Those Native American tribes which did not disappear or disintegrate as a result of their contact with Western invaders are currently undergoing the demographic transition. Like most of the world’s pre-industrial peoples they have experienced a dramatic fall in their traditionally high death rates followed by an accelerated period of population growth. The degree to which traditional fertility patterns have responded to these changes has proved to be somewhat easier to determine in the case of select Native American groups than it often is in other parts of the world because most tribes are small, geographically concentrated, and encapsulated in an advanced bureaucratic state. But the relative ease with which contemporary demographic change can be observed and analyzed, is not paralleled by a similar situation with respect to the earlier stages of the demographic transition. Little is known about the demographic situation prevailing among most tribal groups in the early stages of demographic transition when mortality rates began a sustained decline (generally the 1930s). Next to nothing is known about overall tribal mortality and fertility patterns in the decades immediately preceding the formal onset of the transition. Hence it is not presently possible to explore the extent to which traditional demographic differences between tribal groups have been and may still be influencing present differences in demographic response patterns.

Study of the popular response to the political parties and candidates of nineteenth- and twentieth-century United States history has made significant progress since the 1950s. Samuel Lubell in The Future of American Politics was certainly one of the first to show historians that much understanding about the voting behavior of past generations could be gleaned from an imaginative examination of county and precinct election data. Lee Benson, in his now classic essay on “Research Methods in American Political Historiography,” persuasively demonstrated to many that systematic analysis of quantitative data could improve the accuracy and quality of generalizations about past voting practices. Benson’s subsequent study of early nineteenth-century New York politics, The Concept ofJacksonian Democracy, which quickly became a model of excellence in research design and methods, concluded, among other things, that “socioeconomic cleavages” were less important in explaining how New Yorkers voted after about 1820 than were “ethnic and religious” factors. At least in part inspired by Benson’s findings in New York, other historians pursued the study of the relationship between voting behavior and ethnocultural and religious factors by examining, for example, political behavior in Michigan during the Jacksonian era, the Midwest and Northeast during the 1890s, and Chicago in the early twentieth century. While the emphasis upon the importance of ethnocultural and religious factors in voting has engendered some criticism and dissent, it seems fair to conclude that this approach to the study of the voting process has produced significant work that has substantially influenced interpretations of American political history.

The rivalry between France and Germany was one of the most important themes of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century history. It was at the heart of the alliance system of this period and helped to produce that most horrible conflict, World War I. Understanding the causes and nature of Franco-German hostility would help to explain the war’s outbreak. A study of this hostility might also be a way of testing some of the theories of conflict recently developed by scholars from several disciplines but rarely applied by historians in their work. I shall discuss here several models of international conflict and show how one of them, relating images of national strength to diplomatic attitudes, can increase our insight into the formation of French hostility between 1871 and 1914.

The rise and fall of the Bureau of Applied Social Research, and the life of its founder and mentor, Paul Lazarsfeld should ideally be presented as a drama by Brecht, accompanied by the dissonant and jazzy music of pre-Nazi Central Europe, and its depression-time equivalent in the United States (from “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime” to “Happy Days are Here Again!”).

The concept of the university applied social research organization (all the adjectives are necessary) was born in the mind of a social activist student in the intellectual hothouse of Vienna between the World Wars. He wanted new methods of research to help bring radical social change; he had to start by studying soap-buying. He created a penniless research center in a near-bankrupt society, and found his friends jobs studying the unemployed.

The purpose of this article is to add critical expansion and empirical correction to the thinking about critical elections in American history in general and the New Deal realignment in particular. There will be first a discussion of critical realignment theory, in which some of its ambiguities with regard to the relationship of voting turnout to realignment will be explored. Next, some propositions derived from this literature will be tested in an effort to correct the theory and eliminate the ambiguities. Aggregate data from presidential and congressional elections, 1912-1940, in Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, and the city of Pittsburgh, will be employed in this effort.

In general, it will be argued that, when fluctuations in turnout are taken into account, the electoral changes preceding 1940 are at least as correctly described by the term “mobilization” as by the term “realignment.” Finally, some observations will be offered on the future of critical election theory.

Thirty years ago Frank Tannenbaum in Slave and Citizen first catalogued the many occasions for the manumission of slaves in Latin America. He indicated that baptism was an important occasion of manumission. Any slave owner, motivated by generosity and religious sentiment or a minimal payment made by the parent or godparent of the child, could free his slave at baptism. Tannenbaum cited this as one of many instances where Catholic practice and ritual effected a more humane and hopeful existence for the slave in Latin America, denied to slaves held in Protestant colonies.

The results of recent investigations of slave manumission in Brazil, however, have challenged the idea that slaves were frequently manumitted. Kátia M. Queirós Mattoso and Mary Karasch, in studies of Bahia and Rio de Janeiro, found that only a small percentage of those who were freed were children. In addition, it was revealed that few infant slaves were freed at baptism. Stuart Schwartz found that for colonial Bahia “there is no evidence [in notarial records] that large numbers of children were given their liberty at the baptismal font.” Arnold Kessler discovered that baptism was the occasion of manumission of only fourteen children, representing 2 percent of his sample of manumitted slaves (libertos) in nineteenth-century Bahia. For the small coastal town of Paraty in southern Brazil there was a similar pattern. Of the 325 slaves whose freedom was recorded in the notarial archive between 1789 and 1822 only six slaves, or 1.8 percent of the total sample, were infants freed at baptism.

Throughout his distinguished career, Herbert Gutman has displayed a rare genius for dredging up the most gloriously obscure historical evidence and deriving from it new perspectives on the largest themes. The Black Family is another triumph of this kind: my awe of Professor Gutman’s energy and insight is enhanced by this volume. At the same time, Gutman makes clear that the volume is not demographic in its intent. Since my commentary is to be from a demographic perspective, I will take particular pains to direct this perspective to the purposes Gutman sets forth in The Black Family. These are identified by the author as discerning “what sustained common slave beliefs and behavior,” rather than merely documenting “regularities in behavior,” the latter being Gutman’s characterization of the results of the application of quantitative methods (1976). My task, then, is to examine the links that Gutman establishes between demographic argument and explanation, in his sense, and to assess their adequacy. No demographer, I suspect, would have undertaken the kind of investigation Gutman assays; but demographic skills would have served Gutman’s intentions. I will here try to be severe with this imposing volume, recognizing the importance and aptness of its central thesis, and the audacity of its author’s empirical reach, but questioning the adequacy of his demography to his own ends.

Ralph Hall Brown played a critical role in the development of historical geography as a recognized and respectable sub-field within the discipline of geography. He was not the first American geographer to be concerned with the geography of the past, but his work on American historical geography became the model for research methodology and standards and the source of themes and emphases found in subsequent writings by other historical geographers. In order to understand Brown’s achievement his work must be placed in the general context of geography—it was and is a discipline usually more concerned with the contemporary than the past—and against the character of historical work by earlier or contemporary geographers. As a geographer Brown was not solitary in his appreciation of a historical viewpoint. The uniqueness was rather his approach to the geographical past that earned for him the status as a major innovator. In this article I shall offer speculations on Brown’s emergence as a historical geographer, on the characteristics of his approach to historical geography, and on the enduring qualities of his two books.

With Professor Gutman’s superb work The Black Family in Slavery and Freedom, 1750-1925 any anthropologist would feel most comfortable, for this is a study of the fine-grain and intimate relationships among a group of people, and such a topic comprises the normal terrain—I am tempted to say the “territorial imperative”— of the anthropologist. But the work is especially appealing to the anthropologist because Gutman has chosen to turn his immense energies on the family. To many people “begits and begats,” terminologies and genealogies are, at best, sterile ways to talk about a group and, at worst, unfortunate reminders of youthful years spent studying the Bible. But to the anthropologist these are technical ideas of the trade, concepts which reveal much about the relationships in a particular society at a particular time. Lastly, and here the anthropologist joins many others, we are all in the debt of Gutman for bringing to light an aspect of the American experience of which most of us were previously unaware. Perhaps the most moving, and paradoxical, aspect of the work is that because it is a testimony to the profound capacity of the black to preserve his essential humanity under the most frightening of conditions, conditions imposed by other humans, it is also an affirmation that all humans make their lives, and their history.

Americans struggled with paranoia in the early 1950s. Many believed the most extravagant charges about the presence of Communists in the United States. Others had no firm convictions about the threat of Communism but tolerated an unrestricted search for disloyal citizens. To a later generation, there seems to have been little connection between the degree of danger and the public’s alarm.

A recent attempt to explain this national paranoia holds the Truman administration responsible for creating an unreasoning anti-Communist mentality. According to Athan Theoharis and Richard Freeland, members of the Truman administration exaggerated the dangers of international and domestic Communism. The public heard that the United States was “imminently threatened by a massive ideologically based assault upon everything Americans valued.” The administration’s excessively moralistic rhetoric portrayed the Soviet Union as the “Anti-Christ.” This strident anti-Communism created a public mood that Joseph McCarthy and others exploited for their political advantage. Thus, one of McCarthy’s major victims—the Truman administration—created the preconditions for McCarthyism.

In a deservedly much-quoted phrase, Edward Thompson set out in The Making of the English Working Class “to rescue the poor stockinger, the ‘obsolete* hand-loom weaver, the ‘Utopian* artisan, and even the deluded follower of Joanna Southcott, from the enormous condescension of posterity.” It is no criticism of that great, rugged, sprawling, big-hearted book to say that what the English working class most needs to be rescued from is the enormous condescension of middle-class intellectuals. Ever since Marx and Engels, if not indeed James Mill and Andrew Ure, English working people have not, at least until very recently, been allowed to have their own history but have had it imposed upon them from above by self-appointed champions and apologists from the “higher” classes.

Thompson himself is something of an exception, more an old fashioned independent country gentleman than a middle-class intellectual, living in a mansion in Worcestershire and exhibiting in his concern for the long dead poor the traditional paternalism which he decries in the eighteenth-century squire.

Some eight or nine years ago, David Nixon—a political scientist from Penn State University—was struck by the open dumping of industrial wastes into Pittsburgh’s rivers. Research on the topic indicated that under terms of the River and Harbor Refuse Act of 1899, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers maintained responsibility for issuing permits to private concerns for the discharge of wastes into the nation’s waterways. The Act had also been successfully employed by the Justice Department in prosecuting a handful of past offenders. When the Corps’ district office in Pittsburgh denied any knowledge about such permits, David and a biologist friend began taking water samples from the Monongahela River in Pittsburgh. Subsequent chemical analyses of more than 400 samples verified the polluted condition of the stream caused by certain industrial sources. Upon taking his evidence to the district U.S. Attorney’s office, David Nixon persuaded Richard Thornburgh to file charges which were upheld by the federal district court in 1971—although final resolution would not come until years later. The suit eventually involved the Pennsylvania Chemical Corporation, U.S. Steel, Wheeling-Pittsburgh Steel, and Jones & Laughlin Steel, but David Nixon’s goal was to induce the government to enforce clear violations of existing law. In that regard, President Richard Nixon revived enforcement of the 1899 Refuse Act by Executive Order in December, 1971, and the “permit program” became the basis of enforcement for compliance with the Water Pollution Control Act Amendments of 1972. For more than 20 years prior to 1971, federal efforts to abate water pollution struggled to find some means to enforce compliance and in the process expended well over a billion dollars, without any apparent knowledge of the 1899 law.

Gutman’s study of the black family is one of those books which serve as a constant inspiration to academics. In those dreary moments when we wrestle with a particularly subtle point or phrase, a fleeting question occurs to most of us. How many people will really appreciate the depth of our thinking or the way in which the prose really captures the essence of the phenomenon being explained? But when such pernicious thoughts disturb our concentration, the example of Gutman’s work can banish them, for this book has had more reviewers than some technical pieces have had serious readers. Indeed the November 1978 SSHA session indicates that it still continues. Not only has Gutman’s book been seriously read and pondered, but there are a substantial number of pages in print to indicate that all the subtleties have been duly appreciated.

Since the inception of slavery in North America the free population has been concerned with the mortality of the slave population. Slaveowners were concerned with mortality for purposes of estimating the profitability of slave investments. Opponents of slavery and the slave trade used actual and presumed slave mortality experience as arguments for abolishing the system. Death rates were viewed as a measure of demographic performance that reflected the quality of slave life. It was argued that death rates reflected, and were in part determined by, such factors as diet, physical treatment, and the quality of medical care and housing—all under the control of the slaveowners. Consequently, information on deaths was used as a standard for evaluating the severity of the slave system and for assessing regional and international differences in slavery. In the postbellum period, scholars researched and debated various issues in slave mortality. The modern discussion includes issues in the levels and determinants of slave mortality, but research has concentrated on levels, possibly due to inadequate data for extensive research on determinants of mortality.

Projecting economic variables is a difficult art but one which statesmen practice with relish. In parliamentary democracies it is a rare candidate who does not forecast that under his tenure the pots of the electors will be graced with chickens. A more sober, careful kind of forecasting is required in conducing foreign affairs. Sound judgments about tariffs, subsidies, military and naval force levels, and even alliances depend upon prior analysis of the effects of each such policy over some specified length of run. Although one suspects that some kind of forecasting was always a part of statecraft, industrialization in Western Europe necessitated a change in the time frame of the predictions of statesmen. As the pace of economic change quickened, the rate at which the economic and military potential of states might change also accelerated. For many Englishmen observing the growth of the German economy during the 1890s, learning this lesson produced more than a little anxiety. So great was the attention which the British gave to German economic growth that predictions of Germany’s overtaking of Britain came to be a staple item of British politics in the two decades before World War One. Should these predictions have been taken seriously by contemporaries? The best answer is that given by the outcome of the pre-1914 Anglo-German rivalry: Germany did not overtake Britain in that era. Because war intervened, we cannot know the outcome of continued peaceful economic rivalry, but by using a relatively new statistical method we can chart the course this rivalry may well have followed had the peace been kept in 1914. Our projections suggest a sequence of events that never occurred but may nonetheless be used as a guide in evaluating the views and expectations of contemporaries.

The first known attempt to explain the duration and supersession of dynasties through calculations was made in the first century B.C. by Tsou Yen or his disciples in China (Eberhard, 1950: 60). The calculations were astrological. The rulers’ response was inimical. Maybe this is why no further attempts were made during the next two thousand years, in spite of astrology continuing to flourish. The objectives of the present study are somewhat related to those of Tsou Yen although the calculations avoid astrology; whether that helps to avoid the opprobrium heaped on Tsou Yen’s school remains to be seen. As we tackle the period during which this school of thought was born and subsequently crushed, it is only proper to recall the memory of these spiritual ancestors.