In contrast to virtually every other aspect of Napoleon's German policy, his treatment of the German press has never been subject to much scholarly controversy. For good reason: on the one occasion when Napoleon had a German publisher entirely in his hands, he had him shot—an act whose simplicity, indeed finality, does not leave much room for quibbling as to details. The execution of J. P. Palm did not reflect Napoleon's entire policy; but it may serve as a reminder that, among the ruling personalities of Europe, it was the Emperor of the French who esteemed the power of the press most highly. Napoleon had seen an aroused nation first hand, and as the leader of Europe's first postrevolutionary society he brought to the regulation of public opinion a degree of determination unknown to the Old Regime. One of his first acts as First Consul had been to suppress most of the newspapers published in France, and he soon domesticated those that remained. His aim was not to expel public opinion from the political arena, but to remove it from the hands of the public, and to make it serve him. The same purpose guided his press policy in Germany. As the young Count Metternich noted in a dispatch from Paris, the new century would be “a century of words,” and Napoleon meant his word to be the last.

As the founder of German East Africa, Carl Peters exercised a continuing hold on the German imagination in the 1890s despite the growth of a general “colonial-weariness” (Kolonialmüdigkeit) in the population. Among a group of colonial adventurers which had failed to produce any man of truly heroic proportions, he still seemed to many a man of unusual mettle, and the entire colonial effort was closely associated with his name. Knowing this, the Colonial Division for four years kept hidden from the public the story of Peters' misbehavior on the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro in 1891 and 1892. The Division did not simply refuse to pursue the case expeditiously but refused to admit the facts at all. It was a dangerous game, but one which the government felt it had to play in order to preserve the integrity of the colonial movement. The unfortunate result was that when the story did break in 1896 as a consequence of Social Democratic revelations, the Colonial Division found itself as much on the defense as Peters himself. Not only had a person of Peters's stature violated basic human rights, but the government had put itself in the position of implicitly condoning the brutal suppression of a colonial people. The “civilizing mission,” no one could deny, had been misused for private gain and pleasure, and the Social Democratic attacks on colonialism gained a new moral credibility which could be used to strengthen the party's popularity, much to the chagrin of government officials.

Since the early 1960s, social and economic historians of modern Germany have increasingly turned their attention to the study of the First World War and the postwar revolution. Yet of all the ink that has flowed extremely little has trickled down to the peasantry. Excellent monographs examine the wartime experience of several cities. Historians looking for the origins of proletarian radicalism in the revolution of 1918–19 have carefully scrutinized workers of all sorts, and those in pursuit of the birth or perhaps adolescent crisis of “Organized Capitalism” have studied industrialists and the changing role of the state. But no one has looked very closely at the country cousin. When historians have turned to the agricultural sector, they have with few exceptions focused on estate owners and their workers east of the Elbe.