All who have read “Robinson Crusoe” (and who has not?) will remember the circumstance of his opening, some time after he had become domiciled on his desolate island, one of the chests that had come to him from the ship. In it he found pins, needles and thread, a pair of large scissors, “ten or a dozen good knives,” some cloth, about a dozen and a half of white linen handkerchiefs concerning which he remarks, “They were exceedingly refreshing to wipe my face on a warm day;” and, finally, hidden away in the till of the chest, “three great bags of money—gold as well as silver.” The finding of all these articles—the money excepted—it will be further remembered, greatly delighted the heart of Crusoe; inasmuch as they increased his store of useful things, and therefore increased his comfort and happiness. But in respect to the money the case was entirely different. It was a thing to him, under the circumstances, absolutely worthless, and over its presence and finding he soliloquized as follows: “I smiled at myself at the sight of all this money. ‘Oh, drug!’ said I, aloud, ‘what art thou good for? Thou art not worth to me, no, not the taking off the ground. One of these knives is worth all this heap. Nay, I would give it all for a gross of tobacco-pipes; for sixpenny-worth of turnip and carrot seed from England; or for a handful of pease and beans, and a bottle of ink.’” In introducing this episode in the life of his hero, nothing was probably further from the thought of the author, De Foe, than the intent to give his readers a lesson in political economy. And yet it would be difficult to find an illustration which conveys in so simple a manner to him who reflects upon it so much of information in respect to the nature of that which is popularly termed “wealth;” or so good a basis for reasoning correctly in respect to the origin and function of that which we call “money.” And in such reasoning, the truth of the following propositions is too evident to require demonstration: 1st. The pins and needles, the scissors, knives, and cloth were of great utility to Robinson Crusoe, because their possession satisfied a great desire on his part to have them, and greatly increased his comfort and happiness. 2d. Possessing utility, they nevertheless possessed no exchangeable value, because they could not be bought or sold, or, what is the same thing, exchanged with any body for any thing. 3d. They had, moreover, no price, for they had no purchasing power which could be expressed as money. 4th. The money, which is popularly regarded as the symbol and the concentration of all wealth, had, under the circumstances, neither utility, value, nor price. It could not be eaten, drunk, worn, used as a tool, or exchanged with any body for any thing, and fully merited the appellation which Crusoe in another place gives it, of “sorry, worthless stuff.” Finally, the pins, needles, knives, cloth, and scissors were all capital to Robinson Crusoe, because they were all instrumentalities capable of being used to produce something additional, to him useful or desirable. The money wasnot capital, under the circumstances, because it could not be used to produce any thing. Starting, then, with a condition of things on the island in which money had clearly neither utility nor value, let us next consider under what change of domestic circumstances it could become useful, acquire value, become an object of exchange, and constitute a standard for establishing prices.

In every country across Europe, at some point or other during the last five hundred years, cheap printed materials were the staple diet of ordinary people, providing a rich array of entertainment, education, and information. They came in various forms, but were usually variations on the theme of single sheets or simple booklets, and they were carried far and wide in pedlars’ packs and sold in the streets, at fairs and markets and wherever crowds gathered, as well as in backstreet shops. Their content was as broad as can be imagined: news and scandal, crimes and last-dying confessions of murderers, divinations, instructional works, wonder stories, miracles, folktales and legends, love stories, celebrations of national victories and lamentations for the good old days. They were often couched in the form of poetry or song, and included pictures in the form of woodcuts and engravings to add to their appeal. In every country across Europe, governments and local and religious authorities tried at times to suppress or control these cheap printed materials. Sometimes, too, the authorities would adopt the format of cheap print to spread their own moral and conformist messages. The educated elites almost always treated cheap print with disdain, but the people continued to buy these items in their tens of thousands, and the printers knew exactly what they wanted. Neglected and reviled for centuries, cheap print shines a light on the culture and lives of ordinary people. This is the first volume to take a pan-European perspective, with each chapter detailing the experience of a particular country or region, offering the reader the opportunity to progress from the particular to a continent-wide overview. This combination of the ubiquity of the materials and overarching themes with the variations wrought by local circumstances can be summed up in the phrase always the same, but everywhere different.

In The Early Dutch Sinologists Koos Kuiper gives a detailed account of the studies and work of the 24 Dutchmen trained as “interpreters” for the Netherlands Indies before 1900. Most began studying at Leiden University, then went to Amoy to study southern Chinese dialects. Their main functions were translating Dutch law into Chinese, advising the courts on Chinese law and checking Chinese accounts books, later also regulating coolie affairs. Actually their services were not always appreciated and there was not enough work for them; later many pursued other careers in the Indies administration or in scholarship. This study also analyses the three dictionaries they compiled. Based on a wealth of primary sources, it gives a fascinating picture of personal cross-cultural contacts.

The Belgian photonovel is the missing link in the amazing history of the photonovel, a comics-inspired form of visual narrative that combines elements from very different genres and media, ranging from literary melodrama, cinema, and of course comics. This monograph discloses the specific Belgian contribution to the genre, in close connection with the singularities of the Belgian women’s and general magazines where these photonovels appeared. If the photonovel is generally considered a typically French or Italian genre, this study demonstrates the importance of a different tradition, which appropriated the foreign models in a very original way. Belgian photonovels are distinct, not only because they tell other kinds of stories, but also because they interact with other types of magazines in ways that are very different from the mainstream forms of the genre in Italy and France. Finally, this lavishly illustrated study is also the first in scrutinizing the technical aspects of magazine printing techniques in the development of the photonovel.

From #1 internationally bestselling author Santa Montefiore comes a gripping new novel of enduring love and devastating secrets, sweeping across England during WWII to Australia five decades later, based on a true story. Rupert promised he was going to come back. All Florence had to do was wait. Cornwall, 1944 When Rupert Dash is declared missing, presumed dead during the Battle of Arnhem, his wife, Florence, is devastated. She can’t accept that he has gone from her life forever, and so when she finds a poem called ‘Wait for Me’ hidden in an old book, she believes it’s a sign from her husband. A promise that he will return to her. London, 1988 Since childhood Max has suffered from a recurring nightmare. Surrounded by the horrific chaos of war, he has an urgent mission he knows he must complete. But time after time, the dream ends with him awaking in terror, his heart pounding from the horror of the battlefield. Desperate to understand why he is haunted by such terrible visions, Max embarks on a journey that leads him to Cornwall and a man named Rupert Dash. Melbourne, 1995 Florence receives a letter from someone she has never met, who lives on the other side of the world. This stranger says he remembers a life that belonged to another before him. Could this be the one person Florence has waited fifty-one years to meet again?