Where does occultism fit on the map of modernity? Frank Miller Turner proposed an intriguing answer in his 1974 study Between Science and Religion: The Reaction to Scientific Naturalism in Late Victorian England. The book examined the lives and struggles of six Victorian men: the philosophers Henry Sidgwick and James Ward, the scientists Alfred Russel Wallace and George John Romanes, and the writers Frederic W. H. Myers and Samuel Butler. Of the six, three cultivated a serious and sustained interest in the occult. Sidgwick and Myers engaged in psychical research, while Wallace immersed himself in phrenology and spiritualism. Raised as Christians, all of them came to find Christian belief inadequate. Yet the scientific naturalism that might have provided an alternative pole for their allegiance, that was the alternative pole of allegiance for much of their generation, failed to entice them. All had ethical qualms about its refusal to comment on God's existence or on life after death. All, too, wondered about the soul and bemoaned the reluctance of scientists to investigate the immaterial and subjective aspects of human nature. Caught between the Christianity of their upbringing and the scientific naturalism of their adulthood, Turner argued, these men “came to dwell between the science that beckoned them and the religion they had forsaken.”

It has long been argued by social theorists that psychology has played a pivotal role in the culture and politics of modern life. This argument was influentially developed in Michel Foucault's Madness and Civilisation, now nearly fifty years old, which showed how our modern embrace of rationality and normality depends on the psychological “enclosure” of the mad as outside the social pale. The philosopher Ian Hacking has looked at the role of psychology in “making up people”, through defining a series of mental problems (such as schizophrenia, neurosis and suchlike) which are then taken up by people so that they become powerful social labels. More recently, influential sociologists ranging from Anthony Giddens to Zygmunt Bauman and Richard Sennett have developed a rich account of the insecurities of the modern self as the need to live in a complex and uncertain world leads to people developing psychological defence mechanisms.

Among the stunning changes in material and intellectual life that transformed eighteenth-century Europe, perhaps none excited as much contemporary consternation as the twin-headed growth of a modern commercial economy and the fiscal–military state. As economies became increasingly based on trade, money, and credit, and states both exploded in size and forged seemingly insoluble ties to the world of finance, intellectuals displayed growing anxiety about just what kind of political, economic, and social order was taking shape before their eyes. Two important new books by Michael Sonenscher and John Shovlin, Before the Deluge: Public Debt, Inequality, and the Intellectual Origins of the French Revolution and The Political Economy of Virtue: Luxury, Patriotism, and the Origins of the French Revolution, tackle these apprehensions and the roles they played in forging French political and economic writings in the second half of the eighteenth century. Both authors also take the further step of demonstrating the impact of the ideas they study on the origins of the French Revolution.

If any student, graduate or advanced undergraduate, should offer to delve deeper than survey samples and seriously “take on” the Transcendentalists, he or she would be well advised to begin with the histories by Barbara Packer and Philip Gura. For that matter, these sharply differing studies will undoubtedly provoke and clarify the thinking of even the most seasoned scholars, especially if they were to read these works against each other. The more specialized though no less interesting monograph by Elisabeth Hurth, which is not offered as an introductory overview, nevertheless comprises a fully imagined history in its own right, as it places Transcendentalism in the context of crucial nineteenth-century German innovations in Protestant thought, and of the American movement's thence-derived tendency—as its critics alleged—to “atheism.” These three books, as a group, raise interesting questions about how literary history is now being written, what purposes such studies can serve, what coherence “Transcendentalism” might yet retain as a subject of useful historical inquiry, and what kind of importance the movement might have for readers today.

Is intelligence a fit topic for intellectual history? The creation and institutionalization of IQ (the initials have become self-sufficient, and no longer stand for “intelligence quotient”) have been a favorite topic in the history of psychology, and have even achieved some standing in social histories of class, race, and mobility, especially in the United States. The campaign to quantify intelligence tended to remove it from the domain of intellectual history, which after all has traditionally emphasized ideas and interpretations. Measurement, and not alone of the mind, was pursued as a way to rein in the intellect by making it more rigorous. What was pushed out the door, however, returned through the window in the form of debates about what intelligence means; in what sense and with what tools it can be measured; and how these measures relate to other ways of comprehending mind, thought, and reason. Quantification, a potent strategy for releasing science from the grip of history, is itself profoundly historical, as a half-century of modern scholarship has demonstrated. This historicizing of the antihistorical embodies what we may call counterreflexivity, and, as such, is partly about puncturing illusions, though it need not take a negative view of the social role of science. The perspective of history is all the more essential because the depoliticization of merit through science entails a consequential moral and political choice. Measurement, by rationalizing and stabilizing the idea of intelligence, enabled it more readily to enter everyday discourse and to be put to work in schools, businesses, and bureaucracies.

In a well-known 1964 essay on the “recovery” of American religious history, Henry F. May observed that some scholars had “revived” religious interpretations of the nation's greatest political crises, including the Civil War. But there was more work to be done. “A religious, or partly religious explanation of the Civil War,” May suggested, would “rest on two assertions: that serious and intractable moral conflicts were important in causing the war and that in nineteenth-century America such conflicts were particularly difficult to avoid or compromise because of the dominance of evangelical Protestantism in both sections.” In fact, both the importance of the moral conflict over slavery and the role of evangelicalism in intensifying hostilities were already attracting attention as historians reexamined previous emphases on economic factors and political bungling as explanations of a tragically unnecessary war.

Those religious believers still willing to claim the term “liberal” are tired of being kicked around. In a swelling chorus of outrage, they have fought back against the cultural hegemony of evangelicals and the rampant rumors of liberal demise that have haunted their sanctuaries for the past three decades. In reaction, some mainstream Protestant churches in this camp have mounted concerted and organized efforts to rescript their public relations. I think here, in particular, of the United Church of Christ (UCC), a left-leaning denomination that launched a massive advertising campaign in 2004 to raise its public profile. That effort is perhaps best known for its prominent comma (“God is still speaking,”) and edgy advertisements depicting bouncers at the doors of conservative churches who physically eject potential members not in conformance with their white, heterosexual standards. The banning of those ads by many television stations, at the behest of conservative religious groups that took exception to the UCC proclamation of inclusiveness as a stab at evangelical orthodoxy, may only confirm the mainstream lament that liberalism is truly a countercultural proposition.

Focusing on the spectacular propaganda exhibitions “Degenerate Art” and “Degenerate Music,” critical studies of Nazism's art policy long considered the regime's public attack on modernism and the turn to pseudo-classicism as decisive proof of Nazism's reactionary character. Studies such as Die Kunst im Dritten Reich (1974), which inspired broader research on the topic in the early 1970s, subscribed to a modern conception of aesthetics in which art expresses complex systems of ideas in progress. Artistic style, from this perspective, corresponded to political tendencies and reflected the traditional divide between conservatism and progressivism. But those boundaries have become blurred in the wake of more recent research, which has demonstrated the involvement of modernist artists in Nazi art (e.g. members of the Bauhaus involved in National Socialist architecture or avant-garde filmmakers such as Walter Ruttmann in National Socialist propaganda films) and, conversely, the continual performance of popular jazz music in the Third Reich (e.g. in radio programmes). Seen against such instances of modernist collaboration and its own occasional mimicry of modernism, National Socialism acquires a more ambivalent profile, characterized by the ongoing conflict between reactionary factions and those who favoured modernization for various reasons.