Early in 2002, the earth experienced a near-miss: an asteroid passed within a whisker (in astronomical terms) of the planet. Had it struck, it would have done so with a force six hundred times greater than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. No observer saw it coming, and it was tracked only after it had passed; yet this event produced little surprise. We already knew that the secure foundations of modernism had moved beneath our feet: the idea of continental drift; then pollution; then global climate change; then epidemic disease, AIDS; now the realization that life on this planet is regularly challenged, and at longer periods catastrophically transformed, by the impact of extraterrestrial objects. Asteroids are rational in the sense that they obey mechanical laws well understood since Newton; yet their intrusion into our world says nothing of human or divine reason, and seems to re-assert the old doctrine: chance rules all.

The historiography of Tudor economic legislation has been preoccupied with two questions: firstly whether any consistent economic planning, or simply expedient reactions to various problems, can be discerned in Elizabethan policy; and secondly whether and to what extent policy was imposed “from above” by William Cecil and the privy council, or influenced “from below” by local and factional lobbying. Since the 1980s the research of Geoffrey Elton and his successors has extended our understanding of Tudor parliaments; yet the standard accounts of Elizabethan policy-making have on the whole paid insufficient attention to contemporaries’ perceptions and interpretations of economic change, upon which their suggested solutions and arguments for reform were based. As several studies of particular policies have shown, such as Norman Jones’ analysis of usury statutes, and Paul Fideler’s work on poor relief, the evolution of economic policy in sixteenth-century England can fruitfully be approached by cutting through the rhetoric of preambles and policy statements, and by focusing on the strategies of persuasion underlying debates in Parliament and beyond.

In 1471, King Henry VI of England died in the Tower of London amid disputed circumstances. Between his death and Henry VIII’s break with Rome in the 1530s, he was venerated as a saint and martyr. Modern historians have generally dismissed this cult as a political phenomenon, created and used by the Tudors as they sought legitimacy. While there is some truth in that assessment, political allegiance was only a part of the impetus for the participation of Henry’s devotees in the cult. Alongside carefully crafted (and perhaps, artificial) portrayals of Henry’s virtues lay something else his former subjects found compelling: his very real political failures, and more importantly the adversity that they engendered. Henry’s devotees used these royal adversities as the basis from which to imagine a sympathetic relationship between themselves and “good King Herre” in which he had great concern for their fatal and near-fatal emergencies. These neglected devotional aspects of Henry VI’s cult are the subject of this article.

When Mary queen of Scots met her first Parliament, she encountered an institution that had long played an influential part in Scottish history. The Scottish Parliament was important for its legislation and taxation, but it was even more important as the forum in which the political community assembled to take major decisions about how the government should be configured. This article uses a newly-discovered list of those attending the Parliament of 1563 as the starting-point for an investigation of the political community in Mary's reign.

Although our understanding of sixteenth-century politics has been much enhanced by studies focused on “kingship,” many crucial issues concern relationships among people other than the king. For more than half of the century there was no adult monarch present, and government had to be carried on by consensus between a regent and the nobility. Adult monarchs usually had more power than temporary regents, but they, too, had to seek consensus if they were to rule successfully.

Lollardy, the native English heresy vigorously suppressed since the early fifteenth-century, did not die with its suppression in the wake of the rebellion of Sir John Oldcastle in 1414. A century later Lollard beliefs remained current, albeit in varied forms. The most consistent features in this eclectic religious system were the possession and reading of English translations of the Scriptures, a sacramentarian view of the Eucharist, and an often vehement anticlericalism. With few exceptions Lollardy was the preserve of the unlearned; based on the religious fringes of towns and the greater cities, rather than in the learned centers of the universities or the Court.

The main problem in staffing military hospitals with female nurses, Florence Nightingale explained in 1857, was to find “respectable and efficient women” who would be willing to undertake such work. Many women would apply for the positions but few would be acceptable. “Many a woman who will make a respectable and efficient Assistant-Nurse [the equivalent of our modern staff nurse] under the eye of a vigilant Head-Nurse, will not do at all when put in a military ward,” Nightingale said, because, “As a body, the mass of Assistant-Nurses are too low in moral principle, and too flighty in manner, to make any use of.” Nightingale thought that efficient and respectable assistant nurses had “in a great degree, to be created.” Developing respectability and efficiency in hospital nurses were the two major goals of nineteenth-century nursing reformers, and vigilant supervision was to be the major method for achieving them.

As with earlier review articles, there is the problem of deciding what to focus on, with the accompanying issue of choice and subjectivity. The last arises from the continuing breadth of the subject, particularly the wide definition of political culture and process. As before, it is helpful to begin with Continental scholarship, which is apt to be neglected. There has been a welcome increase in interest in British history in both France and Germany. The former can be approached through Histoires d’Outre-Manche: Tendances recentes de l’Historiographie Britannique (Paris, 2001).

In late 1654, the fate of the Stuart restoration to the British and Irish thrones appeared to rest upon the professed religion of the fourteen-year old Henry, Duke of Gloucester, son of Charles I and Henrietta Maria and brother of Charles II. At Henrietta Maria's instigation, and with the aid of the court of France, serious efforts were undertaken to convert the Protestant duke to the Catholic faith. This attempt, which ultimately failed, preoccupied the English exiled courts in Paris and Cologne for its duration between October and December 1654 and caused scandal and division in royalist circles. It also generated international publicity: as one observer concluded, “this is one of the greatest actions now in foot in Christendome: wherein all Protestants of all countryes will thinke themselves concerned.”

To date the “Gloucester affair” has received little sustained scholarly attention or critical scrutiny, a neglect likely attributable to the tendency among historians to study successes rather than failures. Perhaps for this reason the Stuart courts and royalists in exile have not generated much systematic treatment in the last half-century. In this case, prince Henry remained Protestant, and it would be more than five years before Charles II reclaimed his thrones. The attempted conversion of the duke of Gloucester, however, affords a valuable opportunity to investigate the formation of political and religious policies, along with the conduct of diplomacy, in the exiled courts and within the royalist communities. Charles II essentially was a king in name only: he had scant economic resources, held his court at the pleasure of the rulers in whose territories he resided, and, after September 1651, no longer had his own army. The struggles to recover the crowns of England, Scotland, and Ireland for the House of Stuart during the 1650s required extensive negotiations for financial and military support from both Catholic and Protestant powers. Charles was forced to balance the demands of Catholic rulers for assurances that Catholics in the three kingdoms would be treated favorably, while simultaneously maintaining and strengthening the support of British and continental Protestants for his restoration.

In 1811, William Robinson, a purser's steward in the royal navy, deserted, having served six long and brutal years at sea. Years later, he wrote his memoirs, under the colorful title of Jack Nastyface. In it he recorded the many indignities inflicted on the sailors of his day. He did so in terms designed to horrify polite men and women, toward which end he dwelled at considerable length on floggings, keel-haulings, and the like. He was, however, perfectly prepared to tolerate the indignities that sailors inflicted on a group even more marginal than themselves: the Jews who made an uncertain living peddling slops and trinkets outside the royal dockyards. In one passage, Robinson fondly remembered how a sailor had avenged himself on one such peddler, known disparagingly as “Moses.” The sailor, assisted by several of the crew, succeeded in appropriating a new suit of clothes; “Moses,” sputtering with rage, was forced to leave the ship “amidst the grins and jeers of the whole crew, who were much diverted and pleased to think that any of their shipmates had tact enough to retaliate so nicely on a Jew.”

The incident, at first blush, bears all the marks of anti-Semitism. It suggests that “Moses” was singled out precisely because he was Jewish; as such, it fits nicely with the claims of a new and very pessimistic generation of scholars. These scholars, in true academic tradition, have expressed a great deal of disappointment over the work of their predecessors.

Addressing the clergy of his diocese in 1831, Bishop John Kaye of Lincoln spoke frankly. “We cannot be surprised at being told,” he said, “as we often are, that the days [of the established church] are already numbered, and that it is destined to sink…before the irresistible force of public opinion.” A similar warning appeared a few years earlier when, in his provocative little book Church Reform, Edward Berens urged the Church to acknowledge public opinion before it lost the public altogether.

In 1763 few Europeans doubted the enormous importance of their Caribbean possessions, a fact indicated by the ready willingness of the French to cede Canada in order to regain British-occupied Martinique. The British were no different, and in the West Indies they were in the process of establishing a New World aristocracy whose riches were based upon African slavery and the production of tropical crops. The British prized their Caribbean territories, especially since the sugar revolution that had begun during the mid-seventeenth century first in Barbados where the crop had become dominant by 1660 and then in Jamaica. British planters continued their success in the Leeward Island settlements of Antigua, St. Christopher, Nevis, and Montserrat, where entrepreneurs converted their lands to sugar cane by the early 1700s. West Indian planters became influential within the British Empire, and exercised profound social, political, and economic importance in the metropolis. By the eighteenth century they were the richest colonists within the empire; they were landed aristocrats who could have vied in wealth and prestige with their counterparts in Britain.

The body of recent historical explorations of Englishness and Britishness can seem practically interminable. To some, this work is more a cause than a product of the dynamic underlying recent constitutional changes in the United Kingdom. Linda Colley, in particular, is singled out for vituperation by right-wing commentators for an alleged attempt to depict the United Kingdom as “an artificial creation, built from opposition to Frenchmen and Catholics and lacking any form of coherent cultural core,” thus preparing the ground for its wilful destruction by the Blair government. Yet others have suggested that Colley overstated the hegemony of the idea of Britishness among the nations of the United Kingdom. It is contended that British identity penetrated in England to a unique degree, a process which has produced long-term imbalance and instability in the United Kingdom. Tom Nairn thus blamed English arrogance for this instability. For other commentators the historical absence of a tangible demand for English self-government is to be problematized and regarded as an indication of “backwardness.” As Bernard Crick wrote: “England is the problem. Because English nationalism is suppressed and not explicit, it is soured, not wholly in control of its own reactions and is difficult to deal with by the other nations.”