Journal articles on the topic 'World War, 1914-1918 – Monuments – Belgium'

Every town and village throughout Flanders is commemorating the gruesome events of 1914–1918 with a range of activities. Some of these propose intelligent and thoroughly researched perspectives on WWI, while others are just simple tourist entertainments. Flemish theatre artists enthusiastically contribute to this frenzy, although some choose to deconstruct the folkloric myths to comment on the economics of the commemoration industry or on present-day atrocities.

AbstractIn the wake of the German invasion of Belgium and France in August 1914, four million persons went into exile. While such a displacement of population testified to a dramatic change in the character of war in western Europe, historiography and collective memory alike have so far concurred in marginalising the experience of refugees during the First World War. This article examines their unprecedented encounter with host communities in France and Great Britain. It demonstrates that the refugees' plight reveals the strengths as well as the tensions inherent in the process of social mobilisation that was inseparable from the First World War.

The wars of 1914–1918 and 1939–1945 are without parallel in the expansive stretch of decades of the pan-European conquest and occupation of Africa in creating such profound opportunity to study the very entrenched desire by the European conqueror-states in Africa to perpetuate their control on the continent and its peoples indefinitely. The two principal protagonists in each conflict, Britain and Germany, were the lead powers of these conqueror-states that had formally occupied Africa since 1885. Against this cataclysmic background of history, Africans found themselves conscripted by both sides of the confrontation line in 1914–1918 to at once fight wars for and against their aggressors during which 1 million Africans were killed. Clearly, this was a case of double-jeopardy of conquered and occupied peoples fighting for their enemy-occupiers. In the follow-up 1939–1945 war, when Germany indeed no longer occupied any African land (having been defeated in the 1914–1918 encounter), Britain and allies France and Belgium (all continuing occupying powers in Africa) conscripted Africans, yet again, to fight for these powers in their new confrontation against Germany, and Japan, a country that was in no way an aggressor force in Africa. Hundreds of thousands of Africans were killed in this second war. In neither of these conflicts, as this study demonstrates, do the leaders of these warring countries who occupied (or hitherto occupied) Africa ever view their enforced presence in Africa as precisely the scenario or outcome they wished their own homeland was not subjected to by their enemies. On the contrary, just as it was their position in the aftermath of the 1914–1918 war, Britain, France, Belgium, Spain and Portugal in 1945 each envisaged the continuing occupation of the states and peoples of Africa they had seized by force prior to these conflicts. Winston Churchill, the British prime minster at the time, was adamant: ‘I had not become the king’s first minister in order to preside over the liquidation of the British Empire’. Charles de Gaulle, leader of the anti-German ‘free French forces’, was no less categorical on this score: ‘Self-government [in French-occupied Africa, Asia, the Caribbean, South America, the Pacific and elsewhere in the world] must be rejected – even in the more distant future’.

Historical research into the petite bourgeoisie in Belgium did not begin until quite a bit later than it did abroad. On closer inspection, that was no bad thing. Because of the late start by Belgian historians, they were more open-minded and less inclined towards the research into the roots of Fascism which was largely based on pre-war sociological theories. Beginning in 1980, pioneering research was carried out at the Université Libre de Bruxelles – for the most part on the period before the First World War. The research group under the direction of Ginette Kurgan-van Hentenryk systematically analysed several important series of sources and produced interesting detailed studies. In 1993 Serge Jaumain published a comprehensive study on Belgian retail trade in the period from 1880 to 1914.

The article examines the European experience of creating war memorials dedicated to the World War I, using the motives of medieval architecture. The fascination with the Middle Ages, spread through the art and literature of the Neo-Gothic and national Romanism period, was emotionally rethought by the generation that survived the catastrophe of the global conflict of 1914–1918. At the new stage, the symbolic harsh images of the Middle Ages turned out to be more consonant with the social creation of former front-line soldiers than the classical antique forms used in the memorialization of wars in the 18th–19th centuries. This process was reflected in the commemoration of the Great War in Great Britain, France, Germany and other countries, where the monuments to the fallen began to give the appearance characteristic of the towers, fortresses and castles of the long-gone Middle Ages, giving them a new interpretative meaning.

While the horrors of the trench warfare on the Western Front in Belgium and France are part of the European cultural memory, to some degree the much more extensive and mobile Eastern Front of the 1914–1918 conflict has become the forgotten front (Die vergessene Front). Although for just over eleven months in 1914/15, the central part of a major front, some 1000 km long on which three million people died ran through the middle of what is now Poland, for a number of reasons the memory of this has there been all but erased from memory and from the cultural landscape. The reviewed three volumes are the result of a project that has attempted to address the poor state of historical memory of the momentous events and human drama that took place a century earlier on the segment of the front, 55 km west of Warsaw. Here, from mid-December 1914, the Russian Imperial army tried to hold back the eastward advance of the German troops on defences built along the Bzura and Rawka rivers. For the next seven months, the fighting here took the form of the same type of prolonged static trench warfare more familiar on the Western Front (the only place in the eastern sphere of war that this happened). The German army made every effort (including mining and several major gas attacks), to advance on Warsaw but failed to break through. It was only after the Great Retreat of the Russian army in the summer of 1915 that these defences were overrun and Warsaw fell.

The article covers the problems of preparation of defense in Galicia in the second half of 19th – at the beginning 20th century by the example of the fortress of Mykolaiv near the Dnister river. The ideas of defensive construction, fundamental changes of fortifications in the specified period (shooting from closed positions and use of high-explosive fires) and location, types and features of strengthening the fortress of Mykolaiv at different stages of construction are revealed in the article. It shows the discussions concerning the principles of defense, the creation of new infrastructure with a network of railways, paved roads, railways and highways, the changes in political conditions (especially in Austro-Russian relations), and Russian intelligence activity. Particular attention is paid to the events around the fortress during the Battle of Galicia in 1914 and the Polish-Ukrainian War of 1918-1919, in particular to the activities of generals Konrad von Getzendorf, Bema-Ermoli, Brusilov, Kornilov, Denikin, Kurmanovich and Grekov. Episodes of the capture of the fortress by Russian army and the battles around it are covered by author. Mykolaiv Fortress is one of the best preserved fortifications monuments of the First World War and the territory of Ukraine. But nowadays, there are attempts to destroy the remains of the fortress and deploy quarries on its territory to extract sand.

De Duitse Flamenpolitik van de Eerste Wereldoorlog was een ambitieuze poging om diepgaande wijzigingen op gang te brengen niet alleen in de structuur van de Belgische staat, maar ook in de geestesgesteldheid van de Vlaamse samenleving. Zij was een hegemoniaal beleid met de bedoeling door inwerking op de Vlaamse beweging de voorwaarden te scheppen om België in een Duitse invloedsfeer in te schakelen. We kunnen nochtans niet vaststellen dat dit beleid van regeringszijde reeds vóór 1914 stelselmatig zou zijn voorbereid. De operatieve fase ging vijf maanden na de Duitse inval in België in januari 1915 van start. Wel konden officiële instanties een beroep doen op dossierkennis die particuliere acteurs al vóór de oorlog of in de beginperiode van de bezetting ter plaatse hadden vergaard.Belangstelling voor Vlaanderen bleef ook na 1918 in Duitsland bestaan. Zij was nu ruimschoots gemotiveerd door de gevreesde bedreiging van het Duitse Westen door een expansionistisch Frankrijk. Vanuit Duits oogpunt was België dankzij de Vlaamse Beweging de zwakste schakel in het Franse systeem van allianties in het tussenoorlogse Europa. De Flamenpolitik, als we ze in die periode zo willen noemen, had nu een anti-hegemoniaal, want tegen het spook van een zegevierend Frankrijk gericht karakter.Van een zonder meer hegemoniaal beleid kunnen we uiteraard weer spreken vanaf 1940. En anders dan de eerste was deze tweede Flamenpolitik reeds vóór de oorlog stelselmatig voorbereid – door een van overheidswege gestimuleerd beleid van inwerking op de westelijke buurlanden sinds 1933.________ A systematic policy? Continuity and discontinuity in the German FlamenpolitikThe German Flamenpolitik during the First World War was an ambitious attempt to bring about profound changes not only in the structure of the Belgian state, but also in the state of mind of Flemish society. It was a hegemonic policy attempting to influence the Flemish movement in such a way as to create the conditions to insert Belgium into the German sphere of influence. However, we are unable to demonstrate that the government had already systematically prepared this policy before 1914. The operational phase kicked-off five months after the German invasion of Belgium in January 1915. However, the official bodies were able to take advantage of the expertise that had already been collected by particular actors before the war or in the early period of the occupation.Even after 1918 Germany continued its interest in Flanders. It was then abundantly motivated by the feared threat to the German West by an expansionist France. According to the German point of view Belgium – due to the Flemish Movement – was the weakest link in the French system of alliances in Europe during the period between the wars. At that time the Flamenpolitik, if we wish to call it thus during that period was anti-hegemonic in nature as it was directed against the spectre of a triumphant France. Obviously, from 1940 we can describe it again as a straightforward hegemonic policy. And in contrast to the first Flamenpolitik this second version had already been systematically prepared before the war by a policy encouraged by the authorities to influence western neighbouring countries from 1933.

Na de Eerste Wereldoorlog en de invoering van het enkelvoudig stemrecht voor mannen werd de socialistische partij bijna even groot als de katholieke. De verkiezingen verscherpten de regionale en ideologische asymmetrie. De katholieke partij behield de absolute meerderheid in Vlaanderen, de socialistische verwierf een gelijkaardige positie in Wallonië. Nationaal werden coalitieregeringen noodzakelijk. In de Kamer veroverden zowel de socialisten als de christendemocratische vleugel een machtsbasis, maar tot de regering doordringen bleek veel moeilijker. Die bleven gedomineerd door de conservatieve katholieke vleugel en de liberale partij, met steun van de koning en van de haute finance. Eenmaal het socialistische minimumprogramma uit angst voor een sociale revolutie aanvaard (1918-1921), werden de socialisten nog slechts getolereerd tijdens crisissituaties of als het niet anders kon (1925-1927, 1935-1940). Het verklaart een toenemende frustratie bij Waalse socialisten. Tevens bemoeilijkte hun antiklerikalisme de samenwerking van Vlaamse socialisten met christendemocraten en Vlaamsgezinden, zoals in Antwerpen, en dat gold ook voor de vorming van regeringen. In de BWP waren de verhoudingen veranderd. De macht lag nu gespreid over vier actoren: de federaties, het partijbestuur, de parlementsfractie en eventueel de ministers. De eenheid was bij momenten ver zoek. In 1919 was het Vlaamse socialisme veel sterker geworden. In Vlaanderen behaalde het 24 zetels (18 meer dan in 1914) en werd het met 25,5% de tweede grootste partij. Bovendien was de dominantie van Gent verschoven naar Antwerpen, dat met zes zetels de vierde grootste federatie van de BWP werd. Het aantrekken van Camille Huysmans als boegbeeld versterkte haar Vlaamsgezind profiel. In een eerste fase moest Huysmans nog de Vlaamse kwestie als een vrije kwestie verdedigen. Zelfs tegen de Gentse en de Kortrijkse federatie in, die de vooroorlogse Vlaamsgezinde hoofdeis – de vernederland-sing van de Gentse universiteit – hadden losgelaten. Naar 1930 toe, de viering van honderd jaar België, was de Vlaamse beweging opnieuw sterker geworden en werd gevreesd voor de electorale doorbraak van een Vlaams-nationalistische partij. Een globale oplossing voor het Vlaamse probleem begon zich op te dringen. Dat gold ook voor de BWP. Interne tegenstellingen moesten overbrugd worden zodat, gezien de financiële crisis, de sociaaleconomische thema’s alle aandacht konden krijgen. Daarbij stonden de eenheid van België en van de partij voorop. In maart 1929 leidde dit tot het ‘Compromis des Belges’ en een paar maanden later tot het minder bekende en radicalere partijstandpunt, het ‘Compromis des socialistes belges’. Voortbouwend op de vooroorlogse visie van het bestaan van twee volken binnen België, werd dit doorgetrokken tot het recht op culturele autonomie van elk volk, gebaseerd op het principe van regionale eentaligheid, ten koste van de taalminderheden. Voor de Vlaamse socialisten kwam dit neer op een volledige vernederlandsing van Vlaanderen, te beginnen met het onderwijs en de Gentse universiteit. Niet zonder enige tegenzin ging een meerderheid van Waalse socialisten daarmee akkoord. In ruil eisten zij dat in België werd afgezien van elke vorm van verplichte tweetaligheid, gezien als een vorm van Vlaams kolonialisme. Eentalige Walen hadden in Wallonië en in nationale instellingen (leger, centrale besturen) recht op aanwerving en carrière zonder kennis van het Nederlands, zoals ook de kennis ervan als tweede landstaal in Wallonië niet mocht worden opgelegd. De betekenis van dit interne compromis kreeg in de historiografie onvoldoende aandacht. Dat geldt ook voor de vaststelling dat beide nationale arbeidersbewegingen, de BWP vanuit de oppositie, in 1930-1932 mee de invoering van het territorialiteitsbeginsel hebben geforceerd. Een tussentijdse fase C uit het model van Miroslav Hroch.________‘Frenemies’? 2Communitarian tensions in the Socialist Party 1919-1940. Division, Compromise. Crisis. Part One: 1918-1935After the First World War and the introduction of simple universal male suffrage, the Socialist Party was almost as large as the Catholic Party. Elections sharpened the regional and ideological asymmetry. The Catholic Party maintained an absolute majority in Flanders; the Socialists acquired a similar position in Wallonia. Coalition gov-ernments were a necessity at the national level. In the Chamber, both the Socialists and the Christian Democratic wing of the Catholics had a strong base of power, but entering in the government turned out to be much more difficult. Governments remained dominated by the conservative wing of the Catholic Party and by the Liberal Party, with support from the king and high finance. Once the Socialist minimum program had been accepted out of fear of a social revolution in the years 1918-1921, the Socialists were only tolerated in government during crises or in case there was no other possibility (1925-1927, 1935-1940). This explains an increasing frustration among Walloon Socialists. At the same time, Flemish Socialists’ anticlericalism hindered their cooperation with Christian Democrats and members of the Flemish Movement, as in Antwerp, and that also held true for the forming of national governments.In the Belgian Workers’ Party (BWP), balance had changed. Power now lay spread among four actors: the federations, the party administration, the parliamentary faction, and sometimes, government ministers. Unity was sometimes hard to find. In 1919 Flemish socialism became much stronger. In Flanders it took 25 seats (18 more than in 1914) and, with 25.5% of the vote, was the second-largest party. In addition, the centre of gravity moved from Ghent to Antwerp, which with six seats became the fourth-largest federation in the BWP. Camille Huysmans’s appeal as the figurehead strengthened its profile with regard to the Flemish Movement. At first, Huysmans had to defend the treatment of the Flemish Question as a matter of individual conscience for party members, even against the Ghent and Kortrijk federations, which had abandoned the foremost pre-war demand of the Flemish Movement, the transformation of the University of Ghent into a Dutch-language institution. As 1930, the centenary of Belgium, approached, the Flemish Movement became stronger once again and an electoral breakthrough by a Flemish nationalist party was feared. An overall solution to the Flemish problem was pressing, also in the BWP. Internal divisions needed to be bridged in order to give full attention to socioeconomic questions, in light of the financial crisis. The unity of Belgium and of the party came first and foremost. In 1929 this led to the ‘Compromis des Belges’ (Compromise of the Belgians) and a few months later to the lesser-known but more radical position of the party, the ‘Compromise of the Belgian Socialists’. Building on the pre-war vision of the existence of two peoples within Belgium, this point of view was imbued with the right of each people to cultural autonomy, based on the principle of regional monolingualism, at the expense of linguistic minorities. For Flemish socialists this came down to a full transformation of Flanders into a Dutch-speaking society, beginning with education and the University of Ghent. The majority of Walloon socialists went along with this, though not without some reluctance. In return, they demanded the elimination of any form of required bilingualism in Belgium, which they saw as a form of Flemish colonialism. In Wallonia and in national institutions (the army, the central administration), monolingual Walloons had a right to be recruited and have a career without a knowledge of Dutch, just as knowledge of Dutch as a second national language was not supposed to be imposed in Wallonia. The significance of this internal compromise has received insufficient attention in the historiography. The same observation applies to the finding that both national workers’ movements – the BWP from the ranks of the opposition – forced the introduction of the principle of territoriality in 1930-1932: an interim phase C of Miroslav Hroch’s model.

-Louis Allaire, Samuel M. Wilson, Hispaniola: Caribbean chiefdoms in the age of Columbus. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1990. xi + 170 pp.-Douglas Melvin Haynes, Philip D. Curtin, Death by migration: Europe's encounter with the tropical world in the nineteenth century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. xviii + 251 pp.-Dale Tomich, J.H. Galloway, The sugar cane industry: An historical geography from its origins to 1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. xii + 266 pp.-Myriam Cottias, Dale Tomich, Slavery in the circuit of sugar: Martinique and the world economy, 1830 -1848. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1990. xiv + 352 pp.-Robert Forster, Pierre Dessalles, La vie d'un colon à la Martinique au XIXe siècle. Pré-senté par Henri de Frémont. Courbevoie: s.n., 1984-1988, four volumes, 1310 pp.-Hilary Beckles, Douglas V. Armstrong, The old village and the great house: An archaeological and historical examination of Drax Hall Plantation, St Ann's Bay, Jamaica. Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1990. xiii + 393 pp.-John Stewart, John A. Lent, Caribbean popular culture. Bowling Green OH: Bowling Green State University Popular Press, 1990. 157 pp.-W. Marvin Will, Susanne Jonas ,Democracy in Latin America: Visions and realities. New York: Bergin & Garvey Publishers, 1990. viii + 224 pp., Nancy Stein (eds)-Forrest D. Colburn, Kathy McAfee, Storm signals: Structural adjustment and development alternatives in the Caribbean. London: Zed books, 1991. xii + 259 pp.-Derwin S. Munroe, Peggy Antrobus ,In the shadows of the sun: Caribbean development alternatives and U.S. policy. Carmen Diana Deere (coordinator), Peter Phillips, Marcia Rivera & Helen Safa. Boulder CO: Westview Press, 1990. xvii + 246 pp., Lynne Bolles, Edwin Melendez (eds)-William Roseberry, Louis A. Pérez, Jr., Lords of the mountain: Social banditry and peasant protest in Cuba, 1878-1918. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1989. xvii + 267 pp.-William Roseberry, Rosalie Schwartz, Lawless liberators, political banditry and Cuban independence. Durham NC: Duke University Press, 1989. x + 297 pp.-Robert L. Paquette, Robert M. Levine, Cuba in the 1850's: Through the lens of Charles DeForest Fredricks. Tampa: University of South Florida Press, 1990. xv + 86 pp.-José Sánchez-Boudy, Gustavo Pérez Firmat, The Cuban condition: Translation and identity in modern Cuban literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. viii + 185 pp.-Dick Parker, Jules R. Benjamin, The United States and the origins of the Cuban revolution: An empire of liberty in an age of national liberation. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990. xi + 235 pp.-George Irvin, Andrew Zimbalist ,The Cuban economy: Measurement and analysis of socialist performance. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1989. xiv + 220 pp., Claes Brundenius (eds)-Menno Vellinga, Frank T. Fitzgerald, Managing socialism: From old Cadres to new professionals in revolutionary Cuba. New York: Praeger, 1990. xiv + 161 pp.-Patricia R. Pessar, Eugenia Georges, The making of a transnational community: Migration, development, and cultural change in the Dominican republic. New York: Columbia University Press, 1990. xi + 270 pp.-Lucía Désir, Maria Dolores Hajosy Benedetti, Earth and spirit: Healing lore and more from Puerto Rico. Maplewood NJ: Waterfront Press, 1989. xvii + 245 pp.-Thomas J. Spinner, Jr., Percy C. Hintzen, The costs of regime survival: Racial mobilization, elite domination and control of the state in Guyana and Trinidad. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. x + 240 pp.-Judith Johnson, Morton Klass, Singing with the Sai Baba: The politics of revitalization in Trinidad. Boulder CO: Westview, 1991. xvi + 187 pp.-Aisha Khan, Selwyn Ryan, The Muslimeen grab for power: Race, religion and revolution in Trinidad and Tobago. Port of Spain: Inprint Caribbean, 1991. vii + 345 pp.-Drexel G. Woodson, Patrick Bellegarde-Smith, Haiti: The Breached Citadel. Boulder CO: Westview Press, 1990. xxi + 217 pp.-O. Nigel Bolland, Howard Johnson, The Bahamas in slavery and freedom. Kingston, Jamaica: Ian Randle; London: James Currey, 1991. viii + 184 pp.-Keith F. Otterbein, Charles C. Foster, Conchtown USA: Bahamian fisherfolk in Riviera beach, Florida. (with folk songs and tales collected by Veronica Huss). Boca Raton: Florida Atlantic University Press, 1991. x + 176 pp.-Peter van Baarle, John P. Bennett ,Kabethechino: A correspondence on Arawak. Edited by Janette Forte. Georgetown: Demerara Publishers, 1991. vi + 271 pp., Richard Hart (eds)-Fabiola Jara, Joop Vernooij, Indianen en kerken in Suriname: identiteit en autonomie in het binnenland. Paramaribo: Stichting Wetenschappelijke Informatie (SWI), 1989. 178 pp.-Jay Edwards, C.L. Temminck Groll ,Curacao: Willemstad, city of monuments. R.G. Gill. The Hague: Gary Schwartz/SDU Publishers, 1990. 123 pp., W. van Alphen, R. Apell (eds)-Mineke Schipper, Maritza Coomans-Eustatia ,Drie Curacaose schrijvers in veelvoud. Zutphen: De Walburg Pers, 1991. 544 pp., H.E. Coomans, Wim Rutgers (eds)-Arie Boomert, P. Wagenaar Hummelinck, De rotstekeningen van Aruba/The prehistoric rock drawings of Aruba. Utrecht: Uitgeverij Presse-Papier, 1991. 228 pp.-J.K. Brandsma, Ruben S. Gowricharn, Economische transformatie en de staat: over agrarische modernisering en economische ontwikkeling in Suriname, 1930-1960. Den Haag: Uitgeverij Ruward, 1990. 208 pp.-Henk N. Hoogendonk, M. van Schaaijk, Een macro-model van een micro-economie. Den Haag: STUSECO, 1991. 359 pp.-Bim G. Mungra, Corstiaan van der Burg ,Hindostanen in Nederland. Leuven (Belgium)/ Apeldoorn (the Netherlands): Garant Publishers, 1990. 223 pp., Theo Damsteegt, Krishna Autar (eds)-Adrienne Bruyn, J. van Donselaar, Woordenboek van het Surinaams-Nederlands. Muiderberg: Dick Coutinho, 1989. 482 pp.-Wim S. Hoogbergen, Michiel Baud ,'Cultuur in beweging': creolisering en Afro-Caraïbische cultuur. Rotterdam: Bureau Studium Generale, 1989. 93 pp., Marianne C. Ketting (eds)

Rond 1910 werd in de BWP de Vlaamse kwestie een vrije kwestie. De ‘versmelting’ van twee volken in een ‘âme belge’, via tweetaligheid, werd afgewezen. Onder impuls van Huysmans beriep het Vlaamse socialisme zich op de idee van culturele autonomie: het recht op onderwijs in de moedertaal van de lagere school tot de universiteit en dus de vernederlandsing van de Gentse Rijksuniversiteit. Daarmee behoorde het Vlaamse socialisme tot de voorhoede van de Vlaamse beweging. Het Waalse socialisme daarentegen verdedigde nog de superioriteit van het Frans en de mythe van een tweetalig Vlaanderen, en kantte zich tegen die Vlaamse hoofdeis.Tijdens de tweede fase (1919-1935) was de Vlaamse beweging verzwakt en het Vlaamse socialisme verdeeld. Huysmans slaagde er slechts met moeite in om een ongunstig partijstandpunt ter zake te verhinderen en de Vlaamse kwestie als een vrije kwestie te behouden. Het ‘Compromis des socialistes belges’ van november 1929 was gebaseerd op regionale eentaligheid en een minimale tweetaligheid in het leger en de centrale besturen. Het legde mee de fundamenten van de evolutie naar het beginsel van de territorialiteit inzake bestuur en onderwijs (1930 en 1932).Tijdens de derde fase (1935-1940) hield die pacificatie geen stand. Conflicten versterkten elkaar. De partijleiding kwam in handen van de Brusselaar Spaak en de Vlaming De Man, die met zijn Plan van de Arbeid in 1933 de BWP even uit de impasse had gehaald. Het ging om een nieuwe generatie die het socialisme een andere inhoud wilde geven: streven naar een volkspartij in plaats van klassenstrijd, een ‘socialisme national’, een autoritaire democratie als antwoord op een aanhoudende politieke crisis. Vooral aan Waalse kant werd daartegen gereageerd. Tevens werd de evolutie in het buitenlandse beleid, de zelfstandigheid los van Frankrijk, bekritiseerd. De Spaanse burgeroorlog en de eventuele erkenning van generaal Franco dreef de tegenstellingen op de spits. Voor het eerst had de partij met Spaak een socia-listische eerste minister (mei 1938-januari 1939). Hoewel alle socialisten tegen Franco waren, verschilden de Waalse socialisten van mening met de meeste Vlaamse socialisten over de vraag of de regering daarover moest vallen. Er was ook de tegenstelling over een al dan niet toenadering tot de christelijke arbeidersbeweging vanwege een dan noodzakelijke schoolvrede en een subsidiëring van de katholieke ‘strijdscholen’. Daarop entte zich de taalkwestie. In de Kamer viel de fractiecohesie terug tot 53%.De Vlaamse socialisten waren niet alleen veel sterker vertegenwoordigd in de fractie (40% in 1936), hun zelfbewustzijn nam ook sterk toe. Ze ergerden zich steeds meer aan het bijna exclusieve gebruik van het Frans in de fractie, in het partijbestuur en vooral tijdens congressen. Wie geen of weinig Frans kende, wilde niet langer als minderwaardig worden behandeld. Zeker als dat samenviel met een andere visie. Het eerste aparte Vlaams Socialistisch Congres ging door in maart 1937. Het wilde de culturele autonomie zo veel mogelijk doortrekken, maar keerde zich tegen elke vorm van federalisme, waardoor de Vlaamse socialisten in een klerikaal Vlaanderen een machteloze minderheid zouden worden. Bij de Waalse socialisten groeide de frustratie. Ze organiseerden aparte Waalse Congressen in 1938 en 1939. Ze benadrukten drie vormen van Vlaams imperialisme. De ongunstige demografische evolutie maakte een Vlaamse meerderheid in het parlement en politieke minorisering mogelijk. De financieel-economische transfers van Wallonië naar Vlaanderen verarmden Wallonië. Het verlies aan jobs voor ééntalige Walen in Wallonië en in Brussel was discriminerend. Dat laatste zorgde voor een francofone toenadering en een gezamenlijke framing. Het flamingantisme had zich al meester gemaakt van Vlaanderen, bedreigde via tweetaligheid nu de Brusselse agglomeratie, waarna Wallonië aan de beurt zou komen. Op 2 februari 1939 stonden Vlaamse en Waalse socialisten tegenover elkaar. De unitaire partij dreigde, naar katholiek voorbeeld, in twee taalgroepen uiteen te vallen. Zover kwam het niet. De wallinganten, die een politiek federalisme nastreefden, hadden terrein gewonnen, maar de meeste Waalse socialisten bleven voorstander van een nationale solidariteit. Mits een nieuw ‘Compromis’ dat met de Waalse grieven rekening hield. De mythe van het Vlaamse socialisme als Vlaams vijandig of onverschillig is moeilijk vol te houden. Wel ontstond na de Tweede Wereldoorlog een andere situatie. Tijdens de jaren 1960 behoorde de Vlaamse kwestie tot de ‘trein der gemiste kansen’ . Na de Eerste Wereldoorlog en de invoering van het enkelvoudig stemrecht voor mannen werd de socialistische partij bijna even groot als de katholieke. De verkiezingen verscherpten de regionale en ideologische asymmetrie. De katholieke partij behield de absolute meerderheid in Vlaanderen, de socialistische verwierf een gelijkaardige positie in Wallonië. Nationaal werden coalitieregeringen noodzakelijk. In de Kamer veroverden zowel de socialisten als de christendemocratische vleugel een machtsbasis, maar tot de regering doordringen bleek veel moeilijker. Die bleven gedomineerd door de conservatieve katholieke vleugel en de liberale partij, met steun van de koning en van de haute finance. Eenmaal het socialistische minimumprogramma uit angst voor een sociale revolutie aanvaard (1918-1921), werden de socialisten nog slechts getolereerd tijdens crisissituaties of als het niet anders kon (1925-1927, 1935-1940). Het verklaart een toenemende frustratie bij Waalse socialisten. Tevens bemoeilijkte hun antiklerikalisme de samenwerking van Vlaamse socialisten met christendemocraten en Vlaamsgezinden, zoals in Antwerpen, en dat gold ook voor de vorming van regeringen. In de BWP waren de verhoudingen veranderd. De macht lag nu gespreid over vier actoren: de federaties, het partijbestuur, de parlementsfractie en eventueel de ministers. De eenheid was bij momenten ver zoek. In 1919 was het Vlaamse socialisme veel sterker geworden. In Vlaanderen behaalde het 24 zetels (18 meer dan in 1914) en werd het met 25,5% de tweede grootste partij. Bovendien was de dominantie van Gent verschoven naar Antwerpen, dat met zes zetels de vierde grootste federatie van de BWP werd. Het aantrekken van Camille Huysmans als boegbeeld versterkte haar Vlaamsgezind profiel. In een eerste fase moest Huysmans nog de Vlaamse kwestie als een vrije kwestie verdedigen. Zelfs tegen de Gentse en de Kortrijkse federatie in, die de vooroorlogse Vlaamsgezinde hoofdeis – de vernederland-sing van de Gentse universiteit – hadden losgelaten. Naar 1930 toe, de viering van honderd jaar België, was de Vlaamse beweging opnieuw sterker geworden en werd gevreesd voor de electorale doorbraak van een Vlaams-nationalistische partij. Een globale oplossing voor het Vlaamse probleem begon zich op te dringen. Dat gold ook voor de BWP. Interne tegenstellingen moesten overbrugd worden zodat, gezien de financiële crisis, de sociaaleconomische thema’s alle aandacht konden krijgen. Daarbij stonden de eenheid van België en van de partij voorop. In maart 1929 leidde dit tot het ‘Compromis des Belges’ en een paar maanden later tot het minder bekende en radicalere partijstandpunt, het ‘Compromis des socialistes belges’. Voortbouwend op de vooroorlogse visie van het bestaan van twee volken binnen België, werd dit doorgetrokken tot het recht op culturele autonomie van elk volk, gebaseerd op het principe van regionale eentaligheid, ten koste van de taalminderheden. Voor de Vlaamse socialisten kwam dit neer op een volledige vernederlandsing van Vlaanderen, te beginnen met het onderwijs en de Gentse universiteit. Niet zonder enige tegenzin ging een meerderheid van Waalse socialisten daarmee akkoord. In ruil eisten zij dat in België werd afgezien van elke vorm van verplichte tweetaligheid, gezien als een vorm van Vlaams kolonialisme. Eentalige Walen hadden in Wallonië en in nationale instellingen (leger, centrale besturen) recht op aanwerving en carrière zonder kennis van het Nederlands, zoals ook de kennis ervan als tweede landstaal in Wallonië niet mocht worden opgelegd. De betekenis van dit interne compromis kreeg in de historiografie onvoldoende aandacht. Dat geldt ook voor de vaststelling dat beide nationale arbeidersbewegingen, de BWP vanuit de oppositie, in 1930-1932 mee de invoering van het territorialiteitsbeginsel hebben geforceerd. Een tussentijdse fase C uit het model van Miroslav Hroch.___________ ‘Frenemies’? 2Communitarian tensions in the Socialist Party 1919-1940. Division, Compromise. Crisis. Part Two: 1935-1940 Around 1910, the Flemish question became a free question in the BWP. The ‘merging’ of two peoples in a Belgian soul (âme belge) through bilingualism was rejected. According to Huysmans, Flemish socialism appealed to the idea of cultural autonomy: the right to education in one’s native language from primary school to university, and therefore, the transformation of the state University of Ghent into a Dutch-speaking institution. Hence, Flemish socialism became part of the vanguard of the Flemish Movement. Walloon socialism, on the contrary, continued to support the superiority of French in Belgium and the myth of a bilingual Flanders. It turned against this key Flemish demand.The next stages were dominated by the introduction of simple universal male suffrage in 1919. The Catholic Party maintained an absolute majority in Flanders, the Socialist Party acquired a similar position in Wallonia. During the second phase (1919-1935) initially the Flemish Movement was weakened and Flemish socialism divided. Huysmans hardly managed to keep the Flemish question a free question. The ‘Compromise of the Belgian Socialists’ (Compromis des socialistes belges) of November 1929 was based on regional monolingualism and a minimal bilingualism in the army and the central administration. The territorial principle in administration and education (1930 and 1932) was accepted. Dutch became the official language in Flanders.During the third phase (1935-1940) pacification did not hold. Conflicts strengthened one another. The party leadership fell into the hands of the Brussels politician Spaak and the Fleming De Man. The latter had just offered the BWP an answer to the socio-economic depression with his ‘Labour Plan’ (Plan van de Arbeid). This new generation wanted a different socialism: rather a people’s party than stressing class conflict, a ‘national socialism’, an authoritarian democracy as a response to a persistent political crisis. In particular Walloons reacted against these developments. At the same time, they critisized the foreign policy of diplomatic independence from France (‘los van Frankrijk’). The Spanish Civil War and the possible recognition of General Franco stressed the divisions. With Spaak, the party had a Socialist Prime Minister for the first time (May 1938-January 1939). While all socialists were opposed to Franco, Walloon socialists had a conflicting view with most Flemish socialists on whether the govern-ment should be brought down on this subject. There was also a conflict over the question of rapprochement with the Christian labour movement concerning a truce over the school question and subsidies for the Catholic ‘propaganda’ schools. The language question worsened the situation. In the Chamber, party cohesion dropped down to 53%.Not only were the Flemish socialists much more strongly represented in the socialist parliamentary group (40% in 1936), their assertiveness also increased. They became more and more annoyed with the quasi-exclusive use of French in their parliamentary group, in the party administration, and mostly during party congresses. Those who knew little or no French no longer wanted to be treated as inferior. Especially, when they had different opinions. The first separate Flemish Socialist Congress was held in March 1937. The Congress wanted to pursue cultural autonomy as far as possible, but opposed any form of federalism, as Flemish socialists would become a powerless minority in a clerical Flanders.Frustration grew among Walloon socialists. They organised separate Walloon Congresses in 1938 and 1939. They emphasized three forms of Flemish imperialism. Unfavourable demographic developments made a Flemish majority in Parliament and political minoritisation likely. Financial-economic transfers impoverished Wallonia to the benefit of Flanders. The loss of jobs for monolingual Walloons in Wallonia and Brussels was discriminatory. This contributed to common framing among Francophones: “Flemish radicalism” was accepted in Flanders, presently threatening the Brussels agglomeration via bilingualism, and Wallonia would be next.On 2 February 1939 Flemish and Walloon socialists opposed one another. The unitary party was in danger of splitting into two language groups, following the Catholic example. It did not come to that. The Walloon radicals, who pursued political federalism, had won some ground, but most Walloon socialists remained supporters of national solidarity, provided the adoption of a new ‘Compromise’ that took account of Walloon grievances.The myth of Flemish socialism as hostile or indifferent to Flemish issues is hard to maintain. After the Second World War, however, the situation became different.

Zusammenfassung Peter Walkenhorst, Nation – Volk – Rasse. Radikaler Nationalismus im Deutschen Kaiserreich 1890-1914 (Bruno Thoß ) André Tiebel, Die Entstehung der Schutztruppengesetze für die deutschen Schutzgebiete Deutsch-Ostafrika, Deutsch-Südwestafrika und Kamerun (1884-1898) (Christian Senne) Eberhardt Kettlitz, Afrikanische Soldaten aus deutscher Sicht seit 1871 (Ulrich van der Heyden) Thomas Morlang, Askari und Fitafita. »Farbige« Söldner in den deutschen Kolonien (Winfried Speitkamp) Matthew S. Seligmann, Spies in Uniform. British Military and Naval Intelligence on the Eve of the First World War (Stephen Schröder) Naval Intelligence from Germany. The Reports of the British Naval Attachés in Berlin, 1906-1914. Ed. by Matthew S. Seligmann (Nicolas Wolz) Michael B. Barrett, Operation Albion. The German Conquest of the Baltic Islands (Gerhard P. Groß) Jeff Lipkes, Rehearsals. The German Army in Belgium, August 1914 (Martin Moll) Alexander Watson, Enduring the Great War. Combat, Morale and Collapse in the German and British Armies, 1914-1918 (Christian Stachelbeck) Christine Brocks, Die bunte Welt des Krieges. Bildpostkarten aus dem Ersten Weltkrieg 1914-1918 (Christoph Nübel) Anton Holzer, Das Lächeln der Henker. Der unbekannte Krieg gegen die Zivilbevölkerung 1914-1918 (Markus Pöhlmann) David C. Homsher, American Battlefields of World War I, Château-Thierry – Then and Now. A Guidebook, Anthology and Photographic Essay (Heiner Bröckermann) Der Erste Weltkrieg in der populären Erinnerungskultur. Hrsg. von Barbara Korte, Sylvia Paletschek und Wolfgang Hochbruck (Hiram Kümper)

When the National Trust was established in 1895 its founders, Canon Rawnsley, Sir Robert Hunter and Octavia Hill, were, as Cannadine notes, “primarily concerned with preserving open spaces of outstanding natural beauty which were threatened with development or spoliation.” This was because, like Ruskin, Morris and “many of their contemporaries, they believed that the essence of Englishness was to be found in the fields and hedgerows, not in the suburbs and slums” (Cannadine 227). It was important to protect these sites of beauty and historical interest from development not only for what they were but for what they purportedly represented—an irreplaceable repository of the nation’s “spiritual values”, and thus a vital antidote to the “base materialism” of the day. G.M. Trevelyan, who I am quoting here, noted in two pieces written on behalf of the Trust in the 1920s and 30s, that the “inexorable rise of bricks and mortar” and the “full development of motor traffic” were laying waste to the English countryside. In the face of this assault on England’s heartland, the National Trust provided “an ark of refuge” safeguarding the nation’s cherished physical heritage and preserving its human cargo from the rising waters of materialism and despair (qtd. in Cannadine 231-2).Despite the extension of the road network and increasing private ownership of cars (up from 200,000 registrations in 1918 to “well over one million” in 1930), physical distance and economic hardship denied the majority of the urban population access to the countryside (Taylor 217). For the urban working classes recently or distantly displaced from the land, the dream of a return to rural roots was never more than a fantasy. Ford Madox Ford observed that “the poor and working classes of the towns never really go back” (Ford 58).Through the later nineteenth century the rural nostalgia once most prevalent among the working classes was increasingly noted as a feature of middle class sensibility. Better educated, with more leisure time and money at their disposal, these sentimental ruralists furnished a ready market for a new consumer phenomenon—the commodification of the English countryside and the packaging of the values it notionally embodied. As Valentine Cunningham observes, this was not always an edifying spectacle. By the late 1920s, “the terrible sounds of ‘Ye Olde England’ can already be heard, just off-stage, knocking together its thatched wayside stall where plastic pixies, reproduction beer-mugs, relics of Shakespeare and corn-dollies would soon be on sale” (Cunningham 229). Alongside the standard tourist tat, and the fiction and poetry that romanticised the rural world, a new kind of travel writing emerged around the turn of the century. Through an analysis of early-twentieth century notions of Englishness, this paper considers how the north struggled to find a place in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927).In Haunts of Ancient Peace (1901), the Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, described a journey through “Old England” as a cultural pilgrimage in quest of surviving vestiges of the nation’s essential identity, “or so much of it as is left” (Austin 18). Austin’s was an early example of what had, by the 1920s and 30s become a “boom market … in books about the national character, traditions and antiquities, usually to be found in the country” (Wiener 73). Longmans began its “English Heritage” series in 1929, introduced by the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, with volumes on “English humour, folk song and dance, the public school, the parish church, [and] wild life”. A year later Batsford launched its series of books on “English Life” with volumes featuring “the countryside, Old English household life, inns, villages, and cottages” (Wiener 73). There was an outpouring of books with an overtly conservationist agenda celebrating journeys through or periods of residence in the countryside, many of them written by “soldiers like Henry Williamson and Edmund Blunden, who returned from the First War determined to preserve the rural England they’d known” (Cunningham 229; Blunden, Face, England; Roberts, Pilgrim, Gone ; Williamson). In turn, these books engendered an efflorescence of critical analyses of the construction of England (Hamilton; Haddow; Keith; Cavaliero; Gervais; Giles and Middleton; Westall and Gardiner).By the 1920s it was clear that a great many people thought they knew what England was, where it might be found, and if threatened, which parts of it needed to be rescued in order to safeguard the survival of its essential identity. By the same point, there were large numbers who felt, in Patrick Wright’s words, that “Some areas of the nation had been lost forever and in these no one should expect to find the traditional nation at all” (Wright 87).A key guide to the nation’s sacred sites in this period, an inventory of their relics, and an illustration of how its lost regions might be rescued for or erased from its cultural map, was provided in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927). Initially published as a series of articles in the Daily Express in 1926, In Search of England went through nine editions in the two and a half years after its appearance in book form in 1927. With sales in excess of a million copies, as John Brannigan notes, the book went through a further twenty editions by 1943, and has remained continuously in print since (Brannigan).In his introduction Morton proposes In Search of England is simply “the record of a motor-car journey round England … written without deliberation by the roadside, on farmyard walls, in cathedrals, in little churchyards, on the washstands of country inns, and in many another inconvenient place” (Morton vii). As C.R. Perry notes, “This is a happy image, but also a misleading one” (Perry 434) for there was nothing arbitrary about Morton’s progress. Even a cursory glance at the map of his journey confirms, the England that Morton went in search of was overwhelmingly rural or coastal, and embodied in the historic villages and ancient towns of the Midlands or South.Morton’s biographer, Michael Bartholomew suggests that the “nodal points” of Morton’s journey are the “cathedral cities” (Bartholomew 105).Despite claims to the contrary, his book was written with deliberation and according to a specific cultural objective. Morton’s purpose was not to discover his homeland but to confirm a vision that he and millions of others cherished. He was not in search of England so much as reassuring himself and his readers that in spite of the depredations of the factory and the motor vehicle, it was still out there. These aims determined Morton’s journey; how long he spent in differing parts, what he recorded, and how he presented landscapes, buildings, people and material culture.Morton’s determination to celebrate England as rural and ancient needed to negotiate the journey north into an industrial landscape better known for its manufacturing cities, mining and mill towns, and the densely packed streets of the poor and working classes. Unable to either avoid or ignore this north, Morton needed to settle upon a strategy of passing through it without disturbing his vision of the rural idyll. Narratively, Morton’s touring through the south and west of the country is conducted at a gentle pace. In my 1930 edition of the text, it takes 185 of the book’s 280 pages to bring him from London via the South Coast, Cornwall, the Cotswolds and the Welsh marches, to Chester. The instant Morton crosses the Lancashire border, his bull-nosed Morris accelerates through the extensive northern counties in a mere thirty pages: Warrington to Carlisle (with a side trip to Gretna Green), Carlisle to Durham, and Durham to Lincoln. The final sixty-five pages return to the more leisurely pace of the south and west through Norfolk and the East Midlands, before the journey is completed in an unnamed village somewhere between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick. Morton spends 89 per cent of the text in the South and Midlands (66 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) with only 11 per cent given over to his time in the north.If, as Genette has pointed out, narrative deceleration results in the descriptive pause, it is no coincidence that this is the recurring set piece of Morton’s treatment of the south and west as opposed to the north. His explorations take dwelling moments on river banks and hill tops, in cathedral closes and castle ruins to honour the genius loci and imagine earlier times. On Plymouth Hoe he sees, in his mind’s eye, Sir Walter Raleigh’s fleet set sail to take on the Armada; at Tintagel it is Arthur, wild and Celtic, scaling the cliffs, spear in hand; at Buckler’s Hard amid the rotting slipways he imagines the “stout oak-built ships which helped to found the British Empire”, setting out on their journeys of conquest (Morton 39). At the other extreme, Genette observes, that narrative acceleration produces ellipsis, where details are omitted in order to render a more compact and striking expression. It is the principle of ellipsis, of selective omission, which compresses the geography of Morton’s journey through the north with the effect of shaping reader experiences. Morton hurries past the north’s industrial areas—shuddering at the sight of smoke or chimneys and averting his gaze from factory and slum.As he crosses the border from Cheshire into Lancashire, Morton reflects that “the traveller enters Industrial England”—not that you would know it from his account (Morton 185). Heading north towards the Lake District, he steers a determined path between “red smoke stacks” rising on one side and an “ominous grey haze” on the other, holding to a narrow corridor of rural land where, to his relief, he observes men “raking hay in a field within gunshot of factory chimneys” (Morton 185-6). These redolent, though isolated, farmhands are of greater cultural moment than the citadels of industry towering on either side of them. While the chimneys might symbolise the nation’s economic potency, the farmhands embody the survival of its essential cultural and moral qualities. In an allusion to the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea from the Book of Exodus, the land that the workers tend holds back the polluted tide of industry, furnishing relief from the factory and the slum, granting Morton safe passage through the perils of modernity and into the Promised Land–or at least the Lake District. In Morton’s view this green belt is not only more essentially English than trade and industry, it is also expresses a nobler and more authentic Englishness.The “great industrial new-rich cities of northern England—vast and mighty as they are,” Morton observes, “fall into perspective as mere black specks against the mighty background of history and the great green expanse of fine country which is the real North of England” (Morton 208). Thus, the rural land between Manchester and Liverpool expands into a sea of green as the great cities shrink on the horizon, and the north is returned to its origins.What Morton cannot speed past or ignore, what he is compelled or chooses to confront, he transforms, through the agency of history, into something that he and England can bear to own. Tempted into Wigan by its reputation as a comic nowhere-land, a place whose name conjured a thousand music hall gags, Morton confesses that he had expected to find there another kind of cliché, “the apex of the world’s pyramid of gloom … dreary streets and stagnant canals and white-faced Wigonians dragging their weary steps along dull streets haunted by the horror of the place in which they are condemned to live” (Morton 187).In the process of naming what he dreads, Morton does not describe Wigan: he exorcises his deepest fears about what it might hold and offers an incantation intended to hold them at bay. He “discovers” Wigan is not the industrial slum but “a place which still bears all the signs of an old-fashioned country town” (Morton 188). Morton makes no effort to describe Wigan as it is, any more than he describes the north as a whole: he simply overlays them with a vision of them as they should be—he invents the Wigan and the north that he and England need.Having surveyed parks and gardens, historical monuments and the half-timbered mock-Tudor High Street, Morton returns to his car and the road where, with an audible sigh of relief, he finds: “Within five minutes of notorious Wigan we were in the depth of the country,” and that “on either side were fields in which men were making hay” (Morton 189).In little more than three pages he passes from one set of haymakers, south of town, to another on its north. The green world has all but smoothed over the industrial eyesore, and the reader, carefully chaperoned by Morton, can pass on to the Lake District having barely glimpsed the realities of industry and urbanism, reassured that if this is the worst that the north has to show then the rural heartland and the essential identity it sustains are safe. Paradoxically, instead of invalidating his account, Morton’s self-evident exclusions and omissions seem only to have fuelled its popularity.For readers of the Daily Express in the months leading up to and immediately after the General Strike of 1926, the myth of England that Morton proffered, of an unspoilt village where old values and traditional hierarchies still held true, was preferable to the violently polarised urban battlefields that the strike had revealed. As the century progressed and the nation suffered depression, war, and a steady decline in its international standing, as industry, suburban sprawl and the irresistible spread of motorways and traffic blighted the land, Morton’s England offered an imagined refuge, a real England that somehow, magically resisted the march of time.Yet if it was Morton’s triumph to provide England with a vision of its ideal spiritual home, it was his tragedy that this portrait of it hastened the devastation of the cultural survivals he celebrated and sought to preserve: “Even as the sense of idyll and peace was maintained, the forces pulling in another direction had to be acknowledged” (Taylor 74).In his introduction to the 1930 edition of In Search of England Morton approvingly acknowledged that a new enthusiasm for the nation’s history and heritage was abroad and that “never before have so many people been searching for England.” In the next sentence he goes on to laud the “remarkable system of motor-coach services which now penetrates every part of the country [and] has thrown open to ordinary people regions which even after the coming of the railways were remote and inaccessible” (Morton vii).Astonishingly, as the waiting charabancs roared their engines and the village greens of England enjoyed the last hours of their tranquillity, Morton somehow failed to make the obvious connection between these unique cultural and social phenomena or take any measure of their potential consequences. His “motoring pastoral” did more than alert the barbarians to the existence of the nation’s hidden treasures, as David Matless notes it provided them with a route map, itinerary and behavioural guide for their pillages (Matless 64; Peach; Batsford).Yet while cultural preservationists wrung their hands in horror at the advent of the day-tripper slouching towards Barnstaple, for Morton this was never a cause for concern. The nature of his journey and the form of its representation demonstrate that the England he worshipped was more an imaginary than a physical space, an ideal whose precise location no chart could fix and no touring party defile. ReferencesAustin, Alfred. Haunts of Ancient Peace. London: Macmillan, 1902.Bartholomew, Michael. In Search of H.V. Morton. London: Methuen, 2004.Batsford, Harry. How to See the Country. London: B.T. Batsford, 1940.Blunden, Edmund. The Face of England: In a Series of Occasional Sketches. London: Longmans, 1932.———. English Villages. 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