The epilogue takes a broad and expansive view of the nature of the British empire in the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century tropics. It argues that the British largely abandoned the settlement of the tropics by Europeans by the eighteenth century, becoming more convinced that it was a dangerously unhealthy place. They maintained their hold on the tropics by relying on non-Europeans. The ratios of non-Europeans to Europeans in the tropical empire continued to grow. Ideas about racial differences hardened and became more fully and ardently articulated. They were interwoven with notions of environmental determinism. The British turned more fully to soldiers of African descent in the Caribbean and Sepoy armies in India to help defend the empire. The epilogue explores the large-scale rebellions that erupted against the empire in nineteenth-century India and in the Caribbean, arguing that internal resistance helped to end slavery and, ultimately, the empire. It also underscores the ways in which English colonization and trade across the tropical zone was linked and how the wealth accrued through tropical exploitation and slavery helped facilitate the rise of the British empire.

Chapter 4 starts with a discussion of imperialism constructed as a fact and as theory. It highlights the major disruptions in East Asian and world history. The prevailing realist, liberal institutionalist, and constructivist theories are not scaled to explain such dramatic transformations of East Asia by Western imperialism. Rather, a historical sociological approach anchored on evolutionary theory is a better fit. Western domination based on the rise of the West in terms of economic, technological, and military power took several centuries to complete. Some East Asian empires were also expanding after 1500. A turning point was Britain’s defeat of China in the Opium War of 1839–1842. After that, East Asian nations engaged earnestly in reform. Some, like Japan, succeeded, while others, like China, failed, resulting in a great divergence among Asian countries. To some extent, much of East Asia still lives in the shadow of that imperialist past.

The ecological thinking of the Georgics leads to intricate problems of scale, which Chapter 4 traces. The poem seeks to conceptualize humans’ place in their local environments – epitomized by the bounded space of the farm – while also imagining life at larger scales and attempting to think the world as a coherent whole. The chapter connects these issues to political, geographical, agricultural, philosophical, and poetical questions. This chapter finds in the Georgics a searching exploration of what it means to be local, and whether such a thing is even possible in the age of Jupiter and the time of Caesar. Ultimately, the poem rethinks a more nuanced concept of locality that is intertwined with the global, and is of shifting, unpredictable scale: a concept of fractal locality. At the center of the poem, Vergil places a fitting emblem for a fractally local poetry, the temple he vows in his native Mantua. This temple models Vergil’s achievement as anchored in particular place, and yet in a place that has become local, Roman, Italian, and global all at once.

Europe’s revelation of hitherto latent human powers had negative faces too, of which imperial expansion was one. The domination of weaker peoples brought suffering and destruction everywhere, often worsened by the limits to European power that placed stable rule over conquered populations out of reach, so that the dominators had regular recourse to brutal exemplary punishments, often justified by the racist discourse generated by the need to justify the whole system. The capacity of formal imperialism to endure was undermined by the seeds it bore of its own overcoming: first, the violent and expensive wars between imperial rivals and then the disclosure to dominated peoples of the knowledge and techniques employed to subject them. But from the beginning these horrors generated internal protests and critiques, often based on a heightened realization of and respect for cultural difference. By the middle of the eighteenth century a phalanx of distinguished and influential voices was raised against the system, never strong enough to rein it in, but testimony to the persistence of the more humane and generous attitude manifested earlier.

In this chapter the “Pashtun Borderland” – a key concept throughout the book – is framed as a distinct physical and geopolitical space. This space, it is argued, is shaped by the complex interplay of imperial aspiration by larger polities claiming their authority over this space and ethnic self-ascriptions arising as a consequence. The heavy ideological baggage both practices pivot on is somewhat disenchanted by significant lines of conflict which traverse the region and its communities: between lowland and upland communities, between local elites and subalterns and between urban and rural communities. It is claimed that the persona of the discontent, or troublemaker, is a systemic result of these complex constellations, heavily fuelled by the agendas of successive imperial actors and the making and un-making of temporary pragmatic alliances typical for this kind of environment, ideal-typically cast here as “Borderland pragmatics”.

Identified by Immanuel Wallerstein as the first true hegemon, the Dutch Empire dominated maritime commerce in the seventeenth century. Amsterdam emerged as the world’s alpha city, the site of the first true global multinational corporations. In tandem with corporate activities including the founding of New York City, Cape Town, and Jakarta, Amsterdam established the first modern stock market. It also solidified the North–South power imbalance. European powers extracted the labor and raw materials of far-flung colonies, refining them at higher value. The under-populated Dutch Empire relied on forced migration and slave labor to produce valuable goods such as sugar, tobacco, and spices. This chapter traces the emergence of a city network in the Low Countries that prefigured its independence from Spain, and the construction of its own imperial network. The Dutch city network expanded globally, establishing critical nodes in West Africa, the Americas, the Caribbean, and Asia to manage the flow of resources and labor. Amsterdam’s place at the top of the world city hierarchy led to rising inequality, prefiguring modern urban “command centers.”

G. K. Chesterton’s debut novel, The Napoleon of Notting Hill, promotes what he called his ‘antiquated dogmas’ and ‘dead creeds’. Pitting the vendors of Pump Street against the magnates of Kensington and Bayswater, Chesterton sides with local ownership as against capitalism; slowness instead of speed; evolution for revolution; and tradition not modernity. However, in The Napoleon of Notting Hill Chesterton tests and questions all ideas – including his own. The key takeaway from Chesterton’s novel of ideas is not that some ideas are superior to others but that all social and political creeds are bound to be vacuous (and silly) unless they are based on external, communal frames of reference: on higher, unifying ideals that should underpin them.

India experienced several turbulent decades after the official takeover by the British Crown, following the Indian Mutiny, in 1858. Becoming an official territory of the British Empire came with promises of progress. Already by the 1870s, though, the promises seemed hollow. The textile industry, once a flourishing sector that supplied fabrics to most of the world, was dwindling. The average Indian was sinking into deeper poverty. And millions died in the three largest famines of India’s history between 1873 and 1901. It goes without saying that India’s large territory, rich history and its dependent position within the British Empire rendered its context dense and complex. India was extensively linked to the global economy and had a long history of trading in the subcontinent, primarily in textiles during the Mughal period, and later as one of the main suppliers of raw materials to the growing textile industry in Manchester in northern England. This chapter aims to contextualise the first generation of modern Indian economists by identifying the major trends and events affecting India in the past four decades of the nineteenth century.

This chapter outlines a key debate in the study of the Han Empire that is currently represented by proponents of a “fictive” versus “realist” view of empire building in early China. It makes a case for the book’s archaeological approach, namely the potential for recently excavated materials to trace the emergence of a constellation of universal ideas about imperialism, cultural unity, and sovereignty in China. These ideas will be examined along four domains of Han sociopolitical life – Part i Imperial Geography, Part ii Agriculture and Foodways, Part iii Craft Industries, and Part iv Ritual – as documented in core and frontier regions.

In the 1870s, a generation of economists was born amid a troubling reality in India. The country faced many crises around this time – suffering some of the worst famines in its history, having an imperial administration that struggled to balance its budget, and the crumbling of its textile industry, to name but a few. Indian Economics, argued its founder, Mahadev Govind Ranade, in 1892, would create economic knowledge that explained India’s distinct problems and would find appropriate solutions. The first generation of modern Indian economists had been convinced that India was different. But they used their difference for other ends. By contrast, they intended to prove India’s difference in such a way as to render its economy, institutions and people visible. From the 1870s there had been an increase in the number of Indians studying and informing their imperial rulers about conditions in the country. This first generation of modern Indian economists started to study their economy from new perspectives. Ranade’s and Ganapathy Dikshitar Subramania Iyer’s founding texts of Indian Economics bundled the studies that started to come in the 1870s with a common goal of progress and placed future studies under the intellectual umbrella of Indian Economics.

Doris Lessing was one of the most restless novelists of her generation. She toggled between realist bildungsromane, autofiction, postmodernist experimentation, and speculative fiction. Despite her restlessness, she remained committed to the novel of ideas, using these different subgenres to entertain philosophical debates about autonomy, group membership, racism, and social progress. Surprisingly, as this chapter demonstrates, Lessing’s swerve into speculative fiction was conditioned by her status as a target of MI5 surveillance. Although Lessing knew she was being watched, she did not turn to the paranoid style of George Orwell. Instead, she used her fiction to suggest that an imperialist intelligence network could be outwitted by individuals who harness the powers of intelligent perception, or ESP: reading minds, forecasting future events, even communicating across species. The way to beat a repressive police network was to mimic its capabilities, bringing the arts of surveillance into the fold of human consciousness itself.

Nikki Hessell’s “Romantic Poetry and Constructions of Indigeneity” understands the Romantic racialization of Indigenous peoples as means of denying these groups sovereignty. The trope of the Indian in representative European texts is, by this reading, complicit with the “desire to own, define, and administer everything.” By reading Romantic poetry for its recurring tropes, however, we can also locate the Romantic tradition in the work of those generally excluded from conversations about Romanticism. Thus Hessell reads Romanticism in the works of Indigenous poets Jane Johnston Schoolcraft (Ojibwe) and John Rollin Ridge (Cherokee). This is not merely a matter of expanding the Romantic canon; rather, by centering those whose presence in Romantic literature has generally been restricted to object of interest, Hessell shows that those who have been used as tropes are wielders of Romantic tropes in their own right.

Isaiah is resistance literature: The authors of this book knew the claims of different empires, and argued against them. Much of the first thirty-nine chapters of the book were written in the Assyrian period, when the Assyrian empire tried to force the elites of other Near Eastern kingdoms to accept the legitimacy of Assyrian domination. In a carefully-formulated program of subversive reading, passages in Isa 1–39 react against Assyrian claims of empire, arguing that Yhwh, rather than the king of Assyria, is the universal sovereign. “Isaiah and Empire” by Shawn Zelig Aster shows how passages in Isa 2, 10, and 37 react against Assyrian claims of empire. But just as these chapters react against Assyrian claims, so do Isa 40–45 react against the later imperial propaganda of Cyrus. These chapters claim that Yhwh, rather than the Babylonian god Marduk, sent Cyrus, and argue that Cyrus was sent to benefit Jerusalem, rather than Babylon.

In “The Book of Isaiah in the Neo-Assyrian Period,” Michael Chan offers an overview of the centuries of Assyrian dominance in the Levant. He takes five exegetical case studies that demonstrate the historical and literary impact of that Mesopotamian power on Isaiah and his successors in the eighth and seventh centuries bce. In particular, he observes how Assyrian imperial propaganda was subverted by the prophets in various ways.

The fin-de-siècle aesthetes, of course, react against the moral project expressed in realist novels like Eliot’s and Ward’s. Indeed, Oscar Wilde uses liturgy to attack what he sees as realism’s stunted imagination. But, as this chapter and the next show, aestheticism too is deeply suspicious of how excarnation separates the material and the spiritual. Again, if modernity typically sunders these realms, liturgy joins them. It therefore offers the perfect channel for aestheticism’s veneration of material reality – of beautiful bodies, lovely objects, and stimulating experiences. Such devotion pervades Walter Pater’s novel Marius the Epicurean (1885) – itself a kind of liturgical and aesthetic bildungsroman. Set in second-century Italy, the novel follows the pious Marius, who cherishes the pagan rituals of his boyhood and finds their fulfillment in the early Christian Mass. For Marius, the Eucharist not only sacralizes material objects but also defends matter – specifically the body – against the ritual violence of imperial Rome. Just as Wordsworth depicts industrialism as a liturgy of desecration, Pater sees Roman imperial power in similar terms.

In this chapter, the historiography of international law in East Asia is approached and critiqued as a tale of two centrisms, i.e. Sinocentrism and Eurocentrism. The historiography of international law in the region prior to the ‘encounter’ between East Asia and Europe has been largely Sinocentric. It is suggested that the traditional East Asian order be reinterpreted through the concept of ‘asymmetrical mutuality’ under which the regional actors of differentiated subjectivity were able to reconcile and manage their diverging interests through the crucial intermediary of diplomatic rituals. The historiography of the post-‘encounter’ period can be characterised as Eurocentric, being premised on the overwhelming positional superiority of Europe over East Asia. This traditional narrative is critically revisited (again) through the prism of ‘asymmetrical mutuality’. Despite Europe’s overwhelming dominance, East Asians articulated a wide variety of responses to the onset of a new normative discourse claiming universal validity, demonstrating their agency (if restricted). Critical engagement with Eurocentrism in the historiography of international law, one of the core questions of today’s historiography of international law, inevitably gives rise to the question of how to view universality. As a cautionary tale from this region, an attempt in interwar Japan to construct its own historiography of international law and relations by rejecting the universality articulated by the West (a ‘historiography of Sonderweg’) is investigated. By way of conclusion, it is suggested that the history of international law be reconceived as the fusing together of diverse normative voices through an intersubjective dialogue based on mutual recognition, rather than as the self-realisation of a certain universalistic normative discourse.

This chapter discusses the overlooked and often ignored historiography of the history of international law in Africa. It argues that this absence is a symptom of the myth of African ahistoricity before the coming of European imperialism and the idea that the advent of intellectual independence only came after decolonisation. In order to overcome this exclusion scholars should abandon the disciplinary tools and markers of nineteenth- and twentieth-century Western international law that are usually employed when establishing the canon of the history of international law. Instead, the chapter proposes that pan-Africanism can offer a lens through which to view African and Black authors’ historical engagement with histories of international law on the continent. Unlike their European contemporaries, most pan-African authors were not interested in analysing detailed state practice, but had a far more ambitious project: to construct a new world order based on racial equality and self-determination. In that sense, what they were interested in was forging anew the very foundations on which international law and international relations had been built.