Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond: Identities, Polities and Glocal Economies 9811984166, 9789811984167

Table of contents :
Foreword
A Personal Reflection on Experiences of Globalization and Early Modern Spanish History
Literature
Contents
Notes on Contributors
List of Figures
List of Tables
Ideas and Identity
Concepts and Viewpoints in Early Modern Iberian Imperial History and the Globalization of Historiographies
* * *
Bibliography
Art in Republics: Venice and the Netherlands
Introduction
Art Production
Art Market
Art Collecting
Self-Imaging
Conclusion
Bibliography
Watchtowers in the Eighteenth-Century Philippines: Material Representations of Colonial State Power
The Philippine Setting
Watchtowers in the Philippines
The Shape and Development of the Watchtowers in the Philippines
The Construction of the Watchtowers
The Functioning of the Warning and Defense System
The Semantic Aspect
Representativeness, Transmitters, and Recipients
Possible Contents of the Message “Watchtower” for the Natives
Synopsis
Bibliography
Agents of Modernities
Piracy and Local Alliances in an Empire of Archipelagoes
Introduction
An Empire of Archipelagoes
Alliances in Flandes Indiano: Dutch Privateers and Huilliche Indians in Southern Chile
Darien Indians, the Key to the South Sea
Conclusions
Bibliography
The Phoenix and the Eagle: Catalan Political Economy and the Habsburg Monarchy of Charles III/VI
Introduction
The Background to Archduke Charles in Spain
The War of the Spanish Succession: The Arrival of Archduke Charles in Spain
The Phoenix Arises
Conclusion
Bibliography
“When a Snake Is Cut into Pieces”: Austria’s Imperial Relations and the Downfall of Spain’s First Minister Ensenada in 1754
Introduction
Austria and Spain on the Eve of the Diplomatic Revolution
Migazzi’s Machinations at Madrid’s Bifurcated Court
The Wiggling Snake: Ensenada’s Arrest and Its Aftermath
Conclusion
Bibliography
Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800
The Moral Economy, Long-Distance Sailors, and International Trade
“This a Poor Man Hath to Hearten Him”
Extralegality and Material Civilization
A Proliferation of Many Small Things: The Sailor’s Privilege
Corporate Aims, Commodity Culture, and Mariners’ Initiatives
Conclusion
Bibliography
Formation of State Institutions
Troublemakers in a State-Run Enterprise: Conflict Management and the Limits of Social Disciplining in the Königliches Lagerhaus Berlin, c. 1720–1760
The Lagerhaus in a Global Context
“Cannot be brought to order”: Abraham Elin
Former Soldiers: Custodian Thiele and His Wife
Internal Jurisdiction: The Case of the Frentzels
Obligations and Expectations
Bibliography
All Roads Lead to Mexico? The Postal Network of Late Colonial New Spain as an Integrated Communication Space
Introduction
The Document and Its Creator
The Spatial Organization of the Late Colonial Postal System
Conclusions
Bibliography
A Parable and Ancient Fables: Shaping the Governance of Mining Activities and the Silver Trade in Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth-Century New Spain
Introduction
Some Features of Sixteenth-Century Castilian Law
Limits of Castilian Law in the Indies
The Shaping Elements of Mining Legislation in New Galicia
Tomás de Mercado, Natural Law and His Views on the Pricing of Bullion in New Spain
Scarce Economic Resources, Social Confrontations, and the Rejection of Regulatory Policies in Zacatecas
Conclusions
Bibliography
Administration of Mining, Science, and Technology in Europe in the Age of American Silver (1550–1700)
Introduction
The Administration of European Silver Regions in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century
Collecting Stones and Minerals in Central Europe in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century
Bridging the Public and Private Mining Sector in the Spanish Empire
Professionalization of the Spanish Public Mining Administration
Conclusions
Bibliography
Glocal Economies
The Peso or the Marsilie—The Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants?
An Armenian Merchant’s Manual of 1699
The Commercial Network of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants, ca. 1700
The Marsilie as the Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants?
Conclusion
Bibliography
Foreign Merchants and the Introduction of New Hot Beverages in the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn During the Long Eighteenth Century
Westphalian Villages and Towns at the Crossroads of European Trade
From Unpopular Peddlers to Well-esteemed Merchants
History Repeats Itself in the Prince-Bishopric of Münster
New Luxury Foodstuffs as a Gateway for Foreign Merchants and Vice Versa
Conclusion
Bibliography
Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century
Introduction
The GIC: From Extralegality to State Formation and Back Again
Selling Cottons—The Savage Sales Book
Buying Cottons
Cultural Consumption Patterns
Conclusion
Bibliography
Conclusion
Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond—Critical Remarks on Old Concepts
Bibliography

Citation preview

PALGRAVE STUDIES IN COMPARATIVE GLOBAL HISTORY

Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond Identities, Polities and Glocal Economies

Edited by Veronika Hyden-Hanscho Werner Stangl

Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History

Series Editors Manuel Perez-Garcia, Shanghai Jiao Tong University, Shanghai, China Lucio De Sousa, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies, Tokyo, Japan

This series proposes a new geography of Global History research using Asian and Western sources, welcoming quality research and engaging outstanding scholarship from China, Europe and the Americas. Promoting academic excellence and critical intellectual analysis, it offers a rich source of global history research in sub-continental areas of Europe, Asia (notably China, Japan and the Philippines) and the Americas and aims to help understand the divergences and convergences between East and West. Advisory Board Patrick O’Brien (London School of Economics) Anne McCants (Massachusetts Institute of Technology) Joe McDermott (University of Cambridge) Pat Manning (Pittsburgh University) Mihoko Oka (University of Tokyo) Richard Von Glahn (University of California, Los Angeles) Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla (Universidad Pablo de Olavide de Sevilla) Shigeru Akita (Osaka University) François Gipouloux (CNRS/FMSH) Carlos Marichal (Colegio de Mexico) Leonard Blusse (Leiden University) Antonio Ibarra Romero (Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico, UNAM) Giorgio Riello (University of Warwick) Nakajima Gakusho (Kyushu University) Liu Beicheng (Tsinghua University) Li Qingxin (Guangdong Academy of Social Sciences) Dennis O. Flynn (University of the Pacific) J. B. Owens (Idaho State University)

Veronika Hyden-Hanscho · Werner Stangl Editors

Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond Identities, Polities and Glocal Economies

Editors Veronika Hyden-Hanscho Austrian Academy of Sciences Vienna, Austria

Werner Stangl University of Graz Graz, Austria

ISSN 2662-7965 ISSN 2662-7973 (electronic) Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History ISBN 978-981-19-8416-7 ISBN 978-981-19-8417-4 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Contributor: The Picture Art Collection/Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

For Renate Pieper—Colleague, Teacher, and Friend

Foreword

A Personal Reflection on Experiences of Globalization and Early Modern Spanish History Spain, alongside Portugal, certainly held an important position within the so-called ‘era of European expansion’—nowadays referred to as the ‘age of first globalization’ especially among modern historians—replete with famous seafarers and conquerors. Numerous voyagers to seldom-known or even completely unknown parts of the world achieved literary fame through surviving accounts of their journeys, experiences, and observations. Both historians and literary scholars have analyzed such writings, raising the profile of unknown figures with wartime experiences who had written their autobiographies in their later years through the publication of a volume in the well-known series Biblioteca de Autores Españoles (de Cossio 1956). Do such veterans of European hegemonic warfare have anything to do with globalization, however, even if it is only an ‘initial globalization’? An extensive number of contributions by leading scholars was recently published on behalf of the Society for Overseas History (Gesellschaft für Überseegeschichte) with the title Encyclopaedia of Overseas History (Lexikon zur Überseegeschichte). The titles of the encyclopedia and the society indicate that terms other than ‘globalization’—an epithet only recently established—have been used for the history of the Early Modern

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period beginning around 1500 (Hiery 2015, p. 922). Often derided as ‘Eurocentric’ much in the same way as ‘the history of old white men’, the term ‘overseas history’ appeared not out of contempt for ‘non-European peoples’ but rather because, as the United Nations recognized, most written sources concerning overseas expansion remained stored within European archives. Instigated in the 1950s with the support of the UN, all public archival holdings pertaining to Latin America in Europe have been compiled into bibliographic overviews (see, for example, Schwebel 1972; Walne 1973; Archives Nationales 1984). Additionally, attempts to broaden the field through terms such as ‘universal history’ (‘Universalgeschichte’) or world history (Weltgeschichte) have largely come to nothing since the German term for history itself (Geschichte) derives from the word for ‘occurence’ (Geschehen). In the Romance-language countries, however, variable prefixes to the Latin baseword historia— which actually derives from the Greek term for ‘inquiry’ (ƒστoρ´ια)—has long since prevailed. Yet even in these countries, journals with titles such as Histoire d’Outre Mer or d’Oltra Mare preceded these terms due to the fact that history, as a discipline, only emerged in the nineteenth century via a distinct reverence for empirical sourcework. Within the history of the Americas, renowned historians frequently published bibliographical overviews of thematically specialized archival holdings based upon their foreign research stays and exchanges (Meißner 1994, pp. 823–1032; Danwerth 2021). These publications resulted from central archives, especially on the Iberian Peninsula, becoming a gathering point for international researchers after the First World War. The World’s Fair in Seville during the 1920s brought about a further influx of visitors to the Archivo General de Indias, the primary archive of the Spanish Crown for overseas territories based in Seville since the eighteenth century. The Archivo General de Indias, organized according to the ancien-régime criteria of the Spanish Crown, allowed for optimal research into Spanish colonial history since this older archival system was familiar. In contrast, most archival repositories of the independent Latin American states were either virtually inaccessible or completely unorganized, deterring many young researchers on short-term travel grants from undertaking prolonged and arduous investigations within these collections. To take one personal example, I myself encountered this situation during a research trip to the Archivo General de la Nación in Mexico City in 1964 when asking for records following the 1821 independence

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which, the archivist later revealed, were stored in the so-called Casa Amarilla or ‘Yellow House’—an offsite multi-story building completely closed to the public. After arranging access to this archival trove in the company of the archivist, I discovered a veritable mountain of papers and files, some with a bullet or bayonet holes and covered in a thick layer of dust which hid the true extent of disorder and made research entirely impossible. Only decades later did these records become accessible following renovation and reorganization. Yet my experience illustrates one of the predominant reasons why histories of the post-independent Latin American states remained in the sole purview of domestic researchers for a significant period of time and, moreover, why they only became known outside this region through the International Congress of Americanists held quinquennially between the Americas and Europe. We should not overlook, however, the founding of the journal Hispanic American Historical Review in the United States in 1918 as well as the rise of Latin American studies within the American Historical Association following the end of the First World War. By the mid-twentieth century, these two institutions imparted a considerable influence over the wider field of Latin American history. In Europe, on the other hand, institutionalization of Latin American history first began in the 1950s when specific university professorships and institutes appeared across eastern and western Europe. Concurrent with the events of the 1920s mentioned above, Spain played a leading role through the journals Revista de Indias and Anuario des Estudios Americanos published in Madrid and Seville. In 1968, the Sevillian holder of the Chair of the History of Discovery, Francisco Morales Padrón, initiated a summer course for European historians of Latin America in Santander. Similarly, Professor Frédéric Mauro, the leading European historian of Portuguese expansion of his time, repeated such a meeting in Paris in 1973. Following another meeting at the University of Cologne in 1975, the Association of European Historians of Latin America (Asociación de Historiadores Latinoamericanistas Europeos ) or AHILA was founded formally in Torún, Poland, in 1978 as the first meeting in an Eastern Bloc state with representatives from the Soviet Union, Poland, the German Democratic Republic (GDR), Czechoslovakia, and Hungary being present. Members of AHILA have since then organized an international congress approximately every three years with participants from across the globe attending. At the same time, it is also worth mentioning that AHILA used Portuguese and Spanish as

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the sole means of communication and regularly published the conference proceedings in those languages. The GDR historian Manfred Kossok held a central role throughout this period as an academic bridge between East and West. He also dealt considerably with important methodological questions within the field (Kossok 2000, pp. 297–307). In his 1993 essay on the problem of global history, Kossok acutely pointed out, heeding the warnings of the Club of Rome, how global history as an offshoot of globalization also forces us to rethink the definition of the concept of progress. Kossok concluded his considerations with this salient point: ‘If global history has a meaning and a purpose, then it is certainly the push toward practical action through a new awareness’ (Kossok 2000, p. 307). In a Festschrift from 2002 in honor of Kossok, historian Jerry H. Bentley, Director at the Center for World History at the University of Hawaii, followed up on this issue in his ‘From National History toward World History’ wherein he made reference to great oceanic world spaces and, after a bibliographical overview and critique of Samuel Huntington’s ‘Clash of Civilizations’ idea, he pleaded for ‘world history’ as an open-ended concept (Bentley 2000, pp. 169–182). The 1980s witnessed a series of handbooks on the history of Latin America following the widespread publication of archival guides, bibliographies, and, for the first time, footage from the World’s Fair in Seville in the wake of the Columbian quincentennial anniversary in 1992. Appearing in numerous European countries, often stretching across several volumes and written by an array of interdisciplinary authors (e.g. Bernecker et al. 1994), these handbooks provided further research stimuli to the degree that it became commonplace to see the field represented by large numbers within international debates. Attention-grabbing anniversaries for journalists and politicians alone do not account for the advancements within the field of Latin American history, however. Instead, the reframing of colonial pasts within independent states and the historical culture of remembrance within former colonial countries serve to better explain the return of more traditional themes such as spheres of influence, sovereignty, borderlands, as well as debates on the role of multilateral organizations (such as the OECD), colonialism, racism, and feminism within the current public mindset. Even major media outlets such as the Neue Zürcher Zeitung (NZZ) (Buch 2021; Corman 2021; Redaktion NZZ 2021; Rhyn and Büchenbacher 2021), the oldest German-language newspaper still publishing today, have

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recently focused on these issues, underscoring the widely perceived uncertainties about the dominant development trends in our present-day world; namely, mass phenomena such as extensive migration movements and militant pioneers of climate policy who radically challenge the effects of globalization such as groups like Attac (Association for the Taxation of Financial Transactions and for Citizens’ Action) or Extinction Rebellion through political activism. As the term ‘first globalization’ is now commonly accepted among scholars, which in turn has come to encompass and even displace the oft-used term ‘empires’ for early modern colonial regimes since the quincentenary of Columbus, a few conceptual and chronological explanations are therefore warranted. ‘The first globalization’ is so ubiquitous and so comprehensively applied early in all conceivable contexts that the term is also synonymous with ‘interconnectedness’ on a large scale—something immediately apparent from just a few internet searches. Although the term has been in use since the mid-twentieth century, concurrent with the founding of the UN and its regional sub-organizations, the concept of globalization, however, only became widespread during the 1990s following the economic and political collapse of the Soviet Union. During the UN’s so-called ‘African Year’ of 1960 when eighteen African states gained independence, the author of this text began his studies at the University of Cologne where he specialized in ‘Latin American history’ after majoring in Romance Languages which required proficiency in two romance languages. Professor Richard Konetzke was the only scholar who offered a degree in Latin American history during those years at Cologne. In Hamburg, apart from the Latin American component within the geography discipline, one could specialize in the history program on Latin America under Professor Inge Buisson. In Berlin, Latin American history began only in 1966 despite the Latin American Institute of the Prussian Cultural Hertiage Foundation (Preußischer Kulturbesitz) having by far the best library in Latin America. The Institute only rose to prominence following the later relocation of the German capital to Berlin. The author considers himself a partial witness of globalization since he helped to acquire foreign literature for the Cologne Institute from 1962 onwards. Acquisition of foreign historical journals was extremely tedious during those days. Issues appeared at regular intervals but only arrived sporadically through the correo ordinario via sea mail which meant items normally took up to three months to arrive in a poor condition, and that was

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even if they arrived at all. The same problem occurred for catalogs of Latin American booksellers who released overviews of new publications about every three months. This scarcity of information meant we only had enough details to inform our orders of relevant historical works about every two or three years. These circumstances were such a hinderance that the Rockefeller Foundation provided the department with an annual grant for this purpose. The Mexican and Cuban embassies in Paris supplied more up-to-date media information during this time. The former issued the Nouvelles du Mexique while the latter distributed Granma, the official newspaper of the Communist Party of Cuba under Fidel Castro. Conditions were more favorable in Hamburg where the Lateinamerika Verein (Latin American Association of German Commerce) had existed since the 1950s. As a result of the Association’s insistence, the Institute of Iberian-American Studies (Institut für Iberoamerikan-Kunde) was founded at Alsterglacis in the mid-1950s thanks to joint funding from the federal government and the State of Hamburg. Under Wolfgang Grenz, the Institute employed a number of qualified documentalists who were responsible for evaluating the press releases sent over via sea mail by the cultural departments within the German embassies. A collection of important newspaper clippings, arranged according to subject area, began to amass accordingly, and steadily formed a crucial corpus of information for numerous scientific studies across several disciplines. This collection remained the only publicly accessible source of Latin American newspapers dealing with political and economic developments until the late 1980s. The dawn of the internet spelled the end of this documenting practice which then came to an end. The Institute, now more focused on research, no longer needed the collection. The author along with Wolfgang Grenz succeeded in transferring the collection into the current care of the Linga Library of the State and University Library of Hamburg. Finally, it must also be mentioned that the correspondent of the Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung in Madrid, Dr. Walter Haubrich, also frequently reported on political events in Latin America and made occasional trips to this region. Another relevant point is the scholarship obtained by the author in 1964 for collecting Mexican archival material for his doctoral thesis. Prior to sailing on a cargo ship, scholarship holders attended a week-long training event in Berlin organized by the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) which instructed them in how to behave abroad as well as lessons on the then East-West division of Germany and the Basic Law.

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As guests in a foreign country, we were reminded, scholarship holders should not get into any political confrontations of any kind and under any circumstances. We should, again, as guests, also behave politely and inform the German embassy of our location. One of my first experiences in Mexico was making a call to the department in Cologne where there was a seven-hour time difference. In order to phone there, I needed to be in a hotel in the city center at around 7 p.m. each day and wait for their call which often ran between thirty and forty minutes in duration and cost between 30 and 50 Deutschmarks at the time. Of course, the connection was often so poor that it prolonged the conversation until any essential information could be effectively communicated. At the end of the trip, the return journey was via a flight with Lufthansa, then still state-owned, and financed by the DAAD. This change reflected one element of globalization, namely that between 1964 and 1966, air travel had become cheaper than sea travel. The earlier crossing by cargo ship from Antwerp to Veracruz had taken three weeks whereas the four-hour flight from Mexico City to New York and from there to Cologne (including a sixhour layover) meant the total travel time amounted to only twenty hours in total (Pietschmann 2002, note 7). Although the return flight from Mexico was cheaper, the long voyage by sea still held certain advantages over flying. In terms of luggage allowance, sailing provided far greater freedoms than flying via aeroplane. An airline limited luggage to twenty kilograms, incurring considerable surcharges which were necessary in my case after almost two years abroad in Mexico and carrying a large number of books, souvenirs, photos, microfilms, and much more. Ultimately, I decided to send a box containing many of these items instead, and after a protracted journey across the world, this shipment arrived in Hamburg two months later, damaged and with some items missing. Such consignments probably took just as long in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Finding myself at the start of 1967 back in Cologne in the exalted position as a student assistant, I experienced perhaps the greatest ‘globalization advantage’ when the university, in light of the difficult research conditions, provided our small department with a Rank-Xerox copying machine. Electric typewriters had already become a standard feature of the institute, but the copy was something entirely new. An unusually large and heavy behemoth, this metal machine could only be assembled by skilled technicians who then gave us a tutorial on how to use it. The biggest

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headache, however, was seeing to the reimbursement service (Geldannahmestelle), which we had to organize since other institutions wished to also benefit from the copier for an accepted fee. From then on, an assistant dealt with the accounts and receipts but the availability of such a machine provided a real boon to teachers and researchers as enormous amounts of literature could now be quickly handled and shared in teaching. I first encountered the Internet and personal computers during a conference in Argentina as part of the Cologne working group ‘Spain, Portugal, Latin America’. At the University of Córdoba, the dean of the host faculty showed us into a large room filled with ten screens standing side by side. To our ever-bemused faces, an Argentine colleague went up to one device, turned it on and started writing a text upon a page. It quickly dawned upon us all that our South American hosts were clearly technologically superior to our German delegation of young and old researchers. Utterly astonished and with our interest piqued, we immediately asked the Argentines about the costs of such machines but soon learned that an American company had donated those devices to the University of Córdoba and reserved the rights for any further sales. At this exact moment, I felt as if I were a Native American who had just come face to face with Christopher Columbus for the very first time. Upon assuming my position at the University of Hamburg in March 1985, I gained access to such a device, but it was only in January 2000 when I felt ready to use a PC by myself. In the intervening years, I relied on the help of a secretary. Yet by my retirement in 2005, I had lived through at least three distinct technological shifts: from writing and typing my own dissertation by hand to the advent of computer processing during my habilitation to a globally networked professor on academia.edu. Horst Pietschmann University of Hamburg Hamburg, Germany

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Literature Archives Nationales, ed. 1984. Guide des sources de l‘histoire de l’Amérique Latine et des Antilles dans des Archives Françaises. Paris: Documentation Française. Bentley, Jerry H. 2002. “From National History Toward World History.” In Vom Brasilienvertrag zur Globalgeschichte. In Erinnerung an Manfred Kossok anläßlich seines 70. Geburtstages, edited by Matthias Middell, 169–82. Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag. Bernecker, Walther L., et al. ed. 1994. Handbuch der Geschichte Lateinamerikas. Vol. 1. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Buch, Christoph. 2021. Die Karibik ist Paradies und Albtraum zugleich. Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Internationale Ausgabe, August 4, p. 17. Cormann, Mathias. 2021. Die EU hat eine richtungsweisende Diskussion angestossen. Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Internationale Ausgabe, August 4, pp. 18–9. Cossio, José María de, ed. 1956. Autobiografías de soldados (siglo XVII). Biblioteca de autores españoles, Vol. 90. Madrid: Ed. Atlas. Danwerth, Otto. 2021. A Basic Bibliography on the History of IberoAmerica and the Spanish Caribbean in the Colonial Period. Max Planck Institute for Legal History and Legal Theory Research Paper Series, no. 2021-01, Online journal, https://ssrn.com/abstract=3791964. Hiery, Hermann, ed. 2015. Lexikon zur Überseegeschichte. Stuttgart: Steiner. Kossok, Manfred. 2000. “Von der Universal- zur Globalgeschichte.” In Manfred Kossok, Ausgewählte Schriften. Vol. 3: Zwischen Reform und Revolution: Übergänge von der Universal- zur Globalgeschichte, edited by Matthias Middell and Katharina Middell, 297–307. Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag. Meißner, Jochen. 1994. “IX. Bibliographie.” In Handbuch der Geschichte Lateinamerikas, edited by Walther L. Bernecker et al. Vol. 1, 823– 1032. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Pietschmann, Horst. 2002. “Das Lateinamerika-Werk Manfred Kossoks aus der westdeutschen Perspektive eines jüngeren Zeitgenossen.” In Vom Brasilienvertrag zur Globalgeschichte. In Erinnerung an Manfred Kossok anläßlich seines 70. Geburtstages, edited by Matthias Middell, 133–39. Leipzig: Leipziger Universitätsverlag. Redaktion NZZ. 2021. Was heisst Souveränität in globalisierten Zeiten? Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Internationale Ausgabe, August 4, pp. 8–9.

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Rhyn, Larissa, and Katrin Büchenbacher. 2021. So weit reicht Chinas Einfluss auf Schweizer Hochschulen. Neue Zürcher Zeitung, Internationale Ausgabe, August 4, pp. 26–27. Schwebel, Karl H., ed. 1972. Führer durch die Quellen zur Geschichte Lateinamerikas in der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, revised by Renate Hauschild-Thiessen and Elfriede Bachmann. Bremen: Schünemann. Walne, Peter, ed. 1973. A Guide to Manuscript Sources for the History of Latin America and the Caribbean in the British Isles. London: Oxford University Press.

Contents

Ideas and Identity Concepts and Viewpoints in Early Modern Iberian Imperial History and the Globalization of Historiographies Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla Art in Republics: Venice and the Netherlands Michael North Watchtowers in the Eighteenth-Century Philippines: Material Representations of Colonial State Power Eberhard Crailsheim

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Agents of Modernities Piracy and Local Alliances in an Empire of Archipelagoes Elizabeth Montañez-Sanabria The Phoenix and the Eagle: Catalan Political Economy and the Habsburg Monarchy of Charles III/VI William O’Reilly “When a Snake Is Cut into Pieces”: Austria’s Imperial Relations and the Downfall of Spain’s First Minister Ensenada in 1754 Christoph Rosenmüller

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Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800 Beverly Lemire

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Formation of State Institutions Troublemakers in a State-Run Enterprise: Conflict Management and the Limits of Social Disciplining in the Königliches Lagerhaus Berlin, c. 1720–1760 Jutta Wimmler All Roads Lead to Mexico? The Postal Network of Late Colonial New Spain as an Integrated Communication Space Werner Stangl A Parable and Ancient Fables: Shaping the Governance of Mining Activities and the Silver Trade in Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth-Century New Spain Claudia Jefferies Administration of Mining, Science, and Technology in Europe in the Age of American Silver (1550–1700) Domenic Hofmann, Harald Kleinberger-Pierer, and Peter Paul Marckhgott

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Glocal Economies The Peso or the Marsilie—The Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants? Markus A. Denzel Foreign Merchants and the Introduction of New Hot Beverages in the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn During the Long Eighteenth Century Benita Wister Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century Veronika Hyden-Hanscho

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Conclusion Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond—Critical Remarks on Old Concepts Veronika Hyden-Hanscho and Werner Stangl

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Notes on Contributors

Eberhard Crailsheim is a researcher (científico titular) at the Institute of History of the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC). He received his doctorate in history at the University of Graz, Austria, and conducted research and taught in several research institutions and universities in Germany and Spain. His research interest includes the socio-economic history and the new political history of the Spanish Empire in the early modern period, with a special focus on the Philippines. Among his publications, the following books stand out: Image-Object-Performance. Mediality and Communication in Contact Zones of Colonial Latin America and the Philippines (2013), The Spanish Connection. French and Flemish Merchant Networks in Seville, 1570–1650 (2016), and The Representation of External Threats. From the Middle Ages to the Modern World (2019). (http://cchs.csic.es/en/personal/eberhard.crailsheim). Professor Markus A. Denzel , born in Nuremberg in 1967, studied History and Catholic Theology at the University of Bamberg (diploma in 1991, doctoral degree in 1994). He completed his habilitation in economic and social history at the University of Göttingen in 1997 and was made an extraordinary professor in 2000. Since 2002, he is full professor of social and economic history at Leipzig University. From 2005 to 2008, he was Dean of the Faculty of History, Arts and Oriental (now: Regional) Studies and, in 2021, he became ViceDean of this faculty. Since 2018 he is also chairman of the Leipzig Resilience Hub. Denzel held visiting professorships at the universities of Kassel, Bamberg, Hamburg, Bayreuth, and Bolzano and was Fellow xxi

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of the Alfried-Krupp-Wissenschaftskolleg at Greifswald (2020/21). He won the Heinz Maier-Leibnitz prize (1998) from the Federal Ministry for Education, Science, Research, and Technology and the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. His current research covers the pre-modern history of international commerce and its institutions (fairs, public banks, stock exchanges, marine insurance), money and exchange, and business history. https://www.gkr.uni-leipzig.de/historisches-seminar/ institut/professuren/sozial-und-wirtschaftsgeschichte. Domenic Hofmann’s background is in economic history. He studied at the University of Graz, the Vienna University of Economics and Business (WU Wien), and at the Bo˘gaziçi University, Istanbul. He wrote his doctoral thesis on the effects of American silver on the administrative and technological framework in the Spanish mining sector in the second half of the sixteenth and first half of the seventeenth centuries. He is interested in the economic impact of Spanish America on Spain and Central Europe in the early modern period. Veronika Hyden-Hanscho holds the prestigious Elise-Richter Fellowship awarded by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF). She is Research Associate at the Institute for Habsburg and Balkan Studies at the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna. In 2011, she earned a Ph.D. at the University of Graz (Austria). She was Lecture for Austrian Studies at the University of Wrocław (Poland) from 2011 to 2013 and was a visiting scholar at the University of Ghent (Belgium) in 2021. She is the author of Reisende, Migranten, Kulturmanager. Mittlerpersönlichkeiten zwischen Frankreich und dem Wiener Hof (1630–1730) (Stuttgart, 2013), co-editor of Das Haus Arenberg und die Habsburgermonarchie. Eine transterritoriale Adelsfamilie zwischen Fürstendienst und Eigenständigkeit (16–20. Jahrhundert) (Regensburg, 2019), and has published in the Journal of Modern European History and the Journal of European Economic History. She is currently working on a study of ‘Income, Management and Economic Thinking: Noble Entrepreneurship in the Habsburg Monarchy in the 18th Century’. https://www.oeaw.ac.at/ihb/personen/hydenhanscho-veronika. Dr. Claudia Jefferies (née de Lozanne) is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Economics at the City University of London. Her main fields of research are monetary and financial history. She received her doctoral degree from the WWZ, University of Basel, Switzerland, in 1997, and has since then published monographs and articles on fiscal and

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monetary theory and policy in early modern societies, with a special focus on Spain and the Americas. Harald Kleinberger-Pierer works at the University of Applied Sciences in Graz. In his Ph.D. thesis, he addressed the visual revolution of machine imagery and the transformation of technical practice in the eighteenth century. His main research interests are the history of science and technology in the early modern period as well as visual culture and public science. Recently, he was part of an inter- and transdisciplinary research project (Connecting.Ideas4Research) which dealt with crowdsourcing, participatory methods, and aspects of digital ethics in the practice of research organizations. In this context, he published a paper on participation as a method in the history of technology in the journal Technikgeschichte 2021. Beverly Lemire is a Professor and Henry Marshall Tory Chair, University of Alberta, and was inducted into the Royal Society of Canada in 2003. Her work examines intersecting areas of material culture, gender, race, and fashion from c.1600–1840 in British, imperial, and comparative global perspectives. Recent works include Global Trade and the Transformation of Consumer Cultures. The Material World Remade, c. 1500–1820 (Cambridge, 2018). She headed the “Object Lives” collaborative project (www.objectlives.com) which resulted in the edited volume: Object Lives and Global Histories of Northern North America: Material Culture in Motion, c. 1780–1980 (McGillQueen’s University Press, 2021). A recent open-access article, published by the Yale University Center for the Study of Material and Visual Cultures of Religion, explores the material practice of tobacco. “Material Technologies of Empire: The Tobacco Pipe in Early Modern Landscapes of Exchange in the Atlantic World,” MAVCOR Journal 5, no. 1 (2021), https://mavcor.yale.edu/mavcor-journal/essays/material-tec hnologies-empire-tobacco-pipe-early-modern-landscapes-exchange. Peter Paul Marckhgott holds a Ph.D. in history from the University of Graz. For his dissertation, he researched the role of public administration in the revival of the Spanish mining sector in the seventeenth century. He conducted research stays in Spain and Chile, and participated in the international research project “Información y cultura material en América bajo el gobierno de los Austrias”. As a postdoctoral researcher, he was part of the interdisciplinary digital humanities project “HistoGIS” at the Austrian

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Academy of Sciences. Currently, he is designing, coordinating, and implementing EU-funded educational projects. Trained in early modern and modern economic history, his main research interests are the interrelations between economic history and the history of public administration in Spain and Austria. Elizabeth Montañez-Sanabria is a historian from the Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú and holds a Ph.D. in History from the University of California at Davis. She was Ahmanson-Getty Postdoctoral Fellow at the UCLA Center for Seventeenth- & eighteenth-Century Studies (USA) and Fondecyt Postdoctoral Researcher at the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Valparaíso (Chile). She directed the research project “Información y cultura material en América bajo el gobierno de los Austrias, s. XVI-XVII” between the PUCV (Chile) and the University of Graz (Austria) financed by the Chilean Research Council of Science and Technology. Currently, she is a Visiting Researcher at the Austrian Academy of Sciences. Her research interests include piracy in the modern age, transatlantic history, circulation of information, and cartography. Michael North, who started his career as assistant curator at the Museum für Hamburgische Geschichte, has been Professor and Chair of Modern History at the University of Greifswald. He has received honorary doctorates from the Universities of Szczecin and Tartu, was director of the Graduate Program ‘Contact Area Mare Balticum’ from 2000 to 2009, director of the International Graduate Program ‘Baltic Borderlands’ from 2009 to 2019, and is a speaker of the Interdisciplinary Centre for Baltic Sea Region Research (IFZO). His many international publications include: A World History of the Seas: From Harbour to Horizon (London/New York, 2021); Das Goldene Zeitalter global. Die Niederlande im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Cologne, 2021); The Baltic: A History (Cambridge MA, 2015); Meditating Netherlandish Art and Material Culture in Asia (ed. together with Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann); and Art and Commerce in the Dutch Golden Age (New Haven/London, 1997). William O’Reilly teaches at the University of Cambridge, where he is Associate Professor in Early Modern History. He has worked on a range of topics in early modern European and Atlantic history and is particularly interested in Habsburg History and in the history of European migration, colonialism, and imperialism. Taking his D.Phil. at Oxford, he taught at the National University of Ireland, Galway, before moving to Cambridge in 2005. He has received

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the Philip Leverhulme Prize for his work in European and Atlantic History and the Cambridge Pilkington Prize for Teaching. He has been a visiting professor at Harvard University, at Universities Paris I-PanthéonSorbonne and Bielefeld; he has been a fellow at the Weatherhead Center for International Affairs, Harvard, and is a Fulltime Fellow of the Institute of Advanced Study, CEU Budapest and Vienna. Since 2018, he is an honorary Leibniz Professor in History at the German National Maritime Institute. Christoph Rosenmüller is a professor of Latin American history at Middle Tennessee State University in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. He served as visiting scholar at the universities of Graz and Münster, the Max Planck Institute for European Legal History, and El Colegio de México. His recent publications include the book Corruption and Justice in Colonial Mexico (Cambridge University Press, 2019). The University of New Mexico Press has accepted his latest book on informality, rituals, and politics at the viceregal court of mid-eighteenth-century Mexico. Werner Stangl is lecturer of Economic History at the University of Graz, Austria, and currently works for CNRS-CREDA within the TopUrbi project at the École de Haute Études en Sciences Sociales in Paris. His main areas of research are colonial Spanish America, historical geography, and digital humanities. After his thesis on private correspondence written by Spanish emigrants, published with Böhlau in 2012 under the title Zwischen Authentizität und Fiktion. Die private Korrespondenz spanischer Emigranten aus Amerika, 1492–1824, he led the HGIS de las Indias project as a principal investigator from 2015 to 2019 (www.hgis-ind ias.net). From 2019 to 2021 he was part of the interdisciplinary Digital Tokugawa Lab at Yale University—a project he continues to support as a consultant. In 2021, he achieved his venia legendi for Economic and Social History with specialty in digital humanities at the University of Graz. Jutta Wimmler heads the Research Group ‘The Concept of Slavery in African History’ at the Bonn Center for Dependency and Slavery Studies in Germany. She received her Ph.D. in history from the University of Graz, Austria. From 2011 until 2020, she was a researcher and lecturer in Economic and Social History at the European University Viadrina in Frankfurt (Oder), where she co-directed (with Klaus Weber) the DFG-funded project ‘The Globalized Periphery. Atlantic Commerce,

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Socioeconomic and Cultural Change in Central Europe (c.1680–1850).’ She has studied the entanglements of France and Prussia with the early modern Atlantic world, with a special focus on early modern textile industries, as well as West Africa’s contributions to European technological and industrial developments. In her current research project, she investigates how European travelers to Africa described and constructed ‘slavery’ in African societies with their travel writings. Benita Wister studied International Cultural and Business Studies at the University of Passau (Germany) as well as History at the University of Graz (Austria). She earned her Ph.D. in Economic and Social History from the University of Graz in 2012 with a dissertation on trade and consumption patterns of chocolate in Central Europe (focusing on Styria and Westphalia) entitled ‘Kakao: Vom Habsburgischen Hofgetränk zur niederländischen Kolonialware. Der Diffusionsprozess der Schokolade in Mitteleuropa vom 17. bis 19. Jahrhundert vor dem Hintergrund eines konsumspezifischen Kulturtransfers am Beispiel der Steiermark und Westfalens.’ She has published several articles on related topics and presented her research at national and international conferences such as the 2016 international colloquium ‘De la “boisson des dieux” aux salons du chocolat: variations sur le cacao américain’ in Paris. Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla is currently Full Professor at Pablo de Olavide University, Seville (Spain). He has been Full Professor at the European University Institute of Florence (2003–2013) and head of its Department of History and Civilization (2009–2012). He specializes in the study of political economies of the Iberian Empires, the history of consumption in a global context, and in the history of the European aristocracies in a cross-border and trans-Atlantic perspective. His last monographs are Iberian Empires and the Globalization of Europe 1415– 1668, Palgrave Macmillan: Singapore 2019 (translated into Spanish and Portuguese), and Historia global, historia trans-nacional e historia de los imperios. El Atlántico, América y Europa (siglos XVI–XVIII), Institución Fernando el Católico, Zaragoza, 2019. He recently co-edited with Omar Svriz and Ilaria Berti American Globalization, 1492–1850. Trans-Cultural Consumption in Spanish Latin America, Routledge: New York and London, 2022. https://www.upo.es/investiga/globalhistory/ miembros/bartolome-yun-casalilla/.

List of Figures

Watchtowers in the Eighteenth-Century Philippines: Material Representations of Colonial State Power Fig. 1

Fig. 2

Fig. 3 Fig. 4

View of a tower and part of the village of Zamboanga. Fernando Brambila: 1789–1794, España. Ministerio de Defensa (© Archivo Museo Naval de Madrid [AMN] Ms.1724 [18], public domain) Guardhouse in Zamboanga. Atlas pittoresque, planche 143, in: Journey to the South Pole and Oceania on the Corvettes L’Astrolabe and La Zélée to Execute the Order of the King during the Years 1837–1838–1839–1840 under the Command of Dumont d’Urville. Pictorial Atlas. Paris: Gide 1846 (© Public domain on https://commons. wikimedia.org/ [12/8/2021]) Watchtower in Balaoan (© Photo by Eberhard Crailsheim, 2011) Watchtower in Luna (© Photo by Eberhard Crailsheim, 2011)

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Piracy and Local Alliances in an Empire of Archipelagoes Fig. 1

Map of the Pacific Coast from Waggoner of the South Seas, c. 1683. Notice that the gateways to the Pacific Ocean are portrayed, as well as “King Golden Cap of Durian” and the Potosi mine (© Courtesy of the Free Library of Philadelphia [Elkins 169])

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Fig. 4

LIST OF FIGURES

Planisphere of Domingo Teixeira 1573 (© Wikimedia Commons) Remains of the Dutch settlement in Valdivia in Mapas de las costas de América en el Mar del Sur, seventeenth century (© Courtesy of the National Library of Spain) “Don Andreas. Emperour of Darien” from A journal, kept by Capt. Bartholomew Sharp, c. 1680 (© Courtesy of the British Library. British Library Board [Sloane 46B, fol. 6])

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The Phoenix and the Eagle: Catalan Political Economy and the Habsburg Monarchy of Charles III/VI Fig. 1

Fig. 2

Fig. 3

Fig. 4

The “Passarola”, a primitive flying machine devised in 1709 by Father Bartholomew Lawrence of Gusmão, Chaplain of the Portuguese King, Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie, FOL-IB-4 (© Public domain Wikimedia Commons) The conquest of Barcelona by the Habsburg troops in Catalonia, etching by Romeyn de Hooghe 1705, published by Daniel de Lafeuille (© Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, public domain http://hdl.handle.net/10934/ RM0001.COLLECT.444588) Portrait of Charles of Austria, King Charles III of Spain, engraving by Pieter van Gunst before 1711 (© Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, public domain http://hdl.handle.net/10934/ RM0001.COLLECT.336365) Map of New Barcelona (Nagybecskerek, now Zrenjanin) in the Banat of Timisoara, 1766 (© Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv, SUS KS, O-039)

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Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800 Fig. 1

Map of the Indian Ocean by Pieter Goos (1616–1675) printed in Amsterdam by Johannes van Keulen, c. 1700, on vellum, MS. 1288, f. 6. Oost Indien, (East India) (© Bridgeman Images)

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Fig. 2

Fig. 3

Bombay on the Malabar Coast, belonging to the East India Company of England. Etching for the Universal Magazine of Knowledge and Pleasure based on the 1754 oil painting by Jan van Ryne (© Universal History Archive/UIG/Bridgeman Images) A scene between decks of an East Indiaman. A young woman is being kitted out with goods to be run on shore, untaxed, including tea, perfume, and arrak. Thomas Rowlandson, 1810. 1872,1012.4954 (© The Trustees of the British Museum)

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Troublemakers in a State-Run Enterprise: Conflict Management and the Limits of Social Disciplining in the Königliches Lagerhaus Berlin, c. 1720–1760 Fig. 1

Fig. 2

Fig. 3

The Lagerhaus in the mid-eighteenth century. Etching by Johann Friedrich Walther, c. 1730 (Title: Das Königliche Waaren-Lager-Haus) (Source Sammlung Stadtmuseum Berlin, SM 2016–4075. © Stadtmuseum Berlin. Reproduction: Michael Setzpfandt, Berlin) The entry gate of the Königliches Lagerhaus. Lithographic print by Hans O. Herrmann, c. 1830 (Title: Der Wollmarkt/Königl. Lagerhaus) (Source Sammlung Stadtmuseum Berlin, VII 64/476 w. © Stadtmuseum Berlin) Hierarchies and the “petitions cycle” in the Lagerhaus. Elaborated by the author

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All Roads Lead to Mexico? The Postal Network of Late Colonial New Spain as an Integrated Communication Space Fig. 1

Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4 Fig. 5

Cordilleras and Travesías according to Fray Pablo Beaumont (ca. 1788). (Cartography Werner Stangl; Sources Tovar Alcaraz 2020; Beaumont 1788) Post offices by general region, 1772–1810. (Cartography Werner Stangl; Source Stangl 2019) Tariff-groups for mail from New Spain to the wider world (Cartography Werner Stangl) Logistical hubs of New Spanish mail (Cartography Werner Stangl) Distances of post offices to Mexico City (in leguas) (Cartography Werner Stangl)

202 204 207 211 214

xxx Fig. 6 Fig. 7 Fig. 8

LIST OF FIGURES

Full cycle of correspondence to and from Mexico City (Cartography Werner Stangl) Connection from Ixtlahuaca to Cuautla and Chalco, 1776 (Cartography Werner Stangl; Basemap Open Street Map) Relative distance of post offices to Mexico (Cartography Werner Stangl)

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A Parable and Ancient Fables: Shaping the Governance of Mining Activities and the Silver Trade in Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth-Century New Spain Fig. 1

Wood carving from Steinhöwel’s 1486 Latin edition (Steinhöwel 1486 f.s.n.) © Library of Congress, public domain

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Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century Fig. 1

Fig. 2 Fig. 3

Fig. 4

Ostend East Indiaman under the imperial flag in the Chinea festivities of 1729, a tribute of the kings of Naples to the Pope in Rome, etching on paper by Gabriele Valvassori and Filippo Vasconi 1729 (© Albertina, Wien, Inventarnr. DG2020/5/30/2) Gender aspects in the Savage sales book of 1734–1736: 80% of the revenues in Brabant guilders were placed by women Investments of married females in quantity of pieces and total investments in Brabant guilders from the Savage sales book Investments of unmarried females in quantity of pieces and total investments in Brabant guilders from the Savage sales book

318 329

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Fig. 5

(1+2) Fabric samples of coupies and cassas in chequers and stripes from the salesbook of the GIC-ship Elisabeth 1729 from Bengal (© FelixArchief/Stadsarchief Antwerpen, GIC#7511, pages 4 and 34) (3) An apron for women made of printed cotton in grey checkered pattern of unknown origin around 1750 (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, collectie Jacoba de Jonge, T13/138/A354) (4) A traditional (Dutch) breastcloth garment (kraplap) made of eighteenth-century painted Indian cotton with floral design in red, blue, green, yellow and purple on a white ground (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, Collectie Jacoba de Jonge, photo Stany Dederen, T13/86/A245) (5) Dressing gown for men in Indian hand painted chintz with rich floral design and a wool lining for warmth, 1720–1740 (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, collectie Jacoba de Jonge, photo Stany Dederen, T12/28/G1)

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List of Tables

Art in Republics: Venice and the Netherlands Table 1

Proportion of secular subjects in dated paintings in Western and Central Europe, 1480–1539

37

Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800 Table 1

Stolen wares recovered by EIC agents

162

The Peso or the Marsilie—The Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants? Table 1

The exchange value of the marsilie

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Ideas and Identity

Concepts and Viewpoints in Early Modern Iberian Imperial History and the Globalization of Historiographies Bartolomé Yun-Casalilla

The last two decades have witnessed notable progress in the study of the early modern Iberian worlds, including the Atlantic world.1 Such progress has come hand in hand with increasing communication between historians from Europe and America (and particularly from Latin America) and between scholars from the Lusophone and Spanish-speaking worlds. As a consequence, scholars with very different academic, scientific and linguistic backgrounds have gathered together in this field of study, the outcome being a growing richness of viewpoints and intellectual 1 This chapter has been written within the framework of the FEDER research group

UPO-1264973 “In search for the Atlantic aristocracies. Latin America and the peninsular Spanish elites, 1492–1824” PI, Bartolomé Yun Casalilla; and of the PAIDI research group HUM 1000 “The history of globalization: violence, negotiation and interculturality,” of which the principal investigator is Professor Igor Pérez Tostado. Both projects are financed by the Regional Government of Andalusia. I thank Bethany Aram for her help in the writing of this text.

B. Yun-Casalilla (B) Pablo de Olavide University, Seville, Spain e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_1

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proposals. This enrichment has been all the greater as far as these researchers had contact with a huge variety of historiographies, some of them dedicated to other imperial worlds and narratives, which have in many ways influenced their own ideas and methodological approaches. It is also a consequence of the swelling interest in the history of globalization as well as an increasing globalization of historiographies, that is, the growing convergence of viewpoints on the study of the same problems. In the background of such a process is also the faster and easier communication of ideas in this wide field because of the use of digital tools. We are experiencing a long-lasting trend that is crucial in the study of such wide spaces as empires. This subject has been analyzed in a general way in several publications (Beckert and Sachsenmaier 2018). Many historians today—including myself-think that both the history of globalization and the history of empires are influenced by different researchers’ particular perspectives (Espagne 2019; Sachsenmaier 2011). In other words, for the moment, both approaches to the past are practiced by scholars who view it from our own expertise and (spatial) fields of research. This bias, no doubt, has collateral effects. One of them is that the researcher’s viewpoint colors the outcome of the analysis. It also involves—and this is a second effect—some problems for mutual understanding among the distinct historiographic schools, some of them rooted in different national and local frameworks and traditions, let alone national narratives. Finally, nowadays historians try to contribute to the history of globalization (a subject) or to global history (an approach), which obliges us to communicate with specialists in other empires and worlds as well as to enter debates and subjects in which most of the specialists in Iberian history previously have been absent (Yun-Casalilla 2022). All of this is not in itself negative, but, on the contrary, a source of fertility. Also, it fits with the assertion of many global historians—the most eminent of them being Gunder Frank—that globalization cannot be understood as something with its sole epicenter in Europe, but rather as a process that started and was animated from different regions of the planet (Frank 1998). It is also a source of richness as far as one can expect that these convergent viewpoints, though sometimes causing apparent or real contradictions, will illuminate the multifaceted character of globalization and the polyhedric features of imperial histories. Furthermore, this outlook is positive inasmuch as it is linked to a new vision of empires that stresses the agency of the local societies and looks at them from

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below, thereby making visible their variety and diversity, which can only be understood if the complex relation between the local and the global is not forgotten. The glocal dimension stressed in this volume is, therefore, crucial. The question remains, however, to what extent we historians are moving toward a convergence of knowledge and mutual understanding. How are we proceeding and which concepts are we using to get closer without impoverishing this diversity of historiographies? I would like to reflect on the use we make of some terms and concepts, such as composite monarchies, composite imperial monarchies or composite empires, compensatory history, or polycentric monarchies. More particularly, I wish to reflect on the way these notions affect the dialogue among specialists on the Iberian worlds and the way we can build a global history of the Iberian empires that also favors intellectual exchanges with specialists in other areas of the world, civilizations, or empires. No one ignores–this is another aspect that interests me–that both the history of globalization and the history of empires have collateral political implications on which we, as historians, should reflect when transferring our knowledge to our societies and choosing our subjects of study. ∗ ∗ ∗ There is a general agreement among specialists in the field that the term empire is polysemic and difficult to define. Most of us make proposals that in fact entail ideal types in which we then fit the concrete cases studied with their specificities. Even historians of the modern epoch such as Osterhammel (2014, p. 403) have pointed out the difficulty of establishing closed definitions. This difficulty becomes even more apparent when it comes to early modern times and to the Iberian monarchies in particular, for which there are some interesting debates (Hausser and Pietschmann 2014). What many historians understand as an empire, in any case, is a sort of political formation linked to a metropole but made of a plurality of “hybrid components, conflicting traditions, and unsettled boundaries between races and peoples” (Darwin 2012, p. 6). All in all, one could say that the political systems of the Spanish Habsburgs and the Portuguese Avis (and later on those of the Bourbons and the Braganza) were embodied in monarchies, that is, in political schemes grounded on a plurality of powers, jurisdictions, and overlapping and often clashing sovereignties (Cardim and Hespanha 2018, pp. 76–77).

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This definition echoes, and in practice reproduces the idea of composite states or monarchies coined by Königsberger (1978) and Elliott (1992). The coincidence is not odd if one considers that all of these authors built upon the same revisionism of the early modern state that took place in Southern and Mediterranean Europe, and more in particular in Spain, Portugal, and Italy, in the 1980s. Taking this idea as a starting point, some other authors have used terms such as “composite empires” or “composite imperial monarchies” (Yun-Casalilla 2019; Fradera 2019). This is a way to acknowledge the plurality of juridical and political arrangements fitting both the idea of empire and that of monarchy, by also stressing the inequality among European and non-European components based on their asymmetries in the use of institutional and physical violence. It is also a way of emphasizing that not all the polities of these composite conglomerates had the same legal prerogatives over the empire. The Spanish case was a composite monarchy in which one of the constituent polities, Castile, had formed an empire in the broader, present-day sense of the word. Hence the differences with respect to the role that, as institutions, other kingdoms and dynastic possessions of the Habsburgs, such as those of the Crown of Aragon, Naples, Sicily, Flanders, and others, could play in America, the Atlantic world, and the Philippines. In the case of Portugal, this was also decisive. Only in the period 1580–1640 was it in a situation similar to that of Castile, that is, as a crown that was part of a dynastic union with strong commitments in the rest of Europe, a “novelty” from which the problems preventing Portugal’s easy insertion into the Hispanic Habsburg monarchy emanated (Yun-Casalilla 2019, pp. 396–408). It is also to be considered that the term “composite monarchy” or “composite state” and the definition proposed by Hespanha and Cardim refer to the monarchy’s formal sovereign institutions. Likewise, one has to take into account that a key aspect of composite monarchies was “the observance of traditional laws and custom” (Elliott 1992, p. 54), which meant the acknowledgment, at least in theory, of the corporative character and jurisdictional fragmentation at the foundation of the political body. In other words, the composite monarchy was composite not only because it consisted of different dynastic states but also due to their political configurations and recognition of the juridical power of the towns and cities, the municipalities, the laic and ecclesiastic landlords, the judicial character of the supreme councils (Consejos ), and so on. While these ideas were coined mainly for the study of European dominions, they also are useful for the analysis of composite imperial

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monarchies. The constitutional diversity implicit in the concept facilitates its inclusion of extra-European variations and recognition of asymmetries between European and non-European polities. This, in fact, reflects a reality at the economic, social, and political levels, because the Indies, which were incorporated by conquest, did not entirely fit the principle of aeque principaliter that was often the case of the European political entities. The political theory of the epoch considered these societies as being in a state of “innocence,” which they only could overcome through contact with the king’s laws and Christianity, and whose legal status had to be theoretically respected through the Indian Laws. From the analytical side the very same notion of “composite” has interesting juridical and political connotations, inasmuch as it underlines the idea that none of these polities was obliged to help the rest financially and militarily, unless the defense of Christianity was in danger. As far as we consider the Indies as a part of Castile and the Asian, African, and Brazilian territories as a part of Portugal, this idea has high explicative potential. It paves the way for a reflection on to what extent these polities could be the base for empires, that is, of very extended and diverse political formations whose preservation required the mobilization and circulation of resources among the different dominions (Yun-Casalilla 2019, pp. 396–408). These terms and concepts overlap what Russell-Wood called “compensatory history” (Russell-Wood 2001, p. 15). The idea was developed by a group of Portuguese and Brazilian historians in a very influential book less known beyond Iberian historiography (Fragoso et al. 2001). With the notion of “compensatory history,” Russell-Wood and his followers called attention to the need to counterbalance the dominant narrative of these empires’ history, which stressed the relationship between center and periphery when it came to the study of their functioning and general trends. This proposal provides a way of recognizing the “multiple colonial status” of the different imperial provinces, as Antonio Manuel Hespanha suggested in the same book and in one of his last works (Hespanha 2001, 2019). It is also a way to highlight the need to analyze the relations between the different territories of these empires without making their ties with the European metropoles the only ones that should affect the empires’ history (Hespanha 2001, pp. 187–88). There emerged an idea of relations between Iberian societies that did not necessarily pass through the Court, to which some of us had already referred to when we drew attention to the need to study the social networks that extended across

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the monarchy’s different components (Yun-Casalilla 2009, p. 14).2 This view entailed an attempt to return their own historicity to the American, African, and Asian territories and even to the non-Peninsular European dominions in the understanding of imperial trends, therefore breaking with the vision that considered them mere appendices and peripheries of Madrid and Lisbon. These ideas have been echoed—not to say repeated by a sort of promotion—by the term “polycentric monarchies.” If I properly understand, the term—may be too broad and therefore in need of some advocates’ ulterior clarifications—emphasizes the “political” relevance of the distinct imperial polities and their mutual relations (Cardim et al. 2012). In a way, the concept is not very different from previous ideas. At most, it can be considered a rewording of the idea of compensatory history and a complement to the notion of composite monarchies in its original formulation, which potentially extends the view of decentered systems beyond formal institutions, or, in other words, beyond what Hespanha called the “official law” of these empires. It is also worth reflecting on the nature of these conceptualizations. As I have said, the term composite monarchies or empires refers to a feature of some political organizations, independently of the new approaches to those societies that it certainly generates. The notion of “compensatory history” is different and does not refer to a characteristic of the territories studied. In reality, it is an approach—a point of view—which, when adopted, emphasizes the role and agency of these societies in order to counterbalance the center-periphery perspective. In this way, something is added to the notion of composite monarchies that was not originally part of the definition, partly because its creators saw America, the Philippines, and the Portuguese overseas territories as an appendage of the crowns of Castile and Portugal, respectively. I think I understand correctly if I argue that in its origin polycentrism was also considered a characteristic of those societies to which the term was applied but subsequently has evolved more and more toward an approach. Today it may blend both ideas, which sometimes can create confusion. Indeed, according to the most significant text on the subject, its authors “argue that these political 2 Though in that book I referred mainly to the European territories, the proposal comprises also American areas as well as the Philippines and the Atlantic world in order to suggest a vision that, while it takes a different perspective, also complemented the concept of composite monarchy (Yun-Casalilla 2009, p. 14).

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entities were polycentric” and by the same token refer to their “internal structure” (Cardim et al. 2012, p. 4). But, as the term has been debated, some of its most convinced supporters have spoken of a “polycentric approach” as well as of a “perspective” (Ruiz Ibáñez 2016). One can question the outcome of the use of these terms and concepts to date, but in principle, it is not difficult to find a point in common. Iberian imperial monarchies are understood as disaggregate systems of power and political practices which, despite being subject to asymmetric relations, are characterized by forms of negotiation and coercion typical of societies with a variety of legal and normative regimes. Moreover, we are dealing with societies and polities whose dynamics cannot be understood if we do not consider the relations between them and not only those between the “center” and “periphery”. Be that as it may, dialogue between these visions, I believe, is possible as long as we do not fall into a merely terminological and exclusive struggle. This does not mean, however, that things are easy. One problem arises when a concept such as polycentrism is presented not as a complement or revision that rectifies or balances some semantic deviation, but as an alternative to previous ones. The idea of polycentrism was launched as a “radically different model,” not only to the traditional view of empires as exclusively metropolitan-ruled power systems but also to the idea of “composite monarchies” (Cardim et al. 2012, p. 4).3 This has been the case even though polycentrism recalls concepts already present in those previous notions. It is common knowledge that the great problem with definitions and characterizations—in these and other cases of our work as historians— is that they normally convey a fixed and schematized picture of reality. 3 This radical presentation comes also from a perhaps forced critique made by the defenders of the term regarding previous views, including that of the composite monarchies, which they consider depart from the idea that “the ‘true’ [sic] politics only occurred in Madrid and Lisbon, while the periphery [everywhere else] was a mere receptor that could accept or reject what the center had to offer” (Cardim et al. 2012, p. 5). Such criticism of the idea of composite monarchies hardly fits with the attempt to break with the idea of political action as dictated only from the center that is crucial for Elliott and Königsberger. It fits even less with their research on the functioning of the monarchy from the periphery—in Sicily and Catalonia—and these polities’ conflicts with the Crown. The rapid reception of the polycentric paradigm and terminology in Latin American historiographies appears understandable and even positive, inasmuch as they stress subaltern agency, although their novelty with respect to the “compensatory history” of Russell Wood and the Brazilian historians is less evident.

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This is evident, albeit to varying degrees, in all the cases cited above, and calls for reflection. Some authors extend these concepts to the eighteenth century. Although with great caution and nuances, Elliott did so for the concept of composite monarchy (Elliott 1992) and other authors have done the same for the case of polycentric monarchy (Grafe and Irigoin 2012). But it is also true that those political systems, their degree of uniformity, and their internal power equilibrium witnessed deep changes. This is implicit in Elliott’s analysis when he cautioned that the composite monarchies could not be understood without patronage as a force that contributed to maintaining their union and changed them over time, or when he stressed the relevance of the military-fiscal state of the eighteenth century for their transformation (Elliott 1992, p. 64). John Elliott spoke of the eighteenth-century “fiscal-military state” as a force for change in the early modern monarchies which, however, “remained essentially composite; and closer integration, where sought, remained difficult to achieve, as Joseph II discovered to his cost” (1992, p. 70). For Elliott, “it was to be dynastic upheaval that provided the catalyst […] for new moves toward unification” in Spain and Great Britain (1992, p. 67). The same idea with a stronger accent on the transformative power of the military-fiscal state appears in Storrs (2016). Hespanha also expressed this idea when he warned that describing the “multiple colonial status” of the Portuguese empire was only a preliminary way to define the rules of the game. Then, he continued, we need to study how the different actors play the game and how they changed those rules (Hespanha 2001, pp. 186–87). This is a particularly important fact that explains why some specialists in the Bourbon and Braganza period have employed the term “integration”—perhaps more useful than the concept of centralism—to describe the period’s readjustments (Paquette 2013). All these shifts in the reality of early modern political organizations also make it necessary to privilege the concrete analysis of different cases over the established general formulas and ideal types. They oblige us to take all of the paradigms cited above cautiously—that of polycentrism in particular—and with high doses of relativism, leaving aside too radical expressions, which respond more to their use as theoretical schemes than as analytical perspectives with heuristic value, where, I think, the real usefulness of some of them resides. Terms such as polycentrism may be handy as a form of simplistic communication. But, because they emphasize one aspect of reality, the historian should not forget that there is another part—the other side of

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the moon—which is that of the king’s regulatory, monitoring, enforcing, and arbitrage power, without which the portrait of this societies would remain incomplete, and the complexity of these polities would be lost. ∗ ∗ ∗ The question to consider is to what extent the terms and concepts analyzed above facilitate dialogue between experts on Iberian empires and scholars working on other empires. To address such a question requires contextualizing developments in the history of the Iberian worlds within more general trends, which is not always present in the way Iberian historians conceive our own approach, maybe due to a certain separation between the different historiographies. In fact, an examination of the general historiography of imperial history reveals a coincidence between the analytical perspectives scrutinized above and the changes in paradigm in the field in general. This new imperial historiography, partly influenced by postcolonial and subaltern studies, has also stressed the need to give a greater presence to, and to recognize the agency of, the colonized and enslaved. In a historiographical analysis of the trajectory of the new imperial history written more than ten years ago, Durba Ghosh made an argument for the British case that can be extended to the whole of this paradigm shift. The author pointed out the crucial influence of the works by Robinson and Gallagher (1953, 1961), who by the 1950s proposed the need for “an explanation of historical change that emerged from the colonies rather than from the metropoles” (Ghosh 2012, p. 776). Ghosh reviewed several works that fit into “extra-European history’ in the United Kingdom” such as those of E. H. Carr and E. Wolf and concluded that “the new global/imperial history presumes a decentered narrative in which there was no one driving force but rather multiple and unmanageable systems, processes, imaginaries and contingent events that pushed a diversity of nations, empires, and communities, and their subjects, in different directions” (2012, pp. 776– 78).4 Even historians who have stressed the nineteenth-century empires’ greater capacity to penetrate colonial societies in comparison with those of previous periods (due to technological and military developments) have drawn attention to the importance of negotiation and the autonomy 4 Ghosh obviously referred to the classic study Gallagher and Robinson (1953) and to other analyses in the same directions such as Eric Wolf (1982).

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of the dominated societies. It is also interesting to recall that the way in which the concept of empire has been opposed to that of a nation by these historiographical movements stems from the recognition of a greater degree of internal diversity in the former, supposedly far superior to that of the national states, which are uniform par excellence, at least in terms of their legal-political component (Burbank and Cooper 2010; Osterhammel 2014, p. 404). In emphasizing diversity, all these trends are close to the characterizations and perspectives on the Iberian imperial monarchies discussed above. These coincidences are even clearer when it comes to other early modern empires in general. Today a vision has taken ground according to which many other empires of the time (if not all) were spaces where multiple negotiations took place, which is a way to recognize the protagonism of these so-called peripheries in the functioning of imperial political formations (Daniels and Kennedy 2002). Even the British empire, in the past often presented as a political formation well-structured from above, has lost this character, according to studies that depict a system composed of “a variety of bodies politic and hybrid, overlapping and composite forms of sovereignty” including, of course, colonial territories (Stern 2011, p. 3). Likewise, the improvised character of their formation and evolution is acknowledged, as well as the tension between negotiation and violence that governed the penetration of different societies, which, together with the extreme diversity of those societies, generated a high degree of complexity and internal differentiation (Darwin 2012). Although dissimilarities among different political theories about empires and their effects on the distinct models of political aggregation and imperial expansion have long been recognized (Pagden 1995), historians today also stress the importance of subaltern agency in all imperial systems. One can conclude, therefore, that the changes in our view of the Iberian empires do not differ from those taking place in our understanding of empires in general. This similarity, while logical on the one hand, is explicable and also particularly interesting. It is explicable since, although we lack studies on the genealogy of these paradigms’ changes, the reciprocal cross-fertilization among historiographical traditions and academic environments is an evident reason for such resemblance. Or, in other words, the conceptual revisionism within the historiography of the Iberian empires has been strongly influenced by changes in the field of imperial studies in general and vice versa. Furthermore, we cannot overlook the parallel influence for the raising of these new visions exerted by

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external trends, such as decolonization, the need for narratives in tune with the rise of new nation states from the ashes of twentieth-century empires, and the Copernican turns experienced in our vision of Europe in the word and the critique of Eurocentrism (Chakrabarty 2000). Such a similarity among historiographical paradigms is interesting in two senses. First, because of the contrast between their common roots and the—at least apparent—lack of explicit dialogue between Iberian and more general historiographies, which is even more evident in the initial and more radical propositions on polycentrism (Cardim et al. 2012). This is highly significant, since a similar situation can be perceived from “the other side.” Influential historiographic tendencies such as subaltern studies, focusing on India’s case, have ignored similar approaches carried out by specialists on the Iberian worlds. Authors such as Wachtel (1971), or intellectual and political movements such as indigenismo in Latin American studies, have been absent therefore from subaltern studies despite their accent on similar ideas (see inter alia, Guha 1987). Furthermore, in the case of Wachtel, his interest in the persistence of Latin American original folklore as a hybrid but hegemonic culture fits perfectly with subaltern studies’ key notion of dominion without hegemony (Guha 1987, p. Chapter 1). Similarly, when studying the development of the imperial turn in the Anglophone academic world, Durba Ghosh (2012) did not mention similar approaches taking place in other academic arenas, such as Latin American studies and those of the Iberian world in general. Secondly, such similarity is even more striking in the case of the idea of polycentrism, insofar as its proponents have presented it as a particular, almost unique, characteristic of the Iberian world, which has resulted in a return to the supposed exceptionalism of the Iberian empires.5 It is not odd in this sense that the term “polycentrism” has rarely—if ever— been applied to other empires. To my limited knowledge, not even its promoters have extended it to them, with the logical exception of the Holy Roman Empire. This fact may be due to the restrictive formulation of a term that, at the same time, is too vague and general to be truly operative, rather than to the impossibility of its application to other cases when taken from an analytical perspective. Extremely symptomatic 5 This outcome has not been the case with the concept of composite monarchies. John Elliott’s essay speaks of this sort of political formation as something present in most of the European monarchies of the early modern period, though different balances among the different polities and between each of them and the ruling dynasty were present.

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of this situation is the fact that one of the few researchers who attempted to contextualize Iberian empires in wider historiography, Antonio M. Hespanha, did not use the term and reached a twofold conclusion: first, the use of categories referring to formal institutions, which are very present in the concepts previously analyzed, proves insufficient for the comprehension of empires; and, second, once this barrier is overcome, that realities emerge with many similarities to other empires and to “traditional societies” (Hespanha 2019, pp. 13–15). This does not mean—Hespanha continues—that all of those societies were the same. On the contrary, important differences among them were due, in part, to their distinct economic bases. The need to change our analytical perspective and to understand Iberian empires in a wider context that goes beyond formal institutions emerges clearly. The similarities and coincidences between recent trends in Iberian and general historiographies on empires suggest possibilities for fruitful communication. But they also suggest that those possibilities arise when the terminology itself is left aside on behalf of its meaning, which has not always been the case in recent years. It is important to note that the previously cited Antonio M. Hespanha and other scholars who have contributed to a fluid dialogue including the history of the Iberian empires in a wider historiographical context have done so by making this more practical and less terminological analysis a normal exercise. One of John Elliott’s more influential books, published almost fifteen years ago, exemplifies this way of writing the history of the Spanish (and British) empire. Although one of the founders of the idea of the composite monarchy, Elliott used the term sparingly. His scant use of the concept, moreover, avoids its reduction to a sort of cliché underlying his findings and even less as the basis for his comparisons (Elliott 2006). Authors such as Burbank and Cooper—their book was published before some of these terms and particularly that of the “polycentric monarchies” were coined— refer to the Spanish empire as a political entity with a high degree of internal disaggregation and diversity (Burbank and Cooper 2010); but they do not present the Spanish empire as the unique paradigm in this sense. On the contrary, the internal diversity within empires runs through their book as a general characteristic of these polities. On his part, David Ringrose has underlined the difficulties faced by all pre-modern imperial formations when they tried to penetrate, and consequently homogenize, the societies under their dominion, the Iberian case being only one among others before roughly 1750 (Ringrose 2018). Similar insights can

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be found in the work of Krishan Kumar (2017), Sanjay Subrahmanyam (2005), myself (Yun-Casalilla 2019), and many others. All in all, there is a wide and fertile field for comparisons among different empires; or, in another way, for the globalization of Iberian historiography. It is in this sense that the new image we have of the Iberian monarchic imperial formations can offer insights when compared with others. Such comparisons can be carried out at different levels. One of these levels—and not the least interesting—entails comparing the political theories on which these polities relied, as Anthony Pagden (1995) did years ago. But we should, perhaps, disentangle this exercise from the discussion of the character—imperial or not—of these political formations. Moreover, one thing is the fact that early modern authors conceived the term “empire” differently from nineteenth-century theorists, which is evident and may lead to interesting analyses of the genealogy of concepts and the epoch’s different political theories. Another, different, matter is that, as historians seeking an understanding of how these political formations evolved, we do not include them in a wider definition of the term for analyzing their systemic dynamics or their impact on globalization and the development of the local societies they subjugated or tried to subjugate. The comparative analysis of imperial supra-structures’ political economies strikes me as equally promising, although still only beginning despite abundant material. This may be the case due to the difficulty posed by empires’ extreme internal diversity and institutional plurality, which conforms very diverse rules of the game depending on the levels, case studies, and social and economic spaces under scrutiny and comparison. Finally, recent debates emphasize the need to compare the way imperial systems interacted with local powers and actors. This exercise of glocal history may lead us to compare not different empires but, rather, different local societies under their umbrella that can be even more dissimilar within the same empire than from one empire to another (Yun-Casalilla 2022).

*** The crucial matter at this point is that most of the approaches discussed are calling for a globalization and convergence of the different historiographies. An oversized conceptual and terminological disparity does not help generate dialogue. Such a disparity can be inevitable and useful

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when it underlines real historical evidence. But exclusive historiographical constructions often create communication problems with scholars working on other areas and who confront an impenetrable forest of terms and even jargon that, even worse, has experienced semantic shifts depending on the authors. Counterexamples to this confusion are some of the concepts created by Lauren Benton, such as legal pluralism, and the inclusive way they are applied to many different imperial formations, a way to proceed that may be one of the reasons for their fast acceptation and successful generation of debate (Benton 2002; Benton and Ross 2013). Such much-needed dialogue presents a challenge in a variety of ways. One of them is the requirement to keep the historical specificity of each case under study when attempting comparisons or generalizations based on its analysis. Let me provide an example to clarify this point. Many of us recognize imperial formations’ deep internal diversity. Consequently, most scholars accept the protagonism of the so-called provinces in empires’ general functioning. In so doing, we avoid exceptionalism, which is present in many historiographies, not only among Iberianists (Burnard 2009). Reciprocal comparisons are crucial in this sense. But they can only be accurate by considering the historical constellations where our units of comparison are embedded. The eighteenth-century British East India Company has been considered as a state within the state, a center of power—or better, a constellation of centers of power— within a multi-centered system that was the British empire (Stern 2011; Dirsk 2008). The viceroyalty of Peru also constituted a polity within the empire, with important and decisive influence in negotiations with Madrid (and Seville), and economic activities of global impact in the seventeenth century (Bonialian 2019). But to continue this comparison one needs to consider the differences not only in the way the political game with London and Madrid was played but also the specific institutions, political and economic interests, and social structures around which that game evolved, and even the political theory grounding both cases. We need an insider analysis of each case that respects its particularities to subsequently reach a certain level of abstraction that confronts each case with the other according to the questions we want to resolve. Another example could be added to remind us of the need to contextualize our comparisons. Today it is a commonplace to say that some Latin American economies were poles of globalization in the early modern period. Commercial flows associated with the circulation of silver

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produced in Peru and Mexico affected economic life in other areas of the planet (Hausberger 2018; Bonialian 2012, 2019). Something similar happened in Britain during the industrial revolution, which turned this country into a global exporter of industrial products and financial services whose global effects were no less important. But to say this and even to convert it into an argument of implicit national pride can be misleading depending on the reasons for the comparison and the questions one wants to answer. For a historian of economic growth, for example, these are two completely different situations. England became a firstcomer in the industrial revolution. Mexico and Peru did not foster the development of an intensive economy. In other words, for this specific purpose, the comparison must go beyond a provisional assertion that could even create confusion among non-specialists, who sometimes wrongly associate globalization with economic development and modernization. To call attention to the existence of different poles of globalization is important, but fuller contributions emerge from the questions that we answer by comparing them and assessing their effects on local societies and those they connect. Another important issue arises from these observations: that of the relation between area studies, on the one hand, and global and imperial history and the history of globalization, on the other. Although the subject is vast and merits broad reflection, immediate facets prove relevant to the present discussion. The study of empires from a colonial perspective and that of compensatory history constitute a form of global history as well as a way of understanding globalization and the role empires have played in it from particular areas of the world. In the case of Iberian history, the aim is to illuminate how local or regional trends in Asia, Africa or America conditioned the history of these empires. But, in doing so, we also address the history of globalization and the relation between global history and area studies to the extent that empires have been forces of globalization. In many senses, this is nothing new. On the contrary, it has been present for years in many studies of Latin America and other areas of the world. The old discussion regarding the “seventeenth-century crisis” is a good example because the debate considered the extent to which the crisis was associated with a mining recession or, on the contrary, with the reformulation of Latin American economic circuits (see the debate in Tepaske and Klein 1981; Kamen and Israel 1982). This is even clearer in the history of silver. An example among many others is the book Coacción

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y mercado by Enrique Tandeter (1992). What this author did already at the end of the 1980s was to analyze mining in detail by focusing on the “fundamental problem of the relations between Potosi and the indigenous communities” (1992, p. 10, my translation). By examining the forms of labor exploitation and the entrepreneurial organization at a local level— and by including some comparisons with New Spain—Tandeter stressed the limits of Bourbon reformism and other global trends in the circulation of silver. This study is just one in a very long list of local and regional analyses whose end was and still is to understand global processes even beyond the economic level, as, for example, in many of the works by Serge Gruzinski (2004), which show the extent to which some current trends were present years ago among specialists in Latin America. If global history is understood as a perspective that explores the links between different and more or less distant societies as well as the comparisons between them (Frankwma et al. 2021), it becomes evident that the tension between area studies and global history is more fictional than real. Any area of the world may be examined from that perspective in order to extract new conclusions on the way its societies have been affected by general trends or even caused them. The real problem is one of openness to other literatures and of analytical scale that can be confronted through the collaboration among different specialists (Riello 2007, p. 28). But this dialogue is not always easy. For example, more than a few works have contraposed Atlantic history and global history or, more precisely, the history of globalization. Moreover, such dialogue may require that specialists in different area studies understand that global history, or even the history of globalization, is not the history of everything under the sun, nor is the history of empires the history of everything that happens within their frontiers. The key task, driven by the historian’s hypothesis, becomes to discover local and regional processes that had global implications and, vice versa, those global trends that affect local developments. Furthermore, to explain why some local processes have been irrelevant at a more general level and the other way around is another way to combine area studies and global perspectives. What absolutely is not the case is to describe—sometimes even in an encyclopedic way—all that happened in a particular area as if everything should be included in a global history agenda regardless of the questions we want to answer. This position typically leads to a facile and guild-like criticism that does not facilitate scientific advances. The choice of the events and processes to study at a local and regional level is not always immediate, but it is easier

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if the researcher leaves aside general conceptualizations and undertakes an exercise of empirical inquiry. All the above has, and has had, deep political implications as well as some effects on the political meta-discourse of global history. From its origins, many practitioners conceived of global history as an antidote to the exclusive nationalizing narratives that some sociologists have called “methodological nationalism” (Wimmer and Schuller, 2002). The new imperial history shares this aspiration, as did the concept of composite monarchies and, more recently, that of polycentrism (Osterhammel 2014; Cardim et al. 2012). However, as in the case of transnational studies, such an aim has been reverted on many occasions. As a reaction against the Black Legend, a nationalization of the empire and of Spanish imperial history is progressively present in the Spanish public sphere, and not always to understand the complexity of the imperial past, but rather to react against a negative view of it by going to the other extreme and constructing a laudatory interpretation of the history of Spain (see ie Roca Barea 2016). There are reasons to think that this reaction could now extend beyond the interpretation of the empire and be transposed to the political meta-discourses about early globalization related to the commemoration of the first world circumnavigation led by Magellan and Elcano. Specifically, debates and misunderstandings raised a couple of years ago have centered on to the extent to which Spain or Portugal deserved credit for this adventure. In many areas of the world, varied reflections are proliferating on imagined communities and the way they interacted with globalization. This tendency, despite its apparent political neutrality, is becoming a formula to individuate nations and to strengthen methodological nationalism, inasmuch as it makes national communities the nodes of global connections, therefore reinforcing their singularity (Dalmau and Luengo 2020). The reason is simple: if the unit to be studied is first and a priori defined or even reified—France, Spain, Catalonia, Mexico, and so forth—and the historicity and contingencies of its formation are not subjected to historical reflection, the outcome will always be a conceptual and methodological tautology. This sort of perversion of the initial agenda of global history—as well as that of transnational history—does not only take place in western countries. Some studies on Asia and of particular states such as Korea are showing that similar trends also exist in other regions of the world (Lim 2018). The same goes for China, where a powerful historiography overpassing the limits of the academy has irrupted into the public sphere, feeding a

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global history with a strong exclusive nationalist component, in this case, linked to important political projects such as the revival of the Silk Route (Pérez-García 2021). Though, as argued, the idea of polycentrism is totally against these interpretations (perversions), the accent on the protagonism of some countries previously marginalized when studying imperial and global forces can have similar effects. For years, historians succumbed to the temptation to consider the primacy of the West and, linking history to old modernization theories, identified the first industrial or modern nation in North Western Europe, specifically Great Britain. The danger now is also to depict the Iberian countries, Spain and Portugal, as well as previously considered peripheries like Mexico or Peru, as the good guys in the movie and the only heroes in a process that most of us understand as a multilateral and collective set of turning points. Though this temptation can be explained and even accepted to counterbalance other intellectual imperialist views, historians need to be aware of the potential effects of our research. There is a good reason to be cautious and to explain to our societies that globalization, sometimes conceived as something good per se and associated with modernization, has often gone hand in hand with processes of exploitation and violence inflicted by some societies upon others. This is especially, but not exclusively the case when it comes to Latin American history, and this is also a reason not to dissociate global from imperial history. If the two remain together, there is no way to forget the agency of local elites—together with the imperial authorities, since the boundaries between both are always unclear—in the creation of global links but also in their shared responsibility for the high doses of violence and coercion that, apart from negotiation, characterize the history of empires. This last comment paves the way for another reflection. Some historians have contraposed global and imperial histories as two incompatible approaches (Cooper 2001). While certainly very different, these types of history are not necessarily opposed. Empires have always been globalizing agents—not necessarily by uniformizing societies under their rule—and globalization is a force that changes empires (Yun-Casalilla 2022). This occurs to the extent that globalization has raised very strong pressures on them and has been a challenge that obliges them to undergo deep transformations (Yun-Casalilla 2019). A good way to avoid the nationalization of global history is through the study of early modern empires. First, because of their disaggregated character which, at least apparently, is

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so distant from the stronger homogenizing vocation of the nation states or imperial nations of the nineteenth century (Fradera 2019). Second, because deep research on empires always illuminates important organizational capacities, practices of dialogue and negotiation, contexts of legal pluralism, and even parcels of tolerance and hybridization, but also sheds light on situations of institutional and even physical violence, of exploitation and of suffering which are antidotes against exclusive national pride. ∗ ∗ ∗ Complaints from specialists in the Iberian world against what they consider a marginalization of their intellectual contributions to the big historiographical debates and to the history of empires during the last decades are not rare (Yun-Casalilla 2022). This is the case, not only among historians working in Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin American, African, and Asian institutions but even among those integrated in an academic world such as that of the US universities (Cañizares-Esguerra 2004). At a time of historiographical globalization and convergence, this situation is changing, or, at least, should be expected to change. We may contribute to this change by calling the attention of other historiographies to extraordinary work on the Iberian worlds during the last decades. Other ways of contributing to this change range from comparative history to leaving aside scientific positions that, sometimes unconsciously, remain tied to conceptual and historiographical exceptionalism. Recent decades have witnessed the opening of a path that still has to be walked: the integration between Lusophone and Spanish-speaking historiographical worlds. We also have in front of us an even more interesting step forward in which collaboration is urgently needed: that of explicit dialogue with specialists in other empires and in the study of globalization. There are strong foundations and a very rich legacy from previous studies at least since World War II that make this task easier than one could expect.

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Art in Republics: Venice and the Netherlands Michael North

Introduction Political systems are said to have their own art. Looking into the emergence of the modern nation state, we link it with the rise of the national museum and an art that praises its representatives. In monarchical systems, art collecting and production fulfilled the task of glorifying the ruler or the splendor of the dynastic house, expressing the sovereign’s rank both in his own country and at the level of other European monarchies. Numerous Spanish kings, Holy Roman Emperor Rudolph II, King Charles I of England, King Gustavus Adolphus and Queen Christina of Sweden, King Louis XIV of France, electors of Saxony and Kings of Poland August II and August III, and the Russian Tsar Peter the Great and Empress Catherine II all founded collections and employed court artists (Gahtan and Troelenberg 2018). This self-imaging reached its peak with Louis XIV of France, when the Académie française (founded in 1634–1635), and the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture (founded

M. North (B) University of Greifswald, Greifswald, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_2

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in 1648, reorganized in 1663) were designed solely for the glorification of the king. The Academy and its painters, under the chairmanship of Charles Le Brun, dictated the taste for history paintings. In my contribution, I take the European republic as an example of early modern government and examine its impact on the arts. I focus on the Republic of Venice and the Dutch Republic and ask about the specificities of republican art. Art in late medieval and early modern Europe was generally produced in cities rather than in the countryside. Like all other areas of craft production, work on paintings was organized corporately, as painters and carvers worked within a guild system. Although art theorists and, following them, art historians have portrayed the guild system as negative and inimical to artificial production, guild production functioned very well in most areas of the early modern economy. Although economic historians, following Adam Smith, have also long viewed the guild system as ossified and detrimental to economic growth, more recent research has vindicated the role of guilds in economic history (Lucassen et al. 2008). This reappraisal was most notably led by S. R. (Larry) Epstein, who emphasized the great importance of the guilds for education and especially for the generation and transmission of knowledge (Epstein 1998, pp. 684–713; Epstein 2000; Epstein and Prak 2010). Training, teaching, and innovation played as important a role in this as did the entrepreneurship of guild members. At the same time, the practice of employing more journeymen (painters who had finished their apprenticeship) in larger studios led to a large-scale division of labor and to art becoming mass-produced. Against this background, a new look at guild art production seems worthwhile. In examining the role of the arts in European republics, we must consider the key question: Is there a characteristic republican art, and to what degree did guilds contribute to art production and art consumption in republics? Necessary fields of investigation are art production, art market, patterns of collecting, and self-imaging.

Art Production In Venice, the painters’ guild, the Arte dei Depentori, in existence since 1271, developed over time such specialized professionals as furniture painters, textile painters and embroiderers, playing card makers and mask makers, and sign painters. The guild regulated the career of artists from apprenticeship to mastery. In doing so, it guaranteed the observance of

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professional standards, working conditions, and regulations of workshops, such as the number of apprentices (Rosand 1970, pp. 26–9). The aim of the guild statutes was to preserve the individual workshop, so that the family business was the most common form of production in the Republic of Venice. Large workshops, such as Titian’s, had a large number of assistants under contract, recruited according to the actual number of commissions for paintings. However, these commissions did not mean that the painting workshops produced art solely for individual clients. On the contrary, there was a large production of paintings of religious themes (Mary with the Child), which were produced on stock. Estate inventories of deceased painters also show that paintings by other masters and of diverse genres were sold in the artists’ workshops (Cecchini 2000, pp. 231–3). In 1621, the unusually rich inventory of Gerolamo Bassano’s workshop contained several hundred paintings, 180 of which were attributed to other young artists. The variety of subjects, from holy martyrs to Pyramus and Thisbe, suggests that these paintings were readied for potential buyers (Cecchini 2014, pp. 208–9). Although art historians have long maintained that the Venetian painters’ guild had lost its importance by 1500, membership figures around 1530 numbered some 200 painters, including such famous artists as Bonifazio, Bordone, Lotto, Pordenone, and Titian (Matthew 2003, p. 255). Moreover, Richard Mackenney’s research refutes the old prejudice that Venetian guilds were obsolete medieval institutions that discouraged innovation and individual initiative. According to Mackenney, the guilds encouraged their members’ entrepreneurial activities in retail and wholesale trade, as well as in manufacturing. They also promoted the products of Venetian workshops during holidays and festivities. Throughout the early modern period, foreign visitors were always very impressed by the opulent sales display of Venetian products at San Marco and Rialto. Advertising and marketing of their products also played a role for individual craftsmen (Mackenney 1987, pp. 141–9). In contrast to Florence, where Cosimo de Medici founded the Accademia del Disegno in 1563 on the recommendation of Giorgio Vassari, we look in vain for an academy of the arts in early modern Venice. The Accademia di San Luca, founded by Cardinal Federico Borromeo in Rome in 1593, does not seem to have reached Venice either. Venetian painters first made an attempt to separate themselves from the other artisans of their guild in 1679. Then, in 1682, the Senate authorized the

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establishment of a Collegio dei Pittori, but it was de facto just another separate guild under the jurisdiction of the Republic. The attempt to establish an academy of painting and sculpture failed. At least some workshops, such as that of Giovanni Battista Piazzetta in the 1740s, functioned as a kind of private art academy where artists and others could meet to draw and study. Even the recognition of an academy presided over by Tiepolo in 1756 had no impact on artistic life in Venice. Despite their international reputation, or perhaps because of it, Venetian painters were not members of the short-lived Accademia della Fama either. In contrast, its successor institution, the Accademia Veneziana, which ran a scientific and legal publication program, posthumously accepted Jacopo Tintoretto as a member in recognition of his merits, as well as his son Domenico (Rosand 1970, pp. 29–35). In pre-industrial Europe, art was generally produced in towns and not in the countryside. In the Dutch Republic, painters were organized in craft guilds under the name of St. Luke. Thirty-eight such guilds are known to have existed in the Northern Netherlands, mostly in larger cities. Only in Utrecht, Middleburg, Leiden, Haarlem, and Delft did local schools maintain a strong local presence, and only Amsterdam at the time of Rembrandt had a marked external influence. The apprenticeship of painters, like most other details of art production, followed the rules of the Guilds of St. Luke. Dating back to the Middle Ages, the Guilds of St. Luke enjoyed a revival in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in particular, when local guilds were (re)established or re-invigorated in Amsterdam (1609), Delft (1611), Leiden (1615 and 1648), Alkmaar (1631?), and Hoorn (1651) (Hooghewerff 1947), probably due to the immigration and settlement of painters from the south and it seems that “there was a significant temporal coincidence between the establishment of specific guilds for the fine art during the 1610s, and the rise of the socalled Dutch school of painting in the early seventeenth century” (Prak 2003, p. 250). The guilds included “all those earning their living here by the art of painting, be it with fine brushes or otherwise, in oil or watercolors, glassmakers; glass sellers; faïenciers; tapestry-makers; embroiderers; engravers; sculptors working in wood, stone or other substance; scabbard-makers; art-printers; booksellers; sellers of prints and paintings, of whatever kind they may be,” according to the Delft guild letter of 1611 (Montias 1982, p. 75). The guilds regulated craft occupations, requiring a status

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of master in the guild, enforced guild membership, regulated the conditions of apprenticeship, and decided the qualifications necessary to become a master. The guild also governed relations between masters, servants (knechts ), and apprentices, and tried to regulate the local art market. Whether the guilds were successful as cartels on the art market depended on local conditions. Whereas membership and guild rules were enforced in such communities in Delft, Haarlem, and in most other cities throughout the seventeenth century, they were far less rigorously enforced in the open city of Amsterdam (Montias 1991, pp. 331–72, especially pp. 344 and 347). Although the Amsterdam Guild of St. Luke in the first half of the seventeenth century tried to prevent particular auctions of cheap paintings from abroad, it was hardly successful (Marchi and Miegroet 1994, pp. 451–64). The regulation of the art market was difficult at times in smaller towns, but in towns like Delft and Dordrecht products by local artists were significantly overrepresented in probate inventories, while in Amsterdam there was no visible preference for local masters. (Montias 1982, p. 100). Nevertheless, the guilds contributed—in interaction with potential consumers—to the transparency of the art market. The majority of artists—apart from successful masters like Rembrandt—remained craftsmen, but they distinguished themselves from members of other crafts by their higher incomes and larger houses—the average master painter earned three times as much as a master carpenter. Some may even have seen themselves as part of the liberal professions. There was little place in the corporate Dutch art industry for academies of the Italian model or the ideal of the “free artist,” as postulated by Karel van Mander (North 1997).

Art Market Corporate art production also shaped the situation within the Venetian art market, which experienced two golden periods in the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. In Venice, guild statutes stipulated that purchases and commissions for new paintings had to be handled in the botteghe (the painters’ workshops). The Ascension Fair, where merchants and painters met, in addition to estate auctions offered opportunities to sell or purchase paintings. Yet we also know from repeatedly proclaimed prohibitions that painters not only sold paintings in their studios but also on the Rialto Bridge and sent their apprentices with the paintings to sell

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in the streets (Favaro 1975, p. 73). While the street market and estate auctions can be understood as the lower end of the art market, an upper market dimension also co-existed where painters, agents, and merchants acted internationally or for an international clientele. To market paintings outside Venice at fairs and elsewhere, painters used the services of agents and middlemen (Welch 2003, pp. 283–99; Allerston 2003, pp. 301–12). These were mainly merchants who took over the sale of paintings alongside their own businesses. Likewise, merchants from other Italian cities and from Upper Germany, such as the Fuggers, regularly bought paintings and antiquities on the Venetian market. Together with the luxury goods trade, a semi-professional art market developed, in which ambassadors and agents of the great trading houses participated. As early as 1568, the antiquarian Jacopo Strada brokered the sale of sculptures and coins from the Loredan Cabinet to Duke Albrecht V (Stockbauer 1874; von Busch 1973, pp. 111–64). In the seventeenth century, international art dealers shipped entire collections from Venice to Holland and later to England. One example is the merchant Daniel Nys, who organized the sale of the Gonzaga collection to the English king. Another is represented by the brothers Gerard and Jan Reynst. They bought the Vendramin cabinet and transferred it to Amsterdam. From here, a part of it reached England as a gift from the Dutch Republic (Cecchini 2000, pp. 225–30; 2014, pp. 205–18). During the eighteenth century, the situation changed only gradually. In Venice, collectors of paintings, drawings, engravings, and antiquities acquired their desired items in the traditional art market, whereby artists often played the role of a seller, expert, or intermediary. In the later eighteenth century, professional dealers appeared who often combined collecting and connoisseurship with dealing. As the supply was not as strong as in Amsterdam or the new art markets of Paris and London, the turnover of paintings was much slower, as most of the Venetian collections passed from generation to generation. However, new middleclass collectors emerged, and the acquisitions of European princes and the Grand Tourists for their new galleries and collections stimulated the market beyond its traditional limitations (Pomian 1990, pp. 194–200). An upsurge in Venetian painting followed in the wake of the Grand Tour, which increased interest in vedute (city views) and in the art of Carlevaris, Canaletto, Visentini, and Guardi (Michel 2014, pp. 229–34). Yet this was also an expression of a self-dramatization and marketing of the city aimed at the tourist demand (Howard 2013, pp. 747, 771–2).

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The seventeenth-century Dutch Republic witnessed an unprecedented growth of an art market that nourished a large proportion of its artists. This surge resulted from a tremendous growth in the demand for paintings: 70,000 pictures were painted every year; cheap works were available, which a large majority of Dutchmen could afford (North 1997; Bok 1994; Montias 1990, pp. 59–74; Woude 1991, pp. 286–97). One of the most striking features of the emergent art market is the fact that the majority of painters did not paint for private patrons. Instead, they painted for an anonymous public market. The necessary preconditions for this were low production costs, a steady market demand, and prices high enough to cover material expenses and the artists’ costs of living. All these conditions appear to have been present in the seventeenth century. Product innovations—characteristic of the Dutch economy as a whole—generated new demand, while specialization lowered the costs of producing paintings. Since so many master painters were available, most of them could, to a large degree, specialize in different forms, ranging from portraits to “drolls” (peasant scenes) and still lifes. These were even subdivided into different categories, and some painters specialized in different types of still life, like fruits, flowers, or fish. All these genres could be painted either originally or as copies. Innovations in technique were connected with this specialization. For example, the introduction of the so-called tonal style cut down the time necessary to produce a painting, thus raising the painters’ productivity. This innovation in tonal technique, pioneered by Esaias van de Velde and Jan Porcellis in landscapes and seascapes, became widespread in the Northern Netherlands in the 1640s with landscape paintings by Jan van Goyen and Pieter Molijn. The tonal style reduced the production time and the cost of a painting, since material costs for canvas and paint were low. The consumer thus gained by paying lower prices for landscapes, and this reduction contributed to the rising importance of landscapes in Dutch collections (Montias 1987, pp. 455–66). Since copies and paintings by masters were available for as little as five to ten guilders, many seventeenth-century Dutchmen would have been able to afford a painting, or at least a copy—perhaps several—during their lifetimes (Montias 1990, p. 69). Moreover, the expanding art market generated a new profession: the art dealer. Although most painters bought and sold the pictures of their colleagues from time to time, professional art dealers became much more common in the 1630s and 1640s, when

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printers, engravers, frame makers, and unsuccessful painters, like Gerrit Uylenburgh, Crijn Volmarijn, and Abraham de Cooge, specialized in the art trade. This new trade in art also developed its own areas of specialization, ranging from second-hand dealers (uitdraegsters ) to international art dealers. While most painters painted for the public market, others worked at least temporarily for patrons. There were different kinds of patronage in the Dutch Republic. City governments commissioned the decoration of their city halls with allegoric paintings in order to symbolize the omnipotent and righteous city government. Moreover, different social groups such as the schutters (the town militia), the aldermen of the guilds, and the directors of charitable foundations commissioned group portraits (regenten-portretten) (Haak 1984, pp. 36–60; Bok and Schwartz 1991, pp. 183–95; Fock 1979, pp. 466–545; Carasso-Kok and Bergh-Hoogterp 1988). During the eighteenth century, the international demand for Dutch art rose tremendously all over Europe. Dutch paintings were collected and so-called art cabinets were created to house them. Princely and bourgeois collectors took an active interest in Dutch art, and this interest was further stocked by art dealers, connoisseurs, and the media as well as through travelling. Hamburg became the most important center of art collecting and art selling in Northern Germany. Hamburg was favored by its convenient location for transit trade; the city attracted foreign merchants and also such art dealers as Gerhard Morell. He settled in Hamburg in order to sell paintings of the highest quality from Dutch auctions to the German princely collections, such as Hesse-Cassel and Mecklenburg-Schwerin, but also to private collectors. Moreover, the Hamburg art market profited from the city’s liberal auction laws, due to the tradition of auctioning imported commodities. With the imports of paintings and collections from the Netherlands, Dutch patterns of collection were also imported into Hamburg and spread further to Scandinavia and the Baltic region (North 2012).

Art Collecting In Venice, the chambers of art and curiosities were very popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Venetian collectors tried to build cabinets of encyclopedic character. For example, the cabinet of Andrea Vendramin (1554–1629) had artificialia and naturalia, and the

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catalog mentions almost everything as a collection item. For the majority of Venetian collectors, the collections focused on paintings, sculptures, medals, and antiquities, according to contemporary Marcantonio Michiel (Fletcher 1981, pp. 453–67; Pomian 1990, pp. 69–72; Wolters 2013, pp. 779–809). In the seventeenth century, many inhabitants of Venice and the Venetian cities of Bergamo, Brescia, Padua, Verona, and Vicenza owned paintings. At the same time, the public distinguished between the private ownership of paintings in general and the more prominent collectors or galleries. In Venice, too, the estate inventories—examined by Isabella Cecchini for the period 1640 to 1701—can be used to reconstruct private art ownership (Cecchini 2000). Socially, Cecchini distinguishes between the patriciate, the new (after 1646) nobility, the holders of public offices, the liberal professions, the merchants and craftsmen, and the artists. This last group of artists, unsurprisingly, left more paintings than any other social group. Rather unexpectedly, the differences in painting ownership between the various groups were only slightly pronounced. While a patrician household owned an average of 96 paintings, a merchant had 91 paintings hanging on his walls. The members of the liberal professions and the office holders owned fewer paintings (Cecchini 2000, p. 63). Preferences in taste were also not particularly pronounced or could be assigned to individual social groups. Devotional pictures and religious themes accounted for about 30 percent of the paintings, while nonreligious histories (5–10 percent), allegories (2–4 percent), landscapes (7–10 percent), still lifes (5 percent), genre paintings (1–2 percent) and, above all, portraits (16–29 percent) show that the secularization of taste had progressed. Patricians owned more portraits than any other group, because family pictures occupied an important position in the palazzi (Wolters 2013, p. 787). Officials and merchants had the largest holdings of religious paintings; about 10 percent of the painting genres were unspecified (Cecchini 2000, p. 63). The observation of changes in the hierarchy of painting genres, especially a slight decline in religious histories, is also confirmed by the prominent private collections of Giovanni Grimani Calergi (1664) and Giorgio Bergonzi (1709). This could also be related to the fact that both collectors appreciated the diversity of Flemish painting (Pomian 1990, pp. 115–20). In the eighteenth century, these collecting trends also emerge clearly in private art ownership, without having been systematically investigated on the basis of inventories. While patrician families continued to favor

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portraits, according to Francis Haskell, collectors from other social groups showed a growing interest in contemporary Venetian painting. This preference also spread to foreign collectors living in Venice (Haskell 1980, pp. 257–8). For example, the collection of Joseph Smith (1674–1770), the British consul in Venice, consisted of 54 Canalettos, 42 Marco Riccis, 38 Rosalba Carrieras, 36 Francesco Zuccarellis, and 28 Sebastiano Riccis, among others. Smith sold the majority of these paintings to the English king, making them a staple of the royal collections. In a similar distribution, but on a smaller scale, contemporary Venetian painters were represented in the private collections of Anton Maria Zanetti, Matteo Pinelli, and Francesco Algarotti. The latter arranged Venetian artists to Saxony and to the Dresden Gallery. Due to the artistic production of the aforementioned Venetians and the spread of Dutch and Flemish paintings, landscapes, still lifes and even genre paintings gained importance in the Venetian collections, at the expense of religious and historical subjects (Haskell 1980, pp. 299–310; Pomian 1990, pp. 196–200). Looking at the seventeenth-century Netherlands, we can distinguish three groups of collectors, active in the art market (North 2018, pp. 182– 95): Firstly, royal collectors, including foreign and Dutch princes like Christian IV of Denmark-Norway, Emperor Rudolf II, Charles II of England and some of the princes of Orange; secondly, the so-called liefhebbers or connoisseurs, who were the elites from the large cities, town governments, and craft guilds; and thirdly, the general public. In the first two cases, purchase on commission was the rule; in the case of the general public, consisting of the lower upper class and the middle classes, purchases were made from an anonymous art market, either in direct sales by the master himself, or through art dealers, or by auction. John Michael Montias has examined the paintings collected in Amsterdam and Delft inventories, breaking down the subjects into histories (including religious paintings), landscapes, portraits, still lifes, and genres. He noticed significant changes in the importance of the different subjects over time. He could show two major trends: the decline of histories and the rise of landscapes in seventeenth-century Dutch paintings. The trend from history painting to the landscape in seventeenthcentury collections reveals changing attitudes toward paintings in the Dutch society. Montias explains this phenomenon with reference to the lowering of production costs and prices of landscape paintings, which increased the market-share of the landscapes and therefore also their proportion in the private households. However, this seems to be a rather

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Table 1 Proportion of secular subjects in dated paintings in Western and Central Europe, 1480–1539

1480–1489 1490–1499 1500–1509 1510–1519 1520–1529 1530–1539

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5 percent 9 percent 10 percent 11 percent 13 percent 22 percent

Own elaboration

secondary effect. Of greater importance was the change in the function of paintings in the Dutch Republic. Up to the sixteenth century, the devotional function was dominant, when people preferred paintings with religious subjects to be used as private tabernacles. In the seventeenth century, an esthetic function became the most important factor. A large proportion of the population no longer adored paintings of the Virgin Mary or the saints and bought paintings chiefly to decorate their houses and enjoy as objects of art. The secularization of consumer taste was not confined to the Dutch Republic. Everywhere in Western and Central Europe, the Reformation inspired a fundamental change in the function of paintings. Peter Burke argues that this trend began in fifteenth-century Italy. According to Erreras Répertoire des peintures datées, the proportion of secular subjects rose significantly, as is shown in Table 1 (Burke 1984, p. 285). This development reached its climax, however, in the seventeenth-century Dutch Republic, where the proportion of secular paintings rose from 65 percent at the beginning of the century to 90 percent at the end.

Self-Imaging In the field of self-promotion, Venice had surpassed every other European republic for centuries, as the Serenissima continually reinvented itself. The Venetian myth influenced and fascinated Europe and even the young republic of the United States of America. The personified Venetia unified the virtues of the Republic and thus embodied an abstract ideal state as the best form of all governments. Foreign visitors and observers, both from England and the Netherlands, spread the image and myth of Venice throughout Europe (Rosand 2001, pp. 1–5). The symbol of the Venetian myth became the Doge’s Palace with its fresco cycles, which were commissioned after the fire of 1577. In order to convey the republican

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message to the outside world, the lagoon city published a guide to the paintings in the Doge’s Palace, written by Girolamo Bardi and aimed primarily at foreign visitors. Bardi explains, therefore, the underlying stories of the great paintings by Tintoretto, Palma il Giovane, and Paolo Veronese (on the ceiling of the Sala del Maggior Consiglio). The paintings depict the Venetia and deal with the triumph of Venice, the voluntary submission of the provinces to Venetian rule, and the apotheosis of Venice (Pax Veneta) (Rosand 2001, pp. 39–46; Wolters 1983, pp. 275–87). Episodes from Venetian history, such as the conquest of Constantinople (1204) or the Battle of Lepanto (1571), serve as examples of virtue (Wolters 1983, pp. 161–229; Burke 1974). Later, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it was above all the ceremonies of the doge, for example the twelve annual feasts of the doge, that constituted the Venetian myth, for they were published and disseminated throughout the world in countless paintings, engravings, and etchings. In the Dutch Republic, cities commissioned the decoration of the city halls with allegoric paintings, remembering the time of the Batavians and Claudius Civilis or symbolizing the omnipotent and just city government. The most important example in this respect was the Amsterdam Town Hall, which at the same time served both as symbol of Amsterdam’s glory and a memorial to it. Exempla virtutis of the Roman history (Fabius Maximus and Hannibal, The Justice of Brutus) and Greek mythology (Apollo and Diana) were affirmed. Several of them had been already used in the celebration of the Peace of Westphalia, meaning the Dutch were already familiar with them. For example, a relief above the entrance to the burgomasters’ chamber representing Argus and Mercury refers to a scene in a play: “Whoever owns the cow, catch her by the horns,” where Argus symbolized the watchful States of Holland and Westfriesland, while the cow stood for the fatherland (United Provinces). In the town hall, however, the cow represents the rich city of Amsterdam, watched over by the burgomasters with Argus’ eyes, and might have served as a reminder for the latter themselves (Fremantle 1959, pp. 57–9). Moreover, the burgomasters’ chamber contains a frieze representing the “Triumph of Fabius Maximus, Burgomaster of Rome,” a story that is continued in a painting by Lievens in the same room. The scene is explicated in a verse by Jost van den Vondel: “The son of Fabius bids his own father dismount his horses before the honor and dignity of the city, which recognizes no obligations due to birth and demands that he should approach respectfully. So, a statesman honors the office which is laid

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on him” (Fremantle 1959, p. 67). Other paintings in the burgomasters’ council room show the virtues of the Roman consuls Gaius Fabricius and Curius Dentatus, who, according to the legend, could not be distracted from the fulfillment of their duties by bribery or fright (Fremantle 1959, p. 70). Besides the town halls, there were other spaces and media of selfimaging in the Dutch Republic. The assembly hall of the States-General in the Binnenhof in The Hague, for example, was decorated with flags and banners seized from the enemy and thus commemorated the glory of the Republic, as did every tomb/epitaph of the “national” (sea)heroes located in the cities’ churches. Moreover, the city magistrates commissioned group portraits of themselves, so joining the different social groups, the schutters (town militia), the aldermen of the guilds, and the directors of the charitable foundations, in self-representation. We should, however, not forget the printing media that contributed to the formation of a Dutch identity, centered on peace and freedom (leading to agricultural plenty and blossoming trade), if one takes the symbolic history prints by Hendrick Hondius, David Vinckboons or Claes Janszoon Visscher, for example (Levesque 1998, pp. 223–57), a topic that exceeds the scope of this paper.

Conclusion If we compare the two republics, we find similarities as well as differences. The republics coincided most in the guild-like organization of art production, which did not resemble academies associated with princely self-expression. This circumstance did not hinder the development of art, but rather stimulated it. As far as the culture of collecting was concerned, differences arose due to the different functions in the paintings in the households. Although there was a secularization of taste everywhere, it took different forms. While in the Dutch Republic the entertainment function of mounted paintings dominated, in Venice—despite an emphasis on secular orientation in the literature—religious and devotional themes of paintings continued to possess great importance. Yet art did not flourish in all republics: the Swiss Confederation for example did not possess a sizeable art market. Swiss art historians have argued that it was the Reformation that caused a decline in Swiss art production. Why did art flourish in the Calvinist Netherlands and simultaneously decline in the Eidgenossenschaft ? This disparity was probably

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due to both the relative openness of mercantile cities and to the existence of merchant communities which stood apart from the patrician elite, and which further enabled communications between art consumers and producers that stimulated demand for art on a larger scale than in the Swiss cities. Only in the eighteenth century, when a European harmonization of taste took place—due to the export of Dutch paintings and the emergence of collecting—the Swiss territories were included in the process and, with their visualization of the Alps, gave it a specific genre. This leads us to the notion of self-imaging, which seems to be quite similar in all of the republics. Self-presentation included notions of the “good government” as well as memories of the ancient commonwealths. Even if the glorification of a dynasty did not occur, members of the collective ruling classes, such as the Amsterdam mayors, the doges, or even the Oranian governors of the Dutch Republic were immortalized in paintings. Furthermore, the Republic of Venice shaped the visual imagination of political thought more than any other republican state (and sometimes even more than monarchies) in the early modern period. Over the centuries, La Serenissima refined a self-image, and even during periods of decline the Venetian myth influenced and fascinated Europe and areas beyond the Empire (such as in Venice’s colonies and the United States of America). The personified Venetia represented in a single figure the virtues of the Republic and thus an abstract concept of the state. This representation allowed the notion of the ideal republican state as the best system of government to become a persistent myth as well. Foreign visitors and writers, above all English ones as well as Dutch, proliferated the image (and its half-truths) throughout Europe (Rosand 2001, pp. 1–5). In the course of the eighteenth century, as a result of the harmonization of artistic taste in Europe, the differences between the republics and the monarchies diminished. Dutch and Venetian paintings became popular collectors’ items among the European aristocracy and enjoyed a lively demand in the Paris art market. At the same time, European princes commissioned Venetian painters to decorate their residences. Dutch and Venetian painters became court artists and gallery directors. Hence, to this day, the artistic heritage of Venice and the Netherlands lives on in the royal and state collections of Europe (Manikowska 2014).

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Watchtowers in the Eighteenth-Century Philippines: Material Representations of Colonial State Power Eberhard Crailsheim

The symbolic dimension of defensive structures has rarely been the focus of historiography. This chapter intends to fill a part of that gap by analyzing a widespread type of defensive structure in the Spanish colonial Philippines, namely watchtowers. These constructions were recurrent constituents of the coastal warning system and played a fundamental role in the defense against raiders from neighboring islands. After presenting the Philippine setting and contextualizing the Spanish colony in Asia, this chapter displays the development of these watchtowers in the eighteenth century and, in particular, the circumstances of their creation and usage. Eventually, some tentative ideas will be presented regarding possible semantic aspects of the watchtowers, going beyond their mere functionality. More precisely, the hypothesis will be tested that watchtowers were material manifestations of the colonial state in the Philippines. Representations of state power occur across several media, from texts and images to performances and objects. The symbolic influence of these

E. Crailsheim (B) Spanish National Research Council, Madrid, Spain e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_3

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media has been investigated by all sorts of scholars such as historians, anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists, and political scientists. Within the historical field, the “Kulturgeschichte des Politischen” (cultural history of the political) has produced valuable contributions with, for example, the works of Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger and Georg Althoff (Stollberg-Rilinger 2005; Althoff 2003). These can be seen in close relation to the so-called “Performative Turn” within Cultural Studies, which has contributed to a more thorough investigation of rituals and ceremonies of power (Bachmann-Medick 2016; Fischer-Lichte 2011). In the field of colonial history too, the representation of state power has found much attention, be it in the wake of Postcolonial Studies or in other sub-disciplines (Loomba et al. 2005). In that regard, this chapter takes a closer look at the colonial Philippines where representations of state power are particularly interesting as they were the most distant colony from the Spanish heartlands and surrounded by potential enemies on all sides. The representation of colonial power can be approached from the viewpoint of its mediality and communication, asking questions about how colonial authority was transmitted, by whom, and for whom? One can address these questions by analyzing textual and visual sources and by looking at performative acts. In addition, the mediality of colonial power can also be traced through the study of objects, or more specifically artifacts (Windus and Crailsheim 2013; Gruzinski 2003; Bayly 2014; Cooper and Stoler 1997), sometimes following the traces of archeologists (Kroefges and Schulze 2013). Specific developments in the Cultural Studies and the Social Sciences that have vigorously stimulated new perspectives on artifacts and their meaning in societies were the Spatial, Iconic, and Material Turns (Bachmann-Medick 2016; Hicks 2018). Influenced by these new currents, this chapter focuses on a very specific material form of colonial state representation that featured in many coastal regions of the vast Philippine archipelago: watchtowers. In the following pages, this study will locate these buildings in their specific cultural and social context and scrutinize their possible representative power. It will start by discussing the symbolic value of defensive building structures in general, outline the specific Philippine setting, present the watchtowers in detail, and draw tentative conclusions regarding their semantic aspects. The purpose of this chapter is not to present the results of a fully-fledged research agenda but rather to air initial ideas on how to conceptualize and integrate material culture in the colonial history of the Philippines.

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Following the ideas of Roman architect Vitruvius, architectural analysis can be conducted via the three categories construction (firmitas ), function (utilitas ), and shape (venustas ). Yet, more recent approaches— some of which are based on Nelson Goodman’s Languages of Art —tend to include a fourth analytic category: symbolic meaning (Baumberger 2010, pp. 13–5; Goodman 1968). One of the problems here is that the symbolic character of architecture on a historic-political level is not easily discernable, which frustrates accurate interpretation. Wolfgang Reinhard, however, sees this struggle as an advantage as it has the potential to bring a colorful spectrum of historical meanings to light (Reinhard 2005, p. 20). Silke Müth, in her works on the symbolic functions of Greek fortifications, states that the symbolic meaning of defensive architecture has never before been studied on a broad scale. In line with Reinhard, she argues that the “symbolic aspects of fortifications were manifold and versatile, and represented a much more comprehensive phenomenon than generally assumed” (Müth 2020, p. 5). Defensive structures are usually regarded with a focus on their functionality and seen in their military context or as part of architectural history. The symbolic value of defensive structures has been rather neglected, especially smaller defensive buildings such as small forts or watchtowers. Interestingly, it is towers that have, at times, a more symbolic than a functional meaning such as Christian belfries or Muslim minarets that above all are visible signs of religious dominance and a permanent reminder for observers as well as listeners. For watchtowers, however, functionality was more foregrounded compared to the symbolic aspect which was less eminent. Intriguingly, it has to be remembered that in the Philippines, belfries were frequently used as sentinels, just like watchtowers, merging two seemingly different sets of functionalities and representations. Watchtowers have the inherent tendency to be located on sites with clear lines of view, making them naturally difficult to obscure. Some towers were even constructed at prominent places and were easily visible to friends and foes alike. In order to explicate their symbolic value and representative power, it is necessary first to contextualize them in their specific colonial setting with regard to their appearance, building history, and functionality along the lines of Vitruvius’ categories.

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The Philippine Setting Spanish colonial history in Asia started in 1521 with the Pacific crossing of Ferdinand Magellan. After some rather unsuccessful follow-up expeditions during the subsequent decades, Spaniards intensified their imperial endeavors and founded the colony of the Philippines in 1565, establishing their capital Manila in 1571. In the following years, the city became an intercontinental entrepôt for Asian goods, above all textiles and ceramics, in exchange for American silver bullion. This arrangement—the system of the “Manila Galleon”—remained dominant for almost two centuries until alternative trade routes were admitted. The Spanish colonial economy became heavily focused on the commercial activity of the capital as a result, giving rise to two remarkable characteristics of the Spanish colonial system in the Philippines: Firstly, the neglect of most other commercial opportunities; and secondly, the concentration of most Spaniards in Manila, essentially leaving the rest of the archipelago to missionaries, soldiers, and a few functionaries. Spanish control of the archipelago was far from total because several native groups in the mountains were not integrated into the colonial system for centuries. Still, most of the coastal and lowland natives were soon Christianized and adjusted to the colonial social and economic system, which had been tested before in the Americas. Many native villages merged together forming new municipalities (reducciones ) to grant missionaries easier access and to enable greater social control as well as to facilitate the collection of taxes. Spaniards imposed their own bureaucratic system on the local administration, thereby confirming and redefining the former native aristocracy. The social structure and the commercial basis of the villages adapted gradually—and more or less voluntarily—to the new colonial conditions. Over time, many villages started to orient their commerce toward the needs of the Manila Galleon system. Some native groups even became integral to the Spanish military system as “auxiliary troops.” Concomitantly, rising demands mainly for shipping materials increased the need for forced labor and the natives suffered, causing some violent revolts over the centuries (Driesch 1984; Schurz 1985; Díaz-Trechuelo 2001). Another factor that weighed heavily on the native societies of the coastal regions was the repeated incursions by foreign raiders. Neighboring groups from Borneo, Mindanao, and Sulu—some of whom were pagans, but mostly Muslim (or “Moros” as the Spanish referred to

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them)—ransacked coastal villages and captured inhabitants. The more the sultanates of the adjacent islands felt threatened by Spanish expansionism, the more frequently they organized raids and used them as a form of warfare. This Muslim-Spanish confrontation was a permanent factor in the colonial period that went through phases of different intensities but never subsided. The second half of the eighteenth century was a particularly difficult phase for the coastal villages (Majul 1973; Dery 1997; Warren 2002). The Spanish strategy in the struggle against the sultanates of Sulu and Mindanao was not very consistent. Usually, they equipped defensive fleets that laid in wait, but these had barely any impact on the raids (“Demostración histórica” 1878; Mallari 1986). Another defensive mechanism was the erection of fortified posts, presidios, though these were few and far away from most villages (Mawson 2016, p. 107). When the financial situation in Manila was good, the number of soldiers high, and the governor-general motivated, the Spanish launched offensive attacks on the sultanates with some success in looting villages, burning fields, and enslaving numerous Muslims (Majul 1973; Dery 1997; Barrio Muñoz 2012). Yet these large offensives were infrequent and strategically unsustainable. In the last decades of the eighteenth century, the Spanish stance versus the “Moros” became more nuanced. On the one hand, a decent commercial trade developed between them (Crailsheim 2020), while on the other, military measures against the raids diversified. One aspect was to grant the natives more agency in this confrontation. They were given permission to acquire weapons and ammunition in order to go after the raiders themselves (corso) and they could keep the booty earned. They also received rewards for their fight against the enemy and the central government encouraged the construction of palisades, strongholds, and watchtowers (Crailsheim 2017).

Watchtowers in the Philippines There are plenty of works dedicated to Philippine architecture in the early modern period. Most emblematic is the Catholic churches, which are still present in many Philippine towns and have attracted much scholarly attention (José 1991; Javellana 2010). The symbiosis of cultural styles has been frequently discussed with identifiable combinations of Spanish, Mexican, pre-Hispanic (virtually no stone constructions), as well

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as Chinese influences in many structures (Correa et al. 2005; Galván Guijo 2015). Among secular buildings of less scholarly interest so far, defensive structures stand out. Several stone fortresses survived the wrath of time and weather, not only in Manila but on all the larger Philippine islands (Díaz-Trechuelo 1959; Javellana 1997; Luengo 2017). The smallest type of defensive building in the eighteenth century was the single watchtower, which was common in many coastal villages of the archipelago. These have received barely any attention among researchers despite being possibly the most frequent material remainder of Spanish secular power in the Philippines. This is one reason why they form the center of this analysis. Watchtowers were in no way an invention of the early modern era. One can read about them in the Old Testament or in other scriptures of Antiquity. Titus Livius and Gaius Plinius, for example, both wrote about Roman and Carthaginian watchtowers in Hispania. In the Middle Ages, Muslim rulers of al-Andalus mandated the construction of watchtowers in various places of the Iberian Peninsula—both inland and along the coastline—in order to look out for Christian invaders. As Christians advanced their so-called Reconquista, they took over the abandoned Muslim towers on the coast and used them for their own purposes. In the Kingdom of Granada, there were thirty-nine of them alone. In the early modern period, Spaniards faced with numerous Mediterranean corsairs increased the density of these watchtowers from Andalusia to the Baleares (García-Pulido and Ruiz-Jaramillo 2020; Fernández Cánovas 2019; Cámara Muñoz 1990). Consequently, when the Spanish arrived in the Philippines in 1565, they brought with them their concept of guarding the coast and warning villagers of enemy arrival. The Shape and Development of the Watchtowers in the Philippines Many watchtowers (known as atalaya in Spanish or bantayan in Tagalog) in the second half of the eighteenth-century Philippines were stone constructions, much like their siblings on the Mediterranean coastlines. They were of considerable size, breadth, and height and could contain two or more wooden stories. They sometimes resembled the massive towers of city walls. Additionally, wooden watchtowers often complemented these stone constructions. Yet while we have descriptions of various types of larger strongholds (Valdés Tamón 2006), the sources for watchtowers are rather scarce. This might be due to the fact that

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the watchtowers did not pose a permanent cost to the crown (in terms of supplying soldiers, arms, and ammunitions) since natives manned the towers themselves (Hidalgo Nuchera 2009, p. 178). Art historian René Javellana has detected over 250 remnants of fortified sites belonging in some way or another to the costal defense system (Javellana 2005, p. 80). Yet the total number of stone bantayanes that existed remains unknown and even less information exists for the many wooden constructions that fulfilled similar functions. Contemporary reports give clues, as for example, at the end of the eighteenth century, two towns in Tayabas (Luzon), Mulanay and Talolong, had a fortified stronghold and four atalayas each. In 1783, the province of Antique was depicted with thirty-four wooden watchtowers along around two hundred kilometers of coastline equating to roughly one watchtower for every six kilometers (Dery 1997, pp. 91 and 249; Servicio Histórico Militar 1996, vol. 1, n. 50–1). René Javellana could not find a single watchtower remaining in Antique today during his explorations trips to the different islands, which might be an indication that they had never been replaced or expanded upon with stone constructions (Javellana 1997). Drawings are rare save for ones by Fernando Brambilla made in the course of the expedition of Alejandro Malaspina to the Philippines (1789–1794) or another depicted in the Atlas picturesque from 1846 (Figs. 1 and 2), both in the area of Zamboanga (Mindanao). Already in 1561, King Philip II of Spain (r. 1556–1598) instructed his colonial governors to ensure that all ports were guarded and well defended with necessary sentries, alert to the threat from corsairs (Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias 1681, libro VIIII, título XXXIII, ley III). In 1631, King Philip IV (r. 1621–1665) further decreed that the principal ports should have “proper atalayas to observe the sea at certain times, at day and night, to warn with smoke and fire” in case of enemy approach (ibid., ley IIII). These royal ordinances can be understood as legal framework for the building of watchtowers and the establishment of sentinels within the colonies. From the very beginning, the Spanish perceived the need to defend themselves in the Philippines from enemies, whether from the English, Dutch, Chinese, or Japanese. They fortified themselves accordingly in the major towns of Manila, Cavite, and Cebu, which were all located on the coast. In these municipalities, the towers of the city walls, the belfries, and even high-rise civilian houses served as atalayas (Díaz-Trechuelo 1959). The situation was even more precarious in smaller villages along the

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Fig. 1 View of a tower and part of the village of Zamboanga. Fernando Brambila: 1789–1794, España. Ministerio de Defensa (© Archivo Museo Naval de Madrid [AMN] Ms.1724 [18], public domain)

archipelago. While they did not fear the hostility from the nations above as it was directed mostly against the Spanish, they were confronted with the recurring “Moro” raids from neighboring islands. As Spanish support was limited and Manila could not send sufficient weapons until late in the eighteenth century, natives usually responded to raiders by fleeing for the hills. In cases where the village had a stone church, sometimes even encased within walls such as the one in Marinduque or a sturdy convent, inhabitants could also utilize these buildings as shelter. Over the years, more and more villages merged, ultimately contributing to the formation of larger towns. These conurbations, however, became more attractive goals for raiders, leading to even more frequent attacks. Only later, when these towns became too densely populated (circa 1500 inhabitants) could raiders be discouraged from attacking (Javellana 1997, p. 121; Warren 2002, p. 118). In the seventeenth century, the colonial government did not seem to have overly encouraged the natives to improve their defenses. Rather the

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Fig. 2 Guardhouse in Zamboanga. Atlas pittoresque, planche 143, in: Journey to the South Pole and Oceania on the Corvettes L’Astrolabe and La Zélée to Execute the Order of the King during the Years 1837–1838–1839–1840 under the Command of Dumont d’Urville. Pictorial Atlas. Paris: Gide 1846 (© Public domain on https://commons.wikimedia.org/ [12/8/2021])

focus lay on direct confrontation with the sultanates, especially in the 1630s. Later in the century, the Spaniards pulled back from that conflict and from 1662, direct conflict lessened, leaving natives again alone to deal with raiders on a localized level (Laarhoven 1989; Majul 1973; Prieto Lucena 1984). Only in 1718 as a result of acquiescence to the Jesuit desire for evangelization, did Philip V (r. 1700–1746) mandate the return to Mindanao, a movement which made warning bells ring out for the Sulu and Mindanao and prompted the conflict to escalated once more (Rodríguez-Rodríguez 2018). One of the most active Spanish governors-general in Manila, regarding military endeavors, was Fernando Valdés Tamón (in service between 1729 and 1739), who was a military officer by training (Barrio Muñoz 2012). Under his leadership, the defenses improved and the natives started to increase their coastal guarding activities (the corso), especially on the

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islands of Cebu, Leyte, Panay, and Negros in the central region of the Philippines (known as the Visayan Islands). For outstanding services, some natives were exempt from taxation and forced labor (tributos, polos y servicios personales ) and some even received tokens of appreciation (mercedes ) from the governor-general. During the same time, Valdés Tamón instructed his provincial governors (alcaldes mayors ) to make sure that watchtowers were erected at the necessary places (“Demostración histórica” 1878, p. 223; Montero y Vidal 1888, vol. 1, pp. 73, 271, 276). But the “Moros” were a threat not only to the Visayan Islands but also to the main island Luzon, and even in the vicinity of Manila the raiders attacked, as the Augustinian Recollect chronicler Juan de la Concepción remarked. Consequently, Valdés Tamón further mandated that the people of Corregidor and Bataan keep lookouts at day and night (Concepción 1788–1792, vol. XIII, pp. 35–6). As the incursions of the raiders were a continuous phenomenon over the centuries, the bantayanes were not a short-lived measure. Over a century after Valdés Tamón’s instructions, the German ethnologist Karl Gottfried Semper traveled in Southeast Asia between 1858 and 1865 when he noticed the watchtowers. He reported that the high wooden atalayas caught travelers’ eyes everywhere, in particular in the south, much like the one from 1846 in Zamboanga (Fig. 2). While he criticized the insufficient mutual support among different native villages against incursions as well as the little effectiveness of the Spanish navy and the missing will to “extirpate these pirates,” he also acknowledged the usefulness of the watchtowers as an early warning system (Semper 1869, pp. 68–9; see also Jagor 1873). The Construction of the Watchtowers Karl Gottfried Semper’s comment on wooden watchtowers might be an indication that they were much more numerous than their sibling stone structures. No wooden bantayanes survived, however, whereas some stone towers still exist today, which provides us with a sense of the first line of defense along the Philippine coastline (Javellana 1997). Figures 3 and 4 show two stone bantayanes from Balaoan and Luna (La Union), probably dating from the end of the eighteenth century. The material used for the construction of the stone atalayas was either sandstone, limestone, bricks, coral, rubble, or a combination of the above, mostly joined with lime mortar. They were usually round or octagonal,

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Fig. 3 Watchtower in Balaoan (© Photo by Eberhard Crailsheim, 2011)

and sometimes square, with a height and diameter of approximately nine meters, which gave them a sturdier look than similar structures in Granada (Cámara Muñoz 1990, p. 82). Typically, atalayas had two floors but the largest ones rose to four stories high. Most that still stand today were built between the mid-eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Similar to sixteenth-century towers on the Iberian Peninsula, they had no other quality than purely functional attributes (Javellana 1997, 2005; Dery 1997, p. 121; Cámara Muñoz 1990, p. 59). The Indian Laws (Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias 1681, libro VIIII, título XXXIII, ley IIII) contain Philip IV’s instructions from 1631 on how to procure the atalayas without direct costs to the royal treasury. His laws recommend that in exchange for construction work, citizens from relevant villages should simply be exempt from different types of forced labor or conscription. In the Philippines, this kind of work customarily resulted in an exemption from the payment of taxation and forced labor for a period of time.1 Moreover, the particular

1 The Philippine National Archives (PNA), Spanish Manila, SDS 13820, 1751–1846, exp. 6, ff. 41r+v, Superior Decreto para que a los Sambales […] (4/1/1752); PNA,

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Fig. 4 Watchtower in Luna (© Photo by Eberhard Crailsheim, 2011)

religious order responsible for the relevant village often contributed its own financial resources to the building process (Javellana 1997, p. 121), in particular, the Augustinian Recollect order.2 The construction of the bantayanes was overseen mostly by a local parish priest, especially for stone constructions. Lacking engineers and military experts in the rural areas of the Philippines, missionaries were probably the only ones that were technically able to carry out such a task. In the Spanish Philippines, many priests and chaplains—including members of the native clergy (Servicio Histórico Militar 1996, vol. 1, n. 51)—came to play important roles in the official military operations of the islands, such as the Jesuit José Ducós, son of a famous colonel from

Erección de Pueblos – Bulacan, SDS 13940, 1747–1863, exp. 4, ff. 70–81, Espediente a representación del gobernadorcillo y principales del pueblo de Obando, […] en que piden de les concedan reserva de polos y servicios personales para proseguir la construcciónde su Yglesia […] (18/1/1769); Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), SGU 7245, 53, Filipinas, ff. 457r–459v, Victoria sobre una partida de moros (1798). See also Dery 1997, 83. 2 Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Filipinas 300, N. 58, Petición del agustino recoleto Miguel de Santo Tomás de Villanueva sobre la Paragua. Document 1.1, f. 49r (25/9/1754).

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the Mediterranean wars (Bernad 1968). Others were qualified military engineers such as the Jesuit Melchor de Vera, architect of the Zamboanga fortress, erected in 1635 (Combés 1897, p. 227). The most interesting figure relating to the atalayas was the Augustinian Julián Bermejo, who initiated the construction of a whole string of watchtowers in Cebu in the early nineteenth century and developed a communication system based on flags (Javellana 1997, p. 146–9; 2005, p. 80; Blanco Andrés 2017). Not all missionaries working in the Philippines as parish priests had such expertise but many of them were competent and possessed useful skills. Missionaries were often the only governmental representatives in the villages and held a great deal of political and social power. When instructions came from the administration to build the bantayanes, the venture was usually undertaken jointly between native leaders, the so-called principalía, which comprised acting and former district leaders (cabezas de barangay) together with municipal governors (gobernadorcillos ). This system made the project a common enterprise within the whole defensive system of the village, which sometimes also included a stockade and a small fort (Warren 2002, p. 109–12). But the implication of missionaries in the defense of the villages did not end there. They also organized the manning of the atalayas and the warning system and, when under attack, they arranged the defenses (Cruikshank 1979; Bernad 1968). The Functioning of the Warning and Defense System It is likely that some of the sturdier stone towers with cannons had an additional function besides alerting, that is, warding off smaller flotillas by themselves or inhibiting the enemy from taking on drinking water or other provisions (Cámara Muñoz 1991, p. 94). The watch tower in Capul (Samar), for example, was built directly next to a water source (Jose 2013, p. 380). Yet most watchtowers must be seen in the context of a more complex defensive system and in conjunction with other defensive units. Besides the Spanish cities and their respective fortresses, the largest defensive units were the presidios, which numbered over a dozen in the Philippines by the beginning of the seventeenth century. Presidios were forts manned by “Spanish” soldiers, who often came from New Spain and who served against their will in the Philippines (Mehl 2016; Mawson 2016). Most of the presidios had only limited capacities in sea fights against the raiders—something that only gradually changed following the

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introduction of a new type of coast guard by Governor-General José Basco y Vargas (served 1776–1786) in 1778.3 For the longest time, therefore, villagers had to defend themselves without direct help from Spaniards and could only hope for occasional administrative support from Manila such as tax exemptions and supplies of cannon and ammunition. Local defense systems ranged from escaping aggressors by foot (Bernáldez y Fernández de Folguera 1857, p. 34; Mallari 1986; Crailsheim 2017, pp. 408–11) to an elaborate system of warnings, entrenchments, obstruction tactics, and counterattacks. In the latter case, villagers were alerted by the early warning system from the bantayanes, which—in some cases well reinforced and equipped with small cannons—also served as the first line of defense to delay the advancement of the attackers. In the meantime, the civilian population could either flee or gather in the village stronghold, either the church, a convent, community building, stockade (obligatory for all villages from 1769 onwards; Warren 2002, p. 109), or a small stone fort (baluarte). To further retard the enemy, villagers sometimes secured the surrounding area with thorny bushes, traps, or stakes. From their stronghold, villagers could defend themselves, and even mount counterattacks (Jesuits 1962). The raider’s assaults rarely lasted for more than one day due to the limited siege materials (Javellana 1997, p. 134). The first and decisive step in the local defensive system was early detection by sentinels on the watchtowers. Atalayas were positioned accordingly at the best strategic locations, often close to the beaches. After the detection of enemy boats, the next step in the line of communication was warning other sentinels in different lookout positions such as in stone baluartes or church belfries. All of these towers were manned day and night during the southwest monsoon that blows in the Philippines between June and October, the time of most raids. Sentinels, later called telegrafistas, blew conch or carabao horns or beat gongs, drums, or hollow logs to warn their people. During the day, they also used flags, sun discs, or mirrors, while at night they lit fires or fireworks. Alerted by these signals, bellringers sounded church bells and flags were hoisted and torches were lit to warn all villagers, setting in motion the rest of

3 AGI, MP-Ingenios 233, Perspectiva de las embarcaciones ultimamente construidas para el corso contra los moros (22/5/1779).

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the defensive procedure (Javellana 1997, pp. 134 and 139). The instructions for warning systems given to the villagers of the Philippines, such as one example from the 1730s in Bataan (Concepción 1788–1792, vol. XIII, pp. 35–6), reflected the royal mandates from 1631 (Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias 1681, libro VIIII, título XXXIII, ley IIII). In the nineteenth century, these warning systems would improve, connecting neighboring villages and even entire regions (Javellana 1997, p. 143; Semper 1869, pp. 68–9). Usually, the atalayas were staffed by volunteers or by appointed men who took turns. Occasionally, these would bring their families and settle down near the towers (Warren 2002, p. 112). It was not before 1834, that the whole system underwent reforms and became more institutionalized, which means that fixed guards were appointed, land parcels were allotted, and tax exemptions were given to the appointees (Dery 1997, pp. 107–9).

The Semantic Aspect In the sections above, all three of Vitruvius’s categories, namely, the shape, construction, and function of the watchtowers as part of a coastal defense system, have been analyzed. The final question in this chapter addresses possible ways of additional understanding of these bantayanes, besides their mere functionality. By unraveling the kind of meanings they could carry, we might grasp their symbolic power. This leads us back to the question of mediality and communication and to the possibilities of reading defensive architecture more comprehensively. In that regard, and in line with Silke Müth’s considerations mentioned earlier, René Javellana argues that “although built for military purposes, the far more important and long-lasting contribution of this system of defense was its role as nodes for the diffusion of culture. As centers of control and expansion of economic, political and military might, the fortifications were also involved in religious, social and cultural matters, although this was not their primary function” (Javellana 2005, p. 67). Judging the bantayanes solely in terms of their functionality would not do them justice. This section traces the semantic aspects of watchtowers by addressing their representativeness, possible transmitters, and recipients of the communication process, as well as the content of such possible messages.

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Representativeness, Transmitters, and Recipients In previous sections, it has become evident that atalayas were not an isolated phenomenon. By 1799, entire provincial coastlines along the Philippines became dotted with defensive structures, presenting a formidable sight. Almost every coastal town was fortified by a stronghold and guarded by one or more watchtowers of some sort (Dery 1997, p. 87; Warren 2002, p. 109). The creators, or “transmitters,” of the bantayanes were numerous. It was mostly the central government or the provincial authority that mandated its construction. The latter could be the bishop or the alcalde mayor, which hints toward a blurred separation between secular and religious authorities within the colonial Philippines. In addition to the principal intention to defend the coastal frontiers from enemy attacks, it is conceivable that an additional intention was to deliberately demarcate Spanish possessions in a colony that was void of official Spanish representative buildings. Even if that was probably not their primary intention, the idea that watchtowers would be associated with Spanish colonial power has to be considered as a supplemental intention from “above.” The most direct evidence in this regard comes from the island of Cebu where watchtowers were generically called bantayan sa hari, meaning “watchtower of the king.” A similar important reference comes from the watchtower at Punta Cruz, Maribojoc (Bohol), which displays the Spanish royal seal above the main doorway.4 On a local level, the parish priest took matters into his own hands by discussing a tower’s construction at the village council with the principalía, all of whom held an inherent interest in improving village defenses. As priestly authority and the power of the principalía were strongly linked to the colonial state (Sánchez Gómez 2004), it can be assumed that both shared the same intentions of their superiors in the capital to enhance the visibility of the Spanish state power in their province. It was the villagers who were employed in the construction of these towers, though their intention in the building process probably did not exceed the functional level. Occasionally, the initiative even came from “below.” When the villagers felt the need to improve their defensive structures, they asked for tax exemption and relinquishment from forced labor or for other support 4 Thanks to Ricky Jose for these two valuable clues (written communication from 4/9/2021).

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during the construction period.5 The final result on the ground, it would seem, was very much the same, no matter who initiated the building of the watchtower or what intentions they had. Who would have been the “recipients” of the bantayanes? Who observed the watchtowers? First, it was the Spanish themselves. Yet it is not certain how well the central or provincial governments were aware of the existence of each watchtower in their districts as sources are scarce in that regard. They certainly had a general impression but a detailed list for all provinces probably did not exist. The second possible recipients were raiders, against whom the watchtowers were directed. It is conceivable that atalayas at the beaches, in particular, if they appeared physically large and sturdy, deterred potential attackers away in search of an easier option. A strong watchtower or a series of watchtowers, might have given them the idea that the respective village had strong defenses and an attack would be too risky. Finally, the bantayanes were most visible for the villagers. They were the most obvious close-distance observers of the bantayanes. While some towers were probably well hidden in the groves, others stood close to the beach or on nearby hilltops and were well perceived by every man, woman, and child going to sea, throwing out their nets, and coming home from fishing or bartering with neighboring villagers. Moreover, its functionality demanded continuous attention, work, and investment. At least during the southwest monsoon season, the organization of the defensive system contributed to the presence of the watchtower in the minds of the villagers. One might want to compare the bantayanes to other building structures that were used as part of the local defensive scheme to get a better picture of its semantic impact. The first point of reference may be the church. Often, its belfry was used as lookout point and its massive walls served as shelter against the raiders. The main difference was that the church had a completely different primary function (worship) and hence its symbolic spectrum (Windus 2015) was on a different level from the much simpler semantic of a watchtower. Almost the same holds true for the convent, where the priest resided. Much closer to the symbolic scale of the watchtower was probably the baluarte or the stockade. In those municipalities where they had these defensive strongholds or palisades, 5 PNA Superiores Decretos 1797–1802, SDS 14833, ff. 25r–27r, Se releban a los naturales, Dumaran, provincia de Calamianes, de tributo por dos años con la condición que se ha de acabar en este interbalo el fuerte (20/4/1797).

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they were probably even more present than the watchtowers. They had many similarities. Their primary function was defensive as well, but they did not have the specific functionality of alerting people and they were probably not so numerous as the atalayas. Possible Contents of the Message “Watchtower” for the Natives Finally, the ultimate question is what did the watchtowers convey to the natives? How can we read their thing-to-person interaction? What kind of agency can we attribute to them? As these kinds of questions deny any straightforward answer, I will make some elucidating suppositions based on the contextualization and setting analysis above. First, the watchtowers—built to warn against enemies—were a constant reminder of the threat posed by raiders. In that sense, they represented their brutality and ferocity, as well as all the damage that they had inflicted so far and all the family members and friends they had killed or abducted. In that sense, the atalayas were the concentrated manifestation—ex negativo—of the threat against which they stood with all their functionality. Furthermore, the bantayanes displayed the effort of the people directly involved in their construction, which included builders as well as the principalía. The highest authority on this local level was the parish priest, whose close connection to the village defensive system has already been mentioned above. The priest’s connection to the watchtower was constantly reinforced, as he organized the sentinels in collaboration with the principalía. From this perspective, the bantayanes were an embodiment (one could say a self-reflection) of the united village force and joint determination to defend themselves against a common enemy. While it is probably true that the priest and the principalía were the driving force behind the construction and organization of the defensive system, and the villagers were the builders and the sentinels, also the “Spaniards” participated remotely in the local defense system, at least if we look at the bigger picture. René Javellana states that “Spanish investment, personal and finances to build, maintain, provision, and support these fortifications emphasizes their importance in the overall scheme of colonization and control” (Javellana 2005, p. 81). While the Spanish involvement in the defensive subsystem of the “watchtower” was possibly less pronounced than in the larger strongholds, I would still argue that the “observing” villagers perceived Spanish participation in all parts of the

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defensive complex. Furthermore, I claim along with James Warren that the priests gained authority during these works and maintenance, which helped them foster a sense of village unity (Warren 2002, p. 109) and a feeling of belonging, not only on a village or inter-village level but on a higher colonial level as well (Dery 1997; Crailsheim 2019). There is another reason why I argue that the coastal watchtowers embodied the colonial state power, especially in the rural areas where they were made of stone. In the remote villages, these atalayas represented some of the few Spanish colonial buildings, if not the only ones. The local church belonged to the religious sphere and was not a secular governmental building, even if a separation between church and state was difficult as stated above. The palace of the alcalde mayor and the presidio were mostly far away, and wooden stockades probably did not have the same semantic impact as a watchtower made of stone. Stone bantayanes, therefore, as the only state-sponsored building for miles, can be considered an object that inherently represented the colonial state. Moreover, each and every raider attack represents a performative event, in which the defensive system, with the watchtower as an integral element, had to prove itself. In case it did not work well, the results were dramatic. The village and its economic resources such as animals, boats, and crops were largely destroyed and many of its inhabitants were either killed or enslaved. On the other hand, when the defensive system fulfilled its purpose well, villagers still bemoaned the partial destruction of their lands, but at least they were spared from enslavement. Every successful defense against the raiders added up to the positive collective memory, which relied on the effective functioning of the watchtower and its symbolic meaning. Finally, at some points, watchtowers could become detached from the connotation of colonial state power or even be seen as a manifestation of the colonial oppressor. That could be the case, if the construction was, for example, solely initiated, implemented, and maintained by the principalía, without any support by the priest or the Spaniards. Another such situation could occur if the aversion against excessive demands (for example tribute, forced labor, or forced sales) or the disappointment because of lacking governmental support (for example money, weapons, ammunition, coast guards, or corruption) overshadowed the government’s contribution to the defense. However, as the principalía and the parish priest (largely of Spanish origin) can be presumed to be mostly supportive of the government, I would suppose that such feelings of resentment were not too

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strong in the eighteenth century, especially since the priest would rather share in his lot with the Spaniards and show support for the colonial government by praising God in his sermons alongside the Church, the king, and the government for their “love” and support even though it was sometimes hard to perceive.

Synopsis Watchtowers were an almost omnipresent phenomenon in the Philippines around 1800. They belonged to a complex defensive system, which permeated the whole archipelago from Mindanao to Luzon. When Spaniards arrived in Asia, they brought with them their predefined ideas of coastal defense—influenced by Muslim constructions—and implemented these models of transcultural architecture in the Philippines. The construction was a shared undertaking by local builders, native elites, village missionaries, and the Spanish colonial administration in Manila. In doing so, the watchtower became a manifestation of the common endeavor to ward off enemies. During the southwest monsoon season, sentinels observed the sea from their elevated posts and looked out for raiders—regardless of whether they were Muslims, Christians, or “heathens.” In case of an attack, they alerted villagers through an elaborate communication system and activated the defensive apparatus, enabling natives to take the necessary steps to minimize the impact of the assailants. The watchtowers can be understood, therefore, as an essential part of an early warning system for the safeguarding of coastal villages. In the last part of this chapter, I presented a cautious consideration for the possible semantic layers of the watchtowers themselves that exceeded their purely functional character. The central government contributed remotely to the construction and operation of the defensive system, and parish priests played a leading role in local defenses. This arrangement strongly suggests that the participation of both the central government and the priest in the defense system was reflected in the physical presence of the watchtowers, giving them a symbolic meaning that could be perceived by the people who were manning and maintaining it, as well as just passing by or seeing it from a distance. It can be concluded, therefore, that in the absence of other secular colonial buildings in the rural areas, watchtowers were conceivably relevant material representations of colonial state power in the Philippines.

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This chapter was written in the course of the Spanish national projects “Dealing with the Infidel” (PGC2018–099152–B–I00) and “Jesuitas y recoletos en Filipinas” (202110I024).

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Cohn, Bernard S. 1983. “Representing Authority in Victorian India.” In The Invention of Tradition, edited by E. J. Hobsbawm and T. O. Ranger, 165– 209. Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press. Combés, Francisco. 1897 (1667). Historia de Mindanao y Joló. Edited by P. Pastells and W. E. Retana y Gamboa. Madrid: Imprenta de la viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos. Concepción, Juan de la. 1788–1792. Historia general de Filipinas: Conquistas espirituales y temporales de estos españoles dominios establecimientos progresos y decadencias. 14 vols. Madrid: Impr. del Seminar. Conciliar y Real de S. Carlos; por Agustin de la Rosa y Balagtas. Cooper, Frederick, and Ann Laura Stoler, eds. 1997. Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Correa, Antonio Bonet, et al., eds. 2005. Endangered: Fil-Hispanic Architecture. Manila: Instituto Cervantes; Asia-Europe Foundation. Papers from the First International Congress on Fil-Hispanic Architecture. Crailsheim, Eberhard. 2017. “¿Fortalecer la cohesión interna? El ‘peligro moro’ en las Filipinas coloniales en la segunda mitad del siglo XVIII.” In Filipinas, siglo XIX: Coexistencia e interacción entre comunidades en el imperio español, edited by María D. Elizalde Pérez-Grueso and Xavier Huetz de Lemps, 393– 425. Madrid: Polifemo. Crailsheim, Eberhard. 2019. “Representations of External Threats: Approaches and Concepts for Historical Research.” In The Representation of External Threats: From the Middle Ages to the Modern World, edited by Eberhard Crailsheim and María D. Elizalde, 17–55. Leiden: Brill. Crailsheim, Eberhard. 2020. “Trading with the Enemy: Commerce Between Spaniards and ‘Moros’ in the Early Modern Philippines.” Vegueta: Anuario de la Facultad de Geografía e Historia 20: 81–111. Cruikshank, Bruce. 1979. “The Moro Impact on Samar Island, the Philippines.” Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society 7 (3): 141–85. “Demostración histórica de cuantas depredaciones llevan cometidas los moros.” 1878. In Guerras Piráticas De Filipinas Contra Mindanaos Y Joloanos, edited by Vicente Barrantes Moreno, 1–286. Madrid: Imprenta de Manuel G. Hernández. Dery, Luis Camara. 1997. The Kris in Philippine History: A Study of the Impact of Moro Anti-Colonial Resistance, 1571–1896. Quezon City: Dery. Díaz-Trechuelo, María Lourdes. 1959. Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565– 1800). Seville: EEHA. Díaz-Trechuelo, María Lourdes. 2001. Filipinas: La gran desconocida, 1565– 1898. Pamplona: Ediciones Universidad de Navarra. Driesch, Wilhelm von den. 1984. Grundlagen einer Sozialgeschichte der Philippinen unter spanischer Herrschaft (1565–1820). Frankfurt a.M.: P. Lang.

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Fernández Cánovas, M. 2019. “Torres de vigilancia en la costa del antiguo Reino de Granada (s XV–XVIII).” Informes de la Construcción 71 (553): 1–9. Fischer-Lichte, Erika. 2011. Performativität: Eine Einführung. Bielefeld: Transcript. Galván Guijo, Javier. 2015. “Ingenieros, sangleyes y frailes en la arquitectura hispano-filipina.” In Ingenieros arquitectos, edited by Pedro Navascués Palacio and Bernardo Revuelta Pol, 153–63. Madrid: Fundación Juanelo Turriano. García-Pulido, Luis José, and Jonathan Ruiz-Jaramillo. 2020. “Las torres conservadas en el territorio de Vélez-Málaga (Málaga).” In Defensive Architecture of the Mediterranean, vol. 12, 1185–92. Valencia: Universitat Politècnica de València. Goodman, Nelson. 1968. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. Indianapolis, New York, Kansas City: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc. Gruzinski, Serge. 2003. La Guerre des images: De Christophe Colomb à “Blade Runner” (1492–2019). Paris: Fayard. Hicks, Dan, 2018. “The Material-Cultural Turn: Event and Effect.” In The Oxford Handbook of Material Culture Studies, edited by Dan Hicks and Mary C. Beaudry, 25–98. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hidalgo Nuchera, Patricio, 2009. Una corografía ilustrada inédita: La descripción de las Yslas Philipinas de la Real Academia de la Historia Madrid. León: Universidad de León. Jagor, Fedor. 1873. Reisen in den Philippinen. Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung. Javellana, René B. 1997. Fortress of Empire: Spanish Colonial Fortifications of the Philippines, 1565–1898. Manila, Makati City: Bookmark. Javellana, René B. 2005. “Guarding the West Frontier: Spanish Colonial Fortifications as a Cultural Route.” In Endangered: Fil-Hispanic Architecture, edited by Antonio B. Correa et al., 66–81. Manila: Instituto Cervantes; Asia-Europe Foundation. Javellana, René B., ed. 2010. La Casa de Dios: The Legacy of Filipino-Hispanic Churches in the Philippines. With the assistance of B. J. Legarda Jr., P. G. Galende, R. T. Jose, J. Femilou Guta, and E. E. A. Quilatan. Manila: Ortigas Foundation Inc. Jesuits. 1962 (1755). “Moro Raids Repulsed by Visayans: Defense of Palompong 1754.” In The Philippine Islands 1493–1803. 55 vols., vol. 48, edited by Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson, 37–51. New York: Kraus Repr. Jose, Regalado Trota. 1991. Simbahan: Church Art in Colonial Philippines, 1565–1898. Metro Manila: Ayala Museum. Jose, Regalado Trota. 2013. “A Visual Documentation of Fil-Hispanic Churches. Part IX: Parish Church of San Ignacio de Loyola, Capul, Northern Samar.” Philippiniana Sacra 48 (144): 371–390.

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Kroefges, Peter C., and Niklas Schulze. 2013. “Sociocultural Consequences of Aztec Imperialism in the Huaxtec Reagion of Mesoamerica.” In Image-ObjectPerformance: Mediality and Communication in Cultural Contact Zones of Colonial Latin America and the Philippines, edited by Astrid Windus and Eberhard Crailsheim, 225–40. Münster: Waxmann Verlag. Laarhoven, Ruurdje. 1989. Triumph of the Moro Diplomacy: The Maguindanao Sultanate in the 17th Century. Quezon City: New Day Publishers. Loomba, Ania, Suvir Kaul, Matti Bunzl, Antoinette Burton, and Jed Esty, eds. 2005. Postcolonial Studies and Beyond. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Luengo, Pedro. 2017. “La Fortificación Del Archipiélago Filipino En El Siglo XVIII: La defensa integral ante lo local y lo global.” Revista de Indias 77 (271): 727–58. Luque Talavan, Miguel. 1997. “Narciso Clavería y Zaldúa: Gobernador y capitán general de las Islas Filipinas (1844–1849).” Revista Complutense de Historia de Amércia 23: 209–46. Majul, Cesar Adib. 1973. Muslims in the Philippines. 2nd ed. Diliman, Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Mallari, Francisco. 1986. “Muslim Raids in Bicol, 1580–1792.” Philippine Studies 34 (3): 257–86. Mawson, Stephanie J. 2016. “Convicts or Conquistadores? Spanish Soldiers in the Seventeenth-Century Pacific.” Past and Present 232 (1): 87–125. Mayer, Alicia, and Ernesto Torre Villar, eds. 2004. Religión, poder y autoridad en la Nueva Espáña. México: Univ. Nacional Autónoma de México. Mehl, Eva Maria. 2016. Forced Migration in the Spanish Pacific World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Montero y Vidal, José. 1888. Historia de la piratería malayo-mahometana en Mindanao, Jolo y Borneo: Comprende desde el descubrimiento de dichas islas hasta junio de 1888. 2 vols. Madrid: Imprenta y Fundición Manuel Tello. Müth, Silke. 2020. “More Than War: Symbolic Functions of Greek Fortifications.” In New Directions and Paradigms for the Study of Greek Architecture: Interdisciplinary Dialogues in the Field, edited by Philip Sapirstein and David Scahill, 199–214. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Pratt, Mary Louise. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge. Prieto Lucena, Ana María. 1984. Filipinas durante el gobierno de Manrique De Lara, 1653–1663. Seville: EEHA. Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias. 1681. Madrid: Iulian de Paredes. Reinhard, Wolfgang. 2005. “Historische Anthropologie und politische Architektur.” In Symbolische Macht und inszenierte Staatlichkeit: “Verfassungskultur” als Element der Verfassungsgeschichte, edited by Peter Brandt, Arthur Schlegelmilch, and Reinhard Wendt, 17–40. Bonn: Dietz.

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Rodríguez-Rodríguez, Ana M. 2018. “Retorno a Zamboanga: Estrategias imperiales ante el islam en las Islas Filipinas.” eHumanista: Journal of Iberian Studies 40: 374–88. Sánchez Gómez, Luis Ángel. 2004. “Las élites nativas y la construcción colonial de Filipinas (1565–1789).” In España y el Pacífico: Legazpi, vol. 2, edited by Leoncio Cabrero Fernández, 37–70. Madrid: Soc. Estatal de Conmemoraciones Culturales. Schurz, William Lytle. 1985 (1939). The Manila Galleon. Manila: Historical Conservation Society. Semper, Karl Gottfried. 1869. Die Philippinen und ihre Bewohner. Würzburg: Stüber. Servicio Histórico Militar. 1996. Cartografía y relaciones históricas de Ultramar, 10: Filipinas. 2 vols. Madrid: Servicio Histórico Militar. Stollberg-Rilinger, Barbara, ed. 2005. Was heißt Kulturgeschichte des Politischen? Berlin: Duncker & Humblot. Valdés Tamón, Fernando, ed. 2006 (1739). Report in Which by Order of His Catholic Majesty (May God Protect Him), the Strongholds, Castles, Forts and Garrisons of the Provinces Under His Royal Dominion in the Philippine Islands Are Listed. Madrid: Santander Investment. Wahab, Amar. 2010. Colonial Inventions: Landscape, Power, and Representation in Nineteenth-Century Trinidad. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars. Warren, James Francis. 2002. Iranun and Balangingi: Globalization, Maritime Raiding, and the Birth of Ethnicity. Quezon City: New Day Publishers. Windus, Astrid. 2015. “Architektur und religiöse Bedeutungsproduktion in transkulturellen Kontexten: Verflechtungsgeschichtliche Perspektiven (Bolivien, Philippinen, 17.–18. Jahrhundert).” In Europa jenseits der Grenzen: Festschrift für Reinhard Wendt, edited by Michael Mann and Jürgen G. Nagel, 107–40. Heidelberg: Draupadi-Verl. Windus, Astrid, and Eberhard Crailsheim, eds. 2013. Image-Object-Performance: Mediality and Communication in Cultural Contact Zones of Colonial Latin America and the Philippines. Münster: Waxmann Verlag.

Agents of Modernities

Piracy and Local Alliances in an Empire of Archipelagoes Elizabeth Montañez-Sanabria

Introduction In 1680, the famous English pirate captains John Coxon, Bartholomew Sharp, Richard Sawkins, Peter Harris, and Edmund Cook led a coalition of more than three hundred buccaneers across the Isthmus of Panama, where they received support and guidance from Darien Indians. Thanks to this alliance, the English pirates succeeded not only in attacking Spanish settlements but also in reaching the South Sea. In their journals, Sharp and two members of his crew, John Cox and William Dick, asserted they received support from the “emperor of Darien, whom they served.”1 Years later, based on first-hand information about the alliances between pirates and Darien Indians, the Scottish trader William Paterson conceived the Company of Scotland trading to Africa and the Indies, chartered 1 BL, Sloane 46B, “A journal, kept by Capt. Bartholomew Sharp, of passages in going overland to the South Seas…,” c. 1683, 2. John Cox account was included in Ayres 1684 whereas William Dick’s narrative was published in Exquemelin and Ringrose 1685.

E. Montañez-Sanabria (B) Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_4

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in 1695. This company had the purpose of establishing a commercial entrepot in Darien, where they expected to find said emperor whom they could convince to allow them to settle. When information about this plan reached the Spanish court, royal authorities denied the existence of an emperor of Darien. Moreover, the Spanish crown rejected the Scottish attempt to carry out such an enterprise within their dominion.2 Alliances between pirates or privateers and local Indians were not uncommon in Spanish America. Such alliances arose in peripheral regions of the Spanish empire, where Iberian presence was weak or ineffective. This chapter examines two cases of alliances in the strategic peripheries of the Viceroyalty of Peru, where the gateways that led to the South Sea, or Pacific Ocean, were located: the Isthmus of Panama, in the north, and the Strait of Magellan and Cape Horn, in the southernmost frontier of the Spanish American empire, roughly known as Araucanía. In the first case, in southern Chile, Dutch privateers established coalitions with Huilliche Indians in Chiloé (1599) and Valdivia (1643) with the intention of establishing a presence in the region. In the second case, in the Isthmus of Panama, English and French pirates forged alliances with Cuna or Darien Indians in the second half of the seventeenth century, whose successful associations inspired the establishment of commercial companies, in particular the Scottish Company of Darien. By forging these alliances, European enemies of the Spanish monarchy attempted not only to undermine its power but to challenge its sovereignty in these territories. Furthermore, the analysis of these alliances between pirates and local populations is a gateway to understanding the nature of the Spanish American empire, which I define as an “empire of archipelagoes” since it evidences the false sense of continuity and control by the Spanish monarchy over the West Indies (Montañez-Sanabria 2014, pp. 30–5) (Fig. 1).

An Empire of Archipelagoes To define the nature of the Spanish empire is notoriously controversial. Scholars are continuously debating about how to explain Spain and its worldwide possessions during the early modern period, as Christoph Rosenmüller has recently surveyed (Rosenmüller 2020, pp. 4–14). Some,

2 AGS, Secretaría de Estado: Negociaciones con Inglaterra, Leg. 3963, 1688.

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Fig. 1 Map of the Pacific Coast from Waggoner of the South Seas, c. 1683. Notice that the gateways to the Pacific Ocean are portrayed, as well as “King Golden Cap of Durian” and the Potosi mine (© Courtesy of the Free Library of Philadelphia [Elkins 169])

like Anthony Pagden, even denied the condition of empire, arguing that Spain was simply a conglomeration of kingdoms under the same monarch (Pagden 1991, pp. 15–56). Terms coined to frame this fundamental nature were “Catholic monarchy” (Brading 1996) or “composite state

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or monarchy” (Königsberger 1978, p. 202), a concept further elaborated by John Elliot, for whom England and especially Spain were “composite monarchies,” constituted by diverse territories that kept most of their political-administrative structure, freedoms, and historical privileges (fueros ), even while they were part of the whole (Elliot 1992, pp. 48–71). Authors like Pedro Cardim, Tamar Herzog, and José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez developed the idea of a “polycentric monarchy” (Cardim et al. 2012), a concept that goes one step further, assuming that “the Spanish empire was a polycentric monarchy with numerous local centers of power, whose government functioned not solely as proxies in a bilateral relationship with Madrid but also relied on a plurality of interconnections between them that could even work without supervision from the Madrid court” (Herrero Sánchez 2020, p. 28). Regina Grafe and Alejandra Irigoin added the idea that strengthening more peripheral nodes was an inherent trait of Spanish imperial policy, turning it into a veritable “stakeholder empire” (Grafe and Irigoin 2012). My analysis seeks to complement the perspective of the Spanish empire as a polycentric monarchy with other models based on spatial heterogeneity: centers and peripheries (Bushnell and Greene 2002); borderlands as “diffuse spaces produced through historical processes of contestation, adaptation, and admixture among different peoples within specific temporal and geographical frameworks” (Levin Rojo and Radding 2019, p. 1); metaphorical “islands of occupation,” on which Spanish agents were “surrounded by a sea of land they considered open for their expansion” (Herzog 2015, p. 1); and “corridors” which connected such exclaves (Benton 2010). “Polycentricity,” “islands,” and “corridors” come together when we look at the Spanish empire in the New World as an “empire of archipelagoes”: a set of corridors across the Americas surrounded by vast border regions where natives not only lived autonomously but also succeeded in accommodating “with the Hispanic world, and it with them” (Weber 2004, p. 2). The concept of “empire of archipelagoes” evidences the false sense of continuity and control by the Spanish monarchy over the Indies, as early modern cartographic representations pretended to portray the Spanish empire in the Americas. Domingos Texeira’s planisphere of 1573 is one example of how cartography played a key role in imperial propaganda (Fig. 2). This map, besides delimiting the worldwide Spanish and Portuguese areas of influence, represented the Portuguese and Spanish spaces of dominion and sovereignty by placing their coats of arms over

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the Americas, Africa, and South Asia. If we closely look at southern South America, however, where a Spanish coat of arms featured, the Spanish dominium in the area was more nominal than effective by 1573 as the Mapuche and Huilliche uprising in 1598 demonstrated. This event was the starting point of the Arauco War that resulted in the expulsion of Spaniards south of the Bío Bío River, from then the Spanish southernmost frontier (Montañez-Sanabria and Urbina 2019, p. 720; Urbina 2009). I argue that piracy demonstrated that the Iberian empire in the New World was an archipelago of corridors and border regions in two regards. First, pirates succeeded in regions that were distant from centers of power, as was the case in the strategic borderlands of Darien and southern Chile. In fact, pirates and privateers not only opened the gateways of the South Sea from these areas but also introduced innovative strategies to interact with local populations, established illegal commerce, improved geographic knowledge, and contested rights of possession. These borderlands, despite their strategic role as gateways to the South Sea, lacked effective control to the extent that their inhabitants not only resisted Spanish dominion but also negotiated with outsiders. Second, piracy challenged Spanish rights of possession over the Indies. In the view of the Spanish monarchy, the legality of its dominion stood on privileges of conquest (bellum iustum) as well as papal bulls. In fact, Spain claimed that the 1494 Treaty of Tordesillas provided the legal foundation

Fig. 2 Planisphere of Domingo Teixeira 1573 (© Wikimedia Commons)

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of its empire, as Pope Alexander marked off areas of jurisdiction over the New World between Spain and Portugal (Benton 2011, pp. 19–40). Spanish understanding of possession by conquest and papal donation was not shared by other European monarchies, however. The English and French monarchies contested the legality of Iberian possessions arguing that the Pope had jurisdiction only over spiritual matters, but also that rights of possession were valid only by occupation. European monarchies, including Spain, based their claims to possession on interpretations of Roman law. Spain’s enemies, however, argued for Res Nullius (an unowned object) and Terra Nullius (an unowned land) in order to contest Spanish possession rights (Benton and Straumann 2010, pp. 1–2). Consequently, it was no coincidence that Spain’s enemies focused on the Iberian empire’s borderlands, where they not only questioned Spanish possession over the territory but also acknowledged the local indigenous leaders as legitimate rulers. This tactic was employed in the Darien case and in southern Chile where pirates and privateers contested Spanish sovereignty over these border regions of the empire.

Alliances in Flandes Indiano: Dutch Privateers and Huilliche Indians in Southern Chile Between 1568 and 1648, the United Provinces were in a state of war with the Spanish monarchy, which refused to recognize their independence. For the Dutch, the Eighty Years War represented their fight against Spanish political, economic, and religious oppression. For the Spanish Habsburg monarchy, the war represented the determination to keep one of the most significant possessions. This resolve explains why the Spanish crown disbursed huge amounts of silver revenues from the Indies, especially from Potosí, to finance the war against the “rebel provinces” of the Netherlands (Montañez-Sanabria 2022a). The conflict with Spain defined Dutch policies toward the West Indies. It was not a coincidence that Antwerp and Amsterdam publishers edited a large number of books about the cruelty of Spaniards in the Indies (Montañez-Sanabria and Urbina 2019, p. 728). Moreover, news about the 1598 Mapuche rebellion circulated in Europe, especially due to Alonso de Ercilla’s La Araucana, published in Dutch in 1619, which narrated the valorous struggle of the natives against encroaching Spaniards. Ercilla’s poem found an enthusiastic audience among Dutch readers and further cemented positive Dutch views of liberty-loving

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Indians who fought against the Spanish. The Dutch saw strong similarities between the Indians and themselves, as both were victims of the same tyrant ruling in their lands according to the Dutch perspective. In fact, Chile became known as the Flandes Indiano because of the war’s similarity with the Dutch experience (Rosales 1877). This perception created the representation of Indians as a mirror of the Dutch with the tacit consequence of an imaginary kinship between both parties (Schmidt 2004, p. xix). The representation of Indians as the mirror of the Dutch influenced the commercial policies of the States General. In the Viceroyalty of Peru, the United Provinces sought not only to undercut Spanish silver revenues but also to establish strategic positions near the Strait of Magellan with the support of local indigenous allies to control access to the South Sea, thereby challenging the Spanish monopoly of the Pacific by opening a new commercial route to Asian markets. Dutch political interests and mercantile expansion were intrinsically tied to the role of commercial companies, especially the East India Company (Verenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie, or VOC), founded in 1602, and the West India Company (West-Indische Compagnie, or WIC), established in 1621. These companies not only had complete jurisdiction over their areas of influence—Asia for the VOC and the Atlantic and Africa for the WIC—but also could declare war and sign alliances with local authorities without the supervision of the States General. Two out of five Dutch expeditions to the Viceroyalty of Peru had Chile as a target. Based on information from previous English expeditions in the South Sea, especially from Richard Hawkins’s voyage in 1593, the Dutch learned about the supposed “Valdivia gold” and the Arauco region. This information might explain the role of Chile in the design of the first Dutch expeditions, which took place in 1598, when the States General along with the Magellan Company sponsored two journeys to the Peruvian viceroyalty and the East Indies with the purpose of establishing trade in Asia. But it was the first one, under the command of Jacques Mahu, that used Valdivia—a former Spanish settlement destroyed after the 1598 rebellion—as a strategic stopping point en route. In fact, this expedition aimed “to exert their utmost efforts to render the arms of Holland triumphant in the country from whence the King of Spain drew those treasures which he had employed so many years to the oppression of the Low Countries” (Burney 1806, p. 191).

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The fleet of five ships and 800 men, including two English pilots who had served in the expeditions of Drake and Cavendish, sailed from Holland in June 1598. As Jacques Mahu died of an illness in the Atlantic, Simon de Cordes became the new leader of the expedition. After wintering in the Strait of Magellan, the five vessels succeeded in entering the South Sea in 1599, but high seas and tough weather conditions divided the fleet (Bradley 2014, p. 16). Only one vessel commanded by Balthasar de Cordes—brother of the admiral—continued the original scheme. However, they did not arrive at Valdivia, as intended. It seems that inaccurate English maps that they employed were inaccurate and misleading, and consequently misled Cordes so that he and his muchreduced crew arrived at Carelmapu, near Chiloé Island, in March 1600. As the local natives welcomed the intruders, a coalition of Dutch and Huilliche attacked Castro, on Chiloé Island, the southernmost Spanish settlement. At Castro, Cordes met with Corregidor Pedro de Villagoya, who had been warned by a loyal Indian about the arrival of “Englishmen,” a generic name that referred to European heretic enemies of Spain (Montañez-Sanabria 2014, p. 164). Cordes convinced Spanish authorities in Chiloé that the Indians sought to take Castro but that he was willing to join forces with the Spaniards to attack the Indians. The Spaniards, taken in by this stratagem, sent their best soldiers into a trap and helped to undermine their own defenses. Without these critical forces, Castro fell. The Dutch killed all the men and sacked the city, but surprisingly, a small group of survivors, including women, counterattacked. As the unexpected assault caused several deaths among the Dutch, various Indians changed side and joined the Spaniards. Meanwhile, a small Spanish army arrived and recaptured Castro. Thirty-eight Dutchmen died in the battle and the Spanish executed 300 of their indigenous allies. Cordes and his remaining men abandoned Castro, leaving their weaponry and provisions, and sailed toward the East Indies. To justify his failure, Cordes concluded that Indians were not reliable allies, while the Spanish authorities decided to punish the Indians who had allied with the Dutch, even ordering them to depopulate the region to prevent any potential future incursion.3

3 “Se hizo un grande y ejemplar castigo en dieciocho indios y se ahorcaron otros treinta caciques de los de la provincia que fueron culpados en meter a los ingleses en Chiloé y dio orden que se despoblase la provincia de la muy costa de la mar tierra de los indios

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In 1643, twenty years after the failure of the most ambitious armada ever sent to the South Sea—the Nassau Fleet commanded by Admiral Jacques L’Hermite who had raided the Peruvian coast between southern Lima and Guayaquil—, the WIC sent an expedition to Valdivia, where they sought to establish a settlement with the support of Araucanos or “Chileans,” as they called them. In fact, during his passage along the coasts of Chile toward Peru, L’Hermite expressed the fear that “Chileans” would be willing to join them against the Spaniards, and that he wished his orders had allowed him to go directly to Chile instead of Peru (Burney 1813, p. 17). The expedition to Chile was prepared as early as 1629 when the WIC began to plan the establishment of a settlement in Valdivia as a base from which to attack the silver fleet and to forge an alliance with the Araucanians (Zandvliet 1998, p. 172). This early scheme was planned to be carried out by Maerten Valck and Johannes van Walbeeck, who participated in the Nassau Fleet as a military engineer. A year later, however, this plan was postponed as Dutch military forces concentrated on retaining their possession in Recife (Brazil), and it was finally canceled in 1632. However, the plan was reassumed in 1640, when Walbeeck was appointed adviser to the political council in Recife and from his new position promoted the expedition to Chile, a proposal that was well received by both the governor of Brazil, Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen, and the director of the WIC, Hendrick Brouwer. In fact, Brouwer, who had been governor-general of the VOC, had already devised a similar plan when he left office in the East Indies (Zandvliet 1998, pp. 173–4). In 1642, in a secret session of the WIC, the plan was discussed, and although in principle the command of the expedition was to be given to Walbeeck, the 61-year-old Brouwer managed to convince the council that he was more appropriate to fulfill the objectives of the 1629 planned expedition, and thus was named admiral of the expedition to Chile. The WIC provided three ships and ordered the Dutch Brazilian base in Recife to contribute with two other vessels. In Brazil, Elias Herckmans joined the expedition as vice admiral along with the rest of the fleet. In January 1643, Brouwer led the fleet into the South Sea via the Le Maire Strait and Cape Horn. At the end of April, the Dutch took Castro— the city that Cordes had besieged in 1599—, but they found the city para que otra vez no acogiesen a los ingleses y les diesen bastimentos…” AGI, Lima 34, 1601, Noticias de Chile.

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burned down by the Spanish themselves, who also had destroyed goods that could be useful to intruders, a viceregal policy for defending coastal settlements. In August, Brouwer died in Castro and Vice-Admiral Elias Herckmans took the command and headed to Valdivia. The instructions that Brouwer received for Chile included establishing alliances with the “Araucanos,” a wrong term as the region was populated by Huilliche Indians. Although the Araucanos and Huilliches shared the same culture and spoke Mapudungun, the Araucanos did not recognize the Huilliches as their equals and, consequently, Spaniards treated them as different peoples to the extent that there were two defined borderlands: Arauco, known as La Frontera, from Bío Bío River to Toltén River, and the Frontera de Arriba, or Huilliche, south of Toltén River (Urbina 2009, p. 34; Montañez-Sanabria and Urbina 2019, pp. 719–20). In early September, Herckmans met several native leaders to whom he presented letters (brieven van credentie) from the stadholder Frederick Hendrick, offering peace and protection against the Spanish (Meuwese 2019, pp. 12–3). By forging alliances with local natives, the Dutch sought authorization to establish a fort in Valdivia and to obtain gold in exchange for arms and ammunition. At first, alliances were established with a group of native leaders who offered provisions and support to the outsiders, but the situation drastically changed when the Huilliche realized the Dutch’s intentions to permanently establish a presence in the area (Bradley 2014, p. 78). Moreover, when Herckmans asked for the gold deposits that were said to exist in the region, the caciques were upset and “uniformly denied all knowledge of the gold mines” (Schmidt 1999, p. 467). The Dutch demand for gold might have recalled not only the Spanish subjugation and taxation of native populations but also the possible consequences of helping the Dutch because the Spaniards punished the indigenous allies of Cordes by having their ears and noses cut off. To complicate the situation, the Dutch were suffering a shortage of provisions as their native allies stopped providing them with supplies. As the situation became increasingly unsustainable, including desertions and riots, the Dutch decided to leave Valdivia on October 28 and to return to Recife. This latter Dutch incursion convinced Spanish authorities to reinstate their presence in Valdivia by building a defensive system of forts. Curiously, the Spanish monarchy had been aware of this late expedition from informers. The Council of War had learned that “General Brouwer

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Fig. 3 Remains of the Dutch settlement in Valdivia in Mapas de las costas de América en el Mar del Sur, seventeenth century (© Courtesy of the National Library of Spain)

departed from Pernambuco to Chile with five armed ships with the intention of forging alliances with the Chileans.” However, they erroneously trusted that the natural barriers of the Strait of Magellan and Cape Horn would prevent their arrival and “they would do anything there.”4 Even though the Dutch did not achieve their original objectives, these expeditions troubled royal authorities, as Spain’s enemies proved how easily they reached the South Sea via the Strait of Magellan and Cape Horn and that they could forge alliances to assault the coasts of the Viceroyalty of Peru (Fig. 3).

4 AGI, Indiferente 1874, 1643, “Junta de Guerra sobre los avisos que Vuestra Majestad se sirvió de enviar de los designios del enemigo.”

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Darien Indians, the Key to the South Sea During the seventeenth century, the Spanish monarchy lost its hegemonic role in the political and economic European scene which saw the rise of French and English dominance, as well as the consolidation of the recently formed Dutch Republic. These changes in European geopolitics were mirrored on the American continent, where England, France, the Netherlands, and to a lesser extent Denmark established or reinforced their possessions in the Caribbean. By the second half of the seventeenth century, Spain’s rival powers had established strategic possessions in the Caribbean. Apart from Trinidad, the Lesser Antilles were all colonized by other nations, and closer to “the Spanish Main” England occupied Jamaica, the Netherlands Curaçao, and France Saint-Domingue. From these and other possessions, the enemies of Spain exerted pressure in Belize, the Mosquito Coast, and, especially, the Isthmus of Panama (Montañez-Sanabria 2022b). Imperialist interests intersected with the presence of buccaneers. In the seventeenth century, buccaneers (known as filibustiers in French and vrijbuiters in Dutch) established outposts in small or neglected Caribbean islands, including the west side of Hispaniola and the island of Tortuga. There, these marginal Europeans found opportunities to act as smugglers and to become sea robbers, usually under the protection of English and French colonial governors. As the buccaneer Alexander Exquemelin asserted in 1678, pirates were “infesting the West Indies, where they are more numerous than in any other part of the world” (Exquemelin 1853, pp. 13–4). As European monarchies consolidated their presence in the Americas, however, pirates became a problem as they attacked regardless of nationality, jeopardizing the interests of all political actors. By the end of the seventeenth century, European monarchies openly chased and punished pirates but in Jamaica the governor secretly protected buccaneers even though the monarchy was not at war with Spain. In fact, the Treaty of Madrid signed in July 1670, proclaimed “universal peace” between England and Spain as well as a formal renunciation of hostilities, including commissions granted to privateers and illegal trading with Spanish ports. But despite this context of official friendship, Henry Morgan sacked and burned the city of Panama in 1671 with the support of the governor of Jamaica, Thomas Modyford. Restrictions on buccaneering, especially in the decade of 1680, encouraged a significant number of pirates to plunder in the South Sea by

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crossing the Isthmus of Panama. This region, known as Tierra Firme, was of great strategic value for the Spanish monarchy as it formed the connecting route between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans as well as a transit hub for Spanish goods, especially silver from Potosí. As a transoceanic hub, there were two permanent transit nodes on both coasts, Panama and Portobelo, the latter being the location where an annual trade fair was held between 1540 and 1739. However, the Panamanian landscape is rugged, with dense forests, nearly 500 rivers and streams, and a markedly tropical climate (Delgado et al. 2016, p. 3). These harsh geographical conditions explain not only the dependence of buccaneers on Darien or Cuna Indians to successfully cross the Isthmus but also the failure of Spanish authorities to subjugate the native Darien Indians. It is important to highlight that the viceregal authorities failed in their attempts to subjugate Darien Indians and to control the region. Darien was not only the door to the South Sea but also known for its gold deposits and profitable commodities, such as cacao and tortoiseshell (Montañez-Sanabria 2022b). Friendly relations between pirates and Darien Indians were recorded since the 1670s, when Spanish American authorities in Panama and Peru repeatedly complained that pirates, in coalition with Darien Indians, sacked Spanish settlements on the Isthmus. In fact, Darien Indians forged alliances with pirates not only as a response to illegal Spanish captivity of Indians but also as a strategy to obtain weapons, gunpowder, knives, and liquor. The enmity of Darien Indians toward the Spaniards, however, did not mean a better disposition toward other European outsiders as Cuna Indians, when they felt threatened by them, killed the Europeans (ibidem). It was in 1680 when the coalition of John Coxon and Bartholomew Sharp succeeded to assault El Real de Santa Maria, Portobelo, and Panama thanks to the support of two Darien leaders, Captains Andreas and Antonio, who guided them across the Isthmus in fourteen canoes, each with two Indian pilots. After the raids, Coxon and some of his men returned to the Caribbean, and Bartholomew Sharp became the new buccaneer leader in the Pacific. For more than a year, Sharp and his 150 pirates attacked the coasts of the Viceroyalty of Peru compromising local commerce in the region. During his journey, Sharp seized a Spanish vessel off the coasts of Ecuador that had a Spanish rutter (derrotero) with nautical charts of the South Sea that helped Sharp to return to England

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via Cape Horn, becoming the first Englishman to navigate the cape eastwards. Furthermore, in 1682, king Charles II pardoned his life from execution for piracy thanks to this waggoner and the strategic importance of these charts.5 In fact the very year of Sharp’s return to England, the cartographer William Hack was commissioned to make copies of this derrotero, whose strategic information about ports, cities, and navigation was translated into English. Pirate accounts on the nature of the alliance with Darien Indians disagree with each other. Sharp asserts that they were “in the service of one of the rich west Indian monarchs, the Emperor of Darien or Durian,” whom he recognized as señor don Andreas (Ayres 1684, p. 2). Another anonymous account, probably written by William Dick, describes a similar situation: We engaged, about the number of 300 men, in the service of this Indian Emperor […] The name of this Emperor aforementioned was Andraeas […] He had also a son, whose name was Augustin, and unto whom we made bold, among ourselves, to give the name of King Golden-Cap, from a certain cap, or hat, of pure and massive gold which he had then upon his head when first we saw him. (Exquemelin and Ringrose 1685, p. 262)

Although Sharp’s journal includes a drawing of the said Emperor of Darien (Fig. 4) and William Hack represented King Golden-Cap in only one of the 13 copies he made of the Spanish waggoner (Fig. 1), another member of Sharp’s crew, Basil Ringrose, states that Andreas was an “Indian captain, or chief commander” who served a “King or chief Captain of these Indians of Darien” (Exquemelin and Ringrose 1685, pp. 301–2). Furthermore, Ringrose claimed that “the Indians [were] serving [them] for guides in that unknown country” and not that pirates were under their service. These contradictory statements could be explained by the context of persecution to piracy. The accounts of Captain Bartholomew Sharp, John Cox, and William Dick could have been a strategy employed by them to avoid the charges of piracy and murder that they were facing in the High Court of the Admiralty in June 1682. By asserting that they were

5 Waggoner refers to a collection of sea-charts. The term is an English corruption of the name of Lucas Waghenaer, a famous sixteenth century Dutch sea-charts compiler. Whitfield (2017, p. 177).

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Fig. 4 “Don Andreas. Emperour of Darien” from A journal, kept by Capt. Bartholomew Sharp, c. 1680 (© Courtesy of the British Library. British Library Board [Sloane 46B, fol. 6])

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under the service of a legitimate native ruler, and not acting as pirates, Sharp and company sought a legal justification for their actions against the Spanish monarchy in the viceroyalty of Peru. That might explain why their accounts differ from Ringrose, who did not stand trial, about the native government in Darien. Sharp’s narrative of the single ruler of Darien and the news about friendly relation with Darien Indians had an unintended consequence. While living in Jamaica, the Scottish trader William Paterson learned from the well-known buccaneers William Dampier and Lionel Wafer, who had been part of the crew of Sharp in Panama, about the friendly relations between the English and Darien Indians. Based on this news, Paterson conceived an ambitious plan: to establish a trading post in Darien that would become a global emporium to control the access to the South Sea and open South America to commerce with Asia. The Scottish project to exploit the riches of the Americas was born in a challenging national context as the country was facing famine and religious and political strife with England. In 1695, the Scottish Parliament established the Company of Scotland trading to Africa and the Indies to trade “with any country not war with their majesties—to the East and West Indies, the Straits and Mediterranean, Africa and the northern parts” (Barbour 1907, p. 9). The “Darien Scheme,” as it was then known, was esteemed as the solution to dependence on Britain and to poverty within Europe. Spanish diplomats warned the government in Madrid about the colonization plan in Darien. For a long time, royal authorities had considered this area to be an impossible target for foreign settlement, but their concern was raised when reports confirmed this purpose and the threat it posed to Spanish rights of possession. Based on the information provided by an English informer, the Spanish ambassador in The Hague, Manuel de Coloma, marquis of Canales, sent a letter to Madrid in 1688 informing that “[the States Generals and the West India Company] want to establish a Company in the Darien River, in the area that belongs to the Emperor of Darien.” The ambassador added that he would insist that “all those territories, inhabited by rebel Indians belong to Your Majesty since the lack of Spanish subjects does not disenfranchise the rights achieved by

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conquest.”6 Ten years later, in 1699, the marquis of Canales, now ambassador in London, sent a letter to Madrid asserting that the “Englishmen argue that since the lands of the Empire of Darien are not populated by Spaniards, they are not offending us.”7 While the Spanish monarchy believed that England, and not Scotland, was behind this colonization project in Darien, the Scots found in Sharp’s account, published in London in 1684, the legal arguments to settle in Darien.8 In fact, one of the 1200 Scots from the first fleet that arrived in Darien in November 1698, where they founded a colony named Caledonia, wrote an account defending their right to establish there, asserting that: It is evident that the Spaniards cannot pretend a title to that country by inheritance, marriage, or the donation of prince and people; and as to conquest it would be ridiculous to allege it, since the Dariens are in actual possession of their liberty, and were never subdued, nor received any Spanish governor or garrison amongst them… (A Defence of the Scots Settlement at Darien 1699, p. 5)

Since the Scottish Company was empowered to establish agreements with local princes, its leaders soon contacted local indigenous groups to forge alliances of mutual assistance. Although Spanish sources maintained that Darien Indians lacked a central government, including emperors and kings, which complicated any attempt to subjugate them, the Scots described a Darien king as a military captain, “the head of their other captains when they go the battle against the Spaniards,”9 and the most important Darien captains being Ambrosio, Pedro, Diego, and Andreas. Aware of the Scots’ imminent arrival, the Spanish authorities tried to convince Andreas that the incomers were “privateers who had no design to settle, but to plunder both Spaniards and Indians, and be gone in two

6 AGS, Secretaría de Estado: Negociaciones con Inglaterra, 1688, Leg. 3963. 7 AGS, Secretaría de Estado: Negociaciones con Inglaterra, 1699, Leg. 3971. 8 “Capt. Sharp in the Journal of his Expedition, published in Capt. Hacke’s Collection

of Voyages, gives an account, that in 1680 he landed at Golden Island with 330 Men, and being joined by one of the Darien Princes, whom they called Emperor and another to whom they gave the Title of King Golden-Cap” (A Defence of the Scots Settlement at Darien, 1699, p. 5). 9 A Letter, giving a description of the isthmus of Darian, 1699, p. 18.

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or three months” and named him a Spanish captain to gain his support.10 The Scots denied the accusations and gave him all possible assurances to the contrary, so “he was fully satisfied and desired we would give him a commission and receive them and his people into our protection. The commission being read and rendered Verbatim in Spanish, he agreed to every article […] it was delivered unto him with a broad basked-hilted sword and a pair of pistols, with which he solemnly promised to defend us to the last drop of his blood against our enemies.”11 In the meantime, Spanish authorities in Panama and Cartagena organized an expedition to expel the Scots, although their native allies warned them about the Spanish advances. In June 1699, however, the Scots abandoned Caledonia, not because of the impending Spanish army but because of two unexpected enemies: the area’s harsh environmental conditions and the opposition of the English crown, which prohibited Jamaica from providing them with supplies. A second expedition departed from Edinburgh in September 1699 to reinforce (or recover) the company’s position in Darien, but the newcomers found the colony deserted. Caledonia was too weak to resist a military confrontation with the Spanish army, which attacked the colony on March 1, 1700. Days later, on April 11, the surrounded Scots signed a capitulation.

Conclusions The analysis of the alliances forged between pirates or privateers and Indians reveals the impact of these outsiders at both a micro and macro level. From a local perspective, these alliances evidence the autonomy of native populations in the peripheries of the Spanish empire, where Iberian presence was weak or ineffective. From their self-sufficient position, Huilliches and Darien Indians were able to forge alliances with outsiders and exchange weapons and goods for victuals, guidance, and military support. Furthermore, the presence of pirates and privateers contributed to reinforce native autonomy, as Indians found in newcomers potential allies against the Spaniards. For pirates and privateers, forging alliances with local native populations was pivotal to succeed in strange lands. In the case of the Dutch privateers, Huilliche Indians provided supplies that were

10 A Letter, giving a description of the isthmus of Darian, 1699, p. 23. 11 A Letter, giving a description of the isthmus of Darian, 1699, p. 24.

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fundamental to stay in Valdivia. Once their native allies stopped helping them, however, the Dutch could no longer remain in Chile. In the case of the English pirates, Darien Indians were the key to crossing the Isthmus of Panama and arriving at the South Sea. Without their guidance, support, and provisions, pirates, probably, could never have arrived at the Pacific Ocean and attacked the viceroyalty of Peru. From an imperial standpoint, privateers and pirates challenged the Spanish dominion in the strategic peripheries of the Isthmus of Panama and southern Chile by proving that in practice these areas remained outside of Spanish control. In this regard, pirates and privateers acted as unintended agents that questioned Spanish sovereignty in the borderlands of the empire, as they acknowledged the local indigenous leaders as legitimate rulers. In the case of southern Chile, Dutch privateers forged alliances with Huilliche caciques on behalf of the States General, whereas in the case of Darien, pirates assured they served to the Emperor of Darien, although there are doubts about the existence of such an authority. The belief of a single native ruler, emperor, or king, and the news of the friendly relation between pirates and Indians had an enormous impact on the creation of the Scottish Company that sought to establish a colony in the region. As a result, debates about the legitimacy of the Spanish claims of possession over Darien and the legal right of Scottish to settle in a land ruled by a native ruler arose. In both cases, Spanish authorities reacted by reinforcing their presence in those peripheries. In the case of Chile, Spaniards restored their presence in Valdivia, installing a defensive system of forts and, in Chiloé, ordering to depopulate the coastal region to prevent that any potential incursion could receive support from local Indians. However, the situation was more complex in Darien. During the eighteenth century, Spanish authorities organized several military expeditions to control the region, with limited results. In summary, alliances between pirates or privateers with local native populations exemplify the nature of the Spanish empire as an “empire of archipelagoes,” or a set of corridors across the Americas surrounded by border regions. This concept explains why many regions remained outside of Spanish control although technically they were part of the empire. Piracy demonstrated that in the Iberian empire of archipelagoes, border regions lacked effective control and allowed a large degree of independence to their inhabitants, who not only resisted Spanish dominion but also negotiated with outsiders.

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Bibliography Archival Sources Archivo General de Indias (AGI). Audiencia de Lima, Leg. 34. Indiferente, Leg. 1874. Archivo General de Simancas (AGS). Secretaría de Estado: Negociaciones con Inglaterra, Leg. 3963 and Leg. 3971. British Library (BL), Sloane 46B.

Published Sources A Defence of the Scots Settlement at Darien. With an Answer to the Spanish Memorial Against It and Arguments to Prove That It Is the Interest of England to Join with the Scots to Protect It. 1699. Edinburgh: s.n. A Letter, Giving a Description of the Isthmus of Darian (Where the Scot’s Colonie Is Settled;) from a Gentleman Who Lives There at Present. 1699. Edinburgh: s.n. Ayres, Philip, ed. 1684. The Voyages and Adventures of Capt. Barth. Sharp and Others in the South Sea Being a Journal of the Same. London: Printed by B.W. for R.H. and S.T. Barbour, James. 1907. A History of William Paterson and the Darien Company. London: Blackwood and Sons. Benton, Lauren. 2010. A Search for Sovereignty: Law and Geography in European Empires, 1400–1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Benton, Lauren. 2011. “Possessing Empire: Iberian Claims and Interpolity Law.” In Indigenous versus European Land Claims, 1500–1914, edited by Saliha Bellmessous, 19–40. New York: Oxford University Press. Benton, Lauren, and Benjamin Straumann. 2010. “Acquiring Empire by Law: From Roman Doctrine to Early Modern European Practice.” Law and History Review 28 (1): 1–38. Brading, David. 1996. “The Catholic Monarchy.” In Le Nouveau Monde, Monde Nouveaux. L’expérience américaine, edited by Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel, 383–405. Paris: École de Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Bradley, Peter T. 2014 (1989). The Lure of Peru: Maritime Intrusion into the South Sea, 1598–1701. New Yok: Palgrave Macmillan. Burney, James. 1806. A Chronological History of the Discoveries in the South Sea or Pacific Ocean, vol. II. London: Printed by Luke Hansard. Burney, James. 1813. A Chronological History of the Discoveries in the South Sea or Pacific Ocean, vol. III. London: Printed by Luke Hansard. Bushnell, Amy Turner, and Jack P. Greene. 2002. “Peripheries, Centers, and the Construction of Early Modern American Empires.” In Negotiated Empires.

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Centers and Peripheries in the Americas, 1500–1820, edited by Christine Daniels and Michael V. Kennedy, 1–14. London: Routledge. Cardim, Pedro, Tamar Herzog, José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez, and Gaetano Sabatini, eds. 2012. Polycentric Monarchies: How Did Early Modern Spain and Portugal Achieve and Maintain a Global Hegemony? Eastbourne and Portland: Sussex Academic Press. Daniels, Christine, and Michael V. Kennedy, eds. 2002. Negotiated Empires: Centers and Peripheries in the Americas, 1500–1820. London: Routledge. Delgado, James, Tomás Mendizábal, Frederick Hanselmann, and Dominique Rissolo, eds. 2016. The Maritime Landscape of the Isthmus of Panama. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Elliot, John H. 1992. “A Europe of Composite Monarchies.” Past & Present 137 (1): 48–71. Exquemelin, Alexander. 1853 (1678). The Buccaneers of America: A True Account of the Most Remarkable Assaults Committed of Late Years Upon the Coasts of West Indies by the Buccaneers of Jamaica and Tortuga. Boston: Benjamin B. Mussey & Co. Exquemelin, Alexander, and Basil Ringrose. 1685. Buccaneers of America: The Second Volume. London: Printed for William Crooke. Grafe, Regina, and Alejandra Irigoin. 2012. “A Stakeholder Empire: The Political Economy of Spanish Imperial Rule in America.” The Economic History Review 65: 609–51. Herrero Sánchez, Manuel. 2020. “Spanish Theories of Empire: A Catholic and Polycentric Monarchy.” In A Companion to Early Modern Spanish Imperial Political and Social Thought, edited by Jörg Alejandro Tellkamp, 17–52. Leiden, Boston: Brill. Herzog, Tamar. 2015. Frontiers of Possession: Spain and Portugal in Europe and the Americas. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Howse, Derek, and Norman Thrower, eds. 1992. A Buccaneer’s Atlas: Basil Ringrose’s South Sea Waggoner. Berkeley: University of California Press. Königsberger, Helmut G. 1978. “Monarchies and Parliaments in Early Modern Europe Dominium Regale or Dominium Politicum et Regale.” Theory and Society 5 (2): 191–217. Levin Rojo, Danna, and Cynthia Radding. 2019. “Introduction.” In The Oxford Handbook of Borderlands of the Iberian World, edited by Danna Levin Rojo and Cynthia Radding, 1–27. New York: Oxford University Press. Meuwese, Mark. 2019. To the Shores of Chile: The Journal and History of the Brouwer Expedition to Valdivia in 1643. University Park, PA: Penn State University Press. Montañez-Sanabria, Elizabeth. 2014. Challenging the Pacific Spanish Empire. Pirates in the Viceroyalty of Peru, 1570–1750. PhD thesis, University of California at Davis.

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The Phoenix and the Eagle: Catalan Political Economy and the Habsburg Monarchy of Charles III/VI William O’Reilly

Introduction On June 24, 1709, the Wiennerisches Diarium reported the arrival in Vienna of a flying ship named the Passarola. Piloted by the Jesuit priest Bartolomeu Lourenço de Gusmão (1685–1724), news of the wooden eagle-like structure raised from the ground by gas-filled balloons and magnets spread across Europe, with articles appearing in newsprint from Lisbon to Leipzig to London.1 It was, reports continued, a sign of the amity between the Portuguese king, John V and the Habsburg Emperor Joseph I, and his brother the king of Spain, Charles III, both brothersin-law of the Portuguese king. The Magnanimous King John, growing in reputation as a patron of the arts and sciences, sought to reassure his imperial relations of his support for the Habsburg cause and for the Austrian Habsburg king of Spain, Charles III (Freschot 1705, pp. 270–1). 1 Wiennerisches Diarium, June 24, 1709.

W. O’Reilly (B) University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_5

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The symbolism of a bird-like hot air balloon carried by the winds between two empires in transition is an apt one with which to begin this consideration of the connections between Spain and Austria in the early eighteenth century. The War of Spanish Succession and the civil conflict that took place in the Iberian Peninsula refocussed European attention on the Habsburg cause in Spain and the Spanish world; it not only dismantled the pre-existing constitutional structure in Spain, but it directly and indirectly affected the entire continent of Europe. While the war was fought mainly in theatres of Western and Central Europe, it was also a global conflict that involved associated campaigns in North America, the Caribbean, on the Río de la Plata and in some parts of North Africa. Within the Spanish Monarchy, Catalonia and the other states of the Crown of Aragon sided with the young Archduke Charles of Austria (Charles III), while the Crown of Castile lent its support to Duke Philip of Anjou (Philip V). Perhaps the most significant result of the conflict for Spain was that it contrasted the relative weakness of the Hispanic Monarchy with the relative economic vitality of Catalonia within the Crown of Aragon. The war and the period of reflection it provoked reignited a debate about the vision of Catalonia as a nation; about the privileges of the principality; and about trade, protectionism, taxation and labour. The War of Spanish Succession pitted the people of Spain between two dynastic loyalties; it also pitted rival views on the form and feature of legislative reform needed in the country, and most particularly how Spain could be placed on an economic footing equal to, or better than, Britain and the Netherlands. In this context, the Catalan writer Narcís Feliu de la Penya i Farell exerted an unequalled impact on debates about the revival of Catalonian, and wider Spanish economic stability.2 De la Penya’s 1681 Politíco Discurso [Political Discourse], his 1683 work the Fénix de Cataluña [Phoenix of Catalonia], and his 1709 three-volume Annales de Cataluña [Annals of Catalonia] and the proposals therein to create companies and free ports and to make Catalonia the Netherlands of the Mediterranean, garnered the support of the bourgeoisie and the petty nobility of Barcelona (Alcoberro i Pericay 2014, p. 8). When the House of Austria was deprived of the opportunity to enact this reformist agenda in Spain after the Bourbons consolidated control of the kingdom

2 Throughout I use the Catalan spelling of Penya’s name; in Castilian, he is recorded as Narciso Feliú de la Peña y Farrell, or Narciso Feliú de la Peña.

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in 1713, the Phoenix lived on—in theory and in practice—in the aspirations and activities of the many thousands of Catalan and Spanish exiles in Vienna, and in the aspirations and activities of the once-king, nowemperor Charles VI. The legacy of the Phoenix and of the reformist agenda reached a highpoint in the Catalan Constitutions of 1706 and during the years of the Austrian court in Barcelona (1705–1711), and it continued afterwards in Central Europe in debates about companies, freeports, production and taxation. The eagle and the phoenix, together, would define the monarchy of Charles VI in his Habsburg lands (Fig. 1). In this context, it is worth considering the strength of influence that Charles’s encounters with the Austracist party in Spain from 1705 to

Fig. 1 The “Passarola”, a primitive flying machine devised in 1709 by Father Bartholomew Lawrence of Gusmão, Chaplain of the Portuguese King, Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Estampes et photographie, FOL-IB-4 (© Public domain Wikimedia Commons)

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1711 had on his later rule in the Habsburg monarchy.3 Much has been written about the Spanish exiles in Austria and the Habsburg monarchy; indeed, a contemporary list of the exiles was prepared by Francesco Castellví y Obando de Montblanch, the Count de Cervellón (Stiffoni 1991; Albareda i Salvadó 2009). The various roles played by Spanish, and in particular, Catalan, exiles in Vienna and the Monarchy have been well researched (Garms-Cornides 2020). Less researched is the extent to which the debates about commerce, political economy, trading companies and trade in Spain in the period 1680–1710 influenced the Archduke Charles of Austria, declared king Charles III of Spain, and his court in Barcelona (1705–1711) and subsequent life and rule (1711–1740) in Vienna (León Sanz 2020; Delgado Ribas 2006, pp. 13–38). Considering the efforts of the Catalan political economist Narcís Feliu de la Penya (1642–1712) and the promotion of commercial ventures in Spain (from 1680 and during the War of the Spanish Succession), this chapter considers the impact of de la Penya’s ideas not just on commercial and economic growth in Spain, but also the afterlife of those ideas—how the drive for economic recovery in Catalonia and Spain was translated in theory and in practice into Central Europe after 1711. When the last Habsburg claimant to the crown of Spain departed Barcelona for Vienna, with him travelled many thousands of Catalan loyalists who would exert real influence over economic growth in Austria, Hungary and the Habsburg Italian lands. Feliu de la Penya’s hopes—of improving the textile industry, of growing commerce and industry, of establishing freeports and reforming taxation, of founding international trading companies—were first trialed in the period of Austrian rule in Catalonia. Narcís Feliu saw in the Habsburg cause an opportunity to revitalize commerce by developing commercial connections with Habsburg Central Europe, as well as the Americas and Asia; his writings encouraged the development of foreign production methods in Spain, and of new trading companies to re-establish Catalonia and Spain as an entrepot in global trade. Manufactures in wool and silk and efforts to establish a company that would “run the commerce of America” from a freeport were later replicated in Central Europe. Catalan political and economic thought had a second life in efforts to develop freeports in Trieste and Ostend, to develop silk 3 ‘Austracist’ (Austracista, Austracistas ) is the name given in current Spanish historiography to the supports of Charles of Austria during the War of the Spanish Succession.

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manufacturing in southern Hungary and Italy, and in developing dyeing and woollens. As such, there is a need to review the period of Austrian rule in Spain (1705–1711) as a period of education and training for the young Archduke Charles, and to consider the memory of Spain in the early eighteenth-century Habsburg monarchy (León Sanz 2003; Jones Corredera 2018, pp. 1–21).

The Background to Archduke Charles in Spain José Maria Jover Zamora has described the post-Westphalian seventeenthcentury moment in Spain, from a Castilian perspective, as a country that constituted a natural, geographical and personal union but one which lacked a political consciousness; that Spain was a state without a reason to be a state (Grau i Saló 1987, p. 126). During the reign of Charles II (b.1661, r.1665–d.1700), respect for the Crown, Councils, counsellors and ministers diminished and there was a general view that Councils were failing to respond to the changing needs of the state (Storrs 2006, pp. 182–3). For Narcís Feliu de la Penya, the principality of Catalonia stood in sharp contrast to the strength of public opinion undermining the legitimacy of Spanish government and Charles II was the epitome of kings. De la Penya argued—like other seventeenth-century Catalan authors including Jeroni Pujades, Francesc Martí Viladamor and Gaspar Sala—for a stronger Catalonia which could rise, phoenix-like, from the maelstrom of the seventeenth century (Palomo Reina 2020, pp. 323–52). His monumental work written in collaboration with Martí Piles, Fénix de Cataluña: compendio de sus antiguas grandezas y medio para renovarlas (1683) and dedicated to Charles II, set out the agenda for revival and rejuvenation; all that was awaited was a monarch who would grasp the opportunity and support reform. The War of the Spanish Succession and the opportunities afforded by the creation of a royal court in Barcelona and the presence of a Habsburg claimant king from 1705 to 1711 afforded de la Penya and his supporters the opportunity to promote Catalan reform. Narcís Feliu de la Penya i Farell was born in Barcelona in 1646 (and died there in 1712); he was a Catalan advocate, lawyer, publicist and historian whose life revolved around three great axes: economic activity and business (Molas Ribalta 1974, pp. 77–126), politics (Albareda i Salvadó 1993); and historiography (Grau i Saló 1987, pp. 125–46). Narcís Feliu’s family contacts, his trenchant support for the Catalan cause

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and his cultural, legal and philosophical training were key to the development of the main project in his life, the economic reform of the Principality. By the time de la Penya entered his thirties, Catalonia was experiencing a period of commercial recovery and the port of Barcelona was participating in a significant expansion in international maritime trade, most especially in the Atlantic (Valls Junyent 2020, pp. 59, 76– 9; Cervera Ferri 2019, p. 102). Carlos Martínez Shaw has described the “extraordinary impulse which the Catalan commercial presence in the Atlantic ports, and especially in the Atlantic, receive[d]” at this time (Martínez Shaw 1978, pp. 292–5). Barcelona was experiencing rapid commercial expansion, a commercial revolution built on a growing domestic market for colonial products, on the processing of tobacco and on increased Catalonian wine production and export into the Mediterranean world to North Africa and beyond. Not every sector of the market was enjoying the same success, however. The cloth industry was declining, and processes of industrialization atrophied. It was at this time that de la Penya composed the Phoenix (1683), a time when specialization in viticulture and rising agricultural incomes contributed to a growth in textile and other industrial specializations which enhanced the competitiveness of Catalan cheap goods more broadly. The groundwork for the eighteenthcentury economic prosperity of Catalonia was laid down in these late seventeenth-century decades when agricultural, not industrial development was held to be most important. The Phoenix of Catalonia would come to exert a real influence on eighteenth-century Habsburg Central Europe, too, after the War of the Spanish Succession. In the Phoenix, de la Penya wrote of the need to decentralize artisanal production to the towns and he wrote (1) of the importance of the new drapery and of acquiring new skills by sending workers abroad to learn new skills; (2) of the need to produce Flemish cloths; (3) to encourage silk production and silk weaving; and (4) to develop new skills in dye production and in dyeing (Molas Ribalta 1983, pp. 150–1; Ricci 2016, pp. 87–105). The cause of the “unhappy state in which this province is seen” he attributes to royal disinterest and royal absenteeism, as well as to the negative consequences of the discovery of America. “If the king returned” and committed to the welfare of Catalonia, then “navigation, trade, and the arts would be reborn. […] It is evidently concluded that Catalonia can advance in arts, introduce shipping, and undertake commerce, with the happiness and ease with which our ancestors farmed, exalting our province with the prodigious grandeur of ancient times.”

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There was no lack of praise for the trade that had “enlarged Rome, enriched Carthage, […] glorified Florence, fortified England,” nor in recognizing the efforts of manual laborers, whose “luster increase[d] […] the well-governed republic” (de la Peña y Farell 1683, pp. 32, 66–7, 82). Building on ideas first presented in the Political Discourse (1681), the Phoenix was written at the request of the cloth merchants guild, and in collaboration with his friend the merchant Martí Piles. The central nucleus of the study is the proposal to form a large Dutch-style company to solve the problem of the lack of capital, both in manufacturing and commercial activity; it also demands that Catalans participate in American commercial ventures and that Barcelona is declared a freeport (Martínez Shaw 1978, pp. 287–310; Delgado Ribas 2006, p. 18). Debates on the role of companies and corporations were central in later seventeenthcentury Catalan and Spanish commentaries on political economy and reform (Albaladejo 2021, pp. 18–22; Delgado Ribas 2006, pp. 16–30). While he was in favor of developing freer trade, de la Penya argued for the need to forge a competitive industry and he actively participated in efforts to promote renewal of the textile industry to increase its competitiveness against foreign manufacturers. To that end, he sent skilled craftsmen to England, Flanders, France and Germany to learn new techniques and to set up pilot workshops on their return to training specialized technicians (Espino López 1999, p. 327). What was clear to de la Penya and his contemporaries was that Catalan industry was falling behind in terms of technological competitiveness with its European competitors, and that imbalance in trade was a cause for concern, most especially in the ongoing reliance on cloth imports at the expense of developing the domestic cloth manufactures. Feliu’s first publication, the Politíco Discurso en defensa de la cierta verdad que contiene un memorial presentado a la Nobilísimia Ciudad de Barcelona (1681), a 37page pamphlet, had offered a strong defence of protectionism in the face of cheap cloth importation, and his efforts throughout the remainder of his life were on the need for a renewal of the textile industry (de la Peña y Farell 1681). In the Political Discourse, written on behalf of the four most influential textile guilds in Barcelona, de la Penya defended not only the ban on the entry of goods into the country but also the exit of raw materials, such as wool, silk, leather and fur. He praised the prosperity that trade brought; in his opinion, commercial activity and navigation, the formation of trading companies and the unification of taxes would be the main sources of progress. Luís Argemí first argued for there being

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a similarity of argument in the work of the German Johann Joachim Becher and of the Dutch writers Johan and Pieter de la Court Politieke Discoursen (1662), with the argument advanced by de la Penya in his Political Discourse, without establishing an evidential basis for a direct influence of the earlier Dutch study on the later Catalan one (Argemí 2006, pp. 47–61). In de la Penya’s work, there is no mention of the Dutch or German schools of economic thought. Notwithstanding the absence of references, in de la Penya’s writings, Holland was the model to follow both in the economic and political fields (Oliva i Ricós 2001, pp. 144–8; Weststeijn 2012, pp. 252–4). The Political Discourse proposed three economic concerns of the time which if addressed, Feliu de la Penya argued, would improve the lot of Catalonia. First, the Principality needed a free port. Second, a reorganization of taxes; and third, a focus on labour, on skills and on training (de la Peña y Farell 1681, ch. 18). The publication of the Phoenix marks a radicalization in de la Penya’s discourse; building on the Political Discourse, it was a manifesto for Catalan resurrection and renewal—a blueprint for the future. Already in the 1670s, de la Penya had observed with great interest the efforts of the Board of Trade that was being developed in Madrid. Inspired by the arbitristas, the “projectors” whose publications offered projects for the social, economic and moral regeneration of Spain and who saw the root of Spain’s social ills in its economic depression, the Board of Trade operated in a complicated political situation; the weak state of health of king Charles II placed his succession as a priority, rather than economic rejuvenation (Hermant 2013, pp. 185–220). At the end of the 1670s, de la Penya became active in projects related to those of the Board of Trade and he dealt with the renewal of the textile sector, sending people abroad to learn the techniques of the new draperies, opening factories to produce them and trying to innovate the dyeing procedures (Oliva i Ricós 2001, p. 130). Jointly with Bernat d’Aimeric Cruïlles in 1691, he published the Remallet de tinturas, a study of traditional dyeing techniques together with an introduction to new techniques from other parts of the continent. De la Penya represented the General Board of Commerce in Barcelona from 1684, a Board created in 1679 for the recovery of the national economy, and he was one of the promoters of the Particular Board of Commerce of Catalonia (Junta Particular de Comercio) between 1692 and 1697. By 1705–1706, however, under Dutch and English pressure the economist, writer, historian and lawyer had moved away from a protectionist stance (Elliott 2018, p. 82).

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The War of the Spanish Succession: The Arrival of Archduke Charles in Spain International intrigue around the issue of succession to the Spanish crown led, from the late 1690s, to a renewed focus on Spain. Following the death of Charles II in November 1700, in 1701, the Holy Roman Empire, England and the United Provinces formed the Grand Alliance of The Hague, which challenged the Bourbon succession to the crown. A year later, the Alliance declared war on the Bourbon states of France and Spain. In Vienna, Emperor Leopold I and his first-born son Joseph ceded their rights to the crown of Spain in favour of Archduke Charles; he was proclaimed King Charles III of Spain on September 12, 1703, promising to “conserve the rights and privileges of all kingdoms and provinces, communes and regions, within the Spanish dominions.” Charles III made his way across Europe to England and on to Lisbon, where he disembarked on March 7, 1704, with the aim of extending the international war to the peninsula (Alcoberro i Pericay 2014, p. 9). At Lisbon, Charles was welcomed at the court of King Pedro II and it was here that he first held court, receiving many of the leading nobles, including the Count Antonio Folch de Cardona and the Jesuit Cardinal Álvaro Cienfuegos, who now declared themselves for the Austrian cause. Representatives from Catalonia travelled to meet the Habsburg king, declaring themselves for the monarch whom they recognised as the new Count of Barcelona and King of Aragon. On July 23, 1705, Charles and his retinue set sail from Lisbon aboard the Gran Bretaña via Gibraltar to Catalonia. At Barcelona, Charles was welcomed into the city as a hero; crowds in the streets greeted him with song, hailing him as a virtuous and good leader come to restore their rights and proclaiming him their king “Carlos Tercer”. Charles’s capture of Barcelona in 1705 was one of the most significant episodes in the War of the Spanish Succession, at least in its aspect as a civil war. From a strictly military point of view, the Grand Alliance had secured a highly important base from which they could work for the recovery of Catalonia and the rest of Spain (Pohlig and Schaich 2018; Jones Corredera 2021, pp. 50–81). The Cortes Generales in Barcelona, summoned by Charles, offered the best opportunity for the Habsburg cause to promote their vision for a Habsburg Catalonia and Spain, renewed and enlivened by trade and commerce (Ferro 1987; Ricci 2016, pp. 105–9). And for Catalans, by legitimizing the rights

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of the Archduke as Count of Barcelona, the Cortes expected in return an acknowledgement that he would respect the privileges that previous monarchs had granted them and support the transformation of Catalonia into “another Holland” (Vilar 1990, pp. 158 and 161). The need for continuing military support to maintain the Habsburg cause at Barcelona led to a renewal of former privileges and a granting of others; relatively quickly a forum emerged to discuss the future of the nation and new projects to improve it (Segura García 2005–2006, pp. 159–60). The emergence of a structured Austracist party, as distinct from a diffuse anti-Bourbon movement, took place over several years and Austracism became particularly widespread and interclass in Catalonia, associated with the cause of renewing and maintaining the liberties and constitutions of the region. The lower nobility and the better-off peasantry in central Catalonia were committed to the cause; in Barcelona and other coastal cities, the bourgeoisie provided many of the leading figures in the party; within the ranks of the church, the mendicant and lower-order clergy were most prevalent, and academics at the University of Barcelona rowed in behind the Austracist party, where subversive anti-Bourbon sentiment mobilized students and faculty to the cause (Alcoberro i Pericay 2014, p. 10) (Fig. 2). The attempted Allied landing in Barcelona in 1704, which greatly alarmed the court of Philip V, led to the repressive actions of the Bourbon viceroy of Catalonia, Francisco Antonio Fernández de Velasco y Tovar in 1704, and the arrest and imprisonment of many Austriacists—including Feliu de la Penya and Ramon Frederic de Vilana-Perlas (who would later go into Austrian exile). The “tyranny of Velasco” facilitated Catalan Austracism to grow and to dominate popular politics, weaving together a network of exiles in Lisbon, Gibraltar and Vienna who resisted the Bourbon cause (Alcoberro i Pericay 2014, p. 11). It was in the context of the arrival of troops loyal to Charles in Barcelona which led to his proclamation as the legitimate King Charles III of Spain. After sixteen months in prison, Feliu de la Penya was released and Charles III appointed him his personal secretary, a position he declined in order to dedicate himself to the writing of a history of Catalonia, the Annals of Catalonia (1709) (Ricci 2013, 2016, pp. 79–87). Nevertheless, de la Penya remained an authoritative voice and guided the legislative program inaugurated by Charles, wherein Catalans sought to redefine their relationship with the monarch and at the same time demanded respect for the legal order of the Principality and greater responsibilities in the whole of the monarchy

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Fig. 2 The conquest of Barcelona by the Habsburg troops in Catalonia, etching by Romeyn de Hooghe 1705, published by Daniel de Lafeuille (© Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, public domain http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT. 444588)

(Voltes Bou 1963; León Sanz 2000, pp. 41–62; 2003; Segura García 2005–2006, pp. 155–75). From the autumn of 1706, Barcelona became for the first time since the fifteenth century a royal court and remained so until April 1713, when Queen Elizabeth Christina left the city for Vienna. For the near entirety of his seven years in Spain—save for two brief entries into Madrid in 1706 and 1710—Barcelona was his Residenzstadt and the city had all the pomp and circumstance of a court, where Charles could reflect on what it meant to be a king. In correspondence from Barcelona with the Bohemian vice-chancellor Count Johann Wenzel of Wratislaw, Charles wrote of the challenge facing him to understand the “method and system”

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of Spain, of how the German lands and Spain must be considered equal and “should seek to be united under one ruler.” “There should be no difference between the nations,” Charles wrote, and the kingdoms would grow closer and more understanding of each other if Germans came to Spain and Spaniards to Germany (Arneth 1856, p. 203) (Fig. 3). In Barcelona, Charles organized his government so that the city had the institutions of a municipality and served as a capital for the Principality, while also having a newly established administration for a composite monarchy. Of prime importance was the desire to alleviate the concerns of the loyal elites—a characteristic trait of rule which is obvious in Charles’s later rule in the Austrian Netherlands, too. The royal court attracted many

Fig. 3 Portrait of Charles of Austria, King Charles III of Spain, engraving by Pieter van Gunst before 1711 (© Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, public domain http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.336365)

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new groups to the city; nobles from all kingdoms of the monarchy, ambassadors and diplomats of the allied states, and from 1709, when the Papal States proclaimed Charles III a legitimate monarch, a permanent papal legate. Charles III and his court patronized the arts and made Barcelona a vibrant city in music and the arts. As for the political economy, the economic objectives of the Phoenix of Catalonia (1683) were discussed widely in the Cortes of 1705–1706, where de la Penya acted as an efficient mediator and played a decisive role, promoting the introduction of new products by foreign artisans other than the French. De la Penya was emboldened to build on the events of the previous three decades, to reflect on the proud nation of Catalonia, whose history he published as the Annals of Catalonia (1709), combining mythical and legendary elements from the older historiography with archival sources and diverse chronicles (Grau i Salo 1987, pp. 125–46). In three volumes—the first dedicated to Jesus Christ, the second to Charles II and Charles III and the third to his homeland, Catalonia—de la Penya provides a tribute to the Catalan nation and the house of Austria. A political-historical discourse as much as an ideological, patriotic text more typical of the baroque, the Annals of Catalonia are directed to the service of politics and the economic success of the state (Duran Grau 1995, pp. 73–86). De la Penya’s death in February 1712 left the Austrian party without its most influential political economist and one of its most loyal leaders. Had he lived on, he would likely have established himself at court in Vienna with other Catalan exiles (González Camaño 2003, pp. 295–304). A combination of two international events hastened the end of the war in Spain. First, England had been involved in the war to avoid an overwhelming hegemony of the Bourbons. Now, the danger of a resurgent Spanish Habsburg power provoked the Allies to reconsider their respective positions. The second event was the unexpected death on April 17, 1711, of Charles’s brother, Emperor Joseph I. Charles was encouraged by the Habsburg cause to secure his election as emperor. He left Barcelona for Genoa on September 27, 1711, accompanied by the Archbishop of Valencia, Antonio Folch de Cardona, the counts of Montesanto, of Sástago i Savellá and of Fuencalada (García Gomez 1996, pp. 10–11). Charles was crowned emperor at Frankfurt on December 22, 1711. In the days that followed his departure from Catalonia, Bourbon repression was felt by all groups in the city. While some Austracists remained in Barcelona, carrying on a war of propaganda against the Bourbons, in the

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coming months and years, between 25,000 and 30,000 people fled Spain and moved to the lands of their king Charles III in Italy, Austria, Flanders and Hungary (Camprubí 2015, pp. 201–5). The vast majority came from the communities of Catalan loyalists who supported Charles; a relatively small number came from Ibiza and Mallorca (Alcoberro i Pericay 2002, pp. 186–8; León Sanz 1997, pp. 469–500). The entry of Bourbon troops into Barcelona, on September 11, 1714, marked the end of the War of Succession and it also meant the defeat of the political and economic project, so favored by the mercantile bourgeoisie, that had been promoted by de la Penya. The chronicler Francisco de Castellví, exiled to Vienna in 1726, warned that the fall of Barcelona meant the “end of the Catalan nation” (Mundet and Alsina 1997–2002, pp. 28–31; 351–9; 594). As the Capuchin monk Manuel Soler wrote: “The damage is so great that three hundred years from now it will be remembered” (Alcoberro i Pericay 2014, pp. 16–24).

The Phoenix Arises The promise of Catalonia rising like a phoenix, as de la Penya had hoped for, was seemingly lost; yet an astonishing recovery in agriculture and industry would take place in the eighteenth century. As if fulfilling the predictions from 1683, Catalonia became the phoenix reborn from its own ashes. In the years after the War of the Spanish Succession in 1714 to the 1750s, Catalonia witnessed a demographic, industrial and agricultural recovery, and new markets for Catalan goods opened in the Spanish American colonies. Philip V had decided to accept French assistance in the first decade of the 1700s precisely in order to keep the lines of transatlantic trade open and thereby neutralize any possible favourable declarations in America for the Austrian cause in Spain (Delgado Ribas 2006, p. 43). The economic recovery of Barcelona developed as de la Penya hoped with the establishment of new calico factories in the city, with over eighty operating by the 1780s, surpassing the output of Manchester and Paris. Barcelona was a jewel in the crown of Catalan economic prosperity. Just as significantly, the influence of Catalan political and economic thought came to exert a real influence in Central Europe, thanks to the knowledge and experience of exiles from Spain well versed in de la Penya’s ideas for economic reform.

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At the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Habsburg monarchy was a revealing example of how the structural problems of modern statebuilding became concentrated and intertwined in the area of finance. The War of the Spanish Succession challenged the financial systems of the states involved and the acute and immediate need for money that came with the war made it necessary for state institutions to adapt to the new demands. In the Habsburg monarchy, a reform of the tax system was urgently needed not just in the interest of greater tax equity, but also to realize greater tax revenues. A centralization of tax administration, improvement of accounting and auditing and greater competency, in general, were long overdue, but attempts at reform were met with significant resistance. Wilhelm von Hörnigk’s demands for rehabilitation of finances and for the promotion of commerce illustrates the cameralistic tendencies also promoted by Johann Joachim Becher, which led to the establishment of a commission of commerce (Kommerzienkollegium) in Vienna. The commission encouraged manufacturing and company heads were to lead the new commission in promoting trade, commerce and production (Seitschek 2019, pp. 111–2). There were primarily two impediments to reform which are evident in the Habsburg lands in the early eighteenth century. First—just as can be argued for Spain—there was not one Austrian state, but rather a composite structure consisting of several provinces with different interests, institutions and traditions. The power of the provinces lay in their right to authorize, indemnify and collect military taxes. Other factors were partly a consequence of the permanent financial crisis of the state, including the unsuitability of civil servants. These problems in Habsburg administration had been recognized as early as 1668, when Johann Joachim Becher identified a “lack of understanding, indolence, disorder and disloyalty” as constraints on Habsburg development (Seitschek 2019, p. 110). Second, the financial administration suffered because of the fragmentation of record keeping which meant that both budgetary estimates and annual accounts were frequently unreliable (Holl 1976, pp. 206, 225). When in 1703 Emperor Leopold transferred the leadership of the Court Chamber of Finance (Hofkammer für Finanzen) to Count Gundacker Thomas of Starhemberg, he promoted a person with an impressive career within the monarchy’s financial institutions as well as someone with a profound knowledge of state finances. Starhemberg saw the deficiencies in the financial system and at the same time possessed

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ideas and a spirit of initiating real improvements on the level of central authority and financial policy management (Winkelbauer 2019, p. 945; Seitschek 2020, pp. 286–7). King Charles trusted Starhemberg’s opinion sufficiently to advise his wife Elisabeth Christine to turn to him for counsel after Charles had left Catalonia in 1711 (Seitschek 2011, p. 26). While in theory, Hörnigk, Becher and other cameralists and their ideas certainly exerted an influence on Starhemberg and others in their drives to reform the Habsburg monarchy, in practice, the actions of the “Spanish” party and their reliance on de la Penya’s work show that Catalan political thought also played a role in Central Europe in the early eighteenth century. This was the state of commerce, finances and industry which faced Charles when he returned to Vienna in 1712. His experiences in Spain had left him well qualified to understand the particularism of the multiethnic Habsburg monarchy, especially at a time when it was acquiring Lombardy, Naples, Sicily, parts of Serbia, of Wallachia and of the Low Countries. The incorporation of the former Spanish territories into Charles’s realms and the establishment of councils with corresponding provincial powers allowed revenues to be used to finance the new integrative administrative apparatus. The creation of the financial conference (Finanzkonferenz), which was placed under the authority of the Court Chamber, can be attributed to the influence of the “Spanish” exiles at Court (Van Gelder 2016, pp. 180–7, 193–5; Quirós Rosado 2017, pp. 41–206). Charles’s experiences in Spain influenced him and his closest officials in a significant way. New administrative commissions, like the Secretaría de Estado y del Despacho Universal del Consejo Supremo de España established on his return to Vienna, had jurisdiction over the Italian states until its collapse in 1736. It was the core areas identified by Feliu de la Penya in the Phoenix—to decentralize artisanal production to the towns; to encourage production; of the importance of the textile production and of attracting new skills and new workers; and so on— that became immediate concerns of the Carlist administration, under the influence of Catalan and other exiles, in Habsburg Central Europe (Molas Ribalta 1983, pp. 150–1; Kamen 1983, Prologue). Many newly-arrived Catalan exiles came to hold high-ranking positions in the Habsburg Italian lands. General Jaume Carreras, for example, moved from Sicily to serve as Governor of Trieste in 1735, later Governor of Milan (1738) and Lieutenant Marshal (1743) (Alcoberro i Pericay 2002, p. 184). Some exiles from Spain remained in the Italian lands,

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while Vienna remained a target for many. Of the 25–30,000 people who left Spain, many former members of the court at Barcelona relocated to Vienna and established the councils of Spain and Flanders, taking responsibility for the territories ceded to Emperor Charles VI by the Treaties of Utrecht and Rastatt (León Sanz 1997, pp. 469–500). The influence of these many exiles on Charles—and one in five nobles at his court was from Spain or Italy—known popularly as the “Spanish party,” was disregarded by many at court, including Prince Eugene of Savoy and the Bohemian Chancellor Wenzel Wratislaw (Kalmar 1996, p. 260; Lluch 2000, p. 39). Yet Charles’s most intimate circle of advisers, in the years after his return from Barcelona, unsurprisingly included many whose advice he had grown to value when in Spain, including the Secretary of State the Marquis de Rialp; and Count Johann Michael of Althann, the “Spanish Althann,” nephew of Prince Anton Florian of Liechtenstein who had been tutor to the young Charles (Seitschek 2018, pp. 457–61; Alcoberro i Pericay 2002, p. 175). Althann’s “decisive influence on the sovereign” came from their years together in Barcelona and from the desire to enact many of the reformist plans which could not be enacted in Spain (Kalmar 1996, pp. 257–8, 261; Kalmar 1998, pp. 299–302; Seitschek 2020, p. 301). De la Penya’s concerns regarding the negative consequences of trade with America also led to efforts in Central Europe to develop and grow American commodities in the region. Feliu de la Penya’s proposals, in the Political Discourse, in the Phoenix, and in the Annals, found resonance in the reorganization of Austrian finances and the establishment of an Austrian banking system, as well as the Council of Commerce in Prague. It was in Hungary that the impact of de la Penya’s political economy and reform, and the work of exiles from Spain to enact it, was seen most clearly. The newly acquired Banat of Timisoara was declared a domain of the crown (Krondomäne) and was placed under the direct control of the Hofkriegsrat and the Hofkammer (Jordan 1967, p. 115). Most traces of the pre-Ottoman feudal order had disappeared by the time of the Habsburg reconquest and the territory was granted to a number of Habsburg loyalists. Key among them was Ramon Frederic de Vilana-Perlas Camarasa, created Marquis de Rialp by Charles in 1710 in Barcelona and secretario de estado y de despacho to Emperor Charles VI, who in 1725 secured tracts of land in the Banat. His son, Francesc, became Governor of the Banat in 1753. Southern Hungary became a testing site, drawing on ideas of imperial and colonial expansion and on the

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memory of reconquista Spain. The territory became a laboratory for political and economic experimentation (Alcoberro i Pericay 2002, pp. 162–4, 175; Casals and Albareda i Salvadó 2011, pp. 38–45). Like many other Catalan exiles, Perlas lobbied for the creation of free ports; echoing de la Penya’s proposals, Perlas’s hopes for a freeport resonated with Charles’s own hopes for access to the Black Sea. As early as 1713, Baron Joseph de Saint-Hilaire, later director of the Russian Sea Academy under Tsar Peter I, wrote to Charles VI, proposing the establishment of a free port, inspired by the example of Livorno (Tazzara 2017, pp. 233–5). Charles was encouraged to recruit workers from the Low Countries to repair the docks at Trieste, allowing merchants and manufacturers to flourish. Saint Hilaire was keen to remind that the knowledge and established connections of the many Spanish exiles would enable trade with Spanish America and the Caribbean to be re-established and he pushed for Catalan exiles to lead trade from Trieste to Barcelona, and beyond to the Atlantic, arguing that Central European wine, woollens and other manufactures could be traded for American goods. Charles VI proclaimed both Fiume and Trieste free ports in 1719. In 1729, a year after Charles VI had visited the port, Perlas sent agents into Bohemia, Moravia and Silesia, encouraging manufacturers to export their goods through Trieste (Bˇelina et al. 2001, pp. 399–400). These early efforts by Perlas and others to connect Bohemian manufacturing with markets in Spain and elsewhere laid the foundations for later contacts between Central Europe and Spain. And just as a New Company of Gibraltar (Compañya nova de Gibraltar) had provided a short-lived opportunity for Catalan Austracists to trade in the Mediterranean and beyond, plans for new trading companies picked up pace because of the exiles’ campaigning. An Eastern Trading Company (Compagnie de las Indias ) was established in May 1719, operating from Trieste to Portugal and beyond. There was a need to source goods for the domestic market that was in high demand and where protectionist policies and outright bans on imports were having little or no effect (Hyden-Hanscho 2016). Colonial factories were proposed and the Compagnie Générale établie dans les Pays-Bas Autrichiens pour le Commerce et la Navigation aux Indes, commonly called the Ostend Company, was granted its charter in 1722, sending ships to Asia (Dreijer 2019, pp. 276–9; Dhondt 2015, pp. 399–403; see Chapter 14 by Veronika Hyden-Hanscho in this volume). In keeping with the plans to develop and expand both textile manufacturing and cloth dyeing in Catalonia, similar ventures were established

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in Hungary and were developed by the exiles. In what became known locally as the “Banat System,” a program of economic, political, and demographic policies sought to replicate the successes of other European countries. There was a new focus on the production of both silk and woollens, and an attempt to plant and develop a cotton industry, long before the more successful attempts of the late eighteenth century (Loth 1966, p. 164; Fallenbüchl 1979, pp. 85–147 and 199–224; Tint˘ ¸ a 1970, pp. 111–40). Mulberry trees were planted and were tended by the new colonists from Spain, who had greater success in establishing a tussore silk industry than did their German neighbours. Catalans were joined by families from Piedmont, and they worked hard to develop not alone a silk industry, but also to experiment with rice cultivation, too.4 In efforts to produce domestic dye stuffs for use in the textile industry, and to move away from a reliance on imports in particular from the Americas, indigo was also cultivated, as it also was on Perlas estates on the Adriatic.5 In Werschetz (Vršac), Pantschewo (Panˇcevo) and Großbetschkerek (Zrenjanin/Veliki Beckerek), the fledgling silk, rice and dyeing industries, together with woollen manufacturing and alcohol production, were all developed by commercially-minded Austrascists.6 Perlas also acquired from the Inner Austrian Imperial Chamber estates near Fiume and a number of properties along the Adriatic coast (Despot 1959, pp. 321–48). It was proposed that a link would be created between Charles VI’s Spanish possessions in Italy with freeports on the Adriatic, and with Hungary, and specifically with the newly-established colony of Nova Barcelona (Neu Barcelona, today Zrenjanin, Serbia) in the Banat (Alcoberro i Pericay 2002, pp. 93–112). This colony of “Spaniards” was entirely in keeping with the politics of Peuplierung being promoted during the years of Charles’s rule. It was held that an increase in population would lead to a commensurate increase in power and wealth. The political economist Becher wrote that “a fundamental rule of state [must

4 MOL (Magyar Országos Levéltár), P 396 18 Acta Publica (Károlyi), Acta Coloniarum Italorum, 06/07/1734; Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (=ÖStA), Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv (=FHKA), Neue Hofkammer (=NHK), Ungarisches Kamerale, Banater Akten 19, December, fol. 13. 5 ÖStA, FHKA, NHK, Ungarisches Kamerale, Banater Akten 18, fol. 99–107. 6 ÖStA, FHKA, NHK, Ungarisches Kamerale, Banater Akten 19, October, fol. 97, item

no. 34 of the Protocol of the Hofdeputation (December 15, 1748) and December, fol. 13, 30–33.

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be] to make the land populous, which will then create both wealth and nourishment.”7 Becher favoured economic independence through the use of indigenous raw materials and through the planting and cultivation of foreign crops, thereby avoiding the need to import dye, tobacco, rice and sugar (Seitschek 2019, pp. 107–8). The Court Chamber, while wishing to avoid particularistic lordships in the neo acquistica, recommended the settlement of colonists, noting only that they should not be Hungarians or those already settled in the Banat (Seitschek 2020, p. 317). Perlas was a firm proponent of this drive to become more self-sufficient and he worked to identify and recruit Catalans, Spaniards and others for his estates, encouraging the development of the port of Fiume, hoping to develop a glass-making industry in Gorski Kotar and recruiting Bohemians to settle there. The project was aided by the construction of the Via Carolina Augusta, the Caroline Road, linking the frontier city of Karlovac (Karlstadt) in the Pannonian basin with the port of Bakar and further to the port of Fiume. Under Perlas and through the efforts of many Austracist exiles, the region experienced a flourishing in economic activity and the transportation of goods to the new freeports (Fig. 4). Nova Barcelona in the Banat was a focal point for Catalan regeneration in Central Europe. Plans were already afoot for a “Spanish” settlement in the kingdom of Hungary, with Rialp once again playing a leading role in supporting the venture and offering to have oversight of which families would be best for the colony (Till 1947, pp. 25–6). It was hoped that the exiles would not only help with establishing a silk industry but that they would plant vines and produce wine (Kallbrunner 1936, pp. 46–7). Arriving in 1735, perhaps as many as 800 of the at-most 5000 “Spaniards”—Catalans, others from the lands of Aragon, and exiles from Sicily and Naples—who settled in Hungary were established in Nova Barcelona. Pere Joan Barceló i Anguere was among the leading figures of the War of Spanish Succession who visited the new settlement. Other exiles saw in the new settlement the possibility to remake Catalonia and Spain in Central Europe, and they campaigned to do so. Josep Plantí i Mateu, the Catalan jurist, Austracist, colleague and friend of de la Penya and son of a Catalan textile manufacturer, fled Barcelona 7 J.J. Becher, Politischer Diskurs: Von den eigentlichen Ursachen des Auf- und Abnehmens der Städte, Länder und Republiken, in specie, Wie ein Land volckreich und nahrhafft zu machen, und in eine rechte Societät civilem zu bringen ist, (facsimile edition), Klassiker der Nationalökonomie series, 3rd ed., Frankfurt am Main, 1688, p. 3.

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Fig. 4 Map of New Barcelona (Nagybecskerek, now Zrenjanin) in the Banat of Timisoara, 1766 (© Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv, SUS KS, O-039)

in 1711 and remained in Vienna until 1725 when he relocated to Milan (Alcoberro i Pericay 2019, pp. 37–47). Like the mid-seventeenth century viceroy of Catalonia Francisco de Orozco y Ribera (1605–1668), author of the Conquista de Cataluña (1655) who had spent his last days as Governor of the city, it was in Milan that Plantí developed a plan for the regeneration of Catalonia and for creating another Barcelona abroad. In Plantí’s De Cataloniae principatu (The Principality of Catalonia) he praised his homeland, much in the style of de la Penya, lauding the nation and her people. Even more intriguing, in his draft manuscript entitled Nueva colonia Española ideada, Plantí takes up de la Penya’s hopes for economic recovery—both for Catalans in Catalonia and for exiles abroad. In the Nueva colonia Plantí proposes to the Council of Spain in Vienna the resurrection of the “Iberian kingdom,” suggesting that a community of Austracist loyalists should be planted in newly-acquired southern Hungary. Plantí hoped that Charles would learn of his petition and that exiles from the Spanish war could be relocated to “Nova

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Barcelona.”8 In the Nueva colonia, Plantí draws on the Aeneid, reminding that just as Aeneas did not find a permanent home in Carthage, the loyalists’ permanent home was not in Vienna. Instead, Plantí beseeches the emperor Charles to support his loyal Austracists in their efforts to start a new life. Barcelona, the great city founded by Hercules is now, like Troy, in flames and lost. But, Plantí declaims in Latin, Charles III/VI can like Aeneas build a new Barcelona in Hungary for his loyal subjects (Alcoberro i Pericay 2019, pp. 43, 52): The city which I build is yours. Settle, experienced in disasters cleanse your minds, and banish sad fear, perhaps you will find pleasure in remembering the past. We are going to Hungary, where fate shows us peaceful homes: there we will make the Iberian kingdoms rise again. Persevere and keep yourselves for future prosperity.9

The drive in political-economic thought, so evident in the Phoenix where de la Penya had written of the need to decentralize artisanal production to the towns; to encourage production throughout the region; to acquire new skills; and to develop silk production—all these objectives were directly translated to the Habsburg monarchy in Central Europe by the once-Spanish king, now a German emperor, and his Austracist exiles. “If the king returned” then “navigation, trade, and the arts would be reborn.” The land “can advance in arts, introduce shipping, and undertake commerce […] exalting our province with the prodigious grandeur of ancient times” (de la Peña y Farell 1683, p. 82). These were Feliu de la Penya’s words for Catalonia, but they were now being applied to Charles’s Habsburg monarchy.

8 Aquerdos (sic) y Memoires a Carlo Terzo roi de Espagna y Sisto Imperador de Romanos.

(Ricordi e Memorie a Carlo III re di Spagna, e VI come Imperator de Romani), Bibliotheca Nazionale Braidense, Milan. I am most grateful to the manuscripts’ librarian Marina Zetti for her assistance. 9 “Urbem, quam statuo, vestra est subducite/Rebus experti revocate animos maestumque/Timorem mittite forsan, et haec meminisse/Juvabit, Tendimus ungariam, sedes ubi fata/Quietas ostendunt, illic fac regna resurgere/Ibericae, Durante et vosmet rebus servate secundis”. My thanks to Hilary Goy for her advice on Plantí’s text and with this translation. Josep Plantí: Exhortation to Emperor Charles VI, in Hemistichia ex Virgilio lib. 1 Aeneidos (after 1725). Studiolum. New Barcelona (Hungary, 1735). http://rio wang.blogspot.com/2012/02/new-barcelona-hungary-1735.html [accessed 12 December 2021].

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Conclusion The influence of Spain and the “Spanish party” on the Vienna of emperor Charles VI is well known. A new Spanish court ceremonial; the Spanish Riding School; the Spanish Hospital; the influence of Spanish architectural style on Vienna Gloriosa; so much is obvious about the relationship between Spain and Austria. The respect which Charles VI showed for the liberties, constitutions and institutions of the lands of the Habsburg monarchy, however, resembled more the practices of the king of Spain and broke with the centralizing trends which emerged from the Thirty Years’ War, which would be pursued by his successors. As king and emperor in Vienna, Charles was unquestionably influenced by his life in Barcelona and by the debates around the Catalan constitutions in 1705–1706. The ideological influence of Austracism and the political economy of Narcis Feliu de la Penya proved that the ties between the sovereign and the country were the best basis for a guarantee of fidelity and loyalty by the people for the crown. The efforts to raise the economy of the Habsburg monarchy were halted in Central Europe not for want of trying, but because warfare extinguished Spanish settlements in Hungary; other exiles left for the Italian lands; negotiations around the Pragmatic Sanction closed the trading company in Ostend; and another War of Succession—the Austrian—postponed reform until the mid-century. “There must be no difference between nations…it is therefore necessary… that some Spaniards go into my hereditary lands and some Germans come here, in order that they may understand the affairs of both as much as possible.” These words of a young king of Spain, on the merits of sharing knowledge between nations under one ruler, were as true for king and emperor Charles in Vienna as they were for king Charles in Barcelona. The challenge Charles faced, to take the best from his experience as king of Spain and from his loyal Austracists who accompanied him and apply it in his new realms as king and emperor, was a particular example of an experience that was not unique to a small number of European monarchs, translating from one realm to another. And nor was the experience uniquely European; one of the most striking parallel cases to that of Charles and his “spanishization” of the Austrian court is the persianization of the Mughal court in India in the sixteenth century after Humayun and Akbar returned from a sixteen-year exile at the Safavid Court (Parodi 2006, pp. 135–58). Many Persians accompanied Humayun on his return to India from Persia where he had taken refuge following

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his defeat by the Afghans. Scholars, advisers and administrators accompanied the returning king from Persia to India, and he sought to introduce the best about one country’s practices and traditions to the other. Just as Charles sought to use the knowledge accrued in Spain in Central Europe, Akbar used his knowledge of Persia to generate and promote economic, social and cultural change in Mughal India. This was a form of nostalgia; a pleasure and sadness for a past life recalled in the hope of retaining all that was best for the present and the future. The Habsburg monarchy of Charles VI, so influenced by the debates on the political economy during his time in Spain, and later by the community of exiles who accompanied him to Vienna, was built on the foundations of both Austrian Habsburg rule and Austracist practice in Spain. In the eighteenth century, it was the Habsburg eagle and the Catalan phoenix, together, which defined the monarchy of the once-Spanish king in Habsburg Central Europe.

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“When a Snake Is Cut into Pieces”: Austria’s Imperial Relations and the Downfall of Spain’s First Minister Ensenada in 1754 Christoph Rosenmüller

Introduction Palace intrigue brought down the first minister of the Spanish empire, the Marquis of la Ensenada, on July 21, 1754. Originally in office in 1743, Ensenada and his allies had implemented an ambitious reform program reflecting the “agents of modernity” in the sense of this volume. Scholars often underline the incisive importance of Ensenada’s government and the changes initiated by his successor, Ricardo Wall (1754–1763), who dialed back several contested reforms. For this reason, a flurry of highquality publications analyzes the causes of the palace intrigue by casting light onto squabbling court factions and consulting the British, French, and Italian diplomatic correspondence. Historians have largely ignored that the Habsburg Austrian empire (Austria for short) contributed to Ensenada’s overthrow, however. In this chapter, I analyze its role in Ensenada’s estrangement from the king and

C. Rosenmüller (B) Middle Tennessee State University, Murfreesboro, TN, USA e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_6

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the queen, the palace coup, and the immediate consequences by drawing upon the views of the French and British ambassadors on the role of Austria. More importantly, I examine the reports of Count Christoph Migazzi, the Habsburg ambassador in Madrid from 1752 to 1756. Migazzi wrote to the Austrian Queen Maria Theresa (1740–1780), her husband, and her Staatskanzler (first minister), and penned an extensive report on August 19, 1754.1 Scholars have overlooked this correspondence, although Austrian and Spanish scholars jointly published the diplomatic correspondence between their empires up until the War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714) and for the period after 1759. In addition, Hispanic and anglophone historians of the Spanish Empire tend to lose sight of Austria after 1714 (Edelmayer et al. 2008; Juretschke 1970; Kuethe and Andrien 2014; Stein and Stein 2000; Baudot Monroy 2013; note that Téllez Alarcia 2008, pp. 154–67 analyzes the Austrian ambassadors). Nevertheless, Austria remained a great power in the eighteenth century. Charles of Bourbon, king of Naples and Sicily (Charles III of Spain after 1759), for instance, sought to marry Maria Theresa but failed because other states feared a united Habsburg and Spanish-Bourbon front. He ultimately married another archducal daughter (Fernández 2001, pp. 80–2; Baeza Martín s.d.; on the terms “Austria,” “Habsburg,” and “ambassadors,” Backerra 2018, pp. 24–5 and 27–8). Migazzi significantly shaped palace intrigue. He ingratiated himself with the Spanish queen and the king, gaining their trust and affection to the point that the king claimed to “love and appreciate him” (quote in Wolfsgruber 1890, p. 56). Migazzi urged the vacillating queen to drop Ensenada, which she did soon afterwards and Migazzi took full credit. Migazzi also made inroads with courtiers belonging to Ensenada’s camp, spinning a web of informants and socializing among other ambassadors. In addition, Migazzi provided unknown details in his reports. King Ferdinand VI of Spain (1746–1759) was furious, for instance, when he heard that Ensenada had commissioned weavers from Silesia (Prussia/previously Austria) to set up a linen cloth factory in Spain. The king was also left in the dark when Ensenada lent two million pesos to Elizabeth Farnese, the former queen of Spain. Furthermore, Migazzi relegated his 1 The three reports from August 19, 1754 and other letters on Ensenada’s fall are located in Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (=ÖStA), Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (=HHStA), Staatenabteilung (=StA) Spanien, Diplomatische Korrespondenz (1754.05–1754.12), Karton 85. Abridged words are spelled out in italics.

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British colleague to a secondary role, although anglophone scholarship has afforded the British ambassador a great deal of influence in carrying out the coup. Both Migazzi and his British colleague schemed, but they also inflated their roles since infighting among palace factions primarily determined the outcome. The actor-centered focus of this chapter is inspired by recent scholarship on early modern imperial relations that has moved away from discussing isolated state actions. Instead, historians now include cultural perspectives on diplomats who enmeshed themselves deeply within the social environs of their host cities. Hillard von Thiessen and Christian Windler argue, for example, that emissaries represented their empires— understood as disparate territories knit together by asymmetric negotiations with the center. The ambassadors usually cultivated friendly relations with their kings, who tended to choose aristocrats for these positions because of their prestige and cultural habits. Since the late seventeenth century, however, merely being a skillful cortegiano at a foreign court did not suffice anymore; diplomats were increasingly expected to gain expertise in imperial negotiations and handle them deftly. In addition, these actors had to strike a balance among feuding parties in their host city. If they consociated excessively with the political opposition, they could lose access to important ministers or even the queen and king themselves (Thiessen and Windler 2010, pp. 6–11; Thiessen 2015, pp. 202–8). Migazzi’s activities add some nuance to this model. He was the scion of an old noble lineage and successfully served as diplomat in Rome before his posting to Madrid—largely confirming Thiessen and Windler’s thesis. Yet Migazzi’s nineteenth-century biographer Cölestin Wolfsgruber already pointed out that the constellation in Madrid was more bifurcated than in the Thiessen-Windler scenario because two competing factions held positions in government at the same time (Wolfsgruber 1890, pp. 46–8). Ensenada’s coterie continued a largely pro-French course, while José de Carvajal y Lancaster (1698–1754)—the other powerful government minister—envisioned a closer collaboration with Austria and Great Britain. Migazzi forged connections with Carvajal y Lancaster and his confidants, even making inroads among Ensenada’s clique although he had little influence on the first minister himself. Wolfsgruber’s precise scholarship remains impressive in many ways, though he mainly focused on the bilateral relationship between Austria and Spain. This chapter seeks to place Migazzi’s machinations within the multi-imperial diplomacy of that time.

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Austria and Spain on the Eve of the Diplomatic Revolution Habsburg Austria suffered a series of setbacks in the 1730s and 1740s after having expanded its southeastern frontier earlier in the century. The empire successfully fought the Ottomans and seized much of Hungary in the Peace of Passarowitz in 1718, although the Ottomans recovered most of their losses by 1739. Emperor Charles VI also issued the Pragmatic Sanction in 1713 to preserve the unity of the crown and prevent the succession of his older brother’s offspring. That law later legitimized the accession of Charles’ daughter, Maria Theresa, to the throne in 1740. Yet her claim was disputed. Prussia seized on the volatility and invaded Silesia in the same year, occupying large swaths of the rich province during the resulting first and second Silesian Wars (1740–1742, 1744–1745). France joined the fray against Austria, while Great Britain began hostilities against Spain in 1739 in the War of Jenkins’ Ear (Guerra del Asiento). The Peace of Aachen/Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748 recognized the succession of Maria Theresa and that of her husband Francis (Franz Stefan) to the imperial title. In exchange, Prussia retained Silesia, and Austria grudgingly ceded the duchies of Parma, Piacenza, and Guastalla in Italy to Charles of Bourbon’s brother, Philip of Bourbon. The settlement further damaged Austria’s prestige as a great power (Whaley 2011, pp. 167 and 352–8). Migazzi helped towards overcoming the enmity between Spain and Austria after 1748. He served as an auditor (judge) on the Rota (ecclesiastical appeals court) in Rome from 1745 onwards. During this time, he tested the waters among various cardinals about a possible rapprochement between Madrid and Vienna to obtain a peace accord for Italy. By 1749, Cardinal Portocarrero, the Spanish ambassador in Rome, agreed. In early 1751, Charles of Bourbon also proposed marrying his oldest daughter to Maria Theresa’s heir as well as another union between his oldest son and an Austrian archduchess. While the marriages were delayed, Maria Theresa was receptive to the overtures as she sought to forestall Spanish attacks in Italy if another conflict with Prussia should arise. She entrusted Migazzi—by this time the coadjutor (deputy) of the archbishop of Mecheln (Brussels)—to help finalize these affairs. Migazzi traveled to Madrid in April 1752, where he served as a plenipotentiary until 1756. Migazzi signed the Treaty of Aranjuez on June 14, 1752, which he and his predecessor had negotiated, settling the peace among Austria, Spain,

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and the Italian princes. As a result, some in Vienna hoped that the agreement with the Spanish Bourbons would open the gates towards more cordial conversations with Paris too (Wolfsgruber 1890, pp. 43–5; Arneth 1870, pp. 336–41; Hersche 1994, pp. 486–7). Austria’s aims contributed to the decisive shift of the traditional European alliance system in the 1750s. One of the architects of this renversement des alliances or Diplomatic Revolution was the Moravian Count Wenzel Anton Kaunitz-Rietberg. He questioned the traditional collaboration with Great Britain and the Netherlands, which had failed Austria in the hopes of recovering Silesia. Instead, he floated the idea of an alliance with France in a memorandum of 1749. At that time, Kaunitz’s ideas struck observers as premature and earned considerable opposition. Kaunitz, however, became Staatskanzler (first minister) of the Habsburg Empire in 1753, a position which he held until 1792. Subsequently, he sounded out the prospects of stronger bonds with France while rebutting British suggestions in 1755 to move Austrian troops into the Lower Netherlands to ward off a French invasion. Instead, recovering Silesia and shielding Bohemia remained Maria Theresa’s principal aims. Kaunitz then aligned Austria with France in the Seven Years’ War (1756–1763), just as Great Britain and Prussia signed a defensive treaty. Spain joined France and Austria in 1762, though the war did not yield the desired results. Austria did not regain Silesia, and France lost most of its North American possessions. Spain also suffered a humiliating occupation of Havana and ceded Florida to Great Britain. Nonetheless, Austria had won significant battles and reclaimed much of its former role as a first-rate power (Stollberg-Rilinger 2017, pp. 391–9; Whaley 2011, pp. 359–62 and 387– 8; Aretin 1977; Benjamin Keene to Newcastle, Antigola [Ontígola], June 30, 1753, in Lodge 1933, p. 333, initially welcomed Kaunitz). Scholars have spilled much ink about the differing political aims of the two influential ministers of King Ferdinand until 1754. While older scholarship painted the Minister of State José de Carvajal y Lancaster, in charge of foreign policy, as an Anglophile and the First Minister Zenón de Somodevilla, marquis of la Ensenada, as a Francophile, Renate Pieper and others argue instead that they complemented and occasionally obstructed each other (Pieper 1999, p. 151; see also Delgado Barrado 2001, p. 48). Carvajal y Lancaster was a grandee, who had studied law in the privileged colegio mayor (residential hall) of the University of Salamanca and became the minister of state in 1746. Carvajal y Lancaster favored a return to a more austere and less bellicose monarchy based on the relations of king

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and nobility. Carvajal y Lancaster also tried to defuse tensions with Great Britain to neutralize its threat. This plan entailed expanding the army for a more balanced relationship with France and included an alliance with Austria, the traditional enemy of France. Several aristocrats at the Spanish court supported Carvajal y Lancaster’s policies (Gómez Urdáñez 2001, p. 51). Meanwhile, Ensenada was cut from a different cloth and better fits the mold of an “agent of modernity.” He had risen from modest hidalgo (lower nobility) origins in rural La Rioja (north-east Spain) and served many years in the naval administration. Ensenada became minister of finance, war, as well as navy and Indies in 1743. Scholars have interpreted his ideas as ambitious and reformist. Ensenada opened South American trade and limited the power of the church. He also attempted to modernize tax collection by devising a land census of the population of Guadalajara. His aim was to levy a single tax on wealth and income rather than consumption and extend the levy to the entire territory of Castile. The reform would tax the upper nobility and clergy more effectively. They vocally opposed the reform and the single tax failed as a result (Pieper 1992, p. 187; Kuethe and Andrien 2014, pp. 133–4). Moreover, Ensenada with some reservations favored an alliance with France by continuing the family compacts (Pacte de Famille or Pacto de Familia) of 1733 and 1743. This approach meant strengthening the Spanish armada and countering Great Britain more forcefully by reducing the contraband trade and confronting British designs in the Americas. Both Ensenada and Carvajal y Lancaster wrote dismissively about each other, but neither one schemed against the other to oust him from office. Ensenada refrained from doing so because he knew that any replacement for Carvajal y Lancaster would be worse for him (Gómez Urdáñez 2001, pp. 52–3 and 75; Stein and Stein 2000, pp. 237–8, Molina Cortón 2003; Amor-Martín 2020, p. 247).

Migazzi’s Machinations at Madrid’s Bifurcated Court After his arrival in Madrid, Migazzi built on his good rapport with Carvajal y Lancaster to further Austria’s aims. Migazzi confided to the minister that he wished for closer ties with the French Bourbons, as Kaunitz was nudging Austria in that direction. Not much help was forthcoming from Madrid, however, as Spain’s relations with France

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had cooled markedly after the Treaty of Aachen/Aix-la-Chapelle. The outcome of the Austrian negotiations with Paris was still uncertain at that time too (Wolfsgruber 1890, pp. 51–3). Under these circumstances, Migazzi continued trying to contain France and weaken Ensenada. Against this backdrop, Migazzi believed that Carvajal y Lancaster was moving in the right direction. Although Migazzi credited him with being too fearful and “of a not too easy comprehension” (cited in Wolfsgruber 1890, p. 50), Carvajal y Lancaster overcame initial compunctions of conscience and secretly began intercepting letters arriving for Ensenada. Some letters documented that Ensenada and the king’s Jesuit confessor were sabotaging the treaty of Madrid of 1750 that Carvajal y Lancaster had agreed on with Portugal. According to its terms, Spain ceded seven Jesuit missions among the Guaraní Natives on the east bank of the Uruguay River to Portugal, while Spain gained the important commercial center of Colonia de Sacramento (nowadays Uruguay) on the River Plate. Carvajal y Lancaster’s aim was to curb contraband commerce out of Colonia de Sacramento and steady relations with Portugal. The crowns of Portugal and Spain sent commissioners to establish the new boundary between the two empires. Nonetheless, Ensenada and the confessor encouraged the Guaraní and the Jesuits to expel them. The Guaraní complied, declaring that they owed obedience to the Jesuits alone. Ensenada’s subterfuge to thwart his diplomacy further incensed Carvajal y Lancaster. He reported these moves to Queen Maria Barbara of Braganza, who shortly after notified King Ferdinand.2 As a result, Migazzi noted that “the reigning queen had diminished the great trust that she once placed in Ensenada and had become suspicious of his conduct, and turned to Carvajal y Lancaster’s side. Yet this minister, partly out of contempt for Ensenada and partly out of pusillanimity … never wanted to confront him seriously and continuously, and so the matter between the two remained balanced in such a way that neither one could gain the upper hand over the other.”3

2 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 31v; Ensenada’s clandestine moves in this regard are well known; see, for example, Diego Téllez Alarcia, 2002, p. 124; Kuethe and Andrien, 2014, p. 211. 3 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 29v.

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The tide was turning against Ensenada, however. On November 8, 1753, the Duke of Huéscar became the mayordomo mayor (governor) of the royal household. Húescar was close with Carvajal y Lancaster, serving as dean of the Council of State and leading the aristocratic opposition against Ensenada. Huéscar gained direct access to King Ferdinand as his mayordomo mayor. He woke and dressed the king, hunted with him, sat with him at the table, and undressed him at night. They also conversed about state matters (Gómez Urdáñez 2001, p. 105; Kuethe and Andrien 2014, p. 210). As a result, the king felt a particular Zärtligkeit (tenderness) for Huéscar, as Migazzi reported with some satisfaction.4 The French Ambassador Duke of Duras meanwhile noted with consternation that Huéscar’s leanings bordered on treason: “Monsieur d’Huescar does not dissimulate any more his attachment to the House of Austria; he is the shelter for all Spaniards who had left the service of Philip V, and his protection is entirely theirs.” Duras referred to King Philip, the father of King Ferdinand, and those Spaniards who had opted for a Habsburg succession to the Spanish crown in 1700.5 In addition, Migazzi made some inroads into Ensenada’s camp, via the famed castrato musician Farinelli who provided him with vital information. Farinelli arrived at the Spanish court in 1737. His music had a soothing effect on King Ferdinand and his father, who both grappled with psychological issues. They allegedly recovered their ability to focus and work when hearing the musician sing arias. While recent scholarship has banished this view to the realm of myths (Marían Sáez 2018, pp. 42 and 63), the singer undoubtedly gained the trust of the king and queen to the degree that they treated him almost like family. The musician, for instance, entered the royal apartments without being challenged. Migazzi cultivated a relationship with Farinelli and, one contemporary observer noted, “even handed the chamber pot to him when he was sick” (Bernardo Tanucci, cited in Martín Sáez 2020, p. 373). Migazzi warned Farinelli that Ensenada harmed the interests of Queen Barbara and Queen Maria Theresa, and Farinelli wavered briefly in his loyalty to the first minister

4 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ibid., fol. 31v. 5 Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, June 26, 1754, Archives du Ministère des Affaires

Étrangères (=AMAE): Correspondance Politique, Espagne (=CPE) vol. 514, fol. 362r– 362v (according to the printed pagination). My gratitude to Prof. Allan J. Kuethe for providing me with copies of Duras’s correspondence.

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and his alliance with France (Martín Sáez 2020, pp. 271–2; Téllez Alarcia 2008, p. 201). Some scholars now question the tendency to lament the fall of the reformer Ensenada. While Spanish historian María Baudot Monroy, for example, praises Ensenada’s “more realistic” policy against British expansion in the Americas (Baudot Monroy 2013, pp. 409–11), Diego Téllez Alarcia regards a neutral course towards Great Britain and developing friendly relations with Austria as a viable alternative for Spain. Téllez Alarcia shows that Ensenada’s successor as first minister, Ricardo Wall, an offspring of Irish immigrants, pursued his goals without becoming anyone’s lackey. He continued negotiations with Great Britain while still backing attempts to dislodge its settlers in the Caribbean. In addition, Wall kept France at arm’s length but joined it in the war in 1762, when British gains excessively threatened Spanish America (Téllez Alarcia 2012, pp. 58 and 72–5; 2002, pp. 122 and 133–4). National historiographies have tended to overemphasize the role of their ambassadors in Ensenada’s fall. Some British historians, for instance, have stressed that the prime minister commended Ambassador Benjamin Keene for having “cut up by the root all French intrigues and French dependencies in Spain” (Duke of Newcastle to Keene, Newcastle House, August 15, 1754, in Lodge 1933, p. 40). Richard Lodge claimed years ago that Wall was “virtually Keene’s nominee” as a result, and that the two men “completed their triumph by procuring the dismissal and exile of Ensenada” (Lodge 1933, pp. xix–xx, see also p. 38, note 1). John Lynch’s classic work follows this interpretation to an extent in that Ensenada sent an order to the governor of Havana to attack British loggers in the Caribbean. The navy intercepted the communication and Keene slyly passed the order to Wall and Huéscar, who showed it to a terrified King Ferdinand. As a result, the “Anglophile” party gained the upper hand (Lynch 1989, pp. 183 and 186). In addition, whereas Spanish scholars typically disagree with the focus on Keene and instead emphasize the infighting among palace factions in Madrid, Baudot Monroy maintains that the plot against Ensenada was “carried out by the Duke of Huéscar and the British ambassador, Benjamin Keene” (Baudot Monroy 2013, p. 40; see also pp. 409–11). No doubt, Keene was a shrewd operator much like other early modern diplomats. He regularly participated in informal meetings with Queen Barbara, discussed opera with her, and, although they were rejected, offered diamond sets to Ensenada’s confidant on the Council of the

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Indies. From 1753 at the latest, Keene actively schemed against the first minister because Ensenada rebuilt the navy and port fortresses at a staggering pace and ordered harassment of British loggers in the Caribbean. Keene helped Wall and Huéscar by providing them with a copy of a Cuban order for two warships to sail and attack settlers in Belize, which showed that hostilities had commenced without royal approval (Téllez Alarcia 2008, pp. 155 and 180–90; Gómez Urdáñez 2001, p. 71; Stein and Stein 2000, p. 252; Kuethe and Andrien 2014, pp. 210 and 212). Yet in Migazzi’s view, Keene played at most a supporting role in the coup. According to the Austrian ambassador, Ensenada had tacitly agreed with Keene to restore amicable relations and form a joint company to cut dye wood in Campeche (Mexico). Ensenada changed his mind after the arrival of the French Ambassador Duke of Duras, however. Ensenada secretly ordered ships to slip out of various American ports, gather in the waters off Campeche and on the Miskito (Mosquito) coast (present Nicaragua and Honduras), and assail English loggers. Migazzi continued that Ensenada would cast the blame for hostilities on Great Britain and hoped to drive the king into the arms of France. Keene got wind of these plans and communicated them to London. The prime minister summoned the Spanish ambassador and sharply recriminated him. The ambassador was caught unaware and sent a courier to Madrid to relay the accusations. King Ferdinand had so far refused to hear anything about the brewing conflict with Great Britain and when the news broke from London, he was “deeply distressed” and feared immediate hostilities. Migazzi, therefore, does not corroborate Keene’s claim of a single-handed decision to scare the king. In any case, Keene’s role was overstated because Carvajal y Lancaster was reading parts of Ensenada’s confidential communications anyway.6 Carvajal y Lancaster’s health was declining rapidly in early April 1754, as Ensenada’s opponents gained ground politically. Migazzi was admitted to the ante-chamber of the dying minister and received assurances that no minister of state hostile to the Habsburgs would be appointed—a sign of Austria’s diplomatic ascendancy. On April 8, 1754, Carvajal y Lancaster died. The king appointed Huéscar as interim minister of state. Huéscar then convinced the king to install Wall as his successor, much to the chagrin of Ensenada’s party at court. Yet Queen Barbara was not yet ready 6 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 38v.

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to drop Ensenada since she feared that Huéscar alone would dominate the king too much. The queen hoped instead that Huéscar would leave the government and Wall would be able to rein in Ensenada. She could then hold the tip of the scales between the two feuding parties.7 The Duke of Duras entertained similar hopes as Migazzi in this regard, but from a differing viewpoint. He desired that Ensenada remained in office with the queen forming some form of neutrality between the two camps.8 Migazzi then impressed upon Queen Barbara the need to decide between Wall and Ensenada. Migazzi’s biographer proposed that the ambassador “brought about what was thought impossible, the fall of this court favorite” (Wolfsgruber 1890, p. 51). Migazzi would have agreed with his biographer, since “the overthrow of the Marquis of Ensenada speaks for the steps that I have taken in this matter.”9 While they both exaggerated, Migazzi’s action mattered, and Keene also thought of Migazzi as “excessive clever.10 As Migazzi conversed with the doubting queen, he reminded her of her relationship with Maria Theresa, knowing that Queen Barbara was fond of Austria and her Austrian mother, the queen of Portugal. Queen Barbara then asked for his opinion on whether Wall would be suitable to contain Ensenada. Migazzi dropped diplomatic caution at that point and openly urged her to dismiss Ensenada. He maintained that Wall and Ensenada could not coexist in court, as Wall would probably resign rather than deal with or serve under Ensenada. The prospect of Ensenada returning to full power impressed her. Migazzi justified his candidness by pointing out that if Ensenada survived politically, Vienna would recall him to express its displeasure.11 The French ambassador Duras still confided in Ensenada’s prospects at court, while worrying about Migazzi’s growing influence. Duras claimed

7 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fols. 30v–31v. 8 Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, July 27, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 425r. 9 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ibid., fol. 29r. 10 Keene to Newcastle, Madrid, July 12, 1753, in Lodge 1935, p. 337; Keene and Migazzi got along well at court, see Keene to Abraham Castres, El Escorial, November 2, 1753, in ibid., p. 354; Keene to Castres, Madrid, December 23, 1754, in ibid. p. 393, that they were drinking “warm punch” together before Christmas; Keene to Castres, Antigola, June 5, 1755, ibid., p. 410, that Keene “dined at Megazzi’s.” 11 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fols. 30v–31r, 34r.

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in June 1754, that “the Queen undoubtedly loves the Austrians; she was brought up with these principles by her mother,” who supported the intrigue against Ensenada. However, the ambassador was still upbeat, proclaiming that at the same time Queen Barbara “cannot suffer Monsieur d’Huescar and does not hide it,” while she “loves and has put all her confidence in Monsieur de la Ensenada, who shows himself on all occasions to be a partisan of France.” Meanwhile, “the proceedings of Monsieur Keene and Monsieur Migerzzi have displeased the Princess,” referring to the British Ambassador Benjamin Keene and Migazzi.12 At the same time, according to the Austrian ambassador, Huéscar and Wall got their hands on Ensenada’s secret correspondence that Carvajal y Lancaster had intercepted. This included Ensenada’s secret exchanges with the courts of France, Portugal, Naples, and the former Queen Elizabeth Farnese, who plotted in La Granja de San Ildefonso near Segovia. The king had not authorized most of these communications. In midJuly, Huéscar and Wall assembled key charges in a memorandum. Migazzi summed up the charges, claiming that the army was in poor shape because Ensenada had been its enemy. The wharf in Andalusia also used rotten wood to build useless ships, while bad administration likely caused unrest in Mexico. Moreover, the royal treasury was plundered as royal officials often accepted orders scribbled by Ensenada’s clients and failed to record expenses. Finally, the first minister himself had given too much money to foreign powers and scandalously enriched himself. In short, “the whole kingdom has wept under his yoke.” After seeing the memorandum of Huéscar and Wall, the king and queen agreed to drop Ensenada.13

The Wiggling Snake: Ensenada’s Arrest and Its Aftermath Migazzi noted that the conspirators advanced secretly on July 20. On that day, Ensenada stayed until 11.30 p.m. in his office, where he usually

12 Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, June 26, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 364r–364v; see also Duras to to Rouillé, Aranjuez, June 24, 1754, ibid., vol. 514, fol. 354r; Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, July 27, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 425r. See also Kuethe and Andrien, 2014, p. 196. 13 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, no. 35, fol. 47v; the original reads “daß gantze Königreich hat unter seinem joch geseÿffzet.”

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waited to be called on by the king to dispatch business. He was then told that it was too late for work and went home. At midnight, Wall signed a royal order to march a detachment of Spanish and Walloon guards to Ensenada’s residence and surround it. A councilor of Castile arrived and demanded to open the door to the residence, “under the pretext that a courier with letters to the marchese [Ensenada] had arrived.” The councilor forced entry and detained Ensenada’s armed men. He also barged into the bedroom, where he found Ensenada resting. The councilor showed Ensenada the royal order and demanded all state papers along with the keys to decipher them. Ensenada was given time to dress and was told to ready a coach with six mules. The deposed minister left his home at three or four in the morning with one servant, passing the gate of Antocha under guard and riding towards Grenada.14 Duras largely confirmed these events. He added, however, that the king sought no revenge and sent a coach “with a cook, a servant, linen, clothes, and a thousand pistols [coins] to provide Monsieur de la Ensenada with the necessary and even superfluous things for his journey.”15 Migazzi then observed that Ensenada’s letters were deciphered and revealed two major plots without royal approval. The former first minister had lent two million pesos to Farnese, the mother of Charles of Bourbon.16 She had invited foreign ambassadors to La Granja de San Ildefonso and criticized her stepson’s politics, such as the boundary revision on the Uruguay River. She also schemed for the royal succession of her son (Fernández 2001, p. 106; Kuethe and Andrien 2014, pp. 159– 60, 197 and 216). In addition, Migazzi pointed out that Ensenada had bought a linen factory in Silesia and advanced significant funds to those merchants for moving the factory to Spain and selling its products. Ensenada’s aim was to undermine the linen factory that Carvajal y Lancaster had set up in León. It is probable, that Antonio de Ulloa, a naval officer and Ensenada’s confidant, had purchased the factory while visiting Prussia in 1751. This must have irked Migazzi, because Prussia had seized the province from Austria just over a decade earlier. Migazzi noted with some 14 Migazzi to Count Wenzel Anton of Kaunitz, Madrid, July 22, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 3, no. 16. 15 Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, July 27, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 414r, see also fols. 409r–413v. 16 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 40r.

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schadenfreude that when “the king was informed of these Ensenadian designs, his majesty was so indignant that he even showed his displeasure by stomping his feet.”17 In the aftermath of Ensenada’s fall, the Austrian and French ambassadors offered starkly differing visions for the future. Unsurprisingly, Migazzi saw both Austria and Spain as winners of Ensenada’s fall. Instead of falling under the “French yoke,” Spain recovered her “dignity and freedom.” The danger that Spain would “become a safe tool of the generally harmful intentions of the French court” had been averted.18 Migazzi also conferred with Wall about Spain’s future relations with Austria. He then reported to Maria Theresa that Wall waxed “about the tenderness of the king and queen for your most gracious ladyship” and suggested that these feelings had to be buttressed by further commitments to their alliance.19 Wall added that “the good agreement of the Catholic King with Your Imperial Majesty and England is in accordance with the true well-being of Spain.”20 Duras meanwhile claimed that many Spaniards were horrified that Huéscar had seized the reins of government. In homes and streets, it was said that “Spain is delivered to an Irishman, sold to England, and to the whims of a traitor to his king and to his fatherland who publicly attaches himself to the henchman of the Austrians.”21 Migazzi added that just “as when a snake is cut into pieces, the parts that have been removed from the head use to wiggle for some time.” In the same way, Ensenada’s followers either continued in their positions or fell from office.22 Some were sent to Madrid’s court jail, while others were 17 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 40r–40v; the original reads “Alß der König von diesen Enzenadischen vnternehmungen verständiget worden, wurden Seine Maÿes tät darüber so vngehalten, das Sie ihren vnwillen sogar mit stampfung deren füßen zu erkennen gaben.” On Ulloa’s travels, Gómez Urdáñez, Fernando VI , 194, 252. 18 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 29r, see also fols. 33v–34r. 19 Migazzi to Kaunitz, Madrid, August 13, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 27v; the original reads “von der zärtligkeit des Königs und der Königin gegen eüer allergnädigßte Frau.” 20 Summary of Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien, Karton 85, Ordner 2. 21 Duras to Rouillé, Aranjuez, July 27, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 425r. 22 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien,

Karton 85, Ordner 2, fol. 39r.

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detained in the castle in Valladolid.23 Meanwhile, Farinelli was despondent. He nevertheless claimed during an audience with the king that he would be the first to execute any punishment against his friend Ensenada because the king had justly sentenced and exiled the former minister. In addition, the royal confessor stopped discussing politics with the king and focused on the sacrament. He feared that the king would oust him if he continued to declare his support for Ensenada. The Jesuits also worried that they would forever lose the important office of a royal confessor. Yet when Huéscar entered quarantine on account of his son contracting smallpox, the Jesuits began plotting to counter his and Wall’s anti-Jesuit leanings.24 The English ambassador confirmed Jesuit support for Ensenada, as the “Jesuits are for the strongest in Europe. They were Austrians in the great power of that House; at present they seem full as devoted towards its competitor” France (Keene to Castres, La Moraleja, August 23, 1754, in Lodge 1933, p. 376). In a rare case of agreement, the Austrian, French, and English ambassadors praised the quality of the succeeding ministers. Sebastián Eslava became minister of War, Julián de Arriaga led the ministry of the navy and the Indies, while the Count of Valparaíso took charge of finances. For Migazzi, “Eslava is regarded here as the best Spanish general, and nobody questions his honesty and denial of all self-interest: Arriaga’s virtue and piety allegedly extend beyond the common bounds, and no one doubts Walparaiso’s [Valparaiso] sincere zeal for service.”25 Keene shared these sentiments since he and Migazzi were convinced that the regime change played out in their favor (Keene to Castres, Madrid, August 2, 1754, in Lodge 1933, pp. 371–2). Duras meanwhile assessed the damage and hoped for the best. He noted that everybody spoke well of Eslava, who disliked the Austrians and the English, and that Arriaga was a “very honest man,” while Valparaiso has always shown him friendship. Each ambassador gave the situation his own certain spin.26

23 Migazzi to Kaunitz, Madrid, July 22, 1754, ibid., no. 16. 24 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ibid., fol. 39r–39v. 25 Migazzi to Maria Theresa, Madrid, August 19, 1754, ÖStA, HHStA, StA Spanien,

Karton 85, Ordner 2, no. 35, fol. 46v. 26 Duras to Rouillé, Madrid, July 27, 1754, AMAE, CPE vol. 514, fol. 429r–429v.

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Conclusion Ensenada and his clique carried out important reforms in Spain. They modernized the state by upgrading maritime defenses, liberalizing trade, streamlining the financial administration, and cutting back ecclesiastical power. The adversaries of reform were not idle, however, and they contributed to the palace coup on July 20, 1754. For this reason, many scholars see Ensenada’s fall as a victory of conservative forces that ushered in a lull after a decidedly reformist period. Nonetheless, the change in imperial relations was not necessarily anti-modern or conservative; the alliance with Austria and even a more amicable relationship with Great Britain was a viable alternative to the family pact with Bourbon France. Migazzi reported to Maria Theresa, her husband, and Staatskanzler Kaunitz about Ensenada’s errors. The first minister neglected the army, abandoned proper bookkeeping in the treasury, and shamefully enriched himself. Worse, however, were designs to restore the union with France by secretly attacking British ships in the Caribbean. He also encouraged Jesuits and Guaraní Natives to resist Portuguese and Spanish commissioners who established a new boundary on the Uruguay River. This confrontational and clandestine course flabbergasted both the king and queen. The Duke of Huéscar and Ricardo Wall opposed Ensenada’s moves, and they exploited the opportunity much to Migazzi’s applause. During this time, Migazzi gained the royal trust and urged the queen to dismiss Ensenada during a decisive moment. Otherwise, Migazzi argued, Wall and Huéscar would abandon the court and Ensenada would recover his full powers. Migazzi also reminded Queen Barbara of her Austrian origins and relationship with Maria Theresa. While Migazzi did make an impression, he exaggerated his role when he took full credit for Ensenada’s overthrow on July 21. Moreover, Migazzi reported that Ensenada had commissioned Silesian weavers and merchants to establish a linen cloth factory in Spain. He had also lent Elizabeth Farnese two million pesos, probably in support of her son Charles of Bourbon’s designs. At the same time, Migazzi paid only fleeting attention to his friend Ambassador Keene, who has often been seen as instrumental. In fact, both Keene and Migazzi shaped the course of events in Madrid, although they overstated their contributions. Migazzi combined changing and traditional aims of Austrian diplomacy in 1754. He built on the alliance with Spain, that he had hammered out in the Treaty of Aranjuez. Migazzi also kept close to Great Britain and

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sought to isolate France. Meanwhile, Staatskanzler Kaunitz was preparing a détente with France. Migazzi did not disagree with this new direction, but the negotiations with France had not progressed enough at that point to change Migazzi’s course in Madrid. Kaunitz’s calculations eventually culminated in the Diplomatic Revolution of 1756 at the beginning of the Seven Years’ War. France joined Austria and Russia, while Wall initially charted a neutral course for Spain. Ultimately, however, Spain fought alongside France and Austria in 1762. While most scholars of the eighteenth-century Spanish Empire sideline Austria, this chapter shows that Austria’s Migazzi shaped one of the important regime changes in Spanish history.

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Delgado Barrado, José Miguel. 2001. El Proyecto Político de Carvajal. Pensamiento y reforma en tiempos de Fernando VI . Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigacones Científicas. Edelmayer, Friedrich, Virginia León Sanz, and José Ignacio Ruiz Rodríguez, eds., 2008. Hispania–Austria III: Der Spanische Erbfolgekrieg/La Guerra de Sucesión española. Vienna: Verlag für Geschichte und Politik and Munich: Oldenbourg. Fernández, Roberto. 2001. Carlos III . Madrid: Alianza. Gómez Urdáñez, José Luis. 2001. Fernando VI. Madrid: Arlanza. Gómez Urdáñiz, José Luis. 2002. “Carvajal y Ensenada, un binomio político.” In Ministros de Fernando VI , edited by José Miguel Delgado Barrado and José Luis Gómez Urdáñez, 65–92. Córdoba: Servicio de Publicaciones, Universidad de Córdoba. Hersche, Peter. 1994. “Migazzi, Christoph Graf.” Neue Deutsche Biographie 17: 486–88. https://www.deutsche-biographie.de. Accessed 17 May 2021. Juretschke, Hans, ed. 1970. Berichte der diplomatischen Vertreter des Wiener Hofes aus Spanien in der Regierungszeit Karls III. 1759–1788/Despachos de los representantes diplomaticos de la Corte de Viena, acreditados en Madrid durante el reinado de Carlos III. Madrid: Görres-Gesellschaft and Consejo Superior de Investigacion Cientifica. Kuethe, Allan J., and Kenneth J. Andrien. 2014. The Spanish Atlantic World in the Eighteenth Century: War and the Bourbon Reforms, 1713–1796. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lodge, Richard, ed. 1933. The Private Correspondence of Benjamin Keene. Cambridge: The Cambridge University Press. Lynch, John. 1989. Bourbon Spain, 1700–1808. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Martín Sáez, Daniel. 2018. “La leyenda de Farinelli en España: historiografía, mitología y política.” Revista de Musicología 41 (1): 41–78. Martín Sáez, Daniel. 2020. “La amistad entre Carlo Broschi Farinelli y el marqués de la Ensenada a través de la diplomacia europea, la iconografía, la propaganda, la historia y la literatura.” El Futuro del Pasado: Revista electrónica de historia 11: 263–303. Molina Cortón, Juan. 2003. Reformismo y neutralidad. José de Carvajal y la diplomacia de la España preilustrada. Mérida: Editoria Regional de Extremadura. Pieper, Renate. 1999. “Fernando VI (1746–1759).” In Los Reyes de España. Dieciocho retratos históricos desde los Reyes Católicos hasta la actualidad, edited by Walther Bernecker, Carlos Collado Seidel, and Paul Hoser. Madrid: Siglo XXI. Pieper, Renate. 1992. La Real Hacienda bajo Fernando VI y Carlos III (1753– 1788). Repercusiones económicas y sociales. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios Fiscales.

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Stein, Stanley J., and Barbara H. Stein. 2000. Silver, Trade, and War. Spain and America in the Making of Early Modern Europe. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins Press. Stollberg-Rilinger, Barbara. 2017. Maria Theresia. Die Kaiserin in ihrer Zeit. Munich: C. H. Beck. Téllez Alarcia, Diego. 2002. “El Caballero Don Ricardo Wall y la conspiración antiensenadista.” In Ministros de Fernando VI , edited by José Miguel Delgado Barrado and José Luis Gómez Urdáñez, 95–138. Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba. Téllez Alarcia, Diego. 2008. Ricardo Wall. Aut Caesar aut nullus. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa. Téllez Alarcia, Diego. 2012. El ministerio Wall: la “España discreta” del “ministro olvidado.” Madrid: Marcial Pons Historia. Thiessen, Hillard von. 2015. “Gestaltungsspielräume und Handlungspraktiken frühneuzeitlicher Diplomaten.” In Praktiken der Frühen Neuzeit: Akteure, Handlungen, Artefakte. Frühneuzeit-Impulse, vol. 3, edited by Arndt Brendecke, 199–209. Köln, Weimar, Wien: Böhlau Verlag. Thiessen, Hillard von, and Christian Windler. 2010. “Einleitung: Aussenbeziehungen in akteurszentrierter Perspektive.” In Akteure der Aussenbeziehungen: Netzwerke und Interkulturalität im historischen Wandel, edited by Hillard von Thiessen and Christian Windler, 1–12. Köln, Weimar: Böhlau Verlag. Whaley, Joachim. 2011. Germany and the Holy Roman Empire: Volume I: Maximilian I to the Peace of Westphalia, 1493–1648. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wolfsgruber, Cölestin. 1890. Christoph Anton Kardinal Migazzi: Fürsterzbischof von Wien. Saulgau: Hermann Kitz.

Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800 Beverly Lemire

A monopoly on conducting war and extracting taxes is said to drive state formation in early modern Europe, of which England (later Great Britain) was a part (Brewer 1989; Storrs 2009). Michael Braddock outlines these elements underlying the expanding powers of the English state, noting the absence of a blueprint, with “forms [that] were continuously modulated” (Braddock 2000, p. 431). Braddock also points to the significant “effect of resistance – both routine resistance to routine expressions of political power and awareness of more spectacular resistance” (Braddock 2000, p. 432). State initiatives flourished in the early modern era, manifested in “policy” and “projects.” From the late 1500s, Joan Thirsk observed that: “Everyone with a scheme, whether to make money, to employ the poor, or to explore the far corners of the earth had a “project” … As the projects of the seventeenth century worked themselves into the economy, they transformed its structure” (Thirsk 1978, pp. 1–2).

B. Lemire (B) Department of History, Classics, and Religion, University of Alberta, Edmonton, AB, Canada e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_7

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This long-term process aimed for the expanded solvency of a burgeoning state that would allow imperial visions to be realized, with private profit for “projectors.” State power was often subcontracted to those willing to take risks for potential personal rewards, whether in tax farming or trade monopolies. States might benefit if private capital bore the burden of enforcing a state-sanctioned monopoly. Endeavors of this sort increased in number whether tobacco retail licenses or the trade monopoly granted the English East India Company (Taylor 2019; Roy 2016). Governments and their agents sought to direct the circulation of consumer goods, policing their growing, making, and trading. Many of these things were little known (or wholly unknown) among past generations in northwest Europe. Thirsk was the first to posit a developing consumer society in England, charting the plethora of internal projects from tobacco growing to the production of starch, both superfluous goods that marked new modes and allied industries, with all the problems and opportunities these entailed. These two were among the hundreds of new sectors to spark regulation from the late 1500s onwards. The narrative of innovation laid out by Thirsk involved the increased making (or growing and processing) of new materials, involving laboring communities, which in their aggregate produced major economic change. Starch and vinegar, the growing of dyestuffs, and the cultivation of tobacco, all augmented economic activity and were regulated by the state in some manner. Such ventures were routinely contentious, as when patentees received rights to regulate starch-making, which led to “storms of protest,” until finally the law was revoked, restoring “the liberty of all men,” as a contemporary described it (Thirsk 1978, p. 89). Tobaccogrowing was similarly fraught, beginning as a boon to rural families, “generally recognized as a poor man’s crop that yielded him a good profit in return for much hard labor” (Thirsk 1978, p. 88). Though tobaccogrowing was banned in England, in 1619, its cultivation continued for generations in as many as twenty-two English counties, including in gardens surrounding London and Westminster, and the off-shore islands of Jersey and Guernsey. Wealthier land-owning tobacco growers formally petitioned the Privy Council for relief; commoners used their labor and cunning to the best advantage, including the illicit cultivation of tobacco, sometimes with the landlords’ tacit blessing (Thirsk 1984, pp. 263–82). New projects taking root in England were often offshoots of international commerce and the opportunities this provided. However, it is important to consider these enterprises, and those who undertook them,

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as embedded in English culture, even if linked with global networks. These were entangled phenomena, where the initiatives of plebeian women and men were inspired by the possibility of just returns, not always acknowledged in discussions of growing economic and state power. Beyond the elites, common folk displayed an enterprising zeal along with a resistance to regulation, whether shown in emphatic defiance or stealthy circumvention. They tacitly rejected state and local regulations that restrained their personal options, especially if these threatened the needs of their families and communities or infringed on custom (Klooster 2009, pp. 142–4). In short, individuals and communities sought to evade monopoly regulation, inspired by an ethos of custom and fairness. My focus is on one of the largest monopoly enterprises sanctioned by the English Crown— the English East India Company (EIC). At the birth of this corporation, the potential profits from a trading monopoly to Asia encouraged one hundred and one investors to combine their joint resources of £30,133. 6s. 8d. to fund the “pretended voyage to the East Indies” (Calendar of State Papers online). In 1600, a joint stock company was formalized, driven by the determination of merchant capitalists, armed with state blessing. From the outset, the EIC was challenged by those testing the enforcement of this monopoly, like European rivals in the Indian Ocean world, and the extralegal commerce directed by those they employed: sailors and officers. The challenges faced by the EIC, literally within ships’ hulls, are the focus of this chapter. Routine resistances to assigned monopolies tested the capacity of state and corporate power, contests that took various forms (Braddock 2000, p. 432). The disruptive effects of informal circuits and illicit trade are well documented, and widely seen as weakening state authority and their monopoly agents (Kwass 2014; Bowen 2002). I will look more closely at the motivations and context of the subversive mariners manning EIC vessels, whose ambitions reflected entangled local and global aims in material ways. Particular tensions surrounded the mechanics of trade and circuits of consumption, whether onshore in Britain, along shipping lanes, or in distant harbors. Case studies confirm the systematic impediments thrown up by subaltern seamen and their allies. Their struggle to secure “just” recompense for the dangers they endured, brought customary sentiments, rooted in English culture, to the dramatic new settings of ocean-going fleets.

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The Moral Economy, Long-Distance Sailors, and International Trade E.P. Thompson’s legacy as a social historian is a legend, with an impact on history worldwide. The concept of “The Moral Economy of the English Crowd” resulted from his drive to understand social unrest and social resistance in the marketplace, as the pressures of an increasingly capitalist economy came to bear on English town folk in the eighteenth century. Thompson described town residents as having a “highly-sensitive consumer-consciousness” amid an evolving system of making and selling (Thompson 1971, p. 79). He pinpointed this historic phenomenon when working as a scholar in the mid-twentieth century, the same period when Thirsk was active. Thirsk’s and Thompson’s working lives overlapped chronologically and though they shared an interest in the historical life of commoners, including in the marketplace, their scholarly questions did not speak as directly to each other as they might. Thirsk uncovered many protests and resistances in the long seventeenth century around the attempted interference by the state and its agents with new consumer trades. The issue, among the varied rural and urban people she examined, was the fair functioning of the market and the right of a just return for hard labor and initiative. The laboring poor and, indeed, some in the middle ranks, functioned within what is termed an “economy of makeshift.”1 “Makeshift” practices extended far beyond gleaning wheat after a harvest, including the culling of storm-tossed goods on beaches after a gale, or strategic interactions with commodities, as smugglers and vendors, in defiance of regulations. As patents and licenses multiplied, with new regulations, protests churned through various communities, leading Elizabeth I to rescind some agreements in 1601, finding that monopolies were detrimental to “many of the poorer sort of her people” (quoted in Thirsk 1978, p. 98). Over generations, common folk retained a sharp interest in market innovations and opportunities. Their outbursts and covert practices shared elements in common with protests by eighteenth-century townsfolk as food prices escalated, revealing a moral economy as described by Thompson. He portrayed the historical complexity of “motive, behavior, and function” among 1 This phrase was coined by Olwen Hufton (1974), addressing the strategies employed by the poor in France; since then, it was embraced as a way to understand early modern and nineteenth-century England, among other regions (King and Tomkins 2003).

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protesters, whose actions were “grounded upon a consistent traditional view of social norms and obligations, of the proper economic functions of several parties within a community, which, taken together, can be said to constitute the moral economy of the poor” (Thompson 1971, pp. 78–9). Like their families and co-workers, mariners shared a moral economy of expectations and possibilities, additionally infused with seafaring lore. This is the basis on which I explore sailors’ resistance to EIC agendas. Although working within a monopoly system, sea-going laboring men and their allies encapsulate the entrepreneurial (and sometimes disruptive) ardor found among British rural and townsfolk, guided by the “moral economy of the poor,” sentiment that resisted prescriptive, oppressive capitalist structures when these were not to their benefit. Long-distance mariners were a new male labor cohort whose numbers grew over the early modern era, with journeys of many months or years duration. In 1578, from 350 to 380 ships from western Europe anchored in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, a possible underestimation of routine sea-going ventures for fish and furs, crewed by diverse men (Turgeon 1998, p. 598). Consider, as well, that between 1550 and 1624, approximately 300 expeditions were made by English ships to the Caribbean involving about 900 vessels with 25,000 mariners (Lorimer 2006, p. lix). William Petty, a member of the Royal Society and exponent of political arithmetic, reckoned that around 1690 there were around 48,000 active seamen, both onshore and at sea (Petty 1751, p. 47). These sea-going missions evidently satisfied the yearning for adventure among the youngest crewmen, especially those with limited options. These men formed a new kind of homosocial collective, where sea-going fraternal bonds shaped loyalties, sometimes lasting well beyond a single shared voyage. Features of early modern manhood are readily observed, including “rituals of bravado” and “rituals of misrule …[that] subverted patriarchal imperatives of order, thrift, and self-control” (Shepard 2006, p. 94). Youthful bravado might also intersect with the needs of other crewmen who strived to provide for their families onshore, to secure an advantage through sometime subversive actions. Collectively, these goals and habits defined the customary life stages of adult working men, with the duty of “providing” a signal marker of male adulthood, a drive less scrutinized by historians than other masculine traits (Shepard 2006, pp. 186–7). Thus, among early modern long-distance seafarers, general male sensibilities meshed with those specific to the masculine life cycle, fueling patterns and practices that butted up against EIC protocols.

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Crewmen, however distant from western Europe, calculated their interests based on the social ethos in which they were raised, shaped as well by the seafaring moral economy in which they worked and lived (Rodger 2002). The monopoly power of the EIC was a force tested by a crew with different realms of interest.

“This a Poor Man Hath to Hearten Him” Edward Barlow’s journal recorded much of his seafaring life, from 1659 to 1703, shortly before his death in the Red Sea about 1706 (NMM, JOD/4). He rose through the ranks in time, with evident skill in seamanship, and practical knowledge esteemed among seafarers (Rodger 2002). Through this unique document, we learn the motivations and challenges shared by early modern mariners. Barlow was born in rural Lancashire in 1642, into a family headed by a husbandman and his wife with a total of six children. Young Barlow yearned to see the places he heard about in travelers’ tales and knew, as did his siblings, that they must earn their bread from their earliest days. Before he turned thirteen, Barlow set off for London where through friends, family, and luck he began his training in life at sea (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, pp. 15–31). Marcus Rediker’s landmark study of the working lives of merchant sailors recast the historiography of seafaring labor. He sets seamen’s working lives within the new calculus of merchant venturers and political theories of trade that evolved amid expanding overseas commerce, noting that: “With the passage of the Navigation Art of 1696 and the Board of Trade is established, the English state enlarged its role in the direction of commerce, seeking to tighten imperial controls by regulating and rationalizing trade” (Rediker 1989, p. 20). Such rationalization touched seamen like Barlow who powered these imperial fleets, within an increasingly disciplined regime. Theories such as those penned by William Petty, as in Political Arithmetic (1690), evaluated human, natural, and state resources in reasoned analytical ways, concepts debated in government and elite circles. Seamen were among those Petty designated as “the very pillars of any common-wealth.” He further elaborated on their collective traits: “for every seaman of industry and ingenuity, is not only a navigator, but a merchant, and also a soldier” (Petty 1751, p. 23). Unstated in that summary was that seamen’s merchandizing might not meld with the remit of great corporate bodies; yet these competing aims were all carried within the planking of EIC ships. There was an inevitable clash of

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purpose as the customary ethos of legions of mariners encountered the relentless regulation of a highly capitalized corporation. The business structures set in place over the seventeenth century took many forms, as merchants and governments sought to advance in one of the most lucrative commercial sectors. England’s near neighbor, the Dutch, combined imperial urgency and mercantile zeal, to establish commercial settlements in Java and elsewhere in Asia over the early 1600s through the Dutch East India Company. Figure 1 encapsulates Dutch knowledge and aspirations in a map of the Indian Ocean world, a region of intense European competition (and long-established regional trade) that some might argue was the birthing place of large-scale commercial capitalism. Such endeavors demanded new structures of finance, administration, and enforcement (Chaudhuri 1985, p. 82; Roy 2016). The map reflects the extensive nautical experience and detailed intelligence acquired from regional knowledge-keepers, pictured with the people and places the Dutch encountered in commerce or in conflict. The eight Dutch ships scattered over the ocean are a visual fiction, erasing both local, regional, and European voyagers who traversed these same waters. The mariners manning the eight vessels are an invisible force, though trade was impossible without them. This rendering manifests corporate ambition and competitive imperial policies against which the EIC steered. During a decade of voyages, Barlow learned the rigors of seamanship and the opportunities of the sea, well before his first venture to the East Indies in 1671. Food was a constant concern for sailors and Barlow reflects this unsatiated hunger in sharp-eyed comments about comestibles at each port. Equally important were things he could acquire for a small outlay for later exchange. In Brazil, in 1663, aside from the good food and cheap tobacco, he noted the “knakes” (or knickknacks), made of black wood “and other trifling things to please fancies”; in 1668, he found that Tripoli was blessed with fine things to eat, in addition to “much striped linen stuffs made here, and very fine dyed leather.” During the same voyage, anchored in Messina, Sicily, he learned that “wrought silks” could be had at a good price: “I [am] buying five pairs of silk stockings for thirty shillings” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, pp. 86 and 156–8). He also understood, at age 26, the difficult bargain he made to be a sailor in world waters: I saw by daily experience that and if I went to sea when I should be grown [aged] in years, that then I should be little better than a slave,

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Fig. 1 Map of the Indian Ocean by Pieter Goos (1616–1675) printed in Amsterdam by Johannes van Keulen, c. 1700, on vellum, MS. 1288, f. 6. Oost Indien, (East India) (© Bridgeman Images)

being always in need, and enduring all manner of misery and hardship, going with many a hungry belly and wet back and being always called ‘old dog’, and ‘old rogue’ … and suchlike terms, which is a common use amongst seamen, and that would be a great grief for an aged man, so I strove what I could to prevent it; but all people are not born to live at ease and have the pleasures of this ‘woden’ [sic] world, and riches always forget poverty. (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 162)

To insure against future destitution and advance his fortune, Barlow adopted the practice of his seafaring brethren, looking for advantage along the routes he traveled: “to drive some small trade…and to leave off the sea as soon as I could” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 162). In this respect, Petty misjudged the ambition and tradition of the seamen he lauded as

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“pillars” of the state; for their ambitions included a fixed concern for their own welfare and a just return for a punishing nautical life. These sentiments had much in common with the rural tobacco growers described by Thirsk, who persevered though unlicensed for their crop. Seafarers’ tenets invariable clashed with the aims of great monopolies like the EIC. But Barlow was willing to take risks, for: “my desire from my youth, [was] to see strange countries and fashions, and I must, with hunger and cold, pay for it, but prayer and patience are the best remedies against afflictions” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 162).

Extralegality and Material Civilization Early modern regulations were imperfectly applied and aspirational rather than assured, making claims for state power that were beyond their capacity to enforce (Deng 2015). Such was the case within the East India Company. Figure 2 is a 1750s rendering of the EIC factory in Bombay (Mumbai); the solidity of the buildings and harbor bustle suggest the transcendent power of this corporation, power less real than depicted. It is useful, at this juncture, to consider the active functioning of extralegality within this commercial system, activities beyond the control of officialdom. The term “extralegality” was coined by urban anthropologists Alan Smart and Filipo Zerilli, to contextualize the vibrant, creative, intransigent economic practices found within urban settings. They emphasize the value of this term to reposition our gaze, part of a sustained stream of the theory that argues for scholars “to resist ‘seeing like a state,’” where shifting contingencies and persistent customary modes present a wide canvas of possibilities within economic life (Smart and Zerilli 2014, pp. 223–4). Extralegality recognizes the slippage between “the illegal; the informal; and the not-yet-(il)legal,” avoiding sharp dichotomies while giving full “attention to fuzzy or contested boundaries” (Smart and Zerilli 2014, p. 222). Regulators worked against the extralegal zeitgeist that justified certain customary practice, like those found among ships crews steeped in unwritten norms. To restrict our gaze to the new rational commercial systems, singular in their size and scope, would be to ignore the impact of unsanctioned economic interventions. Fernand Braudel theorized the structure of the early modern European economy, positing a three-tier system with international companies (like the EIC) standing at the “exalted level” of the commercial ranks.

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Fig. 2 Bombay on the Malabar Coast, belonging to the East India Company of England. Etching for the Universal Magazine of Knowledge and Pleasure based on the 1754 oil painting by Jan van Ryne (© Universal History Archive/UIG/Bridgeman Images)

Below that, in the middle, was a thick layer comprised of the extensive (largely regulated) markets, shops, and workshops where routine exchanges, making and selling, filled the day. Additionally, Braudel noted the bottom third: Another shadowy zone, often hard to see for lack of adequate historical documents, lying underneath the market economy: this is the elementary basic activity which went on everywhere and the volume of which is truly fantastic. This rich zone, like a layer covering the earth, I have called for want of a better expression material life or material civilization. (Braudel 1985, pp. 23–4)

Braudel was prescient in naming these three zones, at a time when the “bottom layer” was usually ignored or deemed irrelevant to the functioning and evolution of the economy. The top two segments typically received the lion’s share of attention as emblematic of economic life, extensively documented, enmeshed in urban and state regulations, and

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studied assiduously for their characteristics, composition, and contributions. The bottom segment, the complex amalgam termed “material life,” only began receiving continued attention in European history in the past several decades, research that reveals the vigor invested in “material civilization” and the strategies that infused this sector (i.e. Lemire 1997, 2005; Fontaine 2008; Ago 2013 [2006]; Blondé 2009; Kwass 2014; Fennetaux et al. 2015). I will not argue for the significance of these material strategies, for that has been widely documented. Instead, I will push back, somewhat, on the characterizations Braudel provided for “material life,” including that this voluminous, “everywhere” activity was as “elementary” and “basic” as he described. For, this complex amalgam included routine hand-to-hand exchanges, with old goods and new, often at great aggregate volumes, multiplied over time, so that it created a momentum of its own, a dynamism especially evident around new consumer wares. Material life was also entangled in local and global trade. Historians of ocean-related material life who assess strategies like smuggling, beach combing, and sweeping ships’ holds, rely extensively on government, legal, or corporate records, a stance that must be deftly negotiated to avoid “seeing like a state.” When formal evidence is combined with first-person accounts, like that of Edward Barlow, a more fulsome understanding emerges of the calculation, knowledge, and intent behind seemingly minor transactions, producing a significant effect. Though ubiquitous, the impact of smuggling on discrete commodity prices and consumption can only be imprecisely gauged, with greater insights coming after tariffs were reduced (Cole 1958; Nash 1982). HohCheung Mui and Lorna Mui concluded that in the British tea trade “the smuggler was no small interloper. He was indeed an important complement to his legal counterpart and as such contributed to the commercial expansion of the kingdom” (Mui and Mui 1968, p. 73). Thus, one might ask, did the barnacle-like accretions represented by generations of smuggling mariners actually undercut the role of the EIC? Or, as I think, was there an involuntary symbiotic alliance between legal and extralegal commerce? One way to judge is by recognizing their “interconnectedness” and entanglement. Marcy Norton proposes a view of the early modern Atlantic world taking account of “the interconnectedness of various kinds of agency in an interdependent world, and foreground the perspectives and experiences of the subaltern actors who formed a majority of the population” (Norton 2017, p. 18). I assess the Eurasian

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trade network, of which the Atlantic world was a part, from this vantage point, with “the subaltern actors” foremost in my calculations, men who worked for an “exalted” corporation, employing common-place strategies of “material life.”

A Proliferation of Many Small Things: The Sailor’s Privilege The culture in which Barlow was immersed valued the sailor’s privilege, a core custom passed down through generations, which approved seamen’s private trade as a rightful reward for the risks of their profession. Officialdom worked to extinguish such perquisites, wanting to enforce a monetary wage as sole compensation for labor that involved extraordinary trials. However, compensations in the early modern period took many forms and some were valued far more than periodic coinage (Linebaugh 1992, pp. 371–401). The Custom Office was another government body that worked to set new state systems in place, allied with monopoly traders, aiming to curb extralegal traffic, an uphill struggle. Their targets included those invested in sea-going traditions, specifically the sailor’s “Privilege, or Indulgence of Stowage, or Portage of Goods” (National Archives, UK (NA, UK) T1/466/243). Much like other sectors, rural and urban, customary practices defined group ethos, with expectations and patterns that stretched from the portside to the vessels themselves (Lemire 2015, pp. 292–3 and 310; Rodger 1986, pp. 34 and 37–41). This included the sailor’s privilege, described by a Customs official in 1768, antagonistic to this tradition. The practice of granting such Stowage to Sailors in Compensation for part of their Wages is at present too general in Scotland, and probably in several Parts of England; – And the Consequence thereof is, that such Sailors are not only encouraged, but necessitated to become Smugglers for their own Support; – Whereby the Tea, Spirits, India Goods, and Tobacco, continually brought home by them in small Parcells on their own Account, arise in the whole to considerable Quantities, and are called in Scotland the Seaman Portages, which they become excessively fond of, and their Wives and Children being interested therein are all anxious for the Successful Smuggling of the Cargo; which is thus render’d a common Cause … – So that from hence the whole Country particularly the Women, are always ready to assist the Smugglers; and it is extremely difficult to

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procure [information], as it is hazardous for any person to give. (NA, UK, T1/466/243)

There was agreement among authorities that discipline should prevail among all those sailing EIC and other vessels. From the outset, however, neither the EIC’s monopoly rights nor the directives recited by its Directors could quash enterprising crewmen. Narrow lists of goods were approved for the petty trade of mariners below officer rank, with the “best” commodities limited to the Company. Mutinous enterprise was apparent almost immediately. Edicts did not, and could not, extinguish sailors’ enterprising spirit, which continued to Barlow’s day and beyond (Lemire 2015, pp. 300–1). The EIC reluctantly accepted that some private trade for their crew was an important incentive, given the real dangers on these voyages. From 1497 to 1795, over two and a half million men voyaged from Europe to Asia with about half returning, a factor explained by some settlement in Asia and many deaths. Mortality rates ranged from 27 to over 50 percent of European seafarers who rounded the tip of Africa to the Indian Ocean (De Vries 2003, 2008, pp. 69–72). Though the numbers are somewhat imperfect, the rising traffic is clear, with recognized rewards motivating those on this hazardous route (Hodacs 2016, p. 24). The Company alternated between attempting to suppress all private trade and selective acceptance, especially for their ships’ commanders. The appetite of crewmen was insatiable, for these were not just waged workers, but participants in small-scale, legal or extralegal trade and recognized themselves as such (Lemire 2018, pp. 137–47; 2015; Blakemore 2017). Of course, Directors ensured that the most saleable commodities, and the largest cargo space, were filled with their merchandise, periodically tightening regulations through the eighteenth century. A sliding scale of authorized cargo space was allotted for private trade goods on large EIC vessels, based on rank and position, with common sailors having the least and captains the lion’s share of legal stowage. Captains, officers, and crew jealously guarded their access to Asian wares (Lemire 2015, pp. 297–8). Individually and collectively, seamen learned about the quality and variety of things to be found, serving an informal mercantile apprenticeship on every voyage (see also chapter ‘Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century’ by Veronika HydenHanscho in this volume). They saw Indian merchants haggling with EIC agents onshore, they spotted small luxuries while at leisure, and they

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manhandled cargo into ships’ holds, sizing up items of quality and things easy to sell. The sight, sound, smell, and feel of these things offered a different type of material education, as Barlow recounted. He arrived at the anchorage near the famed city of Surat, in the northwest of the Indian subcontinent, spending Christmas there in 1670. He reflected on his hopes and plans: I having a small venture for myself and some of my friends and acquaintance [at home], bought some small commodities, and taking care of my friends’ goods more than I did of my own, and when I came home I had scarce thanks for all my care and trouble, but it was the first time and it shall be the last that I shall meddle with any in that matter [for others]. (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 194)

Once the crew was paid off at the journey’s end, all who wished were invited to sign on for a return voyage to China and Japan, “where no English ship had been in forty years” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 204). Barlow had no qualms about a multi-year passage, “hoping that it might be a profitable voyage,” a hope that matched in some ways the aims of formal investors. But a seaman’s motives were far starker: “that if I carried a small venture in some sort of goods I might gain a little money by it, intending if it were possible to get myself a little money beforehand that I might drive some trade or way to live ashore” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 204). Every journey represented a stark equation of life or death for seafarers, with bodily punishment a certainty, set against the possibility of profit over the long arch of voyages. These were visceral as well as mental calculations and Barlow’s hopes and frustrations almost rise from the page. In Asia he recognized possibilities when “the China people came on board with commodities to sell, as tea, China roots, and fine earthenware, and wrought silk, which are indifferent [good quality] and cheap and would have been good commodities in England” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 218). Rules remained the hurdle that Barlow and his cohort had to manage: our East India Company are so strict, thinking it much that anybody should get anything but themselves, and so will not suffer any man that sails in their ships, if they know it, to buy a pennyworth of goods of the same that they buy of. (Lubbock 1934, vol. 1, p. 218, my emphasis)

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Subterfuge and cunning were unwittingly encouraged among the crew. On Barlow’s second journey to East and Southeast Asia (1687–1690), his vessel was anchored at the mouth of the Tokin River, in what is now Vietnam. With permission from his captain, Barlow spent several weeks in the city of “Cacho,” learning the route up the river and then the nature of the city, while bunking at the Company factory. He had “time to see the city and to buy some few commodities. …The commodities it doth produce are most silks, either raw or wrought, which are indifferent cheap. …They make here many trifling things which they lacquer over very finely in black, when you may see your face or body through as well” (Lubbock 1934, vol. 2, pp. 394–5). There is an immediacy in his account, and we can almost picture him picking up black lacquerware and checking its reflective quality. Barlow’s chronicle is distinctive in its recurring narratives in global settings; otherwise, he was not unique at all, either in his aims or aspirations or in the extralegal strategies he used to gain more than wages from these journeys. For even modest returns on illicitly stowed goods would add incalculably to the income of this cohort. The “fairness” of sailors’ stratagems was unquestionable to mariners who suffered the most severe privations on ocean journeys. Thus, they stubbornly persisted, even in the face of the regulatory systems. Barlow described the searches by officials once ships were back in home waters: our East India Company’s waiters, which are sent by them on board of all ships coming from India to oversee and look whether they can see or find any person that brings any “multabell” [Mulctable] goods home with them, and if they hear of any, to inform the Company of it, although a man have but a piece or two pieces of calico which cost in India both together five shillings and nine pence, they put me to four shillings open charges before I could have them in my own possession … God in His time will reward their doings to oppress the poor and hireling. (Lubbock 1934, vol. 2, p. 365)

The vast profits massed by the EIC with their huge cargoes of goods, contrasted with the small, middling or (occasional) large stashes uncovered by searchers. One crewman wrote a complaint to the Directors in 1712, noting: “that Every Officers of all distinctions on board & Even ye foremast Men were obliged to part with all they had [in private trade], Even to half A pound of Pepper” (British Library (BL) IOR/E/4/169). These items could only be recovered after paying duty and all EIC

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charges. But this extractive system was far from foolproof. An anonymous letter sent in 1713 to the EIC Court of Directors, warned of the “under hand Dealings which has been transacted by the Chiefe Officers of some or one of ye Shipp lately arrived in England.” The correspondent claimed he could recover all the secreted goods and would launch this investigation if he was promised half of all recovered cargo (BL, IOR/E/1//4/203). Letters of this kind, promising valuable revelations, made their way to the EIC headquarters as a matter of routine, the authors seeking other means of profiting from the rich merchandise carried to Britain (BL, IOR/E/1/4/299, p. 303; IOR/E/1/6/37, p. 95). There are over one hundred large volumes in the British Library archiving miscellaneous letters that document the intensive efforts made to police cargoes and crewmen. The EIC received information from every Atlantic port, reporting whether ships made unsanctioned stops at Caribbean, Portuguese or other harbors (BL, IOR/E/1/15/38; IOR/E/8/120, p. 133; IOR/E/1/16/66). From the moment EIC ships approached the west of England, watchers were on hand to see if ships anchored without leave, or were met by suspicious vessels. The energy spent on surveillance marks the scale of “smuggling.” One correspondent wrote, in 1729, of an unofficial stop at the port of Plymouth by a returning ship, Caesar. Over two weeks, streams of “Country People” came onboard and left with goods that the watcher could not identify. But he confirmed that the ship’s hold was lightened enough that the vessel rose a foot and a half in the water (BL, IOR/E/1/20/111h). Early modern regulators could not halt the bulk of this commerce, though their efforts never ceased. Meanwhile, once EIC ships anchored in the Thames, a large cargo of coffee slipped from a ship’s hold, a dozen small bundles of textiles were tossed out back portholes into a waiting boat, and, when an EIC surveyor’s pockets were checked after his “rummaging” of the ship, thirty yards of silk were found (BL, IOR/E/1/6/55; IOR/E/1/9/47, IOR/E/1/35/63). The silk was likely payment for help in landing extralegal cargo. Figure 3 illustrates a well-known mariner’s strategy, as a seaman works with a female accomplice to smuggle tea, perfume, and arrack liqor off the anchored ship, to earn both a nice return. Once within reach of an anchorage, women routinely visited the men on board. The sexualized, disruptive alliance depicted by this artist captures the countless partnerships described by the Edinburgh Custom officer who observed

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Fig. 3 A scene between decks of an East Indiaman. A young woman is being kitted out with goods to be run on shore, untaxed, including tea, perfume, and arrak. Thomas Rowlandson, 1810. 1872,1012.4954 (© The Trustees of the British Museum)

that: “particularly the Women, are always ready to assist the Smugglers” (NA, UK, T1/466/243). Minor officials—surveyors and waiters—that worked within EIC rules, also worked within a hostile shipboard environment where the “scurelous [sic] language” they received from the crew was just one of their trials. A surveyor might or might not be fed from ship’s victuals over many days; hunger sometimes weakened official resolve. They were certainly pressured by the crew to look the other way and to take gifts for their

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Table 1

Stolen wares recovered by EIC agents

Seized at head and stern of the Harrison[,] Captain Marin from India Put in the King’s Warehouse 10 Dozen China Saucers} 9 Dozen and 5 Cups Ditto} 6 Chocolate Cups} 18 Cups with Handles} {all China 4 Basons} 11 Punch Bowls} 12 Plates} 1 Piece of Blew Damask2 1 ps. White Pelong3 29 Handkerchiefs 3 Peices [sic] of Handkerchief4 1 Piece of Muslin 50 Fans 1 Hand Tea Board 1 Tutaneg5 [sic] Canister 2 Canes 2 Shells Mother of Pearl6 12 ½ lb. Bohea7 Tea 5 ½ lb. Green Tea Source British Library, IOR/E/1/20/93

trouble (BL, IOR/E/1/20/60). In another instance in 1729, “a considerable Quantity of China Cupps, Saucers etc” were reported vanished from an EIC vessel and were only recovered by sharp detecting amidst the web of portside dealers (BL, IOR/E/1/20/88). Table 1 outlines

2 A richly figured silk fabric, sometimes in a variety of colors, made in China and other parts of Asia, as well as Europe. 3 A type of silk (satin) fabric made in China. 4 Handkerchief fabric, often cotton, was printed in the piece in India, later to be cut

and hemmed in individual units. 5 ‘Tutaneg’, described as “a sort of Tin”, in a description of the region of Malacca in

present-day Malaysia (Dampier 1705, p. 169). 6 Used to make fan sticks, button, parts of jewelry and decorative notions of different sorts. 7 Initially the name given the finest quality of black teas imported from Asia at the beginning of the 1700s, later referencing the lowest quality (Oxford English Dictionary Online).

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the recovered wares including an assemblage of Chinese porcelain. The list confirms the tastes and capacities of minor to mid-range players in this global/local concern. Each entry suggests the careful agency of those involved at different ports of call, the commercial links forged, and the discrete alliances in distant lands, on ships, and in Britain. The breadth of wares, from porcelain to fans to silk, documents the mercantile expertise accumulated by seafaring men, exemplifying the material transformations underway in Europe (Berg et al. 2015). As Anne Gerritsen and Giorgio Riello observed, this was a time when: “the world of trade began to transform the world of goods” (Gerritsen and Riello 2016, p. 6).

Corporate Aims, Commodity Culture, and Mariners’ Initiatives I opened with Braddock’s observation that in building the early modern English state “routine resistance” was common in response to “routine expressions of political power” (Braddock 2000, p. 432). Resistance came with sometimes-unexpected ramifications. Extralegal trade flourished in every ocean jurisdiction in this era (Klooster 2009; Kwass 2014; Deng 2015; Lemire 2018). This fact is often framed as evidence of state weakness and the failure of the officialdom of various stripes. Could denizens in the lowly “material civilization,” as theorized by Braudel, inhibit the forward thrust of state-sponsored institutions like the EIC, emblematic of the “exalted level” of the economy? Did customary values—or a moral economy—among mariners frustrate the expressed intent of the EIC? Or did this contentious relationship produce more complex outcomes? Certainly, the linkages between the top and bottom sectors of the economy are clear, and their significance evident, materialized in the itemization of goods above. In the endless reports of malfeasance sent to the EIC Court of Directors, and in the narrative account of seafarer Edward Barlow, we see different moral equations struggle for ascendency. Barlow’s will confirms his ultimate success in acquiring chintz and culgee (a type of figured Indian silk), at least a partial realization of his ambitions (NA, UK, PROB 11/500/372). The protagonists of this chapter are the seafarers working for the East India Company, whose shipboard and landward communities were infused with deep-seated customary sentiments opposed to rigid regulation and account-book-style reckonings. The burgeoning systems of

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measurement and record-keeping on which government and corporations relied were exemplified in William Petty’s Political Arithmetic, part of the emergence of “the calculable man,” with “domains of objects and rituals of truth” (Foucault 1979, p. 193). Numerate calculations, founded on regulatory models, epitomized features of state construction, inscribed in mountains of records aligned with mountains of cargo (Poovey 1998). Calculations figured in mariners’ judgments as well. But theirs were differently weighted, where custom and equity held meaning. The seeming antagonism between these interest groups was real. Yet, there was a paradox embedded in this complex relationship, within which both attempted to thrive. The EIC operated on the promise of monopoly trading rights; governments smiled on the duties and taxes they amassed. Yet, this porous system unwillingly provided structures enabling extralegal trade, intrinsic to the customary practice of early modern seafarers. Ironically, this insubordinate traffic strengthened the state and its aims over the long run, based on the cumulative impact of extralegal goods on consumer preferences and practices. Sailors brought commodities within the reach of common folk that would otherwise be unattainable; the distinctive range of gifts and bequests left to friends and family reflect this dynamic (Lemire 2015). Smuggled goods were cheaper and more widely available through circuits unmatched by licensed vendors (Nash 1982; Kwass 2014; Lemire 2018). Consider the upstanding Quaker shopkeeper, William Stout (1665–1752) of Lancaster. His routine included dealings with sailors off ships arrived from Virginia, writing in 1689: “Tobacco we had always[,] one or more ships yearly hither from Virginia importing it, where we had opportunity to buy small bundles of the sailors, at moderate prices” (Stout 1851, p. 26). Textiles, tea, and tobacco were foundational goods sparking new patterns of consumerism; the tons of illicitly landed cargoes enabled tastes to be reformulated and budget priorities remade including among the working poor (Mui and Mui 1968; De Vries 2003, 2008; Hodacs 2016). In the gestational years of British economic growth, as want gave way to greater plenty, smuggled goods fostered new appetites within a wider set of communities than would otherwise be possible in a legal and taxed marketplace. Shopkeepers and pedlars shifted such illicit wares, supplying diverse populations. Those habituated to these wares did not resort to taxed supplies until tax rates decreased (Stobart 2013, p. 68). Merchants in Aberdeen, Scotland confirmed the vibrancy of extralegal commerce

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in a four-page pamphlet published in 1739, sent to the EIC Directors, outlining the extent of smuggling: To this Description is added Remarks of the running [of] the whole Numbers of Sort of foreign Goods, imported to that City, whereby the Country about the same is not only fully served, but great Quantities are carried to other Places, such as Tea, a Number of Sorts of India Goods, and other foreign Articles; and that it would be visible by examining the Custom house Books that no Goods were entered there, and paid, on which there was any considerable Duty. (BL, IOR/E/1/29/52a, p. 2)

So embedded were these extralegal systems that shifts in provisioning were impossible while duties remained high. A year later, further correspondence sent from Aberdeen stressed the scope of this intractable commerce: The Smuglers in this City for Many years his [has] had the Gratest Numbers of Supports … by Bribry they Seckured the wholl of the Custom officers belonging to this Custome house: and had Constantly the Assistance of the Gentellmen on the Coast and their tenents in Carrying and Ludging [lodging] ther Goods as they were Run a Shoar: and when they Commited most horid Rayots [riots] They have still had frinds at Court that made such Intrest for them that they Still eskeeped without Punishment … They have Imported such great quantitys of Tea Muslings silks Calligoes and a Number of Sorts of Valuble Indie and prohibite[d] Goods that they could not vend hear in many Years what they brought home in on[e] year: So that they have had a Constant Tread [trade] in Carrying to the South of Scotland [and] many places of England. (BL, IOR/E/1/29/53c)

Conclusion If we “resist ‘seeing like a state,’” as recommended by Smart and Zerilli, the relative failings of government and EIC regulations become far less important than the scale of extralegality and its significance over several generations (Smart and Zerilli 2014, p. 222). Braddock reminds us that “routine resistance to routine expressions of political power” was a key feature of early modern state formation (Braddock 2000, p. 432). State bodies profited, and could enforce their remit, when demand grew, as duties were lowered; and, again, when the informal market could not

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meet the needs of would-be buyers, or when import substitution usurped markets previously supplied by Asian imports (Mui and Mui 1968; Nash 1982; Riello 2013; Kwass 2014). These events were a long time coming. In the interim, extralegality thrived at a vast scale bolstered by a shared sense of custom and fairness among all participants, as well as a hunt for profit. Sailors, a pivotal cohort, judged the rightness of the “sailor’s privilege.” Men like Barlow cursed EIC policies and worked to circumvent administrative barriers. Other entrepreneurs employed men like Barlow in large extralegal enterprises, as many subscribed to an anti-regulatory ethos (Hodacs 2016; Kwass 2014; Lemire 2018, pp. 154–7). Adherence to custom prevailed over Custom House officers. The mass of miscellaneous letters archived by the EIC, makes clear that this immense organization was riven by extralegal practices, that they could not control. In this way, the “exalted layer” of commerce interlinked with the ubiquitous “material civilization,” ties unseen in Fernand Braudel’s telling. The “legality” at issue was a political creature, much like the ban on growing tobacco discussed above; extralegality was the trenchant response to systems deemed arbitrary and unjust. The same eighteenth-century towns folk described by Thompson as holding a “highly-sensitive consumer-consciousness” (Thompson 1971, p. 79) participated willingly in the extralegal systems I describe, with an active sense of “just price” and community purpose. These powerful concepts infused eighteenth-century culture for, as Thompson insisted: “The consumer defended his old notion of right as stubbornly as (perhaps the same man in another role) he defended his craft status as an artisan” (Thompson 1971, p. 132). Barlow’s bitter invective against EIC regulation offers first-hand testimony of “justice” being infringed. The “scurelous [sic] language” of sailors railing against the men searching for “contraband” on their ship was another action presented before the court of public opinion. The thriving extralegal system, linking global trade and local communities, was the final judgment against the early modern state and the regulations it prescribed. The state demonized “illegal” enterprises as their fiscal needs grew. There was little sympathy at the top of this increasingly powerful imperial edifice for those injured by this system, as there was with Elizabeth I, who found that monopolies hurt “many of the poorer sort of her people” (quoted in Thirsk 1978, p. 98). In response, generations of sailors adjudicated their own best interests, as they plied a life-threatening

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trade; likewise, their allies on land calculated a just price in the marketplace. All the while, large and small caches of Asian wares reached inlets and harbors, transforming early modern material life.

Bibliography Archival Sources British Library, India Office Records (IOR), E/1, Miscellaneous Letters; G/12 Ships’ diaries. National Archives, UK, Kew. T1/466/243, 7 January 1768; PROB 11/500/372, will of Edward Barlow. National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, UK. JOD/4. Journal of Edward Barlow, 1675–1703.

Published Sources Ago, Renata. 2013. Gusto for Things: A History of Objects in Seventeenth-Century Rome. Translated from the Italian by Bradford Bouley & Corey Tazzara with Paula Findlen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Berg, Maxine, Felicia Gottman, Hanna Hodacs, and Chris Nierstrasz, eds. 2015. Goods from the East, 1600–1800. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Blakemore, Richard J. 2017. “Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight: Seamen’s Earnings and the Venture Economy of Early Modern Seafaring.” Economic History Review 70 (4): 1153–84. Blondé, Bruno, ed. 2009. Fashioning Old and New: Changing Consumer Preferences in Europe (Seventeenth-Nineteenth Centuries). Turnout: Brepols. Bowen, Huw. 2002. “‘So Alarming an Evil’: Smuggling, Pilfering and the English East India Company, 1740–1810.” International Journal of Maritime History 14: 1–13. Braddock, Michael J. 2000. State Formation in Early Modern England, c. 1550– 1700. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Braudel, Fernand. 1985. Civilization and Capitalism, 15th–18th Century, The Structures of Everyday Life, vol. 1. Translated by Siân Reynolds. New York: Harper & Row. Brewer, John. 1989. The Sinews of Power: War, Money and the English State, 1688–1783. London: Unwin Hyman. Chaudhuri, K. N. 1985. Trade and Civilization in the Indian Ocean: An Economic History from the Rise of Islam to 1750. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Cole, W. A. 1958. “Trends in Eighteenth-Century Smuggling.” Economic History Review 10, 3: 395–410. Dampier, William. 1705. Voyages and Descriptions Vol.II. In Three Parts, Viz. I. A Supplement of the Voyage Round the World, Describing the Countries of Tonquin, Achin, Malacca, etc. their Product... London: James Knapton. De Vries, Jan. 2003. “Connecting Europe and Asia: A Quantitative Analysis of the Cape-Route Trade, 1497–1795.” In Global Connections and Monetary History, 1470–1800, edited by Dennis Owen Flynn, Arturo Giráldez, and Richard Von Glahn, 35–106. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. De Vries, Jan. 2008. The Industrious Revolution: Consumer Behavior and Household Economy, 1650 to the Present. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Deng, Kent. 2015. “Smuggling under the Maritime Ban in Ming China” in the panel “Piracy, Smuggling and Black Markets: Rethinking Market and Consumer Practice, c. 1600s–1900s.” Paper presented at the Seventeenth World Economic History Congress, Kyoto, August 2015. Fennetaux, Ariane, Amélie Junqua and Sophie Vasset, eds. 2015. The Afterlife of Used Things: Recycling in the Long Eighteenth Century. New York & London: Routledge. Fontaine, Laurence. 2008. Alternative Exchanges: Second-hand Circulations from the Sixteenth Century to the Present. New York & Oxford: Berghahn Books. Foucault, Michel. 1979. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Translated by Alan Sheridan. New York: Vintage Books. Gerritsen, Anne, and Giorgio Riello, eds. 2016. The Global Lives of Things: Material Culture of Connections in the Early Modern World. Abingdon, UK: Routledge. Hodacs, Hanna. 2016. Silk and Tea in the North: Scandinavian Trade and the Market for Asian Goods in Eighteenth-Century Europe. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Hufton, Olwen. 1974. The Poor in Eighteenth-Century France, 1750–1789. Oxford: Clarendon Press. King, Steven, and Alannah Tomkins, eds. 2003. The Poor in England 1700–1850: An Economy of Makeshifts. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Klooster, Wim. 2009. “Inter-Imperial Smuggling in the Americas, 1600–1800.” In Sounds in Atlantic History: Latent Structures and Intellectual Currents, 1500–1830, edited by Bernard Bailyn and Patricia Denault. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Kwass, Michael. 2014. Contraband: Louis Mandrin and the Making of a Global Underground. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lemire, Beverly. 1997. Dress, Culture and Commerce: The English Clothing Trade before the Factory, 1660–1800. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Lemire, Beverly. 2005. The Business of Everyday Life: Gender, Practice and Social Politics in England, 1600–1900. London: Palgrave. Lemire, Beverly. 2015. “‘Men of the World’: British Mariners, Consumer Practice, and Material Culture in an Era of Global Trade, c. 1660–1800.” Journal of British Studies 54 (2): 288–319. Lemire, Beverly. 2018. Global Trade and the Transformation of Consumer Cultures. The Material World Remade, c. 1500–1820. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Linebaugh, Peter. 1992 The London Hanged: Crime and Civil Society in the Eighteenth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lorimer, Joyce, ed. 2006. Sir Walter Ralegh’s Discoverie of Guiana. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. Lubbock, Basil. 1934. Barlow’s Journal of his Life at Sea in King’s Ships, East & West Indiamen & Other Merchantmen from 1659 to 1703. Vols. 1 & 2. London: Hurst & Blackett, Ltd. Mui, Hoh-Cheung, and Lorna H. Mui. 1968. “Smuggling and the British Tea Trade before 1784.” American Historical Review 74: 44–73. Nash, Robert C. 1982. “The English and Scottish Tobacco Trades in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: Legal and Illegal Trade.” Economic History Review 35 (3): 354–72. Norton, Marcy. 2017. “Subaltern Technologies and Early Modernity in the Atlantic World.” Colonial Latin American Historical Review 26 (1): 18–38. Petty, William. 1751 [1690]. Political Arithmetic; Or, A discourse Concerning the Extent and Value of Lands, People, Buildings…. Glasgow: Robert and Andrew Foulis. Poovey, Mary. 1998. A History of the Modern Fact: Problems of Knowledge in the Sciences of Wealth and Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rediker, Marcus. 1989. Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American Maritime World, 1700–1750. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Riello, Giorgio. 2013. Cotton: The Fabric That Made the Modern World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rodger, N. A. M. 2002. “Honour and Duty at Sea, 1660–1815.” Historical Research 75 (190) (November): 425–47. https://doi.org/10.1111/14682281.00159. Rodger, N. A. M. 1986. The Wooden World: An Anatomy of the Georgian Navy. London: Collins. Roy, Tirthankar. 2016. The East India Company: The World’s Most Powerful Corporation. New Delhi: Penguin Random House, India. Shepard, Alexandra. 2006. Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England. Oxford: Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/acprof:oso/978 0199299348.001.0001.

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Formation of State Institutions

Troublemakers in a State-Run Enterprise: Conflict Management and the Limits of Social Disciplining in the Königliches Lagerhaus Berlin, c. 1720–1760 Jutta Wimmler

An acquitted thief demands recompense for her legal costs from the king; a glorified doorman repeatedly offends high-ranking military officers and gets a pay raise; a widow decides to take parts of an oven with her when clearing the premises of her late husband’s employment— these are not the kind of images we have in mind when we think of eighteenth-century Prussia. The prime example of military discipline and submission to authority does not strike one as a place where this kind of behavior would have been tolerated. And yet these and many other such incidents took place in a state-run enterprise, the Königliches Lagerhaus Berlin, one of the kingdom’s largest and most important manufactories. Founded in 1713, the Lagerhaus produced several types of woolen cloth—prominently among them, uniforms for the growing Prussian army.

J. Wimmler (B) University of Bonn, Bonn, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_8

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The Lagerhaus has been described both as a prime example of “statecapitalism” that fueled the development of comparable private initiatives, and as standing in opposition to private entrepreneurs as a kind of “monopolist” (Radtke 2003, pp. 51 and 116). Carl Hinrichs famously characterized it as a welfare institution (Hinrichs 1987, 1932), while subsequent scholars stressed that it exploited its workers and was only interested in producing taxpayers (Hinze 1963 [1927]; Krüger 1958; Schultz 1992). This latter literature creates the impression that the Lagerhaus’s employees had limited bargaining power against state institutions that forced obedience, discipline, and diligence upon them. This circumstance seemingly turns the Lagerhaus into a prime example of “social disciplining” that has been described as a characteristic of early modern state-building, absolutism, and ultimately capitalist development (Schulze 1987; Schilling 1999). All of this existing literature evaluates the Lagerhaus either from the top down, through the statements of its managers and the king, or from the point of view of broader tendencies—in particular the development of capitalism. Yet as several scholars have noted, the role of “social disciplining” in the development of modernity also needs to be investigated from the point of view of the “disciplined” as it matters if and when “disciplining measures” were implemented in practice and how individuals responded to such attempts (Pröve 1999, p. 73; Dinges 1991, pp. 10 and 27; Ogilvie 2006, p. 40). The extant records documenting activities within the Lagerhaus allow for just such an investigation. So far, the prevailing opinion has been that most of these records were destroyed and that the everyday lives of the Lagerhaus’s employees are no longer accessible to the researcher (Reissig 1980, p. 77). It turns out that this was a misconception. Many records have survived and, after several decades in the Central Archives of the GDR in Merseburg, are available today in the State Archives in Berlin.1 This chapter uses these records to assess how the employees of the Lagerhaus navigated the nexus between the state’s responsibility toward them and their own personal duty toward the state by examining a number of conflicts among the personnel. I will begin by locating the 1 Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz (=GStaPK), I. HA Rep. 181 (Directorium des Großen Waisenhauses zu Potsdam). All of the records quoted in this chapter are taken from this multi-volume repository, which is subsequently referred to only as GStaPK+ the number of the volume.

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Lagerhaus in the socio-economic context of eighteenth-century Prussia and beyond. In the middle sections of the chapter, I present three case studies of “troublemakers”—individuals who repeatedly clashed either with their co-workers or with their superiors. We will explore how they expressed their grievances and demands to the management (and occasionally the king himself), in order to understand how they saw themselves in relation to these institutions and how they used the implemented system of conflict resolution to pursue their interests.2 The last section evaluates the implications of the case studies regarding the relationship between the individual and the state in eighteenth-century Prussia. I will argue that in order to understand this relationship we need to consider some important continuities with the guild system.

The Lagerhaus in a Global Context Established in 1713, the Königliches Lagerhaus was originally intended as a depot (hence the name) for military uniforms but was quickly developed into a manufactory for woolen textiles. Besides outfitting Prussia’s growing army with a regular supply of uniforms, it had two core functions: capitalizing on Prussia’s main natural resource wool and providing work both for artisans and for soldiers and their families. According to King Friedrich Wilhelm I’s official orders, the Lagerhaus was to serve “the maintenance of many poor people” (GStaPK 181 Nr. 123, p. 8). As he wrote on another occasion, it existed to sustain Berlin as it was to provide both work and bread, ultimately for all of Prussia (Hinrichs 1987, p. 168). Starting in 1723, the profits of the Lagerhaus were bestowed upon the Potsdam Military Orphanage (Militärwaisenhaus ), who became its official owner. Around that time, it also began production for the private market, which soon surpassed the production of uniforms in importance (Reissig 1980) (Figs. 1 and 2). During the period in question, the Lagerhaus can be described as a state-run enterprise that ultimately reported to the king. In 1763/1764, shortly after the Seven Years’ War that led to mass unemployment in

2 I picked these particular case studies because the records I sifted through so far allowed me to trace these people’s stories somewhat coherently over a period of several years. I want to stress, however, that I could easily make the same points by using different case studies as extant records are full with such individual stories. Though each case is unique, the underlying trends they reflect are not.

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Fig. 1 The Lagerhaus in the mid-eighteenth century. Etching by Johann Friedrich Walther, c. 1730 (Title: Das Königliche Waaren-Lager-Haus) (Source Sammlung Stadtmuseum Berlin, SM 2016–4075. © Stadtmuseum Berlin. Reproduction: Michael Setzpfandt, Berlin)

the textile sector and severely hit the Lagerhaus, the king decided to lease the institution to a private entrepreneur (a certain Heinrich Schmitz from Aachen). Although the institution existed until the early nineteenth century and made some moderate profits in the 1770s, the Lagerhaus

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Fig. 2 The entry gate of the Königliches Lagerhaus. Lithographic print by Hans O. Herrmann, c. 1830 (Title: Der Wollmarkt/Königl. Lagerhaus) (Source Sammlung Stadtmuseum Berlin, VII 64/476 w. © Stadtmuseum Berlin)

experienced its most successful period between roughly 1720 and 1760 while under state control. Interestingly, this is also the least investigated period in its history. Hinrichs’ work was primarily concerned with the 1720s and (to a lesser degree) 1730s, but hardly touched later periods (Hinrichs 1932, 1987). Reissig, on the other hand, mostly added material from the period after 1764 to previous interpretations (Reissig 1980). It is my impression that existing evaluations of the Lagerhaus’s role in Prussian society and economy and its relationship to the state and the military during this period need to be carefully re-evaluated on the basis of the available archival material which this paper argues by evaluating these documents and their implications.

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Historians agree that the Lagerhaus was Berlin’s largest employer in the eighteenth century; they estimate that several thousand individuals worked for this enterprise at any one time (Hinze 1963 [1927], p. 233; Krüger 1958, p. 200). It is difficult to provide an accurate number, in part because the Lagerhaus used a combination of regular staff, seasonal workers, and day laborers, in addition to some work processes being outsourced. This regime was the case for the processing of local wool, which was first sent to the Lagerhaus, where it was sorted and prepared, before being distributed to spinners in Berlin and its countryside and further processed into cloth. Ultimately, it was once again returned to the Lagerhaus who sold the end-product (Hinrichs 1987, pp. 21–2, 206– 7, 291, 304–6, 311–2; Rachel 1931, p. 122). Only the processing of “Spanish cloth” made from the finer imported merino wool was entirely in the hands of the Lagerhaus, manufactured in its so-called “Spanish factory” (Spanische Fabrik). Although here, again, some of the spinning was outsourced, partly to children in the Potsdam orphanage (Hinze 1963 [1927], p. 164). It needs to be emphasized that the Lagerhaus did not just produce uniforms, but also supplied “private” markets. In particular, it responded to the increasing popularity of multicolored textiles that had been initiated by access to Asian printed cottons, the so-called Indiennes. These were already common enough in early eighteenth-century Prussia to draw the attention of the authorities, who concocted a plan to profit from this popularity: Indiennes were to be outlawed, which was coupled with a prohibition to export locally produced raw wool. The latter was to remain in Prussia, where it was furnished into cloth that imitated the style of the Indiennes. This was exactly the kind of cloth the Lagerhaus produced for the private market (Hinrichs 1987, pp. 86, 102–7 and 321; Rachel 1931, pp. 135–7). These measures were of course not unique to Prussia. In many parts of Europe, governments issued prohibitions on Asian printed cottons and supported the production of imitations or alternatives in their efforts to protect local industries (see also chapter ‘Monopoly Claims and Moral Economy: Extralegal Practice in British Global and Local Trade c. 1660–1800’ by Beverly Lemire and chapter ‘Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century’ by Veronika Hyden-Hanscho, in this volume). Moreover, in order to produce this cloth as well as military uniforms, the Lagerhaus needed access to the global dyestuffs market. In order to create the typical colors of a Prussian uniform (a combination of

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red, blue, and yellow) and to produce fashionably colored cloth for the private market, dyers needed a mixture of materials from all over the world including American dyestuffs like indigo, cochineal, brazilwood, or logwood. The records of the Lagerhaus clearly show that the Lagerhaus’s two dyehouses used all of these dyestuffs and many more. It is also clear from the records that producing fast, brilliant, and durable colors was a major concern for the Lagerhaus and that quite a lot of effort went into acquiring both the skills and the raw materials to make this happen, especially in the early years of its existence (Wimmler 2019). King Friedrich Wilhelm I himself placed great emphasis on the uniformity of the colors of Prussian uniforms, which a large, centralized manufactory like the Lagerhaus could provide much more easily than a scattered and decentralized production system (Hinrichs 1987, pp. 206–7). All of this already illustrates why it is apt to look at the Lagerhaus as a “laboratory of modernity,” as it experimented with novel types of employment and production that were nevertheless rooted in existing practices (Radtke 2003, p. 47). We need to keep this “laboratory” character in mind when examining the case studies below. More concretely, we need to remember that the Lagerhaus (and with it, the state) effectively took over the core functions of the trade guilds to some degree. The establishment of centralized manufactories like the Lagerhaus was coupled with the state’s attempt at breaking the dominance of the guilds, who had in many ways functioned as independent bodies. Quality control, conflict resolution, jurisprudence, health insurance, and care for artisan’s widows, all these had been the (independent) responsibility of the trade guilds before centralized manufactories appeared (Schultz 1993, pp. 36– 7, 40 and 115; Bergmann 1973, pp. 10–2, 20 and 23–4; Radtke 2003, pp. 66–7). When artisans entered the services of the Lagerhaus, they were required to swear an oath to this institution (as well as king and state) that conflicted with their commitments to the guilds. In the 1720s during the Lagerhaus’s early years, a number of artisans in fact refused to take this oath, arguing precisely that doing so would discredit them with the other guild members (e.g. GStaPK Nr. 137, pp. 180 and 200). The incentive to swear the oath anyway was threefold: the Lagerhaus offered higher piece wages, it promised a steady supply of materials, and, last but not least, it guaranteed that the fashioned pieces had a buyer (the Lagerhaus). Yet if they were to leave the safety of their guilds, artisans needed to be sure that the Lagerhaus would provide certain protections. Management

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implemented, therefore, procedures and safeguards to make this happen, an essential point reflected in the case studies below. Who was “the management?” Although the initiative for the Lagerhaus had come from King Friedrich Wilhelm I, he had initially used the services (and the capital) of the private entrepreneur Johann Andreas Krautt to establish it. After the latter’s demise, the king forced Krautt’s heirs to hand over their shares to the state (Rachel 1931, p. 123). Initially, the king and his officers were on the lookout for another entrepreneur to take on Krautt’s position, but they ultimately decided to hand management over to a committee of (initially six) government officials representing the interests of the General Directorate (Generaldirektorium, Prussia’s ministry for finances and the interior), the military and the judiciary: this committee was called the Lagerhauskommission, which I will refer to on the following pages simply as the commission (Hinrichs 1987, pp. 154–6 and 163; 1932, p. 62). Although (as we will see shortly) this was the actual decision-making body, the day-to-day management of the business was turned over to a triumvirate which I will refer to as the directors. Their exact composition changed over the years; the one constant member (since 1731) being Kriegs- und Domänenrath Carl Gottfried Bastineller, whom we will encounter as an important protagonist on the following pages. The subject of these pages is what I am calling the “petitions cycle” (see Fig. 3): when an employee had a grievance or a request that could not be resolved by speaking with colleagues and/or the directors, he or she wrote a letter to the commission, detailing the problem or request. The commission (in our case represented by von Katt and later by Wedell) never responded to the employee directly, but typically proceeded by asking the directors for a “report” on the matter. The directors then delivered the report to the commission, who then reached a decision (“resolution”), which they communicated to the directors. The directors then informed the employee and made sure the commission’s decision was carried out. There was consequently much-written communication between the directors and the commission, though the employees were far from silent. For one thing, their petitions initiated the entire cycle. Written communication between employees and directors, on the other hand, is not extant, probably because it was unnecessary: the directors were on-site anyway. We will also see that the commission could often move against the wishes of the directors.

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Fig. 3 Hierarchies and the “petitions cycle” in the Lagerhaus. Elaborated by the author

This web of communication between the commission, the directors, and the workers reveals not only that employees were expected to prove their allegiance toward the Lagerhaus (and the state) through their work, but also the notion of the state’s responsibility toward the well-being of its subjects. The latter in fact gave employees quite a bit of leeway. In practice, even people who were known as “troublemakers” and continually “misbehaved” were rarely fired. On the following pages, I examine how some of these troublemakers used the available channels to ensure their livelihood and the well-being of their families.

“Cannot be brought to order”: Abraham Elin We begin our investigation into the Lagerhaus employees from the top. Abraham Elin was the foreman of the “Spanish factory” from at least 1724 to c. 1762. As such, he was the man in charge of the Lagerhaus’s most important production branch and a highly skilled worker. While he was clearly an essential employee, this does not mean that he had the

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unlimited support of either the management or the other workers. By the 1740s, we find ample evidence that there was quite a lot of friction between him and the management. In August 1744, Elin petitioned the commission to appoint his eldest son (referred to as Elin junior) as his assistant, including a lengthy description of how he intended to distribute the tasks between them. This petition occasioned a rather unambiguous response from the Lagerhaus directors: Elin, they told the commission, clearly intended to live a life of comfort while still receiving payment. The tasks he had listed for himself barely took up any time at all, while his son would do the actual work (for less pay). They also judged Elin’s request for expenses to buy horses absurd, as most of the workers he supervised lived close to the premises. In addition, they accused him of producing low-quality fabrics at higher cost than necessary, making them difficult to sell. Complaints like these had been raised against Elin for years, they wrote, and it was unlikely that the situation would change. While Elin Jr. was ultimately hired, the commission issued new instructions for the foreman of the Spanish factory and also hired a “controller” to improve the situation (GStaPK Nr. 130, pp. 48–84). So instead of terminating Elin senior’s employment or refusing to hire his son as an assistant, the Lagerhaus reacted by hiring additional personnel. Conflicts were inevitable. In January 1749 Elin senior once again addressed the commission (this time in French), complaining that the controller Johann Friedrich Schütze had been mistreating him (GStaPK Nr. 130, p. 86). He asked the commission to examine his “just grievances” and to protect him from Schütze’s abuses. The directors in turn informed the commission that they had already instructed Elin to improve his behavior toward the controller. They explained how the conflict between Schütze and Elin had developed, taking Schütze’s side: “Since Mr. Elin refused to resort to order, and instead continuously insisted that as foreman all of his instructions were to be followed without protest, which Schütze was no longer willing to accept, a spat with inappropriate injuries [‘Zänkerei mit unanständigen Injurien’] ensued.” (GStaPK Nr. 130, p. 91). While the directors had asked both parties to behave and express their disagreements in a moderate way, Elin had instead resorted to extreme measures by conveying his complaint directly to the commission. The directors responded by pointing out Elin’s numerous “failings” in their report. Elin could, they concluded, scarcely be “brought to order.”

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Co-workers also complained about Elin. In August 1751, cloth-dresser (Tuchbereiter-Meister) Poit wrote to von Katt that he had fallen out of favor with Elin for some unknown reason. Elin had subsequently refused to provide him with enough work, which is why he had descended into poverty. Even before this happened, he continued, he was hardly able to sustain his wife and children, which is why he was now at the end of his rope: “My misery obliges me to appeal to his honorably excellency’s protection and help for the poor and hard-pressed—for which he is famous in the entire kingdom—so that I do not have to take the beggar’s staff and leave the country, my wife and three underage children” (GStaPK Nr. 144, p. 31). According to Poit, Elin had bad-mouthed him and had unjustly claimed that he failed to do his work well. Von Katt passed Poit’s complaint on to the directors two days later—instead of requesting a “report” on the matter, as was the typical procedure in such cases, von Katt instead asked the directors directly to make sure that Poit was properly employed in the Lagerhaus and to remind Elin to keep his temper in check (GStaPK Nr. 144, p. 32). But the problem with Elin was not just his temper; he was also repeatedly accused of carelessness in his work and was even fined 10 Reichsthaler on one such occasion (GStaPK Nr. 144, pp. 83, 113). The troubles extended to Elin’s personnel. In January 1752, two of his employees, the weaver Peter Frantzky and his wife, wrote a complaint to the commission claiming that controller Schütze had repeatedly harassed the wife when she delivered Frantzky’s workpieces (it seems that she was herself a spinner for the Spanish factory). The next day, von Katt ordered the directors to request a statement from Schütze regarding the accusations. Schütze then delivered a lengthy counterattack two weeks later (GStaPK Nr. 144, pp. 91–4), in which he complained of insubordinate behavior on the part of Mrs. Frantzky. According to him, she had failed to deliver the workpieces on time and when he initially refused to accept the tardy delivery, Frantzky resorted to yelling, insolent statements, and inappropriate gestures. This altercation had not been the first such incident, he continued. Mrs. Frantzky had threatened to trample Schütze with a horse in a similar situation in 1749. Schütze went even further in his attack, expounding Mrs. Frantzky’s moral character (or lack thereof). It was publicly known, he claimed, that she had resorted to thieving and whoring around during the Silesian wars. Rumor had it that she had been tied to a horse’s tail during a military campaign and dragged toward the camp due to her misbehavior.

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Everyone knew, wrote Schütze, that Frantzky was an insubordinate worker of questionable moral character who was not fit to work in the Lagerhaus. The only problem was that she was Abraham Elin’s favorite employee. Not only did Elin continue to employ her despite all this, he complained, but she also received much higher pay than other, more honorable people. Schütze also strongly implied that Frantzky had stolen a silver teapot during her previous employment and had received her husband’s two weaving looms from Elin in exchange for a silver chalice, a valuable serving spoon, and a lacquered tea table adorned with rare porcelain— implying that she acquired these through questionable means. Schütze requested that Frantzky be fired. Von Katt did not comply. He filtered out the following from Schütze’s essay. Frantzky had not delivered the workpieces on time and had nevertheless demanded that Schütze accept them. He ordered the directors to instruct Mrs. Frantzky to comply with the schedule and to conduct herself modestly toward her superiors. Otherwise, she would be “looked at” (GStaPK Nr. 144, p. 95). The fact that Mrs. Frantzky had no problem accusing the controller Schütze of maltreatment and (if we believe Schütze) misbehaving and even threatening him, suggests that she did indeed see Elin—not Schütze—as her supervisor. Given the existing tensions between Elin and Schütze, she was probably reasonably confident that she would have Elin’s support against the controller. While the Spanish factory was a quasi-independent entity in the Lagerhaus, the directors had a supervising function and were to make sure that Elin did his work to the benefit of the Lagerhaus (GStaPK Nr. 123, pp. 3 and 8). We saw that the commission (and the directors) tried to gain more control over the Spanish factory through the installment of a controller to oversee the goings-on in the factory. The threat to have Elin’s employee Mrs. Frantzky “looked at” also speaks to this intention. Yet they needed to tread lightly, as Elin was not easily replaced. Elin, in turn, was clearly annoyed by the administration’s attempts to interfere with what he considered to be his own sphere of influence, and often resisted. In 1749, the directors complained that Elin had neglected to supply sufficient work for a certain Mr. Medigall, a weaver of Spanish cloth. A bullet had severely injured Medigall during the last war, but he had been refused a disability pension on account that he could still practice his craft in the Lagerhaus. The directors, following orders from

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the commission, had instructed Elin to supply enough work for him to guarantee his subsistence, but Elin had failed to comply (GStaPK Nr. 130, p. 92). Moreover, despite the commission’s request, Elin refused to provide any sort of report about the numerous recently hired personnel. This power, Elin felt, was clearly his purview and not the administration’s. In instructing Elin to provide work for Medigall, the directors sought to carry out one of the most important responsibilities of the Lagerhaus as laid out by Friedrich Wilhelm I and confirmed by Friedrich II: providing work for (former) soldiers and their families.

Former Soldiers: Custodian Thiele and His Wife Many soldiers and former soldiers served in the Lagerhaus, but they were not taken on indiscriminately. Petitions for work from former soldiers were particularly numerous during the Seven Years’ War, when employment was scarce and war injuries were frequent. For the period, many petitions from so-called “invalids”—meaning former soldiers who were no longer able to serve in the military, often because of an injury—are extant, many of which had to be rejected because there were no vacancies in the Lagerhaus. The administration also frequently rejected these petitions in order to promote existing Lagerhaus personnel who had proven hard and loyal workers to higher positions. Indeed, the records clearly show that the commission and the directors had to navigate between their responsibility toward former soldiers and their responsibility toward the existing personnel. As the case of another “troublemaker,” Hauswärther Johann Andreas Thiele, would suggest, former soldiers seem to have had a highly secure position once employed at the Lagerhaus. Thiele entered service with the Lagerhaus in 1733, after over 20 years in the Prussian military (GStaPK Nr. 133, p. 9). In September 1751 he petitioned for a raise or rather, for a salary that equaled that of the custodian of the Gold and Silver Manufactory. The directors responded that Thiele was not really a fullfledged custodian but had only been hired for the following menial tasks: opening and closing the gates, overseeing deliveries especially of firewood, instructing the servant (Hausknecht ) to make sure the firewood arrived at the dyehouse in good order, and making sure the candles on the Lagerhaus premises were lit in time. They lamented that he even delegated most of these tasks—as well as his wife’s tasks—to servants instead (GStaPK Nr. 130, pp. 114–5). The exact nature of Thiele’s position continued to be

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a point of contention. While Thiele and his wife always insisted that he was a proper Castellan, the administration referred to him a Hauswärther or Pförtner. In one instance, the administration accidentally named him as a Castellan and then scratched the word to write Hauswärther instead (GStaPK Nr. 130, p. 11). In 1757, the directors reported to von Katt that there had been repeated complaints against Thiele, as he had on various occasions offended both Lagerhaus personnel and “foreigners” while they were entering or leaving the premises. The directors had frequently warned him to change his conduct, otherwise they would take legal action. Thiele remained unimpressed by the threat and even showed insolent behavior toward the directors themselves. His misconduct resulted, they explained, from his “foolish ambitions” as he was not acting in a way that corresponded with his status. The directors noted, for example, that Thiele had tried to engage his excellency General Lieutenant Haane in conversation while the latter rode through the premises. Even more incriminating was an incident that had taken place three years earlier, when Thiele had addressed Major Lange of a hussar regiment with “How are you, mate”? on the grounds that he had served with him as an infantryman. Had he stayed in the military, Thiele told everyone who would listen, he too would now be a Major. While such charges seem fairly minor from a twenty-first-century perspective, it is clear that these were serious accusations at the time. The directors feared that the situation would only worsen and asked the commission to give them the authority to threaten Thiele with dismissal the next time he (or his wife and children!) offended anyone or failed to behave in a manner appropriate to his station. Von Katt agreed and gave the order (GStaPK Nr. 130, pp. 168–70). The Thiele case illustrates not only the social importance of status in mid-eighteenth-century Prussia, but also the possibility of breaching status expectations. Thiele and his family clearly got away with their behavior for years without being in danger of losing their positions (or worse). Even after the directors grew wearisome of him, they had to ask the commission for permission to threaten Thiele with dismissal following the next transgression—even a believable threat to fire someone therefore needed to be authorized from up high. I emphasize this because one often finds the remark in the literature that the Lagerhaus functioned according to a merit system and that workers who did not carry out their tasks to the satisfaction of the administration were immediately fired (Reissig 1980, pp. 88 and 91; Schultz 1992, p. 114). This is also

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frequently argued in the debate on “social disciplining” (Schulze 1987, pp. 275–6; Bergmann 1973, p. 26). While merit certainly played a role in the Lagerhaus, records do not support the assumption that this was the only (or even the primary) factor, or that employees constantly feared losing their position if they did not please their superiors. In fact, Thiele was never fired. Instead, in November 1761 he once again petitioned the commission for a raise, complaining that when he took the position as Castellan 30 years ago he had been promised a higher salary than he ultimately received in addition to a pair of new boots every year, a sufficient number of candles, and occasional work removing knots and impurities from cloth (which would have guaranteed additional income on top of his salary). Not only had these conditions not been met, but he had been punished with a reduced salary “for some unknown reason.” He asked to receive what he was due, adding: “As an old soldier of now 62 years who is expected to serve the king whatever the weather, day and night, and has done so for 48 years without reproach, I should surely deserve no less than a young novice could ask” (GStaPK Nr. 133, p. 9 verso). One can only assume that the phrase “without reproach” would have rubbed director Bastineller the wrong way. The commission refrained from asking him for a statement and instead ordered that Thiele be granted the raise, so that he may “calm down.” It should be noted that this was the middle of the Seven Years’ War: prices for necessities had risen, as had unemployment. Johann Andreas Thiele died in March 1764 as an employee of the Lagerhaus, but the case was not closed. In October, his widow complained to the commission that she had not received the final installment of her “mercy salary” (Gnaden-Gehalt ). According to her side of the story, her husband had worked without pay for the first six months of his employment, on the condition that the salary for these six months would then be paid to his widow after his demise. However, the sixth month had for some reason not been paid despite the fact that she had in the past months taken on her late husband’s responsibilities to the best of her abilities. Moreover, she demanded that some of her husband’s belongings which had not been handed over after she was forced to move out, be returned to her (GStaPK Nr. 133, pp. 51 and 57–8). This time, Wedell asked the directors for a report. The directors were clearly annoyed by the widow Thiele’s requests. First of all, her husband had never worked for the Lagerhaus without pay; secondly, it was entirely without precedent that the widows or heirs

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of lower-level employees (Unterbediente) received a mercy salary, and so the applicant was, they stated, clearly making this up. This statement also implies that the widows of other employees did in fact receive a mercy salary at times. Indeed, this was not necessarily restricted to widows: from a 1751 letter written by Maria Elisabeth Vogt, we know that her father had been granted such a salary due to his advanced age and years of loyal service (GStaPK Nr. 144, pp. 9–12). The fact that Thiele had been a lower-level employee was not the only issue the directors had with his widow. They also claimed that nobody had ever heard of any tools of Thiele’s left behind in the apartment. Indeed, on inspection, it turned out that Mrs. Thiele had ripped out and taken with her parts of the oven and was in the process of removing an iron board from the wall when Bastineller interrupted her. All of these articles were, Bastineller wrote, the property of the Lagerhaus. She had even hired a soldier to steal some of the firewood from the dyehouse. Considering this behavior, the directors concluded, she could not expect to be paid another 10 Reichsthaler on top of everything. Wedell agreed; the widow Thiele was not to receive another month’s payment or any of the tools she asked for. After all, she had already gotten an oven and a few months of undeserved payments out of the deal (GStaPK Nr. 133, pp. 60–2). Mrs. Thiele got off easy. The Lagerhaus brought no charges against her and even let her keep the “stolen” appliances. Others were not so lucky, as we shall see.

Internal Jurisdiction: The Case of the Frentzels In July 1732, Anna Victoria Frentzel (born Betgen), who had managed the Lagerhaus’s plying shop (Zwirnmühle), was arrested for stealing and subsequently lost her position in the Lagerhaus. In her place, Maria Elisabeth Bock (born Poltinau) took over in the interim. This change led to years of conflict between Frentzel and her husband Friedrich on the one hand, and Bock and her husband on the other, which is well documented in over a hundred pages of paper. The husbands were also Lagerhaus employees; Frentzel was a cloth maker (Zeugmacher) and Bock a warper (Kettenscherer). The conflict lasted until 1740 and included a myriad of accusations not only among the employees, but also against the directors. The king himself was involved, as both Anna Victoria and Friedrich wrote to him directly and it was the king who ultimately issued the order to have

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Friedrich Frentzel fired in 1739. We will see that the Frentzels used all the means at their disposal to fight their dismissals. Friedrich Frentzel and his wife had been employed in the Lagerhaus for two years when Anna Victoria was arrested. As manager of the plying shop, Anna Victoria was in charge of a number of workers who twisted together several strands of dyed yarn in order to make it stronger (plying). She was also the one who received the yarn and returned it after plying. When she was accused of stealing yarn from the shop (which would have expressed itself in a significant weight difference between the received and the returned material), the matter was initially investigated “in house”: the directors checked the books and called witnesses. On July 27, 1732, the commission wrote a letter to the court of law, informing them that their initial investigation had confirmed Anna Victoria’s guilt and asking the court to initiate legal proceedings against her. At this point, the case officially left the jurisdiction of the Lagerhaus. Anna was incarcerated for 10 weeks before her husband was able to have her released on account of her advanced pregnancy (GStaPK Nr. 148, p. 61). She was eventually exonerated as her guilt could not be proven, but was never reinstated to her former position in the Lagerhaus. Because of this, she wrote a letter to the king on March 8, 1734, complaining that although her innocence had been established, she was still expected to pay for the costs of the proceedings, all the while having lost her employment because of them. The case against her had been built on false accusations of theft on the basis of questionable testimony, she wrote. Reason dictated not only that she be released from the burden of the legal costs, but that she would be reinstated and receive compensation for the pain and injuries she had endured (GStaPK Nr. 148, pp. 51–6). She also accused her superiors of covering up the plot against her and siding with her enemies. The commission and the directors only responded that Mrs. Frentzel was no longer allowed to enter the premises of the Lagerhaus and threatened her with another arrest should she continue to stir up trouble (GStaPK Nr. 148, p. 58). In the meantime, her husband remained employed at the Lagerhaus and began his own crusade against the Bocks and the directors. In October 1733, he wrote a lengthy letter of denunciation accusing Maria Bock of defraud (essentially the same accusation that had previously been brought against his wife), which he had meticulously documented since his wife’s dismissal (GStaPK Nr. 148, pp. 20–5). Once again, the Lagerhaus investigated the matter and called witnesses, who did not confirm

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the accusations. The witnesses included the accused themselves, their superiors, and their workers. The directors even consulted the private entrepreneur Wegely, who also managed a large woolen manufactory, as something of an expert witness (GStaPK Nr. 148, p. 47). When Friedrich Frentzel was called “to the stand,” the directors called in several individuals whom he accused of wrongdoing and confronted them directly with his statements. Maria Bock was eventually exonerated. She was not turned over to the authorities and retained her position. One year later, Friedrich Frentzel wrote to the king, complaining that the Lagerhaus had confiscated part of his monthly salary to cover his wife’s legal costs. He had two issues with this action. First, he could not legally be held accountable for the costs of his wife’s proceedings. Second, his wife had been exonerated. This complaint and Anna Victoria’s aforementioned letter make abundantly clear that the Frentzels had the support of a lawyer, as both letters are laced with legal technical terms. That a lawyer was indeed behind many of the arguments the couple put forth is also clear from Friedrich’s testimony in front of the directors, in which he stated that his “advocatus” had proposed certain formulations (GStaPK Nr. 148, pp. 41 verso–42). While it is unclear whether Friedrich Frentzel subsequently received his full pay, later records suggest that the Frentzels endured financial troubles in the following years and that Anna Victoria continued to do work for the Lagerhaus. In May 1739, a complaint against Friedrich Frentzel reached the commission from Johann Christoph Döring, a long-standing and high-ranking administrative employee whose brother had taken over the recently deceased clerk’s position. Döring accused Frentzel of defrauding and of employing his wife as a spinner, despite her having been “chased away” from the Lagerhaus years ago. According to the complaint, the accusations had already been communicated to the directors, who had refused to take action—hence the letter to the commission. Döring threw in that Friedrich Frentzel also brewed his own beer and distributed it among the employees, thus guaranteeing their loyalty (GStaPK Nr. 148, pp. 66–7). In September 1739, king Friedrich Wilhelm I himself issued the order to fire Friedrich Frentzel (GStaPK Nr. 148, p. 68; Nr. 123, p. 2). But the directors dragged out the execution of the order because they had difficulty finding a replacement. In addition, Friedrich Frentzel was not about to go quietly. In December, he wrote to the king that he had heard rumors that he was about to be let go. On inquiry, he claimed,

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the directors had told him that this was because his wife kept railing against Mrs. Bock. Frentzel proceeded to rehash the old story about Mrs. Bock’s embezzlement and his wife’s unjust arrest and dismissal. He now added that director Bastineller had not only taken the Bocks’ side in the conflict but had threatened to fire Frentzel and even to have him arrested should he (or his wife) continue to speak up. He also laid out in detail the many ways in which Mrs. Bock illicitly increased her income. Among other things, he claimed that she took bribes in the form of chickens, pigeons, fresh butter, and eggs. Frentzel therefore asked for the king’s support and protection in the matter or failing this, for a favorable reference letter so he could seek employment elsewhere (GStaPK Nr. 148, pp. 69–82). In January 1740, the commission requested a detailed report on the matter from the directors, who were clearly outraged. Bastineller wrote a lengthy report, in which he claimed that he had always investigated all disputes between the Bocks and the Frentzels in an impartial and diligent manner and had involved his two co-directors in his investigation every step of the way. If Friedrich Frentzel’s accusations against him had been correct, the other two directors surely would have vetoed his decisions. He also pointed out that after 10 years of employment in the Lagerhaus, he was well aware that the workers needed to be handled (and talked to) with care, which is why he always chose his words to Frentzel carefully. According to Bastineller, the reason for Frentzel’s accusations was abundantly clear: he was in debt. (Bastineller failed to mention that this may have been the case because of his wife’s legal proceedings a few years back.) Co-directors Beier and Hund affirmed that the matter had been investigated diligently and confirmed Bastineller’s report in their own letter to the commission. They added that Frentzel’s letter contained a number of falsehoods and expressed their resentment of the fact that Frentzel had asked for a letter of reference. The Frentzel case demonstrates the somewhat precarious position of the directors. On the one hand, they had to mediate between employees whom they were in close contact with on a daily basis and, on the other hand, they had to report and answer to the commission while having no authority to make actual decisions. Though the directors were supposed to be impartial, it is clear that they did take sides in conflicts, but they also needed to justify their positions to the commission. The commission, in turn, tried to create the impression of being a “neutral” and impartial institution that the workers could approach, especially if they felt that the

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directors did not take their issues seriously. The Frentzel even saw fit to write to the king directly. While we do not know whether the king actually read their (very lengthy) letters, the fact that he himself ordered Friedrich Frentzel’s dismissal illustrates that he was indeed the ultimate authority where the Lagerhaus was concerned.

Obligations and Expectations Erving Goffman has reminded us that norms or rules impact an individual in two ways: as obligations and as expectations. On the one hand, norms obligate an individual to do certain things for others (or, conversely, not to do certain things), but they also create the expectation that others will act in a certain way toward them. Individuals, Goffman notes, understand themselves according to these two sides of norms and who or what these norms allow them to be (Goffman 1974, p. 140). We have seen above that the employees of the Lagerhaus expected quite a lot from their employer and, ultimately, from the state. And they were vocal about these expectations. In their petitions and letters, a set phrase was the promise to “serve with diligence and loyalty” or the remark that one had served in this manner for years. Carrying out their obligations according to the rules and norms created expectations in them: the state was supposed to provide for them in return. Scholars have debated whether the Prussian state really cared for the fate of the individual, and many suggested that its interest was rather to profit from an increasing (preferably obedient) population of taxpayers and consumers (Rosenberg 1958; Krüger 1958; Hinze 1963 [1927]; Schultz 1992). This position fits nicely into a body of work suggesting that “social disciplining” was one of the characteristics of early modern state-building and the transition to modernity and capitalism. As these previous pages have illustrated, however, even if state institutions attempted to “discipline” their subjects, these did not always comply. More importantly, a failure to comply often went without serious consequences and the state’s power (even, it seems, its willingness) to enforce its rules and punish troublemakers was, at least in this particular case, limited. It is also clear from the records examined here that the Lagerhaus’s employees expected the state to take care of them and were not afraid to speak up if they thought that their needs were not being met. I suggest that this was because the Lagerhaus took over core functions of the trade guilds: we have seen, for example, that the directors were

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responsible for conflict resolution and quality control and the Lagerhaus had its own internal jurisprudence. The Frentzel case revealed an investigative procedure reminiscent of court proceedings. However, as soon as an individual was judged guilty “in house” and fired—as happened with Anna Victoria Frentzel—he or she was handed over to the magistrate. Of course, the guilds had been trade-specific as cloth-dressers, dyers, or weavers all had their own guilds and their own internal hierarchies, rules of conduct, and jurisprudence. The characteristic element of centralized manufactories was that they brought together different aspects of the production process and, therefore, different trades. The commission and the directors supervised the entire enterprise and engaged in quality control and conflict resolution regardless of profession. The cloth-dresser and the dyer, therefore, were managed by the same corporate body. There was clearly pushback to this and Abraham Elin is a case in point. He evidently still saw himself as an independent foreman of his own workshop and was repeatedly annoyed (if not to say offended) by the controlmechanisms the commission implemented and their attempt at interfering with his personnel decisions. The fact that women petitioned the Lagerhaus in the same manner as their male colleagues merits some thought. Scholars have debated the extent to which women were allowed to be active in the guilds. Officially, they were usually excluded from them. Unofficially, as research on various European regions has illustrated, daughters, wives, and widows were often trained and even practiced crafts within the guilds (Crowston 2008; Ogilvie 2004; Epstein 2008). The women who petitioned the commission usually presented themselves as wives, widows, or daughters and capitalized on this core relationship. Some of these women clearly had considerable and independent responsibilities. Neither the commission nor the king found it particularly unusual to receive petitions from women. It seems reasonable to assume that this did not come out of nowhere; it is more likely that (as elsewhere in Europe) there was some precedent to such practices of female agency in Brandenburg-Prussia’s guild system. This consideration leads us to another interesting point. Clearly, the ability of employees to make use of the procedures described in this chapter hinged on a very important factor, namely the ability to write or at least access to someone with this ability. In general, the employees of the Lagerhaus were artisans who had learned how to read and write

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either before or during their apprenticeships (Schultz 1993, pp. 61–2; Bergmann 1973, p. 28). As Clare Crowston noted, little research has been done on the question of how working women in the early modern period received their training (Crowston 2008, p. 30), so it is difficult to say if, when, and how they learned to read and write—besides the home, churches immediately come to mind, as Crowston also notes. In any case, my overall impression of the extant documents is that letters signed by women were actually written by these women themselves. Mrs. Frantzky, however, never signed a letter herself, but communicated with the commission only through her husband. The major weak points in the Lagerhaus’s system were “health insurance” and the care of widows. This is where they clearly fell short of guild standards, where both of these functions had been essential (Schultz 1992, pp. 93, 121 and 124; 1993, pp. 58 and 105). While this subject needs closer investigation, my preliminary impression is that there were no clear rules of procedure when it came to dealing with widows or sick employees. Instead, this was decided on a case-by-case basis. Several older employees received a kind of “pension” if they had worked in the Lagerhaus for many years and were no longer fit for duty; this was often coupled with a transfer to the workhouse Friedrichs-Hospital, where they engaged in less strenuous tasks. While paid “sick leave” was not common, the commission did approve payment for sick personnel in individual cases. Some widows took over their husband’s tasks at least for a time (as had been common in the guilds) and continued to get paid for them or received a mercy salary. Others simply disappear from the records. The cases presented in this chapter illustrate that there was a system in place at the Lagerhaus that allowed individual workers to voice their grievances and that these complaints were taken seriously and investigated with quite some rigor. The employees made use of these mechanisms frequently and with a considerable amount of confidence and entitlement. From the perspective of employees, the possibility of appealing to the directors and the commission (or even to the king) meant that they could complain about their co-workers, supervisors, or the working conditions in general, and that they could expect their concerns to be heard, even if a favorable outcome was not guaranteed. Contrary to the picture that has often been painted of the eighteenth-century Prussian “military state,” the employees of the Lagerhaus did not passively accept their situation nor did they kneel to authority without question. Neither did state institutions mercilessly force a program of “social disciplining” on the workers.

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Rather, the records reveal a system that allowed for negotiations between different players. Some workers clearly had more bargaining power than others, but all of them used whatever leeway and assets they had. Filled with expectations of what the state owed them in exchange for their loyal and diligent service, they were not afraid to stir up trouble and demand what they thought they were due—even if this meant walking out the door with parts of an oven.

Bibliography Bergmann, Jürgen. 1973. Das Berliner Handwerk in den Frühphasen der Industrialisierung. Berlin: Colloquium-Verl. Crowston, Clare. 2008. “Women, Gender, and Guilds in Early Modern Europe: An Overview of Recent Research.” International Review of Social History 53: 19–44. Dinges, Martin. 1991. “Frühneuzeitliche Armenfürsorge als Sozialdisziplinierung? Probleme mit einem Konzept.” Geschichte und Gesellschaft 18 (1): 5–29. Epstein, S.R. 2008. “Craft Guilds in the Pre-modern Economy: A Discussion.” The Economic History Review 61 (1): 155–74. Goffman, Erving. 1974. Das Individuum im öffentlichen Austausch: Mikrostudien zur öffentlichen Ordnung. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hinrichs, Carl. 1932. Das königliche Lagerhaus in Berlin. Forschungen zur Brandenburgischen und Preußischen Geschichte 44: 46–69. Hinrichs, Carl. 1987. Die Wollindustrie in Preußen unter Friedrich Wilhelm I. Darstellung mit Aktenbeilagen. Acta Borussica Reihe 2, Abteilung E. Frankfurt am Main: Keip. Hinze, Kurt. 1963 [1927]. Die Arbeiterfrage zu Beginn des modernen Kapitalismus in Brandenburg-Preussen. Berlin: De Gruyter. Krüger, Horst. 1958. Zur Geschichte der Manufakturen und der Manufakturarbeiter in Preussen: Die mittleren Provinzen in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts. Berlin: Rütten & Loening. Ogilvie, Sheilagh. 2004. “How Does Social Capital Affect Women? Guilds and Communities in Early Modern Germany.” The American Historical Review 109 (2): 325–59. Ogilvie, Sheilagh. 2006. “‘So That Every Subject Knows How to Behave’: Social Disciplining in Early Modern Bohemia.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 48 (1): 38–78.

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Pröve, Ralf. 1999. “Dimensionen und Reichweite der Paradigmen ‘Sozialdisziplinierung’ und ‘Militarisierung’ im Heiligen Römischen Reich.” In Institutions, Instruments and Agents of Social Control and Discipline in Early Modern Europe, ed. Heinz Schilling, 65–85. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann. Rachel, Hugo. 1931. Das Berliner Wirtschaftsleben im Zeitalter des Fühkapitalismus. Berlin: Rembrandt-Verlag. Radtke, Wolfgang. 2003. Gewerbe und Handel in der Kurmark Brandenburg 1740 bis 1806: Zur Interdependenz von kameralistischer Staatswirtschaft und Privatwirtschaft. BWV Berliner Wiss.-Verl. Reissig, Harald. 1980. “Das Berliner Lagerhaus 1713–1816: Zum Einfluss von Regierung und Wirtschaft auf die Entwicklung einer altpreussischen Staatsmanufaktur.” Jahrbuch für die Geschichte Mittel- und Ostdeutschlands 29: 68–95. Rosenberg, Hans. 1958. Bureaucracy, Aristocracy and Autocracy: The Prussian Experience 1660–1815. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Schilling, Heinz, ed. 1999. Institutions, Instruments and Agents of Social Control and Discipline in Early Modern Europe. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann. Schultz, Helga. 1992. Berlin 1650–1800: Sozialgeschichte einer Residenz. Berlin: Akad.-Verl. Schultz, Helga. 1993. Das ehrbare Handwerk: Zunftleben im alten Berlin zur Zeit des Absolutismus. Weimar: Böhlau. Schulze, Winfried. 1987. “Gerhard Oestreichs Begriff ‘Sozialdisziplinierung in der Frühen Neuzeit’.” Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 14 (3): 265–302. Wimmler, Jutta. 2019. “Dyeing Woollens in Eighteenth-Century Berlin: The Königliches Lagerhaus and the Globalisation of Prussia Through Colouring Materials.” In Cotton in Context: Manufacturing, Marketing, and Consuming Textiles in the German-Speaking World (1500–1900), ed. Kim Siebenhüner, John Jordan, and Gabi Schopf, 195–221. Wien, Köln, Weimar: Böhlau Verlag.

All Roads Lead to Mexico? The Postal Network of Late Colonial New Spain as an Integrated Communication Space Werner Stangl

Introduction The “Bourbon Reforms” in the second half of the eighteenth century arguably aimed at a more “rational” structure of governance in Spanish America. An important aspect in these developments was an expansion in knowledge-production, intelligence, and hierarchically organized administrative information chains. This was to be accomplished by a total reorganization of the postal system as a state monopoly (renta real ). Postal administrators quickly became important figures in the imperial bureaucratic apparatus: A dependent of the mail office at Querétaro, Mariano Galván, denounced Hidalgo’s conspiracy, having noticed how Allende and Aldama had frequently received letters from Hidalgo. The conspirators, suspicious, changed habits, but did not succeed (Alamán 1849, p. 361). The administrator of Querétaro, Joaquín Quintana, quickly informed the higher authorities: within a day after the start of the

W. Stangl (B) University of Graz, Graz, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_9

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insurrection (the “grito de Dolores”), Quintana had dispatched an express courier to Guadalajara and another one to Mexico (Hernández y Dávalos 1877, doc. 32). One of the first actions by insurgents saw the replacement of those not privy to the conspiracy. As Quintana informed the viceroy by letter on September 22, 1810: “The traitors have installed new postal administrators, as I have been told, and the unlucky Arabio Urrutia was their consequential victim; that is why here the correspondence is detained, and the same will happen with the one sent here while your highness sends me your orders.” (Hernández y Dávalos 1877, doc. 38). One year later, the postal administrator in Zacatecas, Ángel Abella, joined the military tribunal judging Hidalgo and read out his death sentence. The flow of official letters was financed through the postage paid by private users of the official system, which was not to be circumvented by private couriers. Thus, by creating a tighter administrative system, the authorities ironically at the same time consolidated a proto-national sphere of communication. The postal network undoubtedly played an important role in the acceleration of how political ideas circulated in an emerging shared communicative space, as it did elsewhere. Even though the postal system was dysfunctional in most parts of the country during the 1810s, it was no coincidence that the most important early insurgent periodical was called Correo Americano del Sur. Our knowledge about the spatiotemporal organization of the New Spanish mail is strikingly scarce despite the vitality of the postal system both in terms of colonial administration as well as the development of a public communicative sphere. Although 380 out of almost 900 post offices in Spanish America were in New Spain, nothing has been published about how the organization between these institutional centers within this system. Research into the historical and cultural heritage of the postal service within colonial Spanish America is, as a general rule, uneven both spatially and thematically. In the inter-war period until the 1940s, Walter Bose laid the foundations with several monographs and articles on “the origins of the post” in modern nations such as Chile and Argentina in the south to Mexico in the north. There, again, spatial epistemologies are mostly present in his articles on Argentina and less so in other texts, where institutions and administrators are more dominant. Renewed interest in colonial postal connections was associated initially with transatlantic communications—logical, considering that Spain is notorious for having an empire “governed by letters,” where spatial and temporal distance mattered to a significant degree (Gaudin et al.

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2017). The most important “transatlantic” contributions to this branch of studies came from Francisco Garay on the correo marítimo (Garay 1987, 1996) and José Manuel López Bernal, who studied tariffs and the geographic routes of maritime mail (López Bernal 1999, 2011). Both authors are members of the Royal Historical Academy of Philately (Real Academia Histórica de Filatelía). For many decades, philatelic institutions like the Real Academia were the only significant impulses for historical investigation, which led to a certain bias in epistemology. Over the past two decades, historiography has moved away from studying the Spanish Empire through the lens of a “European metropolis” related to “colonial peripheries.” Instead, studies focus more on different aspects such as “enlightened” reformism and polycentricity, and mail organization in the Americas has become dominant, as have communicative practices. Rocío Moreno, for instance, works on the maritime mail but also analyzes the inner workings of reformism in the establishment of the administration in Cartagena de Indias—combining the importance of mail as an imperial, transatlantic enterprise, and as a regional institution with practices and agents in situ (Moreno Cabanillas 2019, 2021). Agents of reform also take center stage in José Araneda’s work on Chile (Araneda 2017). Araneda discusses spatial and spatiotemporal perception through a postal lens (Araneda 2015), an aspect also dominant in Sylvia Sellers-García’s investigation into the situation in Guatemala (Sellers-García 2012, p. 2013). The author here has contributed to this bibliography by analyzing routes in New Granada—present-day Colombia and Panama—(Stangl 2020) as well as how changes in mail infrastructure influenced the perception of space and community integration from the perspective of its users (Stangl 2013). Recent scholarship on New Spain is sparse, with the exception of Nelson González’s work, which centered on the role of agents and the figure of the correos mayores (Supreme Postmasters) (González Martínez 2017, 2019), and does not include an analysis of the postal system’s spatial development. Ironically, it is the remotest, northernmost regular postal routes which have received partial attention, long ago. At the end of the nineteenth century, J.M. Guinn (1897) wrote an overview of the mail service in California which includes a chapter on colonial mail. Following Guinn, a monograph and documentary edition exists about the bimonthly service installed in 1779 to connect the relevant places on the northern frontier, which had been politically organized as ComandanciaGeneral of the Interior Provinces shortly before (Sandoval 1948). Until

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recently, neither text has attracted much attention by historiography— with the exception of a mention in Zorrilla (1991, p. 185). In 2020, Yamil Kouri and Leo Harris picked up this topic anew and studied the Spanish and Mexican postal system from Florida to California as a part of US history (Kouri and Harris 2020). Yet the establishment of a mail service for the Internal Provinces is highly relevant and even goes beyond regional or national perspectives. It was a remarkable feat of Spanish organization to establish a fortnightly route that covered the immense distance between “La Bahía” on the Texan coast and Tucson, Arizona. This route hardly constituted the most relevant postal connection of New Spain, however, as it was designed to meet military and administrative demands, meaning private letters constituted a minority of correspondence. Tracking the content of postal routes is yet another desiderate of early modern postal investigations as little research has gone into recovering its volume based on post office accounts. The bias toward the periphery for the study of colonial mail is not limited to New Spain. In South America more generally, postal history is most prominent in a peripheral region: namely, the Río de la Plata area. For this region, El lazarillo del ciego caminante (“Remedy of the blind traveler”) represents a famous and well-researched contemporary description of the route between Buenos Aires and Potosí (Concolorcorvo 1942, [1773]). In addition, Argentina also stands out for maintaining a collective memory of individual post stations dotted along routes like pearls on a string, including folklore and tourist valorization. This dominance of the periphery and linear long-distance connections may be explained by the fact that trade routes, roads (caminos reales ), and postal routes converged, and waystations became pivotal nodes for regional development. Viewed from the outside, the organization of transport in New Spain seems to have followed similar lines. The epitomic observer of the time, Alexander von Humboldt highlighted the importance of Veracruz and Acapulco as New Spain’s entry points and Mexico City’s economic hegemony in distributing trade. Moreover, as a traveler, Humboldt used and described what is generally considered the “main roads,” representing them in form of maps (Carte Reduite de la Route d’ Acapulco a Mexico; Carte de la Route qui mene depuis la Capitale de la Nouvelle Espagne jusqu’a S. Fe de Nouveau Mexique; Tableau physique de la pente Orientale du Plateau de la Nouvelle Espagne [Chemin de Mexico a Veracruz

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par Puebla et Xalapa]). Humboldt’s view of communication and transport has been endorsed by general scholarship. Ramón Serrera states in his reference work on transport in Spanish America that the road network in New Spain was “not very complex,” but consisted rather of “a relatively simple radial schema that connected the center to the four cardinal points” (Serrera 1993, p. 23). An exception to such a center–periphery model for New Spain is a volume edited by Chantal Cramaussel (2016), which highlights the importance of transversal roads among regional centers and within provincial contexts for internal trade. That volume shows how people interested in global relations, external trade, or long-distance travel are inherently blind to the plethora of other communications that connected and constituted the landscape. A somewhat confused and convoluted thesis by José Tovar Alcaraz (2020) is the only recent effort to reconstruct spatial patterns of mail in central New Spain. Tovar reconstructs seven cordilleras or circuits, as they existed before the postal reforms during the eighteenth century (and potentially earlier). Those cordilleras must not be confused with regular, weekly mail connections, however. Cordilleras represented a normalized system that allowed for a more rational dispatch and lumping of correspondence to different places. Importantly, administrators used cordilleras to pass around decrees and orders as circular letters. Lower administrators along the cordilleras had to confirm receipt, acknowledge to respect for the contents, and forward them to the next in line. Accordingly, most cordilleras constituted a circuit rather than a bidirectional line. The alternative to a cordillera was sending separate “extraordinary” messengers at a much greater cost. Settlements included in a cordillera were obliged to take over correspondence sent from the previous place and to organize the relay to the next one in turn. In fact, the cordillera was a serialized system of individually organized journeys without a proper schedule. The seven cordilleras list about 150 connected places. Within a cordillera, one place only connected directly to those “down the line.” For letters sent either “up the line” or to places in other cordilleras, correspondence was mostly funneled through Mexico City. Despite this apparently quite centralized and sluggish system, we must be aware that this perception is somewhat exaggerated and lacks important pieces of information. The main sources for the cordilleras are printed lists in the Gazeta de México from 1730—a source primarily interested in the connections to and from the capital, and an eclectic map from a chronicle of Michoacán written around 1788, which shows an “updated”

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Fig. 1 Cordilleras and Travesías according to Fray Pablo Beaumont (ca. 1788). (Cartography Werner Stangl; Sources Tovar Alcaraz 2020; Beaumont 1788)

version of a seventeenth-century map annotated with the cordilleras that were outdated already by 1788.1 The actual routes have not been added to the cartographic representation on the map itself, however. What the map adds to the itineraries in the Gazeta is a short list of travesías or additional routes, which reveal direct connections among centers of the north and north-west in New Spain, with a tight-knit network connecting together Guadalajara, Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, and Zacatecas. The map also lists additional connections of Mexico to important far-away places without going into detail about how this communication was organized. Yet we can assume that Guadalajara, Monterrey, Tehuantepec, and Tabasco formed the connecting points for these extended routes. Figure 1 shows the panorama of the geography presented by Fray Beaumont. The organization of the mail through cordilleras and semi-regular trips by mail runners along the most frequented routes alone was not wellsuited for private letter writers. They tended to circumvent the official monopoly or abstained from writing a letter in the first place unless 1 The original is kept in the Mapoteca Orozco y Berra in Mexico City.

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matters were urgent. With the reorganization of the land post as a state enterprise and the establishment of a growing number of “ordinary mails,” the official system became much more reliable and sustainable. The demand for postal communication in New Spain was extraordinary in comparison to other regions. Figure 2 shows the dynamics of the institution after 1770. While in most regions, the number of offices grew slowly or not at all, in New Granada and New Spain the numbers exploded. As a general rule (not always followed), every new post office was supposed to be connected to the network by ordinary (mostly weekly) mail connections. This means that as the number of offices grew, so too increased the density of network routes. Nevertheless, until now nothing has been published on this phenomenon and only generalities have been stated on how this system functioned in the most integrated and dynamic region of Spanish America.

The Document and Its Creator The centerpiece of this study is an exceptional manuscript titled Directorio General para escrivir a todas las ciudades de los reinos de Nueva España y Guatemala e yslas adyacentes (General Directory to Write to All Cities of the Kingdoms of New Spain and Guatemala and Adjacent Islands [meaning the Caribbean and Venezuela]). We know virtually nothing about the history of the document itself, except for the fact that it is part of the Obadiah Rich Collection, now held by the New York Public Library.2 Rich was a London-based American bookseller who bought a large number of manuscripts from Henri Ternaux de Compans, whose collection consisted of transcripts and materials originally gathered by Juan Bautista Muñoz for his history of the Spanish Empire. The Directorio General could not have been part of that original collection as Muñoz died in 1799, and so it was most likely added later by either Ternaux or Rich himself.3 The manuscript is signed by Pedro Gómez de la Peña, “third postmaster of his majesty, at the principal office of New Spain, in the year 2 New York Public Library, Rich 45. 3 Edwin Blake Brownrigg, “Introduction: Colonial Latin American Manuscripts and

Transcripts in the Obadiah Rich Collection: An Inventory and Index”: Gale Primary Sources—Media Guide (https://www.galesupport.com/psm/3011000).

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Fig. 2 Post offices by general region, 1772–1810. (Cartography Werner Stangl; Source Stangl 2019)

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1802.” From the “foreigner guides of Mexico,” an annual publication listing institutions and office holders of New Spain, we can identify Gómez de la Peña as fourth, later third postmaster of Mexico from 1795, serving at least until 1819 (Calendario 1793–1819). Before his time in Mexico, he had worked for the postal administration of Guatemala from at least 1790, where he also served as interim principal postmaster from 1793 to 1795 (Gruson-Fuchss 2017). Already during his time in Guatemala, Gómez de la Peña produced documents of great interest for postal history that show similarities to the Directorio General, namely a table from 1793 titled “Distances that exist between this capital and the remaining cities of this kingdom […] days in which the post enters and leaves and leagues that cross the settlements where the mounted and pedestrian couriers transit.” The single-folio table has served as important documentary evidence for historical studies on the organization of the post and the perception of space, time, and distance (Gruson-Fuchss 2017; Sellers-García 2013). Sylvia Sellers-García’s outstanding monograph on document circulation and the communicative spaces in colonial Guatemala has shown clearly how crucial practices and institutions are for perceptions of distance and nearness, center and periphery—concepts reformulated by exploring Guatemala as the center rather than as a periphery of the system. The short prologue to the Directorio General reveals a witty and peculiar author. Gómez de la Peña addresses the reader using the informal “tú” which means that he must have hoped to publish his manuscript in print, although on a later page (11) he specifically mentions postmasters as his target reader. Nevertheless, Gómez de la Peña states his intent to create something useful to the public and hopes disillusioned readers will not resort to foul words. Moreover, with a touch of Swabian sobriety, he refuses praise as “being of use is enough recommendation.”4 He concludes by asking the reader to inform him about places possibly overlooked. The main contents describe the central mail office, including a timetable that details the “postal week” in the capital: On Monday afternoons at 3 pm, couriers from seven routes enter the city with correspondence from all post offices, as well as the towns (2), villages (65), mills and sweatshops (9), and haciendas (19) immediate to Mexico City 4 A German-speaking person is reminded the proverb “net gschimpft isch globt gnug” (to not be reprimanded is enough praise in and of itself).

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and its main office—though it remains unclear how those places were internally served. Letters addressed to Mexico and immediate settlements can be picked up on Tuesdays between 9 am and 5 pm. Wednesday nights, at 11 pm, the seven couriers leave Mexico City in all directions. On Thursdays, three more couriers arrive from the main routes that are served by a second weekly mail service. This second system does not include correspondence from all 288 offices, but only 79. Letters for this second mail are picked up over the course of Friday, and the couriers leave the city again on Saturday nights. On Mondays, postmen delived the remaining correspondence and charge according to certain tariffs. In passing, the author also mentions an additional monthly post to the Kingdom of Guatemala and a biweekly service to Tabasco and Yucatán. It is a matter of little creativity to imagine this description as a pulsing heart sustaining a circulatory system. A table of tariffs for letters to worldwide destinations follows, which contains six groups with four different tariffs that reveal an interesting pattern of how places and regions were perceived in relation to Mexico City (see Fig. 3). The first tariff group includes core provinces within New Spain; the second group constitutes the “internal provinces” of the northern frontier; and the third one, with the same tariff as the second, includes the sphere of “New Spain” in a wider sense according to the sixteenth-century division of Spanish America into “New Spain” and “Peru.” This final tariff includes Guatemala (denoting all of Central America from Chiapas to Costa Rica); Havana and Puerto Rico as well as Santo Domingo (which had already been lost in 1799); Venezuela (as an original part of “New Spain” which nonetheless was rather seen as part of continental South America); and Louisiana (which by then had returned to France in theory though the United States would take over directly from Spanish administrators following the Louisiana Purchase as the French never occupied the area and it included Florida, which remained part of the Spanish Empire). Interestingly, even “Tabasco” and “Mérida de Yucatán” fall under this loose definition despite their more immediate administrative relation to Mexico. The hybrid position of Yucatán being simultaneously part and not part of “New Spain proper” is also perceptible in other aspects of the document and further underlines its peculiar nature and political history within what would become the United States of Mexico. The fourth (continental Spanish South America) and the fifth (transoceanic “domestic” areas: Spain, Canaries, and Manila) share a third tariff category whereas the sixth category mentions the most

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Fig. 3 Tariff-groups for mail from New Spain to the wider world (Cartography Werner Stangl)

important international destinations: Portugal, France, the Netherlands, and Italy—notably, both the United States and Great Britain are absent. Pages 13 to 366—roughly half of the manuscript—constitute an alphabetic index of destinations in wider New Spain, amounting to approximately 14,000 places. These places in “wider New Spain” are grouped together by larger regions (such as Havana, Caracas, Guatemala) and are comparatively fewer5 but the density of mentioned toponyms increases the closer an area is associated with the capital. The index is followed by another major list organized according to the post offices (estafetas or cajas ). The offices are numbered from 1 (San Cristóbal Ecatepec, 20 km north of Mexico) to 288 (Presidio de Tubac, almost 2000 km as the crow flies to the north-west, nowadays located in Arizona).6 The information contained in each paragraph follows the same

5 Final separate indices give 185 places in Venezuela, 133 on Cuba, 604 for Guatemala, and no internal differentiation for Puerto Rico and Louisiana. 6 The five Californian post offices (Loreto, San Diego, Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco) are unnumbered.

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logic: first, the distance relative to Mexico indicated in leagues (on the league, cf. especially Sellers-García 2012, p. 89) with given directions. A second section mentions the weekday(s) for outgoing or incoming mail, and, most importantly, how many days a person writing from Mexico could expect to await an answer. These descriptions are followed by listings of the haciendas and villages corresponding to the office.

The Spatial Organization of the Late Colonial Postal System What the Mexican Directorio General shares with the earlier, much more reduced Estado o Razón for Guatemala, and what sets both apart from most other primary sources on postal geographies, is the fact that the connections are not presented as itineraries; instead, the information is mostly concerned with the relation of the center (either Guatemala or Mexico) to the other places. In the case of Guatemala, however, the resemblance to an itinerary is high as it is almost possible to shape the complete tabular information into a star-shaped, radial system—even when dismissing a few outliers as simple errors. The reliance of the Guatemaltecan mail on far-flung, radial itineraries is corroborated by the fact that places closer to the capital had a larger interval between arrival and return occurring over a monthly basis. In such a system, the geographically closest place has the same communicative distance as the farthest place: a response to a letter would arrive on the same day. Sylvia Sellers-García rightfully concluded that the spatial organization of mail in Guatemala was mostly hierarchical, with Guatemala acting as center and provincial capitals serving as second-tier nodes. Sellers-García already noted that the picture was incomplete and that it was necessary to theoretically assume the existence of a second mail to explain the longer intervals given for Chiapas and Costa Rica, the areas at the margins of the system (Sellers-García 2012, p. 90). In my estimation, however, this fact corresponds to a different phenomenon. When a single route takes longer to travel than its frequency, a letter received by an outgoing second carrier can already be answered by handing it to the first carrier on the return leg. Beyond that possible hand-over point, the cycle for correspondence makes a significant upward jump. The case of New Spain is infinitely more complex, however. It is tempting to simply identify the seven main routes by and large with the seven cordilleras they replaced, but several elements in the manuscript

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indicate a more profound reform of the system: The order of offices, the calculated distance and direction, the arrival and return days, the frequency (twice a week, weekly, twice a week, biweekly, monthly, or sporadically), and the return time of answers. Direct connections between individual places along the routes, the distinctive element of itineraries, can only be logically inferred from hidden, almost coincidental inherent patterns of the those elements as almost all the information concerns the relation of each office to Mexico City, and nothing else. If, in fact, the communication space of New Spain had been practically organized in a star-shaped fashion, the general directory would correspond to itineraries starting in Mexico plus a number of branches. Superficially, Gómez de la Peña’s description appears to do this. On Thursdays, the mail reaches offices #1 (Ecatepec, 6 leagues to the north) and #2 (Pachuca, 18 leagues north-east), offices #3 (El Chico, 21 leagues north-east) and #4 (Actopan, 23 leagues north-east) on Fridays, returning from #4 and #3 on Saturdays, #2 on Sundays and #1 on Mondays. A letter writer could expect an answer from these places within six days. Yet already for office #5 (El Monte, 20 leagues east-north-east on Thursdays/Saturdays), we need to make assumptions. Either there was a branch just from Pachuca to El Monte, or the place must be slotted into the itinerary between, say, #2 and #3. Other offices in the vicinity, which seemingly may fit in terms of the distance or days, have entirely different numbers (Teotihuacán #89, Zempoala #91). In the index, next to the toponyms we find additional specifications that should be added to a letter, justified by “the many villages of one and the same name” that caused “many letters cornered in the offices, to the damage of the mail and the public.” Although the author does not expressly mention it, a pattern of hierarchies and logics hidden in those additional directions is discernable, which aids in detecting the spatial organization of the postal system in New Spain. The additional directions are annotated in two different ways. Some entries just feature a corresponding post office (such as “Taciquaro, Valladolid”) whereas others have an additional mention for “by the way of” (“Taripitiro (H), por Valladolid”). This distinction is not accidental but carries a certain meaning in Gómez de la Peña’s structured mind (even if there are some inaccuracies as he did not get every place correct). Where the “by the way of” is omitted, it usually means the mentioned place is immediately in the neighborhood of the referenced post office. Instead, “by the way of” indicates organizational hubs that acted as hinges for letter distribution from a

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Mexican perspective. Some are regional centers that organized branching postal itineraries, like Otumba, Pachuca, Soyaniquilpan, or Chilpancingo. There are, however, some places of reference that were centers of their own smaller or larger internal universes, including a series of other post offices and branching itineraries which included further regional hubs. However, these internal organizations of regional subspaces are rather nebulous within the manuscript as they were simply irrelevant to Gómez de la Peña’s metropolitan gaze. Two of these subspaces stand out: “Por Guadalajara” serves as a general indication for all places and over 80 post offices of the Pacific provinces between San Francisco and Colima whereas “por Veracruz” is given for places belonging to surrounding jurisdictions, including also the 157 places in Yucatán and Tabasco. By 1802, the area contained another eleven post offices: five in “mainland Veracruz,” one in Tabasco, and five in Yucatán, but only one of them is mentioned by Gómez de Peña—surely because Veracruz was a major post administration on the same level as Mexico and was thus outside of his competency. Figure 4 shows the towns mentioned as “by the way of” in form of a cross, and the ones with an additional diamond shaped symbol denote those with a larger hinterland (indicated by the arrows) which hide subsets of minor relay centers because all correspondence to and from Mexico City was channeled and administered through them, obscuring this from our view. Additionally, Fig. 4 shows all post offices connected to Mexico City on a twice weekly basis. Any effort to translate the New Spanish Directorio General into a Mexico-centered set of routes on the map fails to meet the requirements set by the manuscript. It is due to the Gazeta de México from November 15, 1791, that we can deduce grosso modo that “seven mails” leaving on Wednesdays and “three additional mails” leaving the capital on Saturdays. The issue states that starting in January 1792, the three newly established connections would enter service: First the so-called Correo de Tierra Adentro; the second to Valladolid (Michoacán); and the third to Veracruz adding that those going to Cuernavaca, Pachuca, Zimapan, and Zacatlan that remained weekly. The short article also illustrates that the routes were organized in segments and that two of the three duplicated routes eventually branched out further. The Correo de Tierra Adentro branched out first at Querétaro where a sub-route (hijuela) went to San Luis Potosí, and then later at Lagos, where one main branch went to Guadalajara and another to Durango. For the mail to Veracruz, the Gazeta makes clear that it followed the northern road via Xalapa and that at Nopaluca

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Fig. 4 Logistical hubs of New Spanish mail (Cartography Werner Stangl)

branches headed to Orizaba on the southern road and to Oaxaca. For all three routes, the return itinerary corresponded to the outgoing route. The information from the Gazeta, however, does not square fully with the Directorio General. Some twice-connected locales do not fit with any possible itinerary; and several places between Mexico City and Veracruz, which should have a double connection, only have one weekly outgoing and incoming mail route. Most noticeably, this is true for Nopaluca, where the mail supposedly branched to Oaxaca and Orizaba. For other places where both conditions are met (especially Guadalajara), the scheduled days do not match at all. These contradictions suggest two conclusions. First, some places must have been connected to Mexico twice a week despite the fact that they were not on one of the three additional mail routes nor their branches; and, second, there must have been at least some subsequent modifications to the original scheme laid out in 1791. Another announcement published in the Gazeta de México on February 7, 1792—incidentally and lamentably, the last notice concerning mail in this periodical—confirms that further modifications did occur. The issue reports a new regional route connecting Acatlán and Teposcolula with Huajuapan (in Oaxaca) and further on with Tehuacán, where this

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subsystem met with the Oaxaca mail. Indeed, the account books in the Archive of the Indies confirm the creation of the Huajuapan post office in that very year, which is another strong indication that each new office was to be included into the overall system of regular connections. Acatlán, for instance, had already had an office since 1783, and due to its administrative subjection to Puebla it seems likely that there was also a mail route there via Izúcar, which simply became irrelevant for channeling the mail from the capital once the new connection via Huajuapan was in place. Additionally, in regard to Huajuapan, the Gazeta notes that “beyond the routes […] already in place, another one has been installed later between Veracruz and Oaxaca, where correspondences must be united at the town of Nopalucan.” These reforms were introduced within a month of the establishment of the additional weekly mails, so it is inevitable that there were further changes over the years. Figure 4 shows that only two waystations between Puebla and Veracruz on the southern route (Orizaba and Córdoba) and one on the northern route (Xalapa) had a second connection to Mexico. The only possibility to align the frequencies, dates, and return times is to assume additional mail routes. The easiest explanation for the southern route is that the second mail only stopped at the more important places along the way, as a sort of express mail. In the north, one is tempted to think of the second mail as a circular route. However, outbound mail from Mexico reached Xalapa much like Orizaba and Córdoba on Sundays and Wednesdays, one day before Veracruz. It seems a remote possibility that the second mail was reformed later into an express mail service that reached the other offices only in transit, but this seems incongruent with the centrality of Nopalucan in the information circuit between Veracruz, Puebla, and Oaxaca. It is more likely, therefore, that the linear mail outlined in the 1791 decree was replaced by different logics that included more regional circuits and that the second Veracruz mail fragmented into a series of transversal routes and circuits that only connected at Puebla. It looks as if there had been a weekly mail between Puebla and Veracruz in parallel both on the northern and southern route on the same days, leaving Puebla on Fridays and arriving in Veracruz on Mondays. In this system, Xalapa was simply the place where the direct connection between Puebla and Veracruz met other regional connections of Veracruz to the northern hinterland. The schedules suggest that an additional mail route connected Veracruz via Xalapa with Misantla and Papantla, and from there potentially as far as Tulancingo or Pachuca. This would mean

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that the second “outgoing” mail route from Mexico City would not reach Xalapa from the west, but via Veracruz. Over a long time, merchants from Veracruz and Mexico had different preferred routes from the Atlantic coast to the interior highlands. Whereas Mexicans backed the southern route and favored Orizaba, Xalapa became Veracruz’s extension to the interior. This led to Xalapa being much more involved in Atlantic circuits of communication and at an interface that significantly impacted on the development of the public sphere and Mexican national identity (Moore 2011), especially when we consider that this “liberal Atlantic” extended further into the influential areas north of Mexico City. For Orizaba and Córdoba, the transversal route probably connected at Tehuacán, which is a much more natural location for connecting Oaxaca to Puebla and Veracruz. In other parts of New Spain, places that were not important enough to justify a proper branch (at least for a second weekly connection) profited in their connectivity to Mexico City from the interconnectedness among other provincial centers. For example, in the province of Guanajuato, Pénjamo and Irapuato represented modest settlements for an additional connection to Mexico. However, they are situated on possible routes both from Guanajuato to Guadalajara and from Guanajuato to Michoacán, which allowed them to insert their mail to Mexico City both into the Tierra Adentro and the Valladolid mail routes. These examples show how arrival dates and the indicated duration of correspondence to Mexico help identify some possible regional connections. While “slow” regional outliers are easily explained by branches and extensions making them more peripheral from Mexico, “fast” outliers are clear indicators of further routes, especially when they can be confidently placed between places with slower return times on a non-disputable itinerary. Figures 5 and 6 show different measurements of proximity to Mexico. Figure 5 visualizes spatial proximity expressed by the indicated distances in Spanish leagues. Interestingly, the resulting map shows a quite homogenous landscape for most of New Spain. Postal itineraries appear to greatly influence the measurement toward Mexico City. Distance is mostly expressed in the direct connection to Mexico City via roads and paths, with increasing exceptions as one looks to the north-west. Leagues for the particularly distant Ojocaliente, for instance, were certainly calculated via its provincial capital Zacatecas. The two pincer-like “canals of proximity” confirm how Guadalajara did not have a single route to Mexico City

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served twice, but instead, the patterns reveal one branch to Michoacán and another one to Lagos. The picture becomes less homogenous when looking at the temporal component indicated by the return times (Fig. 6). Here we see greater differences among places located closer to one another, even along the same itinerary. Of course, the twice-served places have shorter return times, but in differing degrees, and there are other “fast” places or clusters that cannot be explained by higher frequency. For instance, four towns halfway between Valladolid and Guadalajara simply profit from the fact that incoming and outgoing mail routes occurred on the same day (Tuesdays). On the other hand, return times for Guadalajara and the places north-east of it (Tecpantitlan, San Juan, and Lagos) look like blatant errors, though they are not. All three were served twice. Their distance from Mexico and position on the modern road network are evidence that they were “pearls on a string” between Guadalajara and Guanajuato. That raises the question of how this correlates with the counter-intuitive information that a response from Lagos could be received within 13 days from Lagos in Mexico City, within 16 days from Guadalajara and San

Fig. 5 Distances of post offices to Mexico City (in leguas) (Cartography Werner Stangl)

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Fig. 6 Full cycle of correspondence to and from Mexico City (Cartography Werner Stangl)

Juan, but only within 23 from Tecpantitlan, which is positioned between them. The solution stems from the arrival dates of the mail. For Guadalajara, mail arrived via Valladolid and returned via Guanajuato, and vice versa, because mail from Mexico City was certainly sorted separately. As a result, the intermediacy of Valladolid and Guanajuato was mostly spatially and potentially included a change in carrier. By contrast, “true” by-theway-of relations were marked by separation and repacking of mail in the relaying office, which made the system usually less efficient. Mail coming from Mexico arrived in San Juan on Mondays and Thursdays, in Tecpantitlan on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Replies were shipped on Tuesdays and Fridays from Tecpantitlan, on Sundays and Thursdays from San Juan. For Lagos, both outbound and inbound mail were scheduled for Mondays and Thursdays. This schedule makes no sense as a linear system in either direction because a span of two days between San Juan and Tecpantitlan is too large, given their short distance on a major route. If, however, the same carrier on his way from Guadalajara to Guanajuato carried the “outgoing mail” from Guadalajara to Tecpantitlan, but the “incoming mail” for San Juan, and vice versa for the carrier in the

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opposite direction, then the schedules align and indicate that we should assume a more complex regional system meeting in Lagos. Even though positioned on the same mail route, mail to Tecpantitlan therefore arrived only “via Guadalajara” and went back via Lagos and the mail to Lagos and San Juan was “via Guanajuato” both ways—a system that worked to the detriment of Tecpantitlan’s connectivity to Mexico but was particularly efficient in the case of Lagos because the eastbound and westbound mail met there on the same day. Using this type of logic, however, prevents modeling individual itineraries with any degree of confidence because the possible combinations are too many. While for the obvious routes the logic of schedules can be checked, the uncertainty increases when entire regional routes are unknown and directionality of “inbound” and “outbound” information does not need to be intiuitive because it is only meaningful from the Mexican perspective, and not from the regional point of view. The intermediate area between Guadalajara and Valladolid, for instance, seems to be “confused”7 as two regional intermediacies meet and overlap. This confusion is aggravated by the fact that in Michoacán, the nominal capital Valladolid never fully replaced the original centrality of Pátzcuaro in the administrative and regional transport systems, even after the administrative base of operations moved to the city (García Rodríguez 2014; Gerhard, 1972, pp. 346–7). This can also be noticed above (see Fig. 1) as Valladolid was not even included in the system of cordilleras. Moreover, the partial information at our disposal hints at different phenomena behind the data. Regional connections on biweekly, weekly, or less frequent basis or transversal connections between small centers that intersect at even more unlikely places or bidirectional linear connections and unidirectional roundabouts are all discernable. A document in the Archivo General de la Nación provides an idea of how unlikely some of those connections may have been. Even though it dates from 1776 and the effective installation of this connection is uncertain, this document substantiates a weekly connection from Ixtlahuaca west of Mexico City to Cuernavaca and onward to Huautla, Cuautla-Amilpas, and finally Chalco

7 In fact, one place’s distance, Cocula (128), really cannot be explained by any means, as it is too small to be achieved by direct itinerary or by calculating via regional relays. It must be considered one of the very few identifiable factual errors of the document. The nearby distances of Ameca and Tecolutla suggest that 128 should rather be 168 leagues.

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Fig. 7 Connection from Ixtlahuaca to Cuautla and Chalco, 1776 (Cartography Werner Stangl; Basemap Open Street Map)

in the south-east, forming an apparent belt road without even touching Mexico City itself.8 Figure 7 shows this unlikely itinerary in detail. We are currently limited to state that there must have been additional connections but without being able to identify them with certainty. Together, they result in a vision of uneven connectivity of places with respect to Mexico City. When we combine the spatial and temporal distance into an index, we are able to visualize “marginality from a metropolitan perspective,” indicating areas, whose connectivity to Mexico was weak by comparison to its geographic distance (see Fig. 8). These places are not necessarily truly marginal as they were just integrated into various webs of regional systems and they just happen to be relatively distant to Mexico City. The fact that the map in Fig. 8 reveals fewer spatial patterns than Figs. 5 and 6 is indicative for this trend. The fact that the index is generally lower in geographically more distant areas (particularly in the north) is also an indicator of a relatively integrated communicative space. Both geographically and communicatively 8 Archivo General de la Nación, Real Hacienda, Correos, vol. 11, exp. 17.

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Fig. 8 Relative distance of post offices to Mexico (Cartography Werner Stangl)

distant areas could be potential candidates to hypothesize stronger and more persistent regional identities as well as later integration into national formation processes.

Conclusions The identification of a multipolar, interconnected network of communication and transport adds to the general argument most notably developed by Regina Grafe and Alejandra Irigoin (2006, 2012), who have challenged traditional ideas of a predatory Spanish Empire, and of late Absolutism organizing its tighter grip on the territory exclusively through more centralized, metropolitan mechanics. Our analysis of the spatial organization of the mail is furthermore congruent with recent research on eighteenth-century roads in the Spanish peninsular. Previous suggestions held that the reforms in the transportation system by the Bourbon dynasty aimed at redesigning the road network with a novel, radial structure that favored the development of Madrid to the disadvantage of more peripheral regions. A royal decree by Charles III and the Marquis of Ensenada from 1761 served as

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documentary proof for this supposed political aim. The decree is usually considered to be the foundation of the modern Spanish highway system, consisting of six Madrid-centered routes to the provinces as the main element. A study on the transportation networks of Spain, which includes an analysis of the mail routes established after the Spanish Crown’s appropriation of the mail service in 1720, has reached a strikingly similar conclusion as ours for Mexico (Pablo-Martí et al. 2020). The authors were able to show that the actual distribution of roads and road development during the eighteenth century can be best explained by simulating an aggregation of preferences of all nodes in the network instead of using choosing a single one serving as a center. Under this consideration, the seemingly centralized geography as presented in Charles III’s decree becomes an artifact of the issuer’s perceptivity. It is this aspect of perspectivity where our study differs from Grafe/Irgoin’s thesis of a stakeholder empire, designed as such in a programmatic way by late Bourbon fiscal reforms (Grafe and Irigoin 2012, p. 637). Both the examples of reconfiguring communications in Spain and New Spain reflect a metropolitan-centered mindset. What we evidence is a discursive or descriptive centralization, possibly even a centralizing political program, but not a centralizing practice. The document studied in this article was written in the logic of center and periphery. It presents a topology of regional and local centers to the beating heart of Mexico City, expressed as a function of time, frequency, and distance. A similar document could have been produced by an administrator in other centers, and it might look similar from that perspective. The “star shape,” then, becomes nothing more than an artifact of a model, not unlike the problem of looking at an egocentric network and taking it as a socio-centric one (a long-known issue in social network theory, especially in the context of historical disciplines where sources typically lead to egocentric networks; cf. Wetherell 1998). The most fascinating insight from the analysis is that the efficiency of the system for the metropolis can only be explained by the availability of “subsidiary” postal connections that connected regional subcenters directly among each other without even reaching Mexico City. Mapping the information of the text and applying GIS analysis to the spatialized data revealed unexpected patterns hidden in the manuscript, and on occasions it even helped make sense of what superficially seemed like contradictions within the text. Without spatial analysis, it would not have been possible to identify areas of relative distance and proximity to

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Mexico, nor to challenge the traditional perception of a “radial system,” an interpretation that purely textual analysis of the manuscript would have reinforced. While we are still not able to reconstruct the exact details of each individual route, the analysis reveals several regional-radial, transversal, or multipolar subspaces: 1. The “main,” radial long-distance subspace which forms the backbone of the system, connecting Mexico City to other major centers: Veracruz via Puebla (and on to Yucatán, the Caribbean, and Spain); Tabasco; Guatemala via Oaxaca; Michoacán; Guadalajara; and Durango via Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, and Zacatecas. 2. The transversal route of the Interior Provinces connecting the presidios (forts) between La Bahía (Texas) and Tucson, Arizona, via Coahuila, Chihuahua, and Sonora. 3. The regional-radial subspace connecting Mexico with its more closely related subjects: Cuernavaca and Acapulco in the south; Pachuca, Zapotlán, and Tulancingo in the north; Texcoco and Chalco in the immediate east; Lerma and Toluca in the immediate west. 4. The far-flung regional subspace of Guadalajara, including longdistance connections to Sonora via Sinaloa and to California via San Blas, which must have been very complex and currently must remain mostly unexplored due to a lack of sources. 5. An “eastern” multipolar subspace connecting Puebla, Oaxaca, and Veracruz. 6. A “north-western” multipolar subspace connecting the “old axis” of Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, Guadalajara, and Zacatecas additionally with Michoacán, with Lagos, Pénjamo, and Irapuato profiting from their intersectionality. 7. Some special connectors and transversal axis can be identified which had additional relevance, either because they participated in more than one postal circuit or because they were positioned at intersections with the long-distance system or between the subspaces: Puebla, Querétaro, and Lerma/Toluca due to their proximity to Mexico and as bottlenecks to the remainder of New Spain; Xalapa as a connector between the Atlantic and the metropolitan space; Córdoba/Orizaba and Tehuacán, with additional ties to Oaxaca and the Central American region; Saltillo (Coahuila), Chihuahua

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(Nueva Vizcaya), and Horcasitas (Sonora) as the locations where the transversal mail of the Internal Provinces met with the subsystems radiating from the northern administrative hubs of “New Spain proper,” which in turn held additional intrinsic importance: San Luis Potosí, Durango, and Guadalajara. Together, these partial systems formed a quickly evolving, polycentric sphere of communication. What was originally designed to foster imperial administration and economic progress that should sustain the survival of the Spanish Empire developed into a rhizomatic structure that allowed efficient communication not only between major cities but between places of all sizes on a weekly basis and in relatively short time spans. Without questioning the evident dominance and centrality of Mexico City—economically, demographically, institutionally, as well as conceptually—the imperial reforms of the mail favored a comparatively even and decentralized “proto-national” communication space that helped to form a public exchange of information that also bred insurgency.

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A Parable and Ancient Fables: Shaping the Governance of Mining Activities and the Silver Trade in Late Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth-Century New Spain Claudia Jefferies

Introduction Discussions about laws and regulations in sixteenth and early seventeenthcentury New Spain reflect loopholes and a lack of structure in what constituted the governance of a wide range of economic activities. This applies particularly to mining, one of the economic activities that required a large and complex body of regulations (Enciso Contreras 2000). The tone and style of some public debates that took place in frontier towns come across as informal and present interesting rhetorical forms, which alluded to ancient fables and biblical parables. The exchanges between social groups within local communities, as well as the exchanges between those groups and central authorities, reflect social attitudes towards local problems, including those of an ethical nature: nepotism and corruption, as well as altruistic attitudes towards the wretched and needy.

C. Jefferies (B) Department of Economics, University of London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_10

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The informal, unstructured, and at times incoherent character of mining legislation and regulation is, at least in part, a consequence of Spain’s legal means to exert governance over economic activities in the Indies. Other factors, such as the varied geographical and cultural characteristics of the Indies also played an important role in determining the nature of legal and regulatory implementations that could be applied (Sánchez-Arcilla Bernal 1994, pp. 21–4). A tendency towards informality of legal and procedural processes is reflected in the adoption of casuistry, natural law, and the reference to unconventional sources (Luque Talaván 2003, p. 215). This chapter examines some characteristics of early modern Castilian law, which may have contributed towards a flexible and informal approach to the governance of the Indies. The way in which Castilian law was applied to culturally and geographically diverse areas to produce a new body of legislation will be analyzed using the relevant history of law literature. Special attention will be placed on mining laws and regulations issued towards the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the seventeenth centuries. Two examples that illustrate interactions between social groups and the authorities in Zacatecas will be featured in this paper, in order to show how proposals to regulate mining activities were in some cases implemented and in other cases rejected by the authorities. Rhetorical forms used in these discussions will be analyzed, as well as social attitudes, particularly those that were in line with attempts to protect the indigenous population. The analysis will focus on the controversial issue of ores that mine workers were allowed to collect as a complement to their salaries (pepenas ). The controversies resulted in a polarization of local communities throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, pitting mine owners against black and indigenous mine workers. It also had as a consequence the formation of alliances between social groups with compatible objectives, in this case mine workers and silver merchants. As part of these controversies, the attitudes of the authorities towards the regulation of mining activities and silver trade can be elicited. The two examples illustrate the use of parables and ancient fables as rhetorical strategies and show casuistic argumentation. They also reflect the stance of the authorities in New Spain, advocating in favor of the poor, and preventing the over-regulation of mining activities, which would not only harm the poor, but the Crown’s finances as well. An interesting

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element is that the arguments used by central and regional authorities were in line with those expressed by natural law philosophers.

Some Features of Sixteenth-Century Castilian Law During the first decades after the Spanish conquest of New Spain (1521), there was no body of codified Castilian laws, as the first codification was carried out by King Philip II in the Nueva Recopilación de Leyes de Castilla of 1567. Prior to the Recopilación, Castilian law was composed of many different categories of laws, which were given an order of precedence via so-called ordenamientos. The Ordenamiento de Alcalá, issued in 1348 by King Alfonso XI (1311–1350), was the first attempt to provide some sort of structure to the many parts that composed the laws of Castile (Borah 1983, p. 9). According to the Ordenamiento de Alcalá, the Ordenamientos would take first precedence, followed by fueros (laws specific to towns, the Church, the nobility or the king)—especially the fuero real, which safeguarded the privileges of the nobility—then came the Siete Partidas, first published in 1491, which were based on common and civil Roman law. There were later amendments to this order of precedence. With the introduction of the Leyes de Toro in 1505, Royal Law would take precedence over all fueros and the Siete Partidas. To make it applicable throughout time to different cultural contexts in Europe, Justinian common law was complemented by glossaries and comments issued by philosophers and jurists. Towards the mid-sixteenth century, there were two main styles of comments and glossaries to the ius commune: mos gallicus and mos italicus (The French and Italian ways). The dominant style in Spain was the mos italicus, which was the one that prevailed in Europe throughout the Middle Ages and was seen as a less formal version of common law than the mos gallicus. In fact, the latter emerged as a humanist reaction against a lack of rigor and scholarship in the comments and glossaries of the mos italicus. (Luque Talaván 2003, p. 195). Commentaries on Siete Partidas, the Recopilación of 1484, the Leyes de Toro (1505), and the Nueva Recopilación of 1567 were based on the late mos italicus. The lack of a codified body of laws during the first decades of Spanish rule in the Indies, as well as the adherence of most Spanish jurists to the mos italicus may have been elements that contributed towards the informality and flexibility that characterized Spanish governance in New Spain.

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Limits of Castilian Law in the Indies A flexible approach to legislation in the New World was necessary, as the unsuitability of European laws for the Indies posed new challenges to the medieval juridical doctrine, and many adjustments were necessary in order to make the law applicable to the New World. Common law was introduced in the Indies via the Siete Partidas, Miguel Luque Talaván (2003, p. 130) identifies three main vehicles through which common law was received: The first one was through official enforcement of the Siete Partidas, the second was universities, through the study of both common and cannon law, and a third vehicle was the practice of litigation. The ius commune in its Roman version was not easily applicable to the reality of the New World (Luque Talaván 2003, p. 153). Natural Law and its accompanying casuistry complemented common law, as universities in the Indies followed the work of natural law scholars in the universities of Salamanca and Alcalá. From the very beginning of Spanish rule in the Americas, there were legal issues to be addressed, starting with the mere Spanish presence in the New World. This was justified mainly through the issuance of additional legal documents, such as the Treaty of Tordesillas (1494), as well as several papal bulls. Arising legal issues were dealt with mainly through common law, and those problems which could not be resolved through common law were addressed through natural law (Luque Talaván 2003, p. 215). All Indies-related laws issued in Castille had to be approved by the Council of Indies prior to their implementation (Sánchez-Arcilla 1994, p. 18). In a similar way as Muslims were allowed to judge their own people under Castilian Law, caciques (indigenous community leaders) in New Spain were entitled to judge indigenous people (Borah 1983, p. 18). There were a number of measures by the Crown and Church to offer, at least in theory, legal protection to indigenous people: the Laws of Burgos in 1512, followed by the Sublimis Deus bull (1537) and the New Laws, Leyes Nuevas (1542) are some examples. Well known is the work of advocates of indigenous rights in the sixteenth century: Francisco de Vitoria (c. 1483–1546), Bartolomé de las Casas (c. 1484–1566), and Jerónimo de Mendieta (1525–1604) among others. During the first half of the sixteenth-century Castilian law was, where suitable and possible, applied to the Indies, and the administration of indigenous people followed patterns similar to those implemented to the moriscos (Borah 1983, p. 20). Throughout time, a series of new laws

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were gradually introduced, which tended to differ from region to region. Sánchez-Arcilla (1994, p. 22) regards the legislation of the Indies as being composed of the following elements: (i) laws issued in Spain for the Indies; (ii) Castilian Common Law, composed of the Justinian Digest and cannon law with their respective glossaries and comments; (iii) laws issued by Spanish authorities in the Indies (by viceroys, audiencias and governors; these laws are nowadays called Derecho Indiano Criollo by legal historians; iv) the indigenous element, known as Indian laws, which were applied throughout the colonial period. Towns in the Indies were not granted town-specific laws (fueros ), the absence of which made the implementation of Castilian law at local levels especially difficult. Spanish legislation was “misunderstood in some cases, and in other cases deformed” (Sánchez-Arcilla 1994, pp. 19–20) as it had to be adapted to the peculiarities of every region. Therefore, there were many dispositions applicable to specific provinces, based on casuistry, which often superseded previous dispositions. Many were never published, as they were addressed to specific provincial authorities, and records were eventually destroyed. Sánchez-Arcilla (1994, pp. 21– 4) points out that knowledge of the law in the Indies faced three main problems: An absence of archives, communication difficulties between regions and a shortage of libraries stocking legal literature. There was also a shortage of learned solicitors outside the main cities and a range of regional customs that had an influence on legal processes. Although there is a debate about whether a vulgarization of Spanish law occurred in the Indies, these points may have contributed towards this vulgarisation, leading to a simplification of legal processes.

The Shaping Elements of Mining Legislation in New Galicia The traditional view of mining law in the Indies follows the theory put forward by García-Gallo de Diego (1987), which regards Castilian law as the basis of a long process through which laws in the Indies were formed. Some of the most relevant elements of Castilian mining law were the iura regalia, which established full royal ownership of the subsoil. Mining permits were granted to private individuals in exchange for a tax on mining output. During the first decades of Spanish presence in the Indies regulation of the mining sector was minimal, and official measures were often reversed. Castilian mining laws proved inadequate for the Indies

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and lead to the proliferation of specific ordinances that were applicable only locally or regionally. This resulted in new legal codes, all of which had Castilian law as a core (Molina Martínez 1998, pp. 1014–5). The issuance of ordenanzas (regulations of economic and social interactions) gave shape to the legal codes of the Indies. These regulations were dictated either by local authorities or by the regional administration. In the case of Nueva Galicia, this was the Audiencia de Nueva Galicia. The main vehicle in the introduction of regulations was the visita, which was an inspection by some representative of the viceregal power to the provinces to discuss and address regional issues. There were a number of important ordinances in sixteenth-century Nueva Galicia, such as that by Hernán Martínez de la Mancha in 1550, through which mining rights were introduced. Other mining-related ordinances were those by Santiago del Riego (1535–c.1614) in 1576, and those by Gerónimo de Orozco y Lerma (c.1520–1592) in 1579. Some points of the two latter will be treated in more depth in the following paragraphs. Other important ordinances were issued in later years, which also shaped what would later become the corpus of laws that regulated mining activities. Throughout early modernity, theology and jurisprudence were linked to each other. This connection can be observed in the legislation of the Indies, which was in many cases issued and developed by theologians rather than jurists. Natural law was at the core of legislation. Casuistry was adopted as a flexible approach that suited a region characterized by heterogeneity in terms of geography and culture. Of great importance are the well-known treatises by scholars such as Bartolomé de las Casas and Francisco de Vitoria, who focused on the status and rights of the indigenous populations. On a different level, treatises that focused on economic activities were anchored in practice rather than theory, and, as is typical of casuistic texts, there is systematic reference to classics such as Aristotle (384–322 BCE), Cicero (106–43 BCE), Plutarch (45–120), Titus Livy (59–17 BCE), and in some cases even Aesop (620–564 BCE). Finding references to Aesop should not come as a surprise, as the name of the leonine contract (a contract involving an exchange which benefits the most powerful party) stems from the Aesopian fable “The Lion and the Cow, the Goat and the Sheep.” This name can already be found in the Digest of Justinian (533). In his Arte de los Contractos (sic) (1573, f. 23r), Bartolomé de Albornoz (1519–1573), comments on the contrato leonino (leonine

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contract). Albornoz’s style denotes a practically oriented approach to merchant law. Other examples of treatises written for merchants and their confessors are the Provechoso Tratado de Cambios (1541), by Cristóbal Villalón (?–1588) and Tomás de Mercado’s (1525–1575) Summa de Tratos y Contratos (1571). Mercado’s Summa deserves special focus within the context of this paper, as he wrote on mining and silver trade in New Spain specifically.

Tomás de Mercado, Natural Law and His Views on the Pricing of Bullion in New Spain Mercado’s Summa is an excellent example of scholarly casuistry within the specific context of the prices of bullion and money. The price of bullion was at the core of discussions concerning the regulation of silver trade and production. In his Summa, Mercado addresses the issue that confessors in New Spain were concerned about the ethicality of the widespread practice of bullion being exchanged at a price below its legal value, and develops his arguments on the basis of a large number of sources in an erudite style. In his reflexions on the nature of value, he refers mainly to Aristotle, Thomas of Aquinas (1225–1274), and the Old Testament, applying casuistry to reinforce his conclusions about specific cases. In the opening chapter of the Summa, Mercado explains what natural law is and its importance to human societies, Christian, and other. When addressing the problem of the price and value of silver, Mercado refers to his views on the just price, which are underpinned by natural law. He departs from Aristotle’s Metaphysics (I): Animals move by instinct, whereas humans live through reason and “art” (arte). He refers, among many other sources, to the Old Testament (Psalm 4:1–8) and Thomas of Aquinas (ST 1:2 q. 96 art. 2) to define reason as a divine gift. Natural law is “a participation of the divine law and an impression of divine light on the rational soul” (Mercado 1571, f. 2r). Mercado defines the recta ratio (right reason) as the common sense of what is right and wrong. The Decalogue is seen by him as a reminder of the natural law. Humans need to be reminded, as they sinned and deviated from divine law, which is one with natural law. It is the duty of the republic (commonwealth) to provide laws where natural law is not being observed. Civil law exists to reinforce natural law. Civil law derives

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from natural law, which is one with divine law (Mercado 1571, f. 3v– 11r). The just price is not established by Nature, because things were not created to be sold, but to be used: “human malice made them private and human necessity made them tradable.” Trading is a human invention, as was “making gold and silver the price of all the other goods” (Mercado 1571, f. 36r). In this statement, necessity is shown as an argument for humans to engage in trade, despite things not having been created to be sold. Necessity as a justification of human action in specific cases is a feature of early modern casuistry. According to Mercado, the monarch establishes the value of money, so the monarch (through magistrates) is entitled to fix the price of all the other things. If there is a legal price, it should be observed. Mercado uses Aristotelian terminology to define “accidental price” as a price introduced by time and society. Legal prices are suitable if goods are necessities, such as bread, fish, wine, etc. However, if goods are not necessities, like jewels, brocades, silks, etc., then legal prices are not required. If a legal price is established, merchants are allowed to charge lower prices than the legal price, but never higher, as this would constitute a sin (Mercado 1571, f. 32v–9r). Citing Aristotle, Mercado highlights the element of usefulness as a determining factor of the value of things: “Aristotle admirably states in his 5th book of Ethics that what gives value and price to earthly things is our necessity, as if we did not need them, we would neither trade, nor appreciate them. That is the measure and weight of their value” (Mercado 1571, f. 34v).1 In further chapters, Mercado reiterates that silver and gold gather their value through the royal institution, whereas in the case of other goods, it is human necessity what grants them their value. Coins could be made from any material and be given any value. Other things are valued according to the benefit they bring to humans, so they are valued by our needs. Money is valued by human will. He adds that if silver is assayed, and legal values are established per silver marc, such values ought to be respected, although given varying qualities of silver being produced, he considers it acceptable to adapt the price of a silver marc according to its fineness (Mercado 1571, f. 100v).

1 “Dize [sic] Aristoteles admirablemente en el 5 de las Ethicas, que lo q[ue] da valor y precio a todas las cosas terrestres, es nuestra necessidad [sic]. Que si no las uviessemos [sic] menester, no las mercarian ni apreciarían. Esta es la medida y peso de su valor”.

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Mercado considers it correct to deviate from legal prices when trading silver bullion, as in the mining regions of New Spain, Campeche, Honduras, and Hispaniola. Gold and silver are regarded as “some kind of merchandise,” and their value increases and decreases for the same reasons as for other goods, although in the case of precious metals, such variations are very small, and prices rarely deviate much from the legal price. Further, he adds that neither judges nor governors have ever punished or forbidden such a trade (Mercado 1571, f. 101r). Mercado backs the principle that the value and metal content of coins should be kept stable, as money measures the value of all things. He uses the metaphor of the clock, whose measuring of time has to be regular. Moreover, increasing or decreasing the value of money affects the wealth of the people, which is illegal. He was in favor of silver merchants charging mine owners in New Spain a “rate of discount” when exchanging bullion for specie. However, there was another practice common among silver merchants which he was opposed to: silver merchants tended to charge a commission for supplying cochineal merchants with the 1-real coins that they preferred. (Mercado 1571, f. 102r–3v). The demand for money in the Americas presented a series of peculiarities, as indigenous people were gradually adopting the use of money as a means of exchange. Indigenous people had a marked preference for 1-real coins over four- or eight-real coins. Cochineal merchants were willing to pay silver merchants up to a 12–15% commission for supplying them with 1-real coins. Mercado disapproves of this practice, regarding it as sinful. It can be deduced that in his view, silver bullion is a commodity not necessary to human life, and as such, its value can differ from the legal value, depending on how scarce or abundant it is. However, coins had a value established by law, which had to be respected when exchanging real coins of different denomination. Mercado’s opinions are important on two levels: First, he tries to protect the interests of the indigenous people which is in line with Crown and Catholic Church policies, in order to avoid the disasters seen in Hispaniola during previous decades. He also takes sides in favor of silver merchants regarding the rate of discount that they charged miners in exchange for their services of taking the silver from mining sites to the mint in Mexico City and providing the frontier provinces with specie. The rate of discount was at the core of disputes between mine owners and silver merchants. Silver merchants provided mine owners with the specie needed to pay for miner salaries. Specie was scarce throughout

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the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, so mine owners depended on silver merchants (Jefferies 2019, pp. 211–30).2 Miners objected to being charged a 12.5% rate of discount (Garcia Ruiz 1954, pp. 34–5).3 There is some wide documental evidence about dissatisfaction among mine owners in New Spain during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. From the 1570s onwards and throughout the seventeenth century, there was a decline in silver production in New Spain. Mining was becoming a costly activity, as ores were increasingly difficult to extract. Mine owners repeatedly petitioned for reductions of mercury prices (mercury was a Crown monopoly) and tried to influence policy to mitigate their losses. Bankruptcies and imprisonments due to debts were common. Intrinsically linked to the issue of the rate of discount were the pepenas, ores that mine workers were allowed to keep as a complement to their salaries. They can be seen as perks or, as described by Bakewell, productivity bonuses (Bakewell 1971, pp. 125–6). Silver merchants used to buy these ores from mine workers and smelt them in furnaces. The silver produced this way would be taxed at 20%. Pepenas and the rate of discount charged by silver merchants were linked, as they were both parts of a revenue obtained by silver merchants that mine owners claimed to have been deprived from.

Scarce Economic Resources, Social Confrontations, and the Rejection of Regulatory Policies in Zacatecas The matter of pepenas within the context of mining in sixteenth-century Zacatecas reflects the way in which cultural and economic elements helped shape the system of economic regulation of activities related to mining

2 Merchants supplied miners with currency on credit at a 5% p.a. interest and miners were due to repay within a period of 40–50 days. Silver merchants received silver (bullion) with a higher degree of purity, as the legal price of the mark was 65 reales, and they received purer silver that was worth 67–78 reales. The “rate of discount ”, or commission charge was 12.5%. Taking into consideration transport costs and minting charges, merchant profit was of about 15% on average. 3 Mine owners used the service of merchants because it was more convenient for them than taking their bullion to the mint. Authorities sometimes acted upon mine owner complaints against merchants, although the measures taken were not effective.

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and silver trade. Conflicts arising from pepenas in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were not solved by any kind of regulation and continued throughout early modernity into the eighteenth century (Garner 1988, p. 929). Mine worker salaries were paid partially in kind, food and housing were also included in the package. According to Bakewell (1971, pp. 125– 7), pepenas were even more important than salaries for mine workers as they were incentives that triggered worker migrations into areas where ores were richer. This view is shared by Lacueva Muñoz (2010, p. 161). The level of attachment of mine workers to their employers relied on the quality of pepenas. Scarcity of labor was endemic throughout the frontier regions and mine owners were therefore keen to imprison mine workers against their will. Such attitudes were the basis for the development of legislation to protect mine workers; however, worker migrations prompted the introduction of the repartimiento, despite long debates and strong ethical arguments against it. One good example of the different stances surrounding the issue of pepenas is the controversy arising between Santiago del Riego (15351614) and Gerónimo de Orozco (c.1520-1580) in 1577. It is necessary at this point to provide some background to this controversy, which in broad terms took place between two parties, one formed by the mine owners and the other one by the regional authorities. Santiago del Riego was the son of the inquisitor of Cuenca and Valladolid. He himself also had formal legal training, being addressed as Doctor. He had previously held some type of legal appointment in Santo Domingo, from which he was discharged following a judicial resolution in 1569 (Enciso Contreras 1997, p. 231). Counting with the support of Juan de Ovando (c.15151575), who was president to the Council of Indies in Madrid at that time, del Riego requested to be relieved from those legal charges. The request was upheld, and he was later given the post of oidor of New Galicia. In 1575, del Riego married Ana de Mendoza, daughter of one of the richest mine owners of Zacatecas, and in doing so he joined the local oligarchy. His marriage was disapproved by the regional authorities, as marriages between oidores and daughters of the local mining oligarchs were illegal. Eventually, del Riego inherited one of the most productive mines in the region. In a letter to Philip II (1577) Gerónimo de Orozco, governor of New Galicia, airs his disapproval of del Riego’s nuptials, and hints towards the fact that del Riego had a criminal history of some sort. He does this

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through casuistry, by using what seems to be a distorted hybrid of the Good Shepard’s parable (Matthew 18:12) and Aesop’s fable of the lamb and the wolf in his rhetoric: “Your Majesty ought to take into consideration that if the sheep leaves the herd, it will either be eaten by the wolf, or it will place the shepherd in great difficulty when looking for it […].”4 Orozco’s statement can be seen as a policy proposal: By disqualifying del Riego on the grounds of ethicality, Orozco tacitly rejected del Riego’s ordinances. Orozco’s disapprovals of del Riego went far beyond a question of character and personal life. Both men represented two groups with conflicting interests and therefore disagreed on policy-related matters. In his capacity as oidor, Santiago del Riego dictated some ordinances in 1576. He held the post during a time of decline in the production of silver in Zacatecas, down by about 24% between 1570 and 1585 (Enciso Contreras 1997, p. 239). This decline was due to many factors: A shortage of labor, the challenge posed by the Chichimeca wars, a bubonic plague epidemic, and the collapse of a number of mines in the region. One further issue that added to the hardship faced by mine owners was the costs linked to the adoption of the amalgamation process for silver extraction. Amalgamation, which was introduced to the Viceroyalty in 1557, constituted a radical innovation that implied the deployment of large sums of capital (Lacueva Muñoz 2010, pp. 147–8). Del Riego, as a new member of the mining oligarchy of Zacatecas, was an advocate of the interests of the mine owners, who were facing serious losses. The ordinances he issued were aimed at helping mine owners solve at least some of the problems that they were facing and to increase the political power of localities in order to have a wider representation of mine owner interests in political decisions. Based on the method used to produce silver in Mexican mining areas, two types of silver can be identified: Silver produced through amalgamation, typically by mine owners within their mining enterprises, and silver produced through smelting, a method used by mine owners and by indigenous and black mine workers using pepenas. The former was taxed at 10% due to a concession granted to Mexican mine owners by the Crown, while the latter was levied at 20%, in line with the silver produced in other Spanish viceroyalties. 4 “…digo que conviene que vuestra majestad advierta que la oveja que se sale de la manada, o la come el lobo, o pone al pastor en gran trabajo por buscarla y riesgo de las demás …” (Enciso Contreras 1997, p. 247).

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The issue of pepenas was the center point of del Riego’s ordinances. He opposed to the practice of granting mine workers the right to collect ores as perks. He claimed that silver merchants used to send mine workers even during the night to collect ores without the authorization of mine owners, and then furnaces owned by silver merchants would be used for smelting the ores. Del Riego disapproved of this arguing that it generated a waste of metal, given the nature of the smelting process as opposed to amalgamation, which had a repercussion on royal revenue via a lower production. Alongside other mine owners, del Riego regarded pepenas as theft. Orozco, in his capacity as governor, opposed to the claim that pepenas were theft, as, according to him, mine owners by consensus acknowledged them as legitimate; and, were they to be banned, silver production would drop alongside Crown revenues. Many of the ordinances dictated by del Riego were debated by silver merchants, who, counting on the support of the Audiencia of New Galicia, had them removed. One of the few ordinances issued by del Riego that was approved was to regulate furnaces in 1568. However, this policy proved ineffective, and furnaces continued to be used as widely as they had been before the regulation was introduced (Enciso Contreras 1997, pp. 243–7). The struggle between the authorities and mine owners became one of the features that characterized local politics in Nueva Galicia throughout many decades after this episode. As will be shown in the following paragraphs, the arguments issued by Orozco in defense of the rights of mine workers to collect pepenas bear similarities with those by another representative of the authorities decades later. Policy decisions were justified through casuistry, which was applied through the use of rhetorical strategies referencing ethically acknowledged writings, in which stories involving animals can often be found. Rights were frequently legitimized through consensus and custom. All this suggests that casuistry, consensus, and custom shaped the tenets and norms that would guide policy decisions. Twenty-seven years after Orozco’s opposition to del Riego’s intentions to favor mine owners in Zacatecas against the interests of mine workers and silver merchants, the clashes between different social groups—mine owners, mine workers, silver merchants, and the authorities—seemed very much the same. Francisco de Ybarra y Caval, a treasurer (factor) representing the Council of Indies, issued a report in 1604 as a reply to a petition by mine owners through which they requested that merchants should pay the Treasury a tax of 5% on the purchase of silver produced

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through smelting.5 As in previous decades, mine owners claimed pepenas were theft, and silver merchants profited from them, as they bought them from mine workers and smelted them in their furnaces to produce silver. In a similar way to Orozco nearly three decades earlier, Ybarra refutes the claims issued by mine owners using casuistry and precedent to justify his arguments. In his report, Ybarra argues that there was precedent for regarding pepenas as a legitimate practice, as vineyard laborers in Spain were allowed to eat as many grapes as they wished while they were working on the vineyards, and they were not allowed to take grapes home with them. Despite such prohibition, vine laborers did take grapes out of vineyards and then sold them on. Ybarra refers to the necessity to justify such actions: “force and necessity are behind such liberty” (Carta del Factor 1604, f. 1v),6 as such benefits complemented their salaries and allowed them to eat something wholesome on Saturdays. He points out that no bull or privilege was behind such practice, which had been established through custom alone. Custom, precedent, and necessity justified, according to Ybarra, the legitimacy of pepenas. Further, Ybarra argues that if silver produced through smelting were to be taxed, so should the one produced through amalgamation and that the suggested tax increase would push the overall tax to 25%, which was unseen of even in the viceroyalty of Peru. Ybarra’s report stresses the fact that, were such tax to be introduced, the same mine owners would be directly affected, as they themselves occasionally produced silver through smelting and sold it to merchants. He adds that mine owners had not taken into consideration the fact that mine workers would tend to “steal” more ores to make up for the reduction in their income (Carta del Factor 1604, f. 2r).7 He illustrates his discourse with casuistry, stating that mine owners would see themselves in the same situation as the frogs. Ybarra referred to Aesop’s fable “Jupiter and the Frogs”8 : The frogs asked Jupiter for a ruler and governor who 5 Report by Francisco de Ybarra y Caval (Council of the Indies) on Zacatecas, April 4th , 1604: AGI, México 325 fs. 1r-3v. 6 “… de la fuerza y necesidad han venido a hacer liberalidad, y la costumbre como en muchas partes de España que sólo por ella sin otra bula ni privilegio se come grosura los sábados ha hecho esto permitido y lícito”. 7 “Y viéndose damnificados por ambos, echarían de ver que les sucedió lo que a las Ranas y que en pena de haber ofrecido lo que no es suyo les cuesta su hacienda…”. 8 The original fable was by Phaedrus.

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would punish the ones among them who misbehaved. Jupiter did not take them seriously and laughed at them for requesting such a thing. The frogs pleaded again in a very noisy manner. Jupiter then threw a tree log into the pond, which frightened the frogs. Shortly after, one of them realized that Jupiter had sent them a log and not a king. The frogs jumped on top of the log and begged Jupiter, yet again, to give them a ruler. Jupiter reacted by sending them a stork, who started eating them one by one (Fig. 1). The frogs cried for help loudly to Jupiter, who answered: “You asked for a king, which I did not want to give you. Since you insisted, I sent you a log, which you did not appreciate, that is why I gave you your current ruler, which you will preserve. You did not want the

Fig. 1 Wood carving from Steinhöwel’s 1486 Latin edition (Steinhöwel 1486 f.s.n.) © Library of Congress, public domain

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good; therefore, you will have to endure the evil” (Aesop 1990, pp. 48– 9). Like Orozco, Ybarra is using acknowledged writings on morality involving animals to support his casuistic argument. By depicting mine owners as the frogs in Aesop’s fable, Ybarra is rejecting the proposed regulation of silver trade as something damaging to merchants, mine owners, and mine workers alike. Ybarra’s attitude towards the implementation of regulation on the silver trade in New Spain is mirrored by Mercado’s views, as well as Orozco’s, who were against the introduction of regulations on the price, production, and trade of silver.

Conclusions The need for legislation is a result of human interactions, and laws are a product of culture as a whole. Some factors that shaped the governance of mining activities in New Spain have therefore been analyzed in this paper beyond the politico-economic sphere. Jaime Enciso Contreras (1997, 2000) studied in depth the exchanges between the main parties in the development of mining ordinances in the Zacatecas region during the second half of the sixteenth century. The political opinions issued by Jerónimo de Orozco are one of the features of his book. This paper complements Enciso Contreras’ work through placing Orozco among two other important actors: Mercado and Ybarra. Cultural, economic and legal-history contexts, as a background for this analysis, have resulted in a multidisciplinary sketch of the elements and dynamics that were involved in the design and introduction of legislation. Mercado, Orozco, and Ybarra influenced the outcomes of some disputes taking place at the local level in Zacatecas, which determined the approvals and rejections of regulations in the trade and production of silver. There are stylistic similarities in the arguments used by the three: Casuistry, through the reference to acknowledged sources with a moral content (such as psalms, parables, fables), to justify their positions relating to introducing or preventing regulations. Precedent, analogy, custom, necessity, and consensus count as criteria for determining property rights over ores and the profits of silver trade, and whether or not to introduce legislation. All of them appear to show altruism towards the wretched and needy, Orozco and Ybarra through their support of the stance of mine workers against the greed of mine owners surrounding the issue of pepenas, and Mercado through his concern about indigenous people being taken

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advantage of when exchanging money. In the case of Ybarra, he adopts a stance against corruption when criticizing illegal and nepotistic actions carried out by del Riego. All these attitudes are in line with natural law maxims and humanistic trends of the time. The nature of Castilian law and the difficulty of applying common law to the Indies resulted in a more informal approach to governance and a certain reluctance to the introduction of regulations unless absolutely necessary; in the examples covered, a reluctance to regulate benefited mainly two groups: mine workers and silver merchants. It has been suggested (Hoberman 1998) that silver merchants in New Spain were the only network capable of supplying mine owners with the specie and credit needed to carry out their productive activities, and to transport the bullion from remote mining areas to the Royal Mint in Mexico City. The relevance of merchant networks for the development and expansion of supply chains in the second half of the seventeenth century has also been highlighted in more recent research (García Berumen 2014). Mercado seems to have held a similar position to that of Ybarra’s and Orozco’s. The three of them argue against any regulation of the bullion trade and production, despite petitions by mine owners to do so. It is difficult to elicit if there were ulterior motives for their stance. What can be assumed is that they bore witness to the importance of bullion trade for the Crown, as well as for the economy of New Spain. This analysis offers just a tiny glimpse into a few of the multiple aspects of the development of mining and silver trade legislation and regulation in New Spain. The ordinances serve as a guide to the decisions that were taken in each locality. How regulations were applied is, sadly, in many cases outside our reach, given factionary documental sources and what Luque Talaván (2003) called the “universe of opinions” that characterized legislation in the Indies.

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Bibliography Archival and Manuscript Sources Archivo General de Indias, Seville (AGI). “Carta de Alonso de Peralta, Sidonia (10-10-1603)”: AGI, México 258, fs. 559r– 4v. “Carta del factor Francisco de Ybarra, Caval (04-05-1604)”: AGI, México 325 fs. 1r–3v. “Petición de Baltasar de Bañuelos a la Corona, Zacatecas (02-04-1587): AGI, Guadalajara 30, f. 331r.

Printed Sources Aesop. 1990. Esopete Ystoriado (Toulouse 1488), edited by V. A. Burrus and H. Goldberg. Madison: Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies. Albornoz, Bartolomé Frías de. 1573. Arte de los contractos. Valencia: Pedro de Huete. Bakewell, Peter. 1971. Silver Mining and Society in Colonial Mexico Zacatecas 1546–1700. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Borah, Woodrow. 1983. Justice by Insurance: The General Indian Court of Colonial Mexico and the Legal Aides of the Half-Real. Berkeley: University of California Press. Enciso Contreras, José. 1997. Derecho y sociedad en Zacatecas en el siglo XVI . PhD thesis. University of Alicante. Enciso Contreras, José. 2000. Zacatecas en el siglo XVI. Derecho y sociedad colonial. Zacatecas: Ayuntamiento de Zacatecas. García Berumen, Elisa I. 2014. Riqueza, poder y prestigio. Los mayoristas de Zacatecas en la segunda mitad del siglo XVII . Zacatecas: Instituto Zacatecano de Cultura Ramón López Velarde. Ruiz, García, and Alfonso. 1954. La moneda y otros medios de cambio en la Zacatecas colonial. Historia Mexicana 13: 20–46. García-Gallo de Diego, Alfonso. 1987. Los orígenes españoles de las instituciones americanas. Estudios de derecho indiano. Madrid: Real Academia de Jurisprudencia y Legislación. Garner, Richard L. 1988. Long-Term Silver Mining Trends in Spanish America: A Comparative Analysis of Peru and Mexico. The American Historical Review 93 (4): 898–935. Hoberman, Louisa S. 1998. “Aportación del mercader de plata a la economía nacional.” In Crédito en la Nueva España en el siglo XVIII , edited by M. P. López Cano and G. Del Valle Pavón, 61–82. México: Instituto Mora.

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Jefferies, Claudia de L. 2019. “Some Determinants of Local Exchange Rates in Early Modern Mexican Mining Sites, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries.” In Mining, Money and Markets in the Early Modern Atlantic. Digital Approaches and New Perspectives, edited by R. Pieper, Claudia de L. Jefferies, and Markus A. Denzel, 211–30. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Lacueva Muñoz, Jaime J. 2010. La plata del Rey y de sus vasallos: Minería y metalurgia en México (siglos XVI y XVII). Sevilla and Madrid: Universidad de Sevilla, Diputación de Sevilla, and Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Talaván, Luque, and Miguel. 2003. Un universo de opiniones: La Literatura Jurídica Indiana. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Mercado, Tomás de. 1571. Summa de Tratos y Contratos. Sevilla: H. Díaz. Martínez, Molina, and Miguel. 1998. Legislación minera colonial en tiempos de Felipe II. Coloquio de Historia Canario-Americana. VIII Congreso Internacional De Historia De América (AEA) 12: 1014–29. Bernal, Sánchez-Arcilla., and José. 1994. En torno al Derecho indiano vulgar. Cuadernos De Historia Del Derecho 1: 13–24. Steinhöwel, Heinrich. 1486. Fabule [et] vita Esopi, cum fabulis Auiani, Alfonsij, Pogij Florentini, [et] aliorum, cum optimo co[m]mento, bene diligenterq[ue] correcte [et] emendate. Antwerp: Gerardus Leeu.

Administration of Mining, Science, and Technology in Europe in the Age of American Silver (1550–1700) Domenic Hofmann, Harald Kleinberger-Pierer, and Peter Paul Marckhgott

Introduction The economic impact of American silver on early modern Europe was considerable, as studies by Renate Pieper (2009, 2014) and other scholars have shown. The consequences that the ever-increasing supply of silver from Peru and New Spain had on European silver mines (Pieper and Gómez 2000), European economies as a whole (Pieper 2000), or even

H. Kleinberger-Pierer · P. P. Marckhgott University of Graz, Graz, Austria e-mail: [email protected] H. Kleinberger-Pierer (B) University of Applied Sciences in Graz, Graz, Austria e-mail: [email protected] D. Hofmann Medical University of Graz, Graz, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_11

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global trade (e.g., Bonialian and Hausberger 2018) cannot be overestimated and have been studied in great detail. Furthermore, the political— and to a lesser extent cultural—ramifications of the success of American silver have caught the attention of scholars. The Age of American Silver, however, is much more than just a transformation of markets and trade; it caused institutional, administrative, and cultural change in Europe and beyond. In a similar way, research on the British Industrial Revolution emphasizes specific institutional and organizational frameworks alongside a distinct culture of innovation and invention as reasons (among others) for the British dominance within the technology sector and industrialization (Landes 2003; Mokyr 2009; Jacob and Stewart 2004). Yet, the influence of American silver in Europe and the response of European institutions and administrations in the early modern period is, by comparison, more diffuse, more diverse, less focused, and not unidirectional, as various studies may suggest for the case of the (British) Industrial Revolution. In this chapter, therefore, we demonstrate the influence and impact of American silver on princely power and public administration in the early modern period. We focus upon three individual case studies that provide a rather different perspective on an overall diffuse picture: First, administration of mineralogy and early geology in Saxony and the Habsburg realms during the late sixteenth century; second, cooperation between mining engineers and mining administrations to develop and transfer new mining technologies in Spain and America during the early seventeenth century; and third, the professionalization of public mining administration in Spain during the late seventeenth century. By studying and comparing these three examples, we aim at improving our understanding of the reforms of administration and representation in mining in the early modern period. We argue that administrative reforms in European science and technology within the mining sector can be seen both as a result of the realignment, rationalization, and “Enlightenment” in the early modern period, and as a reaction to the rise of the American silver industry. New competitors in this sector might not have been the trigger of alterations from the second half of the sixteenth century onwards, but they at least acted as a catalyst for developments in the administration of silver mining and the related sciences and technologies. New competition across the Atlantic also meant new approaches in Central Europe.

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The late sixteenth century was a period of administrative transformation, especially in the silver mining regions of Central Europe. This transformation also culminated in the rise of mineralogy and early geology, as well as the establishment of mineralogical collections, which were closely linked to princely power. The connection between administration and the rise of mineralogical collections will be discussed in the first part of this chapter for the Saxon and Habsburg territories in Central Europe. Several recent studies have shown a close connection between administration, science, and technology and a very complex entanglement between these spheres. Such studies employed concepts of go-betweens or emphasized the hybrid character of individuals and institutions (Klein 2016; Konecný 2012). Other authors, however, focused on the reconstruction of biographies (Smith 1997; Felten 2018) due to the complexity and multi-layered nature of administrative processes. Finally, Wakefield (2009) emphasized the particular interests of individual persons in the administration of science and technology, arguing that cameralism in Central Europe was mere rhetoric. Most studies dealing with administration and science, however, provide only insights into developments in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Smith 1997; Wakefield 2009; Konecný 2021; Felten 2018) for mining and mineralogy, and only partially cover the late sixteenth century. The second case study will take a close look at the role of the Spanish administration in the diffusion of technologies in the Spanish Empire in the early modern period. In this era, Spain’s precious metal mining sector was privatized, particularly in the Americas. In contrast to a privatized precious metal sector, however, Spanish authorities were highly engaged in extracting mercury in Spain and America, holding a monopoly on this critical resource. Ever since the invention of the patio amalgamation process in 1545 by Bartholomé de Medina, mercury served as the most crucial ingredient in the refining of silver ores (Bakewell 1997). Demand for mercury rose dramatically, promoting Spanish authorities to rely upon a few mines within the empire to sustain silver production (Bargallo 1969). In enhancing existing mercury mines or exploring new potential mining sites, Spanish authorities worked closely with experts on the Iberian Peninsula and across the Atlantic. The third case study analyzes the strategies of late seventeenth-century Spanish fiscal administration for creating a pool of state officials versed in mining matters and who would be qualified to fill critical positions within certain mining administrations. Even though international research

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has rightly focused on the American silver mining sector as the core of the Spanish Empire’s mining sector, American silver mining relied on Almadén as a source for mercury. Spanish mining inadvertently became both an appendix and a prerequisite to American mining (Marckhgott 2019a). In the second half of the seventeenth century (Matilla Tascón 1958; Matilla Tascón 1987; Sánchez Gómez 1989), the royal treasury directly administered essential mines in Spain—Almadén, and Guadalcanal—and, public officials served as administrators. Coming from the royal treasury, these men had experience and training in levying taxes (a role studied extensively by Sánchez Belén 1996; Cabrero and Luis 2016, and others). Yet they understood little about the intricacies of running a mine. For mining operations to continue smoothly and successfully, practical knowledge in mining matters had to be acquired and passed on.

The Administration of European Silver Regions in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century In the late sixteenth century, several developments occurred in Central European mining, including decreased silver output of silver, depletion of mines, bankruptcy and liquidation of trades, wood shortages, and new competitors from the Americas. Another aspect came into play: various Bergordnungen and Waldordnungen (mining codes and forestry regulations, Kaden 1996; Groß 1990; Laube 1999; Kreßner 1858, pp. 24–33; Thomasius 1994, pp. 120–1; Brandstätter et al. 2015) reformed the administration and organization of the (silver) mining sector. These numerous “new” or reformed mining codes led to a reorganization of power and, in the long run, strengthened princely influence in the sector. Local mining codes for specific mining sites and districts had been in place since the (late) Middle Ages and were often adaptations of older regulations but with local modifications (Kaden 1996, pp. 198–9). From the middle of the sixteenth century onwards, their importance increased and their scope of application broadened to cover whole territories. In Saxony, for example, the sixteenth century is punctuated with administrative shifts, especially with the (fiscal) reforms started by elector Moritz of Saxony and further pursued by elector August of Saxony (Schirmer 2006; Blaschke 1954, pp. 82–8). For example, the 1509 Annaberg mining code (Laube 1999) already recognized a variety of hierarchical local mining offices as administrative entities (Kaden 1996, p. 198; Neumann 2021,

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pp. 194–6).1 From the 1540s onwards, new hierarchical levels were established above the local administration (Neumann 2021, pp. 66–77). By at least 1548, Moritz of Saxony intended to establish a hierarchy by adding a central administration for all mining and metallurgy in the territory in addition to the pre-existing local and mid-level mining administrations. Elector Christian I later codified and extended this hierarchy in the mining code of 1589, which included a tripartite hierarchical structure of the mining (and metallurgy) administration consisting of local, intermediate, and top-level administrative layers. In this model, top-level administration gradually took over the decision-making process regarding the economic and technical agendas of mining sites (Neumann 2021, part C., Chap. 2; Kaden 1996; Kaden 2003; Schmidt 1994; Kreßner 1858, pp. 24–33). Similar developments occurred in other mining regions and mining districts in Central Europe as well as, for instance, in Bohemian and Moravian silver mining regions and towns. In the first half of the sixteenth century, private mining entrepreneurs and smaller joint-stock companies still played an important role or even dominated the regions of Bohemia and Moravia. In the late sixteenth century, the landscape became increasingly regulated by the Viennese court and other authorities superior to the local mining regions. In parallel, Maximilian II issued the Bohemian mining code (or “arrangement”) of 1575, which established a superior administrative level with significant territorial jurisdiction based on the hierarchical model. The core of this regulatory system remained valid until the mid-nineteenth century. Of course, enforcement by the princely administration was not always possible without compromises and concessions to local authorities (such as the estates or Landstände), including assurances for shared mining revenues (Balážová 2011, pp. 14–6; for the Harz highland Kraschewski 1995). In short, the new segmentation of regional administrative units, the implementation of wide-ranging mining codices, and a refined hierarchical structure of the mining (and metallurgy) administration all

1 In the Annaberg mining code, different levels of positions in the local administra-

tion are mentioned, starting at the top with the “Hauptmann”, “Bergmeister”, eight “Geschworenen”, two “Zehntner”, two “Hüttenraiter”, “Austeiler”, “Gegenschreiber” and one “Bergschreiber”. These local offices were also later mentioned in the mining code of 1589—but their manifestations were also flexible in practice and might have differed from mining district to district.

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contributed to a more “centralized” organization of the mining sector, closely aligned with princely affairs. This decision-making approach, the Direktionsprinzip (executive principle), restricted the authority of individual mines and smelting works. From the second half of the sixteenth century onwards, significant economic and technical decisions regarding mining sites and districts were taken by the highest level of the mining administration. Yet interpretation of these reforms and their correlation with other parallel administrative reforms in the late sixteenth century remains open to debate. With regard to the implementation of the Direktionsprinzip, Uwe Schirmer (2006, 2007, 2009) emphasized the consolidation of power that went hand in hand with it, as well as a push for professionalization in combination with a comprehensive bureaucratization and codification. In contrast, Adolf Laube (1974) stressed the degree of conflict within the feudal and early bourgeois system upon implementing the principle of direction. With the general pervasiveness of administration and order in the early modern period, princely powers tried to avoid conflict and open protest from miners and municipalities by increasingly expanding their control over the mining industry itself. The effects were counterproductive, however. According to Laube, enforcement of princely power created resistance and unrest responsible for the decline of silver mining in Central Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Franziska Neumann provides a third, more far-reaching perspective (2021; see also Neumann 2020). The importance of contemporary economic dynamics is common to all three approaches (Laube 1974; Schirmer 2006, 2009; Neumann 2021). Neumann emphasizes the role of (external) investors in shaping the administrative structure and practice. These investors were not often directly part of the mining trade or administration, but still held significant influence over the sector. Neumann agrees partially with both Laube’s and Schirmer’s findings, but provides an additional new approach to analyze the dynamics in administration through the concepts of organizational sociology. While Laube and Schirmer emphasize structure and enforcement—albeit for different reasons—Neumann places a stronger emphasis on the formulation of the administration process based on existing routines and their recordkeeping practices. She characterizes the changes in administration in the early modern period not as a purposefully planned, stringent top-down process, but rather as a formalization of existing practices. These changes

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of administration sometimes proceed in an interrupted and poorly structured manner that follows a “pre-modern logic of its own” following the dynamic economic development and administrative reforms in the mining sector in the late sixteenth century. There might be different interpretations of the reasons for the administrative reorganization and professionalization in the mining sector of the sixteenth century, such as an intended improvement of the administration (and mining), gaining power, or appearing reliable enough for investors. But the result was the same: Princely power was not only enforced in the mining sector, but also agendas of science and technology became more closely connected to the princely realms, in particular through the Direktionsprinzip. The sixteenth century might be characterized by the rise of the Direktionsprinzip in the Central European mining industry. However, it is also the era of the professionalization of mineralogy and (early) geological sciences following increasing collection of mineral specimens and specialized mineralogical literature (Wilson 1994, pp. 13–38; Oldroyd 2007, Chap. 3). A well-structured classification of mineral and geological objects occurred not only due to the passion and personal interest of individual scientists but can be attributed to the needs of two fields: medicine (including pharmacy) and mining (including metallurgy) (Wilson 1994, pp. 14–5; Konert et al. 2009; Duffin 2017). In mining, mineral and early geological collecting were intended to facilitate the search for new deposits and their documentation (Wilson 1994, pp. 13–7; Felten 2018, pp. 7–10). Among other factors, this surge in collecting in the sixteenth century can be explained by lower deposit yields, and the search for new mining opportunities to at least partially replace declining silver mining.

Collecting Stones and Minerals in Central Europe in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century Mineral collecting changed fundamentally in the sixteenth century, becoming more professionalized. Central European “collectors” at the onset of the sixteenth century like Georgius Agricola, Johannes Mathesius, and Johannes Kenntmann can be understood as “specialists in mineralogy” and not merely as “general natural history collectors” (Wilson 1994, p. 19). Quite unsurprisingly, these people, working at the intersection of geology and mineral collection, were closely associated with

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mining and medicine as well as the princely centers of power. As these early specialists laid the foundation for later development and mineralogy as a discipline, it is worth briefly discussing their biographies and works here. One sixteenth-century person in particular best represents the interest in mineralogy, research of mineral deposits, and early geology from a perspective of medicine and mining: Georgius Agricola (1494–1555), whom Wilson considered the father of mineralogy and mineralogical collection. Agricola was active as a physician in Sankt Joachimsthal and later in Chemnitz (where he also was mayor for several years), two towns closely connected with mining. In addition, he served as court historiographer at the Saxon court (for his work and biography, see Naumann 1994; Wilson 1994, pp. 20–1). His work De natura fossilum (Agricola 2004) and others2 may not have been the first publication3 to classify minerals and stones based on physical–mechanical properties (color, transparency, hardness, density, structure, etc.), but it was nevertheless one of the most important triggers for new private as well as princely collections of the sixteenth century (for Agricola and his contribution to mineralogy and geology, see Wilson 1994, pp. 20–1; Guntau and Mathé 1994; Stoyan et al. 1994; Fritscher 1994; Mathé 1994). Johannes Mathesius (1504–1565) was a rector at the Latin school and a priest in St. Joachimsthal. His scholarly theological works also combine the contents of mining, art, geology, and the life of miners (Bartels 1990; Mathesius 1562). Johannes Kenntmann (1518–1574) was, among other occupations, a personal physician to August from Saxony, to whom he dedicated his manuscript on herbs and other plants. His collection of rocks and minerals consisted of over 1,500 specimens, mainly from the Saxon region. A registry of his collection was published posthumously in 1565 by another geologist and naturalist, Conrad Gessner (1516–1565). This publication represents the earliest complete systematic documentation of a mineral and rock collection still known today (for Kentmann, see Wilson 1994, pp. 24–5; Konert et al. 2009; Keller 1963). Moreover, 2 De natura fossilum was only one important work of Agricola that changed contemporary understandings of mineralogy at the time. There were several other works of him that provided relevant content for mineralogy and mining. 3 The works of Camillus Leonardus could be added to this early form of classification in the sixteenth century. Speculum Lapidum appeared in 1502 and was a first attempt to describe stones and minerals according to their physical-mechanical properties.

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the Meißnische Land- und Berg Chronica (Mountain Chronicle) of 1589, which had a particular impact in the Saxon region, cannot be overlooked as another important work within this field. The author of this description of Saxon land characteristics and mines was Peter Albinus (1543–1598), secretary and archivist of elector Christian I of Saxony (Albinus 1589; Sauer 1953). This short description of early geologists and collectors of geological objects in Central Europe illustrates the connection between geology, mineralogy, and mining. Indeed, there was a fair amount of scientific curiosity and some private initiatives. Many of those mentioned here had close connections to princely courts. However, it was not only scholars and administration personnel who were increasingly concerned with geological objects, their collection, examination, and classification; princes themselves also expanded their collections, and curiosities cabinets with geological objects. Unsurprisingly, in the sixteenth century (and later), princes became closely intertwined with mining (for the princely collections of the seventeenth century, see Impey MacGregor 1985; Watanabe-O’Kelly 2002; Chap. 3; Grote 1994). The Americas played a special role within the art collections and curiosity cabinets (Wunderkammern) of the early modern period. The Americas and other “exotic” regions provided collectors with new objects. These objects offered the possibility to expand prior knowledge. Contact with the “new” worlds and their objects gave rise to new approaches and new stimuli for science and technology in Europe (Collet 2007; Spitta 2009; de Asúa and French 2005; Grafton et al. 2002). While research emphasized that collections often focused on objects from the “new” worlds further away from Europe, another contrary development can be noticed in the princely collections in the sixteenth century. For example, the collection of the Dresden Kunstkammer (literally “art chamber” founded by August of Saxony in 1560), minerals and rocks in its early collection period were not characterized by objects from America or other distant regions but rather included mainly regional specimens and resources. In the beginning, geology was represented primarily by the rock collection of Giovanni Maria Nosseni (1544–1620), who worked for the prince in Dresden from 1575 onwards. This collection was based on earlier prospecting and was mainly intended to demonstrate the regional (mineral) resources and usability. It was subsequently expanded by a considerable number of minerals and ore specimens at the beginning of the seventeenth century (Thalheim 2012, 2014; see also

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Menzhausen 1985; for prospecting and geology, see Guntau and Mathé 1994, pp. 98–103). Cabinets and “art chambers” in this context were not only demonstrations of princely power and objects of aesthetics but also places of experimentation and research. For example, Johann George I of Saxony personally tried to test a variety of ores for their metal and silver content (Thalheim 2014, p. 266; see also Moran 1981). This experimentation is also reflected in other areas of interest within princely spheres, such as in the field of alchemy, where curiosity, experimentation, and science are combined with representation and self-promotion of princely power as well as economic interests (Smith 1994). Moreover, art and mining were closely linked to princely agendas and experienced a boom from the sixteenth century onwards, resulting in richly endowed art galleries, paintings, and prints, as well as sculptures related to silver and its industry (Slotta 1994; Pieper 2019; Bachmann et al. 1990; Ingenhaeff and Bair 2011). On a symbolic level within the sphere of princely affairs, for example, arts and collecting can be found in the Handsteine (hand stones) of the early modern period. In the Late Middle Ages, the term Handsteine referred to precious veins of (silver) ores (Erzstufen) or other precious materials and minerals. From the early modern period onwards, this term was also used for artistically processed ores, often combined with other materials, such as fine silver or gold. The first zenith of the princely Handsteine ran parallel to the development of the geological collections in the second half of the sixteenth century. Significant collections of Handsteine, which are still partly preserved, were held by the Elector of Saxony, Ferdinand II of Tyrol (Collection of Ambras), and emperor Rudolf II, who were all interested in mining and promoted mining-related sciences (Huber 1997; Balážová 2017). Neumann also highlights the importance of Handsteine for administration and documentation. The quality of new mineral deposits was also documented with the help of Handsteine. Neumann argues that based on the numerically significant reports on Handsteine found in the Saxon Mining Archives, they were often sent to princes or offices in the administration to document the richness of a mining site or newly discovered resource (Neumann 2021, p. 267). From this perspective, the elements of collecting and representation as well as the administration of mining played a vital role in the formation of princely agendas. Collections, arts, prospecting, and exploration of rocks and minerals served both mining and princely agendas. In addition, manuscripts such

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as printed works and manuals on the incipient mineralogical-geological science followed in the second half of the sixteenth century. They promised the more efficient use of existing deposits and knowledge for better prospecting of rocks, minerals, and other resources. “Domestic” soil was rediscovered from an economic point of view, and at the same time, the administration of mining and related mining sciences was professionalized, restructured, and tailored to princely priorities. These developments were stimulated by new competitors from the Americas and its silver. In this respect, American silver had at least an indirect influence on the Central European silver and mining industry.

Bridging the Public and Private Mining Sector in the Spanish Empire While American silver left its traces in Europe, simultaneously challenging princely power and, giving rise to new scientific disciplines and inspiring the arts, it was another, less illustrious metal that was at the core of the increase in silver production and the transformation of the American silver mining sector: mercury. In 1545, Bartolomé de Medina invented the amalgamation process in which mercury was used for the refinement of silver ores. Within a few years, silver production rose to never-beforeseen heights, and at the end of the sixteenth century, around 80% of the world’s silver was produced in Spanish America. This increase, in turn, required tremendous amounts of mercury for use in the refinement process. By then, the Spanish crown had already monopolized mercury production and distribution, and mercury mines had been put under public administration. Only two significant mercury mines existed within the whole Spanish Empire: Almadén in Spain and Huancavelica in Peru. Mercury supply was, therefore, always an issue. To overcome mercury shortages, a technology-driven approach arose during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Many advances in the mining sector aimed at enhancing the metallurgical process and using less mercury in the refinement process. At the same time, royal authorities also tried to improve mercury mines and their facilities (Lohmann Villena 1949; Matilla Tascón 1958). One of the ways they sought to enhance production was through innovations aimed at furnaces. In the mines of Huancavelica, a variety of new furnaces can be traced over the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Many of those interventions aimed at increasing heat resulting in the better refinement of cinnabar ores. In 1581, the notable metallurgist

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Enrique Garces (1525– ca. 1593–1596) had previously worked in the mines in Almadén, and now conducted experiments in Huancavelica to introduce a new oven called a reverberatory furnace. Fifteen years later, in 1596, Pedro de Contreras, introduced the horno de Jabecas in Huancavelica which had been used in Almadén in the mercury mines (Silvestre Madrid et al. 2018, p. 187). In the silver mining sector, authorities often attracted experts by relying on market mechanisms. Patents and licenses were issued for improvements which could be monetized by the inventors in mines across the empire (Sánchez Gomez 1997; Hofmann 2018). Due to the limited size of mercury mining, this strategy was not possible in this sector however. Mining authorities instead often directly approached experts to engage them in improving the mercury mines. Authorities often used their channels across the Atlantic and facilitated a constant flow of expertise within the Spanish Empire.4 The exact terms of remuneration between the private mining experts and the royal mining authorities are often difficult to reconstruct. However, lump-sum payments for the application of inventions were often the norm. In other cases, the crown also paid out a percentage of the benefit upon adopting the innovation. Another way of compensating successful experts for their efforts was to grant them positions within the mining administration. After successfully convincing the authorities in Spain to adopt a new furnace in Almaden, Juan Alfonso de Bustamante, a Spaniard who spent twenty years working in the mining sector in Peru, was nominated superintendent of the mines in Almadén due to his expertise (Sánchez Gomez 1997, pp. 238–9). The invention of this new furnace, the so-called horno de aludeles, was initially not Juan de Bustamante’s own creation but instead dates back to a medic called Lope de Saavedra Barba. At the end of the 1620s, Lope de Saavedra Barba sought to enhance the furnaces used in the mines in Huancavelica, which resulted in a new, cheaper oven requiring fewer workers. In addition, the new oven also allowed for the refinement of lower grade ores, and by installing several aludels (earthen tubes without bottoms), mercury could be collected more efficiently and with less evaporation loss. This new furnace was then successfully introduced in the mines of Huancavelica in 1637 after the local authorities in Peru had extensively evaluated the demonstration of the oven (Silvestre Madrid 4 For instance, in 1557 a team of miners from Almadén, Spain was sent across the Atlantic to discover new mercury mines in Peru. See: La Savia del imperio, 161.

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et al. 2018, pp. 188–9). Since Juan Alfonso de Bustamante had long worked on-site in Huancavelica and had a thorough understanding of the furnace’s functionality, he was able to travel to Spain and offer the invention to the authorities as his “own”. When looking closer at the case of the horno de aludeles, another aspect of the engagement of royal authorities and experts in the application of inventions in the mining sector across the Spanish Empire becomes apparent. As the authorities were always searching for new possible mercury mines, many small-scale mining endeavors were established. In the 1670s, a promising mercury mine called Rosario, in the region of Chilapa in Mexico, was founded by Don Lorenzo Lopez de Sandoval, an indigenous cacique (Sánchez Gomez 1997, p. 244). Payo Enríquez de Rivera Manrique, the viceroy of New Spain and superintendente of mercury mines, immediately sent Gonzalo Suárez de San Martín, a judge of the Mexican high court (Audiencia) to set up the mine. He brought Matheo Ortiz Molano and other maestros with him to create the foundations and ovens and start working on the mine shafts. In addition, further experts received employment in the mines. For instance, in December 1677, Juan Meoño de Escalante, who had spent two years in the mines of Huancavelica, was approached by the viceroy of New Spain to construct a new furnace for the Rosario mine.5 However, since the quality of the mine was still unsure, the viceroy sent a request for help to the Council of the Indies, which directly established contact with Padre José de Zaragoza from the Colegio Imperial in Madrid (1627–1679). In the following years, José de Zaragoza, a Jesuit and one of the most renowned mathematicians and cosmologists, held direct correspondence with Gonzalo Suárez de San Martín regarding the Rosario mercury mine. Several letters detailing on-site developments at the mercury mine in Chilapa were sent to Madrid. These reports were then evaluated by José de Zaragoza, who issued a detailed response with suggestions for improvements to be conducted in Mexico. In addition to these recommendations, Zaragoza also sent a scaled model as well as a plan and detailed description of a furnace used in Almadén to Suárez de San Martín to set up the oven.6 In fact it was the very oven proposed by 5 Archivo General de Indias (hereafter AGI), PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.17, letter from the viceroy of New Spain to the king, May 9th, 1676. 6 AGI, PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.19, letter from Padre José de Zaragoza to Suárez de San Martín, January 9th, 1677.

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José de Zaragoza that had originally been invented by Lope de Saavedra Barba 40 years earlier in Huancavelica and brought to Almadén by Juan Alfonso de Bustamante. To properly set up the aludel furnace, Zaragoza contemplated whether additional experts from Almadén should be sent to New Spain in case the model and description would not be enough for setting up the furnace. However, after corresponding with the authorities in Spain, he eventually suggested that no assistance from additional experts from Spain would be necessary to establish the new furnace, as the exact measures of the oven were also disclosed.7 After receiving the model and letters, the viceroy of New Spain consequently ordered Suárez de San Martín to set up the oven at the mine. The exact circumstances of how the oven was set up and how the mining endeavor proceeded are unknown. However, royal authorities eventually admitted that no substantial mercury outcome from the mines in Chilapa could be achieved (Sánchez Gomez 1997, p. 245). This ultimately begs the question, why did the mercury mines fail? One factor is quite clear: mercury deposits at the mining site were not extensive enough and consisted only of low-grade ores.8 An inadequate technological state of the mines could be another explanation. On several occasions, local authorities asked to look for able and intelligent experts to improve the mine.9 Suitable mining experts could not be found, likely due in part to the remote location of the mercury mines. This lack of practical expertise could not be compensated by the efforts of the most senior intellectuals and experts when they were only communicating from a distance. Rather, practical experts were needed who had already gained extensive experience on-site, or, as Carlo M. Cipolla has written: “The printed or written page speaks only to those who already know the kind of thing to expect from it. (…) Through the ages, the main channel for the diffusion of innovations has been the migration of people” (Cipolla 1972, pp. 47–8). Nevertheless, this study shows that mining authorities in the Spanish Empire held close connections with mining experts within the empire 7 AGI, PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.19, letter from Padre José de Zaragoza to Suárez de San Martín, January 9th 1677. 8 AGI, PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.17, letter from the viceroy to the king about the state of the Rosario mercury mine, January 8, 1676. 9 AGI, PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.14, letter from Martin Lopez to virrey, July 15th 1670; AGI, PATRONATO, 238, N.2, R.21, Council report, December 11, 1681.

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and beyond (for the impact of German and central European miners in the Spanish mining sector, see Sánchez Gomez 1989). This contact, in turn, allowed for a transfer of technology and facilitated a bridge between the private and public mining sector across the Atlantic. To overcome the special impediments of the Atlantic, mining authorities and experts were also forced to come up with innovative ways to better facilitate this transfer of technology.

Professionalization of the Spanish Public Mining Administration In Castile, important mines producing non-ferrous metals were placed under direct administration by the Castilian Council of the Treasury, the Consejo de Hacienda, during the second half of the seventeenth century (Matilla Tascón 1958, 1987; Sánchez Gómez 1989). This change did not only occur at Almadén, but also at other mines like the silver mine in Guadalcanal near Seville. While in earlier times, renting out the rights to work mines had been common, with public administration limiting itself to supervision, state control was now strengthened. These efforts were in line with reforms of fiscal administration as a whole, which the royal authorities strived to achieve in this period (Sánchez Belén 1996; Bermejo Cabrero 2016; Storrs 2016). Just as with the technology-driven approach of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, one of the main aims of this new form of administering important mines introduced in the late seventeenth century was to ensure that mercury kept flowing from the mine of Almadén to the American silver mines (Marckhgott 2019b). Chief executives appointed by the Council conducted day-to-day operations in these mines. Even though the official title of these men varied—sometimes administrator was the term used, sometimes superintendente—their function was the same: They had to supervise the work at the mines and serve as a link between them and higher echelons of the administrative branch, especially the Consejo de Hacienda, from which they received their orders (Marckhgott 2019a, Chap. 2). Tracking the careers of these men can provide valuable insight into how and why Spanish authorities attempted to professionalize public mining administration in Castile during the late seventeenth century (for similar processes in Central Europe, see the contributions in Westermann and Westermann 2009).

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In general, future mining officials did not start their careers within the mining sector but in other areas of fiscal administration. When a position in the mining sector opened, the question of whom to choose among the many officials that served this significant sector of public administration was crucial. This process was especially true for the case of Almadén, as not only the success of the mine itself but, by extension, the productivity of the American silver mining sector and thus the state of the Spanish Empire’s public finances, depended partly on capable administrators. Care had to be taken to find competent officials, and they had to be found among men that most probably did not yet have specific experience in mining. Among these men was Balthasar de Montoya, one of the most highly regarded mining administrators of late seventeenth-century Castile. He spent several years of his career administering mines and played a crucial part in connecting and transferring knowledge between the mines of Almadén and Guadalcanal. Montoya already had had a remarkable career within the Spanish fiscal administration before he entered the public mining sector. A lawyer by training, he had served in several positions where, according to the Consejo de Hacienda, he had proven his competence and dedication as a fiscal official. Lacking any experience in mining or mining administration upon his transfer to the mining sector, he received immediate employment as a high-ranking mining official.10 Montoya’s case is not unique. Similarly, other high-ranking mining officials had started their careers as accountants or tax collectors, with no expertise in mining matters. Alonso del Castillo Rueda, for example, was a lawyer by training, much like Montoya. Before he was selected to serve as a mining official, Castillo Rueda had served as an auditor in the Casa de la Contratación which oversaw the commerce between Spain and Spanish America. It can only be speculated if his experience with matters related to the American vice-royalties had influenced the Consejo de Hacienda’s decision to appoint Castillo Rueda to the position of administrator of the silver mine of Guadalcanal.11 One of the most notable higher-ranking mining officials of the late seventeenth century, Francisco Fernandez de Portalegre, too, had

10 Archivo General de Simancas (hereafter AGS), CJH, LEG, 1979. Relación de servicios of Balthasar de Montoya, Madrid, July 1681. 11 AGS, CJH, LEG, 1590. Report by Diego Bernal, Guadalcanal, May 4th, 1691.

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completed a cursus honorum similar to those of Montoya and Castillo Rueda. Before entering service at Guadalcanal, Portalegre had served within the Castilian fiscal administration. Fernandez de Portalegre apparently had no or little prior mining-related expertise or technical knowhow. Despite the lack of information in available sources on Fernandez de Portalegre’s professional background, it can be assumed that he was a lawyer just like Montoya. It is striking that, according to a report by the Consejo de Hacienda, Fernandez de Portalegre had served more than two decades in the secretariat of the Consejo de Hacienda before being transferred to the mining sector. By that point in his career, one can assume, Fernandez de Portalegre had become quite an experienced fiscal clerk.12 While men like Montoya, Castillo Rueda, or Fernandez de Portalegre brought their experience and expertise as fiscal officials to the mines they were each assigned, they had to learn how to run such enterprises in order to successfully fulfill their new duties. To achieve this, several strategies can be identified. First, newly appointed administrators rapidly acquired a practical knowledge. As they had proven that they were competent public servants before entering the mining sector, it can be expected that they were able to quickly acquire at least a rudimentary understanding of mining operations. Additionally, they counted on the support of their subordinates, many of whom had far more technical ability (Marckhgott 2019a). In addition to this rather crude and hands-on approach of teaching administrators their job, more sophisticated strategies existed as well. One of these strategies involved posting an official not only to one mine, but at different mines consecutively. Officials sent in this manner received not only training in several locations and under different circumstances, but also acted as agents of knowledge transfer between mines. Most prominently, the mines of Guadalcanal and Almadén formed part of such a training network, as several high-ranking mining officials occupied positions at both mines. During his impressive career within Spain’s fiscal administration, Balthasar de Montoya, the first of the officials mentioned in this section, administered both the mercury mine of Almadén in the late 1670s and beginning of the 1680s, and the silver mine of Guadalcanal from 1693

12 AGS, CJH, LEG, 1694, Council report by the Consejo de Hacienda, Madrid, 20 November 1679.

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onward.13 The case of Francisco Fernández de Portalegre is even more remarkable in this respect. This official was first employed as the administrator of Guadalcanal, which had recently been reopened after decades of neglect and still struggled to produce any output let alone be profitable, especially in comparison to the American silver mines (Marckhgott 2019a, Chap. 5). When he had proved himself as an administrator in Guadalcanal, Fernández de Portalegre was transferred to Almadén. It was explicitly stated that this transfer was because Almadén was in need of an experienced mining official who could help increase the mine’s mercury output in order to support the American silver production.14 Lastly, managing state-run mines was facilitated by regular correspondence between the administrators and the Consejo de Hacienda, which included weekly reports by the administrators as well as detailed orders by the Consejo. The tendency of the Spanish Empire to produce remarkable amounts of paperwork is well known. For the higher echelons, being informed constituted a necessity of performance and effective administration (Brendecke 2009, 2016). In the case of publicly administered mines, however, a third aspect needs to be added when assessing the role of information. In this context, regular communications served to transfer knowledge of mining matters between the Consejo de Hacienda and administrators. The Consejo was able to build a stock of knowledge and disseminate this knowledge to new administrators. In summary, the attempts made by the Spanish authorities to professionalize the administration of important state-run mines allow for a series of conclusions. First, they reveal the weaknesses that came with having mines administered by officials of fiscal administration: Tasking tax collectors with no prior knowledge in mining matters with managing mines where productivity was crucial for the prosperity of an empire may seem like a foolhardy strategy at first, but the case also shows how the Consejo de Hacienda sought to mitigate this problem and turned it into an opportunity to strengthen the Spanish mining sector and state control over it—and, indirectly, to support the American silver mining sector as well. By having suitable officials trained as mining administrators and engaging in extensive correspondence with them, competence in mining matters

13 AGS, CJH, LEG, 1979. Letter by Balthasar de Montoya, Lorca, May 18th, 1693. 14 AGS, CJH, LEG, 1694. Council report by the Consejo de Hacienda, Madrid, 19

November 1699.

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would not remain restricted to the technical personnel at the mines, but administrative bodies themselves became proficiently versed too, enabling more informed and effective policies. Regarding the influence of American silver on European administration, this case once again underscores the extraordinary importance of silver production in New Spain and Peru for the Spanish Empire. Spanish authorities made considerable efforts to ensure that Almadén could produce as much mercury as possible in order to support American silver production. Even though this demand was certainly not the sole reason for the changes enacted within the late seventeenth-century Spanish mining administration, it was certainly a major contributing factor as documentation by the involved organizations shows.

Conclusions Administration and organization tend to constantly change and evolve through intensified reform and restructuring phases. This evolution is particularly true for European mining during the early modern period, and especially for the silver mining sector in the age of American silver starting around 1550. In the three case studies, reactions to rapidly changing economic and political conditions in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were examined for the Central European region as well as for a broader European context. These were, first, the administration of mineralogy and early geology in Saxony and the Habsburg realms during the late sixteenth century; second, the cooperation between mining engineers and mining administration, as well as between the public and the private mining sector in order to develop new mining technologies in Spain and the Americas during the seventeenth century; and third, the professionalization of public mining administration in Spain during the late seventeenth century by means of a cursus honorum for public officials tasked with the administration of state-run mines. Despite the peculiarities of the three cases studied and their inherent differences, several obvious similarities link them together and allow us to gain a more general insight into the causes and logic that drove the change of administrative practices in the early modern European mining sector. Three aspects of the case studies are of particular interest: the enforcement of an administration that, among other things, reshaped

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princely influence, the promotion of science and technology and documentation of knowledge, and finally, the overarching question of how American silver influenced these developments. Concerning the first aspect, all three cases demonstrate how public administration began to exert closer control over the mining sector. In Central Europe, the Direktionsprinzip (executive principle) can be perceived as a result of professionalization and rational approaches and as a response to the economic challenges of the sixteenth century. In addition, similar forms of administration to this Direktionsprinzip in Central Europe also prevailed and developed in Spain. These developments in the administrations of mining were accompanied by an increased promotion and control for mining technology and research as well as practical knowledge of mining matters. Mineralogical science and early geology in Central Europe experienced a rise in the second half of the sixteenth century based on individual interest, upon but also princely mineral collections. Mineralogy and early geology were prestigious and part of the representation and self-promotion of princely power. In addition, expertise in mineralogy offered a chance to explore additional valuable, lucrative local mining resources. In the field of mining-related engineering sciences, a professionalization took place, in addition to a significant trans-Atlantic exchange of knowledge, while in the field of mining-related administrative know-how, a stock of knowledge was formed through the cooperation of the highest echelons of administration and the administrators of individual mines. Regarding the role of American silver, it can be stated that even though it was not the sole cause of the fundamental changes to the European mining administration, it acted as a catalyst that accelerated or intensified these changes. Yet, at the same time, the influence of American silver was dichotomous, as it triggered processes of cooperation and competition in the European silver mining sector. As a perceived competitor, American silver accelerated a restructuring of administrative processes and triggered a push for more efficient exploitations of precious metals. Simultaneously, however, the Spanish authorities also sought to advance the American silver sector further, as they had access to a good portion of the silver returns across the Atlantic. Consequently, the Spanish mining administration also particularly focused on improving mercury mining at Almadén and on the Spanish mainland, as mercury shipments were vital for the production of silver in America. This improvement, in turn, led to another push for modernization of the Spanish mining

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sector at the time. Another contributor to innovation can also be derived from the vast Atlantic Ocean itself. While the Atlantic served as a barrier, the central mining authorities also had to develop new communication methods and innovative ways to overcome this spatial hurdle. Ultimately, the manifold influence of American silver for the Spanish mining sector during the seventeenth century cannot be dismissed. It was not least based on a trans-Atlantic exchange of knowledge and the demand for such knowledge was fulfilled by close connections between mining authorities in the Spanish Empire and mining experts within the Holy Roman Empire and beyond.

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Glocal Economies

The Peso or the Marsilie—The Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants? Markus A. Denzel

An Armenian Merchant’s Manual of 1699 In 1699, the Amsterdam printing house of the Vanandec‘i family published a merchant’s manual compiled by one of its members, Łukas Vanandec‘i (Ghukas Vanendec‘i) or Lucas of Vanand under the title A Treasure of Measures, Weights, Numbers and Monies of the World (Aghassian and Kevonian 2000, p. 161). This book, which is based on an older manual by Constant of Julfa from the 1680s, provides a unique insight and overview into the trading world of Armenian merchants—more precisely, those of New Julfa (Nor Djougha)—at the turn of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Kévonian 1975). The manual is typical for the time around 1700, in no way inferior to similar printed works in

Translation by Franziska Streng B.A., Leipzig. M. A. Denzel (B) University of Leipzig, Leipzig, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_12

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(Western) European languages and even has a much broader geographical horizon. For while contemporary manuals in Dutch, French, English, German, Italian, or other languages informed exclusively about European commercial centers and financial markets (Denzel 2002), Lucas of Vanand includes vast information about coins, measures, and weights as well as trading practices in all places of commercial importance that Armenian merchants from New Julfa frequented around 1700, be they in Western Europe, the Mediterranean, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, the Persian Safavid Empire, India, or Southeast Asia. Vanand even commented on the trade with the Viceroyalty of New Spain (Mexico) and the West and East African coastal regions. According to current research, this range of commercial information is unmatched by any other merchant’s manual and is due only to the extended commercial activity of the Armenian long-distance merchant community at New Julfa, which connected Asian and European countries on a combined overland and sea routes and, as cross-border commuters, conveyed commodities, money, and information between various mercantile cultures. The fact that Armenian New Julfa merchants used a variety of usual locally common or international trade coins for payment within their farreaching commercial network between Amsterdam in the west and Manila in the east, and sometimes even going as far as Acapulco, is explicitly proven in detail by Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual. The abundance of gold, silver, and copper coins, as well as the monies of account mentioned in the manual underpin the familiarity of the New Julfa merchant and their agents all over the world with the respective currencies and payment practices of the countries in which they conducted their business. It also becomes clear that such coins and currencies actually played a role in the specific Armenian trade, in which raw silk and other textiles, gemstones, and diverse luxuries were most important. These were primarily large silver and gold coins, which, by virtue of their full weight, were (relatively) stable in value and at the same time so valuable that Armenian merchants could use these in both the purchase and sale of high-value goods. Inferior coins, such as those worth less in material than their face value, are virtually not discussed at all, since they did not play any role in Armenian wholesale trade and cross-border payments. The merchant’s manual of Lucas of Vanand relates most of the currencies mentioned to each other, just as was the case in almost all merchant’s manuals of western and southern European provenience since the fourteenth century. And similar to these other manuals, one currency unit in

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Lucas of Vanand’s manual serves above all as the standard reference unit for other currencies: the “marsilie”, rendered in various ways in Armenian script, including marˇc’ili, mar.ch’il, marcelle, and marˇc‘il. Kévonian gives the following explanation for this designation: Marˇc‘il designates a currency used by merchants in different countries, but these are most likely Spanish coins brought into the ports of the Levant by merchants from Marseille, hence the name marsilies (“Marˇc‘il désigne une monnaie utilisée par les marchands dans differents pays. […] Il s’agit vraisemblablement des pièces espagnoles que les négociants de Marseille apportaient dans les ports du Levant, d’où leur nom de marsilies ”) (Kévonian 1975, p. 227, note 37). The marsilie is therefore another name for the peso de ocho reales struck in Seville, which was essentially equivalent to a thaler that circulated as a trade coin in the Levant as well as in the port cities of Asia (Herzig 1991, p. 439). This paper considers whether the so-called marsilie or the peso de ocho reales can be regarded as a kind of standard currency unit of the Armenian New Julfa merchants in their intercontinental trade and, if so, why this was the case? Prior to delving further into this question, however, it seems useful and necessary to briefly outline the commercial network of the Armenian New Julfa merchants in order to be able to adequately classify the geographical dimension of this historical monetary question and to discuss the relevance of the marsilie for the New Julfa merchants on the basis of Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual.

The Commercial Network of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants, ca. 1700 From the seventeenth to the eighteenth centuries, the Armenian commercial network stretched from Amsterdam and London in the west to Java and Manila in the east, centered on the heart New Julfa, a suburb or “by-city” of Isfahan, the new capital of the Safavid Empire since 1598 (Baghdiantz-McCabe 2005b). In 1604, as part of the ongoing war between the Ottoman and Safavid Empires, hundreds of thousands of Armenians, including inhabitants of the Armenian commercial center of (Old) Julfa, were deported to Persia on the orders of Shah Abbas I the Great (1587–1629) (Bournoutian 1971, part I, pp. 30–4; Ganjalyan 2016, p. 61). New Julfa became the center of the Armenian silk wholesale traders, who were in many aspects privileged by the shah as a “service gentry” and “alien community with no power interests in Iran and no

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national state of their own” (Aslanian 2006, pp. 38 and 41–2). This status was due to their activity in the international raw silk trade, in which they were intermediaries between the Islamic Middle East and Christian Europe as well as between the Shiite Safavids and the Sunni Ottoman Empire (Herzig 2004, p. 151f.), especially since the entire political economy of the Safavid Empire was based on raw silk as the most important foreign trading product (Baghdiantz-McCabe 2005b, p. 28). Additionally, the trade in raw silk was “an important weapon” (Floor 1996, p. 324) in the permanent conflict between the Shiite Safavids and the Sunni Ottomans that had begun back in 1501, and particularly in the decades from 1589 to 1639, so much so that the New Julfan silk merchants also held a preeminent geopolitical significance. Just as they had been before in (Old) Julfa, the silk merchants of New Julfa were organized in numerous family trading companies, each headed by the oldest male member of the patriarchal extended family of up to several hundred people. A high degree of social control, mutual trust, and the concentration of capital within an extended family, as well as the reduction of transaction costs and cutting the high risk in long-distance by an intra-family system of agents, ensured the survival of family businesses, often for centuries. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, between 10,000 and 30,000 people lived in New Julfa, of whom roughly 1000 to 1500 were active in the New Julfa long-distance trade network in its heyday around 1700 (Ganjalyan 2016, pp. 63–4; Aslanian 2006, pp. 166–85, 240–1). Yet only 300 to 400 were left in the eighteenth century (Bhattacharya 2008, pp. 17–8). This “organized group of merchant families who ran this worldwide commercial network of Iranian silk exchanged for silver and European manufactured goods” (Baghdiantz-MacCabe 2005a, p. 28) became “the most prominent international merchants of Safavid Iran and one of the most conspicuously successful trading communities of early modern Asia” (Herzig 1993, p. 288). Steensgaard even considered them the archetype of the “Asian peddler” (Steensgaard 1973, pp. 23–8), even more so as port-to-port trade boomed in the Indian Ocean region at the end of the seventeenth century (Bhattacharya 2008, p. 3). Armenian merchants are already documented in overland trade from Persia to (northern) India in the sixteenth century and began to engage increasingly in maritime trade between India, Southeast Asia, and the Persian Gulf in the second half of the seventeenth century, partly because India prospered during the Mughal period more than the Safavid Empire

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at the end of the seventeenth century. Armenians became more and more involved in the production and trade of indigo—in addition to trading raw silk, their primary business (Chaudhuri 1985, p. 105). Another focus of their commercial activities was the trade in precious stones, especially diamonds from Vijanagara and Hyderabad in the (former) Sultanate of Golconda (Aslanian 2006, p. 50). Armenian trading companies were so successful that they even competed with the Dutch Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) and with the English East India Company (EIC) (Ganjalyan 2016, p. 67; Bhattacharya 2008, p. 3). Merchants from New Julfa can be traced in almost all textile-producing centers in India and in the capitals of the Mughal Empire of Agra, Delhi, and Lahore, as well as in all international trading places of the Asian coastal regions, which they reached by sea from Bandar Abbas, the main port of the Safavid Empire founded in 1623. Among these were Surat, Madras, Syriam (modern Thanlyin)—the Burmese capital and royal city and the Burma’s most important port in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries—Malacca, Batavia, and Manila, as well as Canton for the tea trade after 1720. In some isolated cases, Armenian merchants sailed as far as Acapulco in New Spain (Mexico) on the so-called Manila galleon. Moreover, there was a small group of Armenian merchants in Lhasa, whose presence ended with the victorious invasion of Tibet by the army of the Chinese Qing Empire in 1720 (Aslanian 2006, pp. 54–8; Moosvi 1998, pp. 270–1). The transport of raw silk and other Persian goods to the Mediterranean and from there on toward Western Europe required overland transit through the Ottoman Empire, for which Armenian intermediaries from New Julfa were able to occupy a quasi-monopoly position from 1618 at the latest, as the Sublime Porte refused Western European merchants’ transit in the Ottoman Empire (Matthee 1999, pp. 171–73). In this regard, the Armenian merchants usually entered the Ottoman Empire through its two most important gateways: Basra in the Persian Gulf and Bagdad by land. Armenian transit trade through the Ottoman Empire in western direction was destined for Aleppo, since the late sixteenth century “the largest trade market of the Levant” (Ghezzi 2019, p. 497) and entrepôt for Persian exports of raw silk to Europe, where Armenians met Venetian merchants as buyers for Persian raw silk. As the dominance of the New Julfa merchants’ raw silk transshipment waned away toward the end of the seventeenth century, they concentrated on Smyrna, which had been an ascending Mediterranean port since the mid-seventeenth

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century. Unlike Aleppo, Smyrna is located directly on the coast and was the central port for the Levant trade of the Dutch, the most successful Western European trading nation of all in the seventeenth century. As such, Smyrna served as the most important port for the Levant trade from mid-seventeenth until far into the eighteenth century. At the same time, Persian raw silk was the chief product in Smyrna’s international trade, which explains why the city was central to the Armenian merchant community (Herzig 2004, pp. 146–8, 152–4). All in all, the two trading places for raw silk were up against one another in stiff competition, but Aleppo may have remained “an important, if not the leading, center in the silk trade” (Herzig 2004, p. 149), while more current research emphasizes a more pronounced decline in Aleppo’s trade (Ghezzi 2019, p. 498). In the European Mediterranean, Venice was “the unchallenged leader of the Western section [of] the Levant silk route” since around 1600 (Herzig 2004, p. 156) and remained a key center of Armenian trade up to the 1730s. When Venice lost her dominant position in raw silk trade from the Levant to Western Europe to merchants from Marseilles, the Netherlands, and England in the early seventeenth century, Armenian merchants established commercial networks in other Western Mediterranean trading places. These were the seaport cities of Leghorn, Marseilles, and—rather of secondary importance to the Armenians—Genoa, all of which had free ports. Amsterdam functioned as the western terminus and also a chief place of the international Armenian commercial network in Northwestern Europe. “Amsterdam was in many ways an exceptional settlement for the Julfa merchants” (Aslanian 2006, p. 79), while London was only “a satellite of the more important community in the Netherlands” (Herzig 2004, p. 161). The regular trade of Armenians in Amsterdam was the result of the meeting of the two merchants “nations” in Smyrna and started when Amsterdam became a major raw silk market and processing center from 1604 onwards, requiring Persian raw silk in ever-increasing quantities (Floor 1996, pp. 325–6). Between Isfahan and Amsterdam, three main trading routes were therefore possible: the traditional one through the Ottoman Empire, the transit route through Russia, and the seaborne Cape route to Europe. The latter option was the most expensive and, therefore, hardly played any role at all in the business of Armenian merchants. Only in exceptional cases were they prepared to sell raw silk to one of the European East India companies already in Persia, as they achieved significantly higher

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prices for silk transfer to Aleppo or Smyrna, for instance, due to the competition of European companies in these two places. In turn, European East India companies seldom bought raw silk in quantities that were allowed by the shah, since they had too few imported goods demanded by Persians (Hundt 1997, pp. 7–8). As the route through the Ottoman Empire was often impaired by smoldering Ottoman-Safavid conflicts— and sometimes was blocked entirely—the Caspian-Volga route was an alternative through which raw silk and other Persian goods reached the Tsardom of Russia. From Moscow, these goods then were transported overland to Arkhangelsk and from there on to the Netherlands. From the mid-1670s onwards, trade with Russia took a remarkable upswing in result of tsarist foreign trade policy, and from 1687, the much shorter route via the Swedish port Narva opened to maritime traffic toward Amsterdam. In the 1690s, Narva became the main transshipment port of the Armenian transit trade across the Baltic Sea, “the hub of the new long-distance trade route”, which was closed again in 1700 in the wake of the Great Northern War (1700–1721) (Troebst 1998, pp. 164– 76). The route Isfahan-Astrakhan-Moscow-Amsterdam had been and remained “long-distance trade route of the second order at first” (Troebst 1993a, p. 208). In the 1690s, roughly five percent of the entire Persian raw silk exports to Western Europe were transported on this route annually; the profits incurred by Russia amounted to only about 2000 to 3000 roubles, or three to four percent of the annual customs revenue per year in Arkhangelsk (Troebst 1993b, p. 168).

The Marsilie as the Standard Currency Unit of the Armenian New Julfa Merchants? Within this wide spatial range of trade, the New Julfa merchants used the peso de ocho reales, which they called marsilie, as trade coin—in addition to other trade coins of this time such as the Dutch lion’s dollar, the Hungarian and Venetian ducat or the Polish or Ottoman zolota, but the marsilie was mentioned as comparison standard far more often than all others combined. That the peso de ocho reales was called marsilie (or in the respective dialectal diction) by the Armenian merchants instead of sevilliano after its place of origin (Seville) was perhaps due to the fact that the city and port of Marseilles had been crucial for Armenian longdistance trade for decades, especially in precious metals shipments to the Levant. For this reason, most large silver coins coming to the Safavid

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Empire and India, the Spanish, Peruvian, and Mexican pesos de ocho reales, were called marˇc‘ili or mar.ch‘ili, i.e., “coming from Marseilles” (Troebst 1993b, p. 439, note 11). Marseilles was not only a transshipment center of Armenian trade in the Mediterranean in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, but it was also the westernmost port and financial center of the trade in pesos and closest to Spain until the 1660s. From then on, an Armenian community existed in Cádiz (until the 1720s) (Yuste-López 2007, pp. 77–79; Sancho de Sopranis 1954), which seems to have been of lesser importance than that in Marseilles—something which Lucas von Vanand, incidentally, neglects to mention. It can therefore be assumed that the term marsilie was common among Armenian merchants even earlier than the 1660s, when Marseilles still was the westernmost center of the Armenian diaspora in the Mediterranean. As for Marseilles, the oldest proof of existence of Armenian merchants dates back into the 1620s. Although the local French merchants more or less permanently dreaded the “foreign” competition and the export of coins or bills of exchange was prohibited on a regular basis, which considerably hampered Armenian return trade with the Levant, the foreign merchants periodically were given more freedoms. This circumstance existed under the reign of Louis XIII (1610–1643) from 1629, Cardinal Richelieu (chief minister 1624/1629– 1642) since 1635, and under Louis XIV’s (1643–1715) Intendant or Controller-General of Finances, Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1661/1665– 1683). Under Colbert’s influence, the port of Marseilles was elevated to free port status in 1669, which prompted numerous Armenians who had formerly emigrated to Leghorn and Amsterdam to relocate to the southern French port. Contrary to the freedoms granted, high customs duties were collected (20 per cent on imports) and regular protectionist measures were implemented, which since 1683 were aimed less at New Julfa merchants than they were at Ottoman Armenians. Around this time, about 300 to 400 Armenians are said to have lived in the city. The Persian-French trade agreement signed in 1715 did not ease the rather restrictive conditions for Armenian trade in Marseilles. When Armenian trade in Marseilles declined in the eighteenth century, merchants opted again to leave for other cities, predominantly for Amsterdam (Herzig 2004, pp. 158–9; Baghdiantz-McCabe 2012, pp. 72–82). The pesos “coming from Marseilles” were not only a desirable means of payment for Armenian merchants but were at the same time a traded good. Besides woolen cloths, full-weight coins were the most important

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return products that Armenian merchants brought from Western Europe to the Levant from where they reached the Ottoman Empire, Persia, and finally India. The Rasht mint, for example, existed almost exclusively for the striking of Persian coins from foreign silver, which were then used to purchase raw silk (Herzig 1990, p. 83). In the case of gold coins, these were usually freshly minted Venetian ducats, of which it is estimated roughly 200,000 per caravan reached Persia (Matthee 2000, p. 233; Herzig 2004, pp. 141 and 163). The silver coins were precisely pesos de ocho reales, which were also welcome as trade coins in many other provinces of the Ottoman Empire (Pamuk 2000, pp. 99–111 and 172–86). The peso had originally been developed in Spain in 1497 but gained importance due to its expanding production in the mining regions of the Spanish Viceroyalties of New Spain and Peru (from 1535 and 1542 respectively), where the Spaniards used silver pieces of the same weight prior to the establishment of the first mint in Mexico City in 1535— hence the term “peso”—as token money (1497). The peso introduced in 1530 in the Spanish-American territories reached the motherland with the silver transfers to Europe that had been increasing steadily from the 1540s onwards. It was minted not only in Mexico City and Potosí, but also in Seville at a standard troy weight of 25.56 g, though only actually 25 g. From 1566 onwards, it was valued at 8 reales or 272 maravedís which is why it was also called “piece of eight” (real de a ocho) as well as piastre or dollar. The peso gained currency throughout most regions of the non-European world where European merchants in any way or form engaged in trade and relied on stable-value trade coins from the sixteenth century on. Even in Asia, Spanish and Mexican pesos had been circulating as trade coins on a considerable scale since their first strikes. In India, Persia, the Dutch-Indian possessions, the Philippines, and at the Chinese coasts incoming peso coins were used in three ways: they either could be hoarded or melted down, just according to the current situation in the precious metal markets at a given time or to serve monetary needs of an individual state. Thirdly, pesos functioned as accepted and coveted means of payment in international commercial centers for longdistance merchants—especially those from New Julfa. The following table summarizes the exchange value of the marsilie, or peso, in the numerous international trading centers where Armenian New Julfa merchants were engaged, according to Lucas of Vanand’s merchant manual (Table 1).

6 tari 1/15 toman

Naples ‘Rumelia’

Sweden

3½ klippinge (approx. value of daler silver money), i.e. 7 old mark or 9 new mark 32 groschen or 60 shillings 35 groschen (groszy) 55–60 kopecks 3 francs or livres tournois 8 lire moneta piccola corrente 9 giuli or 72 crazie (moneta lunga), 69 crazie (moneta buona) = 1 écu = 1 ducato corrento/effectivo = 1 pezza da otto reali at 6 lire moneta lunga, each lira of 12 crazie = 1 pezza da otto reali at 5¾ lire moneta buona, each lira of 12 crazie = 1 1/5 ducati del regno = 666 2/3 dinar (dian)

= 1 rixdollar specie (speciedaler) = 1 1/6 guilder (zlot ) at 30 groszy

Vienna Hungary

8 shillings or 120 kreuzer 7 shillings 7 groschen

XXIII XXIII XXXVI XXV XXIV XLIf

Chapter XXIV Chapter XXVI

Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

Chapter XXIII

Chapters XXIII, LVIII Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIII

Denmark Danzig Moscow France Venice Leghorn

Hamburg

33 shillings

Chapter L

= 1 rixdollar (rijksdaaler) + 1 stiver (1 rijksdaaler = 50 stivers) = 1 exchange dollar (Wechseltaler) of 32 shillings + 3% premium = 1 rixdollar (Reichstaler) specie ≈ ¼ [Hungarian] ducat, whereby 1 ducat = 10 shillings at 30 groschen ≈ 1 rixdollar (riksdaler) at 3 daler silver money

Amsterdam

2 per cent premium

Reference in Vanandec‘i (1699)

Equivalent

In

The exchange value of the marsilie

Exchange value (money rates)

Table 1

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Bagdad Basra Persia Surat Manila weight weight weight in Russia

8 bagdati 3 abbasi 3/50 toman 211–220½ rupees 96 Ba˙re¯l (‘Granos’) at 6 copper coins 9 dirham 6 miskal 1/15 pound of silver

Source Vanandec‘i (1699)

In

Exchange value (money rates) Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter

= 8 bistegi = 640 dinar (dian) = 600 dinar (dian) = 600 dinar (dian) see text XXVI XXVI XXX XXXII XXXIVf XXVII XXVIIf XXXVIII

Reference in Vanandec‘i (1699)

Equivalent

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This list contains almost all commercial centers and countries for the Armenian long-distance merchants between Amsterdam in the west and Manila in the east. The commercial foci of the New Julfa merchants in Italy (Venice, Leghorn, Naples), in the Ottoman Empire (the so-called “Rumelia” as the European part, Basra and Bagdad in Asia) and India (Surat) are equally present as the transit route via Russia and the Baltic Sea region (Danzig, Sweden, Denmark) to the Netherlands around 1700. In addition, an overland route starting in the Ottoman Empire and going to Central and Western Europe via Hungary and Vienna, often used by Armenian merchants since the Middle Ages, can still be recognized. Money rates, but no exchange rates, were indicated for all these places, even though, according to Lucas of Vanand, one can assume that Armenian merchants, at least those residing in Amsterdam, knew the western bill of exchange and also used it. These money rates indicate the relations to the local current money, so that the merchant using Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual was given a guide to the approximate exchange rate of the pesos or marsilies he brought with him against the local currency. Since no other currency or trade coin was stated in the merchant’s manual with anywhere near as many varieties of relations to the local current money, this indicates that the author seems to have implied that marsilies were the coins that Armenian long-distance merchants carried with themselves by default and that they had to trade in for local currency in any place of the Armenian commercial world. This inference in isolation suggests that Armenian merchants of New Julfa considered the marsilie/peso to be their most important, if not the sole, standard currency unit for their intercontinental trade journeys. The peso, as the most widely distributed coin of the time, was the most suitable coin to use on such journeys because it found acceptance in Western Europe as well as in the Ottoman Empire, in India, and the South Asian islands (or along the African coasts). Armenian merchants exploited this universality in such an ideal way that they did not only process their business by this “world trade coin”, but also traded with these coins as bullion. In the western part of the Armenian trading world, the marsilie corresponded to the local thaler (large silver coins) or held an integer relation to thaler coins in local use. The standard currency unit of Armenian long-distance merchants, therefore, was compatible with the locally used currency system and the conversion of the individual currency was comparably easy to manage. This reason alone sealed the choice of the marsilie as the standard currency unit as it was accepted in the west and in

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the east of the Armenian commercial network and easy to convert into foreign currencies. This was also true, albeit to a somewhat more limited extent than in the western trading centers, for those in the east: here, the ratio was 600 dinars (or dian in Armenian) per marsilie, although in some cases with local premiums. It is striking that the marsilie appears to have lost value the further east the merchant went; in “Rumelia”, it cost eleven percent more than in the Safavid Empire. This increased expense is remarkable because, as a rule, the farther east one went, the more expensive silver became in relation to gold. Yet, this aspect should not be overstressed in this study, as local valuation of one silver coin or another may certainly have a part in this. In Surat, where the rupee was the main currency unit, the valuation of marsilies/pesos was completely different from the “rules” described so far. In Lucas of Vanand’s manual, Surat appears as a central financial market (cf. Prakash 1998, p. 100) also and especially in the Armenian trade network, indeed as perhaps the most important transshipment point in India for the Armenians in general. From the sixteenth century onwards, Surat was among the key port cities of the Mughal Empire, and as a trading center of international recognition it also maintained branches of the East India Company (since 1612), the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie of the Dutch (since 1616) and the French Compagnie des Indes Orientales (1667–1759) (Gupta 1991; Jha 2005). Only ratios between peso and rupee can be found for Surat in Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual. These ratios, incidentally, were largely stable over decades. As late as in mid-nineteenth century, in “vicinal” Bombay the monetary rates showed similar Spanish peso-rupee ratios as those listed for Surat around 1700 (Schneider et al. 1992, pp. 267–68). In around 1700, Lucas of Vanand differentiated between payments in whole and in halfrupee pieces as these were in high demand in Surat at that time (Brown 1922, p. 92). According to his information, 100 Mexican pesos (marc‘il lakri) cost 214 rupees, 100 Spanish pesos (marc‘il flori), denoting pieces from Seville (“sevillanos”) cost 211 rupees when payments were furnished in whole rupee pieces. In cases where half-rupee pieces were used, both varieties cost 212½ rupees each. For newly minted peso coins, the price rose to 220½ for 100 Mexican pesos and 218½ for 100 Spanish if paid in whole rupee pieces. In case of payments in half-rupee pieces, 218¾ rupees was the cost of 100 pesos (Vanandec‘i (1699), Chapter XXXII). The mere number of different monetary rates for the different quality of the coins to be exchanged underlines Surat’s outstanding relevance for

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the Armenian long-distance merchants as market of money and precious metals. In Surat, for instance, these merchants supplied themselves with rupees when returning from Persia, and they bought textiles and precious stones in India, and then they exchanged their rupees back in pesos when returning to Isfahan from India or further east countries. The central function of Surat as a money and precious metal market in the western Indian Ocean, which is repeatedly emphasized in the literature, can be well demonstrated, especially in the case of the Armenian long-distance merchants. Like Surat in western India, Madras in the east of the subcontinent assumed a function of an exchange market that was quite similar (Bhattacharya 2008), although Lucas of Vanand does not refer to it. Yet it cannot be assumed that there were major deviations in the peso-rupee ratio compared to that of Surat, even if individual rupee weights were not exactly identical (cf. Denzel 2010, p. 495). Furthermore, Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual clarifies that the use of the marsilie, or peso, as standard currency unit within the Armenian commercial network also served to set the prices for high-quality goods traded over long distances, even though the manual does not indicate relations to local currencies. Probably the fact that these luxury goods were not paid in local currency, but rather with pesos/marsilies — the desired trade coins of stable value— rendered the conversion in local current money superfluous. This situation applied, for example, to buying sandalwood on the Lesser Sunda Islands Timor and Solor. In exchange for a certain sum of money— say 40 marsilies, that is, for a certain weight of silver (in modern terms: approximately one kilogram)—one could get sandalwood of a specified quantity that diminished in proportion to better qualities of wood (Vanandec‘i (1699), Chapter XXXIV). In Manila in particular, all trade in goods was conducted in pesos/marsilies, which were divided into 96 silver coins, the so-called ba˙r¯el (or granos )— or 6 copper coins (Vanandec‘i (1699), Chapters XXXIV–XXXV). Finally, and importantly, Manila was of paramount importance to the Armenian merchants as there they traded cloth from Madras for gold from China and, as discussed, silver from the Spanish Americas (Bhattacharya 2008, pp. 14–5) through which they could obtain Mexican pesos via the “direct” route across the Pacific. The latter were shipped more or less regularly on the so-called Manila galleon from Acapulco (Schurz 1959). The quantity of silver, which flowed into Asia from New Spain via Manila,

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could have been roughly about the same which came to Asia via Europe by land and sea (Flynn and Giráldez 1995). The silver received via the Manila galleons could then be used by the Armenian merchants locally in Southeast Asia or in India for their next purchase of goods.

Conclusion On account of its richness in information and detail, the merchant’s manual of Lucas of Vanand, printed in Amsterdam in 1699 does not only reveal a comprehensive overview of the commercial network of the Armenian long-distance merchants spanning from Amsterdam and London to Manila from New Julfa, but also uncovers a standard currency unit used by this merchant community. It can be assumed that the New Julfa merchants in large areas of their network calculated and also frequently paid in pesos, which they called marsilies after the city of Marseille, or exchanged these for local currencies. The peso, as a nearly global trade coin, suited the Armenians exceptionally well as medium of accounting and exchange in their intercontinental land and maritime trade due to its stable value and an overall familiarity of most of their business partners with this large silver coin. The peso thus served them as current money and as the currency of account. This finding is supported by the examination of the merchant’s manual of Lucas of Vanand. Yet the question which currency—the pesos/marsilies or the local Persian toman currency—the traveling merchants used when they came back to balance their accounts with their respective principal remains open. If the latter was the case, the relation of 600 dinar = 1 peso could have offered an easily manageable basis for conversion. These questions, however, cannot be answered on the sole basis of Lucas of Vanand’s merchant’s manual, but request the evaluation of accounting documents of the large New Julfa trading companies, which goes beyond the scope of this chapter.

Bibliography Aghassian, Michel, and Keram Kevonian. 2000. “Armenian Trade in the Indian Ocean in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” In Asian Merchants and Businessmen in the Indian Ocean and the China Sea, edited by Denys Lombard and Jean Aubin. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Aslanian, Sebouh David. 2006. From the Indian Ocean to the Mediterranean: Circulation and the Global Trade Networks of the Armenian Merchants of New Julfa, Isfahan, 1605–1747 . PhD thesis. Columbia University. Baghdiantz-McCabe, Ina. 2005a. “Global Trading Ambitions in Diaspora: The Armenians and Their Eurasian Silk Trade, 1530–1750.” In Diaspora Networks. Four Centuries of History, edited by Ina Baghdiantz-McCabe, Gelina Harlaftis, and Ioanna Pepelasis Minoglu, 27–49. Oxford/New York: Berg. Baghdiantz-MacCabe, Ina. 2005b. “Princely Suburb, Armenian Quarter or Christian Ghetto? The Urban Setting of New Julfa in the Safavid Capital of Isfahan (1605–1722)”. Revue des mondes musulmans et de la Mediterranée, sér. Histoire 107–110: 415–36. Baghdiantz-McCabe, Ina. 2012. “Opportunity and Legislation: How the Armenians Entered Trade in Three Mediterranean Ports.” In Merchant Colonies in the Early Modern Period, edited by Victor N. Zakharov, Gelina Harlaftis, and Olga Katsiardi-Hering, 61–83. London and New York: Pickering & Chatto. Baibourtian, Vahan. 2004. International Trade and the Armenian Merchants in the Seventeenth Century. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Bhattacharya, Bhaswati. 2008. “Making Money at the Blessed Place of Manila: Armenians in the Madras-Manila Trade in the Eighteenth Century.” Journal of Global History 3: 1–20. Bournoutian, George. 1971/1972. “The Armenian Community of Isfahan in the Seventeenth Century.” The Armenian Review 24: 24–45 (Part I); and 25: 33–50 (Part II). Brown, C.J. 1922. The Coins of India. Calcutta: Association Press. Chaudhuri, Kirti N. 1985. Trade and Civilisation in the Indian Ocean. An Economic History from the Rise of Islam to 1750. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chaudhury, Sushil. 2005. “Trading Networks in a Traditional Diaspora: Armenians in India, c. 1600–1800.” In Diaspora Networks. Four Centuries of History, edited by Ina Baghdiantz McCabe, Gelina Harlaftis, and Ioanna Pepelasis Minoglu, 51–72. Oxford/New York: Berg. Denzel, Markus A. and Stefan Troebst, eds. Forthcoming. Das Armenische Kaufmannshandbuch des Ghukas Vanendec’i (1699). Göttingen: Wallstein. Denzel, Markus A. 2002. “Handelspraktiken als wirtschaftshistorische Quellengattung vom Mittelalter bis in das frühe 20. Jahrhundert. Eine Einführung.” In Kaufmannsbücher und Handelspraktiken vom Spätmittelalter bis zum beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert [Merchant’s Books and Mercantile Pratiche from the Late Middle Ages to the Beginning of the 20th Century], edited by Markus A. Denzel, Jean-Claude Hocquet, and Harald Witthöft, 11–45. Stuttgart: Steiner. Denzel, Markus A. 2010. Handbook of World Exchange Rates, 1590 to 1914. Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate.

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Denzel, Markus A. Forthcoming. “Das armenische Kaufmannshandbuch des Ghukas Vanendec‘i (Lukas von Vanand) von 1699.” In Das Armenische Kaufmannshandbuch des Ghukas Vanendec’i (1699), edited by Markus A. Denzel and Stefan Troebst. Göttingen: Wallstein. Floor, Willem. 1996. “The Dutch and the Persian Silk Trade.” In Safavid Persia. The History and Politics of an Islamic Society, edited by Charles Melville, 323– 68. London and New York: Tauris. Flynn, Dennis O., and Arturo Giráldez. 1995. “Arbitrage, China and World Trade in the Early Modern Period.” Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient 38 (4): 429–48. Ganjalyan, Tamara. 2016. Diaspora und Imperium. Armenier im vorrevolutionären Russland (17. bis 19. Jahrhundert). Köln, Weimar, and Wien: Böhlau. Ghezzi, Renato. 2019. “North Italian Ports and the Levant in the 16th and 17th Centuries.” In Reti maritime come fattori dell’integrazione europea [Maritime Networks as a Factor in European Integration]. Selezione di ricerche [Selection of Essays], 473–505. Firenze: Firenze University Press. Grigoryan, Grigor and Markus A. Denzel. Forthcoming. “Edition.” In Das Armenische Kaufmannshandbuch des Ghukas Vanendec’i (1699), edited by Markus A. Denzel and Stefan Troebst. Göttingen: Wallstein. Gupta, V.B. 1991. “Imports of Treasure and Surat’s Trade in the 17th Century.” In Money, Coins, and Commerce: Essays in the Monetary History of Asia and Europe (from Antiquity to Modern Times), ed. Eddy H. van Cauwenberghe, 455–71. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Herzig, Edmund M. 1990. “The Iranian Raw Silk Trade and European Manufacture in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries.” Journal of European Economic History 19: 73–89. Herzig, Edmund M. 1991. The Armenian Merchants of New Julfa, Isfahan. A Study in Pre-Modern Asian Trade. Thesis. University of Oxford. Herzig, Edmund M. 1993. “The Family Firm in the Commercial Organisation of the Julfa Armenians.” In Études Safavides, edited by Jean Calmard, 287– 304. Paris/Teheran: Institut Français de Recherche en Iran, distributed by Éditions Peeters, Louvain. Herzig, Edmund M. 2004. “Venice and the Julfa Armenian Merchants.” In Gli Armeni e Venezia. Dagli Sceriman a Mechitar: il momento culminante di una consuetudine millenaria, edited by Boghos Levon Zekiyan and Aldo Ferrari, 141–64. Venezia: Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti. Hundt, Michael. 1997. ‚Woraus nichts geworden‘. Brandenburg-Preußens Handel mit Persien (1668–1720). Hamburg: Abera. Jha, Murari Kumar. 2005. “The Mughals, Merchants and the European Companies in the 17th Century Surat.” Asia Europe Journal 3: 269–83.

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Kévonian, Kéram. 1975. “Marchands arméniens au XVIIe siècle. A propos d’un livre arménien publié à Amsterdam en 1699.” Cahiers Du Monde Russe Et Soviétique 16 (2): 199–244. Lombard, Denys, and Jean Aubin, eds. 2000. Asian Merchants and Businessmen in the Indian Ocean and the China Sea. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Matthee, Rudolph P. 1999. The Politics of Trade in Safavid Iran. Silk for Silver, 1600–1730. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Matthee, Rudolph P. 2000. “Between Venice and Surat. The Trade in Gold in Late Safavid Iran.” Modern Asian Studies 34 (1): 223–55. Moosvi, Shireen. 1998. “Armenians in the Trade of the Mughal Empire during the Seventeenth Century.” Proceedings Volume of the 59th Annual Session of South Indian History Congress: 266–78. Pamuk, Sevket. ¸ 2000. A Monetary History of the Ottoman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Prakash, Om. 1998. European Commercial Enterprise in Pre-colonial India. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sancho de Sopranis, Hipólito. 1954. “Los Armenios en Cádiz.” Sefarad: Revista de la Escuela de Estudios Hebraicos 14: 295–314. Schneider, Jürgen., Oskar Schwarzer, Friedrich Zellfelder, and Markus A. Denzel, eds. 1992. Währungen der Welt IV: Asiatische und australische Devisenkurse im 19. Jahrhundert. Stuttgart: Steiner. Schurz, William L. 1959. The Manila Galleon. New York: Dutton. Steensgaard, Niels. 1973. The Asian Trade Revolution of the Seventeenth Century. The East India Companies and the Decline of the Caravan Trade. London and Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Troebst, Stefan. 1993a. “Isfahan – Moskau – Amsterdam. Zur Entstehungsgeschichte des moskauischen Transitprivilegs für die Armenische Handelskompanie in Persien (1666–1676).” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas N.F. 41: 180–219. Troebst, Stefan. 1993b. “Narva und der Außenhandel Persiens im 17. Jahrhundert. Zum merkantilen Hintergrund schwedischer Großmachtpolitik.” In Die schwedischen Ostprovinzen Estland und Livland im 16.–18. Jahrhundert, edited by Alexander Loit and Helmut Piirim¯ae, 161–78. Uppsala: Zentrum für baltische Studien, Universität Stockholm. Troebst, Stefan. 1997. Handelskontrolle – ‚Derivation‘ – Eindämmung. Schwedische Moskaupolitik 1617–1661. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Troebst, Stefan. 1998. “Die Kaspi-Volga-Ostsee-Route in der Handelskontrollpolitik Karls XI. Die schwedischen Persien-Missionen von Ludvig Fabritius 1679–1700.” Forschungen Zur Osteuropäischen Geschichte 54: 127–204. Troebst, Stefan. 2013. “Mittelmeer und Ostsee im frühneuzeitlichen globalen Handelsnetzwerk der Armenier Isfahans.” Armenisch-Deutsche Korrespondenz 158 (1): 36–9.

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Vanandec‘i, Łukas. 1699. Ganj cˇ‘apoy, kš˙roy, t‘uoy, ew dramic‘ bolor ašxarhi [Ein Schatz des Maßes, des Gewichts, der Zahl und der Währungseinheiten der ganzen Welt]. Amsterdam: Vanandec‘i

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Foreign Merchants and the Introduction of New Hot Beverages in the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn During the Long Eighteenth Century Benita Wister

Your Electoral Grace without a doubt will recall graciously your mildest explanation regarding the Italian merchants located in your capital city, that the same merchants will move their families, or otherwise will forfeit their trade activities. […] As long as the trading is not based on an established business, it is nothing more than grocery trade ‘ad bonum privatum’, which to the public is even more adverse when carried out with goods being more luxurious than necessary and when the profit made with these goods will be brought abroad.1

1 Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Abteilung Westfalen (LAV NRW W). Fürstbistum Münster (Fbm. MS). Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3267, fol. 1.

B. Wister (B) historian in Olpe, Olpe, Germany e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_13

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These sentences appear in a letter written in 1765 by the city government of Münster to Maximilian Friedrich of Königsegg-Rothenfels, princebishop of Münster and archbishop of Cologne from 1761 to 1784 (Hanschmidt 1983, p. 615). They are a fine example of the skepticism of the Westphalian authorities toward foreign merchants and their goods, even as late as the second half of the eighteenth century. Fortyfive years earlier, a similar issue arose, concerning four other Italian and Swiss merchant families in the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn under the reign of prince-bishop Clemens August I of Bavaria (Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 613–5). The situation resulted in a decree by the court chamber in 1721 that forced the merchants to move their families to Paderborn or otherwise end their business activities altogether.2 The families obeyed, at least partly, as did two Italian merchant families in the Prince-Bishopric of Münster in the 1760s. The Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn, on the other hand, gradually opened themselves to new luxury foodstuffs. In the end, it evolved into a mutually advantageous situation for all those involved. During the last decades of the seventeenth century, three hot beverages namely coffee, tea, and chocolate started to conquer Westphalian households. The entrance of these goods into regional consumer culture was part of a more general increase in luxury consumption in Northwestern Europe caused by a growing global commodity trade. All over Europe, the demand for coffee, tea, and chocolate grew significantly from the last third of the seventeenth century to the end of the eighteenth (van Zanden and de Zwart 2018, pp. 40–1 and 247; Fertig and Pfister 2016, pp. 221–3; Menninger 2004, pp. 171–236 and 313–71). The middle classes in particular were clearly interested in new and exotic fashion products (Poukens and Provoost 2011, pp. 159–84). The context of the diffusion, distribution, and consumption of these products in the two Westphalian Prince-Bishoprics (Münster and Paderborn) was quite specific. Both territories were very small and far removed from the primary transfer routes. The three hot beverages did not fit in existing trading networks, consumption patterns as well as social norms and values, which provoked authoritarian concerns regarding the interdependence of financial and state power and subsequently measures, such as consumption bans. Hence, these new luxury foodstuffs, as well as 2 LAV NRW W, Fürstbistum Paderborn (Fbm. PB), Hofkammer, Akten 854, fol. 5r–

47r.

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the foreign merchants who distributed them, faced several challenges. Ultimately, de Zwart and van Zanden identify a “consumer revolution” that provoked a change in consumption patterns (van Zanden and de Zwart 2018, p. 251). Although Fertig and Pfister contend that given the absence of metropolises in Germany, this effect was limited to the elite (Fertig and Pfister 2016, pp. 223–8), it is still obvious that this “consumer revolution” occurred throughout the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn during the eighteenth century. Most studies that focus on the consumer revolution with regard to our three hot beverages focus on a European or a national level (Menninger 2004; Hengartner and Merki 1999; Fertig and Pfister 2016), on cities directly involved in colonial trade (Seling-Biehusen 2001) or on important territories of the Holy Roman Empire (Ludwig 1994; Hochmuth 2008). This essay has a more specific aim: to explore the relation between the migration of foreign merchant families, the development of a consumer culture connected to the new hot beverages, and economic evolution and state formation in two small and—especially with regard to their position in the European economy—relatively minor states: the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn from the late seventeenth century until their dissolution in 1803. My findings are mainly based upon sources from the State Archives of North Rhine-Westphalia and the United Westphalian Archives of the Nobility e.V., as well as city archives and the Dioceses Archives of Münster and Paderborn.

Westphalian Villages and Towns at the Crossroads of European Trade In the early modern period, Westphalia was a loose collection of territories of varying political status and confession, but united by culture and a standard of living (Merian and Zeiller 1647, pp. 3–5). It comprised approximately the northern half of today’s province of North RhineWestphalia. From time to time, some territories were under the reign of a single sovereign. Clemens August I of Bavaria, for example, reigned over the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster, Paderborn and Osnabrück, the Archbishopric of Cologne, and the Vest Recklinghausen and the Duchy of Westphalia in personal union throughout most of the eighteenth century (Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 611–5). Despite its heterogeneity and some adversity—particularly during the Thirty Years’ War and the Seven Years’

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War—Westphalia enjoyed a long period of geopolitical stability (Casser 1934, pp. 16–23; Hanschmidt 1983, p. 606). Westphalia did not have any important cultural and economic centers or metropolises. Its largest city was Münster, the capital of the PrinceBishopric of Münster, a city with about 10,500 inhabitants in 1750 (Jakobi 1993, pp. 498–9). There were countless villages, many small towns, and a few medium-sized cities, including Paderborn, the capital of the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn. At the end of the eighteenth century, 78% of the population still lived in rural areas (Ditt 1996, p. 186; Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 650–3; Reekers 1964, pp. 168–9). The various tax groups in Münster in 1770 give us an impression of the people’s purchasing power: around 70 percent of taxpayers belonged to the two lowest tax groups (day laborers, journeymen, and craftsmen such as tailors and shoemakers), less than 20 percent of the middle tax groups (craftsmen like bakers and carpenters, servants, ordinary merchants, medical professions), and less than 9 percent formed the three highest tax groups (innkeepers, municipal employees, clergy, traders and merchants). The nobility was not included. (Weidner 2000, p. 607; Siekmann 1989, pp. 104–5 and 202–7; Jakobi 1993, pp. 499–501). Both Prince-Bishoprics were economically active. They maintained supra-regional relations with more vibrant and flourishing European economic areas such as Hamburg and Amsterdam. Most depended upon agriculture, but there was a lot of textile production in the area, based on a putting-out system and skilled crafts. The various craftsmen guilds formed another important group. Still, it was the third sector, trade, and commerce, which pushed the cultural integration of new luxury foodstuffs. Traders and merchants sold the region’s domestic products, generated profit, and thus improved economic and social living conditions, which in its turn led to a growing desire for new consumer goods. (Rothert 1951, pp. 209–28; Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 663–9). Like many other territories in northwestern Europe, Westphalia suffered from the aftermath of the Thirty Years’ War and the Seven Years’ War in terms of wealth and prosperity. It was not before the middle of the eighteenth century that the primary sector recovered from the devastation and plundering caused by the Thirty Years’ War. Soon after, the Seven Years’ War plunged the Prince-Bishoprics once again into chaos. All the while, commercial policy promoted the domestic economy and tried to prevent money flowing abroad (Rothert 1951, pp. 209–10 and 244–67; Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 642–3 and 669; Wolf 1983, pp. 567–99;

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Menninger 2004, pp. 386–96). Furthermore, the integration of coffee, tea, and chocolate into social life was temporarily hampered by all sorts of regulations and restrictions, which made it even harder for new luxury foodstuffs to take root.3 As a result, foreign merchants found themselves in a difficult position. However, various studies suggest that neither the economic state nor urbanization ultimately stalled consumer demands (Poukens and Provoost 2011, p. 160).

From Unpopular Peddlers to Well-esteemed Merchants At the end of the seventeenth century, under the reign of Hermann Werner of Wolff-Metternich zur Gracht, a number of foreign families were trading within the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn: the Reinoldi, Bianco, and Pedrazzini from the Ticino Region in Switzerland and the Ferrari from Lake Como. In the late 1720s, the Primavesi and the Luzzano from Lake Como set up business in the Archbishopric of Cologne, under the reign of Clemens August I, and later moved to the Prince-Bishopric of Münster. In 1671, Pietro Reinoldi and his sons Giovanni Battista and Francesco obtained citizenship in Paderborn, after having received their trade privilege from Prince-Bishop Ferdinand of Fürstenberg. Although they came from Lugano in the Swiss Canton of Ticino, the administration of the Prince-Bishopric referred to them as “Italian.” While the women of the family stayed in Ticino, the men started their trade activities in Westphalia with peddling. During their early years, they sold candied fruits, sugar biscuits, baking spices, jam, different southern fruits, parmesan cheese and olives, and later also coffee, tea, and chocolate. Direct marketing of single ingredients as well as “ready-for-use” products to customers

3 LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Edikte B2 Bl. 58, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 2820, fol. 1r–5v and fol. 55r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3184, fol. 2r–21r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3267, fol. 1r–2r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Landesarchiv-Militaria, 200, fol. 39r–52r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3184, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer, Akten 403, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen (Dep.), Akten 32, 273, fol. 25r–7r; LAV NRW W, Altertumsverein Münster, Akten 375i, fol. 266r–7r.

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for domestic consumption seems to have prevailed, at least at the beginning.4 The Reinoldi soon established themselves in Paderborn, although they continued to travel through the region to sell their goods. In 1690, they bought a house in the city center and paid high fees for both their trade concession and their property. Nonetheless, they remained foreign merchants (Linde 1999, pp. 350–1). At the same time, the Luganese citizen Pietro Antonio Bianco moved to Paderborn and joined the Reinoldi Company. He was married to one of Giovanni Battista Reinoldi’s daughters, who spent most of her life in Lugano (Linde 1999, p. 350; Michels 1957, p. 98). The partnership agreement between the two families, negotiated in Paderborn in 1696, included an index of goods that, among others, listed coffee, tea, and chocolate. In addition to the index, two book accounts mentioning a total of 347 Westphalian customers show that the Reinoldi Company was an important supplier of new luxury foodstuffs as early as the turn of the century. Among their customers were many clerics, members of noble families, and civil servants, but also solvent common citizens. The index of goods and the customer list show that the beverages quickly became a significant part of the Westphalian consumption pattern of the upper middle class—with coffee having the largest share of the three hot beverages, followed by tea and chocolate. This hypothesis is supported by the fact that the first city taxes on new luxury foodstuffs in the neighboring Prince-Bishopric of Münster started to appear in the late seventeenth century.5 Two other merchants joined the Reinoldi Company at the beginning of the eighteenth century: Sebastiano Ferrari (1681–1751) from Loveno on Lake Como and Giuglielmo Pedrazzino (1675–1744) from Campo Vallemaggia in the Ticino region. The latter held a crucial position in the firm, since he was a member of a European-wide connected merchant family with ties to the Atlantic trade (Pedrazzini 1994, p. 10; Michels 1957, p. 229; Lorenzetti 2009, pp. 518–9). His first appearance in the 4 LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer 854, fol. 6v; LAV NRW W, Rietberg Akten, 1836, fol. 163r; LAV NRW W, Riet.A. 2577, fol. 86 and 357; LAV NRW W, Rietberg, Akten 2587, fol. 210; LAV NRW W, Rietberg, Akten 2620, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer, Akten 854, fol. 14r. and 35r; LAV NRW W, Reichskammergericht B 1118, Bd.1, fol. 9r–106v. 5 LAV NRW W, Reichskammergericht B 1118, Bd.1, fol. 105r–6v; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Landesarchiv-Militaria, Nr. 200, fol. 39r–52r; StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A. VI, 64/65, fol. 4r–15v; LAV NRW W, Reichtskammergericht B 1118, Bd. 1, 41–52.

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archival sources is as a godparent in a parish register of 1702. We can assume, therefore, that he had been in Paderborn for a while already. The same goes for Sebastiano Ferrari, who appears as a godparent in 1709.6 While the Reinoldi Company expanded its activities in the region in the early 1700s, the miter of the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn was transferred to Franz Arnold of Wolff-Metternich zur Gracht. At a time when profane and clerical states started to diverge in terms of political development, he focused on maintaining peace and a good relationship to the Dutch Republic, an important trade partner. Economically, he was not nearly as active as his predecessor Friedrich Christian of Plettenberg, who promoted the regional economy in many ways (Kohl 1999, pp. 280–91). Plettenberg’s hosting of court events and military activities, nonetheless, had cost a fortune and left Franz Arnold of WolffMetternich zur Gracht with a huge number of liabilities, forcing him to try to greatly reduce the debt of his Prince-Bishoprics (Bessen 1820, p. 282).7 Franz Arnold of Wolff-Metternich zur Gracht’s life and work were deeply ambiguous with respect to spending and saving money. He was known for his splendid court (Kohl 1999, p. 290). It was common for the prince-bishops of Münster and Paderborn to have a sommelier in charge of hot beverages. His episcopal estate inventory lists a variety of tableware for the three hot beverages, suggesting that he enjoyed them. Nonetheless, he restricted the consumption of luxury goods for the general public. He forbade certain meetings and festivities to avoid an excess of splendor of clothes and luxury food consumption (Dahl 1910, pp. 61 and 64; Scotti 1842, pp. 347–50). In the Prince-Bishopric of Münster, he restricted the trading activities of foreign merchants by forcing them to pay a higher tax than their local counterparts.8 Franz Arnold was succeeded by Clemens August I of Bavaria (Hanschmidt 1983, pp. 613–5). During his regency, the economy and society in general opened up significantly to foreign merchants and their luxury foodstuffs.

6 Erzbistumsarchiv Paderborn (EBA PB), Paderborn, Pfarre St. Ulrich, KB001–01–T, 166; EBA PB, Paderborn, St. Ulrich, KB002–01–T, 14. 7 Stadtarchiv Münster (StAMs), Altes Ratsarchiv, A. VI, 64/65, fol. 4r–15v. 8 LAV NRW W, Archivische Sammlungen, Manuskripte 45, 1–33; Archiv Nordkirchen,

Akten 13, 280, fol. 17r–21v; Archiv Nordkirchen, Akten 10, 510, s.f.; Archiv Tatenhausen, Akten 480, Inv. 1719, 16–22; StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A VI, 64/65, fol. 25r.

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Until the 1710s, the Reinoldi Company flourished and continued to supply its customers with coffee, tea and chocolate. One year after the death of Franz Arnold of Wolff-Metternich zur Gracht, Pietro Antonio Bianco and his wife obtained citizenship in Paderborn. They had at least four sons and one daughter born in Lugano in the Ticino Region (Michels 1957, pp. 97–8, 111 and 115; Linde 1999, p. 350). However, one year later, in 1720, the relationship between the partners in the firm had visibly worsened. Giovanni Battista Reinoldi sued his son-in-law and Giuglielmo Pedrazzini. This protracted legal dispute went unresolved until 1728, but allows us to obtain a detailed picture of the different opinions of the foreign merchant families and the representatives of the Bishopric of Paderborn regarding their business activities and centers of vital interest.9 Court files reveal that in 1721 the Swiss and Italian merchants and their wives were frequently separated. While merchants built up their business in Paderborn, their wives stayed in Lugano. This situation was criticized by the prince-bishop, but his admonitions had no effect. Yet Giuglielmo Pedrazzino and Pietro Antonio Bianco finally conceded by bringing their families to Paderborn. One year later, in January 1722, Sebastiano Ferrari was summoned to court for the same reason. In May 1722, the court finally set the foreign merchants a deadline to bring their families to Paderborn, which they met—albeit only temporary. A court file dated June 1724 shows that the merchants did indeed bring their families to Paderborn, but sent them back home shortly thereafter. The reason for this quarrel between the Italian and Swiss merchants and the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn was the latter’s fear foreign merchants would disrupt the domestic economy. It was based on the belief that it would be damaging to a domestic economy if too much money was sent abroad and—(putatively—not returned. This fear was intensified by the fact that the Prince-Bishoprics of Paderborn and Münster had created immense debts over several decades (Menninger 2004, pp. 386–92). It is expressed explicitly in some letters contained in the court files by the episcopal representatives of the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn, and countered in responses written by the merchants. The latter tried to diminish the authorities’ worries by highlighting that, with 9 LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen (Dep.), Akten 14, 782, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Reichskammergericht B 1118, Bd. 1, fol. 9r–165r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer, Akten 854, fol. 5r.

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their profit, they were able to buy new goods and offer them to the people of the Prince-Bishopric.10 The problem was solved when Bianco (and possibly others) promised to bring his children to Paderborn. In 1732, his eldest son, Giovanni Battista Bianco, married the daughter of a notable family from Paderborn (Linde 1999, p. 350). Sebastiano Ferrari obtained citizenship together with his wife in 1737, and bought a house in that same year. They also brought their children to Paderborn, even though their eldest son married two Italian women. While his parents returned to Loveno at Lake Como to spend their remaining years in their native country, he remained with his family in Paderborn and all family members were subsequently buried there. (Linde 1999, p. 351; Michels 1957, pp. 329–30; Heggen 1978, pp. 299–300). Thus, both sons established a sound basis for the Bianco and Ferrari to become well-esteemed Paderborn merchant families, as well as for the further inclusion of the three hot beverages in the regional consumption patterns.

History Repeats Itself ¨ in the Prince-Bishopric of Munster Almost at the same time, two other Italian merchant families built up their business in the territories of Prince-Bishop Clemens August I of Bavaria: the Primavesi and the Luzzano from Pognana at Lake Como. It was Carlo Domenico Primavesi and his relative and partner Pietro Antonio Luzzano who laid the foundation for the Primavesi & Luzzano Company. At first, they focused on Bonn and Brühl in the Archbishopric of Cologne, Arnsberg in the Duchy of Westphalia and Paderborn. However, they quickly expanded their activities to the Prince-Bishoprics of Osnabrück and Münster, using a widespread European family network and their connections to Italy as a major advantage. In the 1720s, and again in 1748, Clemens August I of Bavaria gave them a free trade permit for “all kinds of fancy and rare goods,”11 including coffee, tea, and chocolate, which the merchants were allowed to sell within and outside the markets in all his territories. Their goods were welcomed by an increasingly self-confident middle class that showed a similar, albeit somewhat 10 LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer, Akten 854, fol. 21r–32r. 11 StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A XI 92, fol. 283.

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delayed, consumer behavior development like the middle classes in other European territories (Ryckbosch 2019, pp. 44–56; Poukens and Provoost 2011, pp. 162–63, 171–72 and 184). It seems that the Primavesi & Luzzano Company was able to trade without major disturbances until 1748, when the merchants’ guild of Münster filed a complaint12 —probably triggered by the economic success of the Italian merchants in the Prince-Bishopric of Münster. The first two generations of the Primavesi and the Luzzano, Carlo Domenico Primavesi and Pietro Antonio Luzzano as well as their sons Carlo Agostino and Cristoforo Ludovico Primavesi and Carlo Antonio Luzzano, did the same as their equivalents in Paderborn: they came to Westphalia to sell their goods, among others the three hot beverages, from Italy, but did not settle there with their families. All were married to related women in their hometown and commuted regularly between Lombardy and Westphalia until the 1760s (Beernink 1965, p. 17; Aggi 1892, p. 277). This enraged the local mercantile community of Münster. The first and only exception in the second generation was Cristoforo Ludovico Primavesi, who in the 1750s married a Westphalian brewer’s daughter. He was a free grocer until his death in 1767, and a partner in the Primavesi & Luzzano Company since the 1740s.13 While the Italian and Swiss merchants in Paderborn in the 1720s faced skepticism and hindrances by the territorial authorities, the Primavesi and Luzzano families in Münster had to deal with local merchants who saw them as intruders seeking to exploit their market. On the contrary, Clemens August I of Bavaria had no qualms with foreign merchants since he gave them permission to trade in all his territories. The situation escalated in 1748, when the merchants’ guild of Münster appealed to Clemens August I of Bavaria to revoke his free trade permit. Their argument was that this kind of trade—with all kinds of merchandise which traditionally belonged to the merchants’ guild, including coffee, tea, and chocolate—would harm their business activities and negatively affect the public as well. Moreover, the Italian merchants would be able to offer

12 StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A XI 42a, s.f. 13 StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A XI 90, fol. 283r–4v, and A XI 92, fol. 1; LAV NRW

W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3267, fol. 1r–2r; LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen (Dep.), Akten 20, 939, letter dated July 5, 1763; BAMs, MünsterLamberti, Rx13, 103; BAMs, Eggerode-St. Mariä Geburt, KB2, 2.

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their goods at a lower price due to the fact that they settled at the cathedral and, thus, did not have to pay taxes.14 Clemens August I of Bavaria did not see the need to retract his concession, and the quarrel continued until the late 1760s. In 1750, he obligated the Italian merchants to pay their taxes, which was more than fair as their business flourished, especially with fancy goods, textiles, and the distribution of luxury foodstuffs. Probably as a result of this new tax, Carlo Agostino Primavesi became a citizen of Münster in 1751 (Gimpel 1982, p. 214). About ten years later, Primavesi & Luzzano Company was one of the most successful companies in Münster, and was paying some of the highest tax rates in the city. At the same time, they rented a property on one of the most important streets, the Prinzipalmarkt, and opened an official kontor, a bureau de change, and a bank (Huppertz 1908, p. 293 and 433–449; Augel 1971, pp. 203–4; Kirchhoff 2001, p. 185).15 The obligation to pay taxes was not enough for the merchants’ guild. They were still upset that Primavesi & Luzzano Company was allowed to trade with merchandise which by decree was exclusively assigned to their guild, including the three hot beverages. Secondly, the merchants’ guild also greatly disapproved of the banking business of the Primavesi family (Lahrkamp 1968, p. 48). Hence, in 1765, the major and the city council demanded that the Italian merchants should bring their remaining family members to Münster or otherwise end their business activities. They feared that the money generated in the Prince-Bishopric was moving abroad. The wording was the same as in the 1720s, when Bianco, Ferrari, and Pedrazzini were obliged to get their families to Paderborn. Although Clemens August I of Bavaria’s successor, Maximilian Friedrich of Königsegg-Rothenfels, seemed to be of the opinion that the trading activities of Primavesi and Luzzano were an advantage for his territories, he capitulated and requested that they should bring their children to the Prince-Bishopric.16

14 StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A XI 42a, s.f. and A XI 90, fol. 283r–284v and A XI 92,

fol. 1; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3184, fol. 7v. 15 StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A XI 92, fol. 281–2; LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen (Dep.), Akten 21, 515, s.f., and Akten 20, 158, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Haus Küchen 473, invoice dated 1759, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Familie Primavesi, Nr. 38. 16 LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3184, s.f., Akten 3267, fol. 1r–2r, and Akten 3267, letter dated November 30th, 1765.

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Shortly after, Carlo Agostino Primavesi’s wife and his sons moved to Münster. They became members of the merchants’ guild in 1770 and 1771, as did Francesco Luzzano’s son. Already in 1768, the two merchants had bought a house in the city center at the Roggenmarkt, which became their head office. In 1771, they were joined by their sons, who married daughters of reputable residents of Münster, among others the later master of the merchants’ guild, Karl Joseph Primavesi, and the merchant’s daughter Anna Maria Gertrud Giese (Lahrkamp 1968, pp. 171–8 and 201; Ketteler 1931, pp. 287–8; Lahrkamp 1970, pp. 48– 9; Klötzer 2001, pp. 189–92, Beernink 1965, p. 10). Just as for the Bianco and Ferrari families in Paderborn, the request to change their center of vital interest from Italy to Westphalia was a corner stone for the Primavesi to become one of the most successful merchant families in the eighteenth-century Prince-Bishopric of Münster and further promote and fulfill the demand for coffee, tea, and their famous “Roman chocolate,” which consisted of cocoa, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, sold as a solid mass throughout Westphalia (Anonymous 1826, p. 12).17

New Luxury Foodstuffs as a Gateway for Foreign Merchants and Vice Versa The Swiss and Italian merchant families in the Prince-Bishoprics in Münster and Paderborn had been settling until the middle of the eighteenth century. The Seven Years’ War threatened to thwart their business activities and the further diffusion of new luxury foodstuffs. The territories of Clemens August I of Bavaria, who died in 1761, and his successors Maximilian Friedrich of Königsegg-Rothenfels, prince-bishop of Münster since 1762, and Wilhelm Anton of Asseburg, prince-bishop of Paderborn since 1763 (Kohl 1999, p. 611), were facing high debts. As a result, the new prince-bishops tried to limit all unnecessary consumption. Measures to prevent money flowing abroad and restore domestic cash flow included a review of the taxes and charges on several goods, as well as severe limitations of the consumption of coffee, tea, and chocolate, which even applied to the episcopal court.18 17 BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx13, 122; LAV NRW W, Haus Venne 79, invoice dated 1768, s.f. 18 LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Geheimer Rat, Akten 1073, fol. 49r–50r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Domkapitel 29.56, fol. 3r–18v.

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In 1763, immediately following the end of the Seven Years’ War, Maximilian Friedrich of Königsegg-Rothenfels proposed a proposal for new charges on goods. It is a perfect example for the interplay of high war debts, a generally lower efficiency level compared to larger territories, and contemporary mercantilist-cameralist economic policy (Rössner 2017, pp. 250–4; Menninger 2004, pp. 384–96). The plan excluded goods in transit, essential groceries, domestic goods and export, but proposed to set high imposts on “dispensable” goods such as coffee, tea, and chocolate. The proposal went even further: nobody was exempted, not even the nobility, because “it depends on everybody’s economy, how much he wants to consume and thus, wants to contribute.” This proposition was a keen suggestion because the nobility was often excluded from charges. Its aim was clear: to keep as much money as possible in the territory, and since the nobility formed one of the most sound customer groups, they should pay for their luxury lifestyle. The prince-bishop also limited the right to consume the three hot beverages at his court to a very small group of people.19 Only one year later, in 1764, Maximilian Friedrich of KönigseggRothenfels passed one of the first consumption bans for coffee, tea, and chocolate in his territories. The ban limited consumption of these beverages to a small group of people, excluding most common citizens. The restrictions should be controlled via house visitations, and the dishware of residents not allowed to consume luxury foodstuffs was to be confiscated. Furthermore, people that were allowed to drink the hot beverages had to obtain permits to be able to identify themselves as official consumers. In the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn, Wilhelm Anton of Asseburg and his successor, Friedrich Wilhelm of Westphalia, followed Münster’s example.20 Both seem to have been of the opinion that they could change already well-established consumption patterns and continue with their politics of social discipline. These restraints led to the Paderborner Kaffeelärm of 1781, a wave of demonstrations and other forms of protest organized by the citizens against the episcopal consumption restrictions (Linde 2001, pp. 361–73). First of all, these political actions 19 LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 500, fol. 2r–7r, and Akten 122, fol. 80v–81r. 20 LAV NRW W, Altertumsverein Münster (Dep.) 375i, fol. 266r–267r; LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg Velen (Dep.), Akten 32, 273, fol. 26v and Akten 28, 123, fol. 36r–37r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Domkapitel 29.56, fol. 3r–18r.

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show that the consumption of the three hot beverages was widespread among the population of all territories. After all, forbidding luxury foodstuffs only makes sense if they are consumed by a large part of the population. Secondly, the periodical renewal of the bans seems to indicate that citizens, and maybe also some authorities, did not abide by them at all and continued to consume coffee, tea, and chocolate. Thirdly, this also means that the power and reach of rotating and seldom present ecclesiastical rulers was more limited and less accepted than those of long-established ruling dynasties in other territories. When Maximilian Franz of Austria was elevated to the Prince-Bishopric of Münster in 1784, the de facto useless consumption bans were suspended and all prosecutions were put down.21 In territories such as the Prince-Bishopric of Paderborn, where the restrictions were enforced consistently for a certain length of time—often going too far according to the public’s point of view—riots like the Paderborner Kaffeelärm occurred. Yet a final acceptance by the authorities that evolving values and consumption patterns could neither be permanently controlled nor reversed finally forced the ecclesiastic authorities to give in (Linde 1999, pp. 361–73). Generally speaking, we can say that, although such bans probably created some difficulties, particularly in Paderborn, the restrictions affected neither the consumption of new luxury foodstuffs nor the success of Primavesi & Luzzano Company and Bianco, Ferrari & Pedrazzino. Coffee, tea, and chocolate had already become indispensable to the people in the two Prince-Bishoprics, and the authorities were no longer able to deny it. A long time before the implementation of the consumption bans, the three hot beverages had found their way into inns, bars, and taverns as well as coffee houses, which continued to exist even during the years of limited consumption (Kirchhoff 2001, pp. 59–60, 72–1, 175, 199 and 213; Müller 1924, pp. 53 and 86). Despite all protectionist politics such as consumption restrictions and tax increases, people continued to drink coffee, tea, and chocolate either in public or at home where coffee, tea, and chocolate sets found their way into the cupboards.22

21 LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Amt Bocholt, Nr. 179, s.f. 22 LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen (Dep.), Akten 32, 273, fol. 25r–

27r; BAMs, Münster-Liebfrauen, Rx33, 16, 28; BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx13, 75; LAV NRW W, Haus Küchen 473, invoice dated 1759, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Haus Venne 79/80, invoices dated 1768, 1769 and 1771, s.f.

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Another important reason for the successful distribution of new luxury foodstuffs by the Italian and Swiss merchant families was the fact that many local merchants limited themselves either to the domestic trade or to the distribution of traditional goods. Italian and Swiss merchant families had free reign to fill the economic niche of trading with coffee, tea, chocolate, and other foreign luxury merchandise. By promoting their products in superlatives, they soon stood out against increasing imports from other European regions like the Netherlands, and supported the consolidation of completely new consumption patterns such as coffee house culture. Furthermore, their European family, their trading networks, and their connections to the colonial trade gave them a major advantage over many Westphalian merchants (Lahrkamp 1970, p. 49; Augel 1971, pp. 200–4; Greefs 2006, p. 7). In fact, the Italian merchants even started to act as wholesalers to supply local merchants with the three hot beverages.23 It is quite clear that luxury foodstuffs served as a gateway into Westphalian society, and vice versa. It comes as little surprise that since the 1720s, Pietro Antonio Bianco’s children were able to successfully establish themselves in Paderborn. The marriage of Giovanni Battista Bianco and Maria Elisabeth Rehrmann, the daughter of the mayor of Paderborn, in 1732 promoted the social and professional advancement of the family. Giovanni Battista Bianco became a member of the merchants’ guild, chamberlain, and episcopal treasurer. In 1750, he was elected mayor of Paderborn. One of his brothers became an episcopal beneficiary and one of his daughters married a treasurer of a well-esteemed local merchant family. The Bianco opened a bureau de change in Paderborn in the 1740s. Three of Sebastiano Ferrari’s grandchildren entered into the merchant business and became partners in the Bianco, Ferrari & Pedrazzino Company; their wives all came from Westphalia (Linde 1999, pp. 350–1). The company supplied textile, Mediterranean goods and, of course, coffee, tea, and chocolate to customers throughout Westphalia.24 Only the Pedrazzino did not settle 23 LAV NRW W, Haus Venne 79/80, invoices dated 1769 and 1771, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 1691, fol. 1r–6v; LAV NRW W, Nachlass Giesbert von Romberg, B3, letter dated May 10, 1797; StAMs, Altes Ratsarchiv, A IV 9, passport dated September 7, 1798; LAV NRW W, Gesamtarchiv von LandsbergVelen (Dep.), Akten 20, 939, Letter dated July 5, 1763; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 1691, fol. 4v. 24 LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Geheimer Rat, Akten 1073, fol. 17r; LAV NRW W, Fbm. PB, Hofkammer, Akten 1059, s.f., and Akten 854, fol. 5r–47r; LAV NRW W,

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in Paderborn and never went beyond a pure business relation with the region (Pedrazzini 1994, pp. 10–12). In Münster too, the Primavesi and the Luzzano assimilated with ease. They were well respected for their business activities and their assortment of luxury foodstuffs, such as “the best chocolate” of the Prince-Bishopric. Their final settlement in Münster, their admittance to the merchants’ guild, and their trading opened up many possibilities for all family members in terms of professional and social advancement (Ketteler 1931, pp. 253–95). Some of Cristoforo Ludovico Primavesi’s children’s’ godfathers and godmothers are a sign of their integration, as they were part of notable local families.25 His nephew Franz Xaver Primavesi also climbed the social ladder; he bought a house at the Prinzipalmarkt and became the master of the merchant’s guild (Lahrkamp 1970, pp. 48–9; Kirchhoff 2001, p. 256). Franz Xaver Primavesi’s elder brother Karl Joseph Primavesi, who in 1776 married a well-esteemed merchant’s daughter called Gertrud Giese, expanded the family’s Atlantic trade as well as the banking business. But things soon faltered, his investment in one vessel failed and he loaned so much money to the officers and refugees of the French Revolution that his company filed for bankruptcy in 1800. His attempts to at least collect part of the debts in France ended in his temporary arrest in Paris in 1803, where he died in 1807. His widow rebuilt the business together with her sons, using the family network they had built up in Hamburg, Bremen, and Baltimore throughout the eighteenth century, and which served as an important transfer site for colonial goods. They kept their business in Münster until the beginning of the twentieth century (Lahrkamp 1970, p. 48; Primavesi 1820, p. 7; Beernink 1965, pp. 21–2; Pitsch 1974, p. 207).26 The members of the Luzzano family always seemed to be in the shadow of the Primavesi. All except the first two children of Carlo Antonio Luzzano were born in Münster. His relative Nicolas Luzzano

Gesamtarchiv von Landsberg-Velen, Akten 14, 782, s.f.; Archiv Rheder, Akten 167, invoices dated 1728–1757, and Akten 2966, invoices dated 1740–1761, s.f. 25 LAV NRW W, Haus Küchen 473, invoice dated 1759, s.f.; BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx2, 120, 123, 127, 129, 133, 137, and 146; BAMs, Münster-Liebfrauen, Rx22, 5. 26 BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx13, 122; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 1428, fol. 1r–5r, and Akten 1726, fol. 1r–2r; Maryland Center for History and Culture, MS1010 (Wessels and Primavesi Papers, 1794–1811), Boxes 1–14.

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founded his own company, Luzzano & Ziegler, in the 1760s. The partner in the firm was Philipp Joseph Ziegler, the neighbor and best man of Cristoforo Ludovico Primavesi (Lahrkamp 1968, p. 190). Their business probably focused on East Westphalia-Lippe. When Philipp Joseph Ziegler married in 1772, his best man was Johann Henrich Willing, master of the merchants’ guild, city council member, and a well-known coffee shop owner and grocer for coffee, tea, and chocolate in Münster. Carlo Antonio Luzzano and Carlo Agostino Primavesi continued their successful partnership over the next decades and expanded it to include the lottery from the Electorate of Cologne and a playing card factory (Primavesi and Luzzano 1765, pp. 2–3). Later, his sons moved the center of the family’s life to Werne, where Carlo Antonio Luzzano and his wife died in the early 1820s, completely integrated into Westphalian society.27

Conclusion In both Westphalian territories, the Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn, new luxury foodstuffs and foreign merchants who imported them were met with skepticism and quite often outright hostility at the beginning of their enterprises. In general, this emanated less from the prince-bishops themselves and more from regional authorities and, somewhat later, from the local merchant guilds. The prevailing mercantilist economic policy regarding foreign trade was strict. It promoted the export of domestic goods, but tried to prevent import of luxury goods from abroad; at first by introducing or increasing taxes for foreign luxury goods or goods from foreign merchants and, later, by prohibiting the consumption of coffee, tea, and chocolate to many groups of customers. One of the most common reasons was that the money spent on foreign merchandise would leave the country and supposedly harm the domestic economy. Combined with the fact that both Prince-Bishoprics ran into high debts due to their direct or indirect involvement into recurring 27 BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx2, 148, 156, 168, 173, 179, 184, 298, 323; BAMs, Münster-Lamberti, Rx13, 103; LAV NRW Ostwestfalen-Lippe (OWL), L95V, Haus Lippe-Biesterfeld, Akten 397, invoice dated 1778, and Akten 301, invoices dated 1769– 1775; BAMs, Münster-Liebfrauen, Rx21, 149; StAMs, Nachlass Willing, K. 3, Extractus Protocollis Notarialis, dated November 4, 1792, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Haus Küchen 473, invoice dated 1765, s.f.; Haus Venne 79/80, invoices dated 1768–1772, s.f.; LAV NRW W, Fbm. MS, Kabinettsregistratur, Akten 3117, fol. 2r–3r; BAMs, Werne-Christophorus, KB8, 83, and 87.

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warfare in the seventeenth and eighteenth-century Europe, neither new luxury foodstuffs nor foreign merchants had great prospects, at least at this time. As time went on, the strategy of the foreign merchants to distribute new luxury foodstuffs by peddling in the region and commuting between Italy and Westphalia was perfect to pave the way for the entry of coffee, tea, and chocolate into local consumer culture. Before the Italian and Swiss merchant families had to face the regional or local authorities, they had already generated an irreversible demand in the region, with an increasing number of customers in the middle classes—with the official permission given by the prince-bishops of Münster and Paderborn. At the same time, they were also able to adapt themselves to the Westphalian region, society, and culture over the years and become successful in their business. Hence, there was a conjoint incentive for both the episcopal authorities and foreign merchants to find a solution for the skepticism and restraint toward each other. At first glance, Italian and Swiss merchant families had to make more concessions to the two Prince-Bishoprics than the authorities did toward them since they had to leave their native country and relocate to Münster and Paderborn, where they had to pay taxes on both their business and their property. In the end, however, the Bianco and Ferrari as well as the Primavesi and Luzzano gained much more than they had to give up. Within a few years, they had established themselves as fully integrated and well-esteemed members of society; they became family, friends, and partners with people who had first rejected them. Furthermore, they gained considerable personal and economic wealth and influence, which they were able to permanently maintain almost without exception. At the same time, they also managed to keep ties to their native country and, in addition, created a European-wide business network. The Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn, or rather the respective authorities, also had to concede and reconsider their mercantilist and cameralistic policies. The power of the authorities in the two small states was limited due to the fact that the people in charge changed continuously, even the prince-bishops. As a result, they ultimately had to accept that the integration of coffee, tea, and chocolate was such that there was no turning back the clock. Neither consumption bans nor tax increases were able to stop a growing number of people from drinking these hot beverages. They also had to learn that opening up to foreign merchants on a give-and-take-basis could be beneficial for their

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domestic economy. The examples of the Primavesi and Bianco show that these families brought a lot of wealth to the territories. Furthermore, with their successful supra-national economic activities, they generated more consumption and promoted other local branches like grocers, confectioners, and coffee brewers. Consequently, and as suggested at the beginning of this chapter, with time passing by, rethinking policies and preconditions, and rapprochement led to a mutually advantageous situation for all parties involved within the two small Prince-Bishoprics of Münster and Paderborn.

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Ryckbosch, Wouter. 2019. “From spice to tea. On consumer choice and the justification of value in the early modern low countries.” Past and Present 242 (1): 37–78. Scotti, Johann Josef. 1842. Sammlung der Gesetze und Verordnungen, welche in dem Königlich Preußischen Erbfürstenthume Münster und in den standesherrlichen Gebieten Horstmar, Rheina-Wolbeck, Dülmen und Ahaus-Bocholt-Werth über Gegenstände der Landeshoheit, Verfassung, Verwaltung und Rechtspflege vom Jahre 1359 bis zur französischen Militair-Occupation und zur Vereinigung mit Frankreich und dem Großherzogthume Berg in den Jahren 1806 und resp. 1811 ergangen sind. Münster: Anonymous. Seling-Biehusen, Petra. 2001. ‘Coffi, Schokelati, und Potasie’. Kaffee-Handel und Kaffee-Genuss in Bremen. Idstein: Idstein Verlag. Siekmann, Mechthild. 1989. Die Stadt Münster um 1770. Eine räumlichstatistische Darstellung der Bevölkerung, Sozialgruppen und Gebäude. Münster: Geographische Kommission für Westfalen. van Zanden, Jan Luiten, and Pim de Zwart. 2018. The origins of globalization. World trade in the making of the global economy, 1500–1800. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Weidner, Marcus. 2000. Landadel in Münster 1600–1760. Stadtverfassung, Standesbehauptung und Fürstenhof , vol. 1 of 2. Münster: Aschendorff. Wolf, Manfred. 1983. “Das 17. Jahrhundert.” In Westfälische Geschichte. Vol. of 3: Von den Anfängen bis zum Ende des Alten Reiches, ed. Wilhelm Kohl, 537–604. Düsseldorf: Schwann.

Lighter and Brighter: Indian Cottons in Brussels in the First Half of the Eighteenth Century Veronika Hyden-Hanscho

Introduction Emperor Charles VI (1685–1740) founded the General Imperial India Company (GIC) at Ostend in 1722. Ships under imperial flag sailed until 1727 from Ostend to Banquibazar in Bengal, India, and to Canton, China. In 1734, the last GIC ships under borrowed flags returned from India. The short-lived nature of the GIC compared to British and Dutch counterparts has prevented historians from interpreting its foundation as an embodiment of state power. Two years after the suspension of the GIC-charter due to diplomatic pressure from the British and Dutch, Charles VI used an Ostend Indiaman under imperial flag as a prominent depiction of princely power in the festivities for the Chinea, a tribute he paid to the Pope as king of Naples (see Fig. 1). This display of the India trade is a rare example of imperial maritime iconography outside the Austrian Netherlands or beyond economic contexts and the first of

V. Hyden-Hanscho (B) Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_14

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its kind in the history of the Chinea ceremony, where traditional classical mythology figured as important icons. The etching shows two ships beyond the pillars of Hercules with the motto non plus ultra, marking the edge of the former known world. The motto was a revival of Charles VI’s motto plus ultra, invented by Luigi Marliano for the 1516 meeting of the Order of the Golden Fleece in the Cathedral of St Gudula in Brussels (Ferer 2012, p. 6). Charles VI wanted to convey to the world that he was prepared to follow the footsteps of his Habsburg forebear. With the end of the War of the Spanish Succession the Austrian Habsburg monarchy experienced an important expansion in Western and Southern Europe with non-contiguous territories in the Netherlands, Milan, Naples, and Sicily. The Austrian Netherlands, a conglomerate

Fig. 1 Ostend East Indiaman under the imperial flag in the Chinea festivities of 1729, a tribute of the kings of Naples to the Pope in Rome, etching on paper by Gabriele Valvassori and Filippo Vasconi 1729 (© Albertina, Wien, Inventarnr. DG2020/5/30/2)

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of ten autonomous territories (and one district) along with Antwerp and Bruges, offered the Austrian Habsburgs a rich legacy of economic supremacy with an established textile tradition and global commercial expertise though it had waned due to competition from Amsterdam and London. After 1713 the provinces were reduced to a buffer zone between France and the Dutch Republic. As Charles VI acquired the Austrian Netherlands, he agreed to the terms of the Barrier Treaty, obliging him to pay for Dutch barrier fortifications and troops. The Dutch closure of the Scheldt isolated the provinces from oversea trade and complicated inland transactions. The starting position of Austrian rule in the Southern Netherlands was far from ideal (Van Gelder 2016, p. 113). Yet, by the end of the eighteenth century the economic situation of the Austrian Netherlands was significantly more advantageous. Historians agree that the period after 1748 under the reign of Maria Theresa—with peace, stability, and economic growth—provided the basis for mercantilist trade policies to support the import substitution in the crucial textile sectors and to facilitate exports. The economy of the Austrian Netherlands started its transition to industrialization as the first region on the European continent with population growth and the concentration of transport infrastructure (Lis and Soly 1997, pp. 219–24; Vandenbroeke 1987). New insights into the afterlife of the GIC, into the active role of Ostend merchants in Asian trade and their connections to French, Spanish, and Portuguese trading communities demonstrate how overseas trade continued in the Austrian Netherlands despite the Company’s suspension (Dreijer 2019). Even in wartime, the Austrian Netherlands received overseas commodities from India and China via indirect or extralegal trade through French traders and, to a lesser extent, through British merchants (Pannier and De Winter 2020). Histories of eighteenthcentury consumption and material culture have also provided greater insights into demand and consumption patterns in the Austrian Netherlands. Case studies on Antwerp revealed how, despite a decrease of the population after the War of the Spanish Succession, the number of textile sellers remained relatively constant, and the number of retailers even increased. Changing consumer choices have been singled out as the most important reason for this paradox. French fashion and colonial groceries affected popular choices. Importation of French products and fashion sensitivity as well as product diversification buttressed the market position of retailers and favored time-consuming and professional guidance

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for consumers (Blondé et al. 2014). The situation in Brussels differed slightly, however, as resident consumers there requested more luxurious goods and services. As a capital city with noble and administrative elites as well as rich middling classes, Brussels served as a melting pot for different consumption patterns, conspicuous as well as comfortable (Blondé and De Laet 2017). Consumption patterns in Western Europe shifted around 1650. Ordinary people and middling classes economized their household strategies to follow commercialized, seasonal fashion cycles and to make their homes more comfortable. Individual utility and conspicuous consumption by elites augmented commoditization and economic modernization (de Vries 2008, pp. 1–39). Cotton holds a prime position for understanding economic development and cotton production was one of the key sectors of European modernization (Riello 2013; Lemire 2011). The role of cotton industries in the Austrian Netherlands formed part of the successful transformation of proto-industries into industrialized production. Import substitution increased from 1744 onwards when the government forbade importation of French imitations of Indian cottons. Cotton industries in the Austrian Netherlands were profitable from the outset, because the demand, in particular from domestic markets, was extremely high (Coenen 2014). Studies of probate inventories from different regions in the Austrian Netherlands focused on porcelains, tea sets, mirrors, or paintings as markers of a consumer revolution and an emerging consumer choice (Blondé et al. 2019; Parmentier 1996). In this article, I lay an emphasis on cotton in Brussels and ask who bought what kind of cottons in the first half of the eighteenth century? By considering factors of supply and demand, this article aims at exploring the domestic market and the use of cottons in Brussels between the foundation of the GIC at Ostend in 1722 and the death of Charles VI in 1740 as the prolog to the success story of cotton in the Austrian Netherlands under Maria Theresa. The evaluation of an unknown sales book of textiles of the last GIC ship from Bengal in Brussels allows for a better understanding of cotton consumption in the Austrian Netherlands in terms of the variety of cotton products available and the social class and gender of consumers. How textile imports of the GIC affected consumption patterns in the Austrian Netherlands is little studied. The chapter provides answers on who bought which products at what price and to what extent as well as how this consumption functioned within certain contexts. It consequently investigates distinct consumption

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patterns that were triggered by the development of global trade, taste, and cultural context. Dressing gowns, for example, made of Indian chintzes (cottons) became the most desired garment for Dutch urban elites and signaled Dutchness as numbers of portraits of intellectuals and professionals show (Gerritsen 2016, pp. 6–7). Such decorative banyans captured men’s attention in the Atlantic world as their preferred attire when socializing with friends (Lemire 2011, pp. 44–8; Fennetaux 2021). In contrast, this chapter emphasizes different consumption patterns in the Austrian Netherlands where buying cottons was mostly a female act, in particular by unmarried women who bought brightly colored cottons for clothing. This chapter also questions the dichotomy between popular luxuries for the individual utility of middling classes and older concepts of ostentatious consumption by elites. Both forms of consumption patterns are not necessarily mutually exclusive. These new consumer demands were prompted by global interactions, in particular the import of cheaper, but high-quality Asian commodities via trading companies. As much as state formation and globalization were intertwined, illicit economies and underground markets flourished in parallel. Contraband is estimated to be one third of the yearly trading volume. Definitive numbers do not exist; however, illegally reexported Indian cottons and European facsimiles amounted to 16 million livres per year in France (Kwass 2014, pp. 57–68). The Austrian Netherlands enjoyed only a few years the benefits of a privileged trading company. This chapter contextualizes the history of the GIC as a short-lived embodiment of state power within a longer history of extralegal trade. The sales book of a military GIC-officer presented here is an excellent example of how extralegal trade nourished cotton supply and demand in the Austrian Netherlands.

The GIC: From Extralegality to State Formation and Back Again Austrian Netherlands-East Indian trade centered on a particular arrangement of merchant activities from Ostend, financial investments from Antwerp and Ghent, and international ties. During the War of the Spanish Succession, Ostend became a hub for smugglers and foreign merchants who tried to circumvent the established British, French, and Dutch companies. The Jacobite Thomas Ray, for example, settled in Ostend after engagements in the Spanish and French salt trade and built up

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an extended network with merchants from Ireland, London, Ghent, and Ostend. Such investors were interested in the slave trade in West Africa and textile trade in Bengal. Meanwhile, Antwerp and to a lesser extent Ghent remained centers of merchant capital in the Southern Netherlands. Antwerp mercantile elites had accumulated important financial capital from banking and trade with Spain. They were primarily interested in the profitable Chinese tea trade. Antwerp’s leading banker Pietro Proli as well as Jacques de Pret, Louis de Coninck, and the Moretus family network counted among their number (Dreijer 2018, pp. 46–50; Baguet 2015, p. 59). Referring to Beverly Lemire’s Chapter 7 in this volume and to the concept of extralegality within urban settings, I use the term “extralegal” trade to encapsulate activities beyond state control. The term avoids dichotomies of between legal and illegal, formal and informal, and emerging legalities by considering the fuzzy boundaries and slippage between these categories (Smart and Zerilli 2014). The War of the Spanish Succession (1701–1714) cut off Flemish and Brabantine trade from their widespread connections to Spain and its overseas dominions. With the treaty of Utrecht in 1713, merchants in the Austrian Netherlands lost Spanish trading privileges and immediately redeployed their efforts towards the lucrative Indian Ocean waters. The transition of power from Spain to the Austrian Habsburgs encouraged them to feel released from the terms of the Treaty of Münster in 1648, which had forbidden Spanish territories to trade with East India (Dreijer 2018, p. 48). The Maelcamp brothers, Jacomo and Carlos, from Ghent had earned a fortune in Seville, but returned to Ghent following the war and entered the lucrative Chinese tea trade. Using a British frigate, they set sail in 1714 for the Malabar Coast via Cádiz where they traded textiles for silver. This first expedition with the emperor’s consent created large profits, leading to several emulative private ventures in the years thereafter (Parmentier and De Winter 2013, pp. 35–8). This conglomerate of merchants, financiers, and interests gave rise to a lobby for the establishment of a trading company in Vienna, where Charles VI had developed similar aspirations. From the very beginning of his reign, Charles VI was well aware of the importance and the profits of overseas trade for state income. His experiences in Catalonia as pretender to the Spanish throne schooled him in cultivating an eager interest in economy and trade as one pillar of state formation (see Chapter 5 by William O’Reilly in this volume). Charles showed a great zeal for reforms and modernization in administration and jurisdiction of traffic, trade

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and finances, investments in infrastructure, road construction, and engineering sciences as well as in the establishment of trading companies, free ports, and trade agreements (Auer 2020, pp. 39–47). In general, Charles had vague dreams to reestablish parts of the Habsburg overseas dominions. He ordered his diplomats to claim the Viceroyalties of New Spain or Peru as a bargaining chip in exchange for a peace treaty with Spain in 1717 for example (Auer 2018, pp. 440–2). Much more realistic and pragmatic, but nonetheless ambitious against British and Dutch interests was to promote the Austrian Netherlands and to support the existing extralegal overseas activities. The lobbying by merchants and financiers in the Austrian Netherlands attracted Charles’s interest in 1721 (Huisman 1902, p. 197; Van Gelder 2016, p. 131). In 1719, Charles had founded the Imperial Privileged Oriental Company for trade and manufacturing with the Levante, so the establishment of a trading company with the Far East was the next logic step in Charles’s economic strategy. The establishment of the GIC was an embodiment of state power. It was a commitment to legalize, institutionalize, and protect trading activities in the Austrian Netherlands by the new sovereign. It was also an act of fostering bonds with his new subjects and of intermediating power in the region. The transition of authority in the Austrian Netherlands did not run smoothly, however. The first decade of Austrian rule was a period of trial and error (Van Gelder 2016, p. 31). In 1718, Antwerp bankers, particularly Pietro Proli, started organizing the repayment of Dutch loans—totaling some 13 million Brabant guilders—for Charles’s war debts (Dickson 1987, p. 192). Charles needed an understanding with the most important financiers and investors in Antwerp, to whom he was indebted. Furthermore, the GIC-shareholder structure combined two spheres of interest that were disconnected in the Austrian Netherlands: merchants and financiers on the one side and the political class of public servants and nobles on the other side (Baguet 2015, pp. 65–6). The political class in Brussels and Vienna as well as influential nobles played the role of startup funders with the aim of bridging the structural gap between the different social groups in the Austrian Netherlands, namely between banking capital and state service, as well as between Ostend, Brussels, and Vienna. Urban political elites from Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend were the group with the highest financial involvement in the GIC. Shareholders such as De Pret, Proli, de Coninck, Baut, Cogels, Jacob from Antwerp, Maelcamp, De Kimpe from Ghent, and Bernaerts, Ray, and Woelaerts

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from Ostend prove the deep connection between trade, money, and urban administration (Baguet 2015, pp. 58–62). Approximately one-sixth of the shares was bought by civil servants of the central administrative bodies in Brussels and by nobles either in Brussels or Vienna. Such investments enabled important capital to establish the GIC quickly and held symbolic value. Investors from the central administration in Vienna and Brussels, who represented the sovereign, particularly fulfilled the function of confidence building. Already in 1725 before the first dividend payment and again between 1727 and 1729, when the GIC-charter was suspended, many noble investors disposed of their shares. These resales strengthened the urban mercantile and financial elites as shareholders in the Austrian Netherlands. Pietro Proli, Jacques de Pret, Louis de Coninck, Louis de Bourgeois from Antwerp, the Countess of Daun (wife of the new interim governor Wirich Daun), Brussels government banker Mathias Nettine, as well as Louis Bernaerts and Don Emanuel Andres de Solares, Marquis del Campo (both from Ostend) and the tax farmer Cornelis Walckiers bought shares. Proli worked as a middleman distributing shares to other investors.1 The suspension of the GIC-charter made clear that the company would be shut down as a legal enterprise, and consequently the shareholder structure was adjusted. Resales demonstrate that the Antwerp banker Proli as well as the two other directors of the company—de Pret and de Coninck—organized and controlled these resales or bought shares themselves. From 1727 onwards the shareholder structure shifted towards a more important accumulation of shares in the hands of merchants and bankers from Antwerp and bankers and civil servants from Brussels. This reduction should not be interpreted as a destabilization of the company or imperial power, however. Until the mid-1730s, Charles VI provided protection for the company as well as for illegal Ostend ships (Backerra 2018, p. 347). On the contrary, it was an important pragmatic step that opened up the scope of action to the circle of merchants and financiers who would reorganize overseas activities within the Austrian Netherlands back towards extralegal trade with France, Spain, or Great Britain—an arrangement that had been well established before the GIC—and also towards investments in other companies such as the Swedish East India

1 Stadsarchief Antwerpen, GIC, 5837.

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Company (Hodacs 2016, p. 59). Ostend and Bruges became intermediate ports and markets for colonial goods (Pannier and De Winter 2020, p. 3). Extralegal trade turned out to be again decisive for years in the Austrian Netherlands. GIC history is, therefore, a rare example how a monarch encouraged extralegal trade in the eighteenth century.

Selling Cottons---The Savage Sales Book The effect of the GIC on the consumption patterns in the Austrian Netherlands has been assessed for tea. The GIC’s most important profits resulted from low-quality Bohea tea trade with Canton. In the years 1719 to 1728 more than 40% of all Western European tea imports sailed on Imperial Indiamen to Ostend. The GIC slightly surpassed the British East India Company in these years and made huge net profits of 159% on average (Degryse 1974, p. 341). Most of these imports were resold to London and Amsterdam. However, a critical amount of cheap tea supplied the local market of the Austrian Netherlands and slashed domestic prices (Parmentier 1996, pp. 110–1). At the same time, drinking hot beverages became fashionable in urban societies (Blondé and Ryckbosch 2015, pp. 319–21). In spite of the economic depression of the 1720s and growing social inequality, the middle classes retained access to affordable tea in smaller cities such as Lier south of Antwerp. People in the Austrian Netherlands drank 3.72 liters of tea per annum in the 1720s, which was about the same annual consumption as in Great Britain. Subsequently, drinking tea was a social event with upper and middle classes consuming tea at special occasions on average twice per week (Poukens and Provoost 2011, pp. 172–5). Cotton imports by the GIC are less studied with respect to their impact on local consumption patterns. The GIC’s textile trade was less profitable than the tea trade due to the keen competition of the British and Dutch in Bengal and the dependency of European companies on contractual agreements with Indian merchants (dadnı) and the goodwill of the local ruler (nawab) (Chaudhury 1988, pp. 75–6). In 1726, the GIC Governor Alexander Hume obtained a concession to set up factories in Banquibazar and Hydsiapour2 (Ichapore) on the left bank of the Hooghly River in the major textile producing region of Bengal, 2 I use the geographical terminology of the GIC-documents because a proper identification of these toponyms was not possible.

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where textile workers soon started working for the GIC. In proximity to the silk-center of Cossimbazar, the GIC operated another trading post at Borrompour (Parmentier 1992). After initial difficulties with the local nawab the factory at Banquibazar outlived the GIC under imperial administration until 1744 and participated actively in the inner Asian textile country trade (Meisterle 2014). Until 1730, the GIC cottons— mostly coarse low-quality cottons—were often used for investments into the slave trade on the West African coast. However, different Indian cottons reached Ostend from the very beginning of Ostend’s extralegal trade with India. In 1716, for example, Thomas Ray brought home a fair quantity of white, blue, and striped cottons in addition to cottons with floral designs (Parmentier and De Winter 2013, p. 39). Such cottons normally went on sale in shops or at public auctions. The so-called West European “calico craze”—referring to the sudden rise in popularity of exotic, cheap, light, bright, and easy washable cottons around 1720—has been reconceived as a slow process of familiarization with a new fabric over decades. The Austrian Netherlands were at the crossroads of the French retailing system, where Indian calicoes were banned since 1686, and the Dutch Republic, where restrictions on the import and wearing of Asian cottons were never enacted (Lemire 2011, pp. 40–52; Riello 2013, pp. 112–25). In Dutch cities such as Leiden and The Hague cotton shops boomed from 1720 onwards (Van den Heuvel 2014, pp. 124–7). For the Austrian Netherlands, however, we only have numbers for Antwerp where a decisive increase in the number of cotton sellers dates to 1744 when the Austrian Netherlands banned French cottons in favor of their own cotton industry (Blondé et al. 2014, p. 145). Before 1744, cotton retail relied upon more indirect, private, or illegal selling techniques which can also be labeled as extralegal trade in the sense of slipping between informal and illicit. Captains, sailors, members of the company crews, and officers were officially allowed to fill free cargo space with commodities for private use and private trade. Such informal trading was practiced in all East India companies and was heavily exploited by crew members on the margins of legality. In France, calico bans led to a huge domestic shadow economy dealing in cottons (Kwass 2014, pp. 64–6). The fact that archival sources concerning the sale of cottons in the Austrian Netherlands in the first half of the eighteenth century are scarce or hard to find results presumably from the extralegal trade beyond state control and tax collection. It is not very likely that

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sailors or officers recorded their private cotton trades. One such exceptional source, however, the Savage sales book, underlines the importance of extralegal trade for the domestic market of the Austrian Netherlands. In 1734, the very last authorized GIC ship Concordia returned from Bengal to Ostend. On board the officer George Bernard Savage sailed back home. Savage was one of two officers from Walloon regiments who supplied military protection to the imperial trading posts in Bengal. Savage was also one of seven counselors of the imperial governor in Baquibazar, François de Schonamille (Meisterle 2014, p. 218; Huisman 1902, pp. 363 and 491). Savage brought home a number of cottons and sold them in Brussels to different buyers between October 1734 and April 1736. His sales are recorded in a book containing various—though mostly fragmentary—documents referring his journey from Bengal. There is also a fragmentary logbook of the trip. The sales book provides accurate and detailed accounts over several pages, but lacks any mention of the prices on the last page as it ends abruptly in April 1736. The final part of the book provides a summary of rules for trade with India and exchange between France, Great Britain, the Netherlands, and Brabant. This disorganized compilation of sources survived in the public fonds of the Arenberg archives in Brussels probably because the Duke of Arenberg was the regimental proprietor of one of the Walloon regiments.3 This sales book forms the basis for my following remarks on cotton consumption in the Austrian Netherlands. Within 19 months, Savage collected total revenues of 9,320.20 Brabant guilders, averaging 490.54 guilders per month. This additional income might have facilitated Savage’s installation in the Austrian Netherlands after years of absence and considerably supplemented his maximum monthly salary of 300 Brabant guilders as an officer in a Walloonian regiment (Thewes 2019, p. 248). For comparison, the average yearly income of tax-paying cotton sellers in Antwerp in 1747 amounted to between 200 to 400 guilders; that of silk dealers, representing the top of the social hierarchy in Antwerp, came in at around 1000–2000 guilders per annum (Van Aert and Van den Heuvel 2007, p. 24). Despite higher living costs in Brussels and the unknown procurement costs, Savage earned a yearly profit of 5,886.48 guilders and seems to have been an approved merchant of private trade.

3 Algemeen Rijksarchief Brussel/Archives générales du Royaume Bruxelles, Familiearchief Arenberg, LA 2335.

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Buying Cottons Savage’s customer circle totals 145 unique persons. I have been able to identify slightly over half of them (Almanach 1864; Bruneel 2001; Index; Liste). Additionally, the source provides information on gender and marital status for the majority of the persons mentioned. Savage sold a 49 varieties of textiles from plain white cheap cottons to mixed fabrics such as muslins to fine striped or painted calicoes, either as fabric or as pieces of clothing or furnishing (Chaudhuri 1978; Chaudhury 1993; 1998; Singh 2006; Wellington 2006). The overall picture of Sangara ˙ the social background of Savage’s customers suggests that a significant number of customers came from the nobility: 33 persons can be identified as nobles, mostly with affiliation to the archducal court in Brussels. This is not at all surprising. After years of absence, Savage certainly cultivated contacts to the court, the administration of the central government, and the military. Archduchess Maria Elisabeth herself ordered the most expensive item of Savage’s purchase, an embroidered ensemble of dresses and skirts with a repeated pattern worth 505 Brabant guilders. Next to the governess, the wife of her grand-maître de la Court, Countess Maria Eleonora of Harrach bought different ready-made items worth 389 guilders: an embroidered dress and skirt with special patterns, four embroidered and quilted petticoats and a cover for a dressing table. The Count of Lannoy bought two longcloths worth 263.2 guilders (long pieces of plain white or blue cotton for shirting). Apart from these few costly purchases the consumption pattern of the nobles did not deviate much from the consumption patterns of the 21 persons from the administrative elite in Brussels, the 25 middle-class persons (physicians, craftsmen, artists, clerics, lawyers, etc.), and the 4 servants who can be identified with any certainty. There was only one banyan sold by Savage without price information. The dressing gown which typically characterized Dutch consumption patterns was not a dominant commodity in Savage’s account book (see Fig. 5). The most intriguing outcome of the analysis of Savage’s sales book is the gender aspect in relation to the diversification of cottons. Historiography has emphasized that the consumer revolution in cottons had a strong gender dynamic: women were principal buyers of cottons. As housewives, domestic servants, retailers, and needlewomen, they purchased textiles according to the wants and needs of the household and customers for furnishing and fashion, which they stitched and

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repaired as in Great Britain (Lemire 2011, p. 50). The Savage sales book confirms these findings for the Austrian Netherlands. Figure 2 shows the purchasing behavior of men and women according to the money invested: 80% of Savage’s revenues came from women and only 17% by men. The overall picture is the same when counting the number of sales instances: in this case, 75% of all purchases were made by women and 21% by men. Further, the Savage sales book allows for a distinguishment between married and unmarried women (Madames or Mademoiselles ). Married women, heads of the household, and widows were the strongest group of customers with 45% of purchases whereas unmarried women—meaning young girls, daughters, and spinsters but also the beguinage (a religious community for women without vow)—held an comparable share of 35%. Married women mostly bought dorias, cassas and dessucksays (see Figs. 3 and 5) and to a slightly lesser extent tirandanies, jamdanies, malmols, kismis, sanas and coupies (see Fig. 5) as well as handkerchiefs. All these cottons were destined for fashion and clothing, most of them were muslins. Married women from the nobility to the middle class preferred dorias, a cheap muslin for dresses with a striped or checkered pattern, sometimes embroidered, and sold by Savage at the price of 17–18 guilders per piece, followed by cassas, a plain white muslin of close fine texture for fashion, at 11–13 guilders per piece. Married women also favored four types of costly fine cotton muslins with elaborate woven or printed

Fig. 2 Gender aspects in the Savage sales book of 1734–1736: 80% of the revenues in Brabant guilders were placed by women

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designs. The most expensive were jamdanies, a brocaded silk-cottonmuslin with floral pattern and gold threads (48–52 guilders per piece) and japonies with a Japanese design (36–46 guilders per piece), followed by tirandanies, a muslin from Bengal designed for the French market (26– 32 guilders per piece) and dessucksays, plain white muslins (10–16 guilders per piece). There was a preference for light and bright cottons, presumably used for petticoats, aprons, night gowns, and dressing gowns made of cheaper sorts of cottons, such as malmols, kismis, sanas and coupies. Popular chintzes, busy printed and painted calicoes made via blockstamping techniques using resistant dye processes or mordants, which often thrilled the Western European market for furnishings and later dresses and gowns in the seventeenth century, are quite underrepresented in Savage’s sales book. Only two sales of chintzes are recorded, one to

Fig. 3 Investments of married females in quantity of pieces and total investments in Brabant guilders from the Savage sales book

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an unknown male and the other to the Duchess of Estouteville, MarieFrançoise-Thérèse Grimaldi, in Paris. One of these chintzes was made of a bright fabric, the other of a big painted or drawn pattern, both were with 30 guilders per piece in the middle price range (see Fig. 5). But style preferences had obviously changed to light, bright, and cheap muslins. This shift is underlined by the fact that the heavier muslin sort sousie (a silk-cotton-muslin of colored striped pattern) and the very expensive sort tanjeb (very fine muslins of 50 guilders per piece) were not in high demand (see Fig. 3)—the latter sold only to women of high social ranking. Sousies and tanjebs were in great demand in seventeenthcentury England. The trend towards cheap, bright cottons with fancy patterns is again more obvious when examining the unmarried women’s choice in cottons (see Fig. 4). By far the most requested cotton sort by young women were coupies, either plain white or as a mixed fabric with dyed cotton yarns before being woven in checkered patterns (see Fig. 5). This very cheap cotton, 6–7 guilders per piece, was mostly used for aprons. It was this kind of accessory that young girls could afford to buy for themselves in addition to handkerchiefs at varying prices and sorts either fine, embroidered, or patterned. Embroidery and prints were relatively inexpensive ways to decorate cloth, garments, and accessories, and these cottons were imported as ready-made goods (Fennetaux 2021). The unmarried women’s choice also corresponds with the kind of cottons which Savage brought home in large quantities. On the whole, he sold 120 pieces of coupies, 78 handkerchiefs, 52 pieces of kismis and 46 pieces of both cassas and dessucksays. Unmarried women, according to the Savage sales book, showed a particular consumption behavior. Firstly, they enjoyed buying in groups, mainly in the company of siblings. Second, siblings and others returned twice or more during the 19 months of Savage’s sales activity and bought further quantities. This behavior signifies that young girls had some money to spend and that they did not buy in bulk, but rather carefully discussed and balanced their wants and necessities against their financial opportunities. From a young age, discussions on buying cotton were part of their coming of age. Unmarried women with little means bought piece by piece and steadily returned to shop again, while others with more financial resources ordered more and diverse sorts of cotton. A piece of coupies cost slightly less than half of a middle-class day’s wage (9 to 16 guilders in Lier for example; Poukens and Provoost 2011, p. 170), but

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Fig. 4 Investments of unmarried females in quantity of pieces and total investments in Brabant guilders from the Savage sales book

was unaffordable for daughters of Brussel’s laboring class with a yearly average income of 200 guilders per family (De Peuter 1999, p. 49). In the 1730s, young girls from the middle ranks spent once or twice a year, up to one to three day’s wages, on one to five coupies or comparable textiles at a minimum. Ten years later, these girls might have married and become heads of households at a time when a decisive cotton substitution industry in the Austrian Netherlands was protected by import bans on French cottons. Well-practiced consumer behavior of young girls might have impacted their later consumption patterns and increased local demand among noble elites and middle classes. The Savage sales book demonstrates changes in fashion trends towards lighter and brighter cottons as well as their use for fashion, which proves the extended usability of cottons for fashions far exceeding the consumption pattern in furnishings in the seventeenth century.

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Fig. 5 (1+2) Fabric samples of coupies and cassas in chequers and stripes from the salesbook of the GIC-ship Elisabeth 1729 from Bengal (© FelixArchief/Stadsarchief Antwerpen, GIC#7511, pages 4 and 34) (3) An apron for women made of printed cotton in grey checkered pattern of unknown origin around 1750 (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, collectie Jacoba de Jonge, T13/138/A354) (4) A traditional (Dutch) breastcloth garment (kraplap) made of eighteenth-century painted Indian cotton with floral design in red, blue, green, yellow and purple on a white ground (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, Collectie Jacoba de Jonge, photo Stany Dederen, T13/86/A245) (5) Dressing gown for men in Indian hand painted chintz with rich floral design and a wool lining for warmth, 1720–1740 (© Collectie Modemuseum Antwerpen, collectie Jacoba de Jonge, photo Stany Dederen, T12/28/G1)

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Cultural Consumption Patterns The results from the Savage sales book as an example of extralegal trade correspond with the latest findings on the establishment of the cotton industry as an import substitution sector based on government statistics. From 1744 onwards, customs legislation built up a barrier of protectionist taxes against foreign competition, wherein the exportation of finished cottons was tax exempt. Importation of white cottons steadily increased during the second half of the eighteenth century while practically no white cottons were exported, only printed cottons. The government awarded exclusive patents to cotton printers such as the Beerenbroek Company in Dambrugge near Antwerp, which earned huge profits. Great Britain, consequently, retaliated by banning cottons from the Austrian Netherlands. Next to printed cottons, mixed cottons with linen or wool gradually replaced the traditional wool industry in the Austrian Netherlands. The domestic serge production in Bruges declined since the middle of the eighteenth century (Coenen 2014, pp. 74–80). The cotton industry in the Austrian Netherlands was so decisive that in 1770, when Vienna searched to link the trade routes of the Habsburg monarchy via a trading cooperation between Ostend and Trieste, the Austrian Netherlands explicitly wished to except their cotton industries from this cooperation in order to protect it against cotton imports from the Austrian lands and Bohemia.4 This trend was initiated years ago, when lighter and brighter mixed cottons from India captured the fashion market. The Austrian Netherlands were never completely cut off from supplies of Indian cottons through extralegal trade. When GIC cotton imports finally came to an end, GIC shareholders such as Louis Bernaerts from Ostend, started in 1730 to find agents in foreign free ports to charter ships from Cádiz, Hamburg, or Danzig to continue trade. Bernaerts used his connections in Portugal to establish a network of Portuguese brokers in Bengal for the Ostend supply with textiles, a win–win situation since the Portuguese used the Ostender’s demand for their own purpose to have a foothold on the Indian subcontinent after the demise of their own empire. There are more examples of these informal trade connections, like the ships

4 Österreichisches Staatsarchiv (=ÖStA), Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv, Neue Hofkammer, Kommerz Litorale Akten 1005, minute of the advisary board for the reciprocal trade between Austria and Belgium, 25 October 1770.

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under neutral flag that were sent from Cádiz to Bengal by the Carpentier brothers (Dreijer 2019, p. 281). Such connections proved stable even in war times as the example of the former GIC supercargo Flanderin shows, who imported Asian goods via London and Cádiz. (Pannier and De Winter 2020, pp. 14–5 and 19–20). One of the master narratives of modernization was a new consumer behavior in the eighteenth century dominated by individual utility rather than elite or noble ostentation. This means that urban middle and laboring classes entered the market through the consumption of cheap, popular, and mostly new luxuries. (de Vries 2008, pp. 1–39). In addition, early modern globalization describes how particularly Asian commodities boosted European consumer demands because of the superior quality and the cheaper price of cottons or porcelains (Riello 2013; Lemire 2011, 1991). Reflecting on these traditions of historiography through the lens of the Savage sales book about Brussels’ cotton consumption leads me to the question of whether the concepts of modern individual utility and conspicuous consumption and luxury ostentation were as mutually exclusive, as is usually claimed. The Savage sales book gives no hints on the personal usage and appreciation of cottons by the diverse buyers. However, there are no decisive differences between noble and middleclass buyers’ consumption behaviors. Apart from a few representative ready-made items, nobles bought the same spectrum of cottons as middleclass buyers with the same purpose: to get fashions made with a marked preference for light and bright muslins. Cotton consumption in Brussels was clearly a female matter, where young girls followed the fashion choices of married women within the margins of their reduced financial circumstances. Aristocrats did not refuse to wear cottons because of the fabric’s lack of ostentatiousness or luxury status and nor did the middle class reduce cotton consumption solely on account of price, quality, and washability. It seems that fashion trends and taste were another important motive to buy cottons. Utility, ostentation, and taste were different purchasing motives that complemented each other to a variable extent according to the cultural context of where and how to wear these cottons. This combination becomes clearer when scrutinizing the particular consumption pattern of one of the Savage buyers for whom detailed sources from these years have been collected in the family archives. Count Friedrich August of Harrach was grand-maître de la Court in Brussels from 1732 to 1741. The family’s main annual accounting register regularly contains cotton purchases

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in these years, most often for the children of the family. The girls bought cottons in red, with checkered patterns, fine muslins, mixed cotton-silk ginghams, silk-cotton muslins of colored striped pattern, and basins for petticoats and corsets as well as bonnets and stockings. Grey cottons, muslins, bonnets, and stockings were bought for the young counts, but also for the servants of the children to make jackets and aprons. Chintzes were acquired for the servants. It seems there was a clear hierarchical order. The most expensive and fine cottons and muslins were used for the girls’ dresses, the coarser ones for undergarments, and the servants. The most outstanding feature of cotton consumption is again the generational interval. The young girls bought by far the most cottons. The young counts got banyans made of cottons (see Fig. 5), whereas their father at the same time had his banyan made of silk.5 The cultural context of wearing cottons is marked by the fact that the cotton purchases of the Harrach family never reached Vienna when the family returned home in 1743. Neither the family nor the young ladies took these cottons home, nor did they perpetuate their preferences for buying cottons in Vienna. No source in the well-preserved and inventoried family archive document cotton purchases in Vienna in the 1740s. Yet consumers did not operate in a cultural vacuum. Household organization as well as role models within fashion and social hierarchies were the most important constraints of cotton consumption (Styles and Vickery 2006, p. 7). The Brussels court and the archduchess, however, were not positive role models in fashion. Viennese gala gowns and the boring, devout and frugal court life in Brussels were far from setting fashion trends (Hertel 2014, p. 293). Elites as well as middle-class buyers in the Austrian Netherlands oriented themselves to fashion trends in Paris and London and made short trips to these metropolises for leisure shopping of stylish and costly fashions. French fashion was in vogue in the Austrian Netherlands, yet foreign styles were adapted to conform to domestic tastes and necessities. Too stiff and snobbish styles with extravagant fabrics were considered inappropriate and too aristocratic for Flemish sobriety (Verhoeven 2015, pp. 223–38). Apart from some Parisian luxury souvenirs, the cheap, but by no means less fashionable cottons seem to have suited the consumption tastes of a modern lifestyle in the Austrian Netherlands much better than French gold brocades. 5 ÖStA, Allgemeines Verwaltungsarchiv, FA Harrach, Hauptkassabücher/General ledgers 1734, 1736 and 1737, HS 517, HS 519 and HS 520.

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Conclusion Female and young buyers increased local demand for cottons in the first half of the eighteenth century in the Austrian Netherlands. Similar consumption patterns have also led to a growth of demand in Great Britain at the turn of the century (Lemire 1991, p. 89). However, Britain’s cotton supply was orchestrated by the East India Company over years, which ensured that the Indian cotton production met English taste and necessities. The Austrian Netherlands’ cotton supply was on less firm ground. Informal trade connections of Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend merchants were widespread, reflecting traditional ties to Spain as well as competition with France, the Dutch Republic and Great Britain. The founding of the GIC certainly facilitated the availability of cottons. These cottons were a by-product of the much more lucrative GIC tea trade, which also affected the Austrian Netherlands’ consumption patterns in a way that tea consumption was easily adapted to the existing and developing cultural codes in society (Blondé and Ryckbosch 2015, p. 319). The sources suggest shifting consumption patterns and adaptations in cotton taste in a similar manner. The GIC was evidently an act of establishing imperial authority and power and a commitment to the most important merchants and financiers in Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend as well as part of Charles VI’s economic strategy for his many territories. The company was established at a time when the cotton consumption in the Austrian Netherlands started developing and roused desires which still had to be satisfied after the GIC’s suspension. The orchestrated retreat of state officials from GIC-shares allowed the merchants and financiers in the Austrian Netherlands to return to the former approved web of extralegal trade. This was a successful supply strategy for cottons as the Savage sales book demonstrates. It was not a coincidence that Jan Gillis t’Kint, member of the famous draper family from Brussels—whose relative died in Bengal as GICofficer—was involved in cotton production in Ghent and later introduced the production of fine basins-cottons in the 1730s to Valenciennes in France with a royal (French) privilege (De Peuter 1999, p. 311; Huisman 1902, p. 369). Towns like Ypres, Tournai, or Comines started importing cotton yarn at least since 1736 from the French neighborhood in Lille, which means from an area that had been part of the Southern Netherlands until Louis XIV pushed the French frontiers eastwards in 1668. Important investments of know-how, manpower, and money into the establishment

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of a cotton industry around Rouen came from the Austrian Netherlands, where important steps towards the establishment of a cotton industry had already been made in the 1730s (Kasdi 2014, pp. 79 and 127). The Austrian Netherlands strolled on a very particular path to industrial modernity. Traditional extralegal merchant ties were channeled by state power into short-time global trade and back again. Local consumption patterns and demand met early globalized trade.

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Conclusion

Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond—Critical Remarks on Old Concepts Veronika Hyden-Hanscho

and Werner Stangl

The present volume is not an effort to completely revolutionize our understanding of concepts. Adding variations of perspective and fresh insights via examples might qualify as a more realistic goal of what can be achieved in a volume on concepts so deeply entrenched in historiography. Bartolomé Yun has already reflected on the key concepts which frame the volume in his fundamental analysis and opening remarks to the other contributions, in more depth than we editors may. Nevertheless, this closing segment picks up those concepts once more, trying to relate them more directly to the contributions that followed Yun’s pivotal input, and hopefully showing how, in sum, they do add to reflections on a conceptual level.

V. Hyden-Hanscho (B) Austrian Academy of Sciences, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] W. Stangl University of Graz, Graz, Austria e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 V. Hyden-Hanscho and W. Stangl (eds.), Formative Modernities in the Early Modern Atlantic and Beyond, Palgrave Studies in Comparative Global History, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-8417-4_15

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Referring to a multiplicity of modernities in the volume’s title acknowledges shared experiences and the development of a world no longer understandable in the terms of the ancients, while at the same time emphasizing the different roots, phenomena, and formative paths that constitute modern realities. At the turn of the millennium, Shmuel N. Eisenstadt felt disaffected with his concept of modernity formulated in 1966, wherein different societies rooted in different premodern traditions would follow a certain trend of harmonization with the aim to develop into the model of social, economic, and political system predominant in Western Europe and North America, which emerged sometime between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. In response, he introduced the plural of multiple modernities to social sciences. For Eisenstadt, multiple modernities are to be understood as a cultural program for continuous changing or restructuring institutional and cultural patterns leading to a multiplicity of modernities (Eisenstadt 2005; Preyer 2011, pp. 61–2). The cultural turn had at last affected the discussion on the terminology of an old concept that like few others defies the very idea of multiple paths, multiple outcomes, or even polycentricity. The singular “modernity” appears from time to time within prominent contexts, most recently, for example, in the 2021 title of Jürgen Kocka’s book on Germany’s long nineteenth century as a “struggle for modernity” (“Kampf um die Moderne. Das lange 19. Jahrhundert in Deutschland”). Of course, the term also dominates our periodization of the past 500 years— starting with the early modern then becoming modern, and ultimately postmodern (at least in much of the epistemologies of the humanities)— implying the middle ages are “premodern”, a peculiar irony given that the moderns or moderni are the expression of medieval self-confidence and the opposite of the historical ancients (antiqui) since the twelfth or thirteenth century (Zimmermann 1974). For the history of the past 250 years, “modernization theories”, as a “liberal”, “democratic”, and “capitalist” counterpart to the Marxist “history of class struggle” or dependency theories, have transformed modernity into an almost teleological concept of historical development. There are important historical narratives, which serve as gatekeepers for the development of a modern world, some tied to the notion of revolution that supposedly laid the ground for national master narratives (de Vries 2008, pp. 9–11; Wittrock 2005, pp. 38–41). The consumer revolution, industrialization, and the myth of a liberal and free market economy served as the basis for Great Britain’s economic triumph over

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other Eurasian powers, although Great Britain’s example seems overemphasized in literature (Gelderblom and Trivellato 2019), and certainly this is no less so for the Netherlands and the United States of America. These strong connotations obstruct a clear examination of other forms of modernity. Rather than being measured by “efficiency” and “progress”, modernity can be seen as a reaction of societies and polities to changing, ever more complex and integrated interactions at ever larger scales and higher intensity. Similarly, regarding modernity, the term globalization is fiercely disputed in its meaning and definition. Different terms such as “soft” globalization (in contrast to the “hard” globalization after 1820; de Vries 2010, p. 713) and early or first globalization (starting again earlier in 1498; Dobado-González and García-Hiernaux 2021, pp. 3–4) show the ongoing discussion about the historical understanding of globalization. Horst Pietschmann’s personal reflections in this volume on how globalization engulfed his own biography in practice while changing itself as a concept as evidenced by the feuilleton is a vivid reminder of how permeable the semantics of such a core terminology can be. Globalization is often explained as the process of a shrinking world due to the economic and social interconnectedness of all parts of the world. According to the definition and parameters set by Kevin H. O’Rourke and Jeffery G. Williamson, globalization did not start before the 1820s. Price convergence across the globe due to declining transaction costs and monopolies and a highly integrated global commodity market provides the basic arguments for this approach (O’Rourke and Williamson 2002). Influenced by the cultural turn, but also by network and exchange theories, Dennis Flynn and Arturo Giraldez recommended a broader definition. According to them (Flynn and Giraldez 1995, 2008) globalization is a steady interaction of all the world’s densely populated landmasses, respectively Eurasia, the Americas, and Africa directly or indirectly with extensive impacts on demography, ecology, culture, and economy. These processes of globalization started in the sixteenth century, at least by 1571, when Spaniards established Manila as a permanent settlement in the Philippines and started regular trade routes across the Pacific Ocean. A critical evaluation of case studies and approaches by de Zwart and van Zanden (2018, pp. 270–83) proves the consequences of early globalization in every part of the world. The demographic and ecological changes were of course most transformative—and often devastating—in the Americas, though of course not limited to them. The unprecedented

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shift from Asia to Europe, both in terms of economic and political power, also brought with it significant negative effects in many regional Asian contexts (de Zwart and Flynn 2021, pp. 45–56). The fact that the global economic center of gravity is shifting back to where it used to be for millennia, is more testimony to the transformative nature of globalization that only now, in the digital age, is fully developed. The booming field of economic and econometric studies in US scholarship following Douglass C. North’s “New Institutional Economy” has led to startlingly linear macro tales of a path-dependent modernization. Widely received scholars like Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson have put the key elements of older modernization theories onto a new theoretical platform, offering a limited amount of explaining factors for contemporary divergences between societies. State formation and the development of state institutions absorbed social issues and functions, reducing the family to the private sphere, and are assumed to be common characteristics of modernity. The intellectual and democratic revolution, for example, played a role for the emergence of the French nation state as well as for the United States of America. The correlation and cooperation between the state, state institutions, and the individual is a controversial subject, especially with regard to the notion of a free market and globalization in politics and economics—a fateful nexus between the liberal and the modern. Aspects of renationalization due to migration waves, wars, pandemics, and economic crises challenge our present understanding of statehood and society. Early modern states offer a diverse field of research dealing with questions on absence, presence, or enforcement of statehood and state institutions. It likewise offers unique areas of research to understand how the individual interacted as a subject, consumer, migrant, entrepreneur, worker, peasant, officer, or sovereign in different settings of state formation such as empires, composite monarchies, and confederal republics. Much of the historical discussions on state formation in the last years focused on covering military expenses to finance the wars of expanding empires, republics, and composite monarchies in the early modern period, echoing the influential works of Charles Tilly and Geoffrey Parker on warfare as well as military and state formation (Brewer 1989; Braddick 2000; Storrs 2009; YunCasalilla and O’Brien 2012; Torres Sánchez 2016; Godsey 2018; Godsey and Maˇta 2022). The focus on taxation and its institutions as the pivot of state formation considers only such sources of state income which are collected and recorded via official institutions and its archival papers. How

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the money was earned—from agriculture, crafts, trade, industry, or more extralegal dealings—and the standard of living maintained, remains either disregarded or obscured. Recent studies of protonational and national formation processes are increasingly moving from institutions and political units to studying the discursive collective constructions of identity. Historical research in the footsteps of John Brewer, Neil McKendrick, and Maxine Berg on early modern consumer cultures likewise eminently enhanced our understanding of consumption and social practices (Berg 2005, 2015; Blondé et al. 2009; Stobart and Van Damme 2011; Lemire 2017). Yet, the question of how consumerism changed the perception of the early modern state and vice versa is still a wide and unredeemed field. In parallel to this, historians are also stressing the crucial role of social networks and informal enforcement mechanisms in relation to state capacity (Polónia and Antunes 2016; Yun-Casalilla 2019). These studies complete previous perspectives in which the interaction between states and the individual were crucial (Pietschmann 1980), as other approaches from the New Institutional Economics have also stressed (Greif 2006). The early modern globalization fundamentally diversified production processes, consumption patterns, means of exchange, sciences, and the perception of the world at about the same time when early modern states experienced periods of upheavals and transformation. International trade and economic expansion relied on functioning or efficient rules of commerce, practices, institutions, and state administration. This volume is an effort to bring together epistemologies in early modern and modern historiography which tend to communicate only loosely and indirectly. It is the aim of this volume to examine activityoriented fields of interaction between states or state institutions with the individual or social groups which are actively connected to trade, commerce, and consumption. It discusses how diverse experiences of statehood, intermediation, institutions and behavioral practices shaped early modern polities. The modernities presented in this volume do not necessarily correlate with the linear progression and imposition of ever more superior and rational forms of organization that eventually prevail over traditionalists, like Columbus over the stubborn scholastics of Salamanca in the popular imagery. Instead, these chapters are a tribute to rather unpredictable evolutional processes, influenced by internal and external factors, which crystalize around varied historical circumstances. That is not to say that they were unguided, nor that ideas of modernity

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(in singular) did not play a significant role. On the contrary, modernities frequently resulted from efforts of being modern, even if the resulting realities were not more rational, efficient, individualist, secular, or progressive—echoing Eisenstadt’s verdict of an intricate modernity inherent to fundamentalism (Eisenstadt 1999); and, vice versa, processes that did not develop from any reformatory or modern impulse at all, might be attributed with the tag simply by virtue of weathering a “modernizing” world. This leads to the question of how early modern states produced an identification of their subjects with the state. From the history of early modern monarchies, we understand representation to be an important feature in creating bonds with elites and the population (Van Gelder 2021). Such representation was both an embodiment of power as well as a recognition of traditions and rights of the estates or representatives of a special land, crown, or territory. Michael North demonstrates in his article that this was also important for early modern republics. Looking at the art market in the Dutch Republic and in Venice, he concludes that members of the ruling class in particular such as governors, mayors, and doges used paintings to immortalize their self-representation as well as the memory of good government and ancient commonwealths. One of its features was the secularization and the aestheticization of the art market. We can only understand what this means when we consider what de Vries writes about the changes in consumption in Dutch households where a distinctive material culture arose in decorating and individualizing homes with textiles and paintings. The often-cited abundance of paintings in houses of common people (de Vries 2008, p. 54) had an important impact on a rising economic art market organized in guilds and played a vital role for the identification with the Republic. Almost as omnipresent as paintings in Dutch households were watchtowers in the Philippines, the most distant Spanish colony and since 1571 the Spanish door to the Pacific Ocean for the Manila galleon, studied by Eberhard Crailsheim. This transition might make the reader pause and wonder, but both paintings and watchtowers as phenomena were clearly visible material carriers of symbolic communication and political identity markers. From the viewpoint of early globalization, it is probably not surprising that the cultural identification of the people in the Philippines with their authorities and the government worked quite well via transcultural architecture, as Crailsheim convincingly points out.

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In contrast to the integration of the Philippines as a faraway colony within the Spanish Empire, Elizabeth Montañez-Sanabria scrutinizes the opposite: the failure of integrating border lands—or better their people— into an empire. She takes up the question of empire, looking at how autonomous peoples of two strategic borderlands, the Isthmus of Panama and Araucania in Chile, forged alliances with Spain’s imperial rivals and other autonomous agents. States, economy, and reforms as well as discussions on these topics have been pushed forward mostly by individuals or a group of persons, or as we define them as “agents of modernity”. Such agents and their scope of actions can be identified in different chapters of this volume and prove the importance of driving spirits and the circulation of ideas and knowledge as well as the influence of modern sciences and careers in the civil service and modern state institutions. MontañezSanabria considers actions, motives and realities of indigenous groups, leaders, and European pirates as decisive for the success or the failure of Spanish integration measures and shows in her text how such areas should not be understood as “backwaters”, but rather—to use her metaphor—as an “open sea” in an “empire of archipelagos”. Seen in this perspective, the borderlands are not simply “at the margin”, but constitute realities forged under distinctively modern dynamics in their own right. Spain in the transition between Habsburgs and Bourbons seem to provide interesting examples of “agents of modernities”. At the very end of the Spanish Habsburg line, a period commonly connected with the economic and political decline of the empire, William O’Reilly detects in the Catalan political economist Narcís Feliu de la Penya a driving spirit for the reformation of the Catalan economy at the end of the seventeenth century. His writings show a clear view on the correlation between economy, trade, and crafts with taxes and state income. And indeed, it is Catalonia which best recovers economically during the first half of the eighteenth century through the introduction of cotton factories comparable to Manchester and Paris long before the Bourbons enacted state reforms in 1746 and economic reforms in 1759. Emperor Charles VI, as O’Reilly indicates, acted himself as an intermediary of modernities. Trained in Spain under the influence of de la Penya, many ideas he wished to realize in Spain were implemented in the Austrian Habsburg monarchy such as free ports, companies for global trade, and textile manufactories in the Banat. This suggests the idea that new interpretations of both the economic history of the Habsburg monarchy and the Spanish

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economy are necessary in moving away from older attributions of decline or backwardness (Kaps 2018). Reforms are commonly perceived as a manifestation of modernity per se. Christoph Rosenmüller, however, pays attention to what happens when such reforms fail, and he focuses likewise on the perception of failing reforms by other rulers or diplomats. Rosenmüller reveals the shortcomings of Ensenada’s reforms in Spain, such as self-enrichment, the neglect of accounting, the deception of the king, and the rivalries at court between different political parties. The fall of Ensenada was inevitable, yet the Austrian ambassador Migazzi was its architect and not the British ambassador as is commonly assumed. Migazzi himself did not support the reformist party of Kaunitz in Vienna and was the proponent of a more conservative and traditional diplomatic stance. Migazzi is another example that the processes of modern state formation were neither programmatic nor straight-line, and that state agents and reforms used recourses to traditions, conservative practices, and retarding effects as well. On the European scene, early modern state formation experienced a huge focus on the question of how the European powers funded the increasing war expenditures via the elaboration of the tax system and the servicing of state debts. Such “modern” states relied heavily on the balance between state prosperity and the common good for individuals. The British Sonderweg where wealth resulted from trade and consumption was based on monopoly regulations. Yet as Beverly Lemire impressively shows, individuals and communities sought to evade both state and EIC monopoly regulations. The tradition of a moral economy laid the foundations for the idea to recompense the personal risks undertaken by mariners in the service of the state and the EIC. Trading their own business at the margins of legality was no negligible factor for the British home market given the 2.5 million men crossing the oceans between Asia and Europe in the early modern period. A certain routine resistance on the one side tested the capacities of the state and its legal institutions. On the other side, extralegal trade and smuggling—normally interpreted as state weakness—actually enhanced consumer preferences and practices, as well as the consumer revolution that, in the long term, strengthened the state. When Beverly Lemire looks at how sailors and other EIC personnel shaped institutions through their activities, Jutta Wimmler takes on another example of routine resistance (term by Beverly Lemire) in relation with state institutions and social disciplining: the history of the workers of the Berlin Lagerhaus in the eighteenth century. As recent

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research on Prussia has shown, Frederick the Great aimed for representative sovereignty through the political staging of himself and his court. Yet Frederick’s image of a modern state did not marry with reality, but instead significantly influenced Borussian historiography for a long time (Biskup 2012). The Prussian military state was said to have been built upon state reforms, capitalist development, and social disciplining and produced a picture of obedience, discipline, and diligence. The interactions of the workers of the Berlin Lagerhaus with the state as its owner and manager contradict this view completely. Stealing, making false statements, inappropriate and offensive behavior against other workers and the management and impertinent claims on salaries belonged to the behavior repertoire that was recorded and commented upon, but typically not sanctioned. A merit-based system was probably intended as a transition to modernity. The proceedings of the administrative body, however, show that it was not realized. Dealings between the king, the Lagerhaus management, and its workers have more of an early modern negotiation process between state and subject, wherein the expertise of a worker and yearslong fidelity and loyalty could be used as bargaining chip. In his contribution, Werner Stangl cross-examines a central document for the late colonial postal system in New Spain, an institution that embodies the characteristics of classical modernity like few others: progress, the public sphere, diffusion of information, the shrinking of space, and the metronomization of communication. The scrutinized document gives a detailed report of postal geography as a function of time, distance, and frequency for communication with Mexico City. Stangl demonstrates the unintended effects of a “rational” reform policy, intended to strengthen the institutional grip on the territory and “promotion of the economy” that ended up undermining the very fundaments of colonial rule precisely because it was indeed successful in integrating space and providing a means of communication for the public. Efficiency, as his second counter-intuitive finding, rested particularly on a logistical organization that connected regional nodes rather than a star-shaped system centered on Mexico City, as it was conceived at the time, portrayed in the manuscript at hand, and as it has been understood by current scholarship. Claudia Jefferies tells us a very different story, though in the same general locale. She takes us back to the question of moderni and antiqui. Jefferies reveals how ancient fables and parables provided intuitive means to overcome problems of governance and legal norms for mining in Nueva Galicia, an environment marked by heterogeneity, and by social

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and economic realities completely different to those areas where norms had been codified, as well as by a lack of access to a professional understanding of these norms. Instead, Aesop’s moralist tales, despite the temporal and spatial distance of their origin to the mining administrations in northwestern Mexico, lent themselves as a reliable moral compass for policymakers. Contrary to the postal reforms studied by Stangl, which were designed with a mindset of “mechanical rationality”, the mining policies described by Jefferies are deeply rooted in the conditio humana. The efficiency of these policies to cope with modern realities rested on a flexibility that set it apart from medieval scholastic rigor like the reed is set apart from the oak in Aesop’s fable. In a way, Domenic Hofmann, Harald Kleinberger-Pierer, and Peter Marckhgott in their co-authored chapter give testimony to the success of colonial mining governance in looking at the consequences of Spanish American silver mining on mining technology, science, and administration of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, not only in Spain but also in Central Europe. In the Old World, engagement with the American mining sector was essential for the professionalization in the formation of engineers and bureaucrats. Additionally, it contributed to the development of much more centralized and politywide decision-making principle (Direktionsprinzip) that correlated with increased princely power. We have long debated among ourselves whether or not to use the term glocal in the volume’s title—after all, the local, regional, or circumstantial should be at the heart of all efforts to understand processes of globalization. The term “glocalization” has been used to capture very different concepts. What unites them is a concept of the global and the local as equally important poles, forming hybrid realities, not immune from larger or even global developments, but neither rushed away in an allencompassing current. In the end, we decided to keep “glocal” because much of the theoretical frame of global history equates the scale of the phenomenon with the scale of analysis (Conrad 2017). The glocal—a manifestation of the global in a particular setting—serves as an immediate reminder that such equations lead to dangerous waters by creating linear tales of historical progress. The volume looks at “glocal” phenomena not as links in a chain of causalities, but instead for in and of themselves: as laboratories of modernities. In this volume, we use the term “glocal economy” to take up the idea of the simultaneous occurrence of both universalizing and particularizing tendencies in social, political and

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economic systems. A special historic-geographical and social setting is the starting point for questioning the consequences of modernity within it. One important argument for the impact of early globalization is that with the Spanish pesos, a global currency came into circulation that allowed a monetization and commercialization all over the world (de Zwart and van Zanden 2018, p. 272). The relation between the local and the global is best analyzed by Markus Denzel when he focuses on the Armenian trading community, rooted locally in New Julfa (Persia), who used the Spanish pesos under the French name “Marsilie” to expand a global trading network with local branches, expressed in the most traditional of all forms of early modernity: a printed manual published in Amsterdam. What makes Denzel’s contribution additionally interesting is the point that traditional maritime routes, mostly trading companies or the silver fleet, forms the center of research on early globalization, yet Denzel, in his chapter, brings back the trade via overland roads as an important supplement for a world-wide trading network. New questions arise from this outlook, especially for the inner Asian trading routes, as avenues for future research. Central Europe and its connections to globalized markets via imports and exports has become a new topic within the discussion of globalization (Wimmler and Weber 2020; Brahm and Rosenhaft 2016). Benita Wister meticulously reconstructs how globalized consumer goods—the three hot beverages: coffee, tea, and chocolate—captured the market of elites and burghers of rural areas and small towns in the middle of Germany in the eighteenth century. She shows that the consumer revolution did not take place only in the so often-cited Western European, British, and Dutch metropolitan examples, but also in more rural European areas such as the prince-bishoprics of Paderborn and Münster. The impact of the consumption of these beverages was so decisive, that prohibition of such goods resulted in organized protests by ordinary people against authorities. This example proves the impact of the consumer revolution in the eighteenth century for middling classes of small states. Probably the most interesting outcome of Benita Wister’s chapter is that the most important role as intermediaries of the exotic beverages were Catholic migrating merchants from Switzerland and Lombardy. Those merchants came from more than 800 km away to German towns in the direct vicinity to the Dutch Republic and Amsterdam, a vital market of globalized consumer goods. The cultural identification in the Catholic prince-bishoprics worked, in

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this case, along confessional lines favoring Catholic merchants from faraway instead of existing Protestant connections within the region. Cultural identification within the consumer revolution played an important role within the example given by Veronika Hyden-Hanscho. Wearing light and bright cottons was very much linked to the consumption culture in a distinct cultural setting. Whereas Austrian elites purchased cottons in Brussels during their stay in the Austrian Netherlands, they did not take them home to Vienna, where silk and linens still dominated fashion regimes. Both case studies underline the decisive role of a cultural viewpoint in analyzing and evaluating material culture and the consumer revolution. Moreover, Veronika Hyden-Hanscho’s chapter tells the story of a Walloon officer coming home from Bengal with a decisive number of different cottons which he sold to private circles in Brussels. Britain (Lemire’s chapter) was not the only state like France (Kwass 2014) that profited from trade and commerce on the margins of legality. There was a huge sector of businesses outside legal institutions such as companies, guilds, and state monopolies, beyond the control of officialdom and state institutions which have not properly found their way into discussions on state formation. The cotton consumption in the Austrian Netherlands explored by Veronika Hyden-Hanscho forms one such example. The official records of import and export tolls and the rapidly growing import of cotton substitutes demonstrate the immense impact of cottons for the Austrian Netherlands at the end of the eighteenth century. Yet such sources tell us nothing about consumer choices in the domestic market before industrialization. Here again, extralegal trade within private circles seems to have boosted local demand for cheap global commodities. Moreover, extralegal trading and banking connections of the sea ports in the eighteenth-century Austrian Netherlands to Spain, Portugal, France, and Great Britain were accepted, and probably welcomed, by the highest state representative, Charles VI, who followed a determined agenda of economic modernization within his realms. This came as the outcome of intellectual writings about the Spanish state and economy during a period commonly viewed as the swansong of the impressive Spanish Empire on the eve of the War of the Spanish Succession. We do not pretend to rewrite the history of a modernizing world, but to add to the voices which try to soften-up persistent master narratives. The inversion of the fixed idea of Prussian state formation by social disciplining, for example, opens the field to a completely new perspective on

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Prussian history. It is the same with judging the strengths and weaknesses of the Spanish and the Austrian Habsburg Empires and their potential for modernization and economic development. And yet we see that modernities do not merely imply improvement or higher rationality. Recourses to traditions, conservative practices, and retarding effects accompanied or complemented the scope of actions of sovereigns, diplomats, and people. All this was an answer to the heterogeneity of a globalizing world and the flexibility needed for facing it. Following the impact of extralegal practices in economics on British and Belgian state formation the last word is not yet written on the success stories of these “spearheads of modernity”, although the abundance of literature provides the illusion of understanding the making of an empire by trade and industries alone. The inevitable growth of entanglement and interactions made actors at the borderlands of the Spanish Empire, exposed to the currents of interimperial rivalries, no less modern than a European political economist engineering trade policies. We would like to conclude this volume with an attempt to reference one more key historiographic term closely associated with “modernity”, one which also features in the title of the book and has not been broadly discussed: The Atlantic, which lends itself as a starting area for analysis, not just simply because “early globalization happened there first” (a questionable statement in our estimation), but rather because it is a newly formed space that only developed in parallel with the continuously interconnected world, bringing to the fore new phenomena and modernities.

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