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This paper presents major environmental challenges in Bulgarian agriculture, identifies and assesses specific modes for environmental governance in the farming sector, and estimates prospects for changing environmental performance of farms under conditions of EU integration and Common Agricultural Policy implementation. We adapt the framework of the New Institutional and Transaction Costs Economics, and assess the efficiency of diverse market, private, and public modes for environmental governance. Our analysis of the post-communist transformation of agriculture shows that it has changed the State of the environment and brought some new challenges such as degradation and contamination of farmland, pollution of surface and ground water, loss of biodiversity, and significant greenhouse gas emissions. Badly defined and enforced environmental rights; a prolonged process of privatization of agrarian resources; use of farming practices that do not motivate long-term investment; high uncertainty assets with low frequency Specificity inappropriate for environmentally related transactions–all of these factors are responsible for the failure of market and private modes of environmental management. The strong need for public intervention has not been met by effective government, community, or international assistance; consequently agrarian sustainability has been compromised. The assessment of possible impact of EU CAP implementation under Bulgarian conditions indicates that the main beneficiary of various new support measures will be the biggest operators. Income, technological and environmental discrepancy between different farms, sub-sectors, and regions will be further enhanced. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The Renaissance occupies a paradoxical place in the history of political thought. It is famous for having nurtured two diametrically opposed, although similarly extreme theoretical positions: republicanism and absolutism. Yet neither position was remotely characteristic of Renaissance political theory as a whole. The result is an understandable, but nonetheless unfortunate skewing of the literature on Renaissance political philosophy. Because republicanism and absolutism are taken to be the signal theoretical contributions of the period, and because these ideologies tend to be of most interest to contemporary scholars, they receive a disproportionate amount of attention in chapters such as this one. In contrast, the overwhelmingly dominant political ideology of the age, which might be described as princely humanism, tends to be obscured by its more celebrated, but far less ubiquitous rivals. To put the matter a bit differently, the reader of most surveys of Renaissance political thought could be forgiven for concluding that, when taken together, republicanism and absolutism accounted for close to 90 percent of published Renaissance political writings. The truth of the matter, however, is quite the reverse: taken together, these two ideologies probably accounted for less than 10 percent of the political literature of the period. The analysis which follows aims to take seriously the dominance of princely humanism in Renaissance political thought, while at the same time explaining how the various tensions within it inspired important republican and absolutist critiques. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The “organization of knowledge” is a large and diffuse topic which can be studied at many different levels, ranging from the way an individual orders his or her understanding of the world privately or in publications, to the ways in which communities or institutions order knowledge, notably in pedagogical curricula and textbooks, professional structures, libraries and library catalogs, and other collective projects. Although a few modern philosophers have addressed the problem of classifying knowledge, current practices of classification are mostly studied by anthropologists and sociologists. Modern cultures and subcultures engage in both explicit and tacit classifications of knowledge, but today any particular organization of knowledge is generally acknowledged to involve a number of arbitrary choices and its success is often measured by pragmatic criteria of effectiveness, such as ease of use and economic efficiency. But this skeptical attitude toward the possibility of any organization matching the reality of knowledge or of the world is a fairly modern development, articulated for example in Jean Le Rond d'Alembert's “preliminary discourse” to the Encyclopédie of 1751. In Renaissance Europe, on the contrary, many thinkers harbored the ambition of implementing the perfect organization of knowledge, though pragmatic, notably alphabetical, arrangements were also widespread in certain contexts. During the Renaissance the difficulty of ordering knowledge was greatly exacerbated in almost every field by the massive influx of material to be included, stemming from newly discovered worlds and newly recovered ancient texts as well as newly printed texts of all kinds, and by concurrent social and cultural changes associated with the development of printing, a rapid growth in higher education, and shifting patterns of patronage and social mobility. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Nicholas of Cusa (Niklas Krebs, known as Cusanus, 1401-64), one of the most original and creative intellects of the fifteenth century, has been variously described as “the last great philosopher of the dying Middle Ages” (Alexandre Koyré), as a “transition-thinker” between the medieval and modern worlds (Frederick Copleston), and as the “gatekeeper of the modern age” (Rudolf Haubst). He is a lone figure with no real successor although he had some influence on Copernicus, Kepler, Bruno, and, tangentially, on Descartes. The German Idealists showed some interest in Nicholas of Cusa but the real revival of his thought was stimulated by the neo-Kantian philosopher Ernst Cassirer (1874-1945), who called him “the first modern thinker” and by the existentialist Karl Jaspers. Cassirer compared him to Kant for his view that objects have to be understood in terms of the categories of our own thought. Other scholars, notably Alexandre Koyré, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Hans Blumenberg, Werner Beierwaltes, and Karsten Harries, all see him in a certain way as a harbinger of modernity. Yet his outlook is essentially conservative, aiming, as Hans Blumenberg has recognized, to maintain the medieval synthesis. Cusanus was a humanist scholar, Church reformer - his De concordantia catholica (On Catholic Concord, 1434) included proposals for the reform of Church and state - papal diplomat, and Catholic cardinal. In the course of his life he attempted to reconcile papal and conciliar ecclesiology, Greek Eastern and Latin Western Christianity, Muslims and Christians, traditional theology and emerging mathematical science. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The predominant view of historians was once that the philosophy of Aristotle, after spreading throughout Latin Christendom in the wake of the great wave of translations from Greek and Arabic begun around 1125, reached its greatest diffusion in the thirteenth century, came to a profound crisis in the fourteenth, and then suffered in the fifteenth under the challenge of Platonism. As a result, Aristotelianism in the Renaissance survived in only a few “conservative” strongholds - such as the universities of Padua, Coimbra, and Cracow - before it was finally swept away by the coming of modern philosophy and science. Thanks to the work of historians like John Herman Randall, Eugenio Garin, Paul Oskar Kristeller, Charles Schmitt, and Charles Lohr, research in the last sixty years has shown that such an image of the development of European thought is so one-sided as to be substantially false. The point here is not merely to insist on the notable expansion of Aristotelianism in the fourteenth century - for in that century, far from declining, Aristotelian philosophy reinforced its position by consolidating its fundamental role in university instruction, by linking its fate to that of influential philosophical and theological schools, and by obtaining for the first time the explicit support of the papacy. One must go still further and insist that, if the greatest intellectual novelty of the Renaissance was the rediscovery of little-known and forgotten philosophical traditions, Aristotelianism nevertheless remained the predominant one through the end of the sixteenth and into the seventeenth century. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The Zone of Proximal Development (ZPD) has drawn attention from psychologists and educators and has oriented their research, diagnosis, and educational work toward new grounds. We hold that, rather than a term to be added to conventional psychology and pedagogy, the ZPD provides us with an instrument whose use will inevitably lead to a reappraisal and renewal of theory. We suggest that this concept also operated as a Zone of Proximal Development in its own right for Vygotsky's theoretical thought. He focused his endeavors on the areas of conflict where his contemporaries ran into difficulties by exploring three theoretical frontiers: “1. The evolutionary and historical frontier (change and evolution of the child and individual, of the species, of cultures). 2. The identity frontier (the view of the functional system as shared, of functions as socially distributed). 3. The ecological frontier between the internal and external, the mental and the material, the organism and the medium.” A large part of the literature on Vygotsky and the research carried out on the basis of his ideas have developed his proposals with regard to the first two frontiers. Although the third frontier has received scant attention, it is in our opinion essential to a full understanding of Vygotsky's thought, especially the concept of ZPD. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Vygotsky's most popular book in the English-speaking world, Thought and Language, was first published in English in 1962. (It was originally published in Russian in 1934.) When retitled Thinking and Speech in 1987, it captured a more active notion of these interrelated processes. They are seen as activities rather than entities and the book explores the developmentally changing relationship between intellectual and verbal processes. Vygotsky viewed speaking and thinking as dynamically related and approached their connection as “The complex movement from the first vague emergence of the thought to its completion in a verbal formulation. . . . Thought is not expressed but completed in the word. . . . Any thought has movement. It unfolds. . . . This flow of thought is realized as an internal movement through several planes. As a transition from thought to word and from word to thought.” (Vygotsky, 1987, pp. 249-250) Thinking and Speech presents important distinctions between communicative language and language used for conceptual representation. By addressing such broad themes, Vygotsky's work was grounded in philosophical, psychological, and linguistic traditions that have influenced Western students of language. Within these disciplines, the relationship between thinking and speech was forged, and it is still of great concern to contemporary thinkers. Part of what is so interesting about revisiting this relationship is that it emerges repeatedly across disciplines and informs every aspect of the human sciences. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Third party policing represents a major shift in crime control. It is a trend in policing that mirrors wider societal transformations in regulatory practices concomitant with the emergence of the “risk society.” In third party policing, responsibility for crime control no longer rests with state agencies, but is shared with a wide range of regulatory nodes (both formal and informal) including regulatory agencies, local councils, businesses and individuals. Police partner with property owners, local residents, business owners, parents, health and fire regulators and local councils to control and prevent crime. Third party policing is thus defined in our book as police efforts to persuade or coerce organizations or non-offending persons, such as public housing agencies, property owners, parents, health and building inspectors, and business owners to take some responsibility for preventing crime or reducing crime problems (Buerger and Mazerolle, 1998: 301). In third party policing, the police create or enhance crime control guardians in locations or situations where crime control guardianship was previously absent or non-effective. Our book had four main goals: first, to define and describe third party policing. What does third party policing look like in practice? How is third party policing implemented at the coalface of policing? What are the key dimensions of third party policing? What types of legal levers are used in third party policing and why? [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In previous chapters we have introduced the notion of third party policing, described its dimensions, and surveyed both its legal status, tools and effectiveness. These chapters have given a snapshot of how third party policing works in various situations, and of what we know about its effectiveness in preventing or responding to crime. We have shown that the use of third party policing is largely episodic, hidden and outside of most police programmatic responses. Despite this, and based on the limited evaluative evidence available, it appears that third party policing is a highly effective tactic. But to examine only the effectiveness of third party policing is to consider only half the equation – despite its apparent effectiveness, there has been limited examination of the side-effects, fairness and equity of third party policing. We need to examine the intentional and unintentional, positive and negative, impacts of third party policing on the partners who work with police (regulators, property owners, business owners), as well as on other groups in the community (schools, community groups), on the ultimate targets and their families and communities, and even on the police organizations themselves. How does third party policing affect the community in which it is practised? How equitably does it affect different communities, both internally and in comparison to other communities? Just as importantly, who is held accountable for the outcomes and impacts of third party policing, and how? [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In previous chapters we have shown how, from the second half of the twentieth century, there have been significant trends in the governance, regulation and policing of contemporary society. These trends rely on risk identification to achieve social, economic and political goals. In criminal justice, this has meant less focus on the identification, prosecution and rehabilitation of guilty individuals, and more on identifying, preventing or reducing potential crime risks. Also, the broadening scope of governance has involved non-traditional agencies and individuals in the process of crime control and prevention, and placed traditional agents such as police in a new role. Police now partner with other state and non-state agencies in crime control and prevention networks. Third party policing occurs when police strategies to control or prevent crime involve partnerships or networks, voluntary or coerced, police-initiated or directed by government, with non-offending third parties (such as regulators, business owners, landlords, community groups, schools and parents). Third party policing occurs within a legal framework that establishes the authority for police to partner with or coerce third parties, the contexts in which they can do that, and the types of intervention this may produce. Indeed, we argue that it is the legal basis of third party policing that both defines it as a unique strategy and distinguishes it from other policing interventions, most notably problem-oriented policing. This chapter begins with an overview of the types of legal frameworks in which third party policing can occur. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Parliamentary histories tell us that on 22 February 1671 Charles II, present at the Lords for the second reading of the Subsidy Bill, was an unwilling listener to a severe critique of his policies from John, Lord Lucas. Lucas spoke on behalf of peers who would have been severely taxed under the bill, and who also objected to the methods of collection proposed, which they saw as an attack by the Commons on the Lords' privileges. He and his kind had been loyal cavaliers in the past but were now beginning to exhibit ‘country’ inclinations that would flower mightily during the coming decade. Should the King upon a good occasion require a quarter or (in some versions) a half of his estate, Lucas would willingly give it; but the present predicament was not of this kind, nor was he able to meet even the more modest levy proposed: “For in ye tyme of ye last usurping powers, though great Taxes were exacted from vs, wee had then meanes to pay, wee lett our Lands, & sold our Corne, & Cattell, & there was plenty of Money through ye Nation, now there is nothing of this. Bricke is required of vs, & noe Straw allow'd vs to make itt with, for that our Lands are thrownevpon our hands, our Corne, & Cattell of little value is notorious to all ye World...” Huge subsidies voted to the crown had been ‘poured out into the Purses of priuate men’, many of whom ‘att his Maties returne were worth little, or nothing’, but who nonetheless kept ‘their Coaches, & sixe Horses, their Pages, & Lacqueys’ while loyal cavaliers had ‘scarce sufficient left, to buy them Bread’. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

‘What multitude of Bookes full of sinne and abominations have now filled the world!’ complained the puritan divine Edward Dering in 1572, ‘witlesse devises’, ‘baudie songes’, ‘unchast Fables’. Such conventional complaints about the prevalence of ‘profane’ and ‘ungodly’ literature would be routine for decades to come. This may help us to define ‘religious publishing’ by means of exclusion. But the problem of inclusion remains. For the modern world, the term ‘religious’ marks off a more or less discrete area of life, but this is anachronistic for the period under review, in which the commodity which we might want to distinguish as ‘religion’ permeated much, if not all, of what is now secularized. This is a health warning to be attached to otherwise useful statistical analyses of religious publishing in the period covered by the Short-Title Catalogue, or in the Stationers' Register. ‘Religious books’, in conventional terms, are found to have been the single most important component of the publishing trade, comprising around half the total output of the industry, and outweighing political, scientific, practical and fictional works: indeed, fiction had yet to establish its respectable credentials, often disguising itself as edification, or morality. Or so attention to titles, and to professed authorial intents, might suggest. But do we exclude from our tally of ‘religious’ titles almances, medical treatises, cookery books, ‘news’, all saturated with pious vocabulary? Nor can we solve our problem of demarcation by examining the supposed motives of publishers, as if we can identify ‘religious’ propagandists, altruistic precursors of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Long before the orthodox onset of the Industrial Revolution, and well before Europe was facing a similar shake up, the traditional urban order in Britain was experiencing the forces of change that were to reshape its character. An important feature of the transformation underway was the emergence of the so-called ‘new towns’, and among these one of the most novel and distinctive categories was watering-places – inland and coastal resorts devoted to the provision of health and leisure. This chapter will examine the evolution of the resort from about 1700 until the arrival of the railways, an event whose influence can be exaggerated but which none the less represented a watershed. Four sets of issues will be explored. First, the chronology and pattern of development. Second, the broad factors responsible for this. Third, the urban status of watering-places, their relationship to other towns providing similar services, and their typology. Fourth, the particular economic, social, political and cultural characteristics of resorts. Because of their newness and distinctive profile, spa and seaside centres provide a litmus test of the urban transformation unfolding in the long eighteenth century. Though apparently very different from the classic ‘new newtowns’ of the Industrial Revolution, they were to form a vital element in the urban network which emerged. Chronology and pattern of development In Britain the earliest commercial development of spas as a health cure for the social elite dates from the late Tudor and early Stuart era. This parallels the beginnings of a period of discovery and rediscovery of springs in France, though in Italy there seems to have been a network of widely used watering-places since at least the later medieval period, whose clientele included the aristocracy. In the case of Britain, Phyllis Hembry has located the foundation of sixteen spas in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, and there are clear signs of exploitation of the springs at Buxton, Harrogate, Tunbridge Wells and most notably Bath (see Plate 3), which saw substantial investment in the health and visitor facilities. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Walking the streets of Birmingham for the first time in 1803, John Francis, a Nottinghamshire lad, ‘gazed and stared at everything that he saw that his eyes were bloodshot … and his mouth being open … he was almost choked with dust’. Such wonder at the sight of early nineteenth-century British towns was not confined to poor folk up from the country. The Franco-American businessman, Louis Simond, ‘approached Leeds at night and from a height, north of the town, we saw a multitude of fires issuing, no doubt from furnaces, and constellations of illuminated windows (manufactories) spread over the dark plain’. Streets of good-looking shops, the vast, fire-proof clothiers' hall, the merchants' walk, the hospital with its good order and cleanliness, the library, and the many houses, a great part ‘modern and comfortable, with gardens, planted squares, and flowers in every window’, all impressed him. A bird's eye view of the island's cities and towns on the accession of Victoria would have seen them progressively bound together by the sinuous chains of navigable rivers, canals, improved roads and the new railways (see Plate 31), carrying unprecedented volumes of commercial and other traffic. Less visible but no less vital for integrating the urban system were the links forged by capital markets, by the growing postal system, by the London and provincial press, and by the imperative of cultural fashion. Certainly the British urban system had advanced dramatically over the period, particularly since the seventeenth century. This is in marked contrast to other parts of Europe, where early advanced urban networks (as in the southern Netherlands) had suffered major reverses and only started to revive towards the end of our period; or where (as in the case of the Dutch Randstad) highly integrated city systems actually deurbanised in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; or where, as in France, many cities were in decline after the French Revolution; or where, as in Scandinavia, towns were only slowly waking up from a bucolic past. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The foundations The topography of British towns at the beginning of the sixteenth century was the product of the interaction between successive generations of men and women living in society, and the opportunities and constraints presented by their environment over the preceding millennium. Volume I of this work, more especially Chapters 8 and 16, gives an account of the medieval antecedents to this chapter. Of all the features of towns inherited from the medieval centuries, the street plan, once laid down, has proved to be the most enduring, matched only by the similar longevity of the boundaries of the burgage plots which composed the spaces between the streets. The layout of both could be profoundly affected by the line of any fortifications which might be present. By the end of the medieval period well over a hundred English and Welsh towns had been fortified, including Coventry, Southampton, Hereford and Newcastle-upon-Tyne, ‘the strength and magnificens of the waulling of this towne’, Leland thought, ‘far passith al the waulles of the cities of England and of most of the townes of Europa’. Numerous others, including Aylesbury, Chelmsford and Trowbridge, were not fortified, whilst in some cathedral cities the close formed a separate fortified enceinte, as at Salisbury. Many town walls were, by the beginning of this period, ruinous, and there was much encroaching and piecemeal destruction. A survey of Oswestry made in 1602 revealed great waste made on the castle, with stones carried away by the wagon load and whole towers taken down, with the gates of the town all very ruinous except Churchgate, where the burgesses had made their election house. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Introduction The fabric of the urban environment experienced accelerating change during the course of the eighteenth century, and the pace of change in some towns, although by no means all, underwent a dramatic gearshift from the 1780s onwards. These changes were driven by rapid population growth and migration, and by technological innovation, leading to the mechanisation of transport and of many manufacturing processes. Central government and municipal authorities contributed very little to this metamorphosis, unlike the experience of many European cities. The traditional pattern of urban social geography, in which the well-to-do lived in the centres of towns and the poor in the suburbs, was shattered in many towns in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries and replaced by suburban residential segregation based upon socio-economic status and the separation of home and work, in its turn dependent upon ease of transport. Everywhere it is a subtle, complex process of transformation. In some towns, such as Glasgow, it takes place within a generation. In other towns, unaffected by the first stages of industrialisation, it was the end of the nineteenth century before these processes had fully worked themselves out. Much of this growth and change had to be accommodated within ancient boundaries and administrative structures, creating problems of health, sanitation and housing upon an unprecedented scale. These problems were widely recognised by the 1830s, but it is the 1840s before central government begins to take the first tentative steps towards putting things right. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

‘This iron age departed, we behold, / An age of pleasure, luxury, and gold; / No more exist those opposites to Life, / A social husband, and domestic wife … / Triumphal entries and their dull parades, / Are chang'd for Op'ras, Balls and Masquerades; / No longer Sunday's dull employment cloys, / For Church we substitute politer joys …’ Thus in mildly satirical vein a poetaster of the 1770s described the smart new cultural world of Georgian Britain. The sense of cultural transformation, of the new sociable importance of women, of new entertainments, of the secularisation of social life, is striking, acute – and exaggerated. As we shall see in this chapter, such changes do figure prominently in the dynamic, and increasingly pluralistic, cultural landscape of British cities during the Georgian era, but they were only part of the painting. In contrast to the earlier period, there can be little question that cities and towns after 1700 became vital centres for cultural mixing and dissemination, affecting not only the elite classes but a good part of national society as well. The leading cities, particularly London and Edinburgh, became cultural bazaars, increasingly cosmopolitan, importing and translating cultural ideas, goods and practices from continental Europe and beyond. Urban communities became exposition centres, exhibiting the fashionable models of cultural activity, whether performances of Handel's oratorios, meetings of a newly established learned society or the latest taste in furnishings, dress or speech. Yet British cities in the Georgian era were more than sites or stages for cultural exchange: they were also seedbeds of innovation. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The period 1540–1700 saw a transformation of the religious and educational institutions of English, Welsh and Scottish towns, and of the society and culture of their inhabitants. In Britain as in Europe, towns and urban society played an important part in the reformation of the Church and of its role in secular society, both in terms of institutional change and in popular and elite responses to it. Between 1540 and 1580, many of the basic institutional structures of medieval urban society were abolished or fundamentally altered. Important foci of community and civic life, such as fraternities, chantries and ceremonial, disappeared, and town populations and governments had to find a new collective spirit and new ways of organising their sociability. Many town governments came to be influenced by a Protestant or Puritan political ideology, which shaped their view of society and their response to its problems. The reformed Scottish Church achieved a very close relationship with secular urban governments, and set the agenda for action in many spheres, beyond those of religion and education. In the century and a half after the Reformation, religion continued to play an important part in the lives of townspeople in England and Wales, but the Church as a universal institution had been weakened, and the former unity of belief and observance was never recovered. Towns came to accommodate a multiplicity of beliefs and congregations. In the longer term the fragmentation of religious gatherings was paralleled by a decline in observance overall, a growing secularisation of society to which the increase in educational endowment and provision may have contributed. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Writing home to the Doge and Senate, those crusty patricians ensconced in their colonnaded palace on St Mark's Square, Venetian ambassadors to the Tudor Court hymned the praises of London as one of the principal cities of Europe, but ignored or dismissed almost all the remaining English towns. Other sixteenth-century visitors from the great continental states were equally critical. Only travellers from the more remote central European countries found anything remarkable in English provincial towns. Scottish and Welsh towns barely figure in foreign reports: Edinburgh on one occasion was compared to a French country town. Yet by the late eighteenth century British towns – not just London but provincial towns – were the envy of the civilised world, admired in the many travellers' accounts which rehearsed details of their affluence, manufactures, vigorous club life, bustling, friendly shops, well-lit, orderly streets, and much else. Whereas at the start of our period only a minority of English people, maybe 15 per cent or so (and a much lower proportion in Scotland and Wales) resided in cities and towns, by the accession of Queen Victoria nearly half the British population was urban. Not only was there an increasingly integrated national system of towns, but British towns became notable as centres of economic and social innovation, of political discourse and cultural enlightenment, their advance having a growing impact on national society and beyond. Hitherto located on the European periphery in terms of urban development, analogous to regions like Scandinavia and central Europe with their low urban populations and localised towns, from the eighteenth century Britain emerged as the chief laboratory of a modernising world. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Numbers and location of small towns A first stage in understanding late medieval small towns must be to ask how many there were, and where they were located. But how do we recognise the small towns among the thousands of rural settlements? Those places can be identified which enjoyed the status of boroughs (in England and Wales) and burghs in Scotland. But that can only initiate the inquiry, because we know that many small boroughs and burghs existed only in law and never developed into urban settlements. Other places, especially in eastern England, became towns without gaining the privileges of a borough. The clerks used the word ‘vill’ to describe both rural and urban places, and in doing so echoed common speech, in which a wide range of settlements were called ‘towns’. Without clear guidance from contemporary terminology, we must apply our definition of a town, searching for evidence of a compact and permanent settlement, in which a high proportion of the inhabitants pursued a variety of nonagricultural occupations. In addition, we might hope to find that the town served as the commercial, administrative or religious centre of its locality, and that it had the topographical characteristics of closely set houses, narrow plots and a market place. Small towns are defined here arbitrarily as containing fewer than 2,000 inhabitants. Places have accordingly been excluded if they are found to exceed that figure at any time in the period, but some of them did not remain consistently large. No lower limit has been imposed, though we would expect that most towns would be larger than the surrounding villages, and in practice the great majority of small towns had populations in excess of 300. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

‘Coming into Canterbury’, wrote Charles Dickens in David Copperfield, ‘I loitered through the old streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits and eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names over the shops … the venerable Cathedral towers … the battered gateways.’ For Dickens, and for the modern visitor to towns where medieval fabric can still be seen (such as Norwich, which claims to have more surviving medieval churches than any other town in western Europe), the built environment creates a powerful sense of place and a reassuring frame of reference. We can try to reconstruct the former townscape and delve behind it to study the relationship between physical settings and the attitudes which influenced the conduct of medieval life. The construction of the built environment in medieval British towns reflected both social values and personal initiatives or personal monument making, be it repairing a bridge, erecting a conduit or adding a chapel to the local parish church. But the period was not static. Over the two and a half centuries covered by this chapter, certain developments and underlying trends can be seen. During the medieval period, several features of construction and amenity first appeared in towns: jetties for the first floor and higher by 1300 (already in London by 1246), dormer windows by 1450 and the flooring over of halls which probably happened in profusion in towns during the fifteenth century before it was necessary or thought fashionable in the countryside. The underlying motors were the conjunction of pressure on space and the availability of cash, generated by trade and other urban pursuits (such as rents), which created the climate for innovation and display, both at the level of grand patronage in a church or the ordinary house. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

At the beginning of the seventh century, nowhere in Britain could have been described as a town, a place with permanent occupants whose life styles were distinct from those of rural contemporaries. Urbanism had become established at a few sites by c. 700, but even thereafter its progress was slow and intermittent. Although vestiges of an urban past may have survived in fifth- and sixth-century Canterbury, the new Church communities established inside and outside its walls after 597 did not stimulate rapid regeneration. An early seventh-century gold coin inscribed Dorovernis Civitas marks an aspiration to revive the city's status, and a valuable gold and garnet pendant and other objects have been found in extramural cemeteries and at intramural sites. Those who owned such things need not have lived within Canterbury, however, and occupation remained sporadic there, with one area that had already had post-Roman use even being abandoned. Sunken-featured buildings were still constructed in the style current since the early fifth century, but ground-level timber structures have also been found. Iron workers certainly continued to operate inside the walls, and another craft, pottery making, was beginning to become more specialised, but the quality of the local clays probably caused it to be extramural. Some demand for higher-quality products may have been developing, and the 675 charter reference to Fordewicum is usually taken to mean that a wic or landing-place was coming into use downstream from Canterbury on the River Stour at Fordwich, where toll privileges were granted in the next century. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

As in many other parts of Europe, churches are often the key to explaining the revival or emergence of towns in Britain in the earlier middle ages; nor did they cease to be influential once the towns were well established, but, on the contrary, continued to dominate many smaller towns, or to be powerful forces in larger ones, as landlords, consumers and patrons of the arts. Not least among the last was architecture: churches were usually the most important features in the landscape, being usually the tallest structures, often topographically the most extensive, and architecturally the most innovative. While defining the role of churches in towns is fairly straightforward in the earlier middle ages, exploring culture is much harder, chiefly because it is difficult to define a specifically urban culture before the end of the thirteenth century. The high culture of courts and major churches did not necessarily require, though it often enjoyed, an urban setting, while popular culture is not only hard to divide into urban and rural forms but is also poorly documented for this period. None the less, it is possible to discern one cultural area where towns played an active role towards the end of this period: that is the growth of literacy and the development of education. Accordingly, this chapter will be broken up into four sections of unequal length: first, a short summary of the role of churches in the embryonic towns of the 600-900 period; secondly, an overview of churches in towns as they expanded or were created in the tenth and eleventh centuries; thirdly, an overview of the diversification of ecclesiastical institutions in towns in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and fourthly, a sketch of three separate aspects of urban culture: schools, the increasing use of the written word by townspeople and the development of the genre of urban panegyric. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Of the alternatives represented in the intellectual scene in late Ming, the westerners' Learning from Heaven (T'ien hsüeh) was the least well precedented. In spite of efforts to assimilate some of it to vocabulary and concepts in classical texts, the Learning from Heaven could not escape also being labeled as western Learning (Hsi hsüeh). It was foreign, whereas the other main intellectual alternatives to the Learning of the Way (Tao hsüeh), including Buddhism, were only different (i). Although critics of the missionaries cited foreign origins in attempts to discredit the Learning from Heaven, its foreignness remained less an issue in late Ming than it became in the K'ang-hsi period in early Ch'ing. With no obvious detriment to his contemporary reputation, Ricci was well known under the name Li of the Far West (Li Hsi-t'ai). He and his confreres published books about that different part of the world, the Far West, from which they had come. Ricci reported being told in 1599 by a censor in Nanking that, having lived in Kiangsi and other places, he was “no longer a foreigner in China. Can there be any objection to his residing in Nanking, where there are so many Hui-hui [Muslims]?” Ricci had been proceeding since 1595 with the tactic of acting “as though we were men of China” (come uomini già della Cina). Especially in the early phase of the mission, there was a self-conscious effort by a few of the missionaries to be Chinese, but an important aspect of their impact on literati with whom they had contact was that they were from a distant, unknown place. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The tribute system matrix Between 1514 and 1662, the people and government of China were involved in, and affected by, the first stages of the development of a “modern world system.” This involvement was implemented via the sea routes linking all the continents except Antarctica and Australia in exchanges of trade goods, food plants, diseases, people, and ideas. Ming official concepts and formalized institutions of foreign relations offered little guidance to Chinese officials and had little effect on Sino-European relations after the first encounters with the Portuguese, but actual official responses were alert, flexible, and reasonably effective. Chinese merchants, craftsmen, and sailors became extremely vigorous participants in building a new world of trade and settlement around the South China Sea. The rise of Nagasaki and other ports of Kyushu, the beginnings of Chinese settlement of Taiwan, the sudden emergence of Hai-ch'eng and then Amoy, the flourishing of Macao, Manila, Banten, Batavia, Ayudhya, Melaka, and many more centers of commercial and economic growth depended very heavily on the activities of these Chinese entrepreneurs. The silk-silver trades with Japan and Manila had substantial effects on the Ming economy. The Roman Catholic missionary presence and Chinese responses to it, while on a small scale, reached all levels of Chinese society. As we seek to understand the vigor of these private involvements, we need to draw on our growing knowledge of late Ming culture and society, and especially of maritime China as a regional variant in society, economy, and polity. The changes in empire-wide politics so well summarized in Volume 7 frequently help us to understand the changes in official approaches to maritime problems. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The experience of life in China changed remarkably over three centuries of Ming rule. That, at least, is how it seemed to those who lived through the changes and felt obliged to record their surprise and dismay. By the middle of the dynasty, many literate observers were becoming aware that the institutions laid down by the founding Emperor, Hung-wu, were no longer guiding social practices. They credited this lapse variously to the recurrent problems of lax administration, low-level corruption, and a weakening of moral fibre. Writers of the late Ming knew differently. In their view, something more than just dynastic sag had taken hold. Many became obsessed with the extent to which Chinese society had grown away from what they were trained to believe it had originally been: an agrarian realm where superiors knew their responsibilities and inferiors their places. But, they felt, people no longer stayed put: class distinctions had become confusingly fluid; the cultivation of wealth had displaced moral effort as the presiding goal of the age. The panicked indignation that can be found in writings of the late Ming may not represent the mood that all of that age shared, nor may it speak directly of the actual pressures to which an embattled elite felt vulnerable. But it came close. Some late-Ming writers, for instance, were aware that China was becoming a more crowded place than it had been at the beginning of the Ming, but only the more alarmist insisted that the population had more than doubled between the Hung-wu emperor's reign and the turn of the seventeenth century – as in fact it had. Others were sensitive to the difficulty that cultivators were having in gaining access to enough land to survive, but only a few were aware of the migration that had shifted China's population westward over the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and they tended not to grasp the scale of this movement. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The rulers of Ming China would not have recognized the region known today as Southeast Asia. They considered the archipelago east of Brunei (modern Borneo) to be part of that area they termed the Eastern Oceans, while all other coastal states they considered part of the Western Oceans, which, for long periods in their nomenclature, also included countries bordering on the Indian Ocean. Those states which comprised what are now modern Burma, Laos, and northern Thailand, were grouped quite differendy from the other nations comprising the Eastern or Western Oceans. The view of other nations held at the imperial capital at Nanking or Peking was always sinocentric. Foreign countries were considered to have no meaningful existence unless their rulers had a relationship with the emperor of China. Such factors as the country's distance from China's capital, whether the country shared a border with the empire or not, and whether the country was important to the empire's defense were also deemed significant. There were held to be technical differences between nations as well: countries which sent missions through Ch'üan-chou in Fukien were distinguished by the court from countries whose missions entered China through Canton in Kwangtung; and countries sending overland missions from beyond the provinces of Kwangsi and Yunnan were considered yet different again from the others. Certain general principles concerning the proper conduct of foreign relations that the Chinese court continually emphasized notwithstanding, what remained most important in determining Chinese foreign policy toward Southeast Asia were the political conditions prevailing at the particular time during the dynasty. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The Ming dynasty is generally known as a period of stable, effective government during which some important new institutions developed. Although in the end the dynasty collapsed under the pressures of domestic rebellions and foreign invasions, it had long seemed the most secure and unchallengeable ruling house the Chinese had known, and its institutions were largely perpetuated with admiration by the succeeding Ch'ing dynasty. The system of governance that matured in Ming times was the culmination of trends that became evident after the mid-T'ang period, developed markedly in Sung times, and were further stimulated by the Mongol occupation of China during the Yüan dynasty. The emperor was a supreme autocrat. Administration of the empire on his behalf was entrusted to Confucian-indoctrinated scholars who were selected for service on the basis of their scholastic merit as demonstrated in competitive recruitment examinations, who made career progress very largely on the basis of service judged by their peers to be meritorious, and who constituted a civil service that was significantly self-regulating. The civil service dominated government to an unprecedented degree. It was not seriously challenged by hereditary nobles or military officers, although eunuch agents or manipulators of emperors often disrupted civil service dominance. Society at large was thoroughly integrated into the state to such an extent that, during the final decades of the Ming dynasty, rulers were securely in control of everything they wished to control, and no other group in society rivaled the status of the civil officialdom as the natural leaders of society. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Ming China, having just endured a century of Mongol rule, sought to avert further occupations by a people or state from Inner Asia. Court policy was, therefore, generally based on restricting relations with foreigners, particularly those from across the northern and northwestern borders. Fear of future invasions conditioned the Ming's attitudes and policies toward Central and Inner Asia. The court was determined to reinstate the Chinese world order so as to maintain control over the conduct of foreign relations. Yet the economic benefits to be garnered from dealings with the peoples north of China could not be discounted. Merchants and some officials who profited from trade naturally attempted to support an increase in commerce. When court restrictions on commerce persisted, these merchants and officials even evaded the regulations and continued to trade with the peoples and tribes across the borders. The Yung-lo emperor (r. 1403–24), however, often sided with the advocates of trade and increased contact with Inner Asia. His reign nonetheless was unique, and his policies were exceptions. Unlike the other Ming emperors, he actively encouraged an expansion of commerce and attempted to augment the number of embassies arriving in China. His usurpation of the throne and the ensuing questions about his legitimacy may have inspired him to seek such a flow of foreign emissaries, for, in the Confucian view, a good emperor naturally attracted the so-called barbarians to “come and be transformed” (lai-hua) – that is, to acknowledge the superiority of Chinese civilization by becoming increasingly sinicized. The more embassies, the more legitimate the Yung-lo emperor would appear to his own people. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In his survey of the world of the early Enlightenment, Peter Gay wrote: ‘Hamburg, one of many Free Cities in the German Empire, avoided the decay of most of the others by welcoming foreigners of all nationalities and giving them a place in civic and commercial affairs. The… Constitution of 1712, perhaps the least oligarchical urban charter of the age, reflected this liberal spirit and promoted it.’ Gay gives no source for his judgement, but it reflects nonetheless the views of a long line of Hamburg historians beginning around 1800 and culminating in the better-known work of Percy Schramm. After the toleration mandate of 1785, and in the context of the euphoric reforming zeal of the urban elite after the 1790s, the city's historians created a myth of a free mercantile republic whose present wealth and power derived from a long tradition of freedom and toleration. ‘In political and civil terms there is only one estate in Hamburg, the burgher estate’, wrote Johann Daniel Curio in 1802, ‘We are all citizens, no more and no less.’ A decade later Jonas Ludwig von Hess elaborated the myth when he declared: The people here sometimes abused the non-Lutheran immigrants and made them fear for their lives. Yet one cannot claim that Lutheran Hamburg ever openly persecuted those whom, according to its religious principles, it would have been obliged to regard as heretics. It never deprived them of their honour, their livelihood or their lives. The appearance of intolerance which was formerly attached to the city rarely sprang from a fanatical devotion to the supposed cause of God. If such an intolerance did in fact ever rage in Hamburg, this spirit more truly possessed the minds of the clergy than those of the real citizens. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

On 19 September 1785 the Bürgerschaft assented to a law giving religious freedom to Catholics and Calvinists. The proposal aroused no opposition. The Lutheran clergy were not consulted. Indeed, they only heard of the initiative three days previously. Their hands were bound: they could but wait for official notification of the inevitable. The city abounded with rumours of ‘die Toleranz Bürgerschaft’, and the news of the decision was greeted as a triumph of Aufklärung. At last the intransigence of the citizenry had been overcome; politics prevailed over the pulpit. Pastor Goeze's comment on hearing the news, that ‘the public has been sufficiently prepared [for this step] by the newspapers’, provides the clue to the general context in which the reform took place. In the first decades of the century the literature on toleration was relatively small. It consisted largely of translations from English, and the works of men such as Thomasius, Buddeus, Wolff, Pfaff. After 1740, the literature began to grow significantly. The emergence of writers like Johann Michael von Loen marked the prelude to a broad stream of writings on the subject of religious toleration in the 1760s. This flood of books and pamphlets was reported and reviewed in self-consciously enlightened journals (Nicolai's Allgemeine Deutsche Bibliothek is the most prominent example) and also in newspapers all over Germany. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The history of the gradual acceptance of the Catholics and Jews demonstrates two extremes of the experience of religious minorities in Hamburg. The Catholics were tolerated almost exclusively because of the city's perennial dependence on their patron, the Holy Roman Emperor. Political and diplomatic factors predominated, while the economic considerations, which had led to the initial acceptance of Catholic merchants in the period around 1600, diminished in importance as the community lost its mercantile character. Social isolation and poverty, rather than wealth and status, characterised the Catholic community after about 1630. In the case of the Jews, who lacked an official Imperial or princely patron, economic factors were of crucial importance; they continuously played an important economic role, even though the character of the community changed considerably with the decline of the original Sephardic element and the increasing predominance of the Ashkenazim. For the Jews supplied skills and trades which did not on the whole compete with those of the citizens of Hamburg, and which made a valuable contribution to the urban economy. It was the recognition of this fact which stimulated the efforts of the 1730s and 1740s to find a more satisfactory solution to the synagogue issue. Attitudes to neither group, however, ever went substantially beyond the desire for a more clearly defined legal relationship. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In his Dichtung und Wahrheit Goethe recalled how as an aspiring young writer he had practised his literary skills by drafting a pamphlet in the form of a letter from a rural parson to a newly ordained colleague: ‘The main theme of this letter was the watchword of that time, namely, “Tolerance”, which prevailed among the better minds and spirits.’ His immediate inspiration was the work of his uncle Johann Michael von Loen, one of the most prominent German polemicists of religious toleration; but his youthful exercise reflected one of the major preoccupations of the age. For, as contemporaries constantly pointed out, the eighteenth century was the century of toleration. United in their rejection of persecution and discrimination on grounds of faith, the Aufklärer saw the propagation of mutual recognition and respect as their prime vocation. Even the most cursory survey of enlightened literature reveals just how fundamental the idea of toleration was to the Aufklärung. Sermons, travel reports, historical works, topographies, encyclopedias, studies of population growth and the economy, plays, poems and novels, all are littered with references to the evils of religious persecution and the beneficial results of an irenic pacificism. The writings of Bayle, Locke and Voltaire became the devotional literature of a new cult of humanity which condemned the brutality of the Old Testament. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Comme il est bien, dans la requête au Prince, d'interposer l'ivoire ou bien le jade Entre la face suzeraine et la louange courtisane. Ruf mir Yoshke, ruf mir Moshke, Aber gib mir die groschke. The trouble with prizes The history of the funding of science in France is pervaded by the theme of poverty, eloquently stated by a line of lamenters from Pasteur to Maurice Barrès and on to Jacques Monod. So convincing has been the brief for poverty that historians, ever victims of their sources, have generally been mesmerized into repeating this litany. Not that Pasteur was wrong in 1868: Dumas, Foucault, Fizeau, and Boussingault had private laboratories because there were no funds specifically earmarked for research in the educational budget. In 1884 Fremy echoed Dumas's plea of 1881 that those with money support science, but few followed Fremy's example of making a gift of 5,000 francs. Twenty-seven years later Georges Lemoine deplored the insufficiency of funds for the support of the scientific community, a vastly larger entity than it was in 1868, but seemingly in the same penury. Not really, of course; and it is to the steady, solid, increasing financial support for scientific research that the historian must also direct his attention. Recent scrutiny of the science support system in France has already produced some surprises, especially in the studies by Shinn, Crawford, and Weart. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

If amazement is the mother of science, the continental lawyer's amazement when he is confronted with the English common law must be one of the most powerful factors in the scientific study of the law (to which, after all, the Goodhart professorship is devoted). I shall therefore begin with the presentation of ten legal institutions which exemplify the different approach by English and continental law and, in the course of so doing, present some historical explanations or at least considerations. Many more examples could have been selected, but, whether under the influence of the decimal system or because of reminiscences of the decalogue, ten seemed a fair and not absolutely fortuitous number. As befits a legal historian, I shall be concerned with the historic or classic common law without, however, ignoring altogether various recent changes that seem to be narrowing the gap between the common law and the ‘Roman-Germanic family’. Some readers may themselves be amazed at this amazement: is it not natural that every country has its own laws? In the United States every state enjoys and even guards its own laws, and in some cases even a code of laws! To this the reply can be made that the difference between England and the rest of Europe (including to a large extent even Scotland) goes much deeper than the differences among the continental countries and the states in North America: it is the whole approach to the law and the very way of legal thinking which is different, and not just the laws on divorce or the maximum speed on the highways. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

In both the United States and Europe, people's subjective perception of life's overall quality is not wholly reflected by their objective conditions: Riches do not necessarily bring satisfaction, nor are the poor always dissatisfied. In this chapter, we explore the recollections of recent Soviet emigrants about how satisfied they felt about their lives in the Soviet Union. We then identify the groups among whom satisfaction levels differed significantly. The first goal is to discover how Soviet emigrants rated the quality of their lives in the Soviet Union during their last normal period of life in the Soviet Union (LNP). The data sought are the individual respondents' own assessments of the quality of their lives. The respondents' answers had a normative reference that is unique in Soviet studies, for it was the individuals' own expectations, values, and experiences that shaped their judgments. In order to minimize psychological weighting, they were asked to evaluate not Soviet society in general but their own life events. Quality of life differs, of course, among different people. It also varies over time in an individual's life. There is a difference to be noted between an index of “happiness” (or “misery”), which assesses a momentary, fleeting state of one's feelings, and an index of satisfaction (or dissatisfaction), where reality is judged more soberly against one's expectations. It would be impossible to obtain a reliable index of happiness from Soviet emigrants because so much time has elapsed since the respondents lived in the Soviet Union. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The economic success of a medieval town naturally depended, to a great extent, on the variety of industries and trades it offered to the surrounding countryside and on the market it provided for the exchange of goods. A prosperous town acted as a magnet upon its immediate area, drawing a supply of labour and produce from the country and giving in return goods which were unobtainable in village communities and services which were dependent on the town's craftsmen. To anticipate the conclusions of the following survey, late medieval Durham emerges as a comparatively small market town with a limited range of trades. These trades or occupations were geared to the servicing of the urban community as a whole, and the two great ecclesiastical households of the bishop and the prior on the peninsula in particular, as well as to the needs of the agricultural communities nearby. Durham was still small enough to retain several characteristics of an agricultural community well into the sixteenth century: many open spaces, orchards and closes were to be found in the outer boroughs; and probably a significant proportion of the town's inhabitants were employed as seasonal agricultural labourers, working, for example, on the priory hostillar's manor of Elvethall. Durham was closely bound to its immediate hinterland and to a purely local market; it thus bears close comparison with a town such as fourteenth-century Colchester, where local trade predominated and agrarian-based occupations were important in the town's economy. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Durham Cathedral Priory had a dominant interest both as landlord and landowner in the town which surrounded the peninsula. No less than three of Durham's five boroughs were under the direct overlordship of its obedientiaries: Old and New Elvet were managed by the hostillar and the Old Borough was administered by the sacrist after 1423. Landmale, or ground rents, as well as the profits of the borough courts, went to these officers automatically to help them finance their duties within the priory. By 1500 the priory had succeeded in becoming the leading landlord in these parts of the urban area by its acquisition of many of the freeholds of properties, and in addition, several valuable tenements elsewhere, for example in the Bailey, Clayport and St Giles, had come into priory hands. The management as well as the revenues of this large urban estate were subdivided among the priory obedientiaries: in all, eight obedientiaries had property-holding interests in Durham from which they derived what proved to be a somewhat fluctuating income. Set against this impressive priory stake in the Durham property-market, the bishop's overlordship of only one borough in the later middle ages, the Bishop's Borough, looks poor indeed, although, like the priory, the bishop held valuable properties in other boroughs as well. But it must be borne in mind that the Bishop's Borough was the most prosperous part of Durham at all periods; it contained the one marketing area for the whole town and so, in addition to court profits, it yielded a considerable income from tolls for its overlord. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The city of Durham is in a region which has as its natural boundaries the River Tyne and its valley to the north and the River Tees to the south. The landscape ranges from bleak moorland areas and the Pennine chain, rising to over 2,400 feet, on the west to a coastal plain on the east which lies at sea level. Although this region was described by medieval chroniclers as impoverished border country, it had many natural resources which could be exploited by its inhabitants. It was an area rich in mineral deposits such as lead, which was mined in Weardale in the middle ages. The bishop of Durham held some of the most valuable coal mines in medieval England at Gateshead and Whickham. The gently rolling countryside to the south-east of Durham was farmed by the monks of Durham Priory for its grain. There was cattle farming in the north of the region, with sheep grazing on the higher land to the west. Surplus agricultural produce was brought to the market towns of the area including Durham, Darlington and Stockton, and goods were shipped in and out of the region from the ports of Gateshead and Hartlepool. Furthermore, there was a network of small agricultural settlements, particularly in the east lowland areas of the county, like Boldon, Pittington, Easington and Billingham. Accordingly, Durham was surrounded by a relatively rich and varied hinterland. The town itself stands in a lowland area some fifteen miles from the coast, an area which is by no means lacking in visual and geological interest. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Saving and investment have lost much of their luster in the development literature since the 1950s, when Sir Arthur Lewis declared that saving was “the central problem in the theory of economic development” (1954, p. 155). Their place in the literature needs to be reconsidered, and defining economic development as growth plus improvement in income distribution is a good starting point. It would be unsatisfactory, indeed, to insist that a country was developing if its per capita growth rate were 5 percent per year while the poorest 20 percent of the population were becoming relatively poorer. It would be equally unsatisfactory to insist that a country was developing if its per capita growth rate were negative regardless of what was happening to the relative position of the poor. Saving promotes growth, and that establishes it as a causal factor in development. Thus, saving need not be the “central problem” in development, but as the “engine of growth” it must be a major factor. 6.1 Growth in domestic saving as an indicator of development One purpose of this chapter is to call attention to the distinction between domestic saving and total saving and to argue that neglect of this distinction is responsible for confusion with respect to the relationship between saving and development. Total saving is the wrong variable of focus. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

When, early in his literary career, Mandeville wrote The Grumbling Hive, he satirized his contemporaries for trumpeting their commitment to classical or Christian ideals of virtue while glorying in recent English prosperity. Employing the beehive as a symbol of productive activity for his own satiric purposes, he divided the poem into two parts. The first part stresses the economic benefits that follow when a society can accommodate a certain amount of (relatively unselfconscious) moral corruption amongst its members. In the second part, Mandeville contrasts this public felicity with an imagined society in which disastrous economic consequences follow when the lives of citizens are purged of immoral and immoderate behavior. Yet even in the wealthy hive, the “knaves” populating it are hypocrites who “boast … of their honesty” while engaging in duplicitous social practices. Mandeville's obvious and intentionally transgressive point in the poem is that commercial societies seem naturally to entail forms of artifice and imposture which should be understood as the moral price of commercial prosperity. As we have seen, he gave theoretical expression to this common concern amongst observers of British public life in the early eighteenth century, that, as one of them noted, “Greatness is so Theatrical, and the actors change so often that really I was at a loss where to fix.” [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

Rousseau portrayed the antique ideals of frugality, civic virtue and martial independence as the only morally sound and therefore politically defensible alternatives to the vision of modernity he found in The Fable of the Bees. The corruption of contemporary commercial societies, Rousseau argued, followed inexorably from their illegitimate political foundations, a passage Mandeville had sketched with a perverse glee, and one to which Rousseau compulsively returned. The Fable haunted Rousseau's moral imagination, rendering him oblivious to Mandeville's satiric purposes. Rousseau simply passed over in contemptuous silence Mandeville's frequent assertions that the forms of commercial sociability were at the same time foundations of politically enlightened polities which respected the rights of their citizens, and which more than any others in recorded history provided expanding opportunities for an individual's worldly happiness. Rousseau became one of Mandeville's most influential readers precisely because he could so creatively accept, isolate from their ironic context, and then magnify those features of The Fable's argument in which it was baldly asserted that “What we call Evil in this World … is the grand Principle that makes us sociable Creatures” (1, 369). In his attack on Mandeville, Rousseau chose to ignore one of The Fable's most sociologically astute insights. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]

The Fable of the Bees was the Enlightenment's epitome of immoralism. Throughout the eighteenth century, Mandeville was seen as the most formidable modern critic of Christian moral psychology, the exemplary nihilist who applauded illimitable human desire, and the compelling satirist of contemporary codes of propriety. His work, more than any other, called into question fundamental standards of social behavior. To both his few admitted admirers and The Fable's legion of opponents, Mandeville's critique of inherited ideals of conduct was thought never fully to have been answered, not only in his own lifetime, but during the two generations after his death in 1732. Adam Smith, for example, was still revising his attack on The Fable in 1790, the last year of his life. Mandeville himself insisted that his distinctive amalgam of philosophy and satire had both a critical and constructive intention: to “pull off the disguises of artful men,” as he wrote in response to Bishop Berkeley, and to expose “the hidden springs” of human action to analytic inspection. His project of “anatomizing the invisible part of man” (1, 136) was designed to demonstrate that the vocabularies of formal systems of ethics served the essentially political and socializing purpose of deflecting critical attention from the irreducibly passionate and utterly self-regarding sources of actual human wishes. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]