Historians have correctly interpreted the Gilded Age and Progressive Era as periods in which African Americans faced unpreceded violence, a significant decline in franchise, and the loss of many civil rights. These years however, were far more complex when viewed from the vantage point of African American families who attempted to empower themselves through education, securing employment in white-collar occupations, such as teaching, and working to advance themselves through race betterment groups, including women’s clubs and civil rights organizations. Yet some middle-class Black families like the Stewarts not only rejected white society’s widely held belief of Blacks as racially inferior and incapable of progress. They also embraced migration as a constructive strategy to advance their individual careers and to elevate the race. In an era when the majority of Black workers had minimal literacy and worked unskilled menial jobs, T. McCants Stewart and his children each graduated from college or professional school, worked in white-collar or professional jobs, and paved the way for the next generation. Yet each also understood that migration outside of the Jim Crow South, including to Africa, the U.S. Virgin Islands, and the territory of Hawaii, held the key to their success. Thus, the Stewarts constructed a new vision of freedom and opportunity and believed that even despite the repressive conditions imposed upon Blacks during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era that there was room for growth and an opportunity to advance their careers. Migration, therefore, should be reconsidered as a viable strategy that some Black families adopted to find their place in American society.

Historians have long been intrigued by the role that the press played in McKinley’s decision to intervene in Cuba in 1898. Most, however, have focused their attention on the decade of the 1890s, ignoring the long history of interventionism aimed at Cuba. This essay uses the story of William L. Crittenden to explore the many instances where interventionists tried (and failed) to drum up support for Cuban intervention. Crittenden was executed by the Spanish in 1851 after a failed filibuster raid. Over the next four decades, interventionists wrote newspaper accounts, held boisterous public meetings, penned poems, and published novels that demanded revenge upon Spain. Yet Millard Fillmore, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, Ulysses Grant, and Grover Cleveland did not choose to intervene. By focusing on nearly five decades as opposed to a single year, this essay calls into question the idea that the press reflected public opinion and challenges the larger assertion that the “Yellow Press” propelled the United States into a war with Spain. Whether they shouted “Remember the Maine,” “Remember the Virginius,” or “Remember Crittenden,” writers, editors, poets, and journalists simply did not have the power to control public opinion and certainly did not prove to be successful at manipulating presidents to intervene.

The entry of the United States into the First World War and the integration of women into mobilization expanded women-run private initiatives and integrated their associational efforts into the war effort. This created greater visibility of women and children to state and federal governments. In the end, however, the increased attention and mobilization of private organizations by the state around women’s issues was fleeting. The alacrity with which North Carolina dispensed with these mechanisms for mobilization is an example of their purpose as associational measures to manage the dynamics of wartime and maintain pre-war hierarchies of power. Throughout the war, the bifurcation of work based on gender and the unfixed status of women created a situation in which their participation required constant negotiation. The need to negotiate participation in the mobilization was itself an outgrowth of the conflicted relationship between American government and civil society over women’s issues. After the war, these issues again became the purview of private organizations and other systems of extra-governmental governance that leveraged a more associational relationship with federal and state governments.

Chickasaw, Choctaw, Cherokee, Muscogee, and Seminole citizens employed the Indian Territory exhibits at the 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition to advance the separate statehood movement. Increasingly shut out of the formal political realm, they adopted creative measures to exert their political will, including participating in the world’s fair. Employing insights from settler-colonial theory and public history, this paper argues that the politics of display expanded the agency of a group marginalized from political representation. The U.S. government, pressured by the territory’s growing population of non-Native settlers, had begun planning for statehood, passing the 1898 Curtis Act to force allotment and dissolve the Five Tribes’ governments by 1906. To protect their land and sovereignty, a cohort of Native citizens pursued statehood for Indian Territory separate from Oklahoma Territory. Although joint statehood won out, separate statehood advocates succeeded in creating exhibits that centered on the survival of Native nations. They also articulated an Indigenous conception of citizenship, developing an imaginative vision for a future in which self-determination and U.S. citizenship could converge in a Native state. This represented a novel contribution to ongoing debates over how to integrate remaining western territories into the United States and how to incorporate diverse peoples within the citizenry.

This introduction to the Journal of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era’s special issue, “New Approaches to Music and Sound,” provides a historical sketch of American music and the American soundscape at the turn of the twentieth century. It also offers a discussion of relevant historiography, taking stock of recent work in sound studies and its influence on research on music and sound of the period. Finally, it introduces the four research articles featured in this special issue and marks their contributions to our understandings of listening practices, normative understandings of audition and speech, and the sonic dimensions of politics and capitalism, race and national identity, imaginings of the past and visions for the future in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The initiative and referendum are commonly characterized as quintessentially Populist or Progressive reforms, but transatlantic socialism deserves pride of place in the intellectual history of direct legislation in the United States. A decade and a half before the People’s Party famously commended the idea of direct legislation at its 1892 nominating convention in Omaha, Nebraska, the Socialist Labor Party (SLP) made the demand for direct legislation a plank in its first party platform. That demand was shaped by the 1875 Gotha Program formulated by the Socialist Workers Party of Germany and informed by socialist debates during the First International and the pioneering work of Moritz Rittinghausen. The diffusion of these ideas among Gilded Age labor radicals is a crucial and underappreciated part of the story of the origins of the initiative and referendum in the United States. That socialists’ pioneering role in the origins of the initiative and referendum in the United States has largely been slighted is particularly ironic since the individual arguably most responsible for securing the direct legislation resolution at Omaha was among the nation’s most successful radical labor organizers and a committed socialist, Joseph R. Buchanan.

Throughout the Progressive Era, settlement houses in the urban Northeast and Midwest operated robust summer camp programs for the children of their neighborhoods. Each summer, campers enjoyed two weeks of hiking, swimming, nature study, and relaxation. This article argues that summer camps exemplified the environmental agenda of settlement-house workers during the Progressive Era. Unlike smoke abatement, sanitation reform, or playground construction, which addressed isolated components of the urban environment, camps allowed them to articulate a deeply ecological critique of the industrial city. Settlement-house workers constructed camp landscapes and daily programming in response to problems endemic to atmosphere, city streets, and immigrants’ homes, providing children with a total environmental change while meanwhile pursuing slower and more piecemeal reforms back in the city. Settlement house leaders and other Progressive Era reformers discerned an intimate connection between landscapes and morality, which summer camps allowed them to address since they could reform individual behavior in addition to combatting structural inequities. Summer camps demonstrate that settlement-house workers’ environmental philosophy permeated their reform agendas, influencing social work and recreation in addition to politics and public health.

From 1877 to 1896, Maine courts sentenced six women accused of infanticide to imprisonment for life. This harsh punishment was in stark contrast to the more lenient punishments given infanticides elsewhere. A close look at these cases through court documents, newspaper accounts, pardon petitions, and attorney general reports suggests that the trials marked a shift in the justice system in Maine as the state increasingly asserted its control over the communities’ response to crime. Historically, women’s expertise with regard to women’s bodies provided a place for them within the local legal system. Under the purview of the state’s attorneys general, the state increasingly assumed control over the detection, adjudication, and punishment of crime. While community members responded to crime with attention to the individual and the circumstances, the state called for the universal application of the written law regardless of the context and claimed that swift and inevitable retribution was necessary to protect all. This shift from the local to the state had a particular impact on women and their role within the community. Long accustomed to arbitrating issues surrounding pregnancy, women found their power to do so subverted and replaced by middle class professionals in distant urban locations.

As historians have begun to conceptualize the U.S. Civil War as a global event, so too must they consider Reconstruction as a political process that transcended national boundaries. The United States and Colombia both abolished slavery during civil wars; ex-slaves in both societies struggled for full citizenship and landholding, partially succeeding for a time; in both societies, a harsh reaction ripped full citizenship from the freedpeople and denied their claims to the land. These events, usually studied only as part of a national story in either the United States or Colombia, can also be understood, and perhaps be better understood, as a history of hemispheric and transnational processes—of race, of republican politics, of contests over equality, of capitalism. This essay examines the words and actions of historical actors, especially U.S. African Americans and afrocolombianos, to note the impressive commonalities of discourse (which was almost exactly the same in many cases) and political repertoires. This article focuses first on the agency of African Americans in both societies to create post-emancipation social movements for citizenship and land and then on the, largely successful, reactions against these movements.

In the early twentieth century, the publishers of Tin Pan Alley revolutionized American music. Focused on the dissemination of a constantly changing set of attention-grabbing songs, leading companies dramatically expanded the market for popular compositions, generating hits that sold millions of copies of sheet music to customers across the country. While publishers aimed at this continental audience, their output was shaped by the urban context in which their businesses first emerged. During these years, local popularity was crucial to national success. As a result, firms sought to engage with new audiences throughout Manhattan, incorporating a host of social and ethnic groups into the structures of commercial entertainment. Over time, Tin Pan Alley’s relationship to these groups—and the distinctive leisure spaces in which they gathered—would define its musical production. It was not simply that publishers molded songs to fit public taste. Rather, the industry and the broader world of commercial entertainment developed together. By exploring this business-influenced process of cultural change, it is possible to gain new perspective on the emergence of American popular song, as well as the consumption-driven dynamics remaking society in the Progressive Era in the United States.

At first glance, international arbitration—a legalistic method for the peaceful settlement of disputes among nations—may seem like a topic belonging only to the formal, male-dominated realms of diplomacy and international law. Most men in the late nineteenth century certainly thought so, and many historians since have treated it as such. But prominent women like May Wright Sewall and Belva Lockwood, and mass organizations like the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, took a lively interest in the subject in the 1890s. In that interest lay the roots of women’s foreign policy activism that led to their participation in debates over the War of 1898 and their peace efforts during and after World War I. International arbitration appealed to women because it complemented their better-known campaigns for temperance, suffrage, and other causes. As a more “civilized” method of resolving conflicts, arbitration was both a symbol of and a prerequisite for a more advanced, temperate, and equal society. It thus became a key component of women’s arguments for inclusion in the public and political life of the nation.

This roundtable takes up old themes and new perspectives in the field of political history. Scholars engage with six questions across three main categories: the scope of the field, current debates, and teaching. The first two questions ask how we should think about political power and the boundaries of what constitute political history. The section on current debates interrogates the relationship between governing and social movements during the GAPE, and how to situate the political violence of the January 6, 2021, Capitol Hill riot in historical perspective. The final section on teaching takes up two very different challenges. One question is a perennial concern about connecting with students in the classroom about political history. The other dilemma is how to respond to the growing cascade of censorship laws passed by state legislatures that prohibit the teaching of so-called “divisive concepts.”

The meaning of the Civil War, America’s most violent experience, continued to be debated well into the Gilded Age and Progressive Era. The long shadow cast by David Blight’s influential Race and Reunion: The Civil War in American Memory (2001) has meant that debates about the impact and prevalence of reconciliationist rhetoric dominate the literature. This paper adds to a growing body of scholarship that questions the reconciliationist narrative and stresses instead the partisan understanding of the Civil War still prevalent into the twentieth century. In particular, this article uses Theodore Roosevelt’s “memory” of the Civil War to explore the linkages between the Civil War Era and the Age of Empire. It makes two arguments: 1) that in an era when a “reconciliationist” understanding of the Civil War was becoming more prominent, more often than not Roosevelt used his voice as a historian and political figure to assert a “Unionist” interpretation; and 2) that Roosevelt used this memory of the Civil War to advocate for three specific political causes: American empire, the New Nationalism, and American entry into World War I. The paper’s argument and historiographical intervention help scholars of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era to re-imagine the role of Civil War memory in the half century following Appomattox Courthouse.

With the United States’ entrance into the First World War, linguistic and cultural cohesiveness became imperative, compelling everyone—from immigrants with foreign accents to people with speech problems and hearing loss—to “sound American” by fluently speaking the language of their flag.

This article examines lip-reading, speech, and auricular training prescribed to deaf and hard-of-hearing children as well as for servicemen deafened in the war to demonstrate how World War I demanded all Americans to contribute to and participate in shared national soundscapes, regardless of their hearing status. Use of American Sign Language was considered a conspicuous sign of one’s failure to integrate into hearing society, and it shared parallels with immigrants who failed to learn English and fully assimilate into American culture. Indeed, rehabilitation of deafened soldiers of the First World War through speech training and lip-reading instruction at Hospital No. 11 at Cape May, New Jersey, coincided with broader national efforts to improve Americans’ speech and language use, and in turn, their patriotism and productivity.

This article discusses speech and hearing disabled Americans’ claims to citizenship during World War I, and the ways American policymakers sought to rehabilitate American soldiers treated in the U.S. Army Section of Defects of Hearing and Speech—or those classified after the Section’s closure as deaf, hard-of-hearing, or “speech defective.” Ultimately, I argue that one’s aural communication abilities were indicators of worthiness in American society and that this was especially the case during World War I, when tensions about speech and hearing heightened within and outside of the Deaf community due to significant pressures placed on Americans to show support for the war. Such pressures also shaped the experiences of American soldiers treated for speech and hearing disabilities after 1918, by suggesting that their service to the United States could not be complete until they were successfully rehabilitated through lip-reading training. To be able to aurally communicate signified the veterans’ sound citizenship in a literal and a metaphorical sense.