The market culture of the antebellum period developed its own accounting techniques and genres to keep track of the flows of money, credit, and goods involved in exchange. This chapter shows how the money form was variously parodied, adopted, and resisted by Charles Frederick Briggs, Herman Melville, Henry David Thoreau, and Emily Dickinson, writers who were forced into a reckoning with the new market society, its moneymaking culture, and its commitment to the practices of accounting.

While the British or continental marriage plot generally culminates in a high-stakes social transaction involving fixed sums of old money, the story of American marriage in realist fiction is often less about inheritance than about the abstract, dynamic, and unpredictable force of new wealth. In both its new- and old-world settings, the marriage plot is fundamentally a money plot, but the kind of money at issue tends to differ in important respects, and the role of marriage in either reproducing or disrupting social conditions also differs as a result. Simply put, if the possibilities of heteronormative social reproduction signified by marriage were the things that chiefly struck the imaginations of Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell, it seems that for William Dean Howells, Theodore Dreiser, Henry James, Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, and other writers of American realism, money itself was the romance of the realist moment in America. It follows that the American marriage plot often enters the period’s fiction less as the climactic mechanism of social reproduction than as a minor event in the story of money’s own reproductive capability.

José Julián Martí Pérez (1853-1895) seems to have known from a very young age that racial difference and discrimination in Cuba, and its use by Whites as a mechanism for social division, were the greatest obstacles to overcome in the island’s quest for independence from Spain – and especially for the creation of a modern, legally and socially egalitarian country. However, his writing has traditionally been classified as literature, even though that same corpus was meant to “do work in the world,” not just be archived, gather dust, or be dissected for its literary value. His writing was performative in that it was not just descriptive. He believed that language could change the world, not deterministically or relatively, but by resolving contradictions such as the dichotomies that separated people by origin, skin color, ethnicity, culture, nationality, religion, and language. Ultimately, it is the rhetorical Martí, the illocutionary and perlocutionary force of his written and spoken words, that needs to be further examined if we are to fully appreciate the transformative potential of many of his writing.

This chapter explores the newspapers anarchists used to create and disseminate an anarchist Latinidad that was a radical, transnational, anti-capitalist, anticlerical, anti-imperial, and Spanish language-based identity forged initially by US-based migrant anarchists from Spain and Cuba. Using the anarchist press in Florida and New York, anarchists rejected the importance of identifying themselves as “Spanish” or “Cuban” and instead forged a cross-border working-class identity. In creating this identity, anarchists focused on their encounters with US capitalism and republican democracy from 1886 to 1898. Such encounters conditioned their perspectives on what an independent Cuba could look like and what it should avoid. Anarchists also debated whether or not to support the Cuban War for Independence. Was it just another nationalist project that would usher in a new, exploitative ruling elite, or could an independent, non-nationalist anarchist society be constructed? These latter debates began in mid-1891– three and a half years before the mambises launched their uprising against Spanish colonialism.

Political scientists largely agree that, today, the modern presidential nomination process favors the rise of ideologically extreme candidates who contribute to the ideological polarization that the country is experiencing. Political scientists, however, disagree about the direction in which reform should move. Most political scientists believe that the process has become too democratic and that the cure for the current ideological polarization is to return the nomination process to the control of party leaders. This prescription for reform, however, ignores the fact that, when party leaders did control the process in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, they too often chose ideological extremists or populist demagogues. Rather, as the Conclusion elucidates, the problem with the current process is that it is insufficiently democratic: the rules governing the process exclude too many ideologically moderate voters, thereby encouraging the selection of more ideologically extreme candidates. The Conclusion closes with several suggestions for how the nomination process could be opened more fully in the future so as to remedy this ideological polarization.

Charles Brockden Brown’s Edgar Huntly (1799) narrates two scenes of panther attacks. In the first scene, Huntly’s mind is paralyzed, while in the second, Huntly’s body kills a stalking panther by hurling a tomahawk across a dark cave, an effort stemming from our bodily “constitution.” This introduction argues that this artist not only troubled the mind-centered ontology of consciousness—the Cartesian idea of the mind’s dominance over the body—but also explored the ontological alternatives that centered the expressions of our material body’s “constitution.” It both uncovers the posthumanist accents of this work, and reveals the way it prods us to refurbish posthumanism by historicizing it. Starting with Brown, this introduction thus recovers a set of texts focused on “minding the body,” on not simply eroding the philosophical distinction between the mind and body in order to trouble a mind-centered ontology and imagine a body-centered alternative to it, as posthumanism does. It also reveals the way artists used the expressive agency of these historical bodies to imagine less repressive alternatives to nineteenth-century structures of power—including chattel slavery, market capitalism, and patriarchy—whose claims to dominance involved reducing the body to little more than mindless matter.

Although the McGovern-Fraser reforms opened the nomination process to ordinary voters in both parties, the democratization of the process proved to be incomplete. State laws and party rules often excluded many voters, such as independent voters in states that used a closed primary restricted only to party members. Restrictive party reenrollment rules also disabled many voters from changing parties in the weeks or months leading up to the presidential primary election, thereby preventing them from voting for the candidate they supported. Moreover, voters in some states found that they possessed less influence in the process than voters in other states. Voters in smaller states were allotted more national convention delegates (and therefore influence in the process) than their populations warranted, and, by the end of the twentieth century, it was apparent that voters in states that held their primary or caucuses early in the calendar had more influence than voters in later states.

As the 1968 convention had commanded, the Democratic Party empaneled a rules reform commission to examine the party’s nomination process, most notably the rules governing how national convention delegates were selected. Following a series of public meetings, the McGovern-Fraser Commission adopted eighteen guidelines that would fundamentally reshape the presidential nomination process in the party. To comply with the new guidelines, many states adopted the presidential primary, and, unlike early primary elections, the new primaries had to allow voters to choose which presidential candidate they supported (either by registering their preference directly or by choosing delegates whose candidate preference was expressly listed on the ballot). The new primaries also became binding, ensuring that the winner of a state’s primary election actually received the support of the delegates from that state. The end result was a nomination process that empowered ordinary voters for the first time in American history, and, because the new primaries were codified in state law, the McGovern-Fraser reforms also had the effect of democratizing the Republicans’ nomination process as well.

White cultural elites in the US capital of Philadelphia in the 1780s and 1790s depicted Native Americans (or “Indians”) as vanishing peoples, soon to be replaced by Anglo culture. The fledgling nation’s premier naturalist Bejamin Smith Barton and the consecrated poet of the American Revolution Philip Freneau turned to Spanish American antiquarianism to invent a glorious antiquity for North America. They learned from Antonio de Ulloa’s Noticas Americanas (1772) and Francisco Javier Clavijero’s Storia Antica del Messico (1781) how to practice antiquarian materialism, then chose early Republican literary and scientific periodicals to disseminate their conquest of the Native American past. Those two americanistas in particular showed how to collect Indigenous artifacts, assemble them, and invest them with European meanings, which inspired the first generation of US Americanists to relegate Native American life to the dustbin of prehistory and at once fabricate their own Whiteness.

Starting with Thomas More’s Utopia (1516), the first major Anglophone text reacting to Euro-American colonialism, this chapter traces how Early American texts – such as Walter Ralegh’s Discoverie of Guiana (1596), John Winthrop’s “A Modell of Christian Charity” (1630), and William Byrd II’s History of the Dividing Line (post-1728) – reflect the dizzying complexity of economic exchange in the Atlantic colonies before US independence. As European encounters with Indigenous cultures unsettled long-held assumptions about economic value and English colonies adopted multiple systems of exchange to survive, these texts show their colonial actors improvising to navigate ever-shifting conditions. In doing so, I argue, these actors engage in the kind of intersubjective thought experiments that Adam Smith describes in his social and political theories. While contemporary US culture often imagines Smith ushering America into economic modernity, then, these texts show the vector of influence moving in the opposite direction, with Anglophone New World literature showing, very early, the possibilities and problems of the commercial imagination.

This chapter surveys portrayals of money within US speculative fiction. While they may take us to alien planets or alternate universes, such works also serve to remind us how strange “ordinary” money already is. Speculative fiction has often sought to reimagine money in some more rational or explainable form. These thought experiments often propose money based on some purportedly stable and incontrovertible value, such as labor, time, energy, or motion. There is a second and somewhat distinct tendency, which envisions reputation-based currencies and other “storied moneys,” often capable of reflecting diverse incommensurable values. Then there are portrayals of large fortunes that, whether or not they come with overt speculative elements such as magic or futuristic technologies, can also take on an aura of the fantastic. In particular, large fortunes become storied money to the extent that they reflect and enact their owners’ personal characteristics, relationships, and histories. Speculative fiction also often blurs with speculative practices, from Josiah Warren’s Time Store in the 1820s to the Technocracy movement of the 1930s to contemporary cryptocurrency, Non-Fungible Tokens, and blockchain finance. This porous boundary invites the question: might money itself be understood as a kind of speculative fiction?

This chapter argues that antebellum sensationalism, broadly defined, offers a key archive for understanding the emotional life of capitalism. The first half of the chapter examines the period’s two best-selling novels, George Lippard’s The Quaker City (1845) and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852), and argues that sensationalism adopts and makes use of the affective excesses of melodrama. The chapter shows how, repeatedly, these and other sensational texts stage characters whose postures of emotional distress reflect a desire for spiritual meaning and social connection that transcends the modern, rational world of capitalism – that which Max Weber famously describes in terms of “disenchantment.” The second half of the chapter turns to urban sensationalism. Here, the chapter contends that most of these popular texts revolve around a sentimental logic whereby the tears of the financially distressed act as the markers of middle-class sensibility. Affect thus becomes an alternate currency. The chapter concludes with the most canonical example of urban sensation fiction: Herman Melville’s “Bartleby, the Scrivener” (1853). The argument here is that “Bartleby” turns the emotional registers of sensationalism inside out. For though Bartleby is the melodramatic and sentimental victim of capitalism and disenchantment, he also rejects the emotional gestures of these genres.

The conclusion explores Herman Melville’s Benito Cereno (1855), focusing on the way its characters and, we, as readers, make sense of embodied actions on board the San Dominick. Being able to read the emplotment of bodies becomes the key to solving the mystery on the ship, and to making sense of the story itself. By doing so, Melville complicates the mind-centered ontological paradigm’s structuring of our reading practices, our “mind-centered reading practices,” that reduce all bodies to just so many textual objects recording lived experience. By privileging the expressive agency of the material body, Melville also presents a competing reading practice, a “body-centered reading practice,” that understands the body as an active agent making meaning out of lived experience. The conclusion contrasts Amasa Delano’s faulty “mind-centered reading practice” with Babo’s rebellious “body-centered reading practice.” Melville thus “minds the body” to demonstrate the way the material expressions of the lived experiences of racial embodiment can short-circuit the objectification of Black bodies in the nineteenth-century chattel slave economy. And by doing so, Melville also models for us, as twenty-first-century readers, new ways to interpret critically the resistant meaning-making possibilities of embodied experience in all of its expressive dynamism.

Informed observers of the Senate may view the 1945–80 period as the doldrums of Senate party history, a period of stasis, the unchanging “textbook Congress” (Shepsle 1989). The study of Congress in these years has long emphasized the role of weak parties and a decentralized policymaking process dominated by committees and their chairmen. However, as we discover in Chapter 8, the parties under Robert Taft (R, Ohio) and Lyndon Johnson (D, Tex.) were dynamic, establishing organizational foundations that shaped future developments and patterns of leadership behavior. We emphasize four developments, none of which have been emphasized in other accounts: evolving new venues for collective decision-making, expanding staff resources, adopting new committee assignment practices, and establishing more consequential campaign committees. These developments were responses to the parties’ electoral challenges, factional problems, and personal interests of key leaders.

The Senate parties had been competitive since the 1870s, but, in the early 1890s, the intensity of competition was exacerbated by the waning battle by Republicans to secure voting rights for Black men in the South. The Federal Elections Bill of 1890–91 represented the last attempt, for the next two-thirds of a century, to protect the right to vote. Chapter 5 examines this battle and its transformative impact on the Senate. Faced with the prospect of reenfranchised Black voters, an overwhelmingly Republican group, and thus the end of Democratic hegemony in the South, Senate Democrats regarded the battle against the bill as an existential fight. Leading them in battle was Arthur Pue Gorman (D, Md.), who, in the process of defeating the Federal Elections Bill, honed the filibuster as a weapon of minority obstruction and transformed the position of caucus chairman, at least for the minority Democratic party, into a position of elected floor leadership. Modern party leadership in the Senate, we show, traces its birth to Gorman and to this battle.