My class in historiography introduced me to a relatively new historiographical concept, “memory.” A group of people, usually a country, shapes a memory of its past that reorders the facts of history into a narrative. Historians explore such memories and how they came about. It’s fascinating, but it makes me uneasy.
David W. Blight is a leading historian of memory. His brilliant book Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory epitomizes the best use of the concept. [1] In brief, he explains that after the most devastating war in American history the reunified nation had to come to grips with what had happened. Americans created a memory of the war—its goals and its results.
I was fortunate to spend a semester studying the work of Frédéric Bastiat, the great nineteenth-century French economic pamphleteer. Beloved by libertarians, he is unequalled in his ability to defend freedom and personal responsibility.
Even Frédéric Bastiat, an insightful libertarian thinker, could not imagine communism of the twentieth-century kind.
Much can be said about Bastiat, but here I’d like to mention his discussion of communism, for two reasons. First, it illustrates the fluidity of the terms socialism and communism in the mid-nineteenth century—something historians should not forget. For another, it illustrates how brilliant people can be both unusually perceptive about what is around them, but still blind about the future.
Warning: Like most writers about Bastiat, I find it hard not to quote him at length. He says things much better than most of us can.
I was 33 years old when I realized I was living in a different era from my past. My 1950s world of big skirts with felt poodles, petticoats, and even hoops; of sweltering at school in May and June because there was no air conditioning; of 45 rpm records; of going to the drugstore soda fountain and choosing vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream—all had been part of a different epoch.
Yes, I had been a young adult during the turbulent ‘60s (and was part of the turbulence), but I hadn’t experienced them as anything other than one year following the previous one, like day follows day, even if those days were tumultuous. It took twenty years for me to see my past as part of a distinct period, one that was gone.
Historians, however, routinely chop up time—they have to.
The protocol for most history articles is to begin with a critique of previous historians’ writing or to note that they have missed something important. Most historians do this politely. Sometimes though, exchanges can be heated, even a bit nasty. It isn’t all dull behind the covers of the Economic History Review.
I’ve seen two such debates in my limited experience—an animated conversation with just barely contained hostility. In both cases, the conflicts were between a “social” and an “economic” historian and between a man and a woman. Here’s a summary of one. [1]
In 2004, economic historian Sheilagh Ogilvie criticized a new approach to the history of pre-modern guilds—“rehabilitation” literature that painted guilds as contributing to economic efficiency rather than being merely self-interested monopolists (as economists had been saying for years). She called these “stimulating perspectives,” but they needed to be“tested against alternative theories,” which she then proceeded to do with an empirical study of a weavers’ guild in southwestern Germany. Nothing was untoward in her remarks.
A few years later, S. R. Epstein replied. First, he said that Ogilvie used merely a “single—arguably even singular” example. Her goal was to “demolish a view now held by a majority of scholars with relevant expertise in early modern economic history.” “[H]er article not only misrepresents essential elements of modern international scholarship” but also “fails to address significant elements of her [own] selected study.” All that in one paragraph.
In a sense, all historical writing is revisionist. In their writing, most historians attempt to show that some aspect of history has been slighted, ignored, or undiscovered, and they have come up with a remedy. Sometimes, though, revisionist history is very powerful.
In his 1992 book The Stripping of the Altars, Eamon Duffy offered a revisionist view of the Protestant Reformation in England. His goal was to “contribute a shovelful of history to the burial of the venerable historiographical consensus” about the English Reformation.[1]
That consensus (which echoes the “whig version” of history challenged by Herbert Butterfield) pictured an open-minded, modern religion (Protestantism) replacing a superstitious, populist “folk” religion (Catholicism). Historians, says Duffy, were under the sway of A. G. Dickens, the “doyen of English Reformation studies,” who disdained what Duffy calls “late [Catholic] medieval piety.” Duffy’s 654-page volume (which I am reading for a class this fall) was designed to restore respect for Catholic England, and apparently it did.
