This chapter reprises the arguments advanced in the first four chapters of the book, and assesses the question of what “lessons” history can teach on that basis. It argues that the habits and methods of analysis, interpretation, open-ended inquiry, and intellectual flexibility that study in History cultivates are uniquely valuable in the specific circumstances of our own time, at the beginning of the twenty-first century. It argues that it is these habits, rather than any specific political values, that make History uniquely valuable as a form of education for citizenship. It argues, finally, that this is the only approach to the civic value of history education that is compatible with the ethical principles foundational to the discipline of History. In closing, it presents the case for viewing the understanding that history offers us no lessons as the most important lesson history can teach us. This is a lesson that can teach us to think and act with due deliberation, to inquire more deeply before acting, and to act in full confidence that our actions will have unintended consequences.

What counts as a significant innovation in human history, and what might we identify beyond the topics included in this book? In our concept of progress are we too influenced by the sense of our own era as the culmination of history, and can we avoid a presentist bias?

Boethius, like his Neoplatonic predecessors, poses a challenge to contemporary readers of the Consolation seeking to understand the world he thinks we occupy. That world involves a timeless, simple, but all-knowing creator god and a time-bound, infinite creation that is patterned from the ideas in the divine mind. The purpose of this chapter is to provide a modest illumination into the world as it is conceived in the Consolation by examining two fundamental Boethian categories and their relationship: the eternal and the temporal. The chapter examines the extent to which we should see these categories providing guidance as to the nature of beings rather than expressing the epistemic perspectives those beings have. By noting the limits, we will draw conclusions about the persistence of temporal beings; the ontological status possessed by future, present, and past states of affairs; and what characterizes eternal existence.

As seemingly cognate sub-genres of history, the history of sexuality and women’s history have a complicated relationship. Both tell 1970s origins stories from global north liberation movements, despite the scholarly scrutiny of sexuality and women in earlier historical periods. Core journals and publications reveal these sub-fields’ distinctive, sometimes incommensurate development trajectories. Perhaps due to their recent advent, presentism is clear in both, with the corollary of a marked post-1800 skew of most research and publications. Women’s history tracks women, in all their subdivisions, of necessity with focus upon sexualities in many registers, while seeking address of race, indigeneity, ethnicity, and international and global foci. Alternatively, the history of sexuality prioritizes sexual minorities and erotic alterities, welcoming studies of identities, expression, and representation. Key themes are transgressive resistance against repression and heteronormativity, entailing special concentration on same-sex history. Women figure within these themes, while innovative feminists are influential historians of sexuality. Nonetheless, women’s history and feminist analysis of sexualities have no default standing for the history of sexuality. In short, intellectual, methodological, and political properties prove less reciprocal than might be presumed. These exciting areas of history should evolve, to illuminate crucial topics for both, for instance reproduction. As both pursue aims to incorporate all historical periods and regions, their interconnections may become stronger.

Analytical dualism is possible because of temporality.In M/M all structural influencess are transmitted by shaping the context for agents and mediated by what agents make of them.Instead, this author as an avowed Central Conflationist, deals with current practices alone.

Melancholy is an ‘epidemicall’ disease, Burton says, noting the multitude of causes which, along with human wickedness and inherent humoral imbalances, explain the extensive and increasing suffering he observes around him. His observations tell us little about seventeenth-century epidemiology, I argue. Moreover, the meanings accorded to seemingly familiar terms such as ‘disease’, ‘symptom’, and ‘epidemic’ rest on assumptions that leave them orthogonal to today’s standard etiological medical assumptions. Yet they find resonance within recent broad theorizing about the concept of disease, in public health emphases and alternative medicine, as well as in the larger health culture of our times.

Time is an active element in a communitarian theory of WTO law. Across the passage of time, the idea-complexes of obligations and rights identified in previous chapters interact, bringing about law in a third overarching idea-complex. This chapter examines how this third idea-complex takes the form of a sui generis legal system generating transformative justice. Here the law focuses on the present and is reasoned abductively according to the best inference consistent with current knowledge. Notwithstanding this reconciliation, the transformations required and induced by it are profound. They demand that actors pay attention to interests other than their own. They also demand that actors conceive of and conform their behavior in light of that transformed interest. In WTO law this interest co-exists uneasily with the sovereignty of states so that there is a persistent tension between individual member interests and the collective interest of the membership. Outcomes of WTO disputes often manifest this basic tension.

Chapter 6 shows how Cicero establishes a normative framework for the writing of literary history. Across the dialogue and through the various speakers he offers a sustained critique of literary historiography. Several fundamental tensions and conflicts emerge: absolute versus relative criteria in assessing literature and building canons; presentism and antiquarianism; formalism and historicism; and the recognition that all literary histories are subject to their crafters’ emphases and agendas.

In the context of current environmental crises, which threaten to seriously harm living conditions for future generations, liberal–capitalist democracies have been accused of inherent short-termism, that is, of favouring the currently living at the expense of mid- to long-term sustainability. This chapter reviews some of the reasons for this short-termism as well as proposals as to how best to represent future people in today’s democratic decision-making. It then presents some ideas of the author as to how to reconceive the idea of democracy and the responsibilities of citizenship in the face of increasing obligations to sustain both the environment and democratic institutions for future people. The chapter argues that taking turns between governing and governed is a key dimension of democracy, and that it implies in-principle consent to others governing after our turn, including future generations. Thus, future people must be better represented than they generally are today, in particular when democratic institutions find themselves squeezed between an overburdened environment in which they are embedded, and a fast-paced and short-termist globalising economy.

Barrell concludes by arguing that the utilitarians’ conscription into an ahistorical Enlightenment is doubly misconceived, first, because they opposed only the crudest forms of historical enquiry, and, second, because the eighteenth-century Enlightenments were neither systematically ahistorical nor neatly superseded by Romantic, organic, and historicist ideas. If, therefore, these new historical perspectives were both products and unruly offshoots of Enlightenment, then the utilitarians’ intellectual history assumes a more fluid shape. This new shape, Barrell suggests, may force us to rethink the utilitarians’ place within the intellectual history of the nineteenth century; the history of historical writing; and the history of philosophy.

J. S. Mill in the 1830s and early 1840s, Barrell argues, thought extensively about the practical problems of historical enquiry. His progressive theory of historiography, sketched in the article on Jules Michelet, rejected presentism and the resort to ‘everyday experience’. This rejection was bolstered by his reception of German Historismus, Romanticism, and ‘Continental’ philosophy, all of which set out to de-familiarise and imaginatively reconstruct the past. The best modern historians, J. S. Mill argued, were more attentive than their eighteenth-century predecessors to the past’s animating uniqueness, and it is significant that Hume, Gibbon, and other eighteenth-century luminaries barely featured in his account. At the same time, his defence of general principles provided continuities with Scottish philosophical history and the utilitarian tradition in which he was raised. Thomas Carlyle’s account of the French Revolution, while innocent of presentism, was ultimately conjectural and uncritical, whereas Grote’s History of Greece combined criticism with philosophical insight, placing it somewhere between the second and third stages of historical enquiry.

This chapter examines contemporary responses to utilitarianism as a political tradition, and, contrary to accepted wisdom, argues that Bentham’s theory of utility was circumstantially and thus historically relative. It asks why Bentham has been perceived as both an ahistorical and an antihistorical thinker, despite his engagement with the ‘Enlightened’ historicisms of the eighteenth century: with Montesquieu, Barrington, Kames, and others. While he denied that history possessed an independent value that could determine or even effectively structure politics, we should not mistake these arguments for an unwillingness to contemplate politics historically, or to make occasionally significant concessions to time and place. Bentham’s point, rather, was that historical truths were categorically distinct from philosophical ones, and that sciences historiques observed the past while sciences philosophiques appraised it. The chapter also addresses Bentham’s overlooked work as a ‘historiographer’ who performed recognisably historical tasks, including the examination of evidence and the passing of historical judgements

Chapter 6 shows how Cicero establishes a normative framework for the writing of literary history. Across the dialogue and through the various speakers he offers a sustained critique of literary historiography. Several fundamental tensions and conflicts emerge: absolute versus relative criteria in assessing literature and building canons; presentism and antiquarianism; formalism and historicism; and the recognition that all literary histories are subject to their crafters’ emphases and agendas.

This chapter relates the turn to history in international law to the corresponding international turn taken in the discipline of history. It explores the effects of translating the stakes of those turns into a technical debate involving abstract claims about the proper scientific methods for understanding the past of international law. The chapter analyses the wide-ranging set of arguments about the scientific nature of empiricist history and the partisan character of international legal arguments that have accompanied the turn to history. It argues that international lawyers have been uncritically receptive of the idea that empiricist historical methods offer a set of technical rules to which legal scholars should conform when writing about the past.

By the late 1700s and early 1800s, cinchona bark was, to many, ‘the most important, and the most usual remedy that medicine possessed’. Though of limited repertoire – cinchona trees prospered only on the precipitous eastern slopes of the Andes at the time, in the Spanish American Viceroyalties of Peru and New Granada – and comparatively recent acceptance into Old World materia medica, the bark had, by the turn of the eighteenth century, woven itself into the texture of everyday medical practice in a wide range of societies within, or tied to, the Atlantic World. It was everywhere attributed ‘wonderful’, ‘singular’, even ‘divine’ medicinal virtues, the knowledge of which, so it was said, had come to mankind from its simplest, and humblest, specimens, ‘wild Indians’ close to nature and privy to its most coveted secrets. Bittersweet ‘febrifugal lemonades’ and bottled wines of the bark sat on the shelves of Lima apothecaries, the counters of Cantonese market stands and in the medicine chests of Luanda hospital orderlies. They were routinely concocted, and administered at the bedside, by Moroccan court physicians, French housewives and slave healers alike and they accompanied, tucked into their pouches, Dutch sailors to febrile environs, Peruvian soldiers to the battlefield and North American settlers westward. Scottish physicians, creole botanists and French writers alike were unanimous not only in according the bark ‘singularity’, and ‘the first place among the most effective remedies’ (die erste Stelle unter den würksamsten Arzneimitteln), but also in holding it to be ‘more generally useful to mankind than any in the materia medica’. It was commonly agreed upon that there was ‘no febrifuge of such well-known virtue in all of medicine’ (por que no se halla en la Medicina febrífugo de virtud tan conocida), and that not a single remedy ‘more estimable and precious [than the bark] had been discovered unto this day’.