Revisiting the origins of the Interstate Commerce Commission (ICC) created in 1887 and offering a fresh interpretation that the commission was conceived and operated as a highly court-like agency, this paper argues that its emergence triggered the judicialization of the U.S. administrative state. It has been argued that the blueprint of the ICC took after existing railroad commissions. Its proponents in Congress, however, redesigned it with judicial courts as a model after facing criticisms based on the common-law principle of the supremacy of law allowing adjudication only to judicial courts. In accordance with such an institutional scheme, both the president and judiciary promoted the commission's judicialization by appointing lawyers as its members and reviewing its decisions. By the early twentieth century, the ICC was a prototypical agency whose court-like features permeated the administrative state. This paper thus offers a corrective to the literature on the U.S. administrative state building that has come to trivialize the role of the rise of the ICC. It was, instead, a critical juncture in the emergence of the modern administrative state in which being “quasi-judicial” was the norm rather than the exception for an administrative agency.

Since the Progressive Era itself, scholars have exhibited strong interest in the connections between progressivism and education. Historical studies have elucidated countless ways that such reformist impulses as the settlement house movement, the country life movement, the progressive education movement, the “cult of efficiency,” and battles against social ills like child labor influenced early twentieth-century education policy.1 Indeed, as historian Lawrence Cremin has contended, “the Progressive mind was ultimately an educator's mind, and … its characteristic contribution was that of a socially responsible reformist pedagogue.”2

The acquisition of an empire that stretched across North America, the Caribbean, Central America, and the Pacific world transformed the United States during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era. While scholars have examined many aspects of U.S. expansionism, a neglected issue involved the imperial labor migrations it required. From across North America, the Caribbean, southern Europe, and Asia, men and women were recruited to labor in the service of building U.S. global power at the turn of the twentieth century. Officials saw recruiting and moving laborers from far away as necessary to ensure productivity and discipline. This required U.S. government and corporate leaders to experiment with labor management in ways that shaped the “long twentieth century” of U.S. history. Mobility was not only central to the logic of the U.S. Empire; when possible, workers also deployed it for their own ends. Therefore migration became a terrain of struggle between workers and government officials. This paper looks in particular at documents generated by two migrating groups important in the making of U.S. global power. Afro-Caribbeans who traveled to construct the Panama Canal; and soldiers who served in the War of 1898 and the Philippine-American War.

In examining the mathematical models, theories of value, and price statistics wielded by leading economist and social reformer Irving Fisher, this article explores the overlooked impact that Neoclassical Economics had on Progressive Era reform and thought. By offering a neoclassical theory of marginal utility that claimed that market prices reflected subjective value, Fisher formalized, legitimized, and popularized the use of price statistics in progressive political discourse, teaching the American people that if they wanted to argue over the nature of progress or the worthiness of a certain reform, they would have to price it first. The article argues that such a “pricing of progressivism” served as an important foundational precursor to the rise of neoliberal thought in the 1980s. In light of such a significant intellectual legacy, it seems imperative that intellectual historians of the Progressive Era turn their attention away from the usual suspects of this period, such as Pragmatists William James and John Dewey, and shift their analytical focus away from the “Metaphysical Club” and toward a neoclassical one.

“Disenchantment with democracy” is Sven Beckert's diagnosis for the United States around 1900. According to Beckert, the era's elites paid little regard to the ideals of democracy and worked to exclude the lower classes from the electoral process. But was acceptance of democracy really that low? Previously overlooked elite discourses and efforts—particularly discussions that dealt with the practice of elections—show that this explanation does not tell the whole story. By drawing on endeavors concerning election reform in New York City, I argue that at the turn of the century a new understanding of democracy became a kind of modern consensus. This was the case not only in New York, a city in a republic, but also in Berlin, in the Prussian constitutional monarchy. These findings support the interpretation that around 1900 the understanding and acceptance of democracy underwent a seminal change in the transatlantic world. The consensus held that state legitimacy required mass participation and, even more, that mass participation was connected to “everybody” and to a meaning of “universal”— though this ideal of “universal” was constructed and exclusive in important ways.

“The Tenor of Belonging” examines the origins of the Fisk Jubilee Singers, a chorus of college students from Fisk University, amidst the official promises of the Reconstruction era, as well as their reception during their first national tour in 1871 and 1872. The article explores the bifurcated meanings behind the spiritual as the singers performed it in this new context. Publicly, it became, for well-to-do white Northern audiences, an image of a quintessential American identity rooted in the soil, “primitive Christianity,” and the trope of redemption through suffering that seemed increasingly threatened in modern, incorporated America. And yet, spirituals had embodied ideals of self-making, piety, communal solidarity, and liberation for their singers since the late eighteenth century; and performing them, as the Jubilee Singers did, likewise became a vehicle for achieving financial security after the Civil War, as the chorus marketed its past in an effort to secure its future. The singers, like their slave forebears, used the spiritual to achieve a level of autonomy, cohesion, and pride as they negotiated the contours of citizenship in a reconfigured nation. As such, their work both prefigures Booker T. Washington's “bootstraps” ethos and W.E.B. Du Bois's “double-consciousness.”

At the turn of the twentieth century, most Americans celebrated the arrival of a circus. Circus Day had become a local holiday that brought together ethnicities, races, and classes (of both genders) that did not usually assemble at the same place and time. Within the circus itself, however, race and gender provided boundaries and fostered acrimony. The racism and segregation of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries could be found aboard any circus train and throughout every show lot. African Americans were relegated to certain jobs, segregated within those jobs, and usually paid less than their white counterparts. The show's scheduled route often took them into areas in which they experienced the racial volatility typical of the era. Although the public perception of circus employment often produced thoughts of travel and fun adventures, African American circusfolk endured harsh treatment, low pay, and vile racism.

For African Americans, the work environment at a circus reflected the national social atmosphere, but female circus employees encountered conditions that most other women were not afforded. Indeed, female employees were confined to one or two train cars and lived under specific rules about when (or even if) they could entertain guests. Yet circus employment provided women with the ability to leave the restraints of the home during the height of Victorian domesticity, as well as the even rarer opportunity to outearn their male counterparts. Moreover, employment under the big top gave circuswomen a public platform to advocate for suffrage.

During a brief period—1898 to 1907—the “American danger” proved a powerful slogan in Europe. Propaganda campaigns were launched that targeted the new ambitions of the emerging economic power. Historians have studied this episode but only as one among many examples of anti-Americanism embedded in European intellectual traditions. This paper insists on the distinctive character of this episode. It refutes the notion of anti-Americanism as the explanation most relevant to this episode and even questions the possibility of opposing Europe to the United States at a time of constant transnational circulation inside the “Atlantic world.” Disputing the idea that a common fear of American superiority united Europeans, the study reveals how people in England, France, and Germany used the “American danger” to put forward their own ideas of the national interest, which explains why the theme did not meet with the same success in each of these countries. Finally, the author offers the hypothesis that the “American danger” was less the expression of fear—as the Yellow Peril could be—and more a rallying cry for economic circles motivated by defense of their sectional interests and by a desire for national union in a time of deep political division.

In 1893 Southern California's orange growers decided to incorporate as the marketing cooperative we now know as Sunkist. Like McCormick or Morgan, growers sought profit through organization and consolidation, but their story is not as straightforward as much historiography would suggest. Growers worried that incorporation would stifle the individual even as they saw their own incorporation as the best way to save their own businesses. They condemned fruit agents' manipulations of fruit markets while calling for their own rigorous control of the citrus market. They debated, in other words, just what incorporation meant for men and women like themselves while they themselves helped incorporate America. California's orange growers urge us to reconsider much current work on the history of capitalism, which concentrates on abstract systems and financial structures. Incorporation, the growers remind us, was also a messy and uneven local project, a response to their fears and aspirations.

This article examines the mutually reinforcing imperatives of government science, capitalism, and American empire through a history of the U.S. Weather Bureau's West Indian weather service at the turn of the twentieth century. The original impetus for expanding American meteorological infrastructure into the Caribbean in 1898 was to protect naval vessels from hurricanes, but what began as a measure of military security became, within a year, an instrument of economic expansion that extracted climatological data and produced agricultural reports for American investors. This article argues that the West Indian weather service was a project of imperial meteorology that sought to impose a rational scientific and bureaucratic order on a region that American officials considered racially and culturally inferior, yet relied on the labor of local observers and Cuban meteorological experts in order to do so. Weather reporting networks are examined as a material and symbolic extension of American technoscientific power into the Caribbean and as a knowledge infrastructure that linked the production of agricultural commodities in Cuba and Puerto Rico to the world of commodity exchange in the United States.