element of social History but
this reaction could take an additive form of finding other aspects of life just more
interesting, or suggesting an interesting perspective on topics old as well as new,
or a corrective form as regards certain hitherto misunderstood particulars, or a
general, supplantive form whereby the study of culture or language became a
master approach.
Some sorts of semiotically informed work could stand in tension with other
sorts. When the historian Lynn Hunt described the ‘new cultural History’ as
centred on the ‘deciphering of meaning, rather than the inference of causal
laws’,110 she was presumably reacting against quantitative approaches like that of
Paul E. Johnson’s doctoral supervisor, but there are also points of contrast with
the work of Foucault and Foucauldians. Whereas, say, the microhistorians tried to
relate historical actors, as agents, to the meaning systems of their own worlds,
110 Lynn Hunt, ‘Introduction: History, Culture, and Text’, in Lynn Hunt (ed.), The New Cultural
History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 1–22, here 12.
282 Why History?
Foucauldians might be concerned with the impersonal determinants of con

sciousness and value in any given society, in an approach with a conceptual debt
to strands of Marxism and structuralist-informed History. What Foucault called
the ‘microphysics of power’ could only be detected from ‘below’ in its everyday
operational instantiations, and at points he prompted a sort of ‘History from
below’ that was not concerned with people so much as the construction of their
subjectivity through power-discourses.111
In terms of new topics, one subset of cultural Histories is ‘the cultural History
of X’. Here, X frequently denotes things deemed too mundane for prior historical
attention or too technical or ostensibly natural for traditional consideration in a
humanistic discipline.112 Examination of the design or use of furniture, or atti
tudes towards it, tells us something about human values and practices at some
point in the past. Histories of smell, as in the work of Alain Corbin, reveal the way
in which different odours have had changing associations with social hierarchy,
for instance, such that the tolerance of this or that odour changed across time.113
The other senses have also been given due attention, likewise hair, dress, money,
food, gardens, animals, and so on.114 Again, French historiography had made
some of the early running in giving a History of difference to things that might
previously have been assumed to be cultural constants. Philippe Ariès’s L’Enfant
et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime (1960), later translated as Centuries of
Childhood, argued that prior to the seventeenth century childhood was not recog
nized as a discrete phase in the human lifespan. The ‘modern’ conception was, he
argued, a function of expanding education and thus the need increasingly to seg
regate children according to age, which meant expanded age-specific discipline
and an enhanced view of ‘the child’ as needing adult supervision and tutelage; it
was also a function of enhanced focus on the private nuclear family as opposed to
more open ‘households’ and extended families.115 So pervasive has this sort of
111 At other points Foucault’s historical agenda was comparable to that of a Cryer or a Thompson as
a more orthodox form of ‘History from below’ that wrote particular groups and actors back into the
past and generated a critical perspective on the present. Thus Foucault once wrote of the retrieval of
what he called ‘subjugated knowledges’. Retrieval involved taking seriously the perspectives—and by
extension, contra Joan Scott (see p. 290) the experience—of ‘the psychiatrized, the patient, the nurse,
the doctor . . . the knowledge of the delinquent’. This ‘retrieval’ was, obviously enough, historical schol
arship, leading to a ‘historical knowledge of struggles. . . . We have both a meticulous rediscovery of
struggles and the raw memory of fights. . . . If you like, we can give the name “genealogy” to this coup
ling together of scholarly erudition and local memories, which allows us to constitute a historical
knowledge of struggles and to make use of that knowledge in contemporary tactics.’ Foucault, Society
Must be Defended, 7–9.
112 See Jordan Goodman, ‘History and Anthropology’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to Historiography,
783–804, here 792–4.
113 Burke, What is Cultural History?, 113 on the work of Alain Corbin.
114 All items in this list have been addressed inter alia by the Bloomsbury ‘Cultural Histories’ series.
The output of Reaktion Books covers some of the same areas and in addition addresses topics includ
ing the Earth and—in the ‘Objekt’ series—all manner of design objects.
115 Philippe Ariès, L’Enfant et la vie familiale sous l’ancien régime (Paris: Plon, 1960). Ariès’s work
has now been superseded, especially by ‘new childhood studies’ scholarship which has highlighted the
approach to historical variability become that in 2018 the historian Matthew

Crow dubbed it ‘the duck-hunt model of critical scholarship: your task in the
game as a licensed historicizer is to find something insufficiently historicized, get
out your context gun, and shoot it’.116 Whatever ‘critical scholarship’ might
mean—after all, who would self-identify as an uncritical scholar?—the principle
of ‘historicization’ is anything but new, as the name indicates. Indeed such duck-
hunting is really just one of the longstanding intellectual trajectories of the discip
line extended a bit.
In terms of new perspectives on old topics, indeed potentially almost all his
torical questions, one could have, say, cultural Histories of political or military
events. Examples include Hunt’s analysis of the mobilizing force of Jacobin motifs
in the French Revolution—‘Revolutionary language did not simply reflect the
realities of revolutionary changes and conflicts, but rather was itself transformed
into an instrument of political and social change’117—and a study that addresses the
intersection of popular culture and politics in the ‘naval theatre’ of ship launches,
fleet reviews, and other such displays in the pre-1914 Anglo-German naval race.118
From ‘cultural’ approaches to historical arenas not normally described under that
rubric we get concepts like ‘political culture’. Such fusions have expanded the toolkit
of political historians at the same time as broadening the writ of cultural History by
elaborating the unwritten rules and performative quality of debate and leadership,
or trying to account for the political attitudes of particular groups when those
attitudes are not accounted for by explanations to material interest.
With changed perspectives came changed rationales. As semiotic interests
diverted attention from the material ‘base’ of society, they militated against the
stadialist preoccupations of modernization theory and opened the path for a
renewal of interest in distant times and places in and for themselves, rather than
in a developmental relationship to some later state of being. Davis’s essay ‘The
Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth Century France’ (1973) on the St
Bartholomew’s Day massacres of Huguenots, rejected an existing class-based
explanation, even as she recognized that much of the violence was demotic and
lacking in governmental sanction. She noted the parallels between the conduct of
importance of recovering children’s perspectives and agency, rather than perpetuating their margin
alization or representation as objects of adult scrutiny. For recent work (with thanks to Louise
Jackson) see Harry Hendrick, Children, Childhood and English Society, 1880–1990 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997); Steven Mintz, Huck’s Raft: A History of American Childhood
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004). Hendrick and Mintz have also proposed that ‘age’
be treated as a category of analysis analogous to ‘gender’.
116 Matthew Crow, ‘Context as Environment: A “Workmanlike” Approach’, online at http://history

ofthepresent.org/forum/M_Crow_Context_as_Environ.pdf
117 Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of
118 Jan Rüger, The Great Naval Game: Britain and Germany in the Age of Empire (Cambridge:
284 Why History?
the killing and the church’s purificatory rituals—the Huguenots were, after all,
seen as pollutants. This contextualization helped explain the use of fire and water
as methods of destruction and the desecration of corpses as a further ‘weakening’
of the spiritual threat.119 Darnton’s famous essay ‘Workers’ Revolt: The Great Cat
Massacre of the Rue Saint-Séverin’ (1984) showed why it made cultural as well as
sociological sense that a group of downtrodden Parisian apprentice printers in
the 1730s should find it amusing to slaughter the ‘privileged’ animals after a mock
trial of the same.120
History as Travel, or ‘capturing otherness’ as Darnton put it, was back on the
agenda. In a way that would have been familiar to the British historian Keith
Thomas, who also drew on anthropology to explore the bygone exotic, Darnton
wrote: ‘When we cannot get a proverb, or a joke, or a ritual, or a poem, we know
we are onto something. By picking at the document where it is most opaque, we
may be able to unravel an alien system of meaning. The thread might even lead
into a strange and wonderful world view.’ ‘And once we have puzzled through to
the native’s point of view, we should be able to roam about in his symbolic
world.’121 Getting students to ‘see the world through the eyes of others’, ‘through
the prism of another time and another place’ is an avowed aim of the cultural
historian of the Renaissance, Kenneth Bartlett.122 As a mind-broadening hermen
eutic pursuit this species of History as Travel had something in common with
History as Communion, though its benefits were less direct and the interlocutor
different. While most of the American social History of the 1960s–1970s focused
on the nineteenth and twentieth century, many more new cultural Historians
focused on medieval and early modern history, the better, presumably, for con
trast—and here there is a marked crossover with the focus, as well as the ethos, of
the microhistorians. In a 1988 work on Renaissance England the ‘new historicist’
literary theorist Stephen Greenblatt named his ‘desire to speak with the dead’.
Greenblatt coined the name ‘new historicism’, which constitutes a major point of
intersection between literary theory and new cultural History. In terms redolent
of Darnton, H. Aram Veeser described how new historicists alight ‘upon an event
or anecdote—colonist John Rolfe’s conversation with Pocahontas’ father, a note
found among Nietzsche’s papers to the effect that “I have lost my umbrella”—and
re-read it in such a way as to reveal through the analysis of tiny particulars the
119 Natalie Zemon Davis, ‘The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France’, Past
and Present, 59 (1973), 51–91.
120 Robert Darnton, ‘Workers’ Revolt: The Great Cat Massacre of the Rue Saint-Séverin’ is chapter 2
of Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History (New York:
Basic Books, 1999 [orig. 1984]).
121 Ibid. 5, 262. Keith Thomas, ‘Ways of Doing Cultural in History’, in Rik Sanders, Bas Mesters,
Reinier Kramer, and Margreet Windhorst (eds.), Balans en Perspectief van de Nederlandse
Cultuurgeschiedenis (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1991), 65–82.
122 Kenneth R. Bartlett, ‘Cultural History Advice for Students from Professor Ken Bartlett’, online
at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Px1GwHyAYXs
behavioural codes, logics, and motive forces controlling a whole society’.123 This
literary-theoretical movement forms part of the broader neo-historicist trend,
and the term neo-historicism had to be coined in this book because ‘new his
toricism’ had already been taken.
The recognition of cultural difference across time—it cannot remotely be called
a discovery, but it can be called a re-emphasis on particular aspects of difference
and differentiation, characterized by a rebellion inter alia against a type of materi
alist thought that at its extreme dissolved questions of value or meaning into mat
ters of interest—fuelled another pre-existing justification for History: History as
Emancipation. Emancipatory History shared the premises about difference that
underpinned History as mind-broadening Travel, but it had less of an orientation
towards Communion with different people past and a more explicitly critical
agenda towards the present. The extent to which the advocates of History as
Emancipation were interested in exploring different ways of thinking ‘from the
inside’ varied: the constant was their interest in the mechanisms whereby ‘differ
ences’ are constructed and might be deconstructed. This is the school of thought
associated with Foucault, though it cannot be reduced to his thinking.
The issue is fruitfully approached through Joan Scott’s 1986 article ‘Gender as a
Category of Historical Analysis’. Gender History can be linked with new cultural
History just as women’s History from the 1960s onwards may be associated with
the social History that explored less well covered terrains of experience, contribu
tion, and identity. Gender History is concerned less with the study of women ‘in
and for themselves’ than with the way in which femininity and masculinity are
variably defined under different cultural dispensations. Natalie Davis first sug
gested to Scott that reminded us that ‘ “women” were always defined in some rela
tionship to men’, which has a structuralist ring to it. The idea of a power agenda
being involved in the construction of gendered difference also appealed to the
growing number of admirers of Foucault for whom power inhered impersonally
in relations, and it meant that concerns of power did not have to be discarded as
materialist and class analysis was downplayed. Scott wrote that ‘gender is a consti
tutive element of social relationships based on perceived differences between the
sexes’, and a ‘way’ of ‘signifying relationships of power’.124
Women’s History and gender History could both be written with emancipa
tionist goals, but that did not mean that women’s and gender historians necessar
ily approved of each others’ approaches and their implications. Consider the idea
123 Stephen Greenblatt, Shakespearean Negotiations (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988)
1; H. Aram Veeser, introduction to H. Aram Veeser (ed.) The New Historicism (New York: Routledge,
1989), pp. ix–xvi, here p. xi.
124 Joan W. Scott, ‘Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis’, The American Historical
Review, 91:5 (1986) 1053–75, here 1067. On Davis’s prompt, see Joan W. Scott, ‘Unanswered
Questions’, The American Historical Review, 113:5 (2008), 1422–30, here 1422. On changing historical
constructions of femininity, see also the work of Scott’s sometime collaborator, Denise Riley, Am I that
Name? Feminism and the Category of ‘Women’ in History (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1988).
286 Why History?
of ‘women’s liberation’ associated with second wave feminism. This might be

taken to assume that across time and place there was a stable category, ‘women’,
that could be liberated or liberate itself. (By no means all second wave feminism
had an essentialist view: as Simone de Beauvoir wrote in 1949, ‘one is not born,
but rather becomes, a woman’.) A constructivist gender analysis would say that
there is no such stability in the category in the first place, since different societies
at different times constructed gender differences differently. As Scott put it in a
later piece, ‘there is no essence of womanhood (or of manhood) to provide a
stable subject for our histories; there are only successive iterations of a word that
doesn’t have a fixed referent and so doesn’t mean the same thing’. ‘ “Women” in
the Middle Ages were not “women” as we think of them today.’125 This is a classic
‘new cultural History of X’-type operation, in that it takes categories or concepts
with connotations of the natural—woman, or female—and historicizes them.
For some feminists, such historicization undermined feminist aspirations by
dissolving the collective subject—women—whose interests feminism claimed to
serve.126 Conversely, Scott saw it as a basis for possible emancipation since his
toricization pointed to the socio-cultural constructedness of social relations and
categories in the past, and the way those constructions changed over time, and
so raised the possibility of alteration in the present. There might not be a trans-
historical subject ‘women’ to be emancipated, but individual people currently
described as women could fight in a self-emancipatory fashion for the scrapping
or redefinition of the concept. Such options are what Sewell had in mind when
talking about ‘gaining discursive control over the shapes of our lives’.127
The agenda of ‘denaturalization’ was centuries if not millennia old, but its link
age to emancipation in the present is typically Marxist, even if it has been associ
ated more with Foucault in recent decades.128 Lukács, writing early in the
twentieth century, praised Marx’s contribution to ‘a consciousness of conscious
ness. This critical philosophy implies above all historical criticism. It dissolves the
rigid, unhistorical, natural appearance of social institutions; it reveals their his
torical origins and shows therefore that they are subject to history in every respect
including historical decline.’129 Relevant to the gender discussion, when Gerda
Lerner argued that revealing patriarchy as a historical system brought with it the
125 Scott, ‘Unanswered Questions’, 1426.

126 By the reasoning highlighted by Mary Poovey, ‘Feminism and Deconstruction’, Feminist Studies,
14:1 (1988), 51–65, here 62.
127 William G. Sewell, Logics of History: Social History and Social Transformation (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2005), 357.
128 e.g. Michel Foucault, ‘Questions of Method’, in K. Baynes, J. Bonman, and T. McCarthy (eds),
After Philosophy, End or Transformation? (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987), 101–17, here 104. Cf.
Marx’s statements previously quoted on pp. 187–8.
129 Lukács, History and Class Consciousness, 47.
implication that patriarchy could ‘be ended by historical process’, she was build
ing on Engels’s Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State (1884).130
Semiotic analysis could affect the trappings of a social science just as much as
could Marxism or structuralism, as it attempted to say something general about
the way things are in the construction of human worlds. Some of the most prom
inent practitioners of this mode of analysis—Scott and William Sewell—were
intellectually socialized as sociologically oriented social Historians, and a residual
positivism can be identified in their work after they both took a semiotic turn. In
his Logics of History (2005), Sewell wrote of extending ‘radically the range and
ambition of cultural history’ to the point of ‘specifying the codes or paradigms
underlying meaningful practices that seem resistant to linguistic analysis and that
might conventionally be thought of precisely as the sort of “nondiscursive social
realities” that causally limit or shape discourses’.131 He claimed that ‘the social’
is best understood as, first, an articulated, evolving web of semiotic practices

(this is the language metaphor) that, second, builds up and transforms a range of
physical frameworks that both provide matrices for these practices and con
strain their consequences . . . The fundamental method for understanding the
social, so understood, [involves . . .] explicating performances by reconstructing
the semiotic codes that enable their production.132
At points like this semiotic approaches moved from being additive to the rich
blend of existing approaches, or corrective of them in some important particu
lars, to claiming the status of a new master approach. At such points semiotic
approaches, cultural or linguistic, could be as reductive as economic or material
ist determinism.
If the basic claim of, say, new cultural History at its most imperialist is that
ways of thinking, seeing, valuing, etc. are culturally constructed, and thus that
everyone, past and present is always already constructed to think, etc., through a
particular, if changing, cultural matrix, we need to follow Peter Burke in asking
after the agents, materials, and constraints of that construction.133 If one defined
culture, or meaning, or language broadly enough then it would cover everything,
but the victory would be pyrrhic since nothing would then really be explained.
How, if at all, did factors that could not satisfactorily be accounted for under the
rubric of culture, as culture was understood by the new cultural historians,
130 Friedrich Engels, Origins of the Family, Private Property and the State (Chicago: Kerr, 1902
[German orig. 1884]); Ko, ‘Gender’, 207–8, identifies the influence of Engels on Lerner and other
feminists of her period.
131 Sewell, Logics of History, 338. 132 Ibid. 369.
133 e.g. Burke, What is Cultural History?, ch. 5.
288 Why History?
influence the culture? How far were people choicelessly following a cultural script
or interpreting in accordance with a governing power-discourse? One among
many definitions of the cultural historian’s aim is ‘discover[ing] the ways in
which past actors sought to give meaning to their lives through symbol, ritual
and narrative’,134 which suggests some active seeking by agents. As to language,
Hunt’s important claim that ‘Revolutionary language did not simply reflect the
realities of revolutionary changes and conflicts, but rather was itself transformed
into an instrument of political and social change’ raises as many questions as it
answers. The fact that that language was ‘itself transformed’ suggests some extra-
linguistic power doing the transforming, or some extra-linguistic change in the
world that caused the language to gain new purchase.
Theoretical enquiry here has not been aided by the lack of consistency with
which the case has been made by major proponents, though we must allow for
the hyperbole that accompanies innovation in any field of enquiry. Just two pages
before stressing the primacy of semiotics, and thus of semiotic code-breaking,
Sewell noted that physical substances such as the human body and the natural
and built environment are subject to ‘other determinations than the semiotic’, and
that semiotic and non-semiotic elements of social life are intertwined.135 Consider
also Gareth Stedman Jones, who was explicit in his debts to Saussurean linguistics
in his pathbreaking essays Languages of Class (1984). The insertions in italics
within the brackets in the body of Jones’s text serve to highlight the inconsisten
cies of the promised explanation.
In general, whether steeped in the older traditions of labour history or the newer
conventions of social history, historians have looked everywhere except at
changes in political discourse itself to explain changes in political behav
iour. . . . The implicit assumption is of civil society as a field of conflicting social
groups or classes whose opposing interests will find rational expression in the
political arena. Such interests, it is assumed, pre-exist their expression . . .
In order to rewrite the political history of the ‘working class’ or ‘working
classes’, we should start out from the other end of the chain. [A strong claim.]
Language disrupts any simple notion of the determination of consciousness by
social being because it is itself part of social being. [A weaker claim: language is
‘part of social being’, not determinant of it.] We cannot therefore decode political
language to reach a primal and material expression of interest since it is the dis
cursive structure of political language which conceives and defines interest in
the first place. [Back to a stronger claim, albeit with a narrower conception of
134 Dan Stone, ‘Introduction: The Holocaust and Historical Methodology’, in Dan Stone (ed.), The
Holocaust and Historical Methodology (New York: Berghahn, 2012), 1–19, here 13.
135 Sewell, Logics of History, 367.
language—‘the discursive structure [sic] of political language’—as the defining

element.] What we must therefore do is to study the production of interest, iden
tification, grievance and aspiration within political languages themselves. [The
strong position is maintained: (political) language is the site of production of inter-
est, etc.] We need to map out these successive languages of radicalism, liberal
ism, socialism etc., both in relation to the political languages they replace and
laterally in relation to rival political languages with which they are in conflict.
Only then can we begin to assess their reasons for success or failure at specific
points in time. It is clear that particular political languages do become inappo
site in new situations. How and why this occurs involves the discovery of the
precise point at which shifts occur as well as an investigation of the specific
political circumstances in which they shift. [Note now the move to ‘political cir-
cumstances’ as a site of production: political languages here are shaped by or in
reaction to things outside language, which is not even a weaker version of the basic
claim, it is a reversal of the strong claim.] To peer straight through these lan
guages into the structural changes to which they may be notionally referred is
no substitute for such an investigation, not because there is not a relationship of
some kind, but because such connections can never be established with any sat
isfying degree of finality. [A bit of a fudge.]136
In a sympathetic and sensitive work on voices and the victims of the Inquisition
John Arnold deploys the Foucauldian concept of ‘discourse’ and tries to explain
change (or perhaps just the possibility of change) with reference only to the work
ings of discourse. In the process he replicates the ambiguities of Foucault’s own
thought on power and discourse. In the vein of History as Practical Lesson,
Arnold concludes that
Discourses construct and position us as subjects; but they also allow (or, as
I have argued, demand) an excess of speech and action. In confronting that
excess, change occurs. And where there is change, there is hope. We are not,
as some have suggested, merely prisoners of discourse, we are also its—and
our—guardians and servants. But if we have agency, there may be other roles we
can choose.137
Discourses demand something, or perhaps they just allow it, but then that some
thing can be used to act against the demands of discourses. We are prisoners,
servants, and guardians of the same thing, with the ability to rebel and choose not
136 Gareth Stedman Jones, Languages of Class (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984)
21–2, and 20 on Saussure. The first nine lines of Jones’s p. 24 could be subjected to similar treatment.
137 John H. Arnold, Inquisition and Power (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001), 228.
290 Why History?
to fulfil any of those functions (if discourse allows it?). Inmates of supermax peni
tentiaries may or may not feel that the carceral metaphor is apt.
Similarly, Richard Biernacki has shown of Joan Scott’s analysis of discourses on
economic matters among Parisian garment makers in the 1840s that in practice,
whatever her claims about the primacy of language in constituting reality, Scott
ends up positing economic distress as the cause of the relevant linguistic framing.
Likewise he shows that in her discussion of Chartism she ends up ‘assuming the
fit’ between a discourse on propertylessness ‘and the social positions of property
less agents’, which problematizes any idea that the discourse drove the constitu
tion of the outlook of the propertyless.138 In works such as those examined by
Biernacki, Scott is clearly trying, albeit not entirely successfully, less to subvert
than to invert the determinant relationship proposed in elements of Marxist
thought between the ideological ‘superstructure’ (now labelled discourse, culture,
etc.) and the material ‘base’. Elsewhere, in a famous essay ‘The Evidence of
Experience’ Scott oscillates between stronger and weaker claims as to the causal
powers of the semiotic. She brings under critique the sort of ‘identity History’
associated with the civil rights movement and second wave feminism, with its
recounting of the experiences and agency of the groups in question. First we are
given the weaker, additive claim: ‘Treating the emergence of a new identity as a
discursive event is not to introduce a new form of linguistic determinism, nor to
deprive subjects of agency. It is to refuse a separation between “experience” and
language.’ Then we are confronted with the stronger, supplanting position, which
better reflects the tenor of her essay: ‘subjects are constituted discursively’, and
historians should ‘take as their project not the reproduction and transmission of
knowledge said to be arrived at through experience, but the analysis of the pro
duction of that knowledge itself ’. (Why historians may not do both is unclear).
Scott claims that the latter approach ‘does not undercut politics by denying
the existence of subjects, it instead interrogates the processes of their [i.e. the
subjects’] creation’. But this ‘clarification’ comprises a distinction without a
difference unless one allows that after the moment of their ‘creation’, subjects
can somehow act upon reflection, perhaps in the light of new experiences,
which would rather undermine the imperative to study the ‘creation’ rather
than what comes after it.139
138 Richard Biernacki, ‘Method and Metaphor after the New Cultural History’, in Victoria E. Bonnell
and Lynn Hunt (eds.), Beyond the Cultural Turn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999),
62–92, here 68 and 86 (n. 26). See also Biernacki, ‘Work and Culture in Class Ideologies’, in
John R. Hall (ed.), Reworking Class (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 169–92, here 174.
139 Joan W. Scott, ‘The Evidence of Experience’, Critical Inquiry 17:4 (1991), 773–97, here, in order
of the quotations in my main text, 792–3, 793, 797.
Theory and History
If there are manifest problems with the wholesale importation of theoretical

answers into the writing of History, the retail importation of theoretical questions
has much enhanced the historian’s practice. Significant contributions have been
made in every area: in the realms of new approaches, new objects of study, and a
greater attentiveness to the positioning and responsibilities of the historian who is
engaged in the construction of accounts of the past that stand in some relation to
the present. This ‘theory—a capacious signifier that seems to apply to anything
from interesting reflection to conceptual or methodical innovation to bodies of
propositions that claim some predictive or retrodictive potential—has no single
trajectory, which explains both its tremendous richness but also the difficulties
into which the indiscriminate importer can run.140 It is nonetheless worth reflect
ing on how much the general thrust of the most influential theorists evinces
affinities with the general historical, not to say historicist, character of intellectual
fashion from the later nineteenth century onwards. In that light, new historical
departures leaning on some element of philosophical or social theory sometimes
look like mildly conceptually enriched versions of old historical approaches that
may have informed that selfsame theory or sprung from a shared root.
The most obvious sources of theoretical authority in the last forty years or so
have been French, but there is no one French school, and the ‘Frenchness’ of any
of the relevant intellectual genealogies is variable. The more purely indigenous
French intellectual tradition of Durkheimian sociology had roots in nineteenth-
century thought at the nexus of History and the social sciences, which were never
so distinct in France as in Germany or Britain. This was the intellectual milieu in
which the Annales was at home. Annaliste thinking of the eras of Bloch and
Braudel obviously made its mark on Foucault but well before the 1980s and 1990s
the pages of Annales displayed the sort of intellectual variety we now associate
with the ‘new’ cultural History of those decades. Febvre’s editorial philosophy
endured alongside his fecund intellectual legacy, as new editors continued to
commission pieces rather than merely await submissions. The 1960 volume
included studies of Yoruba farming practices, Bosnian goldmines, the eighteenth-
century Chilean economy, North African camels in the Roman era, as well as
Le Goff ’s first foray into changing medieval conceptions of time, Lévi-Strauss on
140 On the essays ‘we’ve all read . . . where Freud and Foucault, Baudrillard and Booth are each and
all cited as sources of analytic authority without concern for the incompatibilities among them’: Bill
Brown, cited in Stanley Fish, ‘Theory’s Hope’, Critical Inquiry, 30:2 (2004), 374–8, here 375. Note, too,
that when I use ‘theory’ here it is as a shorthand for the most self-conscious correctives of recent gen
erations; all History is theory-laden in some respects, and when ‘theory’ is used as loosely as it is in so
many of these debates, historians not persuaded by some of the new theories can claim to be deploy
ing their own theories all the time. So it is rarely a case of theoretically-informed thought versus non-
theoretically-informed thought.
292 Why History?
History and anthropology, Robert Mandrou on the notion of the baroque, Roland
Barthes on Jean Racine, and Lucien Goldmann on Chagall. The 1970 volume fea
tured work on Etruscan city planning, Indian gods, Sudanese gold, Bedouins,
fairy-tales, Freud, climate History, Peruvian cathedrals, brain physiology, and the
’68 student movement.141
The key twentieth-century French theorists drew on yet more august Germanic
predecessors. The Lebensphilosophie or ‘philosophy of life’ that culminated in
Heidegger and thinkers of a different political persuasion like Ortega y Gasset
had roots in the thought of Dilthey as well as Nietzsche, and of every hermeneut
who was dissatisfied with the abstractions and formalism of Kantians and the sci
entism of the sociological positivists and sought to preserve other ways of
knowing the human in all its cultural variety. Consider, for instance, Dilthey’s
conceptualization of the individual as constituted at the meeting points of various
social, cultural, economic, and political influences (pp. 225–6): this conceptual
ization is not so very far from Foucault’s vision in which the individual’s con
sciousness is constructed at the intersection of various discourses. Like
neohistoricism, the entire postmodern critique of the idealized ‘Enlightenment’
hermetic/punctal/self-sufficient ‘subject’ has debts to the contextualist theories of
Hamann, Herder, and Historismus. Hermeneutic and historical enquiry provided
one of the major routes away from traditional philosophy with its concern for
abstractions and universals. The rejection of questions of ‘first philosophy’
prompted one thinker to label much ‘continental’ thought of the last 150 years or
so as ‘antiphilosophy’.142 Above all else, the attention to particular contexts is one
of the major ways in which Continental philosophy distinguishes itself from fore
going philosophy and contemporary analytical philosophy. ‘Context’, and the
particularity that goes along with it, is something that historians are good with in
practice even if not necessarily in theory.
Historians can also combine an interest in situated/contextualized being with
an interest in becoming, as they address the relationships between context and
process, structure and agency, continuity and change. ‘Process philosophy’, from
Hegel through Nietzsche, indicates the impact of historical thought on philoso
phy.143 At the same time, while in his The Postmodern Condition (1979) Jean-
François Lyotard defined postmodernism is a matter of ‘incredulity towards
metanarratives’ of the Hegelian sort, i.e. philosophies of history, postmodernists
scarcely have claim to being the first to develop this scepticism.144 As Foucault
141 For all of which and more see George Huppert, ‘The Annales Experiment’, in Bentley (ed.),
Companion to Historiography, 873–88, here 880, 882.
142 Boris Groys, Introduction to Antiphilosophy (London: Verso, 2012).
143 See generally David D. Roberts, Nothing But History: Reconstruction and Extremity After
Metaphysics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).
144 Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1984 [French orig. 1979]), p. xxiv.
attested, many artisanal historians had already rejected Hegel alongside all his
predecessor and successor schemes (p. 251).
The emphasis on change and temporality sets History apart from some of the
most influential forms of anthropology. The criticisms of structuralism by Jacques
Derrida echo the words of anthropologist Edward Evans-Pritchard before him,
namely that social anthropologists had been writing ‘cross-sections of history,
integrative descriptive accounts’ depicting worlds ‘at a moment of time’.145 While
agreeing with structuralism’s contention about the conventional nature of lan
guage Derrida dismissed it on other grounds. Following Louis Althusser’s and
Fernand Braudel’s ideas of different temporalities or durées coexisting, and criti
cizing the absence of a historical dimension in general from the static structural
ist analysis, Derrida underlined how structuralism imputed too great a coherence
to any social order and gave the observer an illusion of being able to read the
order from some sort of privileged point of access.146 Derridean poststructural
ism was partly established in rejection of structuralism’s scientistic pretensions.147
It is anti-predictive in its emphasis on the interplay of structure and event/contin
gency/temporality. If anything, it can only work on the basis of a last instance
appeal to heed specificity, incongruity, the particular that is never subsumed by
the general law or theory or structural account, which would scarcely surprise the
fairly conventional idiographic historian. Althusser dubbed his own theory of
change, with its different ‘temporalities’ and all, ‘matérialisme aléatoire’, ‘aleatory
materialism’:148 ‘aleatory’ means dependent upon chance rather than determin
ation, and whatever Althusser’s theoretical elaboration it brings to mind nothing
so much as Harold Macmillan on the disruptive power of ‘events, dear boy, events’.
Analogously, Derridean deconstruction demands that the reader be alive to
resistances in the text, precisely so it does not assume the reductive capacity of
any reading that is too keen to impose some theoretical grid on its subject
matter.
Deconstruction takes a different tack from, say, biblical hermeneutics, which
seeks to reconcile the particular and the general within a text, and to transcend
ostensible contradictions.149 Deconstruction is best known as a hermeneutics of
145 Evans-Pritchard cited in Aletta Biersack, Clio in Oceania: Toward a Historical Anthropology
(Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991), 1.
146 On explicit and implicit criticisms of structuralism see Derrida, Writing and Difference, 52–3,
197 and 351 ff.; and Derrida, Margins of Philosophy, 307–30. For Derrida’s position on different tem
poralities in the Althusserian vein, Jacques Derrida, Positions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1982), 57–9.
147 Michael Peters, ‘(Posts-) Modernism and Structuralism: Affinities and Theoretical Innovations’,
Sociological Research Online, 4:3 (1999) http://www.socresonline.org.uk/4/3/peters.html
148 Louis Althusser, Écrits philosophiques et politiques, vol. 1 (Paris: Éditions Stock, 1994), 21
and passim.
149 For an attempt to establish relationships between Derridean hermeneutics and its more
‘conventional’ predecessors, John D. Caputo, Radical Hermeneutics: Repetition, Deconstruction, and
the Hermeneutic Project (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1987).
294 Why History?
disruption, which can turn parts against the whole, and it is used in interrogating
the claims to authority in legal or philosophical texts. It is alive to the constructed,
conventional nature of binary oppositions, which is its debt to structuralist pre
cepts, and it owes to psychoanalysis its attention to minor textual ‘tics’ that may
be tantamount to Freudian slips. None of this means that deconstruction neces
sarily de-legitimates the argument of the text on which it operates, but it does
mean that space is opened up for alternative readings than that which the author
seems most obviously to be intending.150 However indiscriminately deconstruc
tion was applied as it reached the level of high intellectual fashion in literary the
ory—Derrida regretted the extent to which the interpretative ‘freeplay’ he had
spawned had been accorded too great a status, preferring the more limited ‘play’,
jeu—it engaged with many elements of a text and as such represents an advance
on, say, Hayden White’s reductive formalism, with its proximity to structuralism
and its programmer’s talk of codes.151
The issue of discriminate application obtains when it comes to deconstruction’s
relevance for works of History. Unlike philosophical or legal or theological tracts
about how things ‘just are’, or ‘must be’, or ‘ought to be’, works of History are gen
erally concerned with making claims on how things contingently were, or contin
gently came to be. Historians do not—or certainly ought not—claim for their
work the same sort of conceptual completeness or closure that are often claimed
for the other sorts of text. (Even in their primary task of explaining some devel
opment or illuminating some past world of experience historians should know
that their work is incomplete.) In other words, Histories have none of the sup
posed axiomatic coherence that some might contend deconstruction exists to
scrutinize.152 Indicatively, when Derrida reviewed Foucault’s Folie et déraison
there was nothing distinctively ‘deconstructive’ about his essay, nothing in
150 There is more to it than this of course. An excellent account is Simon Critchley, The Ethics of
Deconstruction: Derrida and Levinas (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999). Thanks to Guy
Halsall for discussion on these matters.
151 To other literary analysts White claimed that the greater ‘utility’ of his semiological method
over the utility of any content-based approach was ‘quantitative—it could ‘account for more of the
elements of any given text’. While enjoining historians to liberate their subjectivity from a conservative
historical idiom, he criticized other literary theorists for basing their analyses on ‘personal taste, incli
nation, or ideological commitment’. Instead, he prescribed a method that sought ‘to characterize the
types of messages emitted [by a text] in terms of the several codes in which they are cast and to map
the relationship among the codes thus identified both as a hierarchy of codes and a sequence of their
elaboration’. All White quotes from Russell Jacoby’s analysis of White in Jacoby, ‘A New Intellectual
History’, in Elizabeth Fox-Genovese and Elisabeth Lasch-Quinn (eds.), Reconstructing History
(London, Routledge, 1999), 94–118, here 100–1. For White’s disparaging of deconstruction and the
poststructuralist turn, see his chapter ‘The absurdist moment in contemporary literary theory’ in
White, Tropics of Discourse, ch. 12, pp. 261–82.
152 Critchley, Ethics of Deconstruction, 2, says that ‘the pattern of reading produced in the decon
struction of—mostly, but by no means exclusively—philosophical texts has an ethical structure’.
Though qualified, this statement implies that the nature of the text itself is relevant to the relevance of
deconstructing it. See also Umberto Eco, ‘Intentio lectoris: The State of the Art’, Differentia, 2 (1998),
147–68, here 166. Christopher Norris, Derrida (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987),
20–7, 52–60, addresses the literature–philosophy nexus, as well as debunking the ‘freeplay’ element.
principle to distinguish it from an ‘ordinary’ critical review.153 The question of

deconstruction’s relevance also pertains to historians’ readings of historical evi
dence. Insofar as historians address past theological, philosophical, or legal texts
they tend not to treat them in the way that their authors might have wished them
to be treated, being more concerned with the question ‘what did it mean to them
in the past’ than ‘what should it mean to us now?’
For all that works of History are not works of philosophy, any Foucauldian
would remind us that historians’ products can be implicated in relations of power
in the present just as that which historians treat as historical evidence might well
have been implicated in relations of power in the past under historical study. In a
more prosaic vein, as most historians well know, works of History and evidence
both belong to worlds where certain things are assumed, expected, and elided;
they reflect the influence of contexts over and above what their authors may wish
to convey. As such, reading practices associated with deconstruction may be
deployed by and against historians. Looking at historiographical debates and his
torical evidence respectively, Guy Halsall and Ethan Kleinberg both make use of
the idea of constitutive silences, meaning the ‘absences’ that help structure what is
expressed in a text or oral utterance and that can therefore be ‘read’ in light of
what is expressed, in order to shed light on the unconscious, the taken-for-
granted, or the deliberately suppressed.154 How far such practices are original to
Derrida is not always clear given the long, rich history of hermeneutics and
rhetoric;155 if deconstruction owes a debt to Heidegger and Nietzsche, the mod
ern study of constitutive silences may be traced back to Leibniz via Hegel’s dia
lectical recognition that that which comes into being, or receives articulation,
constitutes a repression of that which does not (pp. 183–4). Those not au fait with
the relevant theory may yet find themselves doing something tantamount to
reading for constitutive silences in historical evidence when they read it ‘against
the grain’ of the author’s evident agenda.
Whatever the relevance of ‘full-blown’ deconstruction for historians, post
structuralism, as a proposition about the relationship of structure, genesis, and
flux in any system of meaning, and thus about the instability of meaning, must
have some affinity with a ‘discipline of context and process’, as Thompson called
History. In Thompson’s words, ‘every meaning is a meaning-in-context, and
153 Derrida, Writing and Difference, 36–76.

154 Guy Halsall, ‘Transformations of Romanness: The Northern Gallic Case’, in Walter Pohl,
Clemens Gantner, Cinzia Grifoni, and Marianne Pollheimer-Mohaupt (eds.), Transformations of
Romanness: Early Medieval Regions and Identities (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), 41–58; Ethan Kleinberg,
Haunting History: For a Deconstructive Approach to the Past (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
2017), chs. 1 and 2.
155 For some relevant debts to the philosopher Friedrich Schlegel (1772–1829), especially in the
areas of reading texts for contradictions and the significance of inferable unconscious meanings, see
Michael N. Forster, ‘Hermeneutics’, in Leiter and Rosen (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Continental
Philosophy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 30–74, here 45–8.
296 Why History?
structures change while old forms may express new functions or old functions
may find expression in new form’,156 which is not far from Nietzsche’s point that
‘the whole history of a “thing”, an organ, a tradition can . . . be a continuous chain
of signs, continually revealing new interpretations and adaptations’.157 To this
problematic the poststructuralist would add the uncertain stance of the inter
preter in the ever-changing, multi-contextual present. Derrida equated ‘there is
no outside-text’ (hors-texte), sometimes translated as ‘there is nothing outside the
text’, with there is no ‘outside-context’, sometimes translated as ‘there is nothing
outside context’. Everything is interpreted through conceptual schemes rather
than just apprehended, and these schemes, relating as they do to other interpret
ations, present, and past, are never transparent. There is no space that exists in a
state of separation from context.158 Far from negating any attempts to interpret,
Derrida’s point was that all that was left was interpretation, of the diverse and
often conflicting elements of one’s own lifeworld and of other lifeworlds.159 This
did not mean just any old interpretation, irrespective of intelligence, erudition, or
procedural ethos, so we may discard the ‘anything goes’ idea that was sometimes
associated with poststructuralism; as Derrida put it in a related connection, ‘it
should be possible to invoke rules of competence, criteria of discussion and of
consensus, good faith, lucidity, rigor, criticism, and pedagogy’.160 Again, contra
structuralism and other positivisms, he disavowed a final master interpretation
that claimed some objective grounding in semiotic codes or logics (a similar
objective grounding to that once claimed by quantitative methodologists) that
would situate the investigator outside the interpretative process. Derrida took it
as a Gadamerian given that the interpretative process would be a fusion of the
interpreter’s horizon(s) of meaning—a horizon that was contextually shaped in
the present—with the set of contextual meanings bound up with the object of the
interpretation. That fusion is one of the reasons why the deconstructionist rejects
the idea that any reading can finally establish the meaning of a text.161
Thinking to rationales for History and analogous interpretative acts, there is,
by Derrida’s thinking, always the possibility of something like an authentic
encounter with another world for the interpreter who is sufficiently open to the
possibility of embracing interpretation in its unknown potential. Such an event-
like encounter, or ‘interruption’, can expand or alter the interpreter’s own sym
bolic world. In the theoretical jargon, there is potential for the hermeneutic
156 E. P. Thompson, Persons and Polemics: Historical Essays (London: Merlin, 1994), 213.
157 Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, Second Essay, §12, at p. 51.
158 Jacques Derrida, Limited Inc. (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1988), 136. See also
9, 148, 152.
159 John D. Caputo, The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida: Religion Without Religion
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997), 276–7.
160 Derrida, Limited Inc., 146. See also 144.
161 On Derrida’s debts to Gadamer, see Michael N. Forster, ‘Hermeneutics’, 66–8.
sublime.162 (The link here to the broader preoccupation of mid- and later
twentieth-century French philosophy with the structure-busting ‘event’ is not at
all coincidental—and note that Althusser also called his ‘aleatory materialism’ the
‘matérialisme de la rencontre’ or materialism of the encounter. If we wished to go
further back we could trace elements of such concern to religious notions of
epiphany and kairos.163) Following this reasoning as applied to History, studying
the past can be a species of Travel in a stronger sense than just collecting photos
for an album. If, as is now a commonplace, the practice of History tells us about
the present, then studying the past can also alter us in the present, just not by
handing us the decoding machine.
New New Histories
In recent generations, especially since the ‘new cultural History’ one supposes, it
has been more professionally advantageous to be a new something than an old
one. To be self-referential, I was labelled a practitioner of the ‘new transnational
trend’ in History for a work on the international origins and aftermaths of the
Armenian genocide.164 The label captured an important aspect of what I was up
to, though had I been asked at the time of writing the book I would have mum
bled something about combining diplomatic, political, and social History as a
contribution to ‘genocide studies’—the ‘studies’ bit of which, as in medieval stud
ies or queer studies, denotes an interdisciplinary approach to which History can
contribute.
Sometimes I have also described my work as ‘new international History’.
Where the ‘transnational’ label captured the important regional and cross-border
dynamics of my project as regards knock-on effects between developments in the
southern Balkans, Anatolia, and the Russian-ruled Caucasus, the ‘international’
moniker worked a little better for the elements of geo-strategy, foreign policy, and
diplomacy that came into play when further removed powers, including Britain,
France, and the USA, were involved. As it happens transnational History owes
162 Paul Patton, ‘Events, Becoming and History’, in Jeffrey A. Bell and Claire Colebrook (eds.),
Deleuze and History (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009), 33–53, here 41–3; Derrida,
Writing and Difference, 74: on dialogue ‘between that which exceeds the totality and the closed totality’
and more generally Writing and Difference, 193–211. The concepts of openness and the hermeneutic
sublime, etc., show Derrida’s debts to the work of the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas (1906–95) on
the ethic of relationship to the ‘Other’, notably in regard of the appearance of the ‘face’ of the other. On
this relationship see Critchley, Ethics of Deconstruction.
163 This is true of Levinas (see previous note), for whom the ‘face’ of the other is akin to the face of
god. See also on the connections between philosophy and theology in some twentieth-century
Continental thought Ward Blanton and Hent de Vries (eds.), Paul and the Philosophers (New York:
Fordham University Press, 2013).
164 Jay Winter, review of Donald Bloxham, The Great Game of Genocide (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2005), in European History Quarterly, 38:1 (2008), 126–8, here 126.
298 Why History?
a significant debt to the ‘older’ area studies tradition, which suggests that some of
the ‘new’ Histories are really conceptually expanded versions of prior sorts,
evincing the influence of the major twentieth-century ‘turns’ in their additive
and corrective manifestations. The new political History is a case in point.165
Since roughly the end of the Cold War global and world History have devel
oped major significance. With the disappearance of the ‘second world’, non-
aligned status also became meaningless. Much of what had been problematically
called the ‘third world’ had already been incorporated into the economic struc
tures of international capitalism. After the downfall of the USSR most of the rest
of it was incorporated too, alongside Russia and the other formerly Soviet states.
‘One world’ was the result, albeit that some parts of it were ‘developed’ and some
still ‘developing’. ‘Globalization’ was the buzzword for the dynamic by which dif
ferent parts of the world were connected. Connectivity, embodied in the rise and
rise of multinational corporations, labour mobility, cheaper travel, and freer
finance flows, encouraged a re-focusing away from the nation-state and towards
the forces that transcended national boundaries. The History of international law
and international political institutions received a boost for much the same
reasons.
Historians were also encouraged to think backwards to earlier moments of glo
balization, such as the nineteenth-century heyday of the British empire. The old
economic theory of ‘hegemonic stability’—where stability referred to the oper
ations of the international economy rather than the lives of people affected by the
hegemon’s actions—meant that one need not jettison the study of empire in order
to partake of one of the new Histories. As to the new global hegemon, American-
led armed interventions, after the successful prosecution of the 1991 Gulf war
had ameliorated the ‘Vietnam syndrome’, and especially after the terrorist attacks
of 11 September 2001, were but another sign that national destinies were not
entirely in the hands of national leaders and domestic majorities, despite
decolonization.
It was not just modern or ‘modernizing’ empires that piqued the interest.
Decentring the nation-state prompted renewed attention to other sorts of polity, a
range of empires included, that might previously have been deemed irrelevant to
the post-1918 or post-1945 worlds in which nation-states proliferated. Conversely,
with the emphasis on continuity rather than contrast, for all of the political
imperative for postcolonial states to develop Histories of and for the nation-state,
the border-transcending forces of the present surely also prompted scholars to
165 Steven Fielding, ‘Political History’, and Patrick Finney, ‘International History’, online respect
ively at:http://www.history.ac.uk/makinghistory/resources/articles/political_history.html http://www.
history.ac.uk/makinghistory/resources/articles/international_history.html
See also Allan G. Bogue, ‘United States: The “New” Political History’, Journal of Contemporary
History, 3:1 (1968), 5–27.
pierce the ‘periodization blinders that prevent scholars from finding commonal
ities between the colonial and national periods’.166
Precisely what defines global and world History respectively is to some extent
in the eye of the beholder, but some generalizations are possible. The journal
World History was only established in 1990, but world History has been practised
in a recognizable form since at least the Enlightenment. It treats the world as its
unit of analysis and is concerned with trends and tendencies that are observable
in or across the boundaries of many societies. There is some fusion between world
History and global History in works that treat the world as an interconnected
whole. The scholarship of William H. McNeill from the 1960s and 1970s exempli
fies, as it addressed the interactions of different cultures, as opposed to painting
a Spenglerian portrait of monads wending their own way through time without
really influencing one another.
Global History tends to be associated more with the processes of globalization
and its antecedents. We should note the paths broken by the neo-Marxist school
of ‘world systems theory’, which set itself against the precepts of ‘modernization
theory’, and drew in its turn on ‘dependency theory’ and ultimately on Lenin’s and
Rosa Luxemburg’s theories of imperialism. Perhaps it is no coincidence that a
Marxist anthropologist, Eric Wolf, should have been so prominent in illustrating
the relations between different peoples across the globe while countering a stereo
type of westerners and ‘the west’ as historical agents acting on more passive ‘oth
ers’. In global History the emphasis is on connections between parts of the whole
(the globe) and as such it is perfectly possible to write a global History of a village,
or indeed a person, as long as one embeds that object in relation to things spa
tially removed. One is apt to read quite a lot about cultural exchange, explorers,
commerce, and commodities from spices to opium to cotton, and, to use a term
from postcolonial theory, ‘hybridity’.167
If much global History and world History tends to be practised these days in a
way that decentres the European or occidental experience, thus providing an
important corrective to earlier Eurocentric accounts, this is a development more
at the level of historical content than historical method or concept. Put in the
terms of the postcolonial theorist Dipesh Chakrabarty, such ‘provincialization’ of
the west as has occurred in historiography within the global north-west has been
166 Jacob Blanc and Frederico Freitas, ‘Introduction’, in Jacob Blanc and Frederico Freitas (eds.), Big
Water: The Making of the Borderlands Between Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay (Tuczon: University of
Arizona Press, 2018) 3–21, here 10.
167 For similar distinctions between the overlapping spheres of global and world History see Diego
Olstein, Thinking History Globally (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan 2013). William H. McNeill’s
works, some of which do have Eurocentric aspects, include in their number The Rise of the West: A
History of the Human Community (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1963); A World History (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1967). As to Eric Wolf: Europe and the ‘People Without History’
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982).
300 Why History?
more a matter of empirical focus than anything else.168 The great ‘turns’ of
twentieth-century historiography—social, cultural, linguistic—and what were in
their moment the avant-garde theories associated with these turns—Marxism,
structuralism, poststructuralism, serried literary and anthropological movements—
were embedded in western intellectual trends and often reflected western cultural
problems. This is not to suggest a hermetic seal separating western from non-
western trends; we are dealing in generalizations rather than categorical divides.
And it is certainly not to suggest that only ‘western’ minds could have conceived
of these theories. The point of dwelling on the conceptual self-referentiality of
much mainstream north-western historiography is as oft before, to highlight
regrettable inequality along the north-west/south-east cleavage. The matter is
important because of the still-great influence in the wider world of north-western
academies and their fashions.
Within north-western academies the tide of cultural History has ebbed but the
‘cultural History of X’ tradition (p. 282) remains influential, as in Histories of the
body, bodily experiences, or emotions. Indeed, given the thoroughly historicizing
thrust of the ‘affective turn’, it does no conceptual harm to see it as a subset of the
new cultural History.169 At the same time, it is eminently possible for the study of,
say, emotions, to be fused with the enduring study of History ‘from below’, as is
urged by the American Marxist historian and one-time student of E. P. Thompson,
James R. Barrett, in his recent essay collection History from the Bottom Up and the
Inside Out: Ethnicity, Race, and Identity in Working-Class History (2017).170
Within the broad ambit of semiotic analysis, the Foucauldian input is
variable, but has certainly shaped ‘subaltern’ historical studies since the earlier
Gramscian–Thompsonian days of that movement. Postcolonial theory, which
is obviously not coextensive with all the History produced in postcolonial
states, is deeply imbued with power theories alongside its critical concern for
linguistic–cultural binaries like civilized/uncivilized. Looking at the historio
graphical traditions of the author’s own country, imperial History, the ‘new
imperial History included’, could do with a stronger dose of postcolonial theory
to complement its traditional strengths in political and economic analysis and in
the relevant social History of the metropole.
Intellectual History has followed the trajectory of neo-historicism characteris
tic of so much twentieth-century historiography, and has enjoyed something of a
168 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). See also the debate between Chakrabarty and Dirlik
at n. 92.
169 Rob Boddice, ‘The Affective Turn: Historicizing the Emotions’, in Cristian Tileagă and Jovan
Byford (eds.), Psychology and History: Interdisciplinary Explorations (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2014), 147–65.
170 James R. Barrett, History from the Bottom Up and the Inside Out: Ethnicity, Race, and Identity in
Working-Class History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2017), 1–2. For elements of Barrett’s
intellectual biography, see the book’s foreword by David R. Roediger.
resurgence in recent decades. If we were to characterize, perhaps caricature, an

‘older’ intellectual History tradition it would have a Hegelian flavour in the sense
of treating past philosophy as its own time represented in thought, and/or a ‘ver
tical’ character whereby philosophical texts address each other in a grand conver
sation across large tracts of time. Twentieth-century linguistic theories (not just
francophone ones like structuralism, but those of the likes of J. L. Austin and
Ludwig Wittgenstein) and associations with political thought and Kuhnian
thought on the History of Science helped move the axis more to the ‘horizontal’—
see the thoughts of intellectual historian J. G. A. Pocock on what constitutes ‘con
text’ (pp. 132–3), and the vast Cambridge University Press monograph series
‘ideas in context’ that bears the imprint of Quentin Skinner. Tying philosophical
texts much more closely into their immediate contexts of enunciation and recep
tion is perforce to integrate them more broadly with social, political, and cultural
concerns, and the thinking of ‘non-canonical’ intellects, and reinforces the neo-
historicist orientation towards viewing intellectual History as the study of ‘the
intellectual life of the past in its knotty, irreducible pastness’.171
Two relatively recent and still relatively marginal historical approaches are
noteworthy for the way in which they engage different articulations of ‘culture’ at
very different scales and levels of enquiry. On one hand we have historians
engaged in environmental History in the broadest sense, where recurrent pat
terns of climate change, demographic shift, disease, and natural disaster fill the
places traditionally reserved for wars, cultural crises, and grand discoveries.
Culture as broadly conceived does remain important here, since the climate
change which we have begun to witness is human-caused—anthropogenic—and
the geological epoch in which we now live has been dubbed the Anthropocene.
The interactive, indeed interpenetrative culture–nature relationship in question
here is similar to the one that Marx was getting at with his thought on labour.
Presumably we will see more of this work as the degradation of the environment
belatedly gets the attention it merits and cultural responses are formed to the
huge material pressures of desertification, heat waves, sea-level rises, and resource
scarcity. The other general pattern-builders also work at the interface of History
and science, and are concerned with sociobiological and ‘biocultural’ explan
ations for human cognition and behaviour.172
171 Quote from Stephan Collini, ‘The Identity of Intellectual History’, in Richard Whatmore and
Brian Young (eds.), A Companion to Intellectual History (London: Wiley, 2016), 7–18, here 10. On the
role of political thought and the History of science, see p. 9. See pp. 10–11 on the recent growth of
intellectual History, and the entirety of the essay for an assessment of the state of the field. Skinner’s
debts to Austin’s language theory, and Skinner’s broader hermeneutic philosophy are outlined early in
Skinner, ‘Hermeneutics and the Role of History’, New Literary History, 7:1 (1975), 209–32. As to ‘verti
cal’ versus ‘horizontal’ approaches, see Collini, ‘Intellectual History’ at: http://www.history.ac.uk/
makinghistory/resources/articles/intellectual_history.html
172 See, for instance, John Onians, Neuroarthistory: From Aristotle and Pliny to Baxandall and Zeki
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007); Daniel Lord Smail, On Deep History and the Brain
302 Why History?
Some strands of scientifically oriented History have elicited claims that cultural
differentiation and associated neo-historicism have over-egged the pudding, and
that a Ciceronian view of History’s role as teacher of life should instead be reacti
vated.173 Relevant reasons were elaborated in 2010 by the literary theorist
Marshall Gregory. He based his advocacy of a new ethical turn in literary criti
cism partly on the ‘new empiricist’ work on common human ‘biocultural’ and
cognitive heritages. In a swift summary he begins with philosophers including
Mark Johnson and Richard Eldridge174 who argue that
instead of human beings being creatures of social construction ‘all the way
down’, human beings have a nature in which, not very far down at all, lies a vast
network of inclinations, dispositions, neural programming, and perceptual
protocols that come installed in every human being’s brain as a part of our evo
lutionary heritage. . . . In 1991 Mary Midgley published Can’t We Make Moral
Judgments?, and in 1992 Robert Louden published Morality and Moral Theory:
A Reappraisal and Reaffirmation, both of which argue that ethics comes neither
from transcendental sources nor entirely from culture, but from intrinsic human
needs that get mediated and tweaked by culture but that are not created by
culture. . . . In 1996 Steven Mithen published . . . The Prehistory of the Mind, giving
readers a sense of the vastness of time in which evolutionary pressures shaped
the human brain, and, thus, also shaped many features of human cognition,
emotion, perception, and interpersonal protocols, such as ethics.175
This is a good corrective to what is indeed in parts of the humanities a scientific

ally illiterate ‘culture-is-all historicism’ as Geertz scornfully called it, but it does
not close the case.176 Viewed from enough distance cultural variations certainly
look like variations on a theme, just as convulsive events lose their jarring signifi
cance, but particularists are within their rights to emphasize the variations rather
than the theme. How ‘far down’ commonality appears is still relative to question,
whatever conclusions scientists reach.
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008); Iain McGilchrist, The Master and his Emissary: The
Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009). See also
the list in Caroline W. Bynum, ‘Perspectives, Connections & Objects: What’s Happening in History
Now?’, Daedalus (Winter 2009), 71–86, here 77–8.
173 Wolf Schäfer, ‘Knowledge and Nature: History as the Teacher of Life Revisited’, Nature and
Culture, 2:1 (2007) 1–9.
174 Mark Johnson, The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning, Imagination, and Reason
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987); Richard Eldridge On Moral Personhood: Philosophy,
Literature, Criticism, and Self-Understanding (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989).
175 Marshall Gregory, ‘Redefining Ethical Criticism: The Old vs. the New’, Journal of Literary
Theory, 4:2 (2010), online at: http://www.jltonline.de/index.php/articles/article/view/287/879
176 Clifford Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, American Anthropologist, New Series, 86:2 (1984),
263–78, here 268.
For the same reasons one may also take issue with the historian of religion and
postmodernist Callum G. Brown, who claims that morality’s ‘absence of con
stancy is especially noticeable for those alive in the last 60 years as western society
has undergone the most dramatic shift in its sexual, racial and legal morality’.177
Far from closing the case, Brown begs the question about variables, comparators,
and the relative magnitude of the relevant differences. By way of making the con
trast with a certain representation of pre-modern historical consciousness,
Zachary Schiffman suggests that were we today ‘to ask ourselves whether we
would be different had we been born ten years earlier or later, most of us would
automatically answer in the affirmative—while dismissing the question as too
obvious’.178 ‘Different’, certainly, but how different?
The present work has proffered particular views on change and continuity, dif
ference and similarity, in a discipline of thought that counts the study of just those
duos among its major concerns. Specifically, the objects of concern have been
justifications for History, which means what the study of the past has been
thought to ‘do’ for historians and their audiences. There is no consensus as to jus
tification today and there never has been but interestingly enough the menu of
options over which historians still argue has not changed much in two and a half
thousand years. To conclude the book, let us assess the justifications head-on.
177 Callum G. Brown, Postmodernism for Historians (Harlow: Pearson, 2005), 145. Emphasis added.
178 Zachary Sayre Schiffman, ‘Historicizing History/Contextualizing Context’, New Literary
History, 42:3 (2011), 477–98, here 496.
8
Justifying History Today
Introduction
This chapter tackles rationales for History on their own merits, in and for the
here-and-now. As well as considering the relatively young rationales of History as
Emancipation and History as Therapy, it returns to those that have existed for
millennia, namely History as: Entertainment; Memorialization; Speculative
Philosophy; Practical Lesson; Moral Lesson; Travel; Method; Communion; and
Identity. It considers which rationales still have any currency, concluding in
favour of all but Speculative Philosophy, Moral Lesson, and Communion in its
original sense. It then assesses the ones that do have currency for their coherence,
before making suggestions of its own.
Predictably enough, in most cases coherence depends upon how each rationale
is interpreted and what is promised on its behalf. For instance while History as
Travel can broaden the mind, as its proponents suggest, it cannot of itself foster
the virtue of tolerance. Your author is less sanguine than many about the pros-
pects for History as Emancipation, and more optimistic than many about forms
of History as Practical Lesson. History as Method has something going for it but
even on its own best ethical terms it needs to be bolstered by some substantivist
concerns, meaning concerns related to the content of the past rather than just to
procedures for researching and writing History. And when we come to the slightly
less exalted claims by which History as Method translates to the historian’s ‘trans-
ferable skills’, the vocations to which the skills are transferred often do not need or
even desire the more holistic critical ethos that is supposed to underpin their
deployment.
It would be better to say that coherence is addressed where necessary, as it is
not in the case of History as Entertainment. One simply is or is not entertained,
and it is debatable how fruitful the discussion is as to whether one ought or ought
not be. The fact that many people do seem to find History entertaining, as judged
by broadcasting and bookshops, might be thought rationale enough for it. In an
academic world where more and more emphasis is put upon measurable results
and monetary value the peculiar ‘utility’ of merely finding something interesting
or enjoyable ought perhaps to be celebrated. At the same time it does seem, meas-
ured again in terms of broadcasting and bookshops, that people are especially
entertained by particular sorts of History rather than just anything that happens
to be historical in focus, so the Entertainment rationale is generally alloyed with
Justifying History Today 305
other rationales. A theme running through the chapter and brought to the fore in
the section ‘Knowledge and Human Interests’ involves the tricky question, arising
from a rationale like Entertainment, of what it is for something to be intrinsically
interesting, or important, as opposed to being more instrumentally relevant.
Given crossovers between certain classes of rationale this chapter will not allot
equal or equally explicit attention to all. Thus the case of Memorialization is sub-
sumed within discussion of the Identity and Lesson genres. History as Identity
remains arguably the most important of all the substantivist rationales: it is cer-
tainly the most significant politically, which is why this chapter and thus the book
is crowned with a discussion of it. History as Identity is so often at issue even
when the identity question is addressed only indirectly via History as Travel,
since it is difficult to get away from the matter of how one defines oneself in rela-
tion to other, different ways of being and doing. Furthermore, those historians
who engage in Emancipatory History à la Foucault would be more effective if
they engaged more directly in Identity History, replacing their ‘crypto-normative’
critiques (the expression is explained below, p. 339) and engaging normativity
straightforwardly. Extending the discussion of normativity, the very final pages of
the book turn to the matter of moral evaluation by the historian, suggesting that
evaluation is not a category error or an anachronistic residue of the days when
History as Moral Lesson was explicitly endorsed by many historians.
History as Speculative Philosophy
In the historical profession, Speculative Philosophy is at its lowest ebb for many
centuries, perhaps for the entire history of History. Hayden White claimed to the
contrary, but this was more by assertion than illustration. A major influence on
White, the literary theorist Northrop Frye, reflected on Aristotle’s distinction
between poetry and History, according to which the latter only dealt with the par-
ticular whereas the former dealt with the universal. Frye claimed ‘that when a
historian’s scheme gets to a certain point of comprehensiveness it becomes myth
ical in shape and so approaches the poetic in its structure’.1 White radicalized the
claim, holding at the end of his opus Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in
the Nineteenth Century (1973) that ‘proper history and speculative philosophy are
distinguishable only in emphasis’. In White’s view the former sort of History, the
sort of History that most historians think they are engaged in, was just more sur-
reptitious or implicit in propagating some philosophy of History beyond its
explanation of some specific historical issue.2
1 Northrop Frye, Fables of Identity: Studies in Poetic Mythology (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and
World, 1963), 53–4.
2 Hayden White, Metahistory, 427.
306 Why History?
It is difficult to square White’s vision with the highly contextual neo-historicist

tendencies of latter-day historiography. But even in White’s accounting it is
unclear exactly how broad a section of ‘proper’ History he is referring to when
making his claims. The preface of Metahistory makes White’s distinction between
on one hand historians’ data, theoretical concepts for explaining and ordering the
data, and so forth, and on the other hand the ‘deep structural content which is
generally poetic [i.e. creative], and specifically linguistic, in nature, and which
serves as the precritically accepted paradigm of what a distinctly “historical”
explanation should be’. Yet the preface goes on to qualify that ‘[t]his paradigm
functions as the “metahistorical” element in all historical works that are more
comprehensive in scope than the monograph or archival report’.3 It is unclear
exactly what he means by an archival report, but since he has excepted mono-
graphs, which constitute the bulk of the book-length output of most academic
historians, one assumes that he is also prepared to exclude journal articles, which
generally have a monographic quality and constitute much of the non-book-
length output of most academics. It is reasonable to suppose that thematized text-
books or problem-oriented primers are out of the equation too. What we do not
have from White is a theoretical explanation of the salient difference between the
salient sorts of History, which leaves us with the tautological claim that all types
of History have metahistorical elements that have metahistorical elements.
Putting aside that problem and taking White on the terms of his more unquali-
fied claim about the relationship between ‘proper’ History and speculative phil
osophy, he failed to distinguish consistently between a philosophy of History and
a theory of History. The difference is that one can lay claim to some theory about
motors of historical change without having any account of history’s working
towards some end, or any theory of a human essence being revealed through the
historical process.4 Sometimes White did equate ordinary works of History with
theories of History in this non teleological sense, but even then the equation does
not work, or certainly need not, if we recall for instance Helmut Fleischer’s
distinction between the nomological and the pragmatological Marx (pp. 186–7).
Beyond Marxist historiography, one must distinguish between the many and
diverse generalizations that underpin accounts of why X happened to transpire,
and firmer supposed laws of the historical process by which X had to transpire; all
works of History deploy the former in some measure, while few seem to deploy
the latter.5 Finally, even in the event that we accept the unsubstantiated claim that
there is ‘only’ a difference in emphasis between ‘proper’ History and speculative
3 Ibid., p. ix.
4 Alex Callinicos, Theories and Narratives: Reflections on the Philosophy of History (Durham, NC:
Duke University Press, 1995).
5 Peter Munz, ‘The Historical Narrative’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to Historiography, 851–72,
esp. 860–1. Similar points about generalizations in Alan Bulloch, ‘The Historian’s Purpose: History
and Metaphysics’, in Meyerhoff (ed.), The Philosophy of History in Our Time, 292–9, here 295–7.
philosophy of History, a large enough degree of emphasis can be rather significant.

There is only a difference in degree—of consciousness—between my being asleep
and my being awake but it seems useful to hang onto the distinction.
History as Method
At my university’s open days for potential students, far from proclaiming the his-
torian as oracle we employees are apt to be found extolling the ‘transferable skills’
developed in the practice of History. This is a benefit of History as Method. The
idea of transferability appeals to historians’ self-image as critical thinkers while
sounding worthwhile to potential employers of History students. It promises to
blend holistic and instrumental criteria—the argument goes that critical minds
are good things for people and society to have in general, whilst being useful in a
narrower productive sense.
Employment patterns suggest that historical training is valued in many work-
places, either directly or when refracted through conversion courses. That may be
enough for those looking to ‘sell’ the discipline, but it only tells us necessarily
about the technical side of the historian’s training and its instrumental potential.
It does not necessarily say anything about the whole critical-reflective disposition
that a historical training is also said to foster. So let us distinguish between the
thought of a rather stereotyped functionary and ‘critical’ thought. The distinction
is between those who apply their thinking in pursuit of the already established
ends of some extant set-up, and those who might apply their thinking critically
towards the founding assumptions of the set-up. The values that one reflects on as
a citizen might sit uncomfortably with the interests that one furthers in one’s job
by one’s particular skillset—of course they also might not clash, but the point is
that skills in the narrow sense are neutral as to the purposes they serve, whereas
the critical faculty in the broader sense is not. She who lends her skills profes-
sionally to the pursuit of maximizing profit may or may not as citizen approve of
the set-up that incentivizes such behaviour. She who has developed her critical
faculties might appreciate that the very idea that one’s work be hived off from
one’s life as a citizen stems from a particular worldview that is itself eligible for
criticism.
A second heuristic distinction cuts across the distinction between critical
thinkers and functionaries. It is a distinction based on the varying roles of truth-
fulness in relation to the conduct of one’s activities. On one side are intellectual
disciplines like History for which truthfulness is (or ought to be) a governing
value. On the other side are undertakings for which truthfulness is not necessar-
ily a governing value. The significance of this distinction is best elucidated by
considering some of the specific claims made on behalf of History and other
scholarly undertakings.
308 Why History?
The historiographer John Tosh lists among the virtues that have been proclaimed
for History the provision of ‘a training in the rational evaluation of evidence and
argument, on which democratic discourse depends’, adding that this classically
liberal justification ‘is probably the only perspective on which all historians agree’,
but also that ‘it amounts to no more than claiming for history a special distinction
in attitudes which are found in other disciplines too’.6 The study of literature,
poetry, and pragmatist philosophy has indeed enjoyed similar endorsement from
some of its advocates,7 and we ought also to note the connection that Karl Popper
drew between scientific method, openness to new conclusions, and the ‘open
society’.8 In Human, All Too Human Nietzsche provided his own justification for
systematic enquiry:
On the whole, scientific methods are at least as important as any other result of
research: for it is upon the insight into method that the scientific spirit
depends . . . Clever people may learn as much as they wish of the results of sci-
ence . . . [but] lack the scientific spirit . . . They are content to find any hypothesis
at all concerning some matter; then they are all fire and flame for it and think
that is enough. . . . If something is unexplained, they grow hot over the first
notion that comes into their heads and looks like an explanation—which results
progressively in the worst consequences, especially in the sphere of politics. For
that reason everyone should now study at least one science from the bottom up:
then he will know what method means and how important is the utmost
circumspection.9
Now in many of these cases an ‘appropriate’ contribution to the political or civic

spheres is associated with procedure, i.e. with respect for a methodical process.
But how well does the analogy with intellectual disciplines like History work
when we move beyond questions of procedure to the ethos of truthfulness gov-
erning the procedure?
There are reasons to doubt the efficacy of the analogy at this level. Nietzsche
had an intellectually conscientious politician in mind, yet whatever one thinks
politics should be about, judging by the record of many successful politicians, a
training in certain skills of analysis and argument might produce people who are
very good at deceit, or the instrumental and selective use of evidence to bolster
6 John Tosh, Why History Matters (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2008), 120.

7 J. Hillis Miller, The Ethics of Reading (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987), 5; Stanley
Fish considers some candidates from the realms of poetry and pragmatic philosophy: Fish, The
Trouble with Principle (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 300.
8 Popper’s contentions are considered in Nigel Rapport (ed.), Democracy, Science and the ‘Open
Society’: A European Legacy? (Münster: LIT, 2005) with a summary of Popperian claims in Rapport,
‘Introduction’, 1–32, here 2–4.
9 Nietzsche, Human, All-Too-Human, §635: Friedrich Nietzsche, The Portable Nietzsche, ed.
Walter Kaufmann (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1983), 64–4. Emphasis added.
sectional interest under pretence of open enquiry or pursuit of the common good.
Such people we might call propagandists. If ‘propagandist’ sounds too prejudicial,
take the adversarial stance of the lawyer in the common law system. The lawyer
tries to win an argument by any means that can be gotten away with within the
rules of the courtroom, rules which are by no means the same as the rules of
scholarly enquiry invoked by Nietzsche et al. The lawyer honours her profes-
sion—and fulfils an important social role—by acting as a zealous advocate for a
party to a dispute. When contrasting historians on one hand and lawyers and
certain politicians on the other, the claim is not that historians do not succumb to
advocacy or propagandistic forms of argument. Today, at least as much as before,
there is a professional tendency and a commercial imperative to make one’s mark
by a ‘strong argument’, where ‘strong’ does not mean ‘well-substantiated’ so much
as ‘provocative’—‘better to be strong and wrong’, I have heard said. Alan Bennett’s
play The History Boys (2005) reported rather than invented a vision of the discip
line wherein the capacity to persuade that orange is green is a virtue to be
applauded. Nevertheless, there is a different balance of governing ideals in an
intellectual discipline of supposedly open enquiry, as opposed to the balance per-
taining in sundry official, representative, and adversary roles, however appropri-
ate and even admirable the differing balances might be in their respective spheres.
As we move the discussion on, please note that the assertion that truthfulness
ought to be a governing ideal for those in the intellectual disciplines is made in
full awareness that, insofar as it has been an ideal for historians over time, the
understanding of what ‘truthfulness’ means has varied along with concepts of
truth. In this book we have encountered concepts of truth as plausibility or as
capturing the way things generally are assumed to be irrespective of particulars.
We have heard of historians bolstering their truth-telling authority by catering to
popular belief in omens and miracles. But we have also encountered the concept
of audience expectations of Histories, the greater credence audiences gave to
some parts of a work than others, audience awareness of authorial tropes, and so
forth. In short, we have grounds to believe that there was very often an implicit
contract of trust between writer and audience as to the nature of the written prod-
uct, however much the product and the expectation differed over time. We have
also tracked a diminution of the types of ‘truthfulness’, with increasing prioritiza-
tion of a certain literal, particular sort, as opposed, say, to figural truth. This
diminution over time correlates roughly with the rise of specialism, then profes-
sionalism, if also with a decline in certain hermeneutic traditions. Today, on the
whole, central to the contract of trust that the historian has with her audience is a
stipulation as to the historian’s truthfulness in this narrower sense. The contract is
underwritten by a belief, right or wrong, that by their training historians are best
placed to honour that particular ideal of truthfulness in the (method-ical) way in
which they draw inferences from evidence, but there must be a presumed com-
mitment to truthfulness in the first place. Indeed, irrespective of how things were
310 Why History?
in the past in the practice of historians, there are good Kantian reasons for high-
lighting the significance of the contract of trust, because to abuse trust—to
deceive—is to treat audience members as means for the agenda of the deceitful
historian, not as ends in themselves. To deceive might also involve co-opting the
denizens of the past. In the absence of a tacit commitment to fulfilling the con-
tract of trust with the audience, the historian will step into the shoes of the zeal-
ous advocate with her different and, in the context of the discipline as it is at
present, inappropriate ethic of vocational responsibility.10
That august body, Britain’s Incorporated Association of Assistant Masters in
Secondary Schools, was heading roughly in the direction of venerating truthful-
ness when, alongside advocating the marketability of the historian’s skillset, its
The Teaching of History (1957) noted:
Accuracy in apprehension and statement, ability to distinguish what is relevant

and to select what is important—these are at least as necessary in studying his-
tory as in other disciplines. More peculiar to history itself [!] are the weighing of
evidence, the detection of bias, the distinguishing of truth from falsehood, or at
least the probable from the impossible.11
A clarification: the focus in this section is on truthfulness rather than the ‘truth’
invoked by the Assistant Masters. Under discussion is not the ability to ascertain
historical truth,12 which, even in the event that we all accepted a common defin
ition, will always be the subject of argument in an inferential undertaking. The
idea of truthfulness as a disposition or regulative ideal rather than truth-finding
as a capacity is the sort of thing the historian and political scientist Mark Bevir is
getting at when designating objectivity a normative standard to which to aspire,
rather than an epistemic claim about one’s standpoint or achievement.
Truthfulness as a parameter or ideal is implicitly honoured by the likes of the
historian and historiographer G. J. Reiner who noted in 1950 that ‘the morality of
history-writing is exclusively methodological’.13 It is explicit when intellectual
historian John Zammito lists ‘truth-telling’ as chief among what he calls the ‘cog-
nitive virtues’ of the scholar.14 The medievalist Eric John made the same point.15
One historian said of the British cohort that Bentley calls modernists (p. 249)
that those ‘new academic professionals’ regarded accepting the principles of
10 By ‘the audience’ I mean a general audience, not a particular one that might wish to have its
prejudices confirmed against another part of the potential audience.
11 Cited in D. M. Sturley, The Study of History (London: Longmans, 1969), 7.
12 Williams, Truth and Truthfulness.
13 Mark Bevir, ‘Objectivity in History’, History and Theory 33:3 (1994), 328-344, here 335;
G. J. Reiner, History: Its Purpose and Method (London: Allen and Unwin, 1950), 255.
14 John H. Zammito, review of David Carr, Thomas R. Flynn, and Rudolf Makkreel (eds.), The
Ethics of History (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2004) at http://ndpr.nd.edu/
news/24599-the-ethics-of-history
15 Eric John, ‘Some Questions on the Materialist Conception of History,’ History, 38 (1953), 1–10.
on-partisan dispassion and method as itself ‘morally elevating’.16 The Belgian

n
historian Jean Stengers reached much the same conclusion.17 Nancy Streuver
thinks that ‘Not the past, but investigating the past is edifying. From this follows
the very economical decision not to apply moral criteria to historical actions, not
to stipulate morality as present or absent in historical actors, but rather apply
moral criteria to the acts of investigating historical events.’18 Streuver’s fellow
intellectual historian Allan Megill states that ‘the epistemology of historical inves-
tigation is closely connected to the ethics of historical investigation’, indeed that
the obligation to ‘the maximal telling of truth . . . is where the only ethics of history
worthy of the name is to be found’.19 From a critical perspective, the postmodernist
cultural theorist Elizabeth Deeds Ermarth notes that ‘History is a method’, and
that ‘Its method is its moral’.20
Zammito importantly complicates the picture when he identifies ‘cultural
responsibility’ as another category of ethical salience alongside ‘truth-telling’,
deliberately leaving ‘cultural responsibility’ vague in light of the many possible
interpretations of it.21 We should think of ‘cultural responsibility’ as a category
that may subsume ‘truth-telling’ rather than standing in juxtaposition to it, given
the cultural prominence of historians as ‘truth-tellers’, or, more properly, expert
inferrers-from-evidence. Not all historians think their cultural responsibilities
fully discharged by their commitment to truthfulness. Without conducting
exhaustive examination of the possible variations in interpretation of ‘cultural
responsibility’ or related concepts like ‘political responsibility’, one may still say
this: the idea that the commitment to truthfulness must perforce be undermined
if the historian writes with additional motives is a Platonic fallacy. One cannot
judge the validity of people’s claims by their motives for making them. Take the
historian who wishes to write the History of group X ‘back into the historical
record’ out of some sense of injustice, or fidelity to group X in the present.
Obviously the writing ‘back’ can be done in better and worse ways in the proced
ural sense but if one has evidentiary warrant to infer that group X has been the
subject of an enduring cultural stereotype, or suffered historically, or made some
contribution hitherto ignored in the historiography, then undermining the stereo-
type or recording the suffering or contribution can serve the non-procedural
motives of the historian while honouring procedural precepts.
16 John Kenyon, The History Men (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1984), 283.
17 Jean Stengers, ‘Quelques réflexions sur le jugement moral en histoire’, Bulletin de la Classe des
Lettres et des Sciences morales et politiques de l’Académie Royale de Belgique, 5th ser., 58:5 (1972),
189–205.
18 Nancy Streuver, ‘Philosophical Problems and Historical Solutions’, in Bernard P. Dauenhauer
(ed.), At the Nexus of Philosophy and History (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2010), 73–93,
here 85.
19 Megill cited in Zammito review of Carr et al. (eds.), The Ethics of History.
20 Ermarth, ‘Ethics and Method’, History and Theory, 43:4 (2004), 61–83, here 63.
21 Zammito review of Carr et al. (eds.), The Ethics of History.
312 Why History?
We can also approach the issue from a different direction. Truthfulness is

obligatory when one embarks on a historical investigation but one has first to
choose what to investigate. The simple fact one believes something to be true is
no reason to say it. One needs a line of enquiry to which it is pertinent. In the
choice of questions one may ask about the past there is no parallel to the precepts
that govern procedure in the answering of those questions. (And even if all his
torians embodied the proceduralist ethos no two of them would come up with
exactly the same answers to the same question.) If we are to have any History we
need people with motives to study bits of the past. Political motives, including
motives emerging from the general, holistic critical attitude to which an educa-
tion in History might itself contribute, are as good as any other motives assuming
that they do not override the procedural commitment about the way one answers
a question.
Overall, the justification History as Method is a slightly odd one when it stands
alone, even in the event that its promise is realized – and we have provided
reasons why the promise of ‘transferability’ may often not be realized in import
ant senses. In its purest form the procedural rationale is divorced from any con-
cern with the content of the past, which is peculiar for a discipline whose claim to
distinction is the study of the past. Since other disciplines also teach critical
thought and presuppose a commitment to truthfulness, proceduralism is a
rationale for studying the past but, equally, for studying something other than the
past.
Knowledge and Human Interests
Unsurprisingly, advocates of History as Method tend to augment it with other

rationales, just as they did in classical antiquity. For Acton as for Tacitus judging
without fear or favour was itself an exercise in civics: methodological procedural-
ism was married to a concern with the content of the past, i.e. to a (moral) sub-
stantivism. Elton struggled to reconcile his general proceduralism with his
substantive determination that politics was what the historian should study on
grounds of its particular importance.22 Those British historians invoked by
Kenyon also had distinct hierarchies of significance in subject matter to go along-
side their method-ascetism. Streuver’s claim that it is not the past itself but rather
the act of ‘investigating the past [that] is edifying’ (p. 311), turns out over the
course of her essay not to be a paean to pure proceduralism. Her position is sub-
stantivist in its concern to engage the dialogic or conflictual elements in the past,
as opposed to just any part of the past. Thus ‘the usefulness of history lies in its
22 Quentin Skinner, ‘Sir Geoffrey Elton and the Practice of History’, Transactions of the Royal
Historical Society, 6th ser., VII (1997), 301–16.
reconstitution of our memory of specific controversy, bitter quarrel, endless

debate’.23
Substantivist rationales for History are numerous indeed, and historically have
been the most prominent. Let us start with the most general, the idea of know
ledge for knowledge’s sake. That idea, roughly speaking, was the object of the
French Enlighteners’ scorn as they contrasted themselves with the érudites.
It has been intimated with reference to historical coverage in any bookshop
that certain bits of the past just do attract more attention than others. Taking the
next step, it is difficult to show that anything in the past or indeed the present is
intrinsically interesting, because that means that it is interesting in and of itself,
objectively interesting as it were, rather than being an object of someone’s inter-
est, where that interest is subjective. Investigating or obtaining the object of the
interest is a way of satisfying some need or desire. Again, there is nothing neces-
sarily sinister in identifying interests. Interests are endlessly diverse and the inter-
ests in question could be products of the merest whim, rather than, say, the
interests of the ruling class—though for those seeking strong justifications for
History whimsy could be just as problematic!
For some professional historians, knowledge for knowledge’s sake can be a
petition to be allowed to follow their own interests, however tightly defined,
whilst still drawing a salary; that would be an argument to narrow interest. But
when people invoke ‘knowledge for knowledge’s sake’, it is to be hoped that they
do not really mean ‘knowledge for my sake, and very possibly no one else’s’. There
is a difference between a reason some particular person might be interested in the
study of the past and a reason why the past might be deemed a thing worth
encouraging people in general to take an interest in. ‘Knowledge for knowledge’s
sake’ implies that knowledge is in some way a good thing, and one assumes that
this is a general good.
One way of conceiving this broader conception of good is to reflect on what it
might be defined against, which brings us to those early nineteenth-century art-
ists who talked of ‘art for art’s sake’. Those artists were opposed to utilitarian con-
ceptions of human activity, the reduction of everything to some marketplace logic
or instrumental function. Through their art—and this is also Adorno’s and
Horkheimer’s view of the role of ‘authentic’ works of culture—they wished to
23 Streuver, ‘Philosophical Problems and Historical Solutions’, writes that ‘The history of the use of
casuistry is interesting, the history of employed moralisms is not’ (p. 88). However, she goes on to
relate to the substance of the past not just in the form, say, of past argumentative strategies but as
regards the moral weight of that substance. It becomes not just a matter of History of the use of casu-
istry, but History of the impact of issues about which casuistic arguments are used. In insisting on
‘history as constituting a shared memory of our confections of moral identity’, she sees the constraint
‘to positive as well as negative considerations of past manifestations of moral competence’ (p. 89),
which implies nothing less than moral assessment of things past. If ‘even negative thoughts about the
past are ethically viable’, paving the way for the ‘uses of a bad past’ (p. 90) then judgement is presup-
posed. This is little distance from exemplary History.
314 Why History?
prompt people to explore wider dimensions of human experience and diverse

sorts of meaning, encouraging imagination and creativity rather than just reflect-
ing a pre-packaged mundanity. In a typology of intellectual undertakings called
Knowledge and Human Interests, whose title has been purloined for the heading
of this section, Adorno’s and Horkheimer’s student Jürgen Habermas associated
History, or at least the sort of History informed by hermeneutics, as a discipline
of ‘communication’ with others.24 As with the visions of Vico and Dilthey, this
sort of knowledge was of a different sort, with different purposes and potentials,
than knowledge of the natural world or instrumentalizing technological know-
how. Insofar as History as Communion in its conventional religious sense has
declined, the nub of what Habermas calls communication is a rough secular
equivalent. When communication pertains to past versions of the present We, the
relevant rationale is History as Identity, but that rationale finds a complement in
the serious versions of History as Travel, when communication stretches to those
of obvious cultural distance.
Nevertheless, whatever the claims made for a mind-broadening, non-utilitarian
utility under the rubric ‘knowledge for knowledge’s sake’, questions may always be
raised about how far the principle can be taken. Is there literally nothing in the
past whose study cannot be vindicated by the claim ‘History for History’s sake’?
How far does study of X really open our eyes, or help us reflect on our condition?
Depending on perspective the arguments in favour of ‘knowledge for knowledge’s
sake’ could produce the conclusion that it is an unassailable rationale for History
or a weak one. The arguments have similar strengths and flaws to the argument
that one cannot put a price on the study of the past. That argument, which is sup-
posed to undermine market-based justifications for History, might end up raising
public investment in the study of the past. It might also justify reducing History’s
allocation from the public purse, since if a price cannot be put on History then a
small price is no more inaccurate a quantum of its value than a large one.
History as Practical Lesson
Reaching even a loose consensus as to the substantive value of studying the past is
not made easy by the fact that some academic historians often trade on a general
sense of History’s relevance while rather belittling the sorts of reasons that non-
academics might espouse. There are also different ways of honouring oneself. For
every popularizer who rides to celebrity on the back of the hard-won findings of
archival scholars, there are several cosmopolitan-but-protectionist historians,
self-appointed gatekeepers of esoteric knowledge: ‘it’s more complicated than
24 Jürgen Habermas, Knowledge and Human Interests (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987), 309–10.
that, as you would know if you had read the sources in four languages and twenty
archives’.
The tension between ‘relevance’ and ‘specificity’ has grown with academic spe-
cialism and with the ever finer differentiations characteristic of neo-historicism.
It has been highlighted in Britain by successive governments’ demands that
academics in all fields show the social, political, or economic ‘impact’ of their
research. (‘Impact’ is a separate category of measurement to quality, so in the
overall reckoning one can offset a jamboree of impact against a deficit of ‘excel-
lence’.) Since there are funding and ranking connotations that set institution
against institution by way of marketizing the sector, some historians are increas-
ingly concerned to show some quantifiable relevance of History even while others
fight an anti-utilitarian rearguard under the banner of ‘knowledge for knowledge’s
sake’ or ‘holistic critical faculty’. Putting to one side inane and/or pernicious
British higher education policies, the underlying intellectual issues have con-
cerned serious thinkers since at least the time of Aristotle.
How, given the focus on knowing more and more about less and less during
one’s training, is one to answer the PhD examiner’s ‘so what’ question? The very
asking of the question renders ineligible a ‘knowledge for knowledge’s sake’
defence. The implication is that some knowledge is more valuable/relevant/
significant than others. Over-interpretation can be one way of responding to the
question, with hard-earned empirical precision accompanied by conceptual over-
stretch, as if one’s chosen topic were a microcosm of a larger homogeneous whole,
or a case study of one among a standardized class of entities. In order to justify
their study, particular signs and texts must embody wider systemic logics or
discourses, or, the reverse, be the signs of deep conflict within the historical
meaning-system from which they sprang.25 If one cannot claim wider empirical
or heuristic relevance for one’s subject matter one may hope alternatively to hone
an investigative method of more general utility. The frenzy to coin terms that one
hopes will catch on, with appropriate footnotes to their progenitor, is the most
obvious instance of this tendency; the kingdom is yours if your name ends up
being associated with a ‘turn’.
The risks of over-interpretation are the price often paid for conceptual and
methodological innovation, so one should not be too harsh on over-interpreters.
But it does need to be noted how much the generalizing tendencies of over-
interpretation can militate against the neo-historicist logic with which the gate-
keepers of esoteric knowledge try to police their empirical bailiwick. Student and
examiner alike also need to recognize that measurements of significance are rela-
tive to scale and interest. The work of the examiner who asks ‘so what?’ may fall
foul of allegations of irrelevance when the focus is moved up an order of
25 Raphel Samuel, ‘Reading the Signs II: Fact Grubbers and Mind-Readers’, History Workshop
Journal, 33 (1992), 220–51, here 243–4.
316 Why History?
magnitude, and there is likely a difference between what the examiner—a par-
ticular specialist professional—will find significant and what other historians, not
to speak of members of the general public, will find significant. So while the ‘so
what’ question derives from a substantive rationale for History stronger than
own-sake-ism, it rarely carries a stipulation as to who the substance of the past is
supposed to be important for.
The History-reading public has been moved rather less profoundly than the
academic profession by the ‘turns’ of the last four decades. This is partly because
of the rise of an alienating jargon, a tendency which at once stems from and rein-
forces a wider tendency: most historians write primarily for other historians.
A minority of popularizers attend to the tastes and needs of the reading public,
which is itself relatively diverse owing to the spread of literacy. Unlike in classical
antiquity and beyond, only a few historians of any stripe today see elite decision-
makers as the major target audience, which is also an outcome of the turf-war
over the centuries between History and other disciplines, notably political phil
osophy and then the social sciences. History has ceded ground in some areas
while having more fall-back positions than these other disciplines have. So while
History as Travel, Entertainment, Memorialization, and Identity remain influen-
tial, History as Practical Lesson in the classical form of elite instruction is rarer
than it used to be.
As with other rationales, History as Practical Lesson has metamorphosed
rather than disappearing. It has softer and harder types. Lessons can come in
more and less literal form, and, in the shape of History as Emancipation, in ‘nega-
tive’ form. Some relatively hard lessons are inferred by readers even when not
necessarily propounded by historians. The story of war-waging politicians fight-
ing present wars through the lenses of the memory of previous wars is among the
most unfortunate and important of such cases—a blend of imagined exemplarity
and the similitudo temporum that has for centuries acted to reduce the historical
distance between relevant pasts and present, in a way that runs against the dis-
tancing tendency of ‘modern historical consciousness’.26 Not that there is any
shortage of historians trying to cash in on anniversaries with stronger arguments
as to the relevance of the memorialized event than the fact that past and present
moments are linked by calendrical digits.
Tosh has a ‘soft’ practical rationale in mind when he suggests that ‘historical
re-creation’ offers ‘vicarious experience to writer and reader alike’.27 Vicarious
experience was identified as a benefit of History by Carl Becker and, slightly more
26 On exemplarity in policymaking, Ernest May, ‘Lessons’ of the Past: The Use and Misuse of History
in American Foreign Policy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975); Yuen Foong Khong, Analogies
at War: Korea, Munich, Dien Bien Phu, and the Vietnam Decisions of 1965 (Princeton: Princeton
27 John Tosh, The Pursuit of History, 2nd edition (Harlow: Longman, 1993), 29.
recently, the historian of late antiquity Henri Marrou.28 The historian of science
Thomas Söderqvist rejects the connotations of the sociologically oriented social
constructionist approach to the History of science, which he sees as downplaying
the creative agency and individuality of particular scientists. He commends writ-
ing detailed biographies that empower readers to make their own existential
choices by showing how historical figures made theirs. This is a form of practical
inspiration without any accompanying template for action.29 Foucault implied a
rather harder lesson when he wrote of retrieving ‘subjugated knowledges’ buried
beneath dominant thought systems (pp. 280–81), and at points in his work on
ancient Greece he subscribed to something not so very distant from exemplarity.
Foucault’s views shifted as to the balance of similarity and difference across
time, which reflected amongst other things the difference between his sediment-
ing horizontal-structural ‘archaeological’ approach and the diachronic biopsy of
his ‘genealogical’ approach. When trying to establish his position on the relation-
ship between past and present, and thus the use of History for life, there is also a
tension between his detailed, monographic ‘analytical’ historical work about
regimes of power-knowledge and his ‘diagnostic’ and prescriptive thinking about
resisting power in the present, which was to be found in the form of short essays
and interviews. It is said by one of Foucault’s enthusiasts of his late career lectures
at the Collège de France that ‘nowhere more clearly than [here] do we see the
balancing, the alternation, and the overlapping of these two poles’. Carefully
chosen words; ‘reconciliation’ is not among them.30 In what turned out to be his
final years, Foucault had not achieved a consistent view on History’s utility, but it
is clear that on occasions he was far less ruthlessly (neo-)historicizing than many
of the historians influenced by his early and mid-career work. When asked in
1983 whether ancient Greek ethics offered a plausible alternative in the present
his answer was emphatically negative. ‘I am not looking for an alternative; you
can’t find the solution of a problem in the solution of another problem raised at
another moment by other people. You see, what I want to do is not the history of
solutions—and that’s the reason why I don’t accept the word alternative. I would
like to do the genealogy of problems, of problématiques.’31 Now it takes little
reasoning to establish that there must be some relationship between the History
of problems and that of solutions, and a little later in the same interview Foucault
confirmed as much. ‘Among the cultural inventions of mankind there is a treas-
ury of devices, techniques, ideas, procedures, and so on, that cannot exactly be
28 Henri Marrou, The Meaning of History (Dublin: Helicon, 1966), 260; Becker, Detachment, 61.
29 Thomas Söderqvist, ‘Scientific Biography as a Hermeneutics of Edification’, International History
of Science Newsletter, no. 3 (April 1995), 4–6. For additional references and a critique: Paolo Palladino,
‘Icarus’ Flight: On the Dialogue between the Historian and the Historical Actor’, Rethinking History,
4:1 (2000), 21–36.
30 Foucault, Society must be Defended, editor’s introduction, pp. xvi–xvii.
31 Michel Foucault, Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth, ed. Paul Rabinow (New York: New Press, 1997),
256.
318 Why History?
reactivated but at least constitute, or help to constitute, a certain point of view

which can be very useful as a tool for analyzing what’s going on now—and to
change it.’32 History is the teacher of life, as Cicero wrote. When asked months
later whether the ancient Greek practice of personal development that he called
‘care of the self ’ should be updated, Foucault responded enthusiastically, in the
fashion of Gadamer on the fusion of horizons: ‘Absolutely, but I would certainly
not do so just to say, “We have unfortunately forgotten about the care of the self;
so here, here it is, the key to everything.” . . . [Conversely again, this] does not
mean that contact with such and such a [classical] philosopher may not produce
something, but it must be emphasized that it would be something new.’33 In his
1984 paper ‘What is Enlightenment?’ he ended up somewhere in the triangular
space delineated by the Gadamerian horizon-fuser, the Diltheyan historicist con-
cerned with the balance of general and particular, and the Ciceronian topical
thinker. In any case he was far from the earlier theorist of inter-epistemic rupture,
which conveniently fitted his move backwards from the later 1970s from the
study of modern History to his examinations of classical History:
historico-critical investigations are quite specific in the sense that they always
bear upon a material, an epoch, a body of determined practices and discourses.
And yet, at least at the level of the Western societies from which we derive, they
have their generality, in the sense that they have continued to recur up to our
time: for example, the problem of the relationship between sanity and insanity,
or sickness and health, or crime and the law; the problem of the role of sexual
relations; and so on.34
It is hard to quantify the relevance of an issue at one point in time to a related or

roughly similar issue at another point in time, but that may be more of a problem
for those preoccupied with quantification than those who seek broader and richer
insight. When one talks of ‘shedding light’ on a problem one does not necessarily
mean definitively solving that problem but helping to conceive of its relevance
and dimensions in a new way, apprehending its persistence across time in a way
that may promote investigation of alternative or additional causal elements, and
so forth.
Foucault aside, historical or at least quasi-historical analysis has served some
highly influential modern philosophers, including Heidegger, Adorno and
Horkheimer, Gilles Deleuze, and above all Rousseau and Nietzsche. To begin
with, philosophers can gain more than just antiquarian knowledge from the his
torical study of their own discipline. The History of philosophy is relevant to
philosophical thought because philosophy itself is a product of the evolution of
32 Ibid. 261. 33 Ibid. 294–5. 34 Ibid. 317–18.

previous philosophies, philosophical questions the derivatives of earlier philo

sophical questions. Philosophy is significantly constituted by its theory of itself,
and that theory evolves historically.35 Thinking to philosophers’ relationships to
broader society, while the historical evolution of practices and the concepts which
the practices embed is not strictly relevant to an assessment of their ‘logic’, effi-
cacy, or appropriateness (see pp. 338–9), philosophy is not limited to those sorts
of assessments. The explanation of how a course of developments produced some
concept in its current shape fulfils a rather Hegelian role of philosophy as a mode
of making sense of the practices of the philosopher’s time.
From the throng of more conventional historians, an example of practically
helpful scholarship is produced by Katie Barclay. It was published on the British
‘History and Policy’ website which, as its name suggests, was set up with the aim
of influencing public policy with reference to relevant History. Barclay’s piece is
entitled ‘Creating “cruel” welfare systems: a historical perspective’. Its introduc-
tory summary is as follows:
Current welfare systems are coming under significant critique, not least for ‘cru-
elty’ to service users[;] Abuse and cruelty in previous welfare systems have been
at significant cost to individuals and nations[;] Historical welfare policies pro-
vide useful evidence of how systems designed to care can become cruel[;] Abuse
by caring institutions is not just a problem of ‘isolated perpetrators’, but is
enabled by the ideologies around, investments in, and management of welfare
systems.36
While Barclay’s piece works by comparison/analogy, for example from the moral-
istic attitude to work and the deliberate harshness of welfare regimes in late eight-
eenth- and early nineteenth-century Ireland to the present in Britain, the work of
the social historian Louise Jackson in the same online venue highlights a different
relationship of relevance between past and present—the relationship of genealogy.
Her piece on ‘Child sexual abuse in England and Wales: prosecution and preva-
lence 1918–1970’ points to problems with the law’s response to abuse, showing
amongst other things that ‘Legislation developed in the nineteenth century, which
reflected Victorian moral values, was adapted inadequately to deal with offences
against children’ which led to legal loopholes. ‘It also made it impossible for poli-
ticians, policy-makers and campaigners to monitor increases in sexual offences
against children using criminal justice statistics.’37
35 On the theoretical self-constitution of theory, Kwame Anthony Appiah, In My Father’s House:
Africa in the Philosophy of Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 142.
36 http://www.historyandpolicy.org/policy-papers/papers/creating-cruel-welfare-systems-a-his
torical-perspective published 1 March 2018.
37 http://www.historyandpolicy.org/policy-papers/papers/child-sexual-abuse-in-england-and-
wales-prosecution-and-prevalence-1918–197 published 18 June 2015.
320 Why History?
‘Hardest’ of all in practical aspiration was some of the quantitative sociological

social History of the 1960s–1970s. While it could not be said that the likes of
Paul E. Johnson’s doctoral supervisor succeeded in making History into a predict
ive social science (p. 269), this does not mean that History has nothing to contrib-
ute in terms of informing action here and now, or, conversely, that the social and
political sciences that take prediction as part of their business are as good at it as
some of their more scientistic practitioners claim. Note the failures of the relevant
experts to see the warning signs of the USSR’s collapse or the 2008 financial crisis.
Conversely note the relevance of the economic History of the 1929 crash and
ensuing depression to policy-choices in the last decade or so—irrespective of
whether those lessons have been learned by policy-makers. That the past does not
guarantee the future only means that we cannot predict the way that transforma
tion and reproduction will interact, not that there will be no reproduction. If one
wishes to go down the route of History-as-prediction, the fact that there is no way
of guaranteeing the accuracy of predictions does not mean that there is no point
trying to anticipate, make contingency plans, or, say, speculate on outcome distri-
butions rather than particular instances. (I might not be able to predict the career
pattern of any given one of my students but I am on firmer ground in projecting
from extant data that roughly X per cent of the undergraduate History cohort will
go into a particular line of work, Y per cent into another.) Prudential thought, as
Aquinas knew, was a future-oriented product of reflection on the past, and the
social sciences are in the same boat as History insofar as the evidence on which
they rely pertains to the past, even if that is only the recent past. Based on his
torical experiences acquired in one decade, one could, for instance, project with a
reasonable degree of confidence some of the outcomes of IMF-dictated ‘structural
adjustment programmes’ as they continued to be imposed on ‘developing econo-
mies’ in the next decade.
We had better be aware that there are patterns and trajectories that exist not
because of some divine will but because humans have put them in place. Carol
Anderson’s White Rage (2016) provides chapter and verse on the roll-back reac-
tions that have followed every significant African American political advance
over the last 150 years or so.38 Historical laws there probably are not; historical
trends there most certainly are. Some of these trends can be very large and long-
term ones, as with ‘the rise of capitalism’ and ‘the generalization of the nation-
state form’. ‘The marketisation of universities’ is a shorter-term manifestation of
one of those longer-term trends. If one wants to change or perpetuate trends or
structures, analysing them is helpful. To the extent that understanding their evo-
lution is helpful, then History is helpful—though it is understandable that histor
ians, like one of their number, Ranke, might not wish to justify themselves by
38 Carol Anderson, White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide (New York: Bloomsbury,
2016).
their value as under-labourers to the social sciences and political philosophy.

And, as Nietzsche put it, one needs to exercise the utmost circumspection here, as
elsewhere.
History as Moral Lesson
The stock of History as Moral Lesson has depreciated for many of the same
reasons that have affected the fortunes of History as Practical Lesson.

Contextualism, historicism, anachronism, relativism, neutralism: sometimes his
torians appeal to one of these concepts as against evaluative thought when they
mean another. They can be placeholders that interchangeably vouchsafe the non-
judgemental disposition one feels one ought to adopt towards the foreign country
past, where they do things differently.
It is, nonetheless, not unheard of for historians today to justify their work with
reference to moral edification. Michael Dintenfass recommends that History
become ‘a project of the should and the ought as well as the did and the was’,
though he would have done well to register that this was a function of History for
most of its existence.39 John Arnold thinks that examining ‘what human beings
have done in the past—the bad and the good—provides us with examples through
which we might contemplate our future actions’.40 This sounds old-fashioned, but
who decreed that historians had to adopt a modern enthusiasm for the new? The
historical theorist Jörn Rüsen once pointed out how little we really know about
the way readers assimilate History, and in an attempt to help rectify the situation
through an empirical study at the University of Bochum he found that students
embraced exemplarity as a way of learning.41 We have seen that the point of
topical thinking, which is a few millennia old, is that it is not a form of rote-
learning but an example-based exercise in honing one’s thinking such that it can
be deployed in new situations. One ‘thinks with’ real-life or hypothetical scen
arios, which is why novels, with their dense, highly contextualized evocations of
complex, fraught situations, can be so stimulating to the critical faculty.42 This
does not mean one expects to find a situation which mirrors one’s favourite read
in all particulars. No less a moral rationalist than Kant recognized that examples
are the ‘go-kart’ of moral thought—that which gives impetus to the whole
39 Michael Dintenfass, ‘Truth’s Other: Ethics, the History of the Holocaust, and Historiographical
Theory After the Linguistic Turn’, History and Theory, 39 (2000), 1–20, here 20.
40 John Arnold, History: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 118.
41 See George Kitson Clark on morality: The Critical Historian (London: History Book Club, 1968),
207. Jörn Rüsen, ‘The Didactics of History in West Germany: Towards a New Self-Awareness of
Historical Studies’, History and Theory, 26:3 (1987), 275–86, here 282–3.
42 This is one of the core tenets of the thought of those sometimes called literary Aristotelians. See
for instance Marshall Gregory, Shaped by Stories: The Ethical Power of Narratives (Notre Dame:
University of Indiana Press, 2009).
322 Why History?
endeavour by illuminating the real and possible stakes, concretizing thought by

reference to specifics.43
Even if one forswears exemplarity, that is a far cry from removing all evaluative
elements from one’s History. Exemplarity is a specific mode of didactics; evalu
ation, moral and otherwise, is an integral part of certain explanations and empir
ical characterizations, as we shall see later. The idea of evaluation is also inherent,
despite appearances to the contrary, in the enduring doctrine that History is a
teacher of tolerance.
History as Travel, History as Tolerance?
R. G. Collingwood, arguably the most influential English-language historian-

philosopher of the first half of the twentieth century, stated that ‘The past is in no
sense whatever actual. It is wholly ideal. And that is why our attitude towards it is
wholly different from our attitude towards the present, which, because it is actual,
is the scene of our practical activity and the proper subject of our moral
judgements.’44 Where the historicists drew dividing lines of culture as well as
time, Collingwood drew a line between those matters that were immanent to
consciousness or susceptible to worldly action, and those that were inaccessible
except through the traces that historians themselves had mentally to animate, as
they worked their way into the mindset that motivated past gestes, deeds. In 1946,
Collingwood established as one of his four defining criteria of History that it was
‘self-revelatory’, meaning that it ‘exists in order to tell man what man is by telling
him what man has done’.45 This also meant telling ‘man’ what she was contin-
gently not, in virtue of recognizing those historical characteristics that were
incompatible with her own heritage and reflexivity. Either way, the result was a
sense of shared historicity and a tolerance that Collingwood saw as the hallmark
of the historical rather than the logical mind, given the latter’s aspiration to singu-
lar correct outcomes. Tolerance meant ‘the ability to live one’s own life and yet to
admire and love people who live by the systems which one rejects’. Such tolerance
entailed avoidance of ‘idolatrous worship of one phase of the past’ at the expense
of others or indeed the present, and by extension of the present at the expense
of any past.46 Collingwood’s prescriptions, like aspects of his method, evoke
43 Hannah Arendt, Responsibility and Judgement (New York: Shocken, 2003), 143–4.
44 R. G. Collingwood, The Idea of History, revised edition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005),
403–4.
45 Ibid. 18.
46 Lionel Rubinoff, Collingwood and the Reform of Metaphysics: A Study in the Philosophy of
Mind (University of Toronto Press, 1970), 229; William M. Johnston, The Formative Years of
R. G. Collingwood (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1968), 60; Alan Donagan, The Later Philosophy
of R. G. Collingwood (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962), 246, and the review of Collingwood by Hayden
White in History and Theory, 4:2 (1965), 244–52.
Herder.47 If few historians then or since restricted themselves to Collingwood’s

conception of method, very many endorsed some variant of his rationale. The
intellectual historian Arthur O. Lovejoy wrote:
It is not impossible nor unprofitable for a rational animal—and it is imperative

for the historian—to realize that his ancestors had ends of their own which were
not solely instrumental to his ends, that the content and meaning of their exist-
ence are not exhaustively resolvable into those of the existence of their posterity.
In these aspects of history lie not the least of its values; for it is they, especially,
which make of it a mind-enlarging, liberalizing, sympathy-widening discipline,
an enrichment of present experience.48
Similarly, Tosh writes that ‘human awareness is enhanced by the contemplation of

vanished eras’,49 whilst for Raymond Aron the ‘never-ending discovery and redis-
covery of the past is the expression of a dialectic which will last as long as the
human race and which is the very essence of history: individuals and communi-
ties alike find contact with others enriching and self-revealing’.50 Something of
this attitude was present in the historian of early-modern Europe Hugh Trevor-
Roper, who described historical imagination as ‘the capacity to migrate into dis-
tant, foreign minds’.51 For the social historian Richard J. Evans, History’s ‘most
important justification lies in its less immediately tangible effects. History can
teach us about other societies, other beliefs and other times, and so make us more
tolerant of differences in our world.’ Indeed he says that ‘it can provide us with a
democratic civic education to help us build a better world for the future’.52
Alongside his pronouncements against value judgements, Butterfield also hinted
at the argument to tolerance in his discussion of historians and attitudes to
diversity.53 Much the same philosophy was espoused by G. M. Trevelyan,54
although the gist of the idea goes at least as far back as Herodotus. Perhaps the
doctrine of tolerance that some have ascribed to William of Tyre in the crusader
kingdoms was influenced by his historical thought (or perhaps the relationship
47 Herder, Philosophical Writings, ed. Forster, editor’s introduction, pp. xxvii–xxviii.

48 Arthur O. Lovejoy, ‘Present Standpoints and Past History’, in Meyerhoff (ed.), The Philosophy of
History in Our Time, 173–87, here 180.
49 Tosh, The Pursuit, 29.
50 Raymond Aron, ‘Relativism in History’, in Meyerhoff (ed.) The Philosophy of History in Our
Time, 153–61, here 160–1.
51 Trevor-Roper cited in H. P. Rickman, Meaning in History: W. Dilthey’s Thoughts on History and
Society (London: Allen and Unwin, 1961), 43.
52 Richard Evans, ‘What is History?’, in Harriet Swain (ed.), Big Questions in History (London:
Jonathan Cape, 2005), 1–12, here 5 and 7.
53 Herbert Butterfield, The Whig Interpretation of History (New York: Norton, 1965), 95–6, cf. 109
and 117 against value judgements.
54 Trevelyan’s view summarized in Sturley, The Study of History, 6.
324 Why History?
was the other way around).55 We are on firmer ground with Bolingbroke: ‘An
early and proper application to the study of history will contribute extremely to
keep our minds free from a ridiculous partiality in favour of our own country,
and a vicious prejudice against others.’56 Like Montaigne, Bolingbroke differs only
in tone from Descartes’s ever-so-slightly-dismissive conception of History as
travel to broaden the mind: ‘It is’, wrote Descartes, ‘good to know something
about the manners and customs of other nations so that we may judge more
sanely of our own, and may not think that whatever is contrary to our own mode
of life is both ridiculous and unreasonable, as is usually the case with those who
have seen nothing’, although he also said that ‘a man who has spent too much
time in travelling becomes in the end a stranger in his own country; and a man
who has too much curiosity about what happened in past centuries usually
shows a great ignorance of what is happening in this one’.57 Early in 2018 a
group of senior British m edievalists justified their activities in the face of assault
by a government that included no small number of History graduates, conclud-
ing that studying History makes one a ‘richer, better, more tolerant, better
informed person’.58 One of those had earlier written of the benefit of exploring
an ‘alternative world’ because ‘visiting the past is something like visiting a for-
eign country’.59
In the accounts of these scholars the idea of History as Travel is a non-
instrumental justification for the discipline, akin to Habermas’s vision of History
as a form of communication (p. 314). There are some grounds for accepting the
view: the basic interest in other ways of life, and how other humans experience
things, clearly can exist apart from any utilitarian justification. But this is not the
only reason for ‘travel’: what of that great British institution, the booze-cruise?
Even the sort of tourism with a little more in common with ‘the grand tour’ may
be more angled at gratification or relaxation than edification. (With the
Presocratic Gorgias ringing in the ears (p. 30), one needs to reject the fallacy
whereby something cannot be edifying if it is also entertaining: the question is of
the nature of this entertainment.) When we come to matters like sex-tourism
then self-gratification is also instrumentalization of others. In the scholarly
and political realm, one only needs to reflect upon the role that historical and
anthropological enquiry into the ways of ‘others’ has sometimes played in justify-
ing imperialism: here Foucauldian critiques about the relationship of knowledge
55 Rainer C. Schwinges, ‘Kreuzzugsideologie und Toleranz im Denken Wilhelms von Tyrus’,
Saeculum, 25 (1974), 367–85; Ulrich Berner, ‘Die Bibel in der mittelalterlicher Diskussion um Ketzer
und Muslime’, in Joachim Kügler and Werner H. Ritter (eds.), Auf Leben und Tod oder völlig egal:
Kritisches und Nachdenkliches zur Bedeutung der Bibel (Munster: LIT, 2005) 11–24, here 22 ff.
56 Bolingbroke, Letters, 27. 57 Descartes, Discourse, 40.
58 James Tapper, ‘Is Medieval History Bunk? Not if you’re a cabinet minister’, The Observer, 28
January 2018.
59 Arnold, History, 119–20.
to power cohere with Edward Said’s critique of ‘orientalism’ and with some of the
central concerns of postcolonial scholarship.60
The association of History as Travel with tolerance is also wrong if it comes
with any presupposition of ditching the evaluative thought associated with
History as Moral Lesson. The problem is identical to the liberal problem of
whether to tolerate the intolerant or the intolerable. Tolerance is a principle which
will have at points to compete with other principles. When, having explicitly dis
avowed moral evaluation, Collingwood et al. claim that History will encourage
the embrace of human variety, each is prejudicing the issue. The attitude that is
supposed to be inculcated by studying the past is imposed, or already possessed,
prior to any particular encounter with the past, otherwise there is no guarantee of
the right outcome. Here we find much the same confusion—or circularity—that
we identified in the late nineteenth century when Fustel, Monod, and Fagniez
decreed that History, ‘properly’ understood, would promote national unity and
strength (pp. 235–6).
One cannot say in advance of encountering a specific practice that one will be
tolerant of it. That would be to forego the possession of any other principle than
tolerance, to render oneself so completely mutable as to have no identity as a
value-bearing individual qualified to be tolerant. Some of us might find that
studying the past makes us tolerant, others that it drives us to fury at the injustice
of it all. Others might take inspiration from the evidence of so many people prof-
iting from theft or slavery and getting away with it. Then again, surveying other
forms of life past or present might produce admiration and a desire for emula-
tion. As it happens such positively evaluative reactions are ruled out by the anti-
evaluative ‘tolerance’ prescription in the same way that negative responses are.
Unusually for a thinker of his calibre, Collingwood ended up in something of a
conceptual muddle over the tolerance question, When warning historians against
thinking as if ‘the massacre of Corcyra was now being enacted in the next room
and we ought to break open the door and stop it’ he was implying, in the same
way as the philosopher Michael Oakeshott later, that such present-centric
responses were category errors.61 Why, then, is tolerance exempt from the
charge of being a category error? It is, after all, a present-centric response that is
(supposedly) produced in relation to some historical substance, i.e. some foreign
way of thinking, being, doing. In the search for conceptual consistency ought we
also to disapprove of tolerance as an upshot of History? Or ought we to rethink
these prescriptions in light of the fact that people, historians included, will con-
tinue to have varying emotional, political, and evaluative responses to stories of
the past? Indeed the inferred substance of the past that feeds these responses is
significant in drawing people to History.
60 Edward Said, Orientalism: Western Conceptions of the Orient (London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul, 1978).
61 Collingwood, The Idea of History, 404–6.
326 Why History?
Advocates of History as Travel have something in common with Herderian

students of Volksgeist in the sense that they invoke some generalized encounter
with a whole foreign country past at the level of something like ‘spirit’ or mentalité
or some concept of culture, but without the politics. One envisages a sojourner
who sees the sights, eats the food, listens to some music, learns the language, but
doesn’t read a newspaper and so remains ignorant about what the new regime is
doing to dissidents, or why the country is riven over an issue of social justice. That
sojourner encounters what to him or her are peculiar cultural practices but feels
‘tolerant’ towards them on the assumption that they are practices approved by all
parties within the foreign country. But as soon as the idea occurs of power imbal-
ances or exploitation then ‘tolerance’ becomes a form of taking sides within the
foreign country. At the same time, recognition of the lack of homogeneity within
the foreign country reveals that an attitude of intolerance towards some practice
is not the same as an attitude of intolerance towards the ‘general culture’ (what-
ever that means) or the social entirety of that foreign country, which is possibly
the fear behind the advocacy of tolerance in the first place. Just the same goes in
key respects for the doctrine of moral relativism.
One should rather say ‘doctrines’ of moral relativism. Perhaps the most intel-
lectually powerful such doctrine is sometimes called meta-ethical moral relativ-
ism, sometimes just meta-ethical relativism.62 It has nothing to say about what is
good or bad but is rather concerned with the nature and justification of judge-
ments about what is good and bad. The contention of this sort of relativist is that
there are no rational grounds outside of societies to resolve deep-seated moral
differences between societies; there are no external foundations or yardsticks for
values and evaluation against which the values or the value-generating mechan
isms of any given society can be measured. Let us leave this moot, because what-
ever power this relativist argument has in the abstract, it has little practical
purchase when it comes to the way in which members of one society act and
judge when they encounter members of another society. Furthermore, it is not in
itself an argument against judgement across, say, cultural boundaries. The meta-
ethical moral relativist could allow that judgement about some of culture B’s prac-
tices was meaningful to members of culture A, and would merely claim, in a way
that is irrelevant to the current argument, that such judgements have no basis to
bind members of culture B.
A well-known species of moral relativism claims something like: ‘we can only
judge the moral rightness of a practice or value in accordance with the beliefs of
the group that conducts the practice or holds the value, and if that group
62 Good surveys of moral relativisms, including accounts of ‘meta-ethical moral relativism’ are:
Maria Baghramian, Relativism (Abingdon: Routledge, 2004), ch. 9; Chris Gowans, ‘Moral Relativism’,
in Edward N. Zalta (ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2019 Edition), online:
https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/moral-relativism/
considers the practices/values to be right, then it is wrong for external parties to

criticize those practices/values’. This species of relativism is self-undermining
because the stipulations about the conditions of judgement, culminating in the ‘it
is wrong’ parts of the claim, are not themselves relativized. The sort of general,
group-transcending conviction about what is right or wrong is just what the rela-
tivist in question seeks to delegitimate, so that selfsame relativist cannot appeal to
a non-relativized sense of wrongness. Furthermore, this sort of relativism
demands the impossible. Say that I encounter some foreign practice that brings
obvious happiness or suffering to some member(s) of that society. My immediate
reaction is to think how favourably or unfavourably that compares with some
approximately equivalent practice to which I am accustomed, or just to think how
pleasant or unpleasant the practice seems, period. Does the relativist tell me that I
cannot have that initial, let us call it ‘gut’ reaction? If so, then she or he is whistling
in the wind. Alternatively, does she tell me that I cannot progress from the imme-
diate reaction to any further cognitive processing that might result in a more
carefully formed value judgement, whether less or more favourable? If so, then
even if such a dictum can really be followed in practice, it cannot remove my ini-
tial reaction, so my visceral impression will remain the same, and will merely be
unadulterated by any reflection. In this case the relativist doctrine will actually
hinder any understanding of the other society, as that understanding might be
furthered by contextualized comprehension of the practice—comprehension of
its social function, of the theories underlying it, of the attitudes to it of various
practitioners, including the issue of how far those attitudes vary along power
cleavages, and so forth. An agenda of sympathetic or admiring understanding is
thereby excluded alongside one of condign judgementalism. Perhaps relativism
permits the cognitive process up to but excluding any evaluation that I might
make about the practice. Can such a dictum really be followed? Possibly, in theory,
insofar as it is true that, while understanding and evaluation are not opposed—
the former being a condition for the latter, as properly enacted—they are not the
same thing. Yet actually no, insofar as the drive to understand in this scenario was
provided precisely by the desire to progress beyond the initial judgemental reac-
tion. Even without some formal conclusion to top off the whole business of reflec-
tion, it will be impossible to ignore the way in which the greater understanding
negated, reinforced, or diluted my initial reflex-appraisal. Evaluation, positive or
negative, is already upon me. The only question is whether it will be informed
and reflective or uninformed and unreflective.
Whatever the relativist (and here the relativist can be of any sort) might think
about the whole evaluative exercise, it cannot be said to be arbitrary, since it was
stimulated by inference about happiness or misery in the foreign country. Far
from being a necessarily imperialist exercise, the initial ‘reflex’ reaction connotes
human recognition across the borders of disparate times and cultures. The fur-
ther act of reflective evaluation concerning the causes of the happiness or
328 Why History?
suffering is the sort of mind-broadening experience that History as Travel is sup-

posed to foster.
History as Therapy
The newer rationales for History are based less on the Travel and Methodology
conviction that History will be liberalizing and more on the hope that it will be
liberating. History as Therapy and History as Emancipation are present-centric,
but since all rationales for History are present-centric in some way, that tells us
nothing in itself about their proponents’ commitments. Elements of both ration-
ales are captured in Goethe’s aphorism ‘Geschichte schreiben ist eine Art sich das
Vergangene vom Halse zu schaffen’: writing History is a way of shedding the
burden of the past. Like Nietzsche, who might have written the same words,
Goethe regarded historians’ primary responsibilities as being to themselves and
their readers rather than to the past itself.63
Any discussion of History as Therapy must accord pride of place to the intel-
lectual historian Dominick LaCapra. He argues that the historian is a ‘secondary
witness’ to historical events and when those events are traumatic, the historians
should, in the summary of the literary theorist Eric Kligerman, ‘generate the lost
anxiety of trauma in tolerable doses in order to circumvent repetition and filter
the shock of history’s traumas for the generations after the trauma’.64 The alterna-
tive, by which I understand LaCapra to mean the result of standard historical
practice in recounting traumatic events, is that the past might repeat itself: a trau-
matized individual re-enacts past traumas, as the historian forecloses on events
like genocide by encapsulating them in descriptions whose claim to cognitive
authority denies the capacity of the events to elude comprehension. The literary
theorist Eric L. Santner suggested that conventional narrative accounts of trau-
matic events might constitute ‘narrative fetishism’.65 By fetishism, he means the
historian’s alleged desire to gain mastery of the event not through a sort of
authentic psychoanalytic working-through of the trauma, or a mourning process,
but by repressing the traumatic aspects and then presenting the event to readers
as safe, as actually not traumatic in the first place. In the best scenario for LaCapra,
‘Working through trauma brings the possibility of counteracting compulsive “act-
ing out” through [an] explicit, critically controlled process of repetition that
63 See aphorisms 193 and 191 in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethe Werke—Hamburger
Ausgabe Band 12, ed. Erich Trunz (Munich: Beck, 2008), 390–1.
64 Eric Kligerman, Sites of the Uncanny: Paul Celan, Specularity and the Visual Arts (Berlin: de
Gruyter, 2007), 52–3.
65 Eric L. Santner, ‘History Beyond the Pleasure Principle: Some Thoughts on the Representation of
Trauma’, in Saul Friedländer (ed.), Probing the Limits of Representation (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
significantly changes a life by making possible the selective retrieval and modified
enactment of unactualized past possibilities’.66
In bringing such thinking under critique here I note that in other works I have
found utility in LaCapra’s thinking on counter-transference;67 nevertheless, the
basic analogy between History and psychoanalysis is too loose. More precisely,
there are two analogies in play. The first is an analogy of the individual and group
psyche and situation—which LaCapra actually suggests is more than merely an
analogy.68 The second analogy is that between the way the individual therapist
relates to the individual patient and the way historians relates to their readerships,
which is assumed to correspond to the traumatized collective. This is at least one
analogy too far.
Even if one accepted the analogy between individual analysand and collective
analysand, and thus the applicability of similar psychoanalytic concepts to each,
then absent in the relationship between historian and collective analysand is the
sort of interaction that is achieved in the relationship between therapist and
patient. In the relationship between therapist and individual patient, the produc-
tion of representations of the past stands constantly in conversation with the way
in which such representations are consumed—sometimes producer and con-
sumer are the same person. In the relationship between historian and collective
‘patient’, the production stands alone, with the nature and outcome of consump-
tion untested and uncontestable, with no representative of the collective psyche
who can be assessed or can speak to the efficacy of the cure. Besides, in LaCapra’s
vision it rather seems that there is just one anointed historian-therapist providing
one therapeutic (or problematic) representation of the traumatic event. Perhaps
all historians are supposed to confer in order to coordinate their accounts (and
those of various museums, television documentaries, and so forth) in order not to
confuse the analysand.
Yet there is no reason to accept the individual:collective analogy either. It is one
thing to say, as LaCapra does, that there is a collective context for any therapy
since it is always therapy of the socialized individual, and quite another to say that
the collective has the same sort of consciousness and reflexes as the individual.69
True, there is a shared idiom of suffering: governments and leaders can easily
deploy the language of traumatization and catharsis, but this does not mean that
this language refers to the same phenomena. For instance, while one can talk of
both individual trauma and collective trauma, societies do not experience flash-
backs and involuntary reactions.
66 Dominick LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust: History, Theory, Trauma (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1996 [orig. 1994]), 173–4.
67 Bloxham, History and Morality.
68 LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust, 173–4; LaCapra, History in Transit: Experience, Identity,
Critical Theory (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004), 73–4.
69 LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust, 173–4.
330 Why History?
We need not concur with Lewis Namier, who made an early comparison of
History with psychoanalysis and concluded that both were better at diagnosing
than curing: while the jury is out on History, psychoanalysis has achieved some
success. Namier was surely correct, however, that such benefits as analysis confers
are not attained by reading the results of someone else’s engagement with the pro-
cess, but rather by participating in the process—participating intersubjectively,
not one-sidedly. A somewhat better analogy would be to the writing of History as
therapy for the historian, not its reading as therapy for someone else for whose
particular existential dilemma the History was not composed.70
This is not to say that the reading of History can deliver no psychological bene
fit. We know from various therapies that explanations which make symptoms
comprehensible may help the analysand even while not alleviating the symptoms
themselves. They enable some sort of cognitive control. Shedding light on the
present by explaining problems stemming from the past may help the analysand
to feel less powerless, less at the mercy of incomprehensibly induced emotions.71
With the structural substitution of socio-economic circumstances for emotions
we may concur with the feminist medieval historian Judith Bennett when she
argued that a historically derived understanding of reproduced structures of
inequality can counteract the tendency to self-blame for ‘failure’ according to the
inequitable rules of the game.72 Bourdieu made the same point in regard of his
sociology, even once claiming for it a quasi-psychoanalytic, or ‘socioanalytic’,
function: sociology can help people stop looking in vain for biographical solu-
tions to structural problems.73
A difference between Bennett’s argument and LaCapra’s is that the analogy
emerging from Bennett’s case is not of historical conditioning and trauma.
Furthermore, while Bennett’s’ ‘therapy’ might provide a stimulus for structure-
changing action in pursuit of fuller social emancipation, in itself it ‘only’ entails
subjective ‘mental’ emancipation vis-à-vis social structures. This is perhaps the
most we can expect of any historical course of treatment, and it is no small thing
though it may appear to be when set against some of the grander emancipatory
promises made for History.
Varieties of Emancipatory History
History as Emancipation and LaCaprian History as Therapy are both oriented

towards changing consciousness but in different ways. History as Therapy
70 John Brooke, ‘Namier and Namierism’, History and Theory, 3 (1964), 331–47, here 345.
71 Anthony Storr, ‘The Concept of Cure’, in Charles Rycroft (ed.), Psychoanalysis Observed (London:
Constable, 1961), 51–84, here 73.
72 Judith M. Bennett, History Matters: Patriarchy and the Challenge of Feminism (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 152.
73 Michael Grenfell, Pierre Bourdieu: Agent Provocateur (London: Continuum, 2004), 180.
purports to help by changing attitudes to the past and reducing the hold of the
past on the individual’s present. History as Emancipation in its Marxist form
purports to demystify the way the world is set up, as a prelude to changing that
world in accordance with a specific alternative. History as Emancipation in its
most popular non-Marxist form purports to disavow any claim to revealing
truths about the way the world really is and really ought to be; it is concerned
with paving the way to individual self-determination in the present by challenging
given claims on the way things really are and ought to be—Marxist claims
included.
The intellectual historian Quentin Skinner has at points talked about the utility
in the present of contemplating early modern republican thought, which touches
on the terrain of History as Practical Lesson.74 More purely characteristic of
History as Emancipation is his belief that ‘to demand from the history of thought
a solution to our own immediate problems is . . . to commit not merely a meth
odological fallacy, but something like a moral error. But to learn from the past—
and we cannot otherwise learn it at all—the distinction between what is necessary
and what is the product merely of our own contingent arrangements, is the key to
self-awareness itself.’ Insofar as Marxism had highlighted the constraints placed
by society ‘upon our imaginations . . . the historical study of the ideas of other
societies should be undertaken as the indispensable and the irreplaceable means
of placing limits on these constraints’.75 Skinner was effectively reiterating the
point made in 1946 by A. L. Rowse that ‘freedom for a human being consists
in knowing the extent to which he is conditioned, and choosing his course
accordingly’.76 Similar sentiments were expressed at the outset of the third millen-
nium ce by the American historian of the Cold War, John Lewis Gaddis,77 but
they could have come straight from the pens of Nietzsche, Adorno, Marrou, a
range of postcolonial theorists and in his own way even Lord Acton!78 Foucault’s
thought is also relevant here.
It has been said of Foucault that he ‘does not seek the unchangeable amid the
changing, but rather to identify that which can be changed in that which is pre-
sumed static’,79 which suggests a different angle to that of Skinner when Skinner
talked of some necessity that might be detected behind contingent arrangements.
74 Quentin Skinner,‘The Idea of Negative Liberty: Philosophical and Historical Perspectives’, in
Richard Rorty, J. B. Schneewind, and Quentin Skinner (eds.), Philosophy in History: Essays on the
Historiography of Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 193–221. See also
Skinner, Liberty before Liberalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998).
75 Quentin Skinner, ‘Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas’, History and Theory, 8:1
(1969), 3–53, here 53.
76 Rowse, The Use of History, 91.
77 John Lewis Gaddis, The Landscape of History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), conclu-
sion, especially 148–51.
78 Marrou, The Meaning of History, 283.
79 Kevin O’Brien, ‘Michel Foucault’s Genealogy of the Subject’ (PhD Thesis: Katholieke Universiteit
Leuven, 1988), 326.
332 Why History?
When Foucault wrote of giving ‘new impetus . . . to the undefined work of

freedom’,80 he also stressed that ‘we have to give up hope of ever acceding to a
point of view that could give us access to any complete and definitive knowledge of
what may constitute our historical limits’.81 Foucault is correct: one cannot know
what it is that one cannot know; as soon as one purports to have identified one’s
conceptual limits one has actually already surpassed them, but that just goes to
show that they were not really one’s conceptual limits after all. It is precisely that
recognition that limits the possibilities for the pursuit of the ‘undefined work of
freedom’ via the historical/genealogical approach, and here Foucault created con-
fusion, for at times he suggested that one could after all glean insight into such
limits, talking of ‘excavation beneath our own feet’, or the aim of showing, ‘based
upon their historical establishment and formation, those systems which are still
ours today and within which we are trapped’.82
History as Emancipation in its most common form today enquires into the
past to illustrate, by contrast with the present, that alternative ways of life are pos-
sible. It relies on a combination of inspiration and provocation. It tends not to
look to the past for specific lessons or examples, not least because it is apt to be as
critical of past orders as present ones. Its major conceptual weapon is the revela-
tion of the contingent difference, across time and place, of ways of thinking,
being, and doing, which is why it coheres so straightforwardly with the wider
neo-historicist approach to History. Some Historian-Emancipators might go one
step further and suggest that knowing the historical aetiology of the present is a
practical tool for change of the present.
Any proponent of History as Emancipation must subscribe to the first of the
following three claims, while many proponents subscribe to two or all three of
them:
I. The items X are social/cultural constructions. They were different in the past
and we can change them in the present if we wish. (Note that the claim is not
unique to this school of thought. What might vary between salient schools
of thought is the size of set X.)
II. We need to change things because they are undesirable.
III. In order to change things, we need to understand their origins.
The three claims will now be assessed in reverse order. My deflationary assess-
ments are strictly related to the conceptual coherence of History as Emancipation
in those areas where it can be distinguished from History as Practical Lesson,
which, as argued above (pp. 314–21), can be useful in shaping thought in the
present. The point of the coming argument is not to deny that evidence as to
80 Foucault, Ethics, 315–16. 81 Ibid. 316.

82 Michael Mahon, Foucault’s Nietzschean Genealogy (Albany: SUNY Press, 1992), 121.
historical mutability and contingency can sometimes help with emancipatory

arguments, but rather that one cannot at all rely on the efficacy of the approach. A
further contention is that the most important arguments to be had in this area are
really arguments about value and evaluation, not about contingency. Those argu-
ments are better made with their value judgements clear, which is a claim that
links History as Emancipation to History as Identity, discussion of which closes
the chapter and the book.
History as Emancipation III
History as Emancipation III comes closest to History as Therapy for what we

might call ‘social neurosis’. The idea of raising awareness of human historical con-
ditioning by highlighting the past moments in which specific choices were made
or not made, and opportunities taken or thwarted—as in the study of successful
or failed revolutions—is comparable to the therapeutic process of locating the
origin of longstanding behavioural patterns in earlier life. Foucault gave the name
‘History of the Present’ to a study of those institutional forms and conceptual
parameters that are still with us, and was keenly interested in their historical
inception.83 Such a concern for historical beginnings can be traced back to Marx
and Marxism, Engels’s Origins of the Family being a case in point, but it has been
incorporated into other critical traditions too. The sociologist Bourdieu claimed:
‘there is no more potent tool for rupture than the reconstruction of genesis’, and
‘by bringing back into view the conflicts and confrontations of the early begin-
nings and therefore all the discarded possibles, it retrieves the possibility that
things could have been (and still could be) otherwise’.84 The Kantian liberal Jürgen
Habermas wrote that ‘when reflection understands the genesis of tradition from
which it proceeds and to which it returns, the dogmatism of life-praxis is shaken’.85
The sociologist of science Steve Fuller believes ‘that even disappointment can be
used strategically to point out better paths that were originally not taken, but that
(with some adjustment) may be taken up in the future’.86 Resonances are obvious
with Joan Scott’s talk of interrogating the processes of the creation of subjects
83 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish (London: Penguin, 1991), 31, 308. See also S. Fuggle,
Y. Lanci, and M. Tazzioli (eds.), Foucault and the History of our Present (Basingstoke: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2015).
84 Pierre Bourdieu, ‘Rethinking the State: Genesis and Structure of the Bureaucratic Field’, in
George Steinmetz (ed.), State/Culture: State Formation after the Cultural Turn (Ithaca: Cornell
85 Jürgen Habermas, On the Logic of the Social Sciences (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988 [orig.
1967]) 168.
86 Steve Fuller, Thomas Kuhn: A Philosophical History for our Times (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2001), p. xvi.
334 Why History?
(p. 290). John Arnold enjoins studying how we came about in order ‘to be made
aware of the possibility of doing things differently’.87
In order to assess the emancipatory prospects of origin-quests we first need to
distinguish between chronological and conceptual senses of ‘origin’. One has to
guess which meaning of origin Max Horkheimer had in mind when he wrote that
‘for the little man who is turned down when he asks for a job because objective
conditions make it impossible, it is most important that their origin be brought to
the light of day so that they do not continue being unfavorable to him’.88 One of
Horkheimer’s successors in the Frankfurt School, the Hegelian Marxist Herbert
Marcuse, did not elaborate the difference between the chronological and concep-
tual senses of origins either, but both are present in his work. He argued that
‘social theory is historical theory’, and asked, ‘among the various possible and
actual modes of organizing and utilizing the available resources [of any given,
actual society], which ones offer the greatest chance of an optimal development?’89
Leaning towards conceptual origins in one passage, Marcuse stated that reifica-
tion ‘sets forth the actual social relations among men as a totality of objective
relations, thereby concealing their origin, their mechanisms of perpetuation, and
the possibility of their transformation. Above all, it conceals their human core
and content.’90 In another passage, Marcuse focused more on chronological
origins:
The way in which a society organizes the life of its members involves an initial
choice between historical alternatives which are determined by the inherited
level of the material and intellectual culture. The choice itself results from the
play of the dominant interests. It anticipates specific modes of transforming and
utilizing man and nature and rejects other modes. It is one ‘project’ of realiza-
tion among others. But once the project has become operative in the basic insti-
tutions and relations, it tends to become exclusive, and to determine the
development of the society as a whole.91
Marcuse used the term ‘project’ because it accentuates ‘most clearly the specific
character of historical practice’. That practice ‘results from a determinate choice,
seizure of one among other ways of comprehending, organizing, and transform-
ing society’. Marcuse sought to ‘emphasis[e] the element of freedom and responsi-
bility in historical determination’, to link ‘autonomy and contingency’.92
87 Arnold, History, 119–20.

88 Max Horkheimer, Dawn and Decline, Notes 1926–31 and 1950–69 (New York: Seabury/
Continuum, 1978), 50–2. I thank Yiannis Kokosalakis for this reference.
89 Herbert Marcuse, One Dimensional Man (London: Sphere, 1968), 10.
90 Marcuse, Reason and Revolution, 280.
91 Marcuse, One Dimensional Man, 14. 92 Ibid. 174 and 14 n.
The distinction between chronological and conceptual origins merits emphasis

because while investigation of either might serve, in Foucault’s words, to ‘breach’
the ‘self evidence’ of arrangements in the present,93 only in the chronological sense is
historical analysis necessary. If one wishes to pinpoint History’s critical utility one
needs to be clear about whether the conceptual and chronological investigations
really relate to one another. They may so relate in philosophical endeavours of
reconstruction and critique such as Heidegger’s Destruktion of traditional meta-
physics and his ‘recovering’ of a particular concept of truth. Heidegger’s was an
exercise in reading ever further back into the philosophical tradition to trace the
‘originary point’ at which another concept of truth gained hegemony, and with it
a certain ontology.94 Yet that exercise was only historical in an attenuated sense.
One ought not understate the sociological and intellectual challenges from within
the profession to some of these attempts to rethink philosophical tradition, but
those obstacles are small relative to the problems of rethinking social develop-
ment. There is a ‘logical’ or at least genre-internal element to philosophical devel-
opment that does not exist in social development. This means that for the
philosopher, one can do what is roughly analogous to checking the mathematical
working of the discipline, namely establishing where it went wrong (if indeed it
did), and starting again from that point. We cannot, however, assume that estab-
lishing the historical origin of some social development has any similar emanci-
patory promise. Historical understanding reveals that the past is a cause of the
present in a way that is rather ‘thicker’ than the ritual invocation of contingency
may suggest. Marcuse is too simplistic in depicting historical trends as the conse-
quence of some initial ‘project’ choice that can just be unmade as if by some tracing
and recovery process. Unpicking, say, capitalism would lead to a post-capitalist
scenario not a pre-capitalist one: the new scenario would still have capitalism in
its causal history, and capitalism would influence though not determine what
came afterwards.
Heidegger’s historically oriented project of critical Destruktion was arguably
only an auxiliary to his conceptual project anyway, and much the same goes for
Lukács’s twin endeavours.95 When Lukács alluded to the false ‘second nature’ cre-
ated by capitalistic arrangements, he did not think that the ‘first’, real nature had
been lost at some point in the past; rather, it had been repressed and still had
some underground existence. It could be liberated and the truth revealed about
relations between person and person, people and the natural world. Since
Lukács and Heidegger in his relevant thinking felt they were dealing with a live
conceptual–existential problem, it was a secondary matter as to whether or not
93 Foucault, ‘Questions of Method’, 104.

94 Bern Magnus, Heidegger’s Metahistory of Philosophy: Amor fati, Being and Truth (The Hague:
Martinus Nijhoff, 1970).
95 For comparisons between Heidegger and Lukács: Axel Honneth, Reification: A New Look at an
Old Idea (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 28 ff.
336 Why History?
they had located the actual chronological origins of the problem, whereas that is a
primary concern for those who emphasize historical aetiology, moments of deci-
sion, transformation, etc.
The challenge of knowing exactly where chronological origins are to be found
is a challenge amongst other things to practitioners of a Foucauldian ‘History of
the present’. The problem of where to begin one’s critical account of ‘the present’ is
obviously a function of establishing where the salient present began. This will
seem comparatively easy for those who, like Foucault at one stage, believe that the
past can be split into blocks defined by particular epistemes, discursive structures,
and so forth, since one just has to look for the dividing moments like ‘epistemic
ruptures’ or great political revolutions. Much encouragement for this sort of view
has been provided by the popularity of the classical sociological concept of
‘modernity’ as a particular state or stage of human existence, as opposed, for
instance, to the Marxist emphasis on capitalism as a force that keeps pressing and
changing things, and has done either side of the supposed caesura between pre-
modern and modern.
In the caesural view, one period of the past is effectively the present extended
backward through time, while previous periods of time are properly, qualitatively
past. Given a non-caesural view, in which some continuity and change coexist at
all points in some shifting balance—a view substantiated by those critiques of
Foucault’s empirical work that show that certain medical practices do not corre
spond with the supposed lifespans of his epistemes96—then one has to be a little
more circumspect. When Hayden White wrote that ‘the understanding of any of
[a society’s] processes must always be directed at the search for origins, its rela-
tions to its time and space and socially specific contexts, and the emplotment of
its transformations over time’, he was, in preaching so many ‘musts’, just spreading
his bets.97 When engaging in historical explanation one needs to recognize the
inherently pragmatic nature of all of one’s starting points, the inherent contest
ability of the way that, by some act of initial ‘contextualization’, one cauterizes the
open vessels of history that pass beyond the point at which one has chosen to
start the story. Recognizing the possibility of a still-changing balance of change
and continuity after one’s chosen beginning is consonant with the version of post-
structuralism in which meanings and contexts are seen as constantly interacting
and modifying each other, as opposed to that stop–start view of history encour-
aged by the ‘opposition’ between ‘structure’ and ‘event’. Evolutionary changes may
be less obvious than, but as significant when accumulated over time as, the
96 José Guilherme Merquior, Michel Foucault (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 29
(see also 27): ‘Foucault’s epochal monoliths crumble before the contradictory wealth of the historical
evidence’. Also: Ian Maclean, ‘Foucault’s Renaissance Episteme Reassessed: An Aristotelian
Counterblast’, Journal of the History of Ideas, 59:1 (1998), 149–66.
97 Hayden White, ‘Afterword’, in Victoria E. Bonnell and Lynn Hunt (eds.), Beyond the Cultural
Turn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 315–24, here 318.
revolutionary visions characteristic of some of the heroic French theory of recent

generations. Here is also a difference between Nietzsche’s genealogy and Foucault’s
most categorical exercises in historicization. Sometimes Nietzsche does evince a
caesural view, as when writing of a ‘continuous chain of signs, continually reveal-
ing new interpretations and adaptations, the causes of which need not be connected
even amongst themselves, but rather sometimes just follow and replace one another
at random’, or stating that ‘there is no more important proposition for every sort
of history than that which we arrive at only with great effort but which we really
should reach,—namely that the origin of the emergence of a thing and its ultim
ate usefulness, its practical application and incorporation into a system of ends,
are toto coelo [i.e. categorically] separate’.98 Yet Nietzsche was also concerned to
show just how much had harmfully endured in Christian-occidental thought,
from ancient Christianity through Protestantism and into the Kantian system of
morality.
In concluding this section, let us focus upon the distinction between a general
reflection on the mutability of things, and a specific reflection on the inception of
a particular thing. If one is looking for some indication of the possibility of
change, or an inspiration for the attempt at change, the general reflection is just as
good as the specific one; that general reflection is a corollary of History or Travel
and is not remotely new. If one seeks a particular subversive potential by investi-
gating the origins of a particular matter, that specific reflection is either not pri-
marily historical or not useful. The conditions and justifications that obtained in
the past can only be changed insofar as they still obtain in the same way now, and
where that is not the case, historical accounts of aetiology will be unfit as tools of
change. At such points, to return for a moment to the connection between History
as Emancipation and History as Therapy, any analogy to therapy may have to give
way to analogy to that condition wherein analysands constantly relive some past
series of events in the subconscious hope that those things will eventually turn
out differently than they in fact did. Alternatively, it may have to give way to the
equally fruitless ‘Oedipal’ analogy, whereby the subject dwells on imagined alter-
natives to the harmful parents that he or she actually had.
History as Emancipation II
The underlying proposition of History as Emancipation II is: we need to change

things because they are undesirable. This section address the ways in which
History might be drawn into the argument, with a view to clarifying some points
of principle.
98 Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality, Second Essay, §12, at pp. 50–1. Emphasis added to the
first quote.
338 Why History?
Clarification is needed in view of pronouncements like Foucault’s: ‘In what is

given to us as universal, necessary, obligatory, what place is occupied by whatever
is singular, contingent, and the product of arbitrary constraints?’99 Here, ‘obliga-
tory’ is paired with ‘arbitrary’, and ‘arbitrary’ placed alongside ‘contingent’. Yet
‘arbitrary’ is prejudicial, and establishing something as contingent has no intrin-
sic bearing on its desirability or legitimacy—to think otherwise is to subscribe to
a form of what is known as the genetic fallacy.
The cultural theorist Fredric Jameson enjoined ‘always historicize!’100 More
recently a historian wrote that ‘history is the most radical of all the disciplines;
contrary to its stuffy image, history destabilizes everything precisely by historiciz-
ing it’.101 A theorist of History repeated Jameson’s prescription and also wrote
‘everything is relative (historicist)’.102 But the pay-off of historicization depends
amongst other things on how ‘radical’ one wants it to be. Is it a call to help under-
stand the thing historicized, or is it a way of relativizing the thing historicized? If
the former, then ‘historicize’ really just means ‘explain’, which incorporates ‘con-
textualize’. If the latter, one response to Jameson would be to ask him to historicize
his injunction to historicize, thus either qualifying the utility of historicization or
setting off an infinite regress of historicization. Before the historicizer gets to his-
toricize, one has to historicize the historicizer, but before that one has to his
toricize the admonition for the historicizer to be historicized, and so on. What if
historicization is supposed to delegitimate? Historicization, in the sense of
accounting for the emergence of a particular idea at a particular spatio-temporal
cultural or functional point, may indeed relativize or—differently—invalidate
some concepts that have seemingly unimpeachable universal authority. It cer-
tainly requires that ideas claiming self-evidence account more extensively for
themselves. At the least, it asks why certain questions have obtained such urgency
at certain times, with the corollary that even if the answers to those questions are
universally true, the answers may not always be equally pressing or interesting.
On the specific question of legitimacy, think of the contemporary warning ‘check
your privilege’. The warning may be important as an argument to the significance
of a position’s being adopted by someone—‘it’s easy for you to say that’, or ‘it’s
middle-class white men telling us what to do again’—or to the different degrees of
difficulty implementing a prescription according to, say, socio-economic pos
ition. It may be a way of criticizing the sanguinity of someone who has not been
personally affected by the thing about which they are sanguine, or of saying ‘your
concern is not mine, as you would know if you were in a different position’. In
these cases, ‘check your privilege’ means, weakly, ‘be aware of your subject
99 Foucault, Ethics, 315–16.

100 Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious (London: Routledge, 1983), p. ix.
101 Dan Stone, ‘Surviving in the Corridors of History or, History as Double or Nothing’, in
Jeffrey R. Di Leo (ed.), Federman’s Fictions (Albany, NY: SUNY, 2011), 203–13, here 205.
102 Keith Jenkins, Re-Thinking History (London: Routledge, 1991), 30, 82.
position’ or, strongly, ‘adjust your perspective’. It pertains to the relationship

between power and argument but is not itself a question of logic of argument. It
draws attention to the salience, purpose, or priority of an argument in situation X:
‘why are you raising that at his juncture?’; ‘it’s not helpful for someone in your
position/with your privileges/your track record to be making this point now’. It
cannot legitimately mean ‘anything you have to say is illegitimate owing solely to
the fact that it is you saying it’. By analogy, the historicist argument to historical/
cultural/sectional origins cannot legitimately mean ‘any concept or claim estab-
lished in that context is illegitimate beyond that context, owing solely to the fact it
was established in that context’. Finally, for those who wish to use a sort of histori-
cization of the present in order to delegitimate some dispensation in the present,
the argument to origins cannot legitimately mean ‘current or inherited dispensa-
tions are illegitimate just because they are current or inherited’. The arguer would
have perpetrated the genetic fallacy.
Philosophical arguments aside, there are social and psychological reasons why
appreciation of mutability and the contingency of one’s own traditions need not
in and of itself generate a desire to change one’s ways. Since narratives of civiliza-
tional progress across time still hold some popular sway, some people combine a
recognition of the past’s difference with a sense of the superiority of the present.
Others are fond of their traditions not because they do not know that they are
‘just traditions’ but because they are their traditions. They cling to their particu-
larity not because they have not realized that it is not the only way to be but pre-
cisely because they see it as their way of being. To be sure, many people are
indentured to particular tales of the way their traditions developed; appeals to the
past in modern polities of all stripes need not be categorically different to those
appeals which characterized the origines ordinum accounts of medieval
Benedictines or the origines gentium stories of medieval state genealogists or the
agnatic lineages of the high medieval nobility. But acts of contesting those tradi-
tions, say by showing tradition to be invented more recently than generally sup-
posed, or that the alleged founding date is a mistake, or that one is not really the
heir of some thirteenth-century knight, or that the tradition is nowhere near as
inclusive as it claims, are acts of showing the tradition-tales to be incorrect, which
is not at all the same as showing the traditions themselves to be contingent. By the
same token, if one wishes to change the present situation that traditions have
shaped, then one needs an argument about their normative wrongness rather than
their historical contingency. Sometimes, as in arguments that traditions are not as
inclusive as claimed, the arguments to incorrectness and to normative wrongness
are coextensive, but neither is coextensive with an argument to contingency.
Sometimes arguments about contingency do contain an unacknowledged
normative thrust—these critiques we may call ‘crypto-normative’. An example is
some of Foucault’s mid-career work in which he purports merely to be analysing
how things are in the world of discursive knowledge and power whilst betraying
340 Why History?
his distaste for modern power-knowledge regimes and going on in later scholarship
to contemplate ways of escaping them.103 This tension is a problem in p rinciple
for the best-known Foucauldian analyses: since they claim that subjectivity, and
any and all ideas of ‘the human’, are merely products of contingent socio-historical
set-ups, thus that there is no ‘first nature’ to be liberated from the ‘second nature’
that the set-up creates, one might reasonably ask what normative grounds they
have for criticizing the set-up.
Perhaps for the Foucauldian in historical mode critiques emerge from contem-
plation of the past. One can imagine instances in which the historian comes
across something troubling or joyous in the past and it makes her re-evaluate
something in the present. But we have evidence that this is not always how cri-
tiques develop in the Foucauldian’s mind. Take Foucault’s Discipline and Punish:
The Birth of the Prison. By his admission in the book the project was stimulated
by contemplating the nature of contemporary prison regimes and the discontent
of the inmates.104 This means that we have to question his later assertion that ‘it
really was the appearance of historical contents’ ‘that made an effective critique of
the asylum or the prison possible’.105 We have grounds to believe that before the
historical enquiry into the birth of the prison (Naissance de la prison in the sub
title of the French original) came a normative critique stimulated by present
arrangements. Mutatis mutandis, one can readily imagine feminists who were
feminists before they became critical theorists and engaged those intellectual tra-
ditions precisely because of the promise of sharper critical tools to enhance the
feminist critique which is at base a normative one. The felt necessity of feminist
critique was there prior to its application to—in this case—some historical inter-
est. One result of these reflections is that clearly discourses of power-knowledge,
propriety, and normative correctness are not as strong in the present as suggested
by Foucauldians and sometimes by Foucault himself: just as Foucault was pre-
ceded by a long line of liberal prison-reformers unpossessed of the magic of post-
modern ‘critique’, ‘ordinary people’, not least rebellious prisoners, are frequently
capable of reflecting critically on their own experience and the experiences of
others. (Whether they have the power to act effectively on that reflection is a dif-
ferent matter.) But the main point is that in cases when normative critique has
inspired the historical examination rather than the other way around, History is
just one weapon in a battle that has already been joined. It is a tool of emancipation
in a different sense of emancipation to that of History as Emancipation I. History
serves here not to alert people to the contingency of their ways in order to liberate
their capacity for choice but rather makes the case for emancipation from a
103 On crypto-normativity and related criticisms, Nancy Fraser, ‘Foucault on Modern Power:
Empirical Insights and Normative Confusions’, Praxis International, 1:3 (1981), 272–87; Jürgen
Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 238–93.
104 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 30. 105 Foucault, Society Must be Defended, 7.
specific state of present affairs that is argued to be wrong. We are encroaching on

the fiefdoms of History as Lesson and, as below, History as Identity. These are
types of History that wear their normativity on their sleeves: types of History
whose presentism is of a different nature to the shadow scientism and crypto-
normativity of key Foucauldian strands of History as Emancipation.
History as Emancipation I
The idea underlying History as Emancipation I was defined above in these terms:
‘The items X are social/cultural constructions. They were different in the past and,
and we can change them in the present if we wish.’ History as Emancipation I is
subject to the same qualifications and elaborations of utility as earlier applied
to History as Travel, since the two justifications are in principle identical. Unlike
History as Emancipation II, which involves some normative evaluation of the
present, History as Emancipation I is purely descriptive of difference between
now and then. If it is not original to the fashions of the later twentieth century,
History as Emancipation I may nonetheless differ today in reach from earlier
iterations. More tends to be seen as socially/culturally constructed nowadays than
in Rousseau’s or Adam Ferguson’s time, or Montaigne’s day before that. Any given
claim about construction must be assessed on its own merits, but that is not as
straightforward as it sounds given the confusing jumble of epistemological, onto-
logical, moral, and political considerations often at issue.
The epistemological matter is a particular case of the general problem of distin-
guishing between our concepts or perceptions of a thing and that thing to which
our concepts or perceptions pertain. One form of social constructionism, the sort
most relevant for the coming discussion, would deny that there is any ‘way things
are’ apart from the way societies discuss or conceive of them. This is a species of
idealism. When testing the propositions of social constructionism one always
needs to ask philosopher Ian Hacking’s question The Social Construction of
What?106 The game of tennis is manifestly a purely social creation, likewise a par-
liament, but those sorts of things are not the sort of things that arguments tend to
get heated about, and granting the claims of social constructionism in certain
areas is by no means to mandate social constructionism as a general claim on the
nature of things, i.e. a general ontological claim. Some things Hacking would call
ontologically subjective, like tennis or customs or relations of production or par-
liaments. (Note that when a tennis match or a parliamentary session is in process,
it is still a matter of what Hacking calls epistemic objectivity whether player A won
a set or legislation B was passed.) Other things are ontologically objective, like
106 Ian Hacking, The Social Construction of What? (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1999).
342 Why History?
that mountain over there. The mountain is my example, though Hacking would
probably accept it as an example of something ontologically objective. Others
might or might not accept the example, and there are a host of matters in addition
that some might think to be ontologically objective and others think to be onto-
logically subjective. Some social constructionists argue, for instance, about ‘the
social construction of nature’, which can mean different things in different
mouths.107
Arguments about sex and differences or similarities of sex show how politically
loaded consideration of the relations between the historico-cultural and the
natural can be. It is absolutely appropriate that claims about what is taken to be
natural have come in for profound scrutiny in this areas since, as in the idea of
‘woman’s nature’, such claims have often been the spurious basis for assigning
social roles. So much hinges, however, on where and how and with what signifi-
cance the natural is held to fit into the debate in the first place, since particular
claims about the natural need have none of the social significance attached to
phrases like ‘women’s nature’—phrases that have a metaphysical air as much as
anything else. That, indeed, is the thesis that needs to be borne in mind over the
following few paragraphs, prior to my argument’s culmination. Over matters of
sex and much else besides, more may depend on the associations culturally (reli-
giously, philosophically, etc.) attributed to the natural than to the belief or the
warranted assertion that this or that thing is partly or wholly natural. Assuming
this argument holds, then if History can play an emancipatory role in the relevant
debates it may be a different role to that which it currently plays.
Using debates around sex as a point of departure, let us consider Thomas
Laqueur’s 1990 volume Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. It
was prominent in pressing on the distinction between sex and gender, a distinc-
tion whereby sex is seen as a biological matter and gender a matter of identity
shaped at some nexus of cultural ‘common-sense’ and subjective orientation.
Laqueur’s historical enquiry showed how scientific understandings of sex differ-
ence and similarity had changed over time. In Laqueur’s view ‘sex, as much as
gender, is made’, a somewhat opaque statement qualified by his disavowal of any
‘interest in denying the reality of sex or of sexual dimorphism as an evolutionary
process’. He noted the distinction in his book ‘between language on the one hand
and extralinguistic reality on the other; between nature and culture’. He sought to
navigate a separate path to ‘those who would eliminate gender by arguing that
so-called cultural differences are really natural’ and to those who ‘empty sex of its
content by arguing, conversely, that natural differences are really cultural’.108
107 David Demeritt, ‘What is the “social construction of nature”? A Typology and Sympathetic
Critique’, Progress in Human Geography, 26:6 (2002), 767–90.
108 Thomas W. Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1990), pp. ix, 11–12.
Eighteen years later the historian Joan Scott placed herself in the second of these
camps as she addressed the same question of the relationship between gender and
sex, and put sex on entirely the same cultural footing as gender. Thus: ‘differences
of sex [are] not set by nature but [are] established through language’; ‘sex, like
gender, [has] to be understood as a system of attributed meaning. Neither [is]
about nature; both [are] products of culture.’109 As it happens, Scott also wrote of
‘the admittedly different bodies of women’ and approvingly quoted another schol-
ar’s unproblematized reference to ‘female physiology’,110 but did not reconcile her
belief in physiological differences with her belief in the thoroughgoing cultural
construction of sex. We will stay with her claim about cultural construction,
because, as with the stronger of two claims about linguistic idealism in ‘Evidence
of Experience’ (p. 290), that is the one that gives Scott’s argument its point of con-
troversy and celebrity. Scott’s stronger claim is of the form ‘not nature but instead
culture’. It is not the same as one of Laqueur’s points, the important one that ‘dif-
ference and sameness, more or less recondite, are everywhere; but which ones
count and for what ends is determined outside the bounds of empirical
investigation’.111 Scott’s claim rules out the possibility, suggested by Meryl Altman
and Keith Nightenhelser in response to parts of Laqueur’s book, that it is ‘not that
“sex” is socially constructed too, but simply that we need to move the boundary a
bit—that we’ve been calling some things “sex” that are really, after all, gender’.112
Scott also implicitly rules out the idea that the cultural and the natural could
be co-constitutive of an outcome, or that the cultural and the natural could inter-
penetrate. Either of these possibilities break down the sharp nature–culture
dichotomy that Scott deploys.113
In the same categorical not-nature-but-instead-culture vein, within a generally
fascinating volume that exemplifies the power of cultural History, Common
Bodies: Women, Touch and Power in Seventeenth Century England, Laura Gowing
writes that ‘the most apparently natural of bodily events and processes—like
desire, labour or motherhood—are the product of culture’.114 Putting aside
109 Scott, ‘Unanswered Questions’, 1423, 1424. 110 Ibid. 1426.

111 Laqueur, Making Sex, 10.
112 See their review of Laqueur in Postmodern Culture 2:3 (1992).
113 On which see Anne Fausto-Sterling, Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of
Sexuality (New York: Basic Books, 2000); Fausto-Sterling, Sex/Gender: Biology in a Social World
(New York: Routledge, 2012). Work on bioculture shows how seriously biologists have taken culture,
including the culture of non-human animals, in recent decades. It is also worth noting that when
thinking about the relationship between ‘nature and nurture’ we historians explicitly or tacitly
embrace the well-substantiated science that rejects genetic determinism, since it allows a great deal of
space for the discussion of social and cultural arrangements that we are more competent to discuss.
114 Laura Gowing, Common Bodies: Women, Touch and Power in Seventeenth Century England
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003), 205. Thanks to Dror Wahrman, ‘Change and the Corporeal
in Seventeenth- and Eighteenth-Century Gender History: Or, Can Cultural History Be Rigorous?’,
Gender and History, 20:3 (2008), 584–602, here 588–9, 598, for drawing my attention to Gowing’s
work via the cited passage. Wahrman’s arguments in that article have been most influential on my
account here.
344 Why History?
Gowing’s three stated examples, which need further elaboration anyway, and
focusing on the general principle that ‘the most apparently natural of bodily
events and processes . . . are the product of culture’, does she really wish to claim
this for all of the most apparently natural bodily events and processes? As regards
another statement emerging from the new cultural History, it may well be that
‘smell is cultural’ since ‘odours are invested with cultural values’ and that ‘smell is
historical, because its associations change over time’, but that is a distance from
saying that smell is only cultural or historical—indeed the contrasts across time
and culture can only be made against an assumed parameter of a common cap
acity to smell.115 Exemplifying the ‘culture-is-all historicism’ stance that Geertz
believed ‘no one of any seriousness holds’,116 the former president of the Modern
Language Association Robert Scholes wrote in 2006 that ‘we were natural for
eons before we were cultural—before we were human, even—but so what? We are
cultural now.’ And, he added ‘culture is the domain of the humanities’; science
was apparently irrelevant to considering humans today.117 In the vein of injunc-
tions to historicize everything, the literary theorist Jonathan Culler wrote that ‘the
main thrust of recent theory’ is ‘the critique of whatever is taken as natural, the
demonstration that what has been thought or declared natural is in fact a his
torical, cultural product’.118
One wonders about the prospects for thesis-challenging evidence in the face of
Culler’s determination to conclude on culture instead of nature. A note on
method is in order to check such potentially illegitimate conclusions as might be
reached by cultural History and related cultural theory. One certainly cannot base
claims about the culturally constructed—ontologically subjective—nature of, say,
sex or sex difference/similarity on consideration of historically variable discourses
on sex and sex-difference/similarity, since that approach begs the question. It pre-
supposes the culturally or linguistically determined conclusions that are sup
posedly reached by its deployment. In such matters it is not just ontological
objectivists that might have further questions to ask, but common-or-garden
sceptics too. Note that critical scepticism, with its ‘negative’ aspects, is not at all
the same as the strong positive claims about the—thoroughly constructed—way
of the world made by our constructionists. Both the objectivists and the sceptics
are entitled to ask the subjectivists/constructionists to answer the ‘how do you
115 The first two quotations are reproduced in Burke, What is Cultural History?, 113; the third, on
the same page, comprises Burke’s own words. I do not accuse him of refusing to acknowledge the
common capacity—he just does not discuss it. Note, though, that (p. 115) he records that his ‘own
inclination would be to reserve the term “cultural” for the history of phenomena that seem “natural”,
such as dreams, memory and time’. The same considerations would apply to dreams and memory as I
have applied to smell.
116 Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, 268.
117 Robert Scholes, ‘Reply’, Proceedings of the Modern Language Association, 121:1 (2006), 297–8.
118 Jonathan Culler, Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1997), 14. Emphases added.
know?’ question as thoroughly as the objectivists should answer it, and that may
well involve engaging with the full range of competent scientific and philosoph
ical opinion, rather than just cherrypicking conducive thinkers. With an eye to
warding off circularity, sceptics or objectivists about some aspect of sex or sex-
difference/similarity might advert to the genetic fallacy. They might contend that
all cultures past just got their understanding of the relevant issue wrong, and/or
that even if present understandings are as questionable as earlier ones that does
not mean there is not something extra-cultural about some aspect of sex or sex-
difference/similarity to be (mis-)understood in the first place.
For the overall argument here, it is important to establish the identity of the
claimants on the natural to which the constructionists are effectively responding.
Some claimants might be political authorities, perhaps backed by philosophers or
theologians, who are interested in instituting or sustaining particular social
orders. Others might be scientists. Perhaps the scientists and the political author
ities are the same people, but that is not always the case, and scientists have as
often been a threat to authorities as a buttress. Sometimes scientists have pro-
vided ‘justification’ for, say, claims about ‘racial’ inequality but they have also
challenged such claims.119 In other words, ‘science’ does not speak with a single
transhistorical voice. Would the most thoroughgoing not-nature-but-culture con-
structionists present the well-corroborated scientific conclusions about the
absence of innate ‘racial’ inferiority/superiority as really just the expression of
another culturally contingent way of thinking about the so-called natural, an out-
look needing immediate historicization? In practice, probably not, since on the
whole constructionists see their constructionism as politically progressive, and
the scientific conclusions as to innate equality are apt to be embraced in progres-
sive politics. Yet it is not clear that the strongest constructionists could say no in
principle, which illustrates that there is nothing intrinsically progressive about
thoroughgoing social constructionism and its conceptual tool, historicization.
Equally there is nothing intrinsically conservative, or controlling, or whatever,
about claims that such-and-such a thing is partly or wholly natural. So much
depends on the context in which the claims are made. Consider the debate about
homosexuality and the hypothalamus triggered by Simon LeVay in the 1990s: the
claim that homosexuality had an involuntary organic foundation is only ‘progres-
sive’ in a culture that otherwise claims that homosexuals could and ought to
change their sexual orientation, and equally in one that would not draw the
119 For instance Angela Saini’s works Superior (Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 2019) and Inferior
(London: Harper Collins, 2018) illustrate the role of scientists’ prejudices in producing racist and sex-
ist conclusions. Her criticism of the relevant science as deficient of course appeals to a standard of
relatively good science; the epistemically better science is also the less racist or sexist science. Laqueur,
Making Sex, 9–10, also makes an appeal to the better science when he writes that ‘what evidence there
does exist for biological difference with a gendered behavioral result is either highly suspect for a
variety of methodological reasons, or ambiguous, or proof of Dorothy Sayers’ notion that men and
women are very close neighbors indeed if it is proof of anything at all.’
346 Why History?
conclusion that it would be best to exterminate such organically ‘compromised’

individuals.120 And, as suggested above with regard to context, a very great deal
hinges on what weight is attached in any given culture to the idea of the natural.
As it happens, attempts to delegitimate any claims on the natural still attribute by
default an unnecessarily great social power to pronouncements about nature. It is
as if we were still in the days when nature was held to reveal the mind of God and
so had a metaphysical quality from which normative implications flowed.
The claims of natural science on one hand, and religion and certain sorts of
philosophy on the other hand, only appear to be of much the same sort if one
makes the mistake of conflating the natural with a particular concept of the meta-
physical. The ‘natural’ is indeed given a fearsome quality by the ancient Christian
idea of nature as waystation to God, creation as the book of God, and so forth.121
That idea is itself akin to the Platonic idea of the cosmos as something to which
one ought to accommodate oneself, and the Platonic and Christian idea of tran
scendent forms to which earthly bodies are a rough approximation. The ‘natural’
is given religious-metaphysical connotation in, for instance, the Vatican’s Male
and Female He Created Them (2019), whose title is drawn from Genesis 1:27.
With the shadow of god’s creating mankind in his own image hanging over the
discussion, this ‘educational’ document purports to reaffirm, in the battle against
an apparently terrifying ‘gender theory’, ‘the difference and reciprocity in nature
of a man and a woman’.122 It is only when ‘nature’ is associated with ideas of the
god-given that expressions like ‘X is natural’ have the meaning ‘X is good’, ‘X must
be decisive on our thinking’, and expressions like ‘X is not natural’, or ‘X goes
against nature’ have the form of condemnations. One needs to jettison all such
associations and recognize that whatever else normativity is, it is a concept that
only exists within the realm of human culture(s). The same goes for all questions
of rights, equality, and legislation, which is where the battle between progressives
and their opponents is really joined.
An accompaniment to resisting the association of the natural with species of
metaphysical thinking is stressing what distinguishes sciences like biology from
theology and forms of speculative philosophy. One break with metaphysics was
when scientists stopped thinking in teleological Aristotelian terms about nature’s
ultimate ends and purposes, and intervened in nature, i.e. manipulated it, via the
experiment. The relevant crux of the distinction here is the difference between the
natural and what metaphysicians call the necessary, and it is important further to
define these terms in relation to the concept of the ‘contingent’, that mobilization
120 Thanks to Jane Caplan for this point and for the references: Simon LeVay, The Sexual Brain
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1993) and Queer Science: The Use and Abuse of Research into Sexuality
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1996).
121 On creation as the book of God: Rigby, Wisdom and Chivalry, 236 ff.
122 Agence France-Presse, ‘Vatican launches guide to tackle “educational crisis” on gender’,
Guardian, 11 June 2019.
slogan of anyone from B. G. Niebuhr to Marcuse and Foucault. ‘Necessary’ is the

opposite of ‘contingent’; ‘natural’ is not. Natural things like mountains are still
contingent; they are not necessary. They are contingent on tectonic plate move-
ments, volcanic activity, etc. Their ongoing existence is contingent, among other
things, on their not being blown up by human-made explosives. Let us say that
we agreed for the sake of argument that human bodies and their processes were
in some measure natural. They are still contingent—inter alia on evolution.
Individual bodies are also contingent on death and decay, and death can be nat
ural or unnatural. Individual living bodies are also in some ways contingent on
culture. As with the capacity of explosives to alter mountains, technology means
that it is possible to make increasingly significant cultural interventions in the
body, including for instance via transgender hormone therapy and reassignment/
corrective surgery. Much like actions against discrimination on grounds of sex,
gender, sexuality, or any other basis, decisions as to the use of such technology are
normative ones that ought to be shaped though informed, empathetic debate.
While scientists may be specially qualified to advise on the scope and risks of the
technology’s application, they have no special qualification qua scientists to assess
its rectitude. And what societies in the past did, or did not do, what they thought
and did not think, should also be supremely irrelevant in the evaluation process.
A final thought on the deployment of critical historicization for emancipatory
purposes is that so much hinges on things having been different in the past, in
order to provide contrast to the present and fortify the case for cultural construc-
tionism. What inferences would the most thoroughgoing constructionists draw
were their historical investigations to find constancy in salient discourses or prac-
tices across tracts of time and space?123 Sharon Block’s study of rape in eighteenth-
century America illuminates some of the conceptual issues as she wrestles
candidly with the strained relationship between her research findings and intel-
lectual socialization. She began, in her own words, ‘from the assumption that
sexual practices, desires, and ideologies are cultural constructs’. Consistent with
the neo-historicist convention characterized by Matthew Crow as duck-hunting
(p. 283), she notes that ‘as a historian, I have been trained to mark the exception-
ality of an era, region, or cultural group’. However she reaches the conclusion that
‘rape seems widely transhistoric and transcultural’. We can perhaps detect the ten-
sion between the two positions in the sentences: ‘Ultimately, I am not opposed to
readers’ seeing various parts of this book as transhistorical, but I also hope that
they will see how sexual coercion was intricately tied to early America’s specific
social and cultural realities. Rape’s imbrication in multiple strands of history, dis-
course, and popular culture makes rape both transhistoric and culturally specific.’
The tension is certainly present in Block’s stressing that she has avoided
123 On related scenarios and associated anxieties, see Wahrman, ‘Change and the Corporeal’,
597–8.
348 Why History?
‘ahistoricism or essentialism’,124 because she does not elaborate any conceptual

distinction between essentialism, ahistoricism, and the transhistorical. If we dis-
regard the perennial boo-word ‘essentialism’, Block’s separation of ahistoricist and
transhistorical seems no more than performative, a reassurance to her readers
that they are dealing with a bona fide historian. It is instructive, then, that ahis-
toricist seems to have been taken to mean the same as ahistorical. Of course it is
not written in stone that History needs to show cultural difference. And, to the
main point, there are no necessary normative connotations if an enquiry suggests
similarity. If it transpired that rape, with whatever particular local modalities, was
common to all societies of which we had knowledge this would not affect the
desire to stamp it out in the here and now. And if we are determined, as we need
not be, to make the issue into one of (claims about?) culture versus (claims
about?) nature, then note that it is not uncommon in the history of culture to
encounter normative admonitions to restrain some element of nature, a mundane
example being vegetarians whose anatomy evolved for an omnivorous diet.125
When all is said and done, the association of the natural and the normative via
the metaphysical is rather old-fashioned, and the emancipatory desire of certain
strong social constructionists to dissolve nature entirely into culture looks like a
new libertarian twist on an old will-to-power. Take Francis Bacon’s claim that
knowledge is power—the claim Foucault inverted as ‘power is knowledge’. Take
also what is generally referred to as Cartesian mind:world dualism, a dualism of
which mind:body dualism is a subset. Together Bacon and Descartes provide the
basis for an image of the human mind gaining detached technical knowledge in
order to manipulate the world for its own ends. That does indeed sound powerful,
but it turns out to be less powerful in key ways than the image of subjectivity that
has come to replace it for some. The ‘Cartesian subject’, often taken together with
the later Kantian transcendental ego, is the focus of postmodern but by no means
only postmodern critiques of ‘the Enlightenment ideal of the disembodied
mind’.126 Any criticism of a concept of subjecthood or mind as disembodied per-
force prompts including study of the body (including the physical brain), its
needs, impulses, etc., in the constitution of subjecthood. That looks like an argu-
ment for including some element of the natural in the aetiology of the subject.
124 All quotes from Sharon Block, Rape and Sexual Power in Early America (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 2006), 7, 241. Again, thanks to Wahrman, ‘Change and the Corporeal’, 598–9,
for adverting me to the text and its relevant elements. Wahrman also provides a justly appreciative
account of Block’s work.
125 Note the influence on this discussion of Robert B. Pippin, ‘Natural and Normative’, Daedalus
(Summer 2009), 35–43.
126 Ania Spyra, ‘Is Cosmopolitanism Not For Women? Migration in Qurratulain Hyder’s Sita
Betrayed and Amitav Ghosh’s The Shadow Lines’, Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, 27:2 (2006),
1–26, here 1. See also Sonya O. Rose, What is Gender History? (Cambridge: Polity, 2010), 103 on ‘dis-
embodied white men’ as a particular case of the issue.
Such an argument is supposedly rebutted if what looks like the natural (in this
example, the body) is actually claimed to be a cultural construct. This keeps the
study of the body as the preserve of students of the cultural, and just renders it
part of the broader cultural fabric, its discourses, language, etc., that are held to
constitute subjecthood. So the terms of mind:world (including mind:body) dual-
ism are replaced with ‘mind:culture’ as a prelude to immediately breaking down
any such dualism and replacing it, in the strongest version of the new argument,
with a relationship of culture→mind determinism. This looks like a weak form of
subjecthood if one is still thinking in individualistic terms, since the individual is
really just a function of the cultural. But cultures are humanmade, even if not by
individual persons. Accordingly, the anti-Cartesian theory is still anthropocentric
and stronger in relevant respects than the Cartesian/Baconian vision, since in the
latter the (individual) mind is only put in a position to perceive and alter the nat
ural world whereas in the former, with the power of the culture substituted for the
power of the mind, the culture is capable of creating what has hitherto been mis-
takenly identified as the natural world. Where the individual mind returns to the
picture is in the persona of our Foucauldians and semiotic code-crackers. By the
magic of their ‘critique’ they have managed to break out of the discursive prison,
stray from the ordained script, and so forth. The power of the liberating thought
of these critics correlates positively with the supposed constituting strength of the
discourses from which they free themselves and purport to free others with neo-
historicist reference to things like historical-cultural contingency. The idealist
insight that that which is thought about the world is part of the world gets
expanded to the point that thought (or in the Foucauldian case discourse)
becomes the determinant of the world ‘in itself ’.
If you are unpersuaded of the efficacy of this sort of thinking, but nonetheless
object to the role that claims on the natural play in the politics of your world, you
need to be clear who your interlocutors are in any given case. This will affect the
sorts of arguments you need to make against them and will provide you with
strategies for playing them off against each other in the event that they form con-
tingent alliances. We have already identified two potential interlocutors: natural
scientists or some subset thereof, and socio-political authorities leaning on cer-
tain metaphysical (whether religious or philosophical) claims. When talking of
politics and legitimation, these two groups must in turn be conceptually separ
ated—whatever the overlaps that may exist in practice—from a third group, those
whom we might call conservatives.
When talking of conservatives one must distinguish the classical theory of
conservatism, as represented in the recent past by the likes of Michael Oakeshott,
from certain usages in the contemporary British and American environments
where ‘conservative’ is applied to the avant-garde of a revolutionary neo-liberal
capitalism. Conservatives in the classical sense differ from the scientists because
350 Why History?
the natural and the metaphysical need play no part in their discourse (though it
often has), even as the normative must. In archetype, the differences between the
groups are as follows:
• Scientists make claims on the natural with no necessary relevance for the
normative;
• Metaphysicians (the relevant ones) use the natural to substantiate claims on
the normative based on metaphysical presuppositions about the natural;
• Conservatives make claims on the normative based on the cultural, or put
differently, the culturally given has a normative status for them.
Conservatives are the ones whose claims on how things should be are apt most
frequently to involve evaluative attitudes to the past, given the relationship between
culture and history. This brings us finally to the terrain of History as Identity,
which is the ground on which many exponents of History as Emancipation are
actually operating anyway, whatever they might think.
History as Identity
History as Identity means that subset of historical enquiry that shapes readers’,
listeners’, and observers’ thoughts and feelings about their heritage. Some forms
of History as Identity are coextensive with a secularized form of History as
Communion. Identity History is widely consumed and readily recognizable, apt
as it is to address particular wars, revolutions, national stories, triumphs, losses,
and whatnot. It frequently forms an alliance of commercial convenience with
History as Entertainment.127 It can dovetail with History as Memorialization
when the memorialized deeds are specifically the deeds of one’s own claimed
forebears. A touch of similitudo temporum (pp. 124–6) might close the historical
‘gap’ between the memorialized past and the present for which the past is touch-
stone. At that point one cannot insert a cigarette paper between inspirational,
‘monumental’ History (in Nietzsche’s term—p. 221) and History as Lesson.
No criticism is intended by the label History as Identity. Different historians
operating in the tradition operate with different political agendas and differing
levels of proceduralist commitment. Different readers approach it with different
expectations and minds of varying degrees of openness. Some read just to find
out more about where they have ‘come from’, as the saying goes, based on the
127 I stress ‘convenience’. The commercial potential of History as Identity favours this union, but by
no means all commercially successful historians are Identity historians or Entertainment historians of
the more gratuitous sort; by the same token, the great mass of practising historians who have no com-
mercial success contain within their number Identity historians. Note also that the Entertainment and
Travel rationales have found just as rich a synergy.
widespread feeling that this will tell them something about who they are. Others
want affirmation of a collective identity. Yet others seek substantiation for the dis-
sent they already espouse.
The potentially significant political ramifications of History in its Identity
mode mean that it has many more exponents than just academic historians, and
fewer professed than actual exponents amongst the ranks of academic historians.
Its practitioners could be museum curators, documentary makers, school
teachers, architects, city planners, politicians, newspaper editors, tour guides,
historical novelists, film directors, elders, parents . . . The list indicates how far all
of us are always-already under the influence of explicit historical interpretations
and meaning-laden historical imagery before we begin any enquiries of our own.
In identity History the potential for tension between ‘ “modern” historical con-
sciousness’ and ‘historicity’ is greatest. By historicity I mean the subjective way in
which one sees oneself as the product of particular historical patterns and institu-
tions, but also the objective ways in which one’s outlook, privileges, and disadvan-
tages are influenced by such institutions whether one realizes it or not. It will not
necessarily do, therefore, just to proclaim one’s emancipation from the past
because one does not feel connected to it. Recall the words of Fustel, notwith-
standing his injunction to study the past as if it were a ‘foreign nation’: ‘the past
never completely dies for man. Man may forget it, but he always preserves it
within him. For, take him at any epoch, and he is the product, the epitome, of all
the earlier epochs. Let him look into his own soul, and he can find and distin-
guish these different epochs by what each has left within him’. As well as his soul,
we might add, let ‘him’ look into his circumstances.
For those who embrace the idea, ‘ “modern” historical consciousness’ is a sub-
jective awareness of an objective reality, i.e. an awareness of actual differences of
present from past. Things are not so simple. What is taken for ‘awareness’ here is
not the correspondence of perception to external reality but the product of vari
able judgements about the significance and extent of various differences across
time. And what if something is adjudged to be significantly different under the
rubric of historical consciousness, yet still relevant under the rubric of historicity?
Establishing that something is a foreign country does not mean one has nothing
to do with it except the occasional holiday. Cross-border wars, alliances, and
commerce are not rarities in human history. They need not bespeak similarity
between the relevant parties but they undoubtedly indicate influence from one
party to another, and what goes synchronically, across place, can go diachronic
ally, across time.
In clarifying the issues at stake in identity-arguments, it is important to recog-
nize how many claims about the nature of the relationship of past to present and
future are imbued with judgements as to the desirability of that relationship, as
was the case in sundry debates across the centuries between antiqui and moderni
(pp. 79–85). Why, for instance, in and beyond the nineteenth century, was
352 Why History?
there a goodly correlation between conservatives and hermeneutics and between

liberals and empiricism?128 Part of the answer is that hermeneutics—and its
extension in classical historicism—sustained some sort of community with the
past precisely because things were changing; after the ‘rupture’ of the French
revolutionary era, classical historicism tried to hold historical consciousness and
a sense of historicity in balance. Empiricism, conversely, was a way of breaking
with the precepts of inherited wisdoms. Empiricism was not the only movement
that could be set against ‘tradition’, however: we can also name rationalism. The
conceptual differences between rationalism and empiricism are important but
have been somewhat obscured by a ‘postmodern’ tendency to bundle the
two together under the unhelpful and in this case pejorative umbrella term
‘Enlightenment thought’. Postmoderns have more in common with liberal-
empiricists than they might like to imagine. (Some self-proclaimed liberals may
also be rationalists, but that is not hugely important when dealing, as now, in
heuristic types only.) Foucault, Lyotard, and the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas
come together with liberals like Isaiah Berlin and Karl Popper in rejecting the
sorts of schemes of social reorganization that were inferable from rationalist
thought, on the basis of their proponents’ claims about some actual or ideal
human ‘way’. Each thinker tended to see such schemes as incipiently totalitarian.
Further, in the sense that all of them reject theoretical ‘foundationalism’ of the
rationalist (say, Kantian) sort, these liberals and postmodern thinkers share some
ground with conservatives like Oakeshott. Where postmoderns depart from con-
servatives, but remain with liberal-empiricists, is, as said, in their attitude towards
the customary. Conservatives put a premium on the customary: when Oakeshott
spoke of the real complexity of social orders, he meant that those orders—their
bonds of mutual understanding and affection, their evolved checks and bal-
ances—were far more sophisticated than the reductive descriptions of rationalist
philosophers and grand revolutionaries, so any ensuing revolutionary prescrip-
tions were, like contract theories, bound to fail even on their own best terms.129
While postmoderns and liberal-empiricists reject self-foundation on some set of
universal rationalist principles, however, they thoroughly embrace an individual-
istic self-determination as against historically and collectively given mores.130 The
agenda of self-determination has as its tool the ‘critique’ that postmoderns like to
claim as their own as they try to divest themselves of the influences of power-
knowledge ‘discourses’ (though in fact they resemble their liberal predecessors
who tried to rid themselves of the influence of ‘tradition’): hence the affinity of
128 There was also a close relationship between socialists and dialectics, but I shall ignore that
nexus in the interests of relative clarity in dense conceptual terrain.
129 Michael Oakeshott, Rationalism in Politics and Other Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1962).
130 Hans Blumenberg, The Legitimacy of the Modern Age (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999) is the
source of the distinction between self-foundation and self-assertion. See also the helpful discussion in
Chantal Mouffe, The Return of the Political (London: Verso, 2005), 10–11, 41–2.
postmodernism and the ‘emancipatory’ brands of neo-historicism. As established

in the previous discussion of History as Emancipation II, such critiques of the
historically evolved present are apt to be normative critiques, whatever their pro-
ponents might think, and wherever the critiques come from conceptually. This is
just as well if the critiques are to have much political purchase.
If one disagrees with the social prescriptions that conservatives proffer, and of
course one need not, there is little utility in arguments of science or shadow sci-
ence, metaphysical claim and counter-claim, or abstract debates about historical
consciousness. One’s arguments will not win out by the identification of missed
possibilities from the past, or by mourning for what might have been. The issue
will not be decided by the ‘revelation’ that any given historico-cultural arrange-
ment is contingent, because a certain contingency is what conservatives celebrate
when they associate the empirical (not metaphysical) ‘is’ with the ‘ought’.
Conservative ranks comprise the people identified above who endorse their
cultural arrangements precisely because they are their cultural arrangements
(p. 339): arrangements that, as Heidegger might have put it, give them a sense of
being at home in the world. In that preference, the sort of people most often
regarded as conservatives are far from alone. They are supported in principle by
many cultural relativists and by the likes of the American philosopher Richard
Rorty, whose thought combined liberal and Heideggerian insights, and in whose
writing recognition of the ‘contingency’ of one’s own social arrangements is a cen-
trally important concept alongside proclaiming the virtues of those arrangements.131
Arguments with members of this broad church, if one wishes to argue with them,
have to work on the level of normativity that underpins all political debate,
and the same goes for tributary historiographical conflicts too. This much was
recognized by the feminist historians of the 1970s and 1980s, the civil-rights-era
historians of African America, and the likes of E. P. Thompson. Their Histories
were attempts to amend something like what the sociologist Arlie Hochschild
calls the ‘deep story’.132
The deep story, with all its metaphorical elements, is the tale of one’s emotional
home, with accompanying connotations of endeavour, hearth, kinship, posses-
sion, and pride. If one wishes to present the matter prejudicially, one could say
that the deep story is the wellspring of collective narcissism, akin to a
Durkheimian view of religion as worshipping one’s ideal collective self. It cer-
tainly has some of the quality of ancestor worship blended with a sense of unique-
ness. One need not be a member of a societal elite to propagate a story; the
identity that partaking of the story entails may be compensation for some mater
ial disadvantage and indeed a way of marking oneself off from other subalterns
who otherwise seem to be in the same boat. Witness: the history of nationalism.
131 Richard Rorty, Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity (Cambridge University Press, 1989).
132 Arlie Hochschild, Strangers in their Own Land: Anger and Mourning on the American Right
(New York: The New Press, 2016).
354 Why History?
At the same time, substantial numbers of people reject particular deep stories,
or want to revise them, or wish to articulate their own deep story as against
another that has occluded it. Any of these endeavours is apt to be incendiary
given that they strike at the identity, with all of its more and less inchoate, reflex,
or reflective assumptions of the comforting, the orienting, the good. Just think of
the touchiness about empire or slavery in Britain and the USA: the knee-jerk jus-
tifications, the avoidance, awkward deflection, or some reference to the ‘values of
the time’ whose logic of distancing—it sounds like an appeal to the truths of the
‘modern historical consciousness’—is contradicted by the fact that it is obviously
uttered in defence of something that the defender’s historicity renders relevant in
the now. Sometimes the claim will be that one story is downright false, sometimes
that it contains important omissions and is skewed to serve one part of a com-
munity more than others. Sometimes the arrangements that have proved good for
one group might be shown to have been deleterious for others, which reminds us
that groups rarely develop in isolation from others, and so cannot always insist on
the right to be left alone to their positive feelings about their historical identity. If
the deep story concerns home, what happens when it is revealed that the home
was built on stolen land, by slave labour?
Debates about reparations for historical wrongs are only the tip of the concep-
tual iceberg, but they highlight something important about the objective element
of historicity. They remind that some groups are beneficiaries of historical inter-
actions, and whether or not any given members of such a group subjectively iden-
tify with their victor-forebears, they may still owe relatively advantageous
life-circumstances to those forebears. The question then, as with affirmative
action—based as it is on the principle of levelling a historically tilted playing
field—is what they are going to do about it.
Deep story battles are fronts in the conflict that we ascribe to identity politics.
We need, though, to remember that identity politics and identity History are not
just the preserve of minorities and the weak, but of majorities and the strong too.
It is an error to assume that the currently prevailing story, or the one that used to
prevail prior to recent contestation, is the only non-political one. This is the error
that the historian and diplomat Gerard Libaridian pinpoints when he writes that
‘Historians often function not only with the benefit of hindsight but also through
the recognition of [contemporary] political realities of which they are a part. In
their zeal to remain “non-political” they tacitly accept the assumption underlying
that same system.’ Their questions are influenced by the imperative to ‘interpret
the past in a way that it does not challenge the rationale of the present. This
mutual reinforcement between particular perceptions of the past and the present,
seen as objective since it implies no critique of the present, emanates from a spe-
cific ideological perspective.’133
133 Gerard J. Libaridian, ‘Objectivity and the Historiography of the Armenian Genocide’, The
Armenian Review, 31:1 (1978), 79–87, here 83.
With identity History in mind, perhaps the most important question is not:
how do vocational historians rationalize what they do? Perhaps it is: given that
the past matters in questions of identity, what are we who spend our lives investi-
gating the past going to do about it? We are not obliged to engage in identity
History: interests vary immensely, and long may that be so. But what about when
our interests do coincide with identity topics?
Theoretical trepidation about engaging on this terrain is relatively recent, being
a product of that confluence of tributary streams named neutralism, pacifism,
relativism, and so forth. The trepidation ought not be overstated, because some
historiographical theorists, and many historical practitioners, would say that
identity-relevant History can be conducted according to the tenets of one or more
of those tributary streams in the way that any other sort of History can be. As it
happens, there are reasons to disagree both with the people who worry about the
potential for partisanship in the area of identity History alone and with some of
those who think that it can be conducted ‘unproblematically’ like other sorts of
History. So much depends on what the ‘normal’ way of conducting History is
meant to involve. Having already problematized appeals to relativism and the
tolerance-building capacities of History, let us now problematize ‘neutrality’. By
its special contemporary sensitivity, History in the Identity vein shines a bright
light on unavoidable normative questions, and while these questions are just as
unavoidable in some other areas of historical enquiry, there are obvious contem
porary political consequences of Identity History in the way in which these evalu-
ative questions are answered, whereas that may not be the case in others areas.
The whole issue is clouded in confusion, not least because for so long evaluative
thought was seen as coterminous with exemplarity—History as Lesson—and as
the latter receded as a justification for History, the former was either assumed
likewise to have receded or was regarded as an anachronistic vestige that proper
application of proceduralist precepts would eliminate.
Remember, first, that there is no necessary contradiction between faithfulness
to procedure and political engagement (pp. 311–12). A criticism of some narra-
tive of the ‘rise of X’ or ‘the benevolence of Y’ could at once be politically
motivated and more plausible—better substantiated—than the narrative under
criticism. As the literature scholar Brook Thomas once wrote, ‘so long as we
believe that we are empowered by knowledge of our situation in the world and so
long as we believe that that situation has in part been determined by the past, the
most empowering study of the past will be the one that comes as close as possible
to telling how it really was’.134
134 Brook Thomas, ‘The New Historicism and other Old-Fashioned Topics’, in Veeser (ed.), The
New Historicism, 182–203, here 201. Thomas’s final—Rankean—words should not distract from his
point: the concept of telling it how it was can easily be substituted for some more epistemologically
respectable construction about warranted inference from evidence.
356 Why History?
Whether or not a historical investigation is politically motivated it can have

political consequences. In principle historical revelations need have no such con
temporary valence: the historical ‘was’ has no necessary influence on contempor
ary value-debates. In practice the historical ‘was’ (very different to the
metaphysical ‘is’) can have that valence, given historically oriented identity com-
mitments and historically inherited (dis/)advantage. More than ninety years ago
the economic historian Leland Hamilton Jenks wrote that the conflict of opinion
between historians can itself be ‘of the story of events which gave rise to it’.135 An
example would be the debate, at once historiographical, of contemporary political
relevance, and with its origins in anti-imperialism at the time, over the ‘Indian
drain’, the economic cost to India of British rule. Different communities, or parts
of communities, may just remember different things but they may also remember
the same thing differently. In these memory battles, certain inferences from evi-
dence can hurt or help, whatever the reason they are adduced. Who enslaved/
killed/invaded whom, and who profited, are important questions. When dealing
with such matters, it is impossible to separate causal explanations from attribu-
tions of responsibility.
In the past, as now, power was wielded positively and negatively, but never
neutrally.136 It is a matter for investigation, not assumption, as to whether it was
wielded legitimately. It is not alien to historians to try to establish the content of
norms in foreign countries past, and then to try to establish how far actors acted
consistently in relation to those norms, and so on. Even without some formal
‘verdict’ such exercises are of a piece with moral theory, as well as involving pre-
cisely the sort of local knowledge of which historians pride themselves as having a
special understanding. The historian cannot escape the normative realm with
reference to ‘complexity’ or nuance. Many human affairs are complex, which is
why we have experts to investigate them, and complexity is not a synonym of
ambiguity. Stating that something is complex is a prelude to trying to clarify it
and reach conclusions, however qualified: it is not a substitute for a conclusion. If
the conclusion is indeed to ambiguity, in the terms framed it must be a conclusion
to evaluative ambiguity, which is a conclusion within the realms of evaluative dis-
course, not outside it. The same goes for conclusions that are deflationary. Trying
to reduce the stakes is something that can only be done by taking some stakes
into account. Mitigation of responsibility (guilt), perhaps by functional context
ualization, is in the same evaluative universe as the aggravation of that responsi-
bility. Praise—which historians are on the whole happier distributing—only
makes sense if blame also does.
135 Leland Hamilton Jenks, The Migration of British Capital to 1875 (New York: A. A. Knopf,
1927), 225.
136 Colin Richmond, ‘Mickey Mouse in Disneyland: How Did the Fifteenth Century Get that
Way?’, in Linda Clark (ed.), The Fifteenth Century: V: Of Mice and Men: Image, Belief and Regulation in
Late Medieval England (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2005), 157–70, here 166.
Even in the event that it seems power was legitimately wielded by the lights of
the wielder, this is no guarantee that the object of the power felt the same way.
Differences of opinion as to legitimacy may constitute one of the major cleavages
in identity History, and the absence of just one set of standards ‘back then’
reminds us why it is often insufficient to adopt a crypto-relativistic argument to
‘the standards of the time’. Such crypto-relativist arguments may or may not affect
our judgements towards individual slaveowners, imperialists, and so on, as his
torically situated agents acting with particular cultural assumptions, but those
arguments cannot affect our normative attitudes to the institutions and practices
of slavery, empire, and so on.
Remember, in the foregoing discussion of relativism, the significance for the
evaluative process of historical practices themselves: the human consequences of
these practices in happiness or suffering (pp. 326–8). The historian is in charge of
the portrayal of such practices and/or their human consequences, and even if she
refrains from explicit judgement, the way that such matters are discussed, consti-
tutive silences and all (p. 295) has the potential to evoke some response by the
reader. With this in mind, how should the historian proceed? If the answer is that
her description and explanation ought to be as ‘balanced’ as possible, then, again,
we are already in the normative universe. If the answer is that she should write in
such a way that she is likely to produce no response whatsoever from the reader,
might we not think that slightly strange? It is unclear that the demand for the
historian’s ‘neutrality’ must mean that the historian has to try to ‘neutralize’, since
that term itself suggests some agenda of manipulation: ‘neutralization’ is not
‘neutral’.
It is difficult to reconcile neutralization with the procedural requirement of
truthfulness, for trying to ‘get it right’, since ‘getting it right’ might involve show-
ing that as far as one can infer from the evidence, historical character or interest
group X was responsible for whipping up hatred against group Y. If we take the
act of trying to ‘be fair’ to relevant historical actors to be synonymous with trying
to be accurate about them based on the evidence, then obviously enough ‘being
fair’ to them is not the same thing as ‘being nice’ to them or treating them neu-
trally. It may mean treating them impartially but, according to definition, that can
be a very different thing. Under one definition, impartiality is a position that one
adopts as the way to reach the best conclusion, and so actually implies the judge-
ment that ‘neutrality’ rejects. One might also think of a definition of ‘impartiality’
appropriate to the historian’s particular ethic of responsibility. Where civil ser
vants ought ‘impartially’ to implement the policies of the government of the day
on recognition that that government is legitimate, historians ought ‘impartially’
to report their interpretations of the past with no consideration for how much
they might irritate the government of the day. Historians might thus be playing a
political role, even a democratic one, but it is a role whose integrity is guaranteed
precisely by their not betraying their procedural ethic in the service of any con-
stituency or regime.
358 Why History?
It is fair to point out that historians are generally not trained in the sort of
evaluative reasoning that might make any of their judgements reliable, but what is
the thrust of that observation supposed to be? If it is to prompt historians to
acquaint themselves better with the tenets of evaluative reasoning, that is one
thing, and a rather good idea, though it ought not be thought that such training
will lead to unanimity in judgement, any more than the other elements of train-
ing lead to unanimity in conclusion in any other area of historical enquiry. If,
however, the point about training underpins an argument against historians mak-
ing evaluations then that is also an argument against historians doing the sorts of
History in which evaluations or evocative or neutralizing descriptions are
unavoidable. We can argue about precisely how many categories of History that
would exclude but it would likely rule out several areas of History as Identity,
Travel, Lesson, Memorialization, and Emancipation, which together account for a
great deal of all the History written and even more of the History that is read by
the general public. To be clear: the only way historians in the relevant areas could
escape normative engagement, as opposed to continuing to use evocative lan-
guage and make evaluative analyses without admitting it, is not to write or speak
on those areas. This would be a pity because it would remove empirically
informed voices when they are most needed.
If the idea of making or consciously prompting judgements sounds presump-
tuous, it is really nothing more than an expression of the responsibility that his
torians take on when engaging in the first place with historical matters of moral
significance. This responsibility is the quantum of the power historians can wield
in a world where opinions about the past still have fundamental importance.
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Index
For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion,
appear on only one of those pages.
Abelard, Peter 86, 88–9 Atthidographers 19–20, 29, 32–3, 68–71, 80
Abram, Annie 270, 274 Atticism 43
Acton (Lord) 219–21, 233, 237, 312–13, 325, 331 Auerbach, Erich 49
Adams, John 147–9 Augustine of Hippo 47, 50, 52–3, 55–7, 81–2,
Adorno, Theodor 149–50, 159, 313–14, 88–92, 110, 122–3, 146–7, 151, 160–1,
318–19, 331 181–2, 211–12
African American history 270, 274–5 Augustus (Emperor) 40–2, 60–1, 76
Africanus, Julius 48–51, 53, 55–6, 68–9 Austin, J. L. 300–1
ahistoricism 347–8
Alain de Lille 82 Bachelard, Gaston 259–60
Alciato, Andrea 128 Bacon, Francis 84, 125, 145–6, 170, 348–9
Altdorfer, Albrecht 80–1 Bambach, Charles 206–7
Althusser, Louis 162, 176, 293, 296–7 Barclay, Katie 319
Altman, Meryl 342–3 Baron, Hans 113–14
Ambrose 47 Baronio, Cesare 140–2
Ammianus Marcellinus 27–8, 43–6, 134–5 Barraclough, Geoffrey 262–3
anacyclosis 36, 123–4 Barrett, James R. 300
Anderson, Benedict 99 Barthes, Roland 291–2
Anderson, Carol 320–1 Bartlett, Kenneth 284–5
Andrew of St Victor 86, 88 Bartolus de Sassoferrato 127
Anna Komnēnē 73–4 Baudouin, François 124, 128–9, 136, 138–9
Annales 256–7, 262, 267–8, 291–2 Bayle, Pierre 144–5, 161–2
Annalistes 244–5, 254–9, 261–2, 264–5, Beard, Charles 238–9
271–2, 291–2 Beard, Mary 238–9
Anselm of Havelburg 84, 86 Beck, Hans 38
antiqui 79, 93–4, 351–3 Becker, Carl 238–9, 316–17
see also via antiqua Bede 60–1, 67–72, 100–1, 109–10, 271
apocalyptic philosophy of history 5–7, 53–7, ben Meir, Samuel 86
150, 164–5, 184–5 Bendix, Reinhard 268–9
Appian of Alexandria 43 Bennett, Alan 308–9
Aptheker, Herbert 274–5 Bennett, Judith 330
Aquinas, Thomas 5–7, 86, 91–3, 320 Benoît de Sainte-Maure 100–1
Arendt, Hannah 84 Benson, R. L. 90–1
Ariès, Philippe 282–3 Bentley, Michael 249, 310–11
Aristotle 36–8, 75, 91–2, 99–100, 185, 208–9, Berger, Stefan 194–5
211–13, 305 Berlin University 196–7, 204
on poetry 36–8 Berlin, Isaiah 262–3, 351–3
Aristotelianism 45–6, 75–6, 78, 81, 84, 92–3, Bevir, Mark 310–11
99–100, 109, 119–21, 145–6, 178–80, Biernacki, Richard 290
211–12, 221–2, 259–60, 346–7 Biondo, Flavio 4–5, 116–17, 120–1
Arnold, John 289, 321–2, 333–4 Blackbourn, David 266
Aron, Raymond 323–4 Bloch, Marc 254–6, 260–2, 268–9, 291–2
Arrian of Nicomedia 25–6, 43, 83 Block, Sharon 347–8
Arrighi, Giovanni 227–8 Boas, Franz 177, 252
390 Index
Boccaccio, Giovanni 73–4 Comnestor, Peter 87

Bodin, Jean 2–4, 106–7, 124, 128–30, 132, Comparative Studies in Society and History 268–9
136, 149, 151–2, 155–6, 160–1, 163, Comte, Auguste 164–5, 184, 200–1, 218, 265–6
169–70, 206–7 Comtean influence 177, 192–3
Boethius 45–6 neo-Comteanism 265–6
Boileau-Despréaux, Nicolas 75, 84 Condorcet, Nicolas de 11–12, 164–5, 265–6
Bolingbroke, Viscount Henry St John 75, 157–8, Confucius 16
259–60, 323–4 conjectural history 156, 171–2
Bollandists 143–4 conjunctural history 171–2
Bossuet, Jacques-Bénigne 150–2, 163–4 Conservatism 349–53
Bourdieu, Pierre 247–8, 330 constructionism 316–17, 341–9
Brandt, Sebastian 102 contextualism 92, 108, 119–24, 126, 128,
Braniss, Christlieb Julius 211–12 132–4 passim, 168–70, 249, 283–4,
Braudel, Fernand 257–65, 267, 291–3 292–3, 321, 336–9, 356
Breisach, Ernst 14–15 Conze, Werner 241–2, 244–5
Brooks, Van Wyck 239–40 Corbin, Alain 282–3
Brown, Callum G. 303 Croce, Benedetto 238
Bruni, Leonardo 108, 112–14, 116–18, 140–1 Cromwell, John Wesley 274–5
Brunner, Otto 241–2 Crow, Matthew 282–3, 347–8
Bruno, Giordano 110 Ctesias 30
Buckle, Henry Thomas 192–3, 213 Cujas, Jacques 128
Budé, Guillaume 127–8 Culler, Jonathan 343–5
Burckhardt, Jacob 216–18, 222, 242–3, 249–50, cultural history 12, 246, 282–5, 287, 300, 343–4
269, 271 see also new cultural history
Burke, Peter 7, 287–8 Cusanus 109–10, 132, 149–52
Burrow, John 14–15
Burtt, E. A. 211–12 d’Alembert, Jean 171–2
Bury, J. B. 4–5, 236–7 Dahlmann, Friedrich Christoph 219
Butterfield, Herbert 237, 252, 262–3, 323–4 Dante 83
Darnton, Robert 279, 283–5
Calixtus, Georg 124 Davies, Elizabeth Gould 275–6
Calpurnius Piso 66 Davis, Natalie Zemon 261–2, 283, 285
Carlyle, Thomas 141–2, 200, 233–4 de Beauvoir, Simone 285–6
Carr, E. H. 262–3 de Staël, Anne Louise Germaine 161–2, 218
Casaubon, Isaac 142–3 deconstruction 293–6
Cassian, John 50 Deleuze, Gilles 318–19
Cassiodorus 45–6, 79, 81, 84, 116–17 Derrida, Jacques 140–1, 281, 293–7
Cassius Dio 43, 80 see also structuralism, poststructuralism,
Chakrabarty, Dipesh 299–300 deconstruction
Chalkokondyles, Laonikos 111, 177, 241–2 Descartes, René 4, 107, 146–7, 157–8, 170, 172,
Chesterton, G. K. 9 205–6, 323–4, 348–9
Chladenius, Johann Martin 203–4 Cartesian influence 158–9, 224–6, 348–9
Christine de Pizan 73–4 see also Rationalism
Chrysoloras, Manuel 109, 111 Diderot, Denis 172
Cicero 11, 26–7, 38–9, 41–2, 45–6, 112, 117–18, Dilthey, Wilhelm 177–8, 224–6, 241, 243–4, 247,
317–18 279, 292, 313–14, 317–18
Clark, Alice 270, 274 Dintenfass, Michael 321–2
Clement of Alexandria 48–9 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 10–11, 21, 43,
Cochran, Thomas C. 264–5 45–6, 103
Coelius Antipater 38 Donation of Constantine 115, 136–9
Cole, G. D. H. 253–4 Droysen, Gustav 213–15, 218, 221–2, 225–6, 277
Coleman, Janet 76, 88–9 Du Bois, W. E. B. 274–5
Collingwood, R. G. 322–3, 325 Dumas, Jean-Baptiste 237
Commager, H. S. 263–4 Duris of Samos 30–2
Index 391
Durkheim, Émile 217–18, 227–8, 254–8, 264 Froissart, Jean 72

Durkheimian sociology 264, 267, Frye, Northrop 305
291–2, 353 Fryer, Peter 275–6
Fuller, Steve 333–4
Eckenstein, Lina 270 Fustel de Coulanges, N. D. 1–2, 8, 13–14,
economic history 256–7 217–18, 234–6, 257–8, 260–1,
Economic History Review 256–7 325, 351
Ehrenreich, Barbara 275–6
Einhard 60–1, 71–2, 82 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 243–4, 317–18
Eisenstadt, Shmuel 268–9 Gaddis, John Lewis 331
Eldridge, Richard 302 Gaimar, Geffrei 100–1
Eley, Geoff 266, 271 Garvey, Marcus 275
Elton, Geoffrey 208–9, 312–13 Gatterer, Johann Christoph 171–3, 206–7, 245
Emilio, Paolo 118 see also conjunctural history
empiricism 146–7, 161–2, 164, 170, 172, Geertz, Clifford 279, 302, 343–4
351–3 Geist 178–82, 184–5, 232
enargeia 9, 26–7, 140–1 gender history 277, 285–7, 342–3
Engels, Friedrich 185–6, 286–7, 333–4 see also women’s history, feminist history
English Historical Review 236–7 Geoffrey of Monmouth 69–70, 74–5,
English, Deirdre 275–6 100–1, 136–7
Eötvös, József 192 Geoffroi de Villehardouin 60–1, 100–1
Ephorus 30–2, 35 Gerald of Wales 103–4, 132, 149
Erklären 230–1, 268–9 Gervinus, Georg Gottfried 212–13
Ermarth, Elizabeth Deeds 310–11 Geschichte und Gesellschaft 244
Eusebius of Caesarea 46, 50–3, 56–7, 59, 67–8, Gibbon, Edward 52–3, 162–4, 271
71, 83, 109–10, 140–1 Gildas 67–8
Evans, Richard J. 323–4 Ginzburg, Carlo 261–2
Evans-Pritchard, Edward 293 Given-Wilson, Chris 72–3, 101
global history 299–300
Fabian, Johannes 96, 104 Godelier, Maurice 187–8
Fabius Pictor, Quintus 34–5 Goethe 221–2, 328
Fagniez, Gustave 235–6, 325 Goetz, Hans-Werner 76
Febvre, Lucien 254–6, 291–2 Goldmann, Lucien 291–2
feminist history 275–6, 285–6, 340–1, 353 Gorgias 30, 32–3
Second-wave Feminism 275–6, 285–6, 290 Göttingen historians 157, 171–2, 193,
Feminist Press 276 203–4, 206–7
Ferguson, Adam 168, 245, 341 Gowing, Laura 343–4
Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 196–7, 199–200 Grafton, Anthony 4–5, 84–5, 92–3, 121–2, 142–3
Ficino, Marsilio 109–10, 151–2 Gramsci, Antonio 187–9, 272–3, 300
figural reading 49–50, 54–5, 97–8, 126, 143, Gratian 86, 90–1
147–9, 198 Greenblatt, Stephen 284–5
Fisher, Samuel 144–5 Gregory of Tours 67–8, 71–2
Flacius Illyricus, Matthias 138–40 Gregory, Marshall 302
Fleischer, Helmut 185–6, 306–7 Grotius, Hugo 143–4, 147–9, 160
Foresti, Antonio 150–1 Guenée, Bernard 7, 76
Foucault, Michel 96, 247, 250–2, 254, 259–60, Guha, Ranajit 273
279–82, 285–7, 289, 291–5, 305, 316–19, Guibert de Nogent 66, 100
331–41, 346–9, 351–3 Guicciardini, Francesco 2–7, 120–1, 123, 150–1
Foucauldian concepts 281–2, 285, 289, 295, Guido delle Colonne 102
300, 324–5, 336, 339–41, 348–9 Guignes, Joseph de 155–6
Foxe, John 136–7 Guizot, Francois 199
Franklin, John Hope 274–5
Freeman, E. A. 4–5, 198–9 Habermas, Jürgen 313–14, 324–5, 333–4
Freud, Sigmund 249–50, 253, 255–6, 291–2 Hacking, Ian 341–2
392 Index
Hall, Stuart 271–3 Hofstadter, Richard 264–5

Halsall, Guy 295 Homer 17–18, 22–4, 27, 71–2
Hamann, Johann Georg 125, 161–2, 173–4, Horace 23, 38–40, 71–2
177–8, 279, 292 Horkheimer, Max 149–50, 159, 313–14,
Hammond, Barbara 253–4 318–19, 334
Hammond, J. L. 253–4 Hotman, François 128, 130, 136
Hartley, L. P. 1 Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim 73–4
Hecataeus of Melitos 19–21, 27, 68–9 Hugh of St Victor 86–8
Heclo, Hugo 268–9 Humboldt, Wilhelm von 205–6, 232, 243–4
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 162, 178–84 Hume, David 142–5, 154, 158–9, 164, 166–7,
passim, 185, 188–90, 192, 204, 206–7, 209, 173, 178, 222
213–14, 220–2, 225–6, 254, 292–3, 295, Hunt, Lynn 281–3, 287–8
300–1 Hydatius 71
Hegelianism 172, 184–7, 206–7, 213–14,
221–2, 292–3, 300–1, 318–19, 334 Ianziti, Gary 4–5, 116
Heidegger, Martin 159, 226, 241–4, 292, 295, intellectual history 257, 300–1
318–19, 335–6, 353 international history 248
Heidelberg University 244–5 new international history 297–8
Helinand of Froidmont 87 inventiones 26–7, 75–6, 119–20
Hellanicus of Mytilene 19–20, 29 Isidore of Seville 160
Henry of Huntingdon 56–7, 69–72, 116–17 Isocrates 81
Herder, Johann Gottfried 4, 161–2, 173–8, Ivo of Chartres 86
192–4, 199, 201–2, 211–12, 243–4, 279, izibongo 16, 24
292, 322–3, 326
hermeneutics 15, 49–50, 63, 84–95 passim, Jackson, Louise 319
107–8, 138–49, 158–9, 177–8, 180, 208–9, James the Conqueror of Aragon 101
211, 213, 225–6, 230–1, 243–7, 249, 269, Jameson, Fredric 338–9
279–81, 284–5, 292–5, 308–10, 313–14 Jaurès, Jean 246
hermeticism 110, 131–2, 160–1, 292 Jerome 53, 71
Herodian of Antioch 10–11 Joachim of Fiore 56–7, 79, 160
Herodotus 4, 9–10, 13–14, 17, 19–23, 27–9, John Chrysostom 86
53–5, 73, 102, 111, 115–16, 149, John of Salisbury 99–100
216, 323–4 John, Eric 310–11
Hesiod 17, 19, 24, 36, 54, 81 Johnson, Mark 302
Heussi, Karl 238 Johnson, Paul E. 268–70, 281–2
Hill, Christopher 267 Josephus 47–8, 52, 87
Hilton, Rodney 267, 272–3 Journal of African American History 274–5
Hippocrates 189–90 Julius Caesar 38–9, 130, 137–8
historicism (Historismus) 2–4, 12, 91, 121–2,
152–3, 203–16 passim, 219–29 passim, Kant, Immanuel 169–71, 173, 178–81, 185,
240–45 passim, 249, 253, 262–5, 302, 321, 229–30, 252–3, 321–2
343–4, 351–3 Kantianism 181–2, 188–9, 224–6, 292,
historicization 90–1, 103, 123, 128, 133–4, 309–10, 333–4, 336–7, 348–9
189–90, 216–17, 224, 282–3, 285–6, 332, see also neo-Kantianism
336–9, 343–8 Karo, Joseph 86
see also neo-historicism Kautsky, Karl 185–6
historicity 209–10, 213–14, 224–6, 322–3, 351–4 Kehr, Eckhart 244–5
history from below 246, 273–4, 281–2 Kelber, Werner H. 138–9
Historische Zeitschrift 209–10, 218, 235–7, 276–7 Kelley, Donald R. 14–15, 90–1
history of emotions 300 Kelly, Joan 275–6
history of the body 300, 342–4, 348–9 Kemble, John Mitchell 198
Hobbes, Thomas 146–9, 158–9 Kennan, George 228
Hobsbawm, Eric 268–9, 272–3 Kenyon, John 312–13
Hochschild, Arlie 353 Keynes, John Maynard 185
Index 393
Khaldūn, Ibn 2–4 Lukács, György 188–9, 248, 272, 286–7, 335–6
Kiernan, Victor 272–3 Lupus of Ferrières 71–2
Kleinberg, Ethan 295 Luther, Martin 138–9, 173–4
Kligerman, Eric 328–9 Luxemburg, Rosa 299
Knowles, David 262–3 Lyotard, Jean-François 292–3, 351–3
Kocka, Jürgen 245
Kogălniceanu, Mihail 193–4 Mabillon, Jean 143, 150–1
Köhler, Johann David 171–2 Macaulay, Catharine 155–6
Königshofen, Jakob Twinger von 60–1 Macaulay, Thomas Babington 198, 200–1,
Koselleck, Reinhart 2–7, 80–1 248–9, 271
Kuhn, Thomas S. 259–60 Machiavelli, Niccolò 117–21, 124, 147–51
Maimonides, Moses 86, 91–2, 103, 122–3, 144–5
La Boderie, Guy Lefèvre de 131–2 Maitland, Frederic William 228–9, 250–1
La Peyrère, Isaac 144–5 Mandrou, Robert 291–2
La Popelinière, Lancelot Voisin 130–4, 140–1, Mann, Michael 154
149–50 Mannheim, Karl 238
Labrousse, Ernst 257–8 Map, Walter 82–3, 92–3
LaCapra, Dominick 328–31 Marcuse, Herbert 334–5, 346–7
Lacombe, Paul 254, 257–8 Marrou, Henri 316–17, 331
Ladurie, Emmanuel le Roy 261–3, 268–9 Marx, Karl 154, 156–7, 161, 178, 184–90 passim,
Lamprecht, Karl 192–3, 216–17, 227–30, 225–6, 253–4, 265–6, 270, 272–3, 286–7,
233–4, 255–6 301, 306–7
Langlois, Charles-Victor 233–4 Marxism 184–90 passim, 252–3, 277–8, 281–2,
Laqueur, Thomas 342–3 286–7, 299–300, 333–4
Laslett, Peter 269 and capitalism 185, 188–90, 336
Lavisse, Ernest 262–3 and denaturalization 149–50, 188–90, 286–7
Le Bon, Gustav 255–6 and materialism 232, 238–9
Le Bras, Gabriel 90–1 anthropogenetic Marxism 185–6, 189
Le Goff, Jacques 95–7, 291–2 nomological Marxism 183–7, 189, 272–3,
Lebensphilosophie 222–3, 292 306–7
Lefebvre, Georges 255–6, 270 pragmatological Marxism 185–7, 189, 272–3,
Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm 151–3, 158, 161–2, 306–7
174–5, 177, 183–4, 186–7, 208–9, vulgar Marxism 187–8
251–2, 279 Marxist history 12, 227–8, 248, 253–4, 259–60,
Leninism 186–7, 299 267, 271–4, 278, 281–2, 299–300,
Lerner, Gerda 275–6, 286–7 330–1, 334
Lessing, Theodor 240, 279 and American social history 253–4, 267,
LeVay, Simon 345–6 271, 300
Levi, Giovanni 261–2 and British social history 265–6, 271–3
Levinas, Emmanuel 351–3 history from below 273–4, 281–2, 300
Lévi-Strauss, Claude 252–3, 255–7, 291–2 neo-Marxism 299
Levitin, Dimitri 142–3 post-Marxist philosophy 247
Libaridian, Gerard 354 Mascardi, Agostino 26–7
Lipset, Seymour Martin 268–9 Maschke, Eric 244–5
Lipsius, Justus 125, 147–9 McNeill, William H. 299
Lipson, Ephraim 256–7 Medick, Hans 261–2
Livy 38–42, 54, 66, 119–20 Medievalism 7, 96–7, 196–7, 227–8
Locke, John 146–9, 158–9 Megill, Allan 310–11
Lombard, Peter 88–9 Meiksins Wood, Ellen 187–8
longue durée 257–9, 261–2, 267 Meinecke, Friedrich 208–9, 242–3
Lovejoy, Arthur O. 322–3 Meiners, Christoph 173
Lowenthal, David 14 Melanchthon, Philip 78–9
Lucretius 23, 38–9 Menger, Carl 229–30
Lüdtke, Alf 274 Michelet, Jules 77, 199–201, 233–4, 270
394 Index
microhistory 261–2, 284–5 Peter the Chanter 87

Mill, John Stuart 189–90 Petrarch 2–4, 77–9, 103, 108–9, 113–14, 116
moderni 79, 93, 351–3 Philo of Alexandria 46–7
see also via moderna philology 15, 107–8, 115, 126–8, 138–9, 143
Monod, Jacques 235–6, 260–1, 325 Phylarchus 30–2
Montaigne, Michel de 125, 134–5 passim, 136 Pico della Mirandola, Gioanfrancesco 110
157–8, 162, 169–70, 323–4, 341 Pinchbeck, Ivy 270
Montesquieu 2–4, 154, 161–4, 169–70, 176, 178, Pinkerton, John 164
199–200 Pirenne, Henri 233–4, 268–9
Monumenta Germaniae Historica 194–7, 234–5 Plato 32–3, 36, 47, 93–4, 109–10, 131–2, 211–12
Moore, Barrington 268–9 Platonism 36, 46–7, 54–5, 78, 106–10, 145–6,
mos gallicus 126–8, 130, 133–4 158–9, 346
mos italicus 126–7 see also Neoplatonism
Möser, Justus 203–4 Plekhanov, Georgi 185–6
Müntzer, Thomas 141–2 Plethon, Georgius Gemistos 109–11
Muratori, Ludovico 156 Plotinus 46–7, 110, 181–2
Plutarch 39–40, 43, 83, 117–18
Namier, Lewis 249–52, 330 Pluto Press 276
neo-historicism 227, 253, 284–5, 300–2, 306, Pocock, J. G. A. 132–3, 300–1
315–16, 332, 348–9, 351–3 political history 248, 254–5, 260–1, 264–5,
neo-Kantianism 229–30 288–9, 297–8
Neoplatonism 46–7, 54, 59, 106–7, 109–10, Poliziano 84–6, 128
131–2, 143–4, 152–3, 160–1, 174, 181–2, Polybius 4–5, 9–11, 31–2, 34–8, 40, 42, 53–4,
224 60–1, 116–20, 123–5, 129, 171–2, 208–9
see also Platonism Popper, Karl 308, 351–3
new cultural history 271–2, 281–2, 285–8, 297, Porcius Cato 35, 40
300, 343–4 positivism 177–8, 184, 218, 242–3, 269, 287
Newton, Isaac 145–7, 170, 220–1, 229 postcolonialism 267, 277, 299–300, 324–5
Nicholas of Cusa, see Cusanus postmodernism 12, 97, 249–50, 292–3, 348–9,
Niebuhr, Barthold Georg 189–90, 203–4, 346–7 351–3
Nietzsche, Friedrich 206–7, 221–4, 231, 238–41, poststructuralism 12, 281, 293, 295–6, 299–300,
279, 284–5, 292–3, 295–6, 308–9, 318–21, 336–7
328, 331, 336–7, 350 Power, Eileen 253–4, 268–70, 274
Nightenhelser, Keith 342–3 Procopius of Caesarea 59, 79–81, 116–17
Nora, Pierre 258 prophetic philosophy of history 55–7, 164–5,
Novick, Peter 236–7 184–5, 240
Prothero, George 205
Oakeshott, Michael 325 Ptolemy 106–7
Orderic Vitalis 96 Pufendorf, Samuel 147–9, 209
Origen Adamantius 46–7, 50, 57
origines gentium 70–1, 100, 195–6, 339 quadriga 50, 86
origines ordinum 339 Quarles, Benjamin Arthur 274–5
Orosius 52–3, 76, 100–1, 116 Quinet, Edgar 199
Ortega y Gasset, José 292 Quintilian 26–7
Otto of Freising 53–4, 57, 76, 96, 211–12 Quintus Ennius 34–5
Ovid 81
Rabelais, François 129–30
Palacký, František 201–2 Ralph of Diceto 82–3
Palmieri, Matteo 116–17 Rancière, Jacques 258
Paparrigopoulos, Konstantinos 194 Ranke, Leopold von 178, 193, 203–16, 218–21,
Parsons, Talcott 265–6 232, 238–9, 242–4, 254, 267–9, 320–1
Pasquier, Etienne 129–32 and historicism 211, 224, 227–8
Past and Present: A Journal of Scientific Rashi 86, 88
History 271 rationalism 146–7, 161, 170, 179–80, 184,
Pelling, Christopher 24 196–7, 201–2, 351–3
Index 395
Raynal, Guillaume Thomas 172 Seneca 46

Regino of Prüm 82 Septimius Severus 114
Reiner, G. J. 310–11 Sewell, William 268–9, 285–8
relativism 91, 122, 133–5, 152–3, 176–7, 240–1, Sextus Empiricus 107, 134–5
253, 262–3, 321, 326–7, 355, 357 Sidgwick, Henry 250–1
Renan, Ernest 192–3 Simiand, François 254, 257–8
Revue de synthèse historique 233–4 similitudo temporum 124–6 passim, 160, 163–4,
Revue des Questions Historiques 235–6 316, 350
Revue Historique 235–6 Simmel, Georg 177–8
Ricardo, David 211 Simon, Richard 143–4, 150–1
Ritter, Gerhard 243 Skinner, Quentin 331–2
Robertson, William 167–8 Skocpol, Theda 268–9
Robinson, James Harvey 229, 238–40 Smith, Adam 168, 180, 184–5, 189–90
Robortello, Francesco 107 Smith, George 13–14
Rokkan, Stein 268–9 social history 12, 246, 249–50, 264–70 passim,
Rorty, Richard 353 271–8 passim
Rosenberg, Hans 244–5 American social history 267, 271, 274–5,
Rostow, Walt W. 265–6 284–5
Rothfels, Hans 243, 262–3 British social history 253–4, 266, 271–2,
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 149–50, 154, 184–5, 274–5
189–90, 222, 318–19, 341 German social history 240–5 passim, 271
Rowbotham, Sheila 275–6 Socrates 29–30
Rowse, A. J. 259–60, 331 Söderqvist, Thomas 316–17
Rudé, George 268–9, 272–3 Spengler, Oswald 240–1, 250
Rüsen, Jörn 321–2 Spiegel, Gabrielle 77, 97–8
Spinoza, Baruch 143–51, 163–4, 208–9, 331
Said, Edward 324–5 Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty 277
Saint-Simon, Henri de 164–5 Stahl, F. J. 172
Sallust 38–42, 66, 116 Stampp, Kenneth 262–3
Salutati, Coluccio 108–9, 111–12, 114 Stedman Jones, Gareth 288–9
Samuel, Raphael 14 Stengers, Jean 310–11
Santner, Eric L. 328–9 Stenton, Frank M. 248–9
Sanudo, Marin 112 Steuco, Agostino 110
Satia, Priya 277–8 Stewart, Dugald 164
Saussure, Fernand de 251–2, 288 Strabo, Walafrid 82, 87
Scaliger, Joseph Justus 142–3 Strada, Famiano 125–6
scepticism 96, 107–8, 133–5, 146–7, 155, 157–8, Streuver, Nancy 310–13
170, 173, 184, 229, 292–3, 344–5 Stroiev, Pavel Mikhailovich 194–5
Pyrrhonian scepticism 107, 143, 147–9 structuralism 246, 251–4, 258–60, 279, 287,
Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph 247 292–6, 299–301
Schieder, Theodor 241–2, 245 see also poststructuralism
Schiffman, Zachary 132–4, 303 Stubbs, William 198–9, 248–9
Schleiermacher, Friedrich 177–8 Subaltern Studies 273
Schlosser, Friedrich Christoph 192, 212 subaltern studies collective 273, 300
Schlözer, August Ludwig von 193 Suetonius 39–40, 43–4, 60–1
Schmitthenner, Walter 172 Sulpicius Severus 66
Schmoller, Gustav von 229–30 Sybel, Heinrich von 209–10, 218–19
Scholes, Robert 343–4
Scott, Joan Wallach 267–9, 277, 285–7, 290, Tacitus 38–44, 66, 68–9, 116, 123–6, 136–8,
333–4, 342–3 147–9, 203, 220–1, 312–13, 325
Scott, Walter 191 Taine, Hippolyte 192–3, 215, 218, 222
Seignobos, Charles 233–4, 254 Tawney, R. H. 253–4, 256–7, 263–4
semiotics 252, 279–84, 287–8, 295–6, 300, Tertullian 48–9, 56
348–9 Theodosius 43–4, 114
Sempronius Asellio 38 Theopompus of Chios 30–3, 39–40
396 Index
theoria 32–3, 37–8, 46–7, 145–6, 208–9, 232 Völkel, Markus 105–6
Thierry, Augustin 199–200, 233–5, 270 Volksgeist 156, 176, 192, 216–17, 227, 241–2, 326
Thomas, Brook 355 Voltaire 11–12, 86–7, 149–50, 163–4, 178, 245
Thomas, Keith 284–5
Thompson, Dorothy 272–3 Wace 100–1
Thompson, E. P. 249–50, 272–3, 295–6, 300, 353 Wallerstein, Immanuel 268–9
Thrupp, Sylvia 268–9 Walter of Châtillon 83
Thucydides 10, 14, 17, 21–32, 39–40, 59, 73, 80, Walter, Uwe 38
147–9, 203, 216 Watson, Christopher 125
Tiberius 41–2 Webb, Beatrice 253–4
Tillich, Paul 55–6 Webb, Sidney 253–4
Tilly, Charles 268–9 Weber, Max 117–18, 229–34, 240, 259–60,
Tilly, Louise 267–9 268–9, 279
Timaeus of Tauromenium 34–5 Weberian influence 242–3, 259–60, 262,
Tönnies, Ferdinand 227–8 264–6
topical thinking 75–6, 108, 119–21, 317–18, Wedgwood, C. V. 262–3
321–2 Wehler, Hans-Ulrich 244–6, 274
Tosh, John 308, 316–17, 323–4 Weinberg, Joanna 142–3
Toulmin, Stephen 263–4 White, Hayden 10–11, 68–9, 279–80, 293–4,
Toynbee, Arnold J. 1–2, 227–8, 240–1, 262–4 305–7, 336–7
translatio imperii 53–4, 103, 113–14, 129, 137–8, William of Malmesbury 4–5, 69–70, 137, 198–9
199–200 William of Nassau 125
transnational history 297–8 William of Ockham 93–4, 190
Treitschke, Heinrich von 218–20, 230–1, 258–9 William of Tyre 60–1, 323–4
Trevelyan, G. M. 323–4 Williams, Bernard 58–60, 149
Trevor-Roper, Hugh 323–4 Williams, Raymond 272–3
Troeltsch, Ernst 226, 232, 240–1 Winckelmann, J. J. 161–3
Wittgenstein, Ludwig 300–1
Valla, Lorenzo 4–5, 115–18, 128, 138–9 Wolf, Eric 299
van Liere, Frans 88–9 Wolff, Christian 172
Varro 38–9 women’s history 274–6, 285–6
Veeser, H. Aram 284–5 see also gender history, feminist history
Veldeke, Heinrich von 102 Woodson, Carter G. 274–5
Velleius Paterculus 42 Woolf, Daniel 147–9, 171–2
Verstehen 230–1, 268–9 world history 192, 206–9, 298–300
via antiqua 93, 170–1 World History 299
via moderna 93, 138–9, 170–1
Vico, Giambattista 2–4, 156, 158–62, 166, Xenophon 29–30, 33
174–5, 179–80, 199–200, 211–12, 216, 245,
313–14 Yerushalmi, Josef 54–5
Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte 262–3
Vincent of Beauvais 87 Zammito, John H. 311
Virgil 23, 34–5, 38–40, 81 Zeitgeist 156, 216–18, 255–6

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OUP CORRECTED AUTOPAGE PROOFS – FINAL, 08/04/20, SPi

For Cordelia, Yasmin, and Zahra

Sixteenth-Century French Historiography 126

Varieties of Emancipatory History 330

Bibliography of Works Cited 359

On ‘Modern Historical Consciousness’

The nineteenth-century French historian N. D. Fustel de Coulanges wrote that in

eighteenth-century aesthetic theory.4 One sees ‘Copernican’ significance in the

18 Ibid. 11, 13. 19 Ibid. 18, 19.

Continuity and Change in Justifications for History

10 Why History?

large-scale developments but also seeks to identify an underlying historical

27 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On Thucydides, ed. W. Kendrick Pritchett (Berkeley: University of

12 Why History?

‘enlighteners’ referred to the past. Voltaire and Condorcet sometimes used

14 Why History?

primary interest. The principle of selection is that they provided intellectual

If choosing when to begin any History, including a History of History, is never

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 17

with Persian authorization though not dictation. By establishing conditions of

18 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 19

Genealogy, Ethnography, and Historical Consciousness

Hesiod’s Theogony might be the first Greek genealogical work, understood as a

20 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 21

question of evidence, Herodotus evinced a preference for recent history where

22 Why History?

lifestyles than it is strictly relativist.23 He was concerned with the synchronic

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 23

anthropological universals more generally. Style seemed to mirror substance: his

24 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 25

Rhetoric, Purpose, Truth

26 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 27

41 Michael Comber, ‘Re-Reading the Roman Historians’, in Bentley (ed.), Companion to

28 Why History?

work of establishing chronologies, particular battle strategies, or statistics of sol-

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 29

contemporary leader whom he wished to flatter or slight by allegory. Irrespective

Useful and Pleasurable History

47 Jonas Grethlein, ‘Homer and Heroic History’.

30 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 31

32 Why History?

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 33

From Greek to Roman Historiography

34 Why History?

61 Todd S. Berzon, Classifying Christians: Ethnography, Heresiology, and the Limits of Knowledge in

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 35

Philosophy, Poetry, History: A Greek in Rome

36 Why History?

Polybius’s most famous contribution to the philosophy of history as an overall

Classical History between Epic and Rhetoric 37

‘universal’. The poet imposed a conceptual order on the interpretation of human

70 Aristotle, Poetics, IX, in Aristotle, On the Art of Poetry, 44.

38 Why History?

Roman Historiography in the Late Republic

Sixteenth-Century French Historiography 126

Varieties of Emancipatory History 330

Bibliography of Works Cited 359

As we traverse time and place, alongside the inheritance of multiple historio

There is no doubt that chroniclers, who included numerous accounts of mili

By definition of translation between idioms, it was impossible to separate the his