British Republicans 3: Richard Carlile 2 - Methods of Engagement

April's blogpost introduced Richard Carlile, setting him in the context of a long tradition of English republican thought as well as noting the important ways in which he departed from that tradition. This month's blogpost will extend discussion of him by considering the means by which he communicated his republican ideas. There are links here with the practices of earlier British republicans as discussed in my series of blogposts entitled 'Experiencing Political Texts'.

Title page of Carlile’s edition of Paine’s works. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

In the first place, Carlile continued the tradition of seeking wide dissemination of political knowledge. Following in the footsteps of editors like John Toland and Thomas Hollis, and booksellers like John Darby and Daniel Isaac Eaton, Carlile took it upon himself to print and sell key texts written by republican authors. In 1819 Carlile published a two volume edition of the Political and Miscellaneous Works of Thomas Paine in octavo format, to which he added a Life of Thomas Paine, which he had written himself. The previous year he had printed and published Paine's controversial deist text The Age of Reason as well as a collection of The Theological Works of Thomas Paine. Printing and selling The Age of Reason resulted in Carlile's imprisonment the following year.

Carlile did not simply print and publish key political texts but also co-ordinated their dissemination. In his periodical The Republican, he described the 'arbitrary and illegal' treatment of one James Tucker by the authorities in Exeter. He explained how Tucker, who was out of work, had called on him asking to be made an agent for the circulation of his political publications in the vicinity of Exeter. Carlile agreed, noting that having been a resident of that city himself he knew 'that political information had not made that progress in Exeter and Devonshire in general, as it had in the northern counties' (The Republican, No. 4, Friday 17 September). Soon after Tucker began work on Carlile's behalf, he was arrested by the authorities and imprisoned in Exeter prison for selling political pamphlets. Carlile publicised Tucker's case and worked hard to bring about his release.

The Republican was itself a key component of Carlile's political information campaign. Following in the spirit of periodicals like Thomas Spence's One Pennyworth of Pigs Meat and Eaton's Politics for the People, The Republican was a weekly publication that directly addressed current affairs and sought to educate the public on political matters. Just like Spence and Eaton, Carlile was keen to keep the price low to ensure as wide a circulation as possible. Spence and Eaton had deliberately charged just one penny per issue for their periodicals. By 1819 the state had intervened to control - even curb - such publications. In his address 'To the Readers of the Republican' which prefaced the first volume, Carlile commented explicitly on this:

Richard Carlile, The Republican, Volumes 1 and 2. Bodleian Library, Oxford: Johnson e. 3662. Photograph by Alex Plane. Reproduced courtesy of the Bodleian Libraries.

As the price and size of pamphlets, touching on political subjects, and commenting on the proceedings of the day, are to be regulated by a statute, a few words may not be improper as to the continuation of this publication. I have resolved to adopt the smallest size and the least price the statute will allow ... the first volume will be closed with the last twopenny sheet, and the second commence with the new series.

Moreover he went on:

The Editor hopes that the extended size and price will not restrict the number of his readers, although he is fully aware it must restrict the number of the pamphlets sold. Small reading societies, consisting of three or four families, are now more essential than ever: our enemies are straining every nerve to stop the reading that is now going on, for they well know that "knowledge is power" (Richard Carlile, The Republican, from Radical Periodicals of Great Britain. Westport Connecticut, 1970, pp. xv-xvi).

A page from The Republican which includes a letter from a female reader - complete with her name and address. The Republican, Volumes 1 and 2. Bodleian Library, Oxford: Johnson e. 3662. Photograph by Alex Plane. Reproduced courtesy of the Bodleian Libraries.

Carlile was keen not merely to present political news and texts to his readers, but also to encourage their thought and engagement with what they were reading. He did this partly by accompanying his account of recent events with commentary directing his readers how to interpret the actions of those involved. He also encouraged a two-way engagement with his readers. He invited readers to write in asking questions or expressing their own views. Significantly, he insisted that when doing so they had to provide their real name and address; contrary to common practice at the time, no anonymous correspondence or essays would be included within the publication. He acknowledged that this would put some readers off writing, but insisted that 'the necessity of every man making a frank and candid avowal of his principles and sentiments at the present moment, far exceeds any other feelings that may be put in competition with it' (The Republican, No. 1, Friday 27 August, 1819). Despite the requirement, readers did write to The Republican. Some wrote letters praising Carlile and his publications - particularly after his imprisonment; others contributed short articles prompted by things Carlile had said; a few even disagreed with Carlile - or with other readers. The fourth issue included a letter by J. A. Parry. Prompted by Carlile's comment about the role of the executive within the constitution, Parry criticised the House of Lords both in terms of its new members (who, he claimed, tended to be appointed for their servility to existing rulers) and the disruption to the balance of the constitution resulting from its subordination to the Crown. In a footnote to the letter, Carlile expressed his sympathy for the sentiment, but went further than Parry. He insisted that he was opposed to all titles believing the knowledge of having done one's duty and the private esteem of fellow citizens should be sufficient reward for virtuous action. Parry's article also prompted Thomas Dobson of 22 Ossulston Street, Somers Town, to offer his own reflections on hereditary titles, which he strongly condemned as injurious and insulting. Another correspondent, H. Cousins of Hackney also took issue with Parry's letter, exploring the question of whether private property should be secured or equalised. Parry himself then responded in the subsequent issue.

A page from The Republican (details as above) including the names of subscribers and the amounts they subscribed.

As well as encouraging his readers to engage with key issues, Carlile also sought to prompt them into action. This could involve signing one's name - or even pledging money - for a cause. Signatures and pledges of money were, of course, requested in support of Carlile himself after his imprisonment. Initially the names of supporters were printed in the paper, but so many came in that it was decided to print them on separate sheets and to append them to the report of the Trial itself that readers could purchase for 2d. Subscriptions could be made for other projects too. In the seventh issue Carlile described a statue of Thomas Paine that was being prepared. It presented  Paine within a 'Temple of Reason' holding a scroll in his hand, which was inscribed: 'To reason with Despots is throwing reason away'. The statue included reference to Paine's works as well as displaying a liberty cap and the words LIBERTAS. Readers could purchase a model of the statue from the artist.

A slightly different sort of 'action' was proposed by Joseph Tucker, the disseminator of Carlile's political pamphlets who had fallen foul of the Exeter authorities. While in prison Tucker made the suggestion that reformers abstain from exciseable goods (such as alcohol) so as to deplete the coffers of the government. He proposed that books be opened so that those wishing to support the measure could make a declaration of their intent. The total number who had signed would also be communicated to the press and announced weekly. As Carlile noted, this public declaration 'would be a powerful stimulus' to the signatories 'to fulfil their engagement'. Moreover, reporting the numbers would serve two purposes: 'the friends of Reform would be animated, and anxiously look forward to the result, whilst fresh numbers would be eager to encrease their list' (The Republican, Issue 4, Friday 17 September, 1819).

Encouraging political action on the part of citizens was - and remains - crucial for advocates of republican government - indeed they believe that an 'engaged citizenry' that takes its political responsibilities seriously will make for a better society under any form of government. The Experiencing Political Texts network that launches next month (and which will be the focus of my July blogpost) provides an opportunity to explore both how early modern authors sought to inspire engagement and action through their texts, and what lessons we might learn from their tactics today.

Algernon Sidney (1623-1683)

Algernon Sidney is far from being a household name and is probably less well known even among scholars than his uncle Sir Philip Sidney, author of Arcadia. Among those who are familiar with the younger Sidney, he is generally famed less for his published works than for two facts about what he wrote. First, his own words were used to convict him of treason in 1683, resulting in his execution. The manuscript of the work that became the Discourses Concerning Government was said to have been on Sidney's desk at the time of his arrest in May 1683 for his alleged involvement in the Rye House Plot. Those manuscript pages were subsequently used as a 'witness' against him at his trial, held later that year. Secondly, when working as a diplomat in Denmark, Sidney wrote the following inscription in the signature book of the University of Copenhagen:

MANUS HAEC INIMICA TYRANNIS

EINSE PETIT PLACIDAM CUM LIBERTATE QUIETEM

('This hand, always an enemy to tyrants, seeks a little peace under liberty.'). (Jonathan Scott, Algernon Sidney and the English Republic, 1623-1677. Cambridge University Press, 1988, p. 133).

Next year marks the four hundredth anniversary of Sidney's birth. Though originally planned for April 2020, only to be disrupted by the Covid-19 pandemic, the conference held in the French town of Rouen in April 2022 might now be seen as an early celebration of that anniversary. The conference was organised by Christopher Hamel and Gilles Olivo. Christopher has recently produced a modern edition of the 1702 French translation of Sidney's Discourses by Pierre August Samson, to which he has added a rich scholarly introduction that surveys the reception of Sidney's thought in eighteenth-century France. This was the first conference I have attended in-person - and my first trip abroad - since January 2020. As such it was a particular pleasure to be able to attend.

As always, what I offer here are my own reflections on the papers delivered rather than a full account of every paper. Three themes in particular struck me as I listened to the contributions: the relationship between theory and practice in republican thought; the value of adopting a European perspective to English republicanism; and the views of Sidney (and others) on prerogative power and its relationship to popular sovereignty.

Theory and Practice in Republican Thought

Algernon Sidney, after Justus van Egmont, based on a work of 1663. National Portrait Gallery, NPG 568. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Scholarly accounts of Sidney's thought have tended to place emphasis on his writings, and in particular the Discourses Concerning Government and Court Maxims. While not dismissing the importance of these writings and the ideas contained within them, Tom Ashby's excellent opening paper focused on Sidney's actions and writings as a diplomat working on behalf of the English Commonwealth and Free State. He expertly demonstrated how the letters that Sidney wrote to King Charles Gustavus of Sweden, and King Frederick of Denmark, in August 1659 effectively embody his republican principles in the way in which he presented himself  to, and engaged with, his royal correspondents. Sidney's role as a martyr has long been central to the understanding of him and his ideas, but his role as an agent of the English republic has received far less attention, and the glimpse into this that Tom offered suggests it has the potential to greatly enrich our understanding of Sidney's thought. I eagerly await the opportunity to read his finished thesis - and the publication of the article he is preparing on these letters. 

As I noted in my own paper, political action (negotium) was crucial for republican authors. I argued that figures like Sidney and James Harrington (as well as their later editors, printers, and translators) used the literary and material dimensions of their texts not merely to convey ideas in a passive form but to encourage readers to engage more deeply with those ideas and even to venture into action.

Encouraging political action was, of course, also central to the Leveller movement, which has been richly studied by Rachel Foxley, John Rees, and others. Rachel's paper, which compared the ideas of the Levellers on the nature and role of parliament with those of Sidney, also touched on questions of the interaction of thought and practice. Specifically, Rachel explored the ways in which Levellers - such as Richard Overton - in the 1640s and Sidney in the 1680s grappled with the pressing problem of the relationship between a sovereign people and its representatives; and how (if at all) those representatives might be made accountable to those they represented.

One of the problems of engaging with ideas in action that was discussed in response to these papers is whether this makes it harder to identify a coherent - and consistent - political theory. The question of whether a consistent political theory can be constructed from the various petitions and pamphlet writings of the Levellers has already been addressed by Rachel and others, but the question is equally applicable to Sidney. Christopher noted this in his introduction to the conference, asking whether it is possible to talk of coherence when Sidney himself did not complete or publish either of his major works. Building on this, Tom's paper raised the question of whether it is appropriate to treat Sidney's diplomatic letters as texts in the history of political thought. It certainly seems as though there would be value in doing so, not least because - as Tom pointed out - they provide a useful counterpart to the Court Maxims. In that dialogue Sidney attempts to persuade the people of his ideas on government, whereas in his diplomatic correspondence his aim is to persuade kings. Moreover, as both Rachel's paper and that by François Quastana made clear, the problem of consistency also arises in the Discourses. Because Sidney's aim in that text is to refute the arguments of Robert Filmer, he sometimes ends up contradicting himself. Rachel showed this very clearly in relation to his arguments about representation. In some places he presents representatives as servants, and so insists that those who elect them must be able to instruct them. Elsewhere his views reflect a more aristocratic understanding of representatives, arguing that they must be given the freedom to make their own decisions, and that they cannot be held to account by their constituents. Similarly, François showed that while Sidney castigates Filmer for drawing a parallel between kings and fathers, he himself draws a similar (and equally problematic) parallel between brothers and citizens.

The Value of a European Perspective

Since the motivation behind this conference was the publication of Christopher's excellent edition of the French translation of Sidney's Discourses, it should come as no surprise that the importance of adopting a European perspective to English republicanism was another theme that was raised by various participants. Again Tom's paper was pioneering in this regard showing (as Gaby Mahlberg's recent book on the English Republican exiles has also done) just how much material is available in foreign archives on the English republic and English republicans. 

A typical Rouen building. Image by Rachel Hammersley

As other papers made clear, the European approach is important not just with regard to individuals but also texts. François reminded us how much both Filmer and Sidney owed to French political models; including both, on the one hand, the writings of Jean Bodin and, on the other, those of the monarchiens. In her paper, which offered a stimulating comparison of the reception of the ideas of Sidney and Harrington in eighteenth-century France, Myriam-Isabelle Durcrocq made the important point that studying the French reception of the works of these thinkers not only reveals much about French Huguenot and Enlightenment thought, but also illuminates English republicanism itself. It draws our attention to the different preoccupations of Sidney and Harrington (which led to their works being celebrated in France at different points in time and by individuals facing very different concerns). This highlights the fact that there was not just one single strain of English republican thought, but rather several distinct varieties.

Prerogative Power and Popular Sovereignty

Of course, as Myriam-Isabelle rightly noted, while Harrington and Sidney diverged on various points, two principles on which they firmly agreed were, first, the evils of arbitrary power (or the power of one) and, secondly, the sovereignty of the people. One reflection of this in Harrington's work (as she reminded us) is that Harrington called his popular assembly the Prerogative tribe, alluding to the fact that the prerogative power lies not with any king or prince but with (as Harrington puts it in Oceana) the 'king people'. Sidney embodies a similar idea in his engagement with the Kings of Sweden and Denmark in the letters discussed by Tom. Not only does he clearly believe that, as a representative of the English commonwealth, he can speak directly and on equal terms with royalty, but he also warns Gustavus to adjust his behaviour and to act in the interests of the common good rather than arbitrarily for his own personal gains - or risk republican violence being launched against him.

Algernon Sidney by James Basire after Giovanni Battista Cipriani, 1763. National Portrait Gallery, NPG D28941. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

The attitude to prerogative power was also, as Alberto de Barros pointed out in his paper, a fundamental dividing line between Sidney and John Locke in their respective responses to Filmer's Patriarcha. While both were critical of the prerogative power of kings, Locke was willing to accept that it might legitimately be exercised under two distinct circumstances. First, at moments of crisis or emergency; and, secondly, when the law is silent on a particular point and interpretation is therefore required. Locke was clear, however, that in these cases the prerogative (in order to be legitimate) must only be used to advance the common good. Sidney, by contrast, was adamant that any power that operates above the law is illegitimate; that the very existence of a royal prerogative would undermine liberty and constitute a violation of the common good.

As I hope this blogpost demonstrates, I learned a huge amount from all the papers at this excellent event; as well as from our stimulating and fruitful discussions, which continued over drinks and meals. As I sat on the train leaving Rouen (somewhat reluctantly), I was struck by a parallel between the ideas I had been having about the conference discussions and my experience of attending a conference for the first time in two years. Sidney not only thought and wrote about republican principles, but also embodied them in his engagement with rulers such as the Kings of Sweden and Denmark, developing and extending his thought in the process. Similarly, in attending this conference I moved from contemplation of his thought to engagement with others, was led to interact with individuals coming from different countries and intellectual traditions, and ultimately had my perspectives challenged - resulting in a richer and deeper understanding of Sidney and his ideas.

British Republicans 2: Richard Carlile

The first volume of Richard Carlile’s periodical The Republican. Bodleian Library: Johnson e.3662 Photograph by Alex Plane, courtesy of the Bodleian Libraries.

On Friday 27 August, 1819, there appeared the first issue of a journal entitled The Republican edited by Richard Carlile. Its publication was a direct response to the Peterloo Massacre that had occurred just under two weeks before. Despite the header declaring it to be 'No. 1. Vol. I.', this was not, in fact, an entirely new journal but, as the editorial explained, the continuation of Sherwin's Weekly Political Register, which had been appearing for several years.

The change of title was, however, deliberate. Carlile was publicly identifying as a 'republican'. In his address to readers that prefaced the first volume he took pains to explain his understanding of the term. Noting that 'it has been the practice of ignorant or evil-minded persons' to associate republicanism purely with 'the horrors of the French Revolution' he urged his readers to look more closely at the etymology of the word. A republican government, he explained, is one 'which consults the public interest - the interest of the whole people' (The Republican, I, 'To the Readers of the Republican'). This, as I have argued in a previous blogpost, accorded with the traditional understanding of the term dating right back to ancient times. Yet, because Carlile was writing in the early nineteenth century, he was well aware of the additional connection that had been forged between republicanism and anti-monarchism. He engaged directly with this point, arguing rather cleverly that: 'Although in almost all instances where governments have been denominated Republican, monarchy has been practically abolished; yet it does not argue the necessity of abolishing monarchy to establish a Republican government.' In truth, Carlile believed that securing government in the public interest required a proper system of representation and that if this were to be introduced the abolition of monarchy was likely to follow. Nevertheless, his understanding of the double meaning of 'republican', and his emphasis on establishing government in the public interest rather than simply abolishing the monarchy, indicates continuity with the longer history of English republican thought.

Thomas Paine by Laurent Dubos, c. 1791. National Portrait Gallery. NPG 6805. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Carlile also associated his ideas more directly with those of earlier English republicans. He was a committed disciple of Thomas Paine and was responsible for printing and disseminating Paine's works. He was also an admirer of Thomas Spence, declaring that Spence's Land Plan was 'the most simple and most equitable system of society and government that can be imagined' and that it was 'a subject' about which it was 'worth thinking, worth talking, worth writing, worth printing' (Richard Carlile, Operative, 3 March 1839 as cited in Malcolm Chase, '"The Real Rights of Man": Thomas Spence, Paine and Chartism', in Rogers and Sippel (eds), Thomas Spence and His Legacy: Bicentennial Perspectives, special issue of Miranda 13 2016, pp. 3-4). Spence was himself a disciple of the seventeenth-century English republican James Harrington, and Carlile too made frequent reference in his writings back to the period of the Stuarts. He implied that the tyranny enacted by his own government at Peterloo and in its aftermath was similar to that performed by Charles I and his sons. In an open letter to the Prince Regent, which appeared in the second issue of The Republican, he warned the Prince that if he failed to deal justly with the perpetrators of the Peterloo massacre then 'the fate of Charles or James, is inevitably yours. And justly so.' (The Republican, No. 2 Vol. 1. 3 September 1819). Carlile also celebrated the heroic martyrs of the period, including John Hampden and Algernon Sidney.

Carlile repeatedly demonstrated his willingness to act as a martyr to liberty and to sacrifice his own personal freedom in the greater cause by stoically enduring repeated prison sentences. He was imprisoned for his role in publishing Paine’s works in 1819 soon after launching The Republican. This image was produced to celebrate his release six years later. ‘On his liberation after six years of imprisonment’ (Richard Carlile) by an unknown artist, 1825. National Portrait Gallery. NPG D8083. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

More substantively, The Republican echoed earlier English republican works in celebrating both civil and religious liberty, and in emphasising the interrelationship between the two. In the very first issue, Carlile explicitly declared his willingness to submit to martyrdom 'in the cause of liberty' and in the second issue he accused the despots of Europe of seeking to: 'abridge and destroy the liberties of their subjects, and to make their own authority absolute' (The Republican, No. 1 Vol. 1, 27 August 1819 and No. 2 Vol 1, 3 September 1819). Of particular importance to Carlile were the liberties of free speech and freedom of association. What was particularly galling about the Peterloo Massacre was that the individuals who had been killed had simply been enacting their right, under the British constitution, 'to assemble together for the purpose of deliberating upon public grievances as well as on the legal and constitutional means of obtaining redress' (The Republican, No. 5 Vol. 1, 24 September 1819). Such actions were necessary in Carlile's eyes because, like earlier British commonwealthmen, he believed that the British constitution had become corrupt and its balance disturbed. Echoing the late seventeenth-century thinker Henry Neville, Carlile argued that the balance of the constitution lay too much with the monarch and that too little power was wielded by the House of Commons. It had once dominated the other branches 'but that controul is quite destroyed, and through the influence of Boroughmongering, they are become the base and contemptible tools of every vicious faction that can get into power' (The Republican, No. 4 Vol. 1, 17 September 1819).

Richard Carlile, by an unknown artist. National Portrait Gallery, NPG 1435. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Again like earlier English republican authors, Carlile was adamant that citizens should enjoy religious as well as political liberty. Echoing John Milton and other so-called 'godly republicans' of the mid-seventeenth century, he insisted on a clear and complete separation between church and state: 'I maintain on this head, that no government should legislate as to what shall or shall not be the religion of its subjects; or what differences should exist in their creeds' 'an established priesthood, of whatever tenets, is incompatible with civil liberty' (The Republican, I 'To the Readers of the Republican'). Yet in terms of his own personal religious convictions, Carlile had less in common with the 'godly republicans', instead taking the path previously developed by John Toland and his associates at the turn of the eighteenth century, whereby rabid anti-clericalism morphed into deism and even atheism. All forms of religion, Carlile declared, are 'an imposture and fraud practised by base and designing men on the credulous part of mankind' (The Republican, No. 2 Vol. 1, 3 September 1819). By publishing the controversial theological works of Paine, Carlile hoped to be able to emancipate minds from the slavish fears associated with Christianity (The Republican, No. 6 Vol. 1, 1 October 1819). Carlile's readers expressed similar views. In a letter that appeared in the second issue, Joseph Fitch of Old Road Academy, Stepney, praised Carlile for the patriotic firmness with which he faced tyranny after being charged with sedition for publishing the theological works of Paine. He urged those who saw the views voiced by Carlile as a threat to the state to stop being 'the voluntary dupes of priestcraft and corruption' and he ended by urging support for the cause of 'civil and religious liberty' (The Republican, No. 2 Vol. 1, 3 September 1819).

While the continuities between Carlile's understanding of republicanism and that of his predecessors are striking, he also introduced new elements. He was more critical than most earlier English republicans (with the exception of Spence) of the unjust inequalities between rich and poor. In issue six he attacked the 'Prince and Ministers, Sinecurists and Pensioners, Borough-mongers and Fundholders, Bishops and Parsons, Judges and Lawyers' for attacking the lower orders and seeking to keep them down (The Republican, No. 6, Vol. 1, 1 October 1819). He also championed the rights of other marginal groups within society, even asserting that women ought to be accorded political rights (The Republican, No. 5. Vol. 1, 24 September 1819).

Carlile's writings, and the continuity of his arguments with earlier English republicans, challenge the common assumption that the English have no sustained republican tradition. In fact, there is a rich and vibrant vein of republican thinking in this country, one that has been flexible enough to adapt to a variety of different circumstances and issues. The optimism and energy of Carlile's writings stemmed from his firm conviction that the unjust political system of his own day could be completely overturned if only the franchise were extended and the poor were given the vote. On this point history has proved Carlile wrong, which poses challenging questions for democratic republicans today. 

Northern Early Modern Network

The second conference I attended in the week commencing 17 January was organised by the Northern Early Modern Network. It was delivered in a blended format, which allowed for the best of both worlds. Participants commented on the pleasure of speaking to a live audience after so long in isolation. Yet, including an online presence meant that speakers based in Austria, Spain, Poland, and Malta could participate without having to travel long distances. Most of the speakers were current postgraduates (and I have focused on what they had to say) so the conference provided a snapshot of the future of early modern studies. The excellent papers I heard led me to reflect on a number of themes.

Several papers focused on lesser-known figures or those who challenge conventional narratives. Daniel Johnson explored how Isaac Watts sought to reconcile his religious views with Enlightenment rationalism. Leanne Smith's paper centred on the Fifth Monarchist John Canne and examined his interweaving of religious and republican ideas. She emphasised his commitment to the republican understanding of liberty as freedom of the will and to popular sovereignty. Maddie Reynolds presented her research on the scientific work of Mary Sidney Herbert, showing the subtle strategies that she had to employ as a woman operating in a male setting. Subtlety and careful manoeuvring were also required of the Elizabethan diplomat William Davison, who was the subject of Rosalyn Cousins' paper. Rosalyn showed how Davison saw himself not simply as a servant of the Queen but as a servant of the commonwealth, meaning that he was willing to challenge orders that he thought threatened the country.

Davison's manoeuvring primarily concerned his relations with others, but some early modern individuals and groups, like Herbert, had to manipulate their own identity and self-presentation in order to succeed. Two very different examples of self-fashioning were offered in the papers by Livia Bernardes Roberge and Marlo Avidon. Livia discussed the construction of identity by the Leveller and Digger movements, showing how both groups adopted labels initially intended as terms of abuse, but also highlighting the differences in the process by which they did so. Marlo's paper centred on the women celebrated in Peter Lely's series of portraits 'Windsor Beauties'. She argued that beauty could operate as a form of power for women at that time and that the portraits provided them with some agency within the boundaries of objectification.

Frontispiece to Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (London, 1651). Robinson Library, Newcastle University. BAI 1651 HOB. Reproduced with kind permission from the Library.

This notion of self-fashioning points towards a second theme highlighted in various papers, namely the importance of active engagement as part of early modern religious, cultural, or political processes. This theme was first drawn to my attention in Joshua Rushton's paper on the shifting landscape of sanctity in early modern Venice. Joshua's account of the promotion of the cults of St Mark and St Antony in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries served to emphasise the importance of the spiritual engagement of the laity through the consumption of hagiographical writings and participation in processions. Participation in the politics of the state could also come through enrolment in the army, which is why many republican authors celebrated the idea of citizen soldiers. Nicolau Lutz alluded to this tradition in his paper, but his main focus was on Thomas Hobbes's rather different treatment of the army in Leviathan. Hobbes denied that the army had a corporate nature; rejected its right (or the right of any individual soldier) to act as a representative of the state; and, in complete opposition to the republicans, sought to separate the soldier from the citizen or subject. His ultimate aim, Nicolau explained, was to depoliticise the army.

A lack of political agency can also arise as a result of poverty or disability. Genna Kirkpatrick explored this idea in her examination of the treatment of these themes in the play The Honest Man's Fortune (1613). Genna emphasised the complex interrelationship between poverty, disability, status, and social structures, arguing that the play explores the ways in which the obstacles faced by those who are poor or disabled are not inherent in nature but the result of social structures that favour the rich and able-bodied.

Margaret Cavendish (née Lucas), Duchess of Newcastle upon Tyne by Pieter Louis van Schuppen, after Abraham Diepenbeeck, c.1655-1658. National Portrait Gallery, NPG D11111. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Engagement in the private sphere was explored in two papers. Harriet Palin's account of the practice of catechising in early modern England showed how catechesis was used as a process of self-reflection and how for many the aim was to bring a shift from rote learning towards deeper engagement with religious understanding. Lauren Kilbane's paper on the theme of mourning in Margaret Cavendish's play Bell in Campo presented the play's war widow Madame Jantil as a living monument to her grief and emphasised the performative dimension of her role. Her creation of a funeral monument to her husband reflected one opportunity for self-fashioning that was open to women at the time.

Another kind of cultural performance was explored by Nicole Maceira Cumming in her paper on James VI's passion for hunting. As Nicole noted, hunting was not merely an enjoyable pastime but a means of preparing young aristocratic men for their duties - especially in times of war. Nicole insisted that James understood the role of the hunt as a display of power and argued that this was why in Basilikon Doron, he favoured the 'noble' pursuit of hunting with hounds - which reinforced hierarchical distinctions - as against the form of hunting that was more typical in Scotland at the time.

James VI of Scotland and I of England by Daniel Mytens 1621. National Portrait Gallery. NPG 109. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

It is not just in hunting that entertainment is combined with pedagogy, several papers explored the role of playacting and games as educational tools. Maria Maciejewska's paper on Jesuit plays about Japan noted that plays were crucial to education within Jesuit schools. Not only were they a means of practising Latin and rhetorical skills, but they also provided an opportunity for the exploration of emotions. In her paper Nuna Kümin emphasised the importance of play not just to education but to research and set out her methodology of using games as a means of exploring early modern musical improvisation - an area that is lacking in source material. Nuna ended her paper by picking up her violin and playing one of her games, offering a wonderful audio feast of early modern style improvisation.

Another common theme was the circulation of ideas and the different methods deployed for promoting this. The dissemination of ideas via texts was explored in Alex Plane's paper on the library of James VI and I. Alex argued that James's library functioned as a reference resource not just for his work as an author but also in his role as monarch, with key texts that dealt with specific contemporary issues often being bound together. Information could also be held and carried by people. This idea was explored in Sergio Moreta Pedraz's paper on the role of the governors of the "Estado do Brasil" and "Estado do Maranhao"; in Maciej Polak's exploration of the correspondence of the Royal Commissioners Marcin Kromer and Jan Dymitr Solikowski; and in Rosalyn Cousins's account of William Davison. These figures were all valuable because of their considerable understanding of politics and international affairs, which often far exceeded that of the rulers for whom they worked. In his paper Carlo Scapecchi explored the transmission of a different kind of knowledge, showing how Flemish weaving techniques were imported into Renaissance Italy through the migration of a group of Netherlandish weavers to Florence. Finally, Thom Pritchard's paper focused on the transmission of news around Europe and its disruption due to meteorological events. Employing the analogy of the acoustic shadow, whereby the sound of guns can be distorted by disruptions to sound waves caused by phenomena such as wind currents, Pritchard presented the idea of an informatic shadow where storms and other features of the little ice age impacted on the movement of news across the continent.

John Milton by unknown artist, c. 1629. National Portrait Gallery. NPG 4222. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Given that I am preparing to launch the Experiencing Political Texts network, I took particular note when contributors spoke about genre or the materiality of texts. Victoria Downey presented John Milton's use of the epic in Paradise Lost as a deliberate nod to classical authors such as Virgil, which allowed him to explore surprising elements or silences within the Biblical account. Focusing on his treatment of the serpent, Victoria showed how Milton made use of intertextual readings and allusions to present his theological convictions within the Biblical narrative. Shifts of genre within texts could also have powerful meaning, for example Lauren Kilbane showed how Cavendish switched from prose to verse to indicate that her characters were memorialising. Emily Hay's paper on the sonnets of Mary Queen of Scots showed that the genre of a work could even be twisted - or misrepresented - by later editors and printers for their own ends. She made a convincing case that the poems that were presented as love sonnets to Erle Bothwell - so as to implicate Mary in the murder Lord Darnley - may originally have been written as religious devotional works.

St John’s Co-Cathedral, Valetta, Malta. Image from Wikimedia Commons

The materiality of texts and objects was addressed directly in several papers. Alex Plane reminded us that a library is not just a collection of texts, but an assemblage of physical objects and that material features such as bindings, inscriptions, and marginalia can be as revealing as the printed words. Maddie Reynolds provided an illustration of this in her paper on Mary Sidney Herbert, pointing out that the frontispiece to The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia used emblematic and iconographical images not just to provide details of the plot, but to represent in visual form the alchemical idea of transformation. Nor is it just the materiality of texts that can be revealing. In her paper on the tryptich The Deposition of Christ from St. John's Co-Cathedral in Valetta, Lydia Pavia Dimech argued that gouge marks in the frame which holds the painting can help make sense of its history. Understanding texts and images as physical objects also means thinking about their dissemination. Roslyn Potter's paper on John Forbes's Songs and Fancies addressed this issue, noting the strategy that was employed of sending it direct to music schools to encourage its use.

I am posting this blog in the immediate aftermath of a period of industrial action that has highlighted the immense pressures that academics are under today with pay and pensions squeezed while working conditions deteriorate. Postgraduate students are at the sharp end of this crisis, often doing hourly-paid teaching on precarious contracts to develop essential skills and to make ends meet, while facing an uncertain future. For those of us working in the humanities these worries are increased by concerns about the future of our disciplines, and especially of early modern research. In this context, the conference was heartening. The scholarship on display was strong and the papers reflected new and exciting avenues of research, many of which have direct relevance for the world in which we live today.

With this in mind it seems appropriate to end with Claire Turner's paper on the smellscape of the seventeenth-century plague outbreaks. This is part of her wider PhD project that explores how the plague impacted on the five senses, thereby adopting a new approach to an old topic. The history of the plague has, of course, gained fresh relevance in the last two years, and Claire's reference to techniques such as airing rooms and segregating households sounded all too familiar. The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries may seem a long time ago - and much has changed in the intervening period - but Claire's paper reminded us not only that we continue to face similar problems but also that our common humanity means that we often approach them in similar ways.

Moderation and Enlightenment

The week commencing 17 January 2022 was a bumper one for conferences at Newcastle University, with not one but two events organised by members of our Ideas and Beliefs research strand in the School of History, Classics, and Archaeology. Both hosted excellent papers, and so, while it means a disruption to the series on British Republicans that I started in January, it seems appropriate to devote a blogpost to each conference.

Here, I will focus on 'What was Moderate about the Enlightenment? Moderation in Eighteenth-Century Europe', organised by Dr Nick Mithen - a Marie Sklodowska-Curie Fellow currently based at Newcastle University. This conference grew out of Nick's research project Via Media Italica: The Scholar, the Jurist, the Priest: Moderation on the Italian Peninsula, 1700-1750. As the title of the conference indicates, the aim was to explore the complex relationship between moderation and enlightenment.

Of course, a conference on the theme of moderation inevitably sparks discussions over how that term should be understood. In this regard I was struck by the parallels between the difficulties that arise when applying the term 'moderation' to the eighteenth century and those surrounding early modern 'radicalism'. In the case of 'radicalism' a key issue is that the term was not coined until 1819, so it may be argued that it is anachronistic to apply it to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries since no-one engaged in politics at that time would have called themselves 'radicals'. By contrast, 'moderation' was a term used in the eighteenth century and several thinkers discussed at the conference did use it to describe themselves. In his keynote address, John Robertson provided examples of David Hume's use of the term. Yet, understanding what figures like Hume meant by it - or what we might mean by applying it to the period of the Enlightenment - remains a tricky issue. In part this is because, just like 'radicalism', 'moderation' is often understood in relative rather than absolute terms. As one contributor, Doron Avraham, asked explicitly - can we speak of a 'moderate ideology' or is moderation always just a middle way between two other positions?

This leads on to the question of whether we can describe specific individuals as 'moderate'. To return to Robertson's keynote, Hume might appear quintessentially 'moderate' on a range of issues and was explicit about the value of moderation in relation to party politics but it is difficult to understand either his religious views or his attitude to race in this way, making it problematic to regard him as a proponent of Enlightenment moderation. Damien Tricoire prompted similar arguments in relation to Denis Diderot. Diderot has often been presented as a 'radical' thinker, yet a convincing case was put for him being seen as a 'moderate', since he rarely questioned the existing political order of his society and was careful about what he said publicly. Working in the opposite direction, Carlos Perez Crespo challenged the idea that Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès's conception of sovereignty was an act of moderation, arguing - on the basis of a careful dissection of Sieyès's position - for his radicalism on this point. Other contributors provided examples of individuals who appeared moderate at one point in their careers, but not at others. For example, Niklas Vogt, the subject of Matthijs Lok's paper, constantly adjusted his position in response to changing political circumstances. As well as defining and redefining their position in relation to events, individuals might also do so in relation to others. Vera Fasshauer's paper on Johann Konrad Dippel's quarrel with the Halle Pietists demonstrated this very clearly. She ended her paper by raising the pertinent question of which position was more moderate - that of the Pietists who sought to avoid confrontation or that of the radicals who insisted on the toleration of different opinions? The question of what constitutes a 'moderate' position is a particularly difficult one to answer in the case of eighteenth-century women writers. Simply writing and publishing could be seen as a radical act for an eighteenth-century woman, but acknowledging this makes it difficult to distinguish between what we might think of as more clearly 'radical' writers and more 'conservative' ones. This is an issue that Geertje Bol is addressing directly in her work on Mary Astell and Catharine Macaulay, and her discussion of Astell's clever redefinition of moderation as 'zeal directed towards the proper (spiritual and moral) ends' was revealing in this regard.

Anna Letitia Barbauld by John Chapman after unknown artist. Stipple engraving. 1798. National Portrait Gallery, NPG D4457. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

A number of papers presented the idea of moderation as a tempering tendency that might be applied to a range of different views. Thus Nicolai von Eggers presented the idea of the comte de Montlosier moderating the counter revolution, while Natasha Lomonossoff described Anna Barbauld's position as one of 'moderate radicalism'. Similarly, Elad Carmel began his paper by telling us that in an unsent letter to Hume, Robert Wallace had described himself as a 'moderate freethinker', while Mark McLean showed how Lord Hailes (Sir David Dalyrmple) combined the moderation of the Scottish Enlightenment with Christian orthodoxy.

All of this raises the question of how moderation was to be enacted and here too there was a range of interesting responses. For some of the authors discussed, it was a question of balance, whether through the mediating role of a particular group such as the nobility or whether through a careful institutional system of checks and balances. For others it was about identifying and following a middle way. As Matilda Amundsen Bergström showed, Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht sought a via media between Enlightenment thought and more traditional Swedish ideas. Similarly Anna Barbauld sought a middle way between stasis and revolution, and Robert Wallace attempted to navigate between those who rejected Christianity and those who rejected any investigation of religion.

Philip Doddridge by George Vertue after Andrea Soldi. Line engraving. 1751. National Portrait Gallery, NPG D2278. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

A moderate position was often associated, as Shiru Lim reminded us, with the promotion of civility and the banishing of disagreeability, and also with the adoption of peaceful rather than violent means. Lim's own paper explored the role that theatre was seen to play by some in the moderation of the passions. Other papers placed emphasis on the dissemination and discussion of a range of ideas in the spirit, pace Anna Barbauld, of using persuasion rather than force and of convincing rather than imposing one's views on others. Pauls Daija's fascinating paper on the Baltic case, focused on the use of education for the purposes of moderation, with books being deliberately directed at Latvian peasants to prepare them for freedom. In this case there was some care taken over the type of material that was shared, with an emphasis on useful knowledge and civilising literature rather than overtly political works, but in other cases a more open policy was adopted. For example, Robert Strivens demonstrated that Philip Doddridge presented texts expressing a wide variety of opinions to his students, deliberately exposing them to writings that opposed his own views. Similarly, Doron Avraham mentioned a multilingual version of the New Testament produced by the Pietists, which was designed to meet the needs of all confessions within the German lands.

Portrait of Hedvig Charlotta Nordenflycht by an unknown artist. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

The very notion of a multilingual Bible as an agent of moderation highlights the importance of genre and the role it could play in the process of moderation. This theme, which is close to my current interests, was also reflected in Bergström's discussion of Nordenflycht's writings. Her use of poetry to discuss philosophical matters may seem strange to twenty-first century eyes, but Bergström made clear that it was not unusual for Swedish writers at the time. However, the particular form Nordenflycht adopted in one of the texts discussed - with a first section consisting of questions addressed to a leading Swedish scholar and a second part offering replies - was particularly appropriate to the pursuit of a moderate line. Similarly as Marc Caplan demonstrated, Isaac Euchel's play Reb Henoch: Oder Woss tut me damit? deliberately used linguistic pluralism as a means of reflecting different viewpoints.

As is often the case with such discussions I came away less sure of what 'moderation' means in the context of the eighteenth century than I was at the start, but I was certainly more enlightened!

British Republicans 1: Charles Bradlaugh

When writing Republicanism: An Introduction I had to address what happened to republican ideas during the nineteenth century (beyond my usual area of expertise). I chose to focus on France, Britain and the United States. In the process I discovered several interesting nineteenth-century British republicans. I am continuing to investigate some of these characters for other projects. In this blogpost, and some that follow, I will offer brief sketches showcasing these figures and their ideas.

Charles Bradlaugh (1833-1891) was a self-confessed republican who established the National Republican League in 1873. Yet despite not being afraid of controversy and firmly owning his republican views, Bradlaugh's The Impeachment of the House of Brunswick addresses the question of republican politics in an oblique fashion.

Charles Bradlaugh by Sydney Prior Hall. National Portrait Gallery: NPG 2313. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

In his preface to the second edition, Bradlaugh stated explicitly: 'This is not ... a Republican pamphlet' (Charles Bradlaugh, The Impeachment of the House of Brunswick. 4th edition. London, 1874, Preface). What he meant by this is that rather than calling for the abolition of the monarchy, he was simply pointing out that the British monarchy is elective and that the British people have the right to choose different rulers should they wish to do so. He based this argument on legislation from the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was the Parliament of the English Commonwealth, meeting on 25 April 1660, that gave the Crown to Charles II. Similarly, it was the Convention, meeting with all the authority of Parliament, which on 22 January 1688 took the Crown away from James II and passed over his son the Prince of Wales, bestowing the throne instead on James's Protestant daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange. Furthermore, in various statutes passed under the later Stuarts, the right to accede to the throne was limited, first, to members of the Church of England, and then to the heirs of Princess Sophia of Hanover. Given this history, Bradlaugh insisted, Parliament in his own time had the right, both to deprive a living monarch of the Crown and to treat the heir to the throne as having no claim to the succession.

While Bradlaugh insists that he is not advocating a republican regime, but the replacement of one monarch (or dynasty) by another, his hostility to the Brunswicks is vitriolic. He condemns them for their extravagant expenditure (which he charts in detail), for their hostility to the welfare of the ordinary people, and - more uncomfortably for a twenty-first-century reader - for being foreign. Indeed, what he appears to be advocating is the replacement of the current dynasty - after the death of Queen Victoria - with an English alternative.

Given the history of republican arguments, this position is an interesting one. Bradlaugh is harsh in his condemnation of the Brunswick rulers, but despite admitting his own preference for republican rule, in this work at least he is willing to accept the continuation of the British monarchy under another line.

Alongside his republican writing and campaigning, Bradlaugh was also strongly committed to the issue of land reform. He was involved with the Land Tenure Reform Association, the Land and Labour League and the Commons Protection League and in 1874 he wrote The Land, The People, and The Coming Struggle. Indeed, in the 1870s he presented the Land Question as the key political issue of the day.

James Harrington after Sir Peter Lely, published by William Richardson 1799. National Portrait Gallery: NPG D29116. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Bradlaugh was by no means the first republican to take an interest in land. James Harrington's argument as to why England was ripe for republican government in the mid-seventeenth century was grounded in his theory that land provides the foundation of political power, and that in order to secure allegiance and stability the form of government should fit the distribution of land within the nation. Harrington believed that changes introduced by the Tudor monarchs had brought a shift in land ownership away from the aristocracy and towards commoners. The civil war, on Harrington's account, adjusted politics to the economic reality, making England ripe for republican or commonwealth government. Later republicans accepted Harrington's understanding of the relationship between the ownership of land and the exercise of political power. By the late eighteenth century, Thomas Spence was using Harrington's argument to put a radical case for the abolition of property rights in England and for a sweeping redistribution of land in order to ensure the subsistence of ordinary citizens.

Bradlaugh too saw land as crucial to political power, and he shared Spence's profound concern for the poor. However, his assessment of the situation in his own time was an inversion of Harrington's original theory. 'The bulk of the land', Bradlaugh insisted, 'is in the hands of comparatively few persons, and these monopolise the House of Lords, and materially control the House of Commons.' (Charles Bradlaugh, The Land, The People and The Coming Struggle, 3rd edition. London, 1877, p. 3). Indeed, Bradlaugh insisted that it was actually the aristocracy, rather than the monarch, that exercised real political authority within the country. This had negative consequences not only for politics, but also for subsistence. It was in the interests of landowners to keep rents high and the wages of agricultural workers low, resulting in poverty and poor living conditions for many people. Moreover, members of the aristocracy liked to keep vast swathes of their land uncultivated for their own recreation - for example in the form of grouse moors. This had resulted in 'The diversion of land in an old country from the purpose it should fulfil - that of providing life for the many' to instead providing pleasure for the few. (Bradlaugh, The Land, The People and The Coming Struggle, p. 13). This, Bradlaugh insisted, was a 'crime'. Similarly he described the game laws as 'a disgrace to civilisation' and as proof of the influence of the landed aristocracy over the legislature, and the negative character of that influence. Bradlaugh's solution was not to abolish property rights, as Spence had advocated, but rather to compel landowners to act more responsibly. As he argued in a speech in the House of Commons in 1888: 'the ownership of land should carry with it the duty of cultivation or utilisation'. The authorities should, therefore, 'compel the possessors of land to use it for the general welfare' (Charles Bradlaugh, 'The Compulsory Cultivation of Waste Lands' in Speeches by Charles Bradlaugh, ed. J. M. Roberts, 2nd edition. London, 1895, p. 116). Most of the land may no longer lie with the commoners, but it should still be used for the public good.

Charles Bradlaugh by Harry Furniss, 1880s-1900s. National Portrait Gallery: NPG 3555. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

As well as being a founder member of the National Republican League and a member of various land reform groups, Bradlaugh also helped to establish the National Secular Society and acted as its president from 1866 to 1871 and again from 1874 to 1890. Bradlaugh was particularly critical of the hypocrisy of the aristocracy who exploited and crushed the poor for their own ends, but then listened to the sermons of bishops, endowed churches, and talked of the importance of saving souls. Bradlaugh was keen to defend both the truth and the morality of secularism. While uncompromising in his atheism, Bradlaugh made reference back to the more subtle freethinking commonwealthmen of the early eighteenth century. In 1877 he established 'The Freethought Publishing Company'. The notion that this may have been an allusion to Anthony Collins's A Discourse of Freethinking of 1713 is reinforced by the fact that Bradlaugh also wrote his Half hours with the freethinkers under the pseudonym Anthony Collins.

Bradlaugh's philosophy, then, involved a critique of the key institutions of the Crown, the Aristocracy, and the Church. While he addressed these issues separately, he was well aware of the connections and overlap between them, and the threat that all three could pose to the people. Throughout his career Bradlaugh worked to uphold the public good, and to place the interests of ordinary people at the heart of politics, he had every claim to be a republican.

Parliamentary Corruption

The present House of Commons in session. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

During the last month there has been much talk in the UK news about sleaze or political corruption. On 3 November MPs voted by a narrow majority to reform the rules on parliamentary lobbying. This was widely seen as a means of saving Owen Paterson, the Tory MP for North Shropshire, from a 30-day suspension from Parliament after he had been accused of using his position as an MP to benefit two companies for which he worked. It was only the furore this provoked among the press and the public that led Boris Johnson to execute a U-turn, announcing a fresh debate on Paterson's suspension and a willingness to gain cross-party support for the reform of the disciplinary procedure for MPs. While Paterson has subsequently resigned as an MP, this case brought to the surface questionable behaviour by other members of the House of Commons. On 10 November Sir Geoffrey Cox came under scrutiny for the legal work that he carries out alongside his parliamentary responsibilities - including for the British Virgin Islands. Not only had Cox made an agreement to vote by proxy while carrying out work in the Caribbean, but it was also alleged that he had held meetings relating to his legal role from his office in Parliament. The former was within the rules, the latter was not. In response the health secretary Sajid Javid defended the right of MPs to have second jobs, but also made clear that they should not be using Commons' facilities for extra-parliamentary work and insisted that they ought to be devoting the vast majority of their time to their constituents.

Of course parliamentary corruption is nothing new. In the eighteenth century there was concern, particularly among those who called themselves commonwealthmen, about the dangers posed by corrupt MPs, those whose commitment to the public good was called into question because they were subject to other influences. Then, however, the main source of this corruption was not second jobs (most MPs were 'gentlemen' who did not 'work') but rather the monarch and his or her ministers who sought to influence the decisions of the House by putting their own creatures (known as placemen) into the Commons or by offering pensions to those who held office. Yet, despite the difference in the source of the corruption, its significance remains the same.

Portrait of John Toland. Taken from Wikimedia Commons.

In the context of the 1698 election campaign, the commonwealthman John Toland produced a short pamphlet entitled The Danger of Mercenary Parliaments. There he argued that a House of Commons filled with officers and court pensioners was a threat to English liberties, pointing out that such a House could not fulfil its role within the constitution. Is it possible, he asked, that 'our Grievances can be redrest, that are committed by Persons from whom there is no higher Power to appeal?' Can there be 'any hope of Justice where the Malefactors are the Judges?' Will the public accounts be 'faithfully inspected by those who embezzle our mony to their own use?' (John Toland, The Danger of Mercenary Parliaments. London, 1698, p. 2). The answers, Toland insisted, were obvious. Indeed he went so far as to suggest that 'all the Calamities and Distractions under which the whole Nation at present groans' were due to 'that bare-fac'd and openly avow'd Corruption, which, like a universal Leprosy, has so notoriously infected and overspread both our Court and Parliament.' (Toland, Danger of Mercenary Parliaments, p. 3).

The only solution, Toland insisted, was to choose MPs who would act according to 'no other motives but the real and true Interest of his Majesty and his Dominions; a Parliament that will fall unanimously upon publick Business, and be free from those petty Factions and personal Piques which in the late Session so shamefully obstructed and delay'd the most importance Service of the Commonwealth.' This required all MPs to be 'subject to the Laws, and to some Power on Earth that may call them to account for their misbehaviours, that they may not be their own judges' (Toland, Danger of Mercenary Parliaments, p. 6). It was, therefore, up to the electors in the forthcoming election to disappoint the 'unreasonable and exorbitant hopes' of those corrupt MPs 'and to spew them out as detestable Members of the Commonwealth; not only as unfit to be trusted with their Liberties, but as unworthy to breath in the air of a Free Government' (Toland, Danger of Mercenary Parliaments, p. 7). Toland was clear that the fact that elections were now held every three years helped in this regard, providing electors with frequent opportunities to hold their MPs to account. Today, of course, general elections are less frequent, meaning that the point made in defence of Geoffrey Cox - that his constituents could vote him out if they were unhappy with his behaviour - does not feel like an adequate solution.

However, Toland's optimism that the problem would be resolved at the forthcoming election was misplaced. More than forty years later, in the context of yet another election campaign, the Scottish writer John Campbell again expressed concern that individual MPs were being diverted by bribes, posts, and pensions and were attached to private interests rather than to the public good. Without banishing corruption, he insisted, 'the Nation never can be out of Trouble, never free from Danger' (John Campbell, Liberty and Right. London, 1747, p. 45).

Campbell recognised that simply relying on electors to make sensible choices was not enough. He therefore proposed two further remedies. First, he called for MPs to be paid a salary (so that they would not be vulnerable to offers of money from elsewhere). Clearly this is no solution to the problems of parliamentary corruption today, since MPs already earn a substantial salary and yet some still have second jobs - though perhaps we should be challenging their right to do so. Surely a job that brings a salary of £81,932 per year (more than 3 times the UK average) is a full-time job that requires the complete attention of the person holding it.

The House of Commons in session in the eighteenth century. Image from Wikimedia Commons

In addition, Campbell linked the corruption of Parliament to the fact that MPs could continue to sit 'one Parliament after another' taking for 'themselves the principal Honours, Places, and Posts of the Country; while Men of Equal, or more extensive Abilities, remain unimploy'd'. (Campbell, Liberty and Right, p. 60). Against this practice he insisted that corruption could only be banished and the public interest secured by frequent and periodic changes to the representative body. In a proposal that clearly owed much to James Harrington's ideas, Campbell insisted that each year one third of the MPs in the House of Commons should be removed and replaced, with those retiring required to spend at least three years out of office before being eligible for re-election.

Not for the first time I am led by current events to think that we have something to learn from the writers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who recognised that in order to secure good government in the public interest it is necessary to have robust systems of accountability. Without these, many will resort to acting in their own rather than the public interest. As Toland and Campbell realised, even those in Parliament must be forced to live under the laws that they make and must not be allowed to act as judges in their own case. How disappointing that, even after three hundred years, we still do not seem to have learned this lesson.

Translating Cultures: Ideas and Materiality in Europe, c.1500-1800

Courtesy of the pandemic, during October I 'attended' two conferences in two different countries (the United States and Germany) without leaving my study. While I have attended various virtual conferences over the last eighteen months, these were the first hybrid events to which I have been invited. There is, of course, much that is good about this shift - not least the fact that reducing our international travel is better for the environment and that events that include a virtual dimension are more accessible for those with caring responsibilities. The fact that we have all been forced to get to grips with online platforms such as Zoom during the pandemic means these events tended to work more effectively and run more smoothly than the occasional attempt at hybrid events I attended in the past. Nevertheless there are, of course, trade-offs. In one sense it is good that I could attend these events while still fulfilling my duties as a teacher, Director of Research for my School, and a mother. But whereas when one attends a conference in person other duties recede into the background for a couple of days, this time I had to intersperse listening to conference papers with other activities, including transporting my daughter to football training and holding office hours with students, making it difficult to immerse myself fully in the topic of the conference. As Adam Smith would have recognised, there is a cost involved in switching from one activity to another.

Nonetheless both conferences provided much food for thought. In this blogpost, I will comment on just one of them: the latest in a series of workshops led by Thomas Munck and Gaby Mahlberg, and held at the Herzog August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel Germany, involving a group of European scholars interested in cultural translation. Since this was the fourth time we have met as a group it was very much a case of pulling together strands of thought that we have been working on for a while, with a view to producing a joint publication. All the same, the papers generated some new ideas for me.

Ironically, given how long we have been thinking about cultural translation, one observation I had was about the limits of what we can know. This was brought directly to our attention by Thomas Munck in his paper: 'Untranslatable, unsellable, unreadable? Obstacles, delays and failures in cultural translation in print in early modern Europe'. Thomas's starting point was why some authors and works are not translated despite exploring potentially interesting and relevant topics. As an example he highlighted the case of the Scandinavian thinker Anders Chydenius, who wrote on popular eighteenth-century topics such as population decline, free trade, and freedom of the press, but whose works were not translated from Swedish into other European languages. Thomas identified various reasons why works do not get translated: what is written could be difficult to convey in another language; there might be conceptual barriers to translation - in that the ideas expressed may be considered out of bounds in other contexts; the works might be deemed boring and therefore unsellable; or there could be fears that they would be censored either pre- or post-publication. In addition, other members of the group noted that the existence of Latin editions can be seen to render a translation unnecessary. The difficulty for us as historians of the early modern period is in determining what the reason or reasons were in any particular case. Other papers brought up specific examples of this. Gaby Mahlberg noted that there is evidence that both a French and a Latin translation of John Toland's Anglia Libera were planned, but there are no extant copies - meaning either that the translations did not materialise or that no copies survive. We do not know which is the case, even less why. In his paper on the French translations of Thomas Hobbes's works, Luc Borot raised several related questions: why some works by Hobbes were translated but not others; why parts of some works were translated but not the whole work; and why some translations flourished while others floundered. Even, as in the case of Hobbes, where extensive correspondence between author and translator exists, we can often do little more than speculate on the whys and wherefores.

Paul Rycaut, after Sir Peter Lely c.1679-80. National Portrait Gallery NPG 1874. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

While there is a lot that we do not know, there is also a great deal that translations can reveal, not least about the preoccupations of the translator, printer or their audience. Ann Thomson's fascinating paper on translations of works about the Ottoman Empire highlighted several examples of translations being used for purposes that were different from - and sometimes even at odds with - the intentions of the original work and its author. One such example is the seventeenth-century French translation of Paul Rycaut's work The Present State of the Ottoman Empire. His account was designed to highlight the benevolent nature of the rule of the Stuarts in England - and at the same time to condemn the rule of the Puritans during the 1650s as being more like oriental despotism. The references to the Stuarts were, however, cut from the French translations and instead the 1677 version used Rycaut's book as a vehicle for discussing the situation of Protestants in France. Similarly, Luisa Simonutti's paper shed light on the manuscript translation of the Doctrina Mahumet which is held among John Locke's papers in Oxford and clearly contributed to discussions about toleration among his circle.

‘Carte de Tendre’ from Madeleine de Scudéry’s novel Clélie. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

Another adaptation between source text and translation was explored in Amelia Mills's excellent paper on Aphra Behn's translation of Paul Tallemant's Le Voyage de l'Isle d'Amour. Tallemant's work drew inspiration from Madeleine de Scudéry's 'Carte de Tendre', which appeared in her book Clélie, a Roman History; and Amelia showed us a beautiful copy of the original 'Carte de Tendre' (which survives in the Herzog August Bibliothek). The map was designed to demonstrate how suitors could find their way into the affections of women by travelling to one of three destinations: Tendre sur reconnaissance, Tendre sur inclination or Tendre sur estime. Tallemant reinvented Scudéry's map shifting the destination from tendre to amour - with its more erotic overtones embodying a male rather than a female perspective. In her translation of Tallemant's text, Aphra Behn moved the focus back to a female-centred vision and to the intellectual meeting of minds that had been behind Scudéry's original. As Amelia demonstrated, this was reflected in the translation of particular words with, for example, the French word 'plaisir' not rendered as the obvious English equivalent 'pleasure' but rather the less emotionally charged 'content(ment)'. In doing so, Amelia argued, Behn was very deliberately looking back to the decade of Scudéry and her circle, and suggesting that there was much that English women of the 1680s might learn from them.

In Behn's case the shift of tone and emphasis came largely through the translation of particular terms, but in many other cases it came instead through paratextual material. Alessia Castagnino talked in her paper about the translations of the Abbé Noël Pluche's work Le Spectacle de la Nature. She noted that the Spanish translation incorporated footnotes which were deliberately used to emphasise the work of Spanish scientists and to highlight the important contribution of the Jesuits to the advancement of global knowledge.

Footnotes were also used to shift the focus of James Porter's Observations on the Religion, Law, Government and Manners, of the Turks, which was discussed in Ann Thomson's paper. She noted that the edition of the French translation produced by the Société Typographique de Neuchâtel added a wealth of footnotes which developed the themes of toleration and the condemnation of prejudice and superstition. Thus a translation of a work that was originally intended to offer a balanced - even sympathetic - account of the Ottoman Empire, was used by the STN as a means of attacking Catholic intolerance. Another example of a printer influencing the reading of a work through the addition of paratextual material was noted in the presentations given by Mark Somos and his team, who are working on the Grotius census. As Ed Jones Corredera reminded us, the important series of works on republics published by Elsevier in the seventeenth century included often quite elaborate frontispieces that were the work of the printer rather than the author or translator, allowing the printer to stamp their own message on the text.

The interest of members of the group in the material form of the text also extended to how translations were laid out on the page. Many translations (including some of those discussed above) included additional notes. The 1677 French translation of Rycaut's The Present State of the Ottoman Empire went a step further in having such extensive notes that they had to be added at the end under the heading 'Remarques Curieuses', so as to avoid clogging up the page. This was not always a concern for translators, however. Asaph Ben-Tov mentioned Thomas Erpenius's Historia Josephi, which included both the original Arabic text and not one but two Latin translations all on the same page - a literal interlinear translation and a more Latinate rendering in the margin. As Johann Camman's handwritten comments on his copy of the text make clear, the work was used by Camman as a language-learning tool rather than for its substantive content. This was not unusual in the case of bilingual versions - Alessia Castagnino suggested that the same was true of the bilingual (French and Italian) edition of Pluche's Le Spectacle de la Nature.

Early modern translations, then, served a variety of purposes. The publication arising from the Wolfenbüttel workshops will explore many of these, and I look forward to seeing it come to fruition. At the same time, I am sorry that this means that there are currently no more trips to the beautiful Herzog August Bibliothek scheduled in my diary.

Commonwealthmen and Women: The Legacy of English Republicanism in Britain and Europe

Caroline Robbins's important book The Eighteenth-Century Commonwealthman, which first appeared in 1959, provided the impetus for a detailed investigation of the legacy of English republican ideas which has involved some of the best known names in intellectual history; including John Pocock, Quentin Skinner, Bernard Bailyn and Justin Champion. That legacy was the focus of a workshop held at Newcastle University in September 2021, organised by Gaby Mahlberg as part of her Marie Sklodowska-Curie Fellowship. The workshop offered an excellent line-up of speakers who raised a number of interesting new questions for investigation. As usual, what follows is my own personal take on the workshop and the ideas it generated.

The legacy of English republicanism is, of course, centred, on a canon of texts. But, as many of the papers demonstrated, intellectual historians now recognise the importance of private as well as published works, of intellectual networks, and of the role played by editors and printers in shaping the physical form of those texts. In her excellent paper 'John Milton in the United Provinces', which opened the workshop, Esther van Raamsdonk showed that Milton had incorporated into his Second Defence information that had appeared in private correspondence between two Dutch intellectuals Daniel Heinsius and Issak Vossius in which they had been reflecting on Milton's First Defence. There is no evidence of any direct communication between Milton and these Dutchmen. Rather, Milton's knowledge of their exchange probably came via bridging figures who knew both parties, such as Lieuwe van Aitzema or John Drury. Esther's wider point was that 'reception' need not simply be one way but that in this case there was a two-way communication from text to reception and then back from reception to text. Such complexities only become evident if we incorporate into our research manuscript as well as published texts, and the networks within which both authors and readers were situated.

This notion of the complexity of transmission was a broader theme in several of the papers. While Heinsius and Vossius discussed Milton's ideas, they firmly rejected his views. In her own paper Gaby told a similar story about the reviews of seventeenth-century English republican writings in the conservative German periodical Acta Eruditorum. The journal had an explicit policy of neutrality on political matters, but did still review some politically sensitive texts, such as the English republican writings, albeit with a degree of objective distance. It was suggested that there is a parallel here with the claim in social media that a re-tweet does not necessarily indicate endorsement. Of course even if the review is written from a position of neutrality, the ideas contained within the original work are still being transmitted to new audiences - not all of whom will share the attitude of the journal editors.

John Milton by William Faithorne, 1670. National Portrait Gallery. NPG 610. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

One aspect of the English republican writings that many Europeans appear to have been uncomfortable about was their endorsement of regicide. Esther van Raamsdonk noted that, despite living under republican rule, Dutch commentators were highly critical of the execution of Charles I. In his consideration of Baruch Spinoza's knowledge of English republicanism, Thomas Munck reinforced this point. He noted that the Dutch saw themselves as having taken a more authentic route to republicanism than the English, and that they condemned the overthrow of Charles I as dangerous and insincere. While Spinoza was sympathetic to republican rule, he was deeply critical of the English abolition of monarchical government, no doubt partly because the process by which it came about was at odds with both his pacifism and his commitment to genuine popular sovereignty. This problem not only affected the Dutch. When responding to questions following his paper on Richard Price, Christopher Hamel, acknowledged that it was difficult for Price to cite Milton directly because of his link to the regicide. Similarly, Gaby believes that part of the reason why less work has been done on the legacy of English republicanism in Germany than in Britain, France and America is because of the more conservative path that Germany took in the eighteenth century, which has led historians to assume that works justifying regicide will not have found an audience there.

Another element of English republican thought that has often been seen as becoming less relevant or even distasteful as the eighteenth-century progressed is the agrarianism of James Harrington, which was increasingly at odds with the growing commercial society. In my own paper I showed that, in fact, Harrington's theory about the relationship between land and power remained a consistent theme for at least some republicans in Britain right through to the nineteenth century.

Catharine Macaulay (née Sawbridge) by Robert Edge Pine, c. 1775. National Portrait Gallery. NPG 5856. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

A further complication to our understanding of the legacy of English republican works was introduced via the papers and discussions of the second panel, where it was argued that there was a Saxon tradition of republicanism that emerged and developed alongside the more conventional ancient tradition. In his excellent paper on 'John Tutchin and Commonwealth Poetics', Joe Hone made a persuasive case for Tutchin as a commonwealth writer and the author of a number of commonwealth poems, including Aesop at Amsterdam and The Foreigners. He went on to demonstrate that there was a distinct vein of Saxon republicanism in these writings. For Tutchin freedom was a right that the English had inherited from their Saxon ancestors and these birth rights and native freedoms were given greater emphasis than the civic virtue central to ancient republicanism. Ashley Walsh has already published an excellent article on Saxon republicanism, and so it is not surprising that his paper on the standing army debate complemented Joe's paper in this regard. Ashley emphasised the fact that the standing army debate of the 1690s encouraged the revival of ancient constitutionalism, with advocates of the militia often looking to the Saxon past rather than to classical precedents. This remained a key strand of militia debates right through the eighteenth century. Moreover in later papers by Christopher Hamel and Max Skjönsberg it was clear that Saxon republicanism - and particularly ideas of natural rights and patriotism - remained important to later eighteenth-century commonwealthmen and women, including Price and Catharine Macaulay. Saxon republicanism is, however, complex. In discussions we noted its ambiguous nature as, on the one hand, an insular doctrine with elements of ethnic or racial exclusivity and, on the other hand, transnational features. Not only did the Saxons come to Britain from Germany, but there were also parallels in other countries (such as the Batavian tradition in the Dutch context). The group felt that there is more work to be done in this area.

Finally, given my current preoccupations, I noted when participants touched on issues of genre or materiality. The legacy of Milton's works has been interesting in this regard. His seventeenth-century reception in the Dutch Republic, as Esther van Raamsdonk noted, was focused on his prose writings. But, as Tom Corns reminded us, there was a 'cleaning up' of Milton's reputation in Britain from the late 1680s through a shift towards his poetic works and the crafting of his reputation as the English Protestant Virgil. Also of interest in relation to Milton was the fact that he was often praised for the style while being condemned for the content of his writing - as in the idea that he defended a bad case well. Joe Hone began his paper with the bigger question of why the commonwealth tradition is primarily a prose tradition, given that a wealth of commonwealth poetry was produced during the 1680s and 90s when the two were more or less on an equal footing. Moreover, it is clear from Joe's works that John Darby printed both poetry and prose and saw the connection between them. One possibility is that it was the preferences of the influential figures who shaped and transmitted the commonwealth tradition - including John Toland and Thomas Hollis - that were crucial.

Thomas Hollis’s edition of Algernon Sidney’s Discourses Concerning Government. Houghton Library, Harvard University. HOU F *EC75.H7267.Zz751s Lobby IV.4.14. I am grateful to the Houghton Library for permission to reproduce this and to Dr Mark Somos for his assistance.

The mention of Hollis brings us to the final paper of the workshop, by Allan Reddick, and to the question of books as material objects. Allan noted that Hollis sometimes sent English-language books to places where few would have been able to read them, raising the question of what his purpose in doing so was. In part it was probably about ensuring the preservation of these texts and the ideas contained within them, but Allan suggested that he also thinks that Hollis saw the books as having an almost talismanic quality - an idea that is reflected in the complex iconography that he incorporated into his editions and bindings. Hollis was no doubt influenced by his hero Milton's notion (expressed in Areopagitica) of books carrying a potency and agency and constituting an abstraction of the living intellect that bred them. The commonwealth works Hollis republished might be viewed, then, as warriors for liberty and, in this regard, our investigation of the commonwealth tradition concerns their still on-going battles.

Commons versus Public Good

In English, the terms 'republic' and 'commonwealth' have tended to be understood as synonyms. 'Republic' comes originally from the Latin 'respublica'. Since 'res' means 'thing' or 'affair', the respublica is effectively the public thing or public good. A 'republic' then, in its simplest terms, is a government that operates in the interests of the public rather than in the private interests of the rulers. 'Commonwealth' is an English version of the same idea, referring to what is in the common interest. While the regime established following the execution of Charles I in early 1649 was officially called the 'Commonwealth and Free State', it was frequently described as a republic. Yet while these terms have been used as synonyms, they do have different connotations deriving from their historic use. This was brought home to me through work I have been doing on the project 'Wastes and Strays: The Past, Present and Future of Urban Commons'. Commons are a long-standing feature of the landscape of the British Isles, but in the mid-nineteenth century an interesting shift occurred, whereby these spaces - and especially those located in urban areas - began to be characterised as public assets rather than as the locus of common rights.

Nomansland Common Hertfordshire. Image by Rachel Hammersley.

The origins of commons date back to medieval times. In general they were manorial wastes over which specific common rights were granted to particular groups of local people. In most cases these rights were agricultural and related to subsistence. They included: the common of pasture, the right to graze animals such as sheep, cows, or horses on the common; the common of estovers, which was the right to gather wood or other vegetation such as furze to use as fuel, for repairs to houses or equipment, or for animal bedding; and the common of turbary which was the right to take peat or turf for fuel. As Guy Standing has argued, what these rights offered was a kind of safety net to help the local community (and especially its poor) through hard times (Guy Standing, Plunder of the Commons: A Manifesto for Sharing Public Wealth. Harmondsworth: Pelican, 2019, pp. 8, 38). 

Norwich as viewed from St James Hollow on Household Heath. Wastes and Strays, 18 June 2020. Image by Sarah Collins.

In the second half of the nineteenth century the ownership and management of many commons situated in urban areas was transferred from the local lord of the manor to the city authorities. For example, Durdham Down was bought by Bristol City Council in 1861 and, after a protracted legal battle, the City Corporation of Norwich officially took legal ownership of Mousehold Heath from the Dean and Chapter of Norwich Cathedral (the original landowner) in 1883.

These changes in ownership and management encouraged the perception that urban commons were public assets. In certain respects this was a positive shift. In general it meant that the land had to be open and accessible to the public at large rather than just to commoners or local residents. It also reinforced the growing sense that the primary purpose of these spaces was recreation rather than agricultural activity, which was generally fitting, given their location.

Charles Bradlaugh by an unknown photographer, 1860s. National Portrait Gallery NPG Ax18357. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

Yet, while there were gains, something was lost in this transformation. Gone was the idea of commons as offering subsistence or as providing a safety net for the poorest during difficult times. Yet many people still lived precarious lives. The land campaigner Charles Bradlaugh cited research on the poor conditions in which many workers were living in the 1870s. He noted that in one Bedfordshire parish 'one-third of the entire population were receiving pauper relief, and it seemed altogether to puzzle the relieving officer to account for the manner in which one-half of the remainder lived' (Charles Bradlaugh, The Land, The People, and The Coming Struggle. London, 1874, p. 9). Even today with the increasing reliance on food banks and the emergence of zero-hours contracts, it would seem that the need for such a safety net remains, and yet the state benefits that had been established in the first half of the twentieth century to serve as this have been greatly weakened since the 1980s. Secondly, there was a shift away from a sense of shared ownership. While commons were not usually owned by the commoners, the fact that they enjoyed rights of access and rights to various produce of the land, created at least a semblance of ownership. And ownership, in turn, helps to give people a sense of identification with the space as well as encouraging them to cherish, protect, and take care of it. Such sentiments are less likely to arise if these green spaces are seen as a public asset - a resource provided for the public by the authorities but remaining firmly under council control. Finally, commons invoke a sense of working together for a common purpose and, therefore, of reciprocity. To gain what they needed from the common, commoners had to exercise their rights by labouring on the common whether by grazing their animals there or by gathering wood for fuel. Once the commons are regarded as a public asset or a service provided to the public, the sense of users having duties or responsibilities over the space is diminished.

Cows grazing on the Town Moor in Newcastle. Wastes and Strays. 10 May 2021. Image by Rachel Hammersley.

What might be the benefits of shifting back from a language of public assets and resources to one of common goods? Could it be used to curb the increasingly pernicious tendency to appeal to 'efficiency' in order to cut public services to the bone? Could it be a means to establish the primacy of community ahead of the private interests and benefits of those in privileged positions? Could it even lead to the introduction of a fair system of taxation, which is viewed not as an unwelcome burden on the individual, but as an opportunity to build a rich and sustainable society in which all members are provided with the means to flourish?

I am getting carried away, but as an intellectual historian I do believe that the language that we use to frame our understanding has the power to bring concrete political change. There might well be benefits to be gained from reclaiming the idea of the 'common wealth' and encouraging active engagement and participation on the part of citizens.

Radical Republicanism

As I acknowledged in my recent book, the term 'republicanism' means different things to different people. Adding the adjective 'radical' to the term only complicates matters further, especially when the focus is the early modern period. The term 'radicalism' was not in use until the early nineteenth century, leading some scholars to argue that it should not be applied before that time. Yet 'Radical Republicanism in Early Modern Europe' was the title of an excellent conference organised by Anna Becker, Nicolai von Eggers, and Alessandro Mulieri in late June 2021. The conference organisers did not shy away from the difficulties with the terminology, indeed Nicolai von Eggers opened the proceedings by asking whether it is valuable to speak of 'radical republicanism'. What followed was a rich and lively discussion about what we mean by that label, what role the people should play within a republic, and why radical republicans are so often neglected within the historiography.

Niccolò Machiavelli by Santi di Tito. Taken from Wikimedia Commons.

The constitution of the citizen body and the role its members should play have been key questions for those discussing republican rule ever since ancient times. As Alessandro Mulieri noted in his paper, Aristotle argued for the wisdom of the many over that of the few, insisting that as a collective body the many (understood as the middle orders rather than the poor) would have greater expertise, prudence, and virtue when it came to the selection of magistrates and the judgement of their actions. Niccolò Machiavelli famously expanded Aristotle's assessment to incorporate the plebs and to include lawmaking as well as the selection of magistrates. John McCormick has drawn attention to this aspect of Machiavelli's thought in his published work on the Florentine's democratic credentials. He developed this idea further in his paper at the conference, by exploring in greater detail the aristocratic republicanism of Francesco Guicciardini, which was in large part a response to Machiavelli's democratic republicanism. McCormick convincingly demonstrated that Machiavelli had got under Guicciardini's skin, leading him to adopt awkward positions (such as justifying genocide).

Plans that appeared in the Revolutions de Paris for platforms designed to make it possible for orators to be heard in a large assembly that was part of the wider proposals made by radical republicans during the early years of the French Revolution discussed by Nicolai von Eggers. Source gallica.bnf.fr/BnF.

One feature of the more aristocratic form of republicanism advanced by Guicciardini is the mixed constitution. Both Markku Peltonen and Annelien de Dijn questioned its dominance within the republican tradition, showing that many seventeenth- and eighteenth-century republicans explicitly rejected that model, opting instead for a purer form of democratic rule. One of the key claims of Peltonen's excellent paper was that not only were republican arguments boldly made by a large number of English commentators during the period of the Commonwealth and Free State (1649-53), but that many described the government under which they were living positively as a democracy. De Dijn cited another seventeenth-century radical republican, Pieter De la Court who insisted that freedom would only be secure in a true democracy where decision-making power lay firmly with the people. Moreover, De Dijn argued that De la Court (along with his contemporary Baruch Spinoza and, later, Jean-Jacques Rousseau) took Aristotle's argument to its logical conclusion, insisting that the people were more likely to rule in the common good than the elite and arguing, therefore, that there should be no restraint on popular power but only a strict form of majoritarian rule.

In the discussion, Camilla Vergara articulated the distinction being explored very clearly: one form of republicanism involves the sharing of power between the elites and the plebs; whereas the other (democratic or plebeian republicanism) involves giving power to the people. Of course this raises further questions about how popular power can and should be exercised (especially in large modern states). This issue was broached in the two papers on the French Revolution. Ariane Fichtl explored the influence on the French revolutionaries of ancient institutions such as the popular tribunes. Nicolai von Eggers focused on those radicals who adopted an intermediate position between representative and direct democracy by calling for the use of imperative mandates that would bind deputies or delegates to act only on the instructions of those who had elected them.

Samuel Hayat's paper on the recent 'gilets jaunes' protests in France, opened up a further question of whether 'the people' speak with a single voice. This is certainly the impression the 'gilets jaunes' seek to present, but to do so they must downplay differences of opinion based on race, sex, or class. A further issue raised by Hayet's paper is the thorny relationship between the terms 'popular' and 'radical'. The importance of distinguishing the 'popular' from the 'radical' has long been acknowledged by historians of the British civil wars - not least John Morrill. Moreover, not only in that Revolution but also in France in 1793 and again in 1848, the revolutionary authorities were presented with a dilemma. Should free and fair elections be suspended if the outcome of such elections was likely to be a rejection of the revolutionary regime? 

Portrait of Pieter de la Court by Abraham van den Tempel, 1667. Taken from Wikimedia Commons.

Regardless of the different ways in which it has been defined, radical republicanism has long been obscured or even neglected. Throughout the conference we heard papers calling for the rehabilitation of important figures as diverse as Ptolemy of Lucca, Pier Filippo Pandolfini, and Pieter De la Court, as well as for recognition of the republican implications of the works of figures such as Étienne de La Boétie (examined in an interesting paper by Saul Newman). Selective borrowing has been in operation throughout history. In papers by Miguel Vatter and Alessandro Mulieri, Machiavelli was shown to have rejected Platonism and Aristotelianism while simultaneously taking on board certain ideas from them. In my own paper I showed that selectivity was also in operation in the use of James Harrington's ideas by eighteenth-century British thinkers.

This selectivity has continued in later scholarship. Jérémie Barthas noted that Rudolf von Albertini was crucial in downplaying the significance of radical republicans like Pandolfini, because of the perceived connection between his ideas and those of the Jacobins. Following John McCormick's account of the brutal side of Guicciardini's thought, Anna Becker posed the leading question of where the more positive reading of him had originated. Similarly, Markku Peltonen argued that radical republican writings of the early 1650s have largely been ignored by recent republican scholars.

Gaby Mahlberg and Anna Becker both wondered whether part of the reason for the dominance of a more elitist reading of the republican tradition arises from the source material that tends to be used - in particular the focus on a range of printed canonical texts. Gaby's exploration of translations, reviews and networks - along with Anna's work on women and republicanism - have the potential to offer an alternative view. While source material may be part of the problem, political attitudes and priorities no doubt also play their part. For this reason, radical republicanism not only offers a rich vein for future historical research, but also a potential source of valuable material to help us to understand the nature of the political system we have inherited and the means by which it might be improved in the future.

Experiencing Political Texts 7: Intertextuality

It is now several months since I have written a post under the 'Experiencing Political Texts' heading. For that reason alone I wanted to return to it this month, but there is a further incentive for doing so. We learnt in May that our application for an AHRC Networking Grant on this topic has been successful. So, from January 2022 we will be organising a series of workshops exploring the themes: 'Genre and Form in Early Modern Political Texts', 'The Materiality of Early Modern Political Texts', and 'Experiencing Early Modern Political Texts in a Digital Age'. We will also be running a monthly reading group at the Newcastle Literary and Philosophical Society and working with colleagues at the Robinson Library, Newcastle University and at the National Library of Scotland to put on exhibitions exploring the relative merits of print versus digital editions and the forms in which political arguments were articulated in the past and the present.

Screenshot from the Early Modern Ballot resource designed in conjunction with Animating Texts at Newcastle University (ATNU) as a pilot for the ‘Experiencing Political Texts’ project. It provides an animated version of James Harrington’s broadsheet The Manner and Life of the Ballot following the instructions set out in that publication.

In previous posts in this series I have written about the important role played by genre in early modern political texts and about the significance of the material dimensions of those texts. In this post I want to extend the discussion to think about how works were connected with each other: the issue of intertextuality. I should acknowledge here that my thinking on this was greatly influenced by supervising Thomas Whitfield's PhD thesis and, in particular, his work on the 'multi-media strategy' adopted by the radical printer and bookseller Thomas Spence. For those who are interested, you can find out more about Tom's work here.

Joseph Wilton, ‘Thomas Hollis’, marble bust, c.1762. National Portrait Gallery NPG 6946. Reproduced under a creative commons licence.

Thomas Hollis, who has featured previously in this blog, edited and financed the publication of a number of works on politics and government in the mid-eighteenth century, especially works of the republican canon, producing lavish copies with special bindings, illustrations and coded stamps. Hollis disseminated large numbers of works to city and university libraries across Britain, Europe, and North America. The most extensive collection of these books was sent to Harvard University. This donation, which was added to over many years, was so vast that the electronic library catalogue used at Harvard today is named after Hollis (and his forebears who also made donations to the College). Sending a huge collection of books allowed Hollis to seek to influence how readers read not just a single volume but the collection as a whole.

Hollis added handwritten annotations into a considerable number of the books he sent to Harvard that were designed to direct the reader to other works in the collection. In some cases the aim was to provide more detail on the author. On the flyleaf of Anthony Ascham's Of the confusions and revolutions of governments, for example, he directed readers wanting to know more about Ascham to Antony Wood's Athenae Oxoniensis, volume 2, p. 385, which he had also donated (William H. Bond, “From the Great Desire of Promoting Learning”: Thomas Hollis’s Gifts to the Harvard College Library. Cambridge Massachusetts: Harvard University Press for the Houghton Library of the Harvard College Library, 2010, p. 39). Elsewhere, however, annotation was intended to provide further reading on the same topic. In William Atwood's Jani anglorum facies nova he directs the reader to 'See "Plato Redivivus", by the ingenuous Harry Neville" (Bond, Thomas Hollis’s Gifts, p. 40). Similarly, on the flyleaf of John Bridges's work, A brief account of many of the prosecutions of the people call'd Quakers, Hollis added the following annotation: 'In "The Pillars of Priestcraft" shaken is preserved a master tract in behalf of the Quakers & of Liberty; which was written by the late Lord Hervey, in answer to an artful tract of the late Dr Sherlock's, then B. of Salisbury, intitled "The Country Parson's Plea'" (Bond, Thomas Hollis’s Gifts, p. 55). Two copies of The Pillars of Priestcraft Shaken, which was by Hollis's close friend Richard Baron, were also among the works sent to Harvard.

Giovanni Battista Cipriani, ‘Thomas Hollis’, etching, 1767. National Portrait Gallery NPG D46107. Reproduced under a creative commons licence. This portrait of Hollis by Cipriani was produced to appear in his Memoirs. It includes several of the emblems or tools used in the works Hollis commissioned., including the owl and the pileus or liberty cap between two Roman short swords. That combination of symbols appeared on coins issued by Brutus to commemorate the assassination of Julius Caesar.

In both of these cases the works to which the reader was directed expressed similar sentiments to the one in which the annotation appeared, but this was not always the case. On the half-title page of the first volume of The history of the rebellion, Hollis added a rather unflattering description of the author: "Edward Hyde, at length Earl of Clarendon, in the opinion of the writer, so far as he can judge, a hack Lawyer ... of working, but not first-rate abilities; a wordy, partial Historian." He went on to recommend that readers of Clarendon's volume should also read the works of one of his contemporaries: 'See the Prose-works of his opposite, the man, who in no respect, would subscribe slave, the matchless John Milton. T-H aug. 7. 1767" (Bond, Thomas Hollis’s Gifts, p. 67).

The printer and radical bookseller Thomas Spence did not have the resources that were at Hollis's disposal, but he too saw value in encouraging readers to read one text in the light of another, and found a much more direct way of encouraging them to do so. His weekly periodical One Pennyworth of Pig's Meat; or, Lessons for the Swinish Multitude comprised an eclectic mix of short extracts from works by authors as diverse as the Anglo-Irish cleric and satirist Jonathan Swift, the eighteenth-century reformer William Frend, the political theorist John Locke, and the French philosopher, writer and politician the comte de Volney. The extracts are carefully chosen and important in themselves, but additional messages are conveyed through their juxtaposition. For example, in an early issue Spence included two extracts from Frend's Peace and Union, one dealing with the recent regicide in France, drawing a parallel between it and the events of 1688, and another highlighting the negative impact of war on the poor. They are followed by Lord Chesterfield's letter to his son from April 1752 in which he predicts a decline in the power of kings and priests by the end of the century, on the basis of the 'symptoms of reason and good sense' breaking out in France, which he also links to 'Revolution principles' at home. Together these extracts are designed to encourage readers to view the French Revolution in a positive light and to oppose Britain's involvement in the war against France.

Token produced on Spence’s behalf to advertise his Pig’s Meat publication. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

One of Spence's particular aims in the work is to demonstrate that his arguments for equality, and in particular the fair division of land, are endorsed not just by many of the great political thinkers of the past, but also by the Bible. In another issue he includes two extracts taken respectively from Leviticus and Isaiah followed by a passage from Samuel Pufendorf's Whole Duty of Man. The labels Spence gives to these extracts hints at the connections between them. The Biblical passages are headed 'Lessons for the Monopolizers of Land', while the passage from Pufendorf is entitled 'On Equality'. The extract from Leviticus describes the idea of jubilee whereby every fifty years land that had been bought or sold in the intervening half century would be returned to its original owner. The passage from Isaiah also warned against the accumulation of land. The Pufendorf extract included the following claim: 'That no man, who has not a peculiar right, ought to arrogate more to himself than he is ready to allow to his fellows, but that he permit other men to enjoy equal privileges with himself.' (One Pennyworth of Pig’s Meat; or, Lessons for the Swinish Multitude. London, 1793, p. 91).

In fact both Hollis and Spence also went beyond intertextuality, making connections not just between one text and another, but also between texts and objects, and between text and place. Both men commissioned the production of images and tokens depicting individuals and emblems that embodied the causes for which they stood. The portrait of Hollis by Giovanni Battista Cipriani and the Spence token advertising his Pig's Meat periodical, both of which are depicted above, are good examples of this. Hollis also became obsessed with John Milton's bed, while Spence experimented with speakeasies and even embarked on a graffiti campaign chalking the words 'The Rights of Man' around the streets of London. Historians of political ideas must, therefore, venture beyond the words on the pages of individual texts if they are to make sense of the politics of the past. I hope that through the 'Experiencing Political Texts' project we will be able to identify fruitful ways of doing this.

Experiences of Urban Green Spaces 2: Present uses of urban commons

Having explored historical perspectives on urban commons in our first webinar, our second - held on 29th April 2021 - turned to ‘Present Uses of Urban Commons’. The webinar opened with a talk by Professor Chris Rodgers (PI on the Wastes and Strays project) entitled ‘Forever Green? Nourishing our urban commons in a post-pandemic context’. After the talk and a brief Q&A session, we divided into break-out groups for discussion around four themes: defining urban commons, tradition, identity, and environmentalism.

John Singer Sargent, Octavia Hill, oil on canvas, 1898. NPG 1746. Reproduced with thanks to the National Portrait Gallery under a creative commons license.

Professor Rodgers began his talk by noting that while the current global pandemic has highlighted the urgent need to protect green space, that imperative has been around for many years, citing the warning given in 1877 by Octavia Hill (one of the founders of both the National Trust and the Commons Preservation Society) that people should not allow any of their open space to be lost. Yet, urban commons remain under threat today, not least as a result of austerity and the selling off of open spaces by local councils desperate to maintain essential services. Moreover, preservation has been hampered by confusion and misunderstanding regarding the legal designation of urban commons and their protected status (or lack of it). The legislative framework varies from one urban common to the next. Moreover, legal definitions are not good at capturing the variety of uses to which green spaces are put, and can end up restricting rights to certain groups. Furthermore, legislation and judicial decisions have limited the ability of communities to acquire communal use rights and create new commons. Rather than relying on existing legal definitions, then, Professor Rodgers suggested that it would be better to think in terms of key characteristics shared by all urban commons. While they may have different origins, resulting in different legal protection, and are subject to multiple uses, all provide vital ecosystem services from which we benefit. Given this, Professor Rodger argued, it is ecosystem services that should provide the key to protecting these important spaces in the future.

So what do we mean by ecosystem services? They include a range of uses or benefits of the land, including resources for industry and/or agriculture, recreational access, spaces for social and political gatherings and protest, and sites of cultural heritage. One of the advantages of focusing on ecosystem services is that it allows for a dynamic assessment of the value of the space rather than one that is static and fixed on use at a particular point in time.

Nomansland Common, Hertfordshire. Wastes and Strays 20th April 2019. Image by Rachel Hammersley.

Professor Rodgers ended his talk by arguing for a new Community Charter for green space. At the heart of the Charter would be a new ecosystem services appraisal system. By embedding such an appraisal into the planning process it would be possible to prioritise and promote the provision of community green spaces, offering proper protection (on the basis of their use and value) to those that currently exist and facilitating the creation of new urban commons where they are not currently available. By this means, Professor Rodgers argued, we can perhaps ensure that Octavia Hill’s vision for the protection (and expansion) of green space can become a reality in post-pandemic times.

The entrance to Leazes Park, Newcastle. Wastes and Strays 1 September 2020. Image by Rachel Hammersley.

Professor Rodgers' reconsideration of how we define urban commons was explored in greater detail by one of our break-out groups. The group felt that the first question to ask was what purpose the definition was designed to serve. Whatever the purpose, group members were adamant that a single, fixed definition was unhelpful, and they called instead for a higher level, multi-faceted definition inclusive of different uses. They suggested that rather than speaking of urban commons it might be more helpful to refer to 'commons in urban areas' which would allow for the possible inclusion of both former rural commons now situated within city boundaries thanks to urban expansion, and even virtual commons. The group spent some time discussing the different connotations of the terms 'public good' and 'common good'. While the two are often used synonymously, there is more of a sense of coming together, reciprocity, and shared effort implied by the notion of the common good. Another issue that was explored was the fact that commons tend to be wilder than other public spaces such as parks. But it was noted that the fluid nature of commons can blur this distinction. Do public parks that lose their funding and become neglected automatically become commons? What is the status of wild spaces that are tidied up by the local authorities or by communities themselves, do they cease to be commons as a result? Finally, the group reflected on how Covid-19 has impacted on our understanding of commons. It was noted that, due to social distancing, people's experiences of urban commons over the last year have been more individualised and that this may have diluted the sense of the common ownership and shared use of these spaces.

While the events of the last year have impacted on how we think about urban commons, our understanding of them is grounded in a much longer history. The group focusing on tradition was asked to think about whether city residents are aware of the history of their local urban commons; if so, how they gain knowledge of them; and whether that history matters to them. Group members involved with the management and maintenance of Mousehold Heath noted that volunteers on that common vary as to how much historical knowledge of the area they have when they first arrive, but even those who come with little awareness often find that it becomes important to them as they become invested in the area. Particularly for those volunteering on a regular basis, there is a sense of being part of a tradition that stretches back over many generations and this creates a sense of belonging and adds significance to the work they do. The group reflected on contrasts in this regard between urban commons in cities of different sizes. Whereas Mousehold Heath and Newcastle's Town Moor are very closely identified respectively with Norwich and Newcastle and their inhabitants, there is not the same sense of communal ownership for a common like Epping Forest, which lies on the eastern edge of London and is unknown to many Londoners. The group also discussed the way in which the history of a common can play into current issues, noting that in recent campaigns on several commons reference was made back to the historic use and also to earlier opposition to encroachment. This can be seen historically too, with those involved in conflict in the mid-nineteenth century between the Freemen and the Town Council over Newcastle's Town Moor often invoking the controversies of the late eighteenth century. Finally, the group thought about how best to reflect and transmit the history of urban commons to visitors today. Some use is made of interpretation boards, leaflets, and history walks or school visits, but it was suggested that new digital technologies perhaps present possibilities that have not yet been fully exploited.

Long Valley, Mousehold Heath. Wastes and Strays. Image by Sarah Collins. This valley is thought by some to have been the site of the final battle during Kett’s Rebellion of 1549 an event still closely connected to Mousehold Heath in the popular imagination.

Perhaps not surprisingly, there was some cross-over between discussions in the group focusing on tradition and that exploring the theme of identity. Here too it was noted that it is often through engagement that people come to identify with a particular space and its history. The example of a neglected riverside area in Gateshead was given. It had been all but forgotten, but once members of the community were involved in renovating it, the direct engagement of individuals with the landscape helped to create a sense of identity. It was suggested that there is a distinction between rural and urban areas in this regard. In a region like the Cotswolds there is lots of open space, but that very abundance can mean that people do not identify with a particular common or area; and, of course, much of the land in those areas is privately owned. By contrast, in cities there are generally fewer green spaces, making them more precious but also potentially more fragile. Together these qualities can create a stronger sense of identification. Just as in the discussions at our previous webinar, it was observed that social class plays a role here, with a stronger sense of identification between locals and urban commons often evident in middle-class areas or among middle-class residents of an area. Furthermore it was noted that it is easier for those already in a position of influence within the community to engage productively with local authorities. In this regard, the impact of Covid-19 was deemed to be positive. Not only have urban commons been used more extensively during the pandemic, but they have also been used by a wider range of locals resulting in the creation of new identities and relationships to those spaces.

Wildflowers in Valley Gardens, Brighton. Wastes and Strays, 20 August 2020. Image by Siobhan O’Neil.

The importance of urban commons has not just been brought into focus by the pandemic, the protection of open green spaces was already rising up the political agenda prior to the emergence of Covid-19, thanks to the growth in environmental concerns. Urban commons are, of course, crucial tools in combatting climate change but, as the group focusing on this topic acknowledged, the issues are complex. Decisions about commons are not necessarily taken communally, but depend on the views of the landowner or those involved in the management of the space. Even among those who are committed to combatting climate change, there are debates around the best policies to pursue. Tree planting is seen by some to be key, but it may not always be the most effective option, with biodiversity regarded by some as a better strategy. Yet this in turn can raise problems, since, particularly in the early stages, biodiversity may interfere with the access of local communities to the space. The group had a lively discussion about rewilding, the extent to which that actually takes land back to an 'original' state, and the question of exactly what the 'original' state of the British countryside was. The group concluded that while sustainability is certainly to be encouraged, it is necessary to take ecological specificity into account.

In the final discussion it was noted that there is a need for communication and collaboration: between the authorities responsible for managing the commons and the communities in which they lie; and also between researchers and activists. It is our hope that through this project we can encourage, facilitate, and sustain those relationships so as to secure the valuable urban commons of this country for future generations.

Experiences of Urban Green Spaces: Historic Perspectives on the Urban Common

I have more I want to say on the theme of ‘Experiencing Political Texts’, so will return to that series of posts in due course, but I am interrupting it this month to reflect on the recent webinar I organised, together with other members of the AHRC-funded project ‘Wastes and Strays: The Past, Present, and Future of Urban Commons’. You can find out more about the project at our website.

It is coming up for two years since we held the first workshop for the project. So much has, of course, changed since then. Our project has been severely disrupted by the pandemic. Yet, there is now a much greater awareness among the public of the importance of open green spaces to our physical and mental health. In this context, urban commons (along with other green spaces, such as parks) are recognised as being of particular value in providing these benefits to city-dwellers, many of whom have no garden of their own and who may live many miles from the countryside. Consequently, discussion about the past, present and future of urban commons seems more timely than ever.

So it was with some excitement that we planned our delayed second and third workshops as two webinars on 'Experiences of Urban Green Spaces'. The first offered an 'Historical Perspective on the Urban Common'. The second focused on 'Present Uses of Urban Commons'. This blogpost will summarise the first of these two webinars.

The first webinar opened, after a brief introduction, with an excellent talk 'From open space to public space: the idea of the right to air and recreation' by Dr Katrina Navickas, Reader in History at the University of Hertfordshire. Dr Navickas began by highlighting the fact that there is a persistent tension between how common land, and the rights associated with it, are seen in the public imagination and their official legal status. In many cases, commons are not publicly owned at all, but instead they are private land over which certain people have been accorded rights to specific uses (for example grazing) and the access to exercise those rights. 

The bandstand in Leazes Park Newcastle. The park was built as part of the Victorian public parks movement on Castle Leazes, part of Newcastle’s urban common. Wastes and Strays. 1 September 2020. Image by Rachel Hammersley

Dr Navickas went on to point out that further ambiguity exists in the case of urban commons, which since the nineteenth century have had two dominant - but quite distinctive and sometimes conflicting - uses: first, as agrarian pastureland; and, second, as recreation grounds. The emergence of the latter use in the nineteenth century was particularly controversial. This was partly because the right to air and exercise was not at that time an explicit statutory right. This was only established in the Law of Property Act of 1925. At the same time, the provision of open space for recreation was closely tied to attempts on the part of Victorian authorities and elites to constrain and police the behaviour of working people. This was reflected in the rise of the Victorian public parks movement, which saw calls for the conversion of various English urban commons into public parks - the layout and nature of which made them easier to police. It also inflected the establishment of the Commons Preservation Society in 1865, and its early focus and direction. As Dr Navickas explained, these efforts were - at least in part - motivated by the desire to obstruct the organisation of political meetings.

The Chartists frequently held meetings on common land, a trend that was continued by later parliamentary reformers and other opposition groups. At the beginning of the nineteenth century such meetings often took place on town moors, with many being short affairs that workers could attend during their lunch hour. However, as town commons were increasingly built over, protestors in many areas found themselves either confined to small spaces or forced to move out to more distant rural commons. This change also prompted a shift in the timing and duration of the meetings. Increasingly, they were scheduled for Sundays or Mondays (traditional holidays) and became whole day events - a day out rather than just a political meeting. 

Dr Navickas ended her talk by noting that the tensions and issues surrounding urban commons survive to this day. This has been reflected most recently in the conflict over protests on Clapham Common in March 2021. (The slides from Dr Navickas's talk are available here).

After Dr Navickas's talk we divided into four break-out groups, each focusing on a different theme, with the members of each group having been provided in advance with a few short extracts from some of the sources we have discovered in the course of our research.

A poster advertising a demonstration in the Valley Gardens area, Brighton. Wastes and Strays. 28th August 2020. Image by Siobhan O’Neill.

Those focusing on the theme Assembly on the commons noted how difficult it is for historians to unpick the motivations behind large-scale popular protest, and the fact that different motives (political action, community building, entertainment) were probably intertwined. It was acknowledged that the rise in large mass meetings was linked to the widening of the franchise with the nineteenth-century Reform Acts. Furthermore, that an element of spectacle was always built into these events. Protesters often processed through the town to the meeting and use was made of music, banners, and sashes to indicate the cause and key issues to bystanders, elements that remain crucial to protests today. It was also observed that not all crowds are the same. The gathering on Valley Gardens to celebrate the Prince Regent's visit to Brighton in 1827 was very different from the demonstrations by local pitmen and those calling for the release of Irish prisoners on Newcastle's Town Moor in 1850 and 1872 respectively. It was noted that the question of who organised the gathering was key (particularly, whether it was organised by the authorities or by opposition movements), but it was also acknowledged that official gatherings could easily be subverted by a crowd.

The group considering Fringe Society was particularly interested in the connection their sources drew between marginal space and marginal people. The question of who has the authority over urban green space is a pertinent one, and is linked to assumptions about how particular spaces should be used. In addition to bylaws trying to stop the most exploited in society from using these spaces, there are also unwritten codes of behaviour. However, it was noted by the group that these codes of behaviour could change depending on the time of day or the season and that they could also be challenged or subverted. Siobhan O’Neill, who is working on the project and was a member of this group, observed that in more hidden areas of her local common, marginal groups such as gay men or homeless people claimed the space as their own by marking areas with white pebbles or hanging up clothes. There are broader issues here about the gradual regulation of space over time and ongoing conflicts and tensions between different users of urban green spaces.

This view of the Steine in Brighton from 1808 shows labour activities and recreational pursuits taking place side by side in the space. Thanks to the Society of Brighton Print Collectors or permission to use this image.

The group tasked with considering urban commons as Spaces of labour explored how both the work taking place on commons and the type of people conducting that work has changed over time. Labour on the commons might originally have centred on the grazing of animals and extraction of mineral resources, but today the focus is instead on recreation, meaning that although we treated them separately in our groups, labour and recreation are intimately intertwined. The shift towards commons being used for recreation expanded the types of labour taking place on them to incorporate things like operating fairground rides, performing in a circus, serving burgers from a van and even prostitution. This expansion of activities meant that many of those who now rely on common land for their subsistence and survival are not actually endowed with historic rights to use that land. Moreover, neither the use rights, nor the services required to make possible those activities, are enshrined in legal terms. Furthermore, it was noted that such activities challenge the notion of commons as egalitarian spaces, with hierarchies based on role, status, class and gender frequently on display. 

People taking air and exercise on Mousehold Heath, Norwich. N. Bucks, ‘Mousehold Heath’. Thanks to the Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library for permission to use this image.

The group exploring urban commons as Spaces of recreation made similar observations, noting the existence of hierarchies of recreational use and the fact that conflict has frequently arisen over the practice of specific leisure pursuits on commons. Whether or not a particular activity is deemed a nuisance may depend on precisely where on an urban common it takes place and whether it is appropriate to the time of day or season of the year. Who defines what constitutes a nuisance and manages the space is also crucial. The group felt that bylaws, though frequently used in these contexts, are not necessarily effective means of managing behaviour and balancing different uses and needs. The group was more interested in understanding how people organise spaces for themselves and the potential for self-management. It was suggested that this perhaps works best if the use of a space is allowed to grow and develop over time in response to demand. One group member drew the analogy with a swimming pool where the desire for some to swim seriously and others to play might lead to the demarcation of space through the introduction of swimming lanes or to rules about who can use the pool at different times of day.

Although the sources each group examined were different, a number of common themes emerged in the discussions. In the past as now, the question of who is responsible for the management of urban commons, and who has control over the activities that can and cannot take place there, is particularly significant. Though understood as common land available to all, the reality is that most commons are owned and managed either by the local city council or by an independent body or, perhaps most often, by a complex historic relationship between the two. In addition to tensions between the relevant authorities and local people, our discussions made clear that conflicts also arise among different user groups, each having its own understanding of what constitutes appropriate or inappropriate behaviour in the space. Such tensions are deep-rooted and have occurred over many years. We might even go so far as to say that they are inevitable, inherent in the very notion of open or common space. That does not mean, however, that there is no value in thinking carefully about how such tensions are managed, paying attention to different voices, and exploring how conflicting uses might be accommodated. Given what the last year has revealed to us about the importance of urban green space, we owe it to future generations to learn lessons from the past and to think creatively about how we can continue to share and enjoy these valuable urban commons in ways that are fair and sustainable.

A sign promoting inclusivity in The Levels playground, Brighton. Wastes and Strays. 17th August 2020. Image by Siobhan O’Neill.

Experiencing Political Texts 6: Materiality

We currently find ourselves on a cusp with regard to the materiality of texts. Print copies are still common, but digital editions and open access publishing are on the rise. Yet, for now, the conventions of print tend to provide the framework for digital editions with an emphasis on recreating the look and experience of reading a printed book (for example with 'Turning the Pages' technology) rather than exploring the new possibilities that digital editions might offer.

Despite his experimental use of genre and the blending of fact and fiction, the physical format of Yanis Varoufakis's book Another Now, which I have discussed in previous blogposts in this series, is relatively conventional. It is available in hardback, paperback, as an audio download, and in e-book form with the last of these merely comprising a digital version of the print copy. However, Varoufakis does acknowledge potential innovations in future in his description of what happens when the narrator Yango Varo first opens Iris's diary:

Two red arrows filled my vision as my hybrid-reality contact lenses detected audio-visual content in the diary and kicked in. Instinctively I gestured to switch off my haptic interface and slammed the book shut. Costa had explicitly instructed me to set up the dampening field device before opening the diary. Chastened by my failure to do so, I went to fetch it. Only once the device was on the desk, humming away reassuringly, was I able to delve into Iris's memories in that rarest of conditions - privacy. (Yanis Varoufakis, Another Now: Dispatches from an Alternative Present. London: Bodley Head, 2019, p. 5).

Title page of Toland and Darby’s edition of The Oceana of James Harrington. Reproduced from the copy at the Robinson Library Newcastle University, BRAD 321 07-TP. I am grateful to the Library staff for allowing me to reproduce the work here.

I have already touched on the materiality of early modern texts in previous blogposts (January 2021, September 2020), but there is more to explore. One area of interest is the way in which the material or physical form of a text was deliberately designed to engage a specific audience. During the eighteenth century the English republican works first published during the mid-seventeenth century were directed, in successive waves, at different audiences and the physical format of those editions varied accordingly. 

Many of the original English republican texts published during the mid to late seventeenth century had been relatively small, cheap editions. When John Toland and John Darby decided to reprint these works at the turn of the eighteenth century, they deliberately reproduced them as lavish folio editions. We know from personal correspondence that they took care to use high quality paper and the title pages often include words in red type, which was more expensive. The size and quality of these volumes makes clear that they were aimed at a high-status audience - particularly members of the political elite. They were destined for their own private libraries or those used by them. While in one sense this was exclusionary - putting these works (and the ideas contained within them) beyond the means of ordinary citizens - there was a positive reason for doing so. Toland and Darby were keen to make clear that, although these texts had been published in the midst of the chaos of the civil war and interregnum, they remained of interest - and of relevance to those in government - even after the restoration of 1660. These works were not mere ephemera, but were of lasting significance and continued relevance in the eighteenth century even though England was no longer ruled as a republic.

Binding of Thomas Hollis’s edition of Harrington’s works. From Houghton Library, Harvard University. HOU GEN *EC65.H2381 656c (B) Lobby IV.2.18. I am grateful to the Houghton Library for giving me permission to reproduce this and to Dr Mark Somos for his assistance.

Thomas Hollis was aware of Toland's publishing campaign and built his own on its foundations. He republished many of the same texts, and again did so in the form of lavish folio volumes with expensive bindings. Hollis commissioned the Italian engraver Giovanni Cipriani to produce portraits of the authors to preface the volumes and to design little emblems that could be embossed onto the front as a key to the nature of the work inside. However, Hollis's dissemination strategy was aimed less at the private libraries of the elite and instead at institutional libraries - public libraries such as those established in cities like Leiden in the United Provinces and Bern in Switzerland, but also the libraries of educational establishments such as Christ's College Cambridge and, most famously, Harvard in the United States. This suggests that Hollis's target audience was less the current political elite than that of the future. His aim was to educate the next generation - especially in America where, from the 1760s, a crisis was brewing.

The American Revolution, when it came, had a significant impact on both sides of the Atlantic. The slogan 'no taxation without representation' flagged up political inequalities in Britain and provided fuel for the incipient reform movement. To further the cause of reform, the Society for Constitutional Information (SCI) was established in 1774. Its main mode of operation was to print cheap copies of political texts which were disseminated freely. In particular, members of the SCI believed it necessary to educate the people on the nature of the British constitution. As the Address to the Public, published in 1780, explained

John Jebb, one of the founder members of the Society for Constitutional Information. Portrait by Charles Knight, 1782. National Portrait Gallery NPG D10782. Reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.

As every Englishman has an equal inheritance in this Liberty; and in those Laws and that Constitution which have been provided for its defence; it is therefore necessary that every Englishman should know what the Constitution IS; when it is SAFE; and when ENDANGERED (An Address to the public, from the Society for Constitutional Information. London, 1780, p. 1).

The Society focused on printing works that contributed towards this mission, stating that:

To diffuse this knowledge universally throughout the realm, to circulate it through every village and hamlet, and even to introduce it into the humble dwelling of the cottager, is the wish and hope of this Society.

Consequently, the SCI disseminated works such as Obidiah Hulme's Historical Essay on the English Constitution, but also extracts from older works that spoke to these issues. Yet, as the statement of intent makes clear, the Society aimed to disseminate political works not simply among an elite, as their predecessors had done, but throughout the population. This, it was believed, was the best means of awakening people to their rights and thereby furthering the case for the reform of Parliament.

The SCI continued to function into the 1790s and was, therefore, well placed to capitalise on further calls for reform sparked by the outbreak of the Revolution in France in 1789. In this febrile atmosphere, others took up the cause of educating the ordinary people about their rights by making available to them important political texts from past and present.

Spence token advertising Pig’s Meat. Reproduced from Wikimedia Commons.

In 1793 the Newcastle-born radical Thomas Spence published the first issue of a weekly publication entitled Pig's Meat; or, Lessons for the Swinish Multitude, which printed extracts from political texts including from works that had been republished by Toland and Darby or Hollis. The title was a reference to Edmund Burke's derisory comment in Reflections on the Revolution in France which referred to the ordinary people as swine. Spence's publication cost just 1 penny, making it affordable even for those who were relatively poor, and as he explained on the title page, his aim was 'To promote among the Labouring Part of Mankind proper Ideas of their Situation, of their Importance, and of their Rights. AND TO CONVINCE THEM That their Forlorn Condition has not been entirely overlooked and forgotten, nor their just Cause unpleased, neither by their Maker nor by the best and most enlightened of Men in all Ages.' Alongside his Pig's Meat publications, Spence engaged in other means of spreading political ideas including writing works of his own and producing and disseminating tokens.

What is the relevance of all this? First, it reminds us that it is not just the content of political works that matters, but also the form in which they are printed, and the way they are disseminated and read. Literary critics like George Bornstein, inspired by Jean Genet and Jerome McGann, have been making this point for some time. But it has yet to fully penetrate the historical investigation of political texts. Secondly, the attempt by authors, editors and reformers to reach ever wider sections of the population during the course of the eighteenth century is striking. It reveals the importance of politics to eighteenth-century British society and the firm belief (at least on the part of some) that political education could and would bring political reform. Is there, I wonder, the same appetite for political knowledge today? What kind of publications would best attract twenty-first century audiences? And what kinds of reform might they propose?

Liberty, Equality, Fraternity

Since the anniversary of the start of the first lockdown in the UK is approaching, it seemed appropriate to interrupt my 'Experiencing Political Texts' series of posts to reflect on the current situation.

The Covid-19 pandemic has brought restrictions to our liberties of a kind that would not previously have been imagined. Under the current lockdown the reasons for which we can leave our homes are severely limited, our right to gather with others in public places is almost completely denied us, and even the control we have over our own bodies is compromised through the requirement to wear a face covering in shops and on public transport. There is also pressure being exerted on us to be vaccinated, and there have even been suggestions that some types of worker will be forced to do this.

This situation has led me to reflect in more detail on the concept of liberty and its history. The right to liberty in the abstract - as well as to the more concrete liberties of free movement, gathering in public spaces, and control over one's own body - were by no means a given in the past. They were only secured after hard fought battles and painful individual sacrifices. Nor are they universally enjoyed across the globe today. Nonetheless, liberty is central to contemporary political philosophies, and politicians of all stripes in the UK are keen to defend and protect liberty.

The virus challenges all of this not only by inducing governments to limit individual freedoms, but also by raising the uncomfortable question of whether the dominant place accorded to liberty in certain societies (including the UK) has actually increased the threat the virus poses to us and our lives. Many commentators have drawn attention to the fact that countries where restrictions on the freedoms of their citizens are more common often have far lower numbers of coronavirus cases and deaths than those countries that prize liberty. Vietnam is often cited on this point. At the time of writing it had recorded just 2,448 cases and only 35 deaths as compared with 4.18 million cases and 123,000 deaths in the UK. While I do not underestimate the value and importance of liberty, I do wonder whether we are paying too high a price for it just now.

Declaration fo the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Liberty has always had to be set against other values - and not just the right to life. Our modern veneration of liberty owes much to the revolutionary upheavals of the late eighteenth century, especially the French Revolution. Its motto was Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. These three concepts were highlighted (and the relationship between them articulated) in the Declaration of the Rights of Man first issued in 1789, which began 'Men are born and remain free and equal in rights. Social distinctions may be founded only upon the general good.' Soon after 'Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité was being emblazoned on everything from official documents and political texts to medals and even buildings.

The pandemic has not only brought restrictions to our liberties, but has also raised questions about our commitment to equality. In recent times, equal treatment, in various respects, has been extended for example to women, those from ethnic minorities, and those with disabilities. This equality is widely recognised today and enshrined in legislation such as the 2010 Equality Act in the UK. However, our experience of the impact of Covid-19 might lead us to question (if we had not done so before) the extent to which equality operates in practice. Commentators have noted that in many homes the burden of childcare and home schooling is falling more heavily on women than men. A recent government advert that was quickly withdrawn after complaints that it was misogynistic in its depiction of lockdown life, was perhaps more realistic than we might care to admit. As a result, the long term effect of the pandemic on women's careers may be more significant and long-lasting than its impact on the careers of men. There is also clear statistical evidence that both infection and death rates have been higher in people from ethnic minority backgrounds than among the population as a whole. There may be several reasons for this, but it is certainly clear that those with lower levels of income, amongst whom ethnic minority families are overrepresented, have been more harshly affected by the virus. This is true both in terms of rates of illness and death and as regards the impact on employment and household income. Rather than complaining about the restrictions on our liberties imposed by Covid-19, perhaps we ought to be inquiring more deeply into the unequal nature of its impact on our lives.

Fraternity is perhaps less central to political life today than liberty or equality. Not only are the masculine connotations of the word off-putting, but it sits sharply at odds with the liberty of the individual that we so highly prize. Yet for the French revolutionaries, liberty and fraternity were seen as complementary rather than competing concepts, capable of both reinforcing and tempering each other. Certain phenomena this year - including the Thursday night clapping that punctuated the first lockdown and the actions of individuals like Captain Tom Moore - suggest that the sense of altruism and community to which the  concept of fraternity refers has certainly not disappeared completely. Yet at the same time the stockpiling of provisions and ugly scenes in supermarkets that were a feature of the first lockdown, together with vaccine nationalism, raises questions about this me-first attitude remains not just strong but also acceptable.

Early in the French Revolution, not long before the Declaration of the Rights of Man was drawn up, Emmanuel Sieyès published his pamphlet What is the Third Estate? In that work he considered what a nation requires in order to survive and prosper. The nation, he observed, could continue to function efficiently without the privileged orders (the clergy and the nobility). But without the third estate everything would fall to pieces. The third estate, Sieyès argued, contains within itself everything that is required to form a complete nation. He then used this observation to justify the third estate's claim to political representation on an equal footing to that of the other two estates. Within six months of its publication, What is the Third Estate? had been used to justify the establishment of the National Assembly which represented the nation as a whole, but was made up simply of the third estate and those members of the other two estates who chose to join it.

Portrait of Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès. Image taken from Wikimedia Commons.

I was reminded of Sieyès's pamphlet, and of the notions of equality and fraternity it upholds, in the first period of lockdown, when our attention was drawn to the list of key workers who would have to continue working because our society cannot function without them. Despite their importance, it was apparent that many of these roles are neither the best paid nor high status in our society.

We should use the forthcoming anniversary of the lockdown to reflect more deeply on what we have learnt this year, on what Covid-19 has revealed about our society, and on what measures we need to take to construct a better future. Rather than rushing to recapture our lost liberties, I suggest that we devote our energies to reinvigorating our understanding of the other two concepts in the triad - equality and fraternity.

Experiencing Political Texts 5: Dialogues

In previous blogposts in this series I have discussed the use of fiction for political ends, and the blending of fact and fiction, in Yanis Varoufakis's Another Now (2019) and James Harrington's The Commonwealth of Oceana (1656). One genre in which fact and fiction are often knitted together is the dialogue. Early modern political thinkers made much use of this form, and while Varoufakis's book is not explicitly set out as a conversation it does adopt the essence of that form in its exploration of the views of the three main characters: Iris, Eva and Costa. Moreover, in the Foreword, the narrator Yango Varo admits to the kind of artistic licence or invention that is typical of political dialogues, reporting that:

In an attempt to do full justice to my friends' ideas and points of view, I have found it necessary to recount these debates as if I had been witness to them myself, pretending to inhabit a past from which I was mostly absent, fleshing out conversations I never participated in. (Yanis Varoufakis, Another Now: Dispatches from an Alternative Present, London: The Bodley Head, 2019, p. 6).

There is, of course, an irony here in that Varo is himself a fictional character, but his account of 'fleshing out conversations' describes very accurately what early modern political thinkers were doing when they produced dialogues.

In an article in the Guardian advertising his book, Varoufakis offered some insight into why he chose to examine the views of his characters in this way:

In a bid to incorporate into my socialist blueprint different, often clashing, perspectives I decided to conjure up three complex characters whose dialogues would narrate the story - each representing different parts of my thinking: a Marxist-feminist, a libertarian ex-banker and a maverick technologist. Their disagreements regarding "our" capitalism provide the background against which my socialist blueprint is projected - and assessed. (Yanis Varoufakis, 'Capitalism isn't working. Here's an alternative', The Guardian, 4 September, 2020).

Thus for Varoufakis this form provided him with a means of putting onto paper a dialogue that had been playing out in his own head, and a means of working out some of the conflicts between different commitments and views held by him and other members of society.

Dialogue form was much used by early modern political thinkers and especially by seventeenth-century English advocates of republican government. It could be employed very simply to address and challenge alternative views, or to bring alive a debate between two or more positions, but there are also examples of more sophisticated usage, such as that which is in evidence in a manuscript dialogue written by the seventeenth-century political thinker Algernon Sidney.

Algernon Sidney (1623-1683) is best known for the manner of his death and his posthumous work Discourses Concerning Government, which was published by John Toland and John Darby in 1698. Sidney had fought for parliament during the Civil Wars and had gone into exile on the continent after the return of Charles II to power in 1660. He returned to England in 1677, but was implicated in the Rye House Plot of 1683. An arrest warrant was issued against him on 25 June 1683 and in November of that year he was brought before Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys. Since only one witness would testify against him and two were required for a conviction, the papers confiscated from his desk at the time of his arrest were deployed as a second witness. He was found guilty of treason and was executed on 7 December 1683.

Algernon Sidney by Bernard Picart (Picard) (1724). NPG D30364. Reproduced from the National Portrait Gallery under a Creative Commons licence.

Sidney wrote 'Court Maxims, discussed and refelled' early in 1665. It took the form of a dialogue between two friends Philalethes and Eunomius. Philalethes is a courtier who puts forward the 'court maxims' of the title. These supposedly self-evident propositions are used to argue in favour of monarchical government and the private interests that sustain it. They are challenged by Eunomius, a commonwealthsman, who presents the case for the public or common good and for republican government. While the question of whether Philalethes is ultimately converted by his friend is left open, Eunomius does have the last word insisting that monarchy can rarely be the best form of government. In one sense this is not surprising, since we would expect the author of the Discourses Concerning Government to have favoured the public good over private interests, and republican government over monarchy. Yet the meaning of the names that Sidney gives to his characters complicates the matter. 

The name Philalethes literally translates as 'lover of truth', yet Sidney gives this name not to the character with whom his own sympathies lie, but to the advocate of private interest and absolute monarchy. Eunomius, by contrast, was the name of the 4th Century Bishop of Cyzicus, a controversial figure who challenged the conventional understanding of the Trinity, particularly the relationship between God and Christ. Since anti-Trinitarianism was still considered a heresy in the late seventeenth century this choice of name was provocative.

If we read Philalethes's silence at the end of the dialogue as indicating that he has been converted by Eunomius, then Sidney's point is perhaps simply that the love of truth does eventually win out over Philalethes's personal views and prejudices - or rather over the views he has had to 'conform' himself to at court (Algernon Sidney, Court Maxims, discussed and refelled, ed. Hans Blom and Eco Haitsma Mulier, Cambridge University Press, 1996, p. 2). As Philalethes explains at the beginning of the dialogue, there is little time at court to examine the truth of things, so he relies instead on what others tell him (p. 9). Moreover, he acknowledges that those court maxims are often at odds with reason. Yet Sidney is perhaps also being deliberately playful in offering as the explicit aim of his dialogue the refutation of self-evident propositions expressed by a lover of truth. He is perhaps implying that what is presented as 'truth' needs to be handled with care - or perhaps even re-conceived - an argument that Eunomius of Cyzicus and others who shared his views in the early years of the church would also have made. Moreover, writing at a time when rule in England had recently shifted from a commonwealth to a monarchy, Sidney perhaps hoped that his readers might apply that lesson in their own world, and examine for themselves the extent to which the attitudes and principles of the new regime were in accordance with reason.

Experiencing Political Texts 4: Revolutionary Translations; Translators as Revolutionaries

On Friday 11 December I attended a convivial and inspiring online workshop entitled 'Revolutionary Translations; Translators as Revolutionaries'. It was organised by the team behind the AHRC-funded project Radical Translations: The Transfer of Revolutionary Culture between Britain, France and Italy (1789-1815) - Dr Sanja Perovic, Dr Rosa Mucignat, Dr Brecht Deseure and Dr Niccolo Valmori (all based at King's College London) and Dr Erica Mannucci from the University of Milan-Bicocca. Some of the themes we discussed link to ideas I have been exploring in this blog, so it seemed appropriate to share my reflections on the workshop here.

Since the project is explicitly concerned with radical translations it is not surprising that the question of what we mean by 'radical' - or what constitutes a radical text or translation - featured in a number of the papers. Setting aside broader debates about the meaning of the term, some texts might be deemed radical on account of their subject matter or the context in which they were produced. One such text is Jean-Gervais Labène's De l'éducation dans les grandes républiques, which features on the project database. Here, the aim of the translation - which in this case was by Angelica Bazzoni - is to make that radical text available to a new audience. This practice contributed to the exportation of the French Revolution abroad to Italy and other European countries.

William Blake’s design for Thomas Gray’s poem ‘Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard’. Taken from the Google Art Project via Wikimedia Commons.

There are other cases, though, where the text itself is more neutral, but the translation is radical. A good example of this is the French translation of the English poem Gray's Elegy that was discussed by Catriona Seth. Professor Seth noted that most eighteenth-century translations of this famous English verse were produced by individuals who favoured a moderate or even right-wing position. The 1805 translation, however, was produced by the French revolutionary Marie-Joseph Chénier. His decision to give the date on the title page according to the revolutionary calendar (at a time when this was no longer general practice) can be seen as an indication of his political position and of his aspirations for the translation. As was noted in the discussion at the workshop, there is a potential critique of social hierarchies in the poem, and this was perhaps something that Chénier was hoping to draw out.

Contributors to the discussion also noted that when judging the political radicalism of a translation it is necessary to pay attention to the attitude of the target audience. Rachel Rogers introduced us to the English translation of an account of the overthrow of the French monarchy on 10 August 1792, which was probably the work of the Irish translator Nicholas Madgett on behalf of the English exile Robert Merry. Dr Rogers demonstrated that the translation toned down the radicalism of the event, but noted that the purpose of doing so was to offer a more positive account of it than those that had appeared in London and to encourage sympathy among British readers.

This example highlights a point that was made explicitly by Paolo Conte and Catriona Seth, translations can be a form of activism by another means - a way to continue the fight when physical conflict is no longer safe or advantageous. In his paper, Patrick Leech demonstrated that as well as providing a means to continue the fight after the French Revolution, translation was already being used under the ancien régime to raise revolutionary ideas. The Baron d'Holbach translated key English texts to advance his agenda of spreading radical ideas such as anti-clericalism and materialism.

A second theme that cropped up repeatedly was the importance of form to the meaning of translations and the dissemination of ideas. This was central to my own paper in which I reflected on the importance of both the literary and physical form of translations, and highlighted examples among English republican texts where either the genre or the physical form of the translation was different from the original. Changes in physical form are not uncommon, but I was surprised by how many examples of changes in literary form were referenced in other papers. Professor Seth noted that many of the early translations of Gray's Elegy transformed the English verse into French prose. More surprisingly, Michael Schreiber's fascinating paper on the translations of French legal texts prompted the observation that there was a translation of the Civil Code into Latin verse and this led to reflection on the impact of such a change on the content and syntax of the translation. Both Professor Schreiber and David Armando referred to examples of dual translations where the original text and translation appeared side by side. In some cases this was a way of demonstrating the quality of the translation, but in the case of French legislation, Professor Schreiber argued, it was designed to draw attention to the original French text.

More common is the kind of shift that occurred in the case of the translation analysed by Rachel Rogers. The French original appeared as a newspaper article, the English translation took the form of a pamphlet. The reverse also occurred with pamphlets being serialised in newspapers. These shifts, while not as dramatic as the move between verse and prose, changed the context in which a piece was read and so could affect the way in which the account was perceived by the audience. For example, by incorporating the translation of James Harrington's A System of Politics into his journal Le Creuset, Jean-Jacques Rutledge was able to present the work in instalments and direct key points to events in France as they unfolded. Patrick Leech emphasised the importance in more general terms of journal literature and newspapers - noting that they included, not just translations, but also reviews and abstracts - which were also crucial to the transmission of ideas from one language to another. Janet Polasky went further - noting that ideas do not just travel via printed texts, but also via personal correspondence, conversation and even rumour.

The cover of the Hollis edition of Algernon Sidney’s Discourses Concerning Government, HOU F *EC75.H7267 Zz751s Lobby IV.4.14, Houghton Library, Harvard University. The image here is the figure of liberty. I am grateful to the Houghton Library for giving me permission to include this here and to Dr Mark Somos for his assistance.

Finally, given that an online database is one of the major outputs of the Radical Translations project, it is not surprising that observations regarding digital humanities also loomed large in our discussions. Questions were raised about the limitations and challenges of producing a database. For example, Erica Manucci noted one difficulty faced by the project team had been linking individuals to places when some of those individuals resided in many different locations during their lives. Similarly, Janet Polasky wondered how something like rumour might be incorporated into a database.

Yet there was also an appreciation of the positive benefits that digital humanities can bring. Ryan Heuser's excellent paper on computational semantics epitomised this. He showed how digital analysis can help us to trace changes in the use of words over time. By analysing the words that surround and are associated with keywords in a corpus of texts, it is possible to assess which of those keywords retained a stable meaning over the period and which were transformed. Digital humanities also offers possibilities for the presentation of texts and translations. Many texts (including Gray's Elegy) have been translated multiple times, being constantly improved or updated. It is difficult to reflect this in print editions, but it would be possible to show and compare variants in digital form.

The owl from the cover of the Hollis edition of James Harrington’s The Commonwealth of Oceana, HOU GEN *EC65.H2381 656c (B) Lobby IV.2.18, Houghton Library, Harvard University. I am grateful to the Houghton Library for giving me permission to include this here and to Dr Mark Somos for his assistance.

In her concluding remarks, Dr Perovic made a comment that draws all three of my points together. She said the team had reflected on placing a liberty bonnet next to passages or sections of text that might be deemed radical. This immediately brought to my mind Thomas Hollis's Library of Liberty, which I have mentioned in a previous blogpost. Hollis had special tools designed by Giovanni Cipriani that he used to emboss little gold symbols onto the bindings of texts to provide a short-hand message on the content. The liberty bonnet was one of these, which was employed to identify those works that commended liberty. My favourite example, however, is the owl, which could be placed right way up, to indicate that the work contained wise ideas, or upside down, to suggest the opposite.

Experiencing Political Texts 3: The Power of the Paratext

The end of Yango Varo’s Foreword to Another Now, which gives the date.

As readers we often skip over or neglect the additional material that precedes and follows a text - such as the preface, dedication and acknowledgements. Yet this material can serve an important function in both literally and metaphorically framing a text. For this reason literary theorists have started to take it more seriously, inventing the term 'paratext' to describe it and investigating the ways in which it directs the reader's attention and shapes their reading. In last month's blogpost I focused on the blending of fact and fiction in political texts, setting Yanis Varoufakis's recent work of 'political science fiction', Another Now, alongside James Harrington's The Commonwealth of Oceana of 1656. In texts that blend fact and fiction, paratextual material serves a particularly important function and this is certainly true of Varoufakis's book.

The Foreword to Another Now is signed by the narrator of the work Yango Varo (clearly a fictionalisation of Varoufakis's own name) and is dated 10:05 a.m. Saturday 28 July 2036. This immediately draws attention to the fictional nature of the work and, more specifically, to the fact that it is set in an imagined future. The content of Varo's Foreword introduces the three main characters of the novel: Iris, who we are told in the opening sentence died a year ago; her friend Eva, who we learn was not at Iris's funeral; and Costa, who was present but chose to observe from a distance. Yango, a friend of all three, plays the role of communicator, being the purported author of what follows. He is directed by Iris and Costa to tell the story contained in Iris's diary, which she bequeathed to him before her death. Yet he is also instructed not to reveal any of the 'technical details' it contains. This makes little sense initially, but as the narrative unfolds the meaning of both the 'directive' and the 'injunction' become clear. The Foreword, then, sets up the work both by introducing the characters and plot, but also by posing puzzles or raising questions in the mind of the reader that will be resolved in the main body of the work.

Title page to Oceana including the dedication and epigram. James Harrington’s The Commonwealth of Oceana in The Oceana and Other Works of James Harrington, ed. John Toland (London, 1737). Copy author’s own.

Harrington too framed his text with paratextual material. The main body of Oceana is preceded by an epigram from Horace, a dedication to Oliver Cromwell, an 'Epistle to the Reader', and 'The Introduction or Order of the Work' - which presents Oceana (England) and its neighbours Marpesia (Scotland) and Panopea (Ireland). However, since I have written extensivesly about Harrington's ideas - including his use of literary strategies - I will focus here, instead, on another early modern political text: the 1675 English edition of Niccolò Machiavelli's political works produced by Harrington's friend Henry Neville (The Works of the Famous Nicholas Machiavel, Citizen and Secretary of Florence, London, 1675).

Harrington and Neville had been close friends since before the publication of Oceana in 1656, and they worked together to promote Harrington's constitutional model, particularly during 1659 when implementation seemed most likely. According to a contemporary and friend, John Aubrey, Neville supported Harrington 'to his dyeing day', continuing to visit him even when Harrington's mind was affected by illness (Aubrey, Brief Lives, ed. K. Bennett, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015, I, p. 322).

The third edition of Neville’s translation of Machiavelli’s works. Taken from Wikimedia Commons.

Neville appears to have shared - and even extended - his friend's playfulness. Neville added to his edition of Machiavelli's political works a letter supposedly written by Machiavelli to his friend Zanobius Buondelmontius in which he offered a vindication of himself and his writings. On the surface this was a conventional addition to a scholarly text - it was not unusual at the time to include additional material relating to the author. A more careful reading, however, reveals the letter to be a fraud or joke. In fact, as in Varoufakis's Foreword, even the date on the letter (1 April 1537) is suggestive. April 1st is, of course, April Fool's Day. Moreover, since Machiavelli had died on 21 June 1527, the letter was supposedly written almost ten years after his demise. The letter also refers to John Calvin's flight from Picardy to Geneva which, since it occurred in the 1530s, was something of which the real Machiavelli could not have been aware.

Machiavel’s Letter to Buondelmontius. Taken from the third edition - as previous image.

These features affects how we view the content of the letter, but that content in turn provides a clue to Neville's purpose. The topic of the letter is the corruption introduced into Christianity by the Catholic Church. Neville's 'Machiavel' points out that there is no evidence in the Bible for beliefs central to Catholic doctrine, such as purgatory, the worship of saints and idols, and the inquisition. These 'innovations', he suggests, were introduced by the Catholic clergy to increase their temporal power and to keep the people in ignorance. Using a term that had been coined by Harrington, he blames 'Priest-craft' for much of the current trouble, yet he remains hopeful that God will inspire Christian princes to bring about a return to 'the true Original Christian Faith', reminding them that in order to do so they will have to root out all traces 'of this Clergy or Priest-craft' or their efforts will be in vain.

In tricking his readers by including this fictional letter, Neville was deliberately echoing what he saw as the longstanding and calculated efforts of the clergy to deceive the laity. His aim in doing so was perhaps to draw the attention of his readers to their own foolish credulity, and to inoculate them against future deception. Having been stung by his prank, they would perhaps think more carefully in future about the ideas presented to them by others. Such trickery is less common as a literary technique today, and Varoufakis's Foreword is more deliberately part of his narrative. But, in an age when 'Fake News' has become a political weapon, and conspiracy theories are rife, I would hesitate to suggest that the credulity Neville identified has completely disappeared.

Experiencing Political Texts 2: Fiction and the Future

Earlier this year the well-known Greek economist and member of the Greek Parliament Yanis Varoufakis published a book entitled Another Now: Dispatches from an Alternative Present. The purpose of the book is to set out the key features of a 'fair and equal' society, or to present the case for - and a vision of - a society based on democratic socialism. Keen as I am to see this ambition made into a reality, what struck me on reading Varoufakis's trailer for the book in The Guardian was less its content than its form or structure. Instead of setting out his argument in a conventional, factual, way - presenting key principles and justifying them - Varoufakis has adopted a fictional format, what he describes as 'political science fiction'. He presents his case, or as he puts it 'narrate(s) the story', via three characters: Iris, a Marxist-feminist; Eva, a libertarian ex-banker; and Costa, a maverick technologist.

Several of the techniques that Varoufakis employs, including his blending of fact and fiction, are reminiscent of the literary devices used by early modern authors of political texts, which are the focus of my current research project. Varoufakis's book can be used as a springboard for thinking about the value of such devices, the role that they played in specific texts in the past, and the use they might have today.

The Occupy Movement forms the basis for the transformations that take place in the ‘Other Now’. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

At the heart of Another Now is the idea of an imagined alternative society, which we could attain if only we make changes in our present (which is of course what Varoufakis is hoping to make us do by writing his book). While trying to develop a highly complex computer program Costa inadvertently finds a wormhole that gives him access to an alternative universe and the means to communicate with his alter-ego, whom he calls Kosti, who lives in that world. By sending messages back and forth through the wormhole, Costa learns that up until the banking crash of 2008, Kosti's life - and the world in which he lived - were identical to Costa's own. However, after that point this 'Other Now' took a very different direction, with several grassroots organisations using crowd sourcing and people power to dismantle the entire capitalist system. Over the space of several years these groups created a world in which employees are equal shareholders in the companies for which they work; all receiving the same basic pay along with bonuses that are decided upon by their colleagues. Banks no longer exist, instead each citizen has three digital accounts over which (s)he has direct control, subject to certain restrictions: a legacy account into which a sum of money is put at birth; a current account; and a savings account.

The title page of James Harrington’s The Commonwealth of Oceana in The Oceana and Other Works of James Harrington, ed. John Toland (London, 1737). Copy author’s own.

Readers of my last blog post, will perhaps notice the parallel with what I have suggested James Harrington was doing in adopting a semi-utopian format for his major work The Commonwealth of Oceana, which appeared in 1656. In the first section of that work, called 'The Preliminaries', Harrington set out the principles on which his political theory was built and offered an account of English history from before the Norman Conquest up to April 1653 when Oliver Cromwell dissolved the Rump Parliament, which had ruled as a single chamber following the execution of King Charles I on 30 January 1649. At that point, however, Harrington's account moves from history to fiction. Though written in 1656 he narrates not what actually happened between 1653 and 1656, but rather 'another now'; an alternative reality that could have emerged if different decisions had been taken by Cromwell and those around him. Harrington has the character Olphaus Megaletor (who represents Cromwell as he ought to have been) gather around him a 'Council of Legislators' who research various past commonwealths from ancient Athens and Sparta to Venice and the Dutch Republic, and construct an ideal commonwealth from the best elements of each. That commonwealth is then instituted by Olphaus Megaletor in his position as the Lord Archon. Moreover, like Varoufakis, Harrington also projected his story on into the future to indicate the consequences that would have unfolded if that alternative path had been taken. The Corollary at the end of the work takes the story on into the next century. Olphaus Megaletor has just died, at an impossibly old age, and the commonwealth is flourishing. The population has increased by almost a third and the coffers are so full that the nation had been able to go three years without raising taxes. For Harrington, as for Varoufakis, fiction can be used as a tool to justify, and thereby to bring about, a change of course in the present.

Yet, as both authors seem to recognise, the power of fiction lies not only in deploying the author's imagination, but also in engaging the imagination of the reader. As I suggested in last month's post, Harrington's decisions regarding the form of his major work were also influenced by his understanding of people (especially his fellow countrymen) and how they thought about and engaged with politics: 'The people of this land', he accepted, 'have an aversion from novelties or innovation' and 'are incapable of discourse or reasoning upon government' (James Harrington, The Political Works of James Harrington, ed. J. G. A. Pocock, Cambridge University Press, 1978, p. 751). Yet he was confident that if they were given the opportunity to experience a good constitutional model they would recognise it as such. People might never agree to introduce a new form of government, but if they were able to 'feel the good and taste the sweet of it' they would then 'never agree to abandon it' (Harrington, Political Works, ed. Pocock, pp. 728-9). People were more likely to be convinced by political innovation if they experienced it rather than reading accounts of it and there was also a sense of their having to be led towards doing so. Harrington's book was his attempt to do just that. As an author (rather than a politician or head of state) he was not in a position to implement the system in the real world, but by presenting a fictional account he could provide his readers with the opportunity to 'experience' his model within their imaginations. His hope was that this would convince enough of them to make his 'airy model' a reality.

Varoufakis seems to have a similar attitude to the relationship between politics and fiction for readers as well as authors. Not only is the form of Another Now directed at engaging readers' imaginations by offering an alternative vision of the present and future, but this point is made explicit in the opening pages of the book when Iris gives the diary to the narrator and insists that the 'dispatches' in it should be used 'to open people's eyes to possibilities they are incapable of imagining unaided' (Varoufakis, Another Now, p. 2). 

‘The Council of Legislators’ section of The Commonwealth of Oceana.

I have no idea whether Varoufakis has read Oceana. Harrington is not listed in the index to Another Now, but it is perhaps revealing that, just over half way through, there is a reference to what economists call a 'self-revelation mechanism design': arrangements that motivate people to act honestly, 'as in the famous method of dividing a pie between two people, whereby one cuts the pie and the other chooses which they want' (Yanis Varoufakis, Another Now, Bodley Head, 2020, p. 138). Those familiar with Harrington's ideas will immediately recognise this as the story of the two girls dividing a cake that is a well-known feature of Oceana.

In an age of Fake News it often feels as though the malleability of facts is dangerous and that blurring the line between fact and fiction will further dupe the public. However, works like Another Now and Oceana remind us that these techniques can also be productive and can be used to reinvigorate, rather than to undermine, the public good. Perhaps, in this brave new world, fiction is one of the most powerful political weapons we have at our disposal.