“It is good for those who are sad or down-hearted […] It brings one back to bodily strength, and makes one lusty and merry,” wrote Hieronymus Brunschwig of brandy in his Book of Distilling in 1532. Distilled liquors were was “wonder drugs” of the early modern period, prescribed medicinally both as prevention and cure for virtually every known malady, of the spirit as well as the body. According to Brunschwig, the capacity of brandy actually to lengthen one's life was the basis for its medieval appellation aqua vitae (water of life). The potential for the abuse of these “medicines,” however, was evident to medical and legal bodies alike; the “water of life” could become a “water of death,” as physician Sigismund Klose noted in 1697.

W. E. B. Du Bois (1868–1963) was the most influential Afro-American intellectual of the twentieth century. His accomplishments in journalism and the academic disciplines of history and sociology were pioneering, and have only recently come to be fully appreciated. His more than twenty books and over 1,000 articles should qualify him to be considered one of America’s major scholars, and certainly the leading interpreter of race relations in the U.S., although he was never offered a professorship at a major American university. In the past two decades, Du Bois has experienced a renaissance of interest in his scholarship as well as in his Pan-African politics. Although he wrote three autobiographics in his lifetime and submitted to a 180 page oral history in 1960 at Columbia University, Du Bois’s life and thought have become the subject of innumerable books and articles by historians—a cottage industry in and of itself. Du Bois’s early writings merit the attention of historians and social scientists because of their freshness even after a century and because of his openness to ideas and methods that one would not expect from his later writings.

In 1618, members of the Bohemian estates threw Habsburg officials out of a window of the Prague castle. The Prague defenestration, which has been viewed as the catalyst for the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War, is one of the best known acts of uprising in early modern Europe. Less well known is an earlier popular uprising that took place below the castle in the Old and New Cities of Prague on Carnival Tuesday, 15 February 1611. In the midst of a bizarre diplomatic and military episode during which foreign troops led by the Bishop of Passau invaded the city, mobs plundered cloisters and monasteries and, in a few cases, threw members of religious orders from church towers.

In this essay we are presenting results from the research project, “Literacy, School Visitation, and Written Culture in Northwest Germany from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Centuries.” The essay begins with a discussion of research problems and methodological procedures and then moves on to discuss the results of our inquiries by region. The conclusion is in the form of a comparative synthesis which also indicates the future direction of our research.

It is the omnipresent soldiery of Berlin that first catches the American visitors’s attention. The whole city seems to have a half military stride, all Prussia rushes pell-mell to the window to see the ever-passing regiment, and German ideals from king to lover appear at first sight to be clad in spurs and shoulder-strap. The military spirit appears not to be confined to the army, but largely to permeate society. The American sees it in the stiff bow of the students, in the perfect rage for uniforms in all classes, which enables both footman and chancellor to carry their histories on their backs; above all this spirit pervades the political state. The all-pervading government works about and around the new-comer, with a military precision and careful attention to trifles which is calculated to make a Bostonian uncomfortable, and take a New Yorker's breath away.

TheOstpolitik of the early Federal Republic presents a puzzle: why did West Germany—a country that consistently denounced the brutal Eastern policies of the Third Reich and sought to present itself as a new, peace-loving entity—refuse to normalize its relations with most East European countries until the early 1970s? The existing literature has explained Bonn's behavior primarily with reference to foreign policy calculations, such as the need to isolate the GDR and its satellite allies and to avoid granting unilateral concessions to the Soviet bloc. Although such Staatsräson considerations were very significant for the Federal Republic's policymakers, they do not tell the whole story. Movement on Eastern policy was also significantly hindered by domestic factors, the most important of which was the influence of the Vertriebenenverbände—the pressure organizations purporting to represent the millions of Germans expelled from Eastern Europe in the aftermath of World War II. The role of these organizations has typically received passing reference in general studies of Ostpolitik, but the specialized literature on the topic has remained weak.

“O Gott, o Gott—ist das Revolution?” a wide-eyed Frau Dreissiger asks her husband, her pearl necklaces rising and falling with her heaving bosom, as chants of the angry crowd of weavers penetrate the sequestered drawing room. In this scene in Friedrich Zelnik's 1927 film Die Weber, Frau Dreissiger's question is far less naive than the impatient look of her nervous husband suggests. It resounds, rather, with the fears and expectations of Germans of the 1920s, convinced they were living in an era of revolutionary transformation, yet besieged by a cacophony of arguments as to whether or how an actual German revolution would come about. Historians of the Weimar era have posed comparable questions about which upheavals and ideas constituted a German revolution. Spurred by debates over whether an authoritarian German Sonderweg bypassed a bourgeois revolution, invigorated since unification by new perspectives on German democratization, and enriched by new approaches, they have considered an extraordinarily wide range of phenomena. The resulting studies have revealed myriad interactions between political ideologies, social groupings, economic practices, and external pressures.

In July 1923, the Munich chapter of the Social Democratic Security Troop (Sicherheitsabteilung, hereafter Socialist SA) staged a Festspiel in a suburban woods. The skit’s sylvan setting belied its combative leitmotif, echo of a wider German environment racked by occupation of the Ruhr, hyperinflation, unemployment, and threatening ultraright organizations. The drama aimed to convince its Social Democratic audience to join or support the Security Troop. In the opening scene, a “leader of the SPD” lamented proletarian disunity. As he resolved to quit politics, the “goddess of freedom” materialized and urged him to keep up the fight. To demonstrate that the masses were on the move against reaction, she pointed to a sky blanketed with flags born by members of the Security Troop.1 Four male mortals stepped forward: a former Independent Socialist, a Young Socialist, a Communist, and a “lumpenproletarian.” The Socialist exhorted the Communist to join the SPD but, instead, he lambasted its bureaucratic bosses and called for a council republic. Suddenly, the lumpen’s passivity aroused the group’s distrust. Unmasking him as a Nazi, they chased him offstage. As the Social Democrats went off to a meeting, the wife of the SPD leader told of her sacrifices for a husband and son who devoted themselves to the party. Yet she proclaimed her willingness to suffer “for the sake of proletarian freedom.” The men returned, disgusted that Nazis had busted up their conclave.

When one hears that the vote of the socialistic party of Germany rose from 312,000 in 1881 to 1,725,000 at the last election of the Reichstag, the question naturally arises, What is the true significance of this? How far have the economic theories of Socialism really penetrated the masses of Germany? Such questions are apart from the more usual inquiries as to the scientific soundness of the official manifestoes of this party, or the personal aims of Bebel, Liebknecht or von Vollmar. Nevertheless, the inquiry into the real economics beliefs of the nearly two million German voters usually classed as “socialists,” is certainly of deep interest to the sociologist and statesman.

I recently edited a volume of essays on the Kaiserreich, under the title Society, Culture, and the State in Germany, 1870–1930 (Ann Arbor, 1996), which set out deliberately to explore the possible forms of new approaches to the history of the Second Empire; and in the circumstances it’s hard for me to approach this topic without saying something about Hans–Ulrich Wehler’s extended review of this volume in Central European History, which came out during the summer. Wehler’s response is interesting. He actually likes most of the fifteen contributions to this collection, but reserves extended hostility for the ones by Geroge Stainmetz and Elisabetn Domansky, who clearly placed themselves beyond the pale of tolerable discourse by opting for non-Weberian sociology, Foucauldian perspectives, and gender critique.