Although the past two decades have shown signs of scholarly interest in the social history of fourth- and fifth-century Christianity, especially among British scholars, much remains to be done before a synthetic reconstruction will be justified. Among the tasks to be completed is the determination of the social class backgrounds of the later empire's Christian clergy. For if these backgrounds can be established, it will be possible to investigate how extensively they influenced the clerics' thought and action. Unfortunately, the determination of social origins in antiquity is not always a straightforward enterprise. This is particularly true in the case of the Cappadocian Fathers, whose social class membership is the topic of the present essay.

By the time that Henry, archdeacon of Huntingdon, completed the first edition of his Historia Anglorum, about 1129, four reform councils had made it quite clear, even to the stubbornly resistant English clergy, that subdeacons, deacons and priests should not have wives, concubines or sons with clerical ambitions. Henry, who had uncanonically succeeded his father, Nicholas, in his archdeaconry, was by 1129 about forty-five years old and had at least one son, probably in minor orders. His major literary works, Historia Anglorum and the epistle De Contemptu Mundi, contain explicit information about his father and the succession of the archdeaconry of Huntingdon, but Henry's careful silence has kept several further generations of this clerical family virtually hidden from readers. Needless to say, he was not pleased with the notions of clerical celibacy that some, in increasing numbers during his lifetime, chose to call reform. Modified by a wary reluctance to state his objections openly, Henry's angry inability to accept that central issue of Gregorian reform shaped his account of the introduction of Gregorian reform to England with insinuation, slander and prevaricating silence. The particular interest of Henry of Huntingdon's treatment of reform councils and reformers lies in its tense delineation of the discomfort felt by many of the higher clergy and their families caught when the reform ideal of celibacy was no longer a startling novelty, but was still not universally accepted, not yet venerable as custom, certainly not easy.

In his book Venice and the Defense of Republican Liberty: Renaissance Values in the Age of the Counter Reformation (Berkely, 1968), William J. Bouwsma claims that the confrontation between Rome and Venice in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries was based on two different views of the world. He sees Rome as the embodiment of the authoritarianism and intolerance of the Counter Reformation and Venice as the last representative of Renaissance republicanism. Bouwsma maintains that the struggle which reached a point of crisis during the interdict of 1606-1607 was a logical development of an inborn ideological conflict between Venice and Rome. His thesis, however, does not fit the facts for the 1540s, which were a crucial decade in Venetian history since these years witnessed the acceptance of the Roman Inquisition and the first attempt to adopt an Index of Forbidden Books. During this period, Rome and Venice disagreed not on what should be implemented or rejected, but on who should have the responsibility and weaponry to enforce it. When there was a confrontation between them, it was caused by reasons of state—the political needs of two governments sharing a common border and having different political interests in Italy and/or in Europe.

Of all the evils of the late medieval church, none was complained about quite so frequently by contemporary theologians as that which Pierre D'Ailly termed the “evil of superfluity.” Jan Hus compared the prelates of his own day to the scribes and pharisees of old, who imposed many fasts, many prayers and other hard things upon the people while they themselves did none of them. A man of Adam's ststure had but one command fulfill and failed, Jean Gerson wrote at the start of the fifteenth century; how then is the Christian to escape, placed as he is among innumerable commands? If Augustine could complain about the Judaic condition of the church of his time, what, Gerson containud, would he have to say now! According to wessel Gansfort, the “forest if decrees and decretals” had become so dense that the Christian could scarcely find his way any longer to a study and knowledge of sacred Scripture.Even Gabriel Biel was forced to admit that the burden of Christian obedience had become heavier than the old Judaic yoke, if one took into accont the plethora of ecclesiastical laws and ceremonics.

The struggles and sacrifices of those pastors and laymen who reconstructed the Reformed churches in southern France during the eighteenth century compose one of the intriguing chapters of the history of the “Church of the Desert.” Members of an outlawed Protestant church in a country which was overwhelmingly Roman Catholic by religion, these pastors and their flocks ran great risks in holding open-air religious services in the secluded and rugged countryside of the Midi—or the “Desert”—in southern France. Attendance at their services was punishable by perpetual service in the king's galleys for the men and life imprisonment for the women; the Reformed pastors who led these meetings did so on pain of death. Not a few of these Calvinists suffered extreme physical and mental anguish because of their obstinate refusal to abandon the faith of their fathers.

Seven years ago the Irish people celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Monday Rebellion: the “Blood Sacrifice” that inspired the Anglo-Irish War leading to the Treaty, the Free State and finally the Republic. During the festivities, politicians paid homage to the memory of Padraig Pearse, James Connolly and their colleagues in the Volunteer and Citizen Armies; towns and villages erected monuments to men who died for Irish freedom; professional and amateur historians produced volumes of description and analyses of the brave deeds of Easter Week; bands played and singers sang patriotic airs; and someone blew up Nelson's Pillar in O'Connell Street.A prominent politician, a hero of 1916, allegedly described the last event in newspaper headline style as ‘noted British admiral leaves Dublin by air.’ The 1916 commemoration was more than a hymn to the past; it was also a tribute to the values and successes of physical force nationalism. Ireland in 1966 seemed a model of productive revolution: a stable community with viable democratic institutions and an expanding economy; an example for other countries emancipated from the scourge of imperialism. This was the consensus of a confident nation.

Founded in 1837 to provide a denohinational foreign mission board for the Old School Presbyterians, the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions (PBFM) had from the outset a very different outlook toward mission work among slave-holding Indians than did its closest rival, the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM), which served the New School Presbyterians and New England Congregationalists. The difference increased until 1859 when the latter organization, unable to reconcile its antislavery conviction with the determined proslavery position of the southern Indians, withdrew from that field. The PBFM, headquartered in New York City, thereupon took under its patronage most of those ABCFM missionaries who had been abandoned by their Boston-based board for refusing to expound and practice an antislavery position among the Choctaws, Cherokees, Chickasaws, Seminoles and Creeks.