Early textile enterprises faced no trends with greater reluctance than the integration of operations within a single factory and, considerably later, the assignment of formerly family-dominated, entrepreneurial functions to hired factory agents. Samuel Slater, the classic pioneer of factory production of textile yarns, was slow to accept these trends, and only the obvious inability of either him or his family to cope with a rapidly growing and changing industry in the 1820s and 1830s forced him to integrate spinning, weaving, and finishing operations and to turn over broad responsiblity in individual factories to what is perhaps the earliest example of the professional manager.

Of all forms of personal services supplied to business enterprise, that of sales workers has perhaps defied the application of “standard” management practices more than any other. Professor Benson shows that this generalization is especially applicable to female department store sales personnel, who were necessarily recruited chiefly from “lower” social classes whose members lacked education and refinement. Thus, regimentation and rote training seemed appropriate. On the other hand, selling style goods to sophisticated female customers involved elements not of a trade but an art, and an attitude of deference, which was not a common trait among working-class girls. Department store managers, almost exclusively male, failed to solve this paradox and, as Professor Benson relates, failed also to deal with the invisible solidarity of female sales persons.

Historians of the New South will find in Professor Killick's essay, based on the business archives of an important fin-de-siécle and early-twentieth-century cotton marketing enterprise, further powerful proof that the real story can only come from informed, sympathetic studies of what private men of affairs were accomplishing behind the dust storm of political demagogy that marked most public utterances, North and South, on southern problems in this era. Real entrepreneurship sprang up to give the marketing of the cotton crop a directness and an efficiency that ineffectual antebellum southern leaders had only dreamed of. This torch of enterprise was successfully passed, moreover, from a dying family firm to a more modern corporate organization, headed by even more skilled marketers who had learned well the lessons of their predecessors and were well prepared to flourish in the vastly changed post-1929 world. The stereotype of the prolonged backwardness of the South after 1877 is further discredited in this essay, which, significantly, is written from the far side of the Atlantic, where marketing of the cotton crop was always the most important aspect of its history.

The factory system in one of its earliest forms—the textile mill—made limited strides in the American South during the closing decades of the slave era. While bondsmen were put to work in mills almost from the beginning, the problem of adapting an agricultural work force to the factory system was one that had to be solved simultaneously with the development of the factory system itself. Since then, historians have wondered whether the use of slaves in early industry was an intensification of the human aspects of bondage or whether it represented a marginal improvement in their physical and spiritual welfare. Professor Miller offers no answer to these questions, nor to those of how widespread or how successful was the use of slaves as factory operatives. He demonstrates, however, that apart from the fact that bondsmen took to factory work more readily than poor whites, the problems to be solved by managers, before a successful degree of efficiency could be achieved, were common to all new industrial systems; clearly, the development of an intelligent disciplinary system, enlightened motivation, and good working conditions were as important in using slaves as in using free labor.

Of the innumerable types of business enterprise that flourished in nineteenth-century America, none was more important than the railroads. For the first time in the national experience they provided relatively cheap, dependable transportation into the heartland and created a national market that prompted the growth of so many other aspects of national endeavor. As railroad leaders built what became America's first big business, they also developed a new self-image and with it a vocabulary drawn from their conception of competition as war. It is this new self-image and the lexicon that went with it that form the subject of this article by James A. Ward.

When the United States entered World War I, economic interest groups were far better developed and vocal than they had been at the beginning of the Progressive era. Resolving differing views of equitable policy as entertained by these groups resulted in government economic planning for prosecution of the war effort that, so far from being expertly organized and scientific, was confused and ad hoc. Further dramatic proof of this generalization is provided by Professor Guth in his essay on the marketing of fluid milk and its surplus during the war emergency. Producers had been moving towards marketing cooperatives, with all the risk of violation of antitrust laws that entailed. Much of the volume of milk sales had become concentrated in the previous three decades in a few large dealers who were economically strong, especially in the major milksheds. And a new force, the consumer groups, emerged to try the patience of all concerned with orderly marketing of milk in a time of rising production costs, including Herbert Hoover and his subordinates in and around the Food Administration. Quickly dismantled after the Armistice, the mechanisms they worked out nevertheless became the foundation for massive intervention in a highly demoralized industry after 1933.

Canadian lines that were spreading out over what would become the Province of Ontario looked forward, in the years before the American Civil War, to becoming important east-west carriers between the rapidly growing American cities of the eastern seaboard and the still-new cities of the American Midwest. Canada's small population and undeveloped industry would force her railroads to rely heavily on traffic going from one American city to another. Lines like the Grand Trunk and the Great Western struggled desperately therefore, to avoid American financial control. With the help of British capital, they succeeded. But America's contribution to Canadian railroading ran much deeper than money. Dominating the skilled engineers and experienced construction contractors who came from south of the border was more difficult for Canadian directors to manage. In the end, however, it was the early failure of top Canadian management to bury their rivalries, ignore their English creditors, emulate Americans like Vanderbilt, Thomson, and Garrett, and consolidate into an integrated line between New England, the Middle Atlantic seaboard, and the Midwest that doomed their railroads to becoming, as one Canadian put it, “side streets to the trade thoroughfare.”

In recent years the political turmoil in the Middle East, the activities of OPEC, and the threat of “the oil weapon” have created so many reverberations in the industrialized world that it is easy to forget that petroleum has long been a significant factor in international politics. A relatively early case in point is the controversy that emerged after World War I when British and American interests clashed over the control and exploitation of the great oil wealth of Iraq. While the problem was satisfactorily resolved—at least from the Anglo-American standpoint—the action of diplomats on both sides not only reflected the growing importance of Middle-Eastern petroleum but also brought out the differing British and American philosophies of what the international economic order should be. While some people may disagree with the interpretation offered in this essay, Professor Stivers clearly demonstrates that access to and control of petroleum resources lay at the heart of the contentious issues that altered and shaped the international order of the early twentieth century.

Historians of modern, multinational, diversified industrial economies have learned that to deduce rigid, authoritarian control of subsidiaries, especially those in foreign countries, from the fact of over-all corporate ownership from afar, often leads to very inaccurate conclusions. The case of Canadian Industries, Ltd., a diversified Canadian chemical company jointly owned by the American and British giants, Du Pont and Imperial Chemical Industries, Ltd., reveals that a remarkable degree of independence was retained by the Canadian subsidiary even in such globally important policy matters as diversification, entry into new geographic areas, transfer of technology, and inter-company pricing of materials. Transnational ownership of industrial facilities, in short, produced advantages that were shared by both headquarters and local enterprises, leaving most of the anti-multinational movement to be explained as simpleminded nationalism.

It is a truism that government regulation of business, like all institutions of the political economy, has been evolutionary in nature. Yet few regulatory programs have metamorphosed quite so completely as that of the Federal Trade Commission, which converted itself in the period covered by this article from a watchdog of “competitive practices” that might militate against preservation of atomistic industrial organization, to an agency bent on protecting the interests of consumers. Professor Tedlow shows how this process worked itself out in the important case of truth in advertising.

American railroad executives since the end of World War II have learned — the hard way, as usual — how little real salvation there is in the expedient of the massive merger. They might have studied to good purpose the experiences of the English railways, which were forced to consolidate into four great systems under legislation passed in 1921. Dr. Channon has done so, and tells a dreary story that scouts the idea that great cost savings flow all but automatically from consolidations. His discussion of the Great Western's failure to introduce railway cars capable of carrying 20 tons of coal, at a time when the typical American coal car carried a payload of more than twice that amount, will be variously interpreted by both sides in the controversy over the decline in British entrepreneurship since 1870. Dr. Channon throws much light, moreover, on the problems of managerial organization, a subject that claims considerable attention in current business history.

Unprecedented rates of consumption by the American and Allied war machine during World War II, along with a reduction in world supplies as a result of enemy victories, first brought the United States face to face with the possibility of dependence upon others for our oil after the war. Government officials attempted to avoid that outcome through the Anglo-American Oil Agreement but only succeeded in provoking domestic producers. Meanwhile, British and American oil companies provided relief by private commercial arrangements in the then-new Middle Eastern fields. While Professor Stoff's story ends in the dark ages of naive American belief that such enterprises, when countenanced by our government, constituted freedom from dependence, it is indispensable to an understanding of what came later.

In the second of two articles, Professors Aduddell and Cain take the story of the application of antitrust law to the large meatpackers from the 1920 consent decree to Judge Julius Hoffman's 1956 decision not to lift the decree. Despite fundamental changes in the technology and structure of the food distribution industry, and strong indications that the packers' proposed plan to sell at retail was no longer good business, Hoffman refused to remove the obstacle to forward integration. The decision, in the authors' opinion, does not bear scrutiny on economic grounds. The episode supports two important generalizations about antitrust prosecution as a tool for economic planning: that constant change in a dynamic society often renders antitrust decisions meaningless; and that regulation frequently deprives society of rational structural change.

In the first of two articles, Professors Aduddell and Cain introduce the complex relations between a dynamic meatpacking industry and a government committed, in uncertain degree, to the philosophy of antitrust. From its earliest beginnings as an industry in the 1830s, meatpacking has experienced constantly changing parameters of technology, supply, demand, and public policy. Matters reached the first of several climaxes a few years after the new and naive Federal Trade Commission was established. Admittedly the dominant factor in a highly integrated meat industry, the largest companies were diversifying into non-meat food products, giving rise to the charge that they proposed to “monopolize” the entire food industry. The outcome was a consent decree in 1920 that, in confirming the large companies in their domination of meatpacking in return for their withdrawal from non-meat foods, revealed a government with a very weak case against an industry that it had made the cynosure of 120 million Americans. True to the familiar pattern of antitrust settlements, the dynamics of technology in transportation and marketing thereupon proceeded to render the decree meaningless. The second article, bringing the subject down to recent times, will appear in the Autumn issue.

Since the landmark article of Thomas Navin and Marian Sears on the rise of the market for industrial securities in the Business History Review (XXIX, June 1955), there has been an active interest in the causal relationship between the remarkable upsurge in corporate mergers of industrial companies early in this century, and the greater activity of the securities markets. Professor Smiley adds to this literature with a study of interest rates and the growth of activity in what contemporaries called “financial banking” (lending money for transactions in securities) as opposed to commercial banking. There are limits to the inference of cause and effect relations from financial activity, however, and historians must continue to study these phenomena merger by merger in order to draw conclusions as to the reasons for them.

The view of early British commercial banks as almost exclusive suppliers of short-term accommodation loans is further diminished by Dr. Hudson's intensive research in the surviving records of banks operating in the expanding wool manufacturing district of West Yorkshire from the turn of the century to the 1840s. By means primarily of the overdraft expedient, private banks and, after they were permitted by law, joint-stock banks, routinely made nominally short-term loans for such long-term capital purposes as construction of new plants and replacement of obsolete machinery. No laws and frequently little practical business acumen governed policies with respect to posting of collateral, holding of bank reserves against deposits, ratio of overdrafts to the borrower's level of profits, or even the special privileges granted stockholders and directors. It thus was not institutional rigidities that drove British investors to prefer overseas opportunities, Hudson theorizes, but the sheer excess of long-term capital sources, of which banks were an important one, in relation to opportunities to use them. Most striking, however, is the slowness with which old business habits gave way to new practices more appropriate to the maturing of a system of industrial finance.