HISTORIANS - TAKING A STRONG STAND - from 'Historians at Work'

Historians at Work : lnvestigating and Recreating the past
Edited by David Duffy , Grant Harman ,
Keith Swan


When the editors of this volume chose me to contribute the chapter on 'Taking a strong stand' they betrayed precisely the kind of bias I intend to expose. Because I have declared the commitment of my historical researches to the achievement of a socialist revolution in Australia the editors decided that this set me apart from other historians. To defend my explicit commitment would be to play into their hands. Through an analysis of 'objective' historians propose to show instead that my approach to history is no different to anyone else's and that the editors should have asked one of the silent majority to write this chapter. Of course this would not have been possible as the distinguishing feature of 'objective' historians is their failure to realise that they are taking a strong stand in defence of capitalism. Indeed most historians who read this chapter will say 'But that's not bias - that's history'.

It is certainly difficult to find a self-confessed' objective' historian. Thucydides is often held up as a model. What is meant is that he shows good and bad on both sides although he never departs from his fundamental support for Athens. Another claimant for the throne of 'objectivity' is Ranke to whom Mr Carr has attributed a most melancholy responsibility. But Ranke will have none of it. History, he exclaimed 'is not simply an academic subject: the knowledge of the history of mankind should be a common property of humanity and should above all benefit our nation'.[1]

Nor does the position change when we examine contemporaries. In an interview with Hugh Trevor Roper, Ved Mehta asked:

Sometimes you explain away the works of men like Toynbee and Taylor in terms of their prejudices. Are there any personal details about you that could throw light on your way of writing history? Not really, he said.[2]

G. R. Elton is very conscious of the problem of 'objectivity' and of the difficulty in attaining it. In The Practice of History he argues that Namier's case 'shows the real place of bias, of the historian's personality, in the business of writing history. It enables him to look afresh at the facts of the past.' For, he says, ‘historians like other people, tend to judge the world from their own experience and practice'. Nonetheless he maintains that

The theories . . . concerning Tudor  government which I have proposed and which have met with a good deal of argument and criticism, came to my mind not (as some of my critics would have it) because mine was a naturally authoritarian mind looking for virtue in rulers, but because the evidence called them forth.

Elton's denial that his personality influenced his analysis is not merely in conflict with his previously quoted generalisations, it is implicitly contradicted two pages further on when he says ‘. . . . what we call history is the mess we call life reduced to some order. . .’ Elton's inability to see the beam in his own eye is not the most revealing part of his approach to the question of 'objectivity'. Far more significant is his declaration that allegations that historians are invariably biased 'are commonplaces, largely true, which need not be laboured further'.[3]  He does not like to admit this so he pretends it is old-hat and not worthy of serious consideration.  A neat if obvious trick!

In his lectures printed under the title Attempting History Sir Keith Hancock begins boldly by asserting that he 'will never admit . . . the inveterate and irremediable subjectivity of historical investigation and explanation'. But he is quickly reduced to admitting that 'objectivity' is to be aimed at rather than achieved. He also suggests that when historians are frank about their bias it is alright to be biased.[4]  Arthur Marwick concludes his survey of the issue by accepting that the historian can never be completely 'objective'.[5] In a more philosophical vein Gordon Leff attempts to lift the burden from historians' shoulders by redefining 'objectivity, as a coherently plausible integration of all the known facts.[6] But this raises more problems than it solves: 'plausible' is no less troublesome than 'objective'.

Thus we are presented with a real paradox. No one appears anxious to take the title of 'objective' for himself yet so many extol it as their, or their colleagues aim. Or conversely they claim it for themselves but deny it to friend and foe alike. It might be that we have joined Alvin Gouldner in his search for the Minotaur of a value-free sociology which Gouldner concludes only manages to exist at all precisely because it is half man and half bull.[7]

So it is the quest, rather than the grail, which calls for explanation. What are the social necessities that demand a constant reiteration of a goal which everyone agrees is unattainable? How are we to explain this particular piece of middle-class millenarianism? Obviously I can do no more than sketch out an answer, but that answer must be that the disparity between theory and practice is designed to conceal some very real biases in those practices. 'Objectivity' is simultaneously the barricade behind which the defenders of the status quo conceal their prejudices, and the challenge they throw at those who overtly reveal certain, and only some, preferences. It is a shield and a sword for the comfortable and the cosy. When historians call for 'objectivity' they are in fact calling for a species of bias.

My contention is that in their daily practice of writing and teaching, historians adopt methods of research which are far from neutral in terms of the society in which they live, and that these techniques appear neutral only because they in no way challenge the continued existence of capitalism. The bias of 'objectivity' is not to be found in the conclusions and declared principles of 'objective' historians. Their bias rests in their methods and particularly in their deployment of objectivity as a synonym for 'impartial'. In demonstrating the strong stand taken by 'objective' historians eight different aspects will be examined - all too briefly.

1. The bias of topics
The choice of a topic to research is all too rarely decided by any conception of what is relevant or important. More likely it will be determined by some far more mundane consideration such as the availability of source materials; the research interests of one's head of department; or in some cases the availability of Foundation grants. Even the most innocent of these reasons should not pass unexamined as they all impinge upon the ability of an historian to engage in the 'passioned pursuit of passionless truth'. Yet leaving these pressures aside there remains a good deal of scope for the historian to make a choice of which aspects he will study in depth.

Even when the topic is as narrow as the Second Reform Bill the historian can write a book about the detailed parliamentary manoeuvrings through which the legislation was beaten into its final form or he can produce a vast socio-economic study. on this question of choosing which causes to study take the point made by William Dray in his Philosophy of History when he cites Collingwood on the relativity of causes: 'for any given person, the cause . . . of a given thing is that one of its conditions which he is able to produce or prevent'. Dray accepts this for the actors in history but says that it is of little direct help to the historian who 'cannot sensibly ask himself how he could, have produced or prevented the defeat of Napoleon.'[8]

On the contrary, Collingwood's point is of great importance to the historian who must ask himself what kind of causes his lifestyle has led him to believe he can influence. Historians are always in danger of preferring an explanation which gives them the greatest feeling of vicarious power. When weighing up the causes of the British Public order Bill of 1936 a historian who spends much of his time on committees and in clubrooms may value a conversation with the Prime Minister and diminish the importance of street violence to which the historian objects in principle and in which he has never participated. And if he does so prefer who will blame him? Conversations are rational, sensible and objective causes while the acts of the mob are by definition irrational, emotional and subjective, not to say swinish.

The more usual form of bias in the choice of a topic expresses itself as an omission rather than as a commission. Frederick Jackson Turner was by no means the last historian to leave the Negro out of American history while the poorer classes have been given a bad time by writers who believed that history consisted of 'the conversation of the people who counted'. Working-class women have been even lower down the scale: Howard Zinn pointed to the bias involved in this omission by quoting a 1929 speech of the American congressman Fiorella LaGuardia:

It is true that Mr Mellon, Mr Ford, Mr Rosenwald, Mr Schwab, Mr Morgan and a great many others not only manage to keep their enormous fortunes intact, but increase their fortunes every year . . . But can any one of them improve on the financial genius of Mrs Maria Esposito or Mrs Rebecca Epstein or Mrs Maggie Flynn who is keeping house in a New York tenement raising five or six children on a weekly envelope of thirty dollars . . .?[9]

Without even commenting on the virtues of a Mellon or a Ford or a Morgan the historian who devotes space to their activities without mentioning the activities of the Bronx housewives is revealing a clear cut bias about who is important. Similarly a biographer automatically endorses the importance of the individual in history in contradistinction to a class analysis. In terms of 'objectivity' there is nothing to choose between them, except that in a capitalist society biography is acceptable because it conforms to the dominant ideology of individualism.[10]

2. The bias of language and style
The ability to manipulate language is not the least of the advantages available to the upholder of the status quo. In the debate over Vietnam, for instance, the language of the US army became the acceptable language for academic debate. Thus an academic could speak of pacification without embarrassment and without the need for footnotes. But if an opponent of the war used a word like imperialist he was clearly being emotive and unscholarly, even if he defined his terms. The swearwords of the establishment quickly become the lingua franca of academics.

Sometimes words acquire an emotive connotation which demands that they be dropped. Seton-Watson feels this way about 'fascist' which he proposes to replace with 'some neutral jargon phrase like "non-Marxist totalitarian".[11] Perhaps he will also start calling Belsen a 'selective population control centre'. But what is most significant is that Seton-Watson is obviously unaware of the political bias of his neutral jargon. In the spirit of his species of neutrality Belsen should be referred to as a racial decontamination unit. This inability to see the bias of 'objectivity' is almost universal and it helps to make it impossible for the 'objective' historian to see himself as just another ideologue.

Related to the choice of language is the choice of style. 'There is,' writes Barrington Moore Jnr, 'a strong tendency to assume that mild-mannered statements in favour of the status quo are "objective" and that everything else is "rhetoric".[12] Peter Geyl agreed with the first part of this and pointed out that

When a man writes in a quiet and matter-of-fact way, avoids the use of big words, does not betray any emotion or express any sympathy, letting his conclusions or opinions appear only in the most moderate terms or even obliquely - that does not make him objective.[13]

Geyl knew this-from personal experience. His lectures on Napoleon were impeccable for their display of dispassion but his audiences knew well enough that they were also about Hitler. In Holland in l940 and later in Buchenwald, Geyl did not need to shout in order to be heard; like St Thomas More his silences were eloquent in a time of obvious crisis.

But what of the reverse situation? Is the man who speaks in a brash and emotive way, and brazenly asserts his opinions, necessarily precluded from telling the truth? I would argue that there is a necessary connection between form and content, that each must be appropriate to the other if truth is to be approached. There are a superabundance of subjects where the historian will need to employ a so-called rhetorical tone simply in order to keep faith with Ranke's call 'to tell it as it really was'. The past has not always been polite and if it is to be recaptured it must convey the tenor of its action as well as the 'facts'- surely tone is as much a fact, as much a part of the past, as is a statistical table?

For example, if we were to write biographies of Deakin and Hughes in exactly the same prose style, at least one, and possibly both, would be presented as other than they were. Fitzhardinge's biography of Hughes is an excellent example of an entirely inappropriate prose style resulting in a severe distortion of the subject, while Cyril Pearl's Wild Men of Sydney (Cheshire, Melbourne) is a model of perfection. The same rule applies to events. The same tone of voice cannot accurately tell it ‘how it really was’ at Eureka and at the inauguration of Canberra.

This much might well be accepted by the 'objective' historians. There is a more difficult case for them, namely, what is the historian who treats a largely unrecognised social problem to do? Can he afford to be scrupulously genteel? When the historian is required to speak of a previously inarticulate group he must speak loudly if he is to be heard. And not just louder but often in a different tone. Rhetoric, he will find, is not something that can be avoided because it is not independent of the audience. Rhetoric is any tone of voice which upsets, which says even implicitly 'This is wrong' or 'This must not be allowed to continue'.

Whether a historian chooses to employ a decidedly rhetorical tone of voice will depend upon whom he is attempting to influence: in other words it will be predicated on his view of how social change is achieved. It is no more objective to write a cool article about Aboriginals for Oceania than it is to write a handbill for passengers waiting at Redfern station. Even if one does both this merely demonstrates one's commitment to the view that social change is achieved by a combination of elitist pressure and mass struggle.

3. The bias of facts
In an obituary for G. P. Gooch, Professor Medlicott wrote that 'As a scholar he prided himself on a cool liberalism and the ability to allow the evidence, of which he was always the complete master, to speak for itself.'[14] It is indicative of how little influence E. H. Carr has had that this could appear in the leading British academic historical journal eight years after his Trevelyan Lectures. I do not wish to say very much about the bias of the facts: Carr has given an excellent picture of the day-to-day practice of historians and it would be pointless to cover the same ground again. Moreover, tr should want to approach the question from an entirely different angle and this is not the place to raise such complex issues.[15] So I will content myself with examining G. R. Elton's attempted reply to Carr. In The Practice of History Elton confronts the example which Carr gives of a man being kicked to death in 1850. Elton proceeds thus:

A man was kicked to death in 1850; that is a fact, an event which took place and which nothing now can either make or unmake. It is quite immaterial whether the fact is known to an historian or used by him in analysing a problem. If the event were unknowable - if no evidence of it had survived at all - it would certainly be neither fact about the past nor historical fact - it would have ceased to exist and that piece of potential history would never have materialized - but it would still, of course, have occurred, independent of any historian. However the event can be known, and that is all that is required to make it a 'fact of history’.[16]

All of which simply misses Carr's point. We can see this better by distinguishing, as Carr has done, three levels of fact.

Firstly, there are all the events which have ever happened; secondly, there are all the events which have ever happened and of which there is now some kind of record; thirdly, there are those events which historians select from the second category in order to write their history books. Carr calls the third category 'historical facts'. Elton says no; it is the second category which are 'historical facts'. The transference of titles can in no way overcome the problem which Carr is posing: on what criteria do some facts move from the second category to the third? On this Elton says nothing and so his reply is a non-starter.

4. The bias of sources
In his introduction to the Selected Letters of Hubert Murray (Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1971), Francis West tells us that '. . . history is not the study of the past, of the whole truth of what happened, nor even of what men and women thought had happened, but only the study of the surviving evidence of the past' (p.xii). Although this is accepted by many historians it is unusual for them to recognise how great is the bias of selectivity. By and large it is the rich and powerful who leave evidence so that the historian who bases himself exclusively on the tangible remains, especially if he restricts himself to literary evidence, is forced to write a history biased towards the importance of the rulers; this is no less true if he writes a book attacking the rulers.

Related to the problem of sources is a self-confirming prediction about the availability of new sources. I think we can fairly argue that those who say that history cannot be about ordinary people because there is no evidence about them have never tried to find that evidence. The discovery of new kinds of evidence has been left to historians who, very often for politically motivated reasons, have deliberately set out to find it. Edward Thompson's use of the Home Office Records in his Making of the English Working Class (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1970), is a recent case in point. Thompson's discoveries are all the more pertinent because they were not a new kind of evidence; they were the old kind, that is, bits of paper in government files. R. M. Hartwell would never have found them because he does not approve of riots; Edward Thompson found them because he wants a revolution.

Not only do historians find the kind of evidence they look for, but archivists tend to preserve the kind of evidence which 'objective' historians seek. The Australian National Library has copies of the Women's Weekly only for the last seven years; very few libraries purchase or keep Truth or other scandal sheets. The vulgar and the abrasive, like women, are not part of the nation's heritage.

5. The bias of 'the Past'
Most university history courses stop somewhat short of l97l and even those which are listed as extending 'to the present' rarely make it. Or if they do there is a failure to discern the patterns which are the stuff of undergraduate courses. In the words of Thomas Mann,

. . . history professors do not love history because it is something that comes to pass, but only because it is something that has come to pass; . . . they hate a revolution . . . because they feel it is lawless, incoherent, irrelevant – in a word, unhistoric . . . For the temper of timelessness, the temper of eternity . . . is . . . much better suited to the nervous system of a history professor than are the excesses of the present. The past is immortalised; that is to say, it is dead; and death is the root of all godliness and all abiding significance.[17]

And it is worth considering the response of historians to the contemporary upheaval as a guide to their ability to understand the past.

When professors can judge the revolutionary calibre of students by their dress it makes one wonder what they do with the cavaliers and the roundheads. It is certainly very difficult to maintain the aura of objectivity in a crisis. J. M. Keynes declared that 'The class war will find me on the side of the bourgeoisie'.[18]  Of course it already had. Ranke could barely contain his delight when he learnt that the Paris Commune had been drowned in blood.

It was partly to overcome this attitude that the journal Past and Present was founded. But this is a misnomer. There is no 'Present'. By the time you have finished reading this sentence it will all be in the past. Why then should the past be divided up into 'Past' and 'Present', and why should only the more distant past be a suitable subject for historical investigation?

I would like to suggest two contributing forces. Firstly, the recent past has not been particularly attractive to the conservative, and he is afraid that the future might be worse. So he hopes that by skipping over the bits he does not like the future will be linked to the bits he does like. Secondly, there is a deeper methodological reason. History is about the past while the present is left to the social sciences. Why is this? Historians believe that they deal with change while social scientists deal with static structures and fixed formations. If history came right up to this very instant it might have to keep on going. It would become subversive.

6. The bias of 'the present'
In this section I wish to mention some of the advantages to be gained from supporting the status quo, by which I do not mean being against all change. Rather I refer to those historians who accept the existence of the society in which they live as the limit beyond which debate never strays. An 'objective' historian is one who operates within the confines of the existing society and its values. In order to support a stable system it is not necessary to write openly in its favour. It is sufficient to write within its assumptions and traditions and thereby reinforce their validity.

The advantages which are gained by an acceptor of present reality are manifold. We can see this by examining the problems faced by someone who rejects some of the conventional wisdom of a society. For example, if an atheist wishes to write the history of Europe or any part thereof, he is at once forced to date his material from the birth of someone whom he may consider to have never existed. This applies between cultures: the Spaniard who writes Indian history for Spanish audiences need feel no embarrassment in assuming that Buddha was not born out of the ear of an elephant. But let the same historian make a similar remark about the Immaculate Conception and no quantity of footnotes will save him.

ln Steppenwolf Herman Hesse claimed that 'with the bourgeoisie the opposite of the formula for the great is true. He who is not against me is with me.' This goes too far - or not far enough. The partial opponent, the occasional critic is not destructive of a stable society; quite the reverse. Such critics fulfil the socially necessary function of enabling the society to operate more smoothly by taking note of complaints and by sustaining the belief that freedom to criticise is an inviolable right.

This does not apply in periods of crisis when each and every demand for change is an act of treason. In times of war historians have rallied to a variety of causes but they do not automatically become aware that they are being even less objective than usual. For example in l9l4 the editors of the leading French historical journal Revue Historique declared that they intended to avoid biased statements on the origins of the war. In this spirit they chastised those German historians who had signed a manifesto declaring Germany innocent of war guilt. So far, so good. But the French editors went on to conclude that this was unobjective because the war was 'willed by Germany, prepared by her with a truly amazing perseverance and absence of scruples.' The French historians who wrote this were plainly unaware of their own breach of objectivity and believed that they were still maintaining their declared policy of non-partisanship.[19]

Another example of this unconscious application of double standards occurred in the evidence which Daniel Boorstin (author of The Genius of American Politics) gave before the House Committee on un-American Activities in 1953. Boorstin explained that since resigning from the Communist Party in 1939 he had expressed his opposition to Communism by attempting 'to discover and explain to my students in my teaching and in my writing, the unique virtues of American democracy'.[20]  In other words, his academic work was politically committed to a defence of the status quo. Yet he went on to tell the Committee that no active member of the Communist Party should be allowed to teach in the humanities or social sciences because his politics would interfere with his scholarship. Once again it is unlikely that Boorstin was aware that there was any inconsistency in his actions and beliefs.

One of the neatest tricks in the repertoire of the 'objective' historian is to describe his presuppositions as a 'point of view' and to use 'bias' to describe everyone else's. We see this in Sir Keith Hancock's lecture on 'Bias':

People sometimes say that they like history books to have a bias; but all they mean, I think, is that they like historians to have a point of view. Between these two things there is a big difference; we can be open-minded in our points of view, but bias closes our minds.[21]

Consider the words which Hancock uses: 'open-minded in our points of view'. Notice the use of ‘in'. Hancock is perfectly correct although he is not even faintly aware of what he is admitting. We are all open-minded inside our points of view - but are we open-minded about our points of view? There is a world of difference.

7. The bias of method
Objectivity is often sought in numbers which clearly lack passion whilst simultaneously guaranteeing precision. It is certainly necessary for historians to be able to count but there are many things which cannot be counted. Hartwell has endeavoured to defend capitalism by showing that the standard of living rose during the industrial revolution in England. Thompson goes beyond a mere challenge to the calculations; he rightly asserts that what is in dispute is not simply a standard of living but a way of life, that is, something which cannot be counted. Counting also has a tendency to present history as the accumulation of small bits and thereby denies qualitative changes such as revolutions.

Historians have largely resisted the more outrageous claims of the calculators and have stuck fast to their literary narratives. But the commitment to the status quo which is part and parcel of most quantitative approaches is made clear by the French social philosopher, Raymond Aron, in his introduction to volume one of Main Currents of Sociological Thought where he observes that

in most cases, the adoption of American sociological method and attitude will lead to the adoption of reformist positions. If you study social organizations in detail, you will find something to improve everywhere. In order to seek a revolution – that is, a total upheaval - you must assume an over-all viewpoint, take up a synthetic method, define the essence of a given society, and reject that essence.[22]

It would be difficult to invent a more convincing argument for my position than Aron's analysis of American sociology: Methods of research, especially the most dehumanized, are not neutral but are meshed into the ideological requisites of a class society.

8. The bias of time-scales
One part of the upsurge in universities has been a challenge to the content of courses. In some subjects this has meant opposing defence contracts or CIA grants but in a subject like history these obvious points of attack have been largely lacking. Instead radicals and revolutionaries who happen to be historians have attacked history courses on many of the grounds which I have outlined above. None of these attacks seems to me to be adequate. For example, writing history from the bottom up could be, and has been done by historians who were far from revolutionary in their political intentions. Indeed it appears that each and every demand for a reform of history is precisely that: a reform; no more and perhaps a good deal less. Certainly the combination of these demands might produce a revolutionary practice of history, but only if there was a simultaneous intervention of theory. Yet this
does not reveal the essence of bourgeois history. Before we can establish a proletarian history we must establish the essentials of bourgeois history.

One essential of bourgeois history is the notion of time it employs. Peter Munz has opened the way to the recognition of this is an article entitled, 'The purity of historical method: some sceptical reflections on the current enthusiasm for the history of non-European societies'. Munz's main point is that since history is predicated on a given unilinear time scale it is totally inappropriate for studying societies which do not operate on such a time pattern. If you try to make sense of traditional Indian society by explaining it within a unilinear time scale you will break Ranke's command to tell it as it really was: 'The time scheme used, one might say, is constitutive of a certain kind of history in that it predisposes one to a certain selectivity.'[23]

This point can be best appreciated by applying a reverse case. What would we think of a history of twentieth century Australia which was predicated on a time scale of phases of the moon, and/or the four seasons? We would feel that our society as a whole had been seriously misrepresented. Of course, some sections of the society would come off better than others – farmers for instance.

In presenting this instance I have gone beyond Munz. If history is inappropriate for some societies may it not also be inappropriate for some sections of society? Clearly it will not be of much help in telling us about the world of pre-school children. Even within the traditional areas of historical research it is possible that the historical approach distorts reality. Seventeenth century illiterate agricultural labourers could be a case. Unfortunately the problem is not as clear cut as this since after 'contact' has been established the worker or native may well operate on two different time scales, one public and the other private. In the case of women there may be as many as four: the historical time scale; the rhythm of agriculture; the phases of menstruation significantly called periods; and the recurrence of childbirth. To ignore these various expressions of time is to distort the lives of most of the world's population.

By and large the historian can be 'objective'. That is, he will operate within the premises underlying his society. Only in a crisis will he be forced to declare himself. This constitutes a great set of advantages over the historian who rejects the very root and branch of his society. For a revolutionary the status quo is a crisis. I anxiously prepare for the opportunity to be objective about Australian history.

[1] Cited in F. Stern (Ed.), The varieties of History. (Meridian Books, Cleveland,1956.),p . 62.

[2] Ved Mehta, The FIy and the Fly-bottle. (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1965.) p. 115.

[3] G. R. Elton, The,Practice of History. (Sydney University Press, Sydney, 1967.) pp. 104, 13, 94, 96, 103.

[4] Sir Keith Hancock, Attempting History. (Australian National University, Canberra, 1970.) pp. 43, 47 and 35.  

[5] Arthur Marwick, The Nature of History. (Macmillan, London, 1970.) p. 99.

[6] Gordon Leff, History and Social Theory. (University of Alabama press, Alabama, 1969.) p. 126.

[7] Alvin Gouldner, 'Anti-Minotaur: The Myth of a Value-Free Sociology', in I. L. Horowitz (Ed.) , The New Sociology. (Oxford University Press, New York, 1965.) pp. 196-7.

[8] William H. Dray, Philosophy of History. (Prentice- Hall, Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1964.) p. 46.

[9] Howard Zinn, 'History as Private Enterprise', in K. H. Wolff and B. Moore (Eds), The Critical Spirit. (Beacon, Boston, 1967.) p. 181.

[10] See Lucien Goldmann, The Hidden God. (Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1964.) pp. 15-19.

[11] Hugh Seton-Watson, 'Fascism, Right and Left'. Journal of Contemporary History, vol. 1 (1966), p. 183. cf. W. N. Medlicott ‘Appeasement should now be added to Imperialism on the list of words no scholar uses'. International Affairs, vol. 39, pp. 84-85.

[12] Barrington Moore, Jnr, Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy. (Beacon, Boston, 1966.) p. 522.

[13] Quoted in Mehta, op. cit. p. 137.

[14] History, vol. 54 (1969), p. 244.

[15] Georg Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness. (Merlin Press, London. 1971.) pp. 5-10.

[16] Elton, op. cit., p. 56.

[17] Thomas Mann, 'Disorder and Early Sorrow', in Stories of Three Decades (Secker & Warburg, London, 1936.) p. 506.

[18] J. M. Keynes, 'Am I a Liberal?' in Essays in Persuasion. (Macmillan, London, 1931.) p. 324.

[19] Allan Mitchell, 'German History in France After 1870'. Journal of Contemporary History. vol. 2 (1967), pp. 95-6.

[20] Cited in Radical America, vol. 1 (1967).

[21] Hancock, op. cit., p. 35.

[22] R. Aron, Main Currents in Sociological Thought, vol. 1 (Penguin, Harmondsworth, 1968.) p. 12.

[23] Peter Munz, 'The Purity of Historical Method'. New Zealand Journal of History, vol. 5 (1971), p.7.