This essay examines Theda Skocpol's landmark 1992 book, Protecting Soldiers and Mothers, and discusses its influence historians of the U.S. welfare state. The first section summarizes the book's “state-centered” approach and its central arguments and discusses its reception. It pays particular attention to critiques from women's and gender historians, who challenged Skocpol's characterization of Progressive Era “maternalist reform” particularly for its failure to account for racial politics or the limitations of rooting women's claims to social citizenship in mothering. The second section explores Skocpol's influence on historians of the U.S. welfare state in the past twenty-five years. Scholars of women and gender followed Skocpol's call to “bring the state back in,” bringing the insights of two decades of social and cultural history to the arena of state-building. In the process, they illuminated the centrality of race and racial politics to American social policy and citizenship in ways that Skocpol largely elided. Skocpol's discovery of the peculiar forms of American social provision also profoundly influenced welfare state scholars, who uncovered the vast reach of the “hidden” or “submerged state” in shaping unequal citizenship and political identities around race, gender, sexuality, and other axes of difference. Finally, the essay discusses historians’ attention to an aspect largely absent from Protecting Soldiers and Mothers—the voices, perspectives, and actions of participants in welfare state programs and policies—which has deepened and expanded understanding of the processes and effects of welfare state-building in the past twenty-five years.

In January 1911, Senator Robert M. La Follette of Wisconsin announced the creation of the National Progressive Republican League (NPRL). Historians have dismissed this organization as a vehicle for La Follette's challenge to William Howard Taft for the Republican presidential nomination in 1912. This article asserts that a primary purpose of the NPRL was to offer progressives around the country a set of principles that would provide the progressive movement with greater cohesion while allowing for continued diversity in local reform agendas. The NPRL's president, Oregon senator Jonathan Bourne, was renowned as a spokesman for the series of direct democratic reforms known as the Oregon System, which La Follette and Bourne placed at the center of the NPRL platform. Bourne argued that these reforms, focused on altering the way in which candidates were nominated or elected to office, campaigns were funded, and legislation was produced, would provide progressives with a national “foundation” upon which various state and local reform agendas could be constructed. During the campaign of 1912, the league became a casualty of the political and personal conflict between Theodore Roosevelt and La Follette, but Roosevelt's Progressive Party later endorsed most of its agenda, and all elements of the NPRL platform found some political expression before or after 1912.

I would like to thank Rebecca Edwards and James L. Huston for their thoughtful and challenging responses to my essay. Both these authors have thought deeply about periodization and synthesis, and for that reason it occurred to me to allow their responses to stand alone and go unanswered. But in the interests of sparking further discussion I would like to offer a few clarifications and additional thoughts with regard to periodization. Due to considerations of space I will not try to answer all the reservations and criticisms expressed and alternative views advanced but will focus only on a few points that bear on the thrust of my essay.

During gigantic urban revivals in 1875 and 1876, the Chicago-shoe-salesman-turned-religious-evangelist Dwight Lyman Moody set the northern United States ablaze with the fires of a great religious awakening. Over two million Americans of all Protestant affiliations attended his meetings in Brooklyn, Philadelphia, New York City, and Chicago. Although his popularity had been unrivalled, Moody worried about his campaign that would begin in Boston in 1877. To carry the day, he knew that he would need the help of “the New England women.” “What a power they would be,” Moody claimed. For this reason, he sought out Frances E. Willard, an up-and-coming female leader and temperance advocate. When the two met, the evangelist asked, “Will you go with me to Boston and help in the women's meetings?” After considering the invitation for several days, Willard agreed to join him. She did more than merely minister to women, however. On one occasion, as she recounted later, “Mr. Moody…placed my name upon his program” to “literally preach” to men and women. Willard wondered aloud if the sight of a woman preaching would shock the audience: “Brother Moody…, perhaps you will hinder the work among these conservatives.” Responding, Moody “laughed in his cheery way, and declared that ‘it was just what they needed.’”

On Friday, April 5, 1878, Benjamin F. Butler, a Republican from Massachusetts, arose in the U.S. House of Representatives and offered a resolution stating “that the true Union, maimed soldier, Brigadier-General James Shields” be chosen as doorkeeper of that body. Although a seemingly innocuous motion, Butler's resolution would spark a debate over the election of a doorkeeper that would last into the following week. That debate — and the reactions to it — are in turn quite revealing of the political environment of the time. Specifically, the “doorkeeper controversy” of 1878 symbolizes the persistence of sectionalism in the immediate post-Reconstruction years. It also provides yet another example of the turmoil and controversy that characterized Ben Butler's colorful political career.

Many fans and scholars of newspaper comics have observed that an excellent way to chart a social history of American culture in the twentieth century is to look at the mainstream comic strip page. This may be especially true of the first half of the twentieth century when comic strips were avidly followed by readers from almost all age, class, and ethnic demographics. Because of this breadth of popularity, the comics page was a fairly accurate reflector (and occasionally, shaper) of fashions, fads, humor, politics, and racial prejudices. Early cartoonists' ability to place their fingers on the American pulse can largely be attributed to the industry's eagerness to please readers: as a lowbrow entertainment that targeted broad audiences through street corner sales, and later, national syndication, it tried to anticipate the characters, comedy, and ideological content that would attract and retain devoted readers. A few iconoclastic cartoonists such as Al Capp (Li'l Abner) and George Herriman (Krazy Kat) challenged readers with topical satire or appealed to niche audiences with quirky humor and aesthetics; but even the most innovative work in the medium relied on a sort of call and response between core readers, syndicates, editors, and artists—a back and forth that insured that the cartoonist's work resonated with, or spoke for, its fans.

Between the 1890s and the 1930s, the “marrying parson”—a minister willing to perform on-demand marriages—became a well-known American cultural figure, caricatured and depicted in daily newspapers and popular magazines. To date, however, no scholar has analyzed this cultural phenomenon. This article explains and analyzes the rise of the marrying parson to cultural prominence in the early twentieth century. It discusses, first, the legal and cultural environment that gave marrying parsons a legal product—a state-sanctioned marriage—that they could sell; and second, the Progressive Era fears over changes in sexual behavior that made marrying parsons both prominent and controversial in popular discourse. Because marrying parsons were marked as religious figures, white Protestant leaders and reformers viewed them as traitors from within, traitors who commercialized the legal privileges of their sacred office as they undermined Protestants' attempts to combat divorce, protect the sexual innocence of young women, and limit youthful sexual autonomy. Although marrying parsons are no longer prominent in popular discourse, religiously ordained individuals continue the quick-marriage activities of early twentieth-century “marrying parsons,” thus revealing the limits of attempts by Protestant leaders to police the commercial use of religious privilege.

World War I significantly impacted U.S. society and politics long before the United States officially entered into the war's frontlines in 1917. Even as historians have begun to pay closer attention to this process, they have until now largely failed to notice a particular group of colorful and highly emblematic public elite actors: charitable foundation philanthropists. With the soon-to-be globally active Rockefeller Foundation a cohort of ambitious U.S. progressives and social engineers—later ardent supporters of global science funding during the interwar years and beyond—utilized their war experiences to shape the wartime philanthropic agenda. This article focuses on the Foundation officers’ profiles and the beginnings of their more concerted engagements during World War I in order to show how, in their mindsets and tactics, Rockefeller philanthropists disregarded American neutrality. From the outbreak of the war in 1914, they mobilized themselves to the point of pleading for and entering into direct commitments at home and abroad, especially in the European war zone. With the official entry of the United States into war in early April 1917, Rockefeller officials and collaborators became openly “combat” philanthropists, resolutely assisting the moral stabilization efforts of the U.S. military and conducting support campaigns to bolster, most notably, the American alliance with France. The incubation and infancy period of Rockefeller philanthropy as a subsequently ubiquitous phenomenon of the American twentieth century is inseparable from the impact of the Great War.

Thanks to Richard Jensen, Kriste Lindenmeyer, Alan Lessoff and William G. Shade for helpful comments on this essay.

Comparative perspectives on the United States have received increased attention in recent years, stimulated apparently by the rise in world history's popularity. David Thelen's sponsorship of transnational history as a subject of three special issues of the Journal of American History no doubt has contributed to the trend. The reprinting of C. Vann Woodward's The Comparative Approach to American History in 1997, the publication of George Fredrickson's essays on comparative history, and the report of the La Pietra Project reflect recent efforts to put United States history in an international perspective. While comparative history hardly has gained equal footing with nationally-centered studies, enough work on the Gilded Age and Progressive Era has appeared over the last decade and a half to warrant an assessment. This essay takes note of scholarship on economics, business, politics and governance that has examined the United States within an international context during the 1870s–1914 era. My objective is to discern trends in the literature and suggest opportunities for future research rather than to provide a comprehensive bibliographical survey.

This essay examines the 1903 U.S. diplomatic mission to Ethiopia, which offers an unusual perspective on racial attitudes in the Progressive Era. Desirous of exploring new trade possibilities, the Theodore Roosevelt administration sent Robert P. Skinner to Addis Ababa to sign a reciprocity treaty with Emperor Menelik II. The timing of the mission had much to do with Roosevelt's global interests, but it happened to occur at a critical point for Ethiopia, which had recently thwarted an attempted Italian invasion. This victory delighted African Americans, especially those with a pan-Africanist perspective. Black Americans had long identified with the idea of Ethiopia, but they now identified with the actual nation and its leader. Black writers argued that the Ethiopians had triumphed over modern racism when they triumphed over the Italians. Those involved in Skinner's trip had a different view of the racial implications of Ethiopia's success. To them, the victory was that of a Semitic people whose triumphs were less startling. When talking about Ethiopia, black and white American observers revealed more about their own preconceptions and hopes than about the country to which the United States was making overtures.

Peter Alexander Speek arrived in the United States in the fall of 1908 at the age of 35, “having in my pocket only 4c and knowing hardly more English words.” A leader of revolutionary activities against Russian rule in his native Estonia, Speek came to the U.S. a committed socialist intent on developing worker awareness and leading the class struggle. After two years in New York, Speek traveled to the West Coast, entered the graduate program i n economics at the University of Wisconsin, and worked two years as an investigator for the United States Commission on Industrial Relations (CIR). During his time with the CIR, Speek traveled widely across the United States, “visiting labor camps, cheap city lodging houses, gatherings of hoboes and tramps in so-called ‘jungles’, interviewing employers and various public agencies.” Speek wrote dozens of reports during these investigations that served as the foundation for official CIR policy recommendations and for a series of popular press articles on current migratory conditions. In doing this work, Speek became a recognized authority on migratory labor issues. Reference to Speek's reports can be found in studies of early-twentieth-century migratory labor conditions, but a specific evaluation of Speek and of his contributions has not been written. Speek's work for the CIR is of interest because of its subject matter and its comprehensive coverage. Speek's work is also of interest because it was during this period that Speek rejected his revolutionary socialism and became a structural reformer, accepting the basic U.S. economic and political system and working to improve the details of its institutions.

During the first two decades of the twentieth century, Indian Territory and the State of Oklahoma experienced one of the world’s largest petroleum booms, with much of the oil extracted from the territory and state produced on land owned by Indigenous, Black, and mixed-race peoples. White settlers, backed by governing institutions and cultures rooted in settler colonialism, anti-Black racism, and anti-monopolism, struggled to seize control of oil-rich land amid the allotment of Native-owned property. These latter elements insisted that non-whites could not grasp the value of petroleum nor be trusted with the control of such a vital resource, especially in the shadow of ever-looming oil monopolies. Settlers and wildcat prospectors built a white-supremacist oil-field politics that elevated the rights of small-scale, proprietary "independent" oilmen and worked to ensure that the latter controlled flows of crude vis-à-vis non-white property holders and “outside” corporations. For white settlers in Indian Territory and Oklahoma, oil rose to the top of collective imaginaries about race, property, and wealth, encouraging the creation of both legal and often violent extralegal strategies for dispossessing unworthy landowners of their hydrocarbon inheritance.

For thirty years after Franklin Pierce's death, the ex-president's reputation remained low in the estimation of historians and the public. Most saw Pierce and his successor James Buchanan as primary culprits in the sectional discord leading to the Civil War. Between 1900 and 1915, however, Pierce's reputation improved, with the sectional healing represented by Blue-Gray reunions on former battlefields like Gettysburg and the election of only the second Democratic president since the war, Woodrow Wilson. This process of healing was particularly difficult in Pierce's home state of New Hampshire. In a classic case of contested memory, the Grand Army of the Republic repeatedly stymied Democratic attempts to raise a statue to the state's only president and criticized Pierce as a traitor and Confederate sympathizer. The Democrats, however, took over the New Hampshire governor's chair in 1913, and the legislature voted to honor Pierce with a statue. In that small early twentieth-century window, Franklin Pierce became a beneficiary of hard-earned sectional reconciliation.

The rationale for teaching history proposed by most professional historians in the 1890s was based on faculty psychology—the theory that the mind was composed of mental faculties such as memory and will that could be strengthened like muscles. However, over the course of the decade this approach was gradually replaced by a functional approach to mind and society, which had roots in the new psychology of Wilhelm Wundt. This development was accompanied by a pedagogical shift in learning theory from an emphasis on exertion of the students' will to engaging students' interest. John Dewey, William James, and the American followers of German pedagogical theorist, Johann Frederich Herbart, directly challenged the faculty psychology of the German-inspired professional historians but still placed history at the center of their pedagogical schemes. As a result, history gained a central place in U.S. elementary and secondary curriculum during these years, but paradoxically the new psychology gradually eroded the influence of professional historians on the curriculum, because they failed to acknowledge these emerging pedagogical and psychological theories.

This article demonstrates the value of a joint application of the theory and history of financial crises of 1873. It weaves together concepts of financial and banking panic theory with a narrative explanation of the causes and triggers of the Panic of 1873. Basic concepts of economic theory, it suggests, can act as both a framework and a starting point to the historical interpretation of a financial panic.

Employing such theory, however, ultimately reinforces the need for contextual cultural explanations of financial panics. A theoretically grounded view of the cultural history of capitalism—and its sudden crises—can help explain why and how some structures of exchange systematized and conditioned human confidence within specific historical contexts.

Drawing together theoretical models of banking panic and historical evidence, this article thus emphasizes the importance of Gilded Age money-making culture for understanding the impact of Philadelphia financier Jay Cooke upon the causes of the Panic of 1873. Cooke's sudden and unexpected bankruptcy caused the deconstruction of confidence on the stock exchange and throughout the country. The cultural idiosyncrasy of Cooke's outstanding position in all matters of American finance multiplied the asymmetry that occurred in the wake of a major information shock.

When David Montgomery sat down for an extended interview with editors of the Radical History Review, Mark Naison and Paul Buhle, it was the spring of 1981. His career as an academic historian was on the ascent. He had moved from the University of Pittsburgh to a named chair at Yale. He was editor of what was becoming the foremost journal in the field, International Labor and Working-Class History. His studies of workers and Reconstruction and his explorations of workers' shop floor world had catapulted him to the front rank of practitioners of the “new labor history.” And he was deeply into what would probably rank as his masterwork, The Fall of the House of Labor, published six years later. But much of the interview as published dwelt on his background in the Communist Party USA and on his own shop floor experience as a militant rank and file machinist during the 1950s. His observations on the internal life of the party, as someone who did not hold a leadership position, were perceptive. But perhaps more telling for his own future work as a historian were his comments on the growing gap in the 1950s between the party and lives of workers. Vital as the “connection to the everyday struggles of Americans” may have been, he also recognized the value of “styles of social analysis that were rooted in the hard and complex realities of experience and away from phrase-mongering and dogmatic abstractions.” As the party unraveled in the 1950s and the leadership grew more isolated, he noted, “at my level of activity we continued from day to day doing our thing”

The age of nationalities and nationalism associated with nineteenth-century Europe also found expression in North America in the same period: French Canadians developed a national consciousness charged with a religious and providential mission. As these Canadians crossed into the United States in ever-rising numbers and established permanent “colonies” during the Gilded Age, they carried with them a cultural ideology that kept them apart from mainstream American society—and apart from their Irish American coreligionists and coworkers. Claiming the freedoms promised to them by the Constitution, these immigrants from the North battled for accommodation not only in political conventions or state legislatures, but also in the Roman Catholic Church, whose leaders seemed intent on doing away with foreign languages and customs. The religious battle came to a head as lay and clerical Catholics gathered in Baltimore, in 1889, to reassert the Church's unity as well as its patriotic credentials. By drawing attention to French Canadian immigration, often overlooked in immigration studies, this article refocuses the question of Americanization on the Catholic Church, which proved one of the most powerful agents of acculturation in late nineteenth-century America.