The draughtsman of a foundation charter in the century after the Norman Conquest had the choice of two distinct diplomatic forms, each of which was a legacy from earlier times. He might cast it in the shape of a letter, authenticated by the seal of the donor, informing the superior lord or the relevant bishop of what had been done: or he might use the more ancient, solemn and pretentious form of the diploma, authenticated not by the seal but by the sign of the cross made by the hands of the witnesses. In either case he would be careful to include a list of witnesses who could prove the grant; and the most obvious difference between them would lie in this—that the letter referred to the act as already past (sciatis me dedisse…), while the diploma described the actual moment of gift (do—or trado—deo et abbati…). To the latter an exact date was appropriate—hence the elaborate dating of the Anglo-Saxon landbocs: for the letter, on the other hand, a date was superfluous, since the act was recorded as a thing of the past. Whichever form he chose, his purpose was the same, viz. to supply evidence for the remote future of a grant made verbally. There is no question about this so far as letters or writ charters are concerned: for not only are they often addressed to all men present and future, but they sometimes include preambles which leave us in no doubt as to the current conception of the written word.

Applied to Britain and the First Partition, Campbell's “unwept” is perhaps misleading. Through five generations, despite much European slandering of the Poles, Britain always condemned Dismemberment. In 1772, when three Great Powers completed that “suicide of the old Europe” which the seizure of Silesia had begun, Burke styled their operations “fatal to the rights of mankind.” In the language of diplomacy, Suffolk's “disagreeable” sounds hardly less emphatic. The First Partition, we must remember, was a blow to France, struck by the group to which Britain looked for allies against the natural enemy. Yet our minister in Poland spoke unequivocally of “all this mischief,” and ascribed it to Frederick, the Satan of those behind the scenes. Voltaire, to whom the persecuting Poles were as odious as the persecuting French, sent Catherine the most ambiguous of congratulations. His heroine, he declared, had undertaken a task more useful and noble even than the expulsion of the Turks—that of destroying anarchy in Poland “en rendant a chacun ce que chacun croît lui appartenir, et en commençant par elle-même.” But Suffolk's official utterance was more pungent still. “Le Roi,” he replied to the ministers of the partitioning Powers,” veut bien supposer que les trois cours sont convaincues de la justice de leurs preventions respectives.”

The capitulation at Sedan was signed on the morning of 2 September 1870, and the news reached Palikao that same day. But the public as yet knew nothing; the reports received by ministers were conflicting, the details uncertain, and Palikao preferred to delay any announcement of disaster until it was confirmed officially and beyond a doubt. On the morning of the 3rd rumours began to circulate; telegrams arrived from Brussels and passengers from Belgium spread the tidings of a great defeat. At the session of the Corps Législatif in the afternoon Palikao made a statement: the attempted junction with Bazaine had failed, MacMahon had been forced to retreat to Mézières and Sedan and “perhaps even in small numbers on to Belgian territory.” This cautious admission prepared his audience for the worst. Such a statement from the reticent Palikao had an ominous significance, and when the Minister further confessed that no news or instructions had been received from the Emperor, Jules Favre declared that, since the government had in fact ceased to exist, all parties should in order to avoid confusion give place to a soldier who would undertake the defence of the nation. Everyone understood who was the soldier thus referred to by a member of the Left. It was clear that once the news of complete disaster was officially confirmed deposition would be demanded in the streets and formally proposed in the Chamber. That fearful confirmation was soon to come. Not long after the close of the afternoon sitting the Empress, who as yet knew nothing, received a laconic telegram: “The army is defeated and captive; I myself am prisoner. Napoleon.”

During the Eastern crisis of 1875–8 it is currently accepted that England was represented at the two key capitals of St Petersburg and Vienna by two nonentities, in sharp contrast with Elliot and Layard at Constantinople, Lord Odo Russell at Berlin, and Lord Lyons at Paris. Disraeli's strictures are well known. To him Lord Augustus Loftus was “Pomposo,” “a mere Polonius,” “a mere Livadian parasite, and afraid even of G(orchakov)'s shadow.” “As for Buchanan, that is a hopeless case.… I… can testify that it is not age, which has enfeebled his intelligence or dimmed his powers. He was, and ever has been, a hopeless mediocrity.”