In the constitutional evolution of eighteenth-century Britain a major problem was the resolution of the tensions which arose between the executive powers vested in the Crown and the legislative supremacy of Parliament. Although the seventeenth-century conflicts of Crown and Parliament had settled the question of ultimate supremacy in favour of Parliament, eighteenth-century politics, by common consent, were confined to the level where a balance of power could be seen to operate, in which king, Lords, and Commons exercised agreed functions and powers and where the ultimate weapon—parliamentary supremacy—need not be used. The independence of the Crown—however it may have operated in practice—was a cardinal doctrine of the ‘mixed and balanced’ constitution. Although this doctrine was usually invoked to support the right of the king to choose his own ministers, it gave an important constitutional role to the Civil List, for by supplying the Crown with a financial provision not subject to parliamentary control the Civil List served the pur-pose of supporting the independence and the ‘influence’ of the Crown. The uncontrolled expenditure of the Civil List, with its large number of attractive places, pensions, and other benefits, was an important part of that ‘influence’ which some considered necessary for the effective exercise of executive power and which others decried as a threat to the independence of Parliament. The disputes and jealousies created by the Civil List developed in the reigns of George I and George II and came to a climax in the reign of George III. The result was an alteration of the constitutional foundation of the Civil List which further weakened the doctrine of the independence of the Crown and which marked an important step in the evolution of parliamentary government.

This article engages with recent work on the nature of religious censorship in the early Stuart period that has emphasized that the government possessed neither the power nor the will to control systematically what was written. It is argued here, instead, that there is evidence of attempts to control the presses' output of religious materials during the Laudian period and earlier, by all parties within the Church of England. Nevertheless, the intention here is not to revive a simplistic view of government ‘control’, but rather to study the means by which licensers could exert an influence over what would be printed with an aura of mainstream legitimacy. Texts were often interfered with by official licensers with a variety of motives. Interference might sometimes be essentially ‘benign’, conferring legitimacy on marginal works by massaging their contents, or texts might be modified in order to make their authors appear to endorse the views of their opponents. The issue of whether it was practically possible to publish work clandestinely is here seen to be something of a red herring, since by publishing in this illicit fashion authors were effectively resigning their right to be considered as spokesmen of the orthodox mainstream. It is the control and manipulation of the licensing process which emerges as one important means by which the religious middle ground was defined and controlled in the early Stuart period.

This article reassesses relations between the free-trade and anti-slavery movements in the mid-nineteenth century. It places well-known controversies over the removal of preferential import duties on free-grown sugar into the context of a broader and more complex relationship, in which the Anti-Corn Law League borrowed many of the tactics pioneered by the abolitionists, while also attempting to assume anti-slavery's mantle of moral reform. In particular, the article situates the campaigns in a transatlantic context complicated by the domestic agendas of American anti-slavery groups and southern cotton growers, both of whom tried to take advantage of the British free-trade movement for their own ends. Finally, it is argued that the apparent success of the League in forcing the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846 not only contributed to the decline of anti-slavery as an effective extra-parliamentary movement, but also ensured that other moral reform campaigns such as the peace movement were forced to adopt the language and tactics of free-trade liberalism to survive, generating a lasting legacy that came to fruition with the emergence of the Gladstonian Liberal Party.

Recent claims about the convergence in methodology between ‘high politics’ and the ‘new political history’ remain unclear. The first part of this review examines two deeply entrenched misunderstandings of key works of high politics from the 1960s and 1970s, namely that they proposed elitist arguments about the ‘closed’ nature of the political world, and reductive arguments about the irrelevance of ‘ideas’ to political behaviour. The second part traces the intellectual ancestry of Maurice Cowling's thinking about politics, and places it within an interpretative tradition of social science. The formative influences of R. G. Collingwood and Michael Oakeshott are examined, and Mark Bevir's Logic of the history of ideas is used to highlight how Cowling's approach can be aligned with ‘new political history’.

This is a study of a colonial situation in its making, at ground level. It offers an analysis of a forcible process of political accumulation, the means whereby their British conquerors came to terms with the peoples of western Kenya, and a prerequisite for the pursuit of capital accumulation, the appropriation of economic resources from the native peoples of Kenya to the benefit of its British colonists. The case of western Kenya offers no paradigm for the European occupation of the rest of the African continent. Nor can any other case. The relative weights of subjugation and accommodation, of rupture and continuity within conquest – of such great influence on the structure and texture of the colonial era which followed – were governed by too many variables. Brief mention of only four of them will be enough to indicate some of the pitfalls of generalization, even generalization about difference.

‘Anybody who has bred horses will tell you’, the anti-feminist M.P. Major Falle informed M.P.s in 1923, when opposing women's full admission to Cambridge University, ‘that it is folly in the extreme to put colts and fillies together’. More subtle was the argument of Lord Hugh Cecil; concerned with what we now call the ‘chemistry’ of human relationships, he claimed that only a single-sex environment produces the ‘nervous intensity’ that launches major intellectual achievement and significant shifts in national opinion. Anti-feminist faith in segregation applied also to politics. Before 1918, parliament was what social anthropologists would now call a ‘men's house’ as with the kindred London clubs and colleges in Oxford and Cambridge, women's admission to it was slow and reluctant. If women wanted to participate in public life, it was argued, they should form clubs or parliaments of their own. Unlike some anti-feminists, Cecil's desire for segregation did not lead him to oppose votes for women because he saw the elector as simply an individual in a polling-booth, but he shared the anti-feminists' idea that the M.P. ‘resembles the limb of a body’, and so should be recruited solely from men. Nobody listened; within months of getting the vote, women (even unenfranchised women between 21 and 30) became eligible for parliament, and mixed universities eventually became the norm.

The representative credentials of the unreformed parliament are a subject of enduring historical interest. It is not surprising that much of that interest has focused on the electoral basis of the house of commons. From the beginnings of an organized movement for parliamentary reform and the first systematic investigations of the subject, criticism fastened on the anomalies and inequities of a manifestly outdated franchise. Modern scholarship, emancipated from the bias of whig history, has been less harsh in its judgement, but equally preoccupied with elections and the electorate. Successive studies have demonstrated the vitality of popular electoral politics not merely in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, before the onset of so-called oligarchy, but even in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, when contemporary criticism was at its height.1 One of the unintended consequences of this successful search for the politics of participation has been a tendency to divert attention from the actual working of parliament, except in terms of those periodic crises, and great national issues, which were of manifest importance in the party politics of the day. Yet parliament in the eighteenth century concerned itself with an extraordinary variety of topics, and burdened itself with a remarkable quantity of business. After the revolution of 1688 it met annually for long, and lengthening sessions. It increasingly involved itself in the operations of government and played an ever more important part in the making and revision of law.

The thirty years during which James Perry owned and edited the Morning Chronicle, the leading Whig daily newspaper, were marked by important developments in the history of the press. In the early nineteenth century there was a notable growth in the spirit of political independence among newspaper proprietors, and they developed the classical liberal roles of the press: die impartial dissemination of news and the expression of public opinion. Professional editors and reporters came to replace the old all-rounders like William Woodfall who had combined the tasks of printing, editing and reporting; and individual proprietors supplanted the unenterprising ownership of syndicates. There was a rapid expansion in the number of daily evening and of Sunday papers and, though the number of daily morning papers remained fairly stable, dieir circulation increased steadily after about 1800. A well-conducted newspaper could serve, not simply as a side-product of a printer's or bookseller's business, or as an advertising medium for its proprietors' interests, but as a lucrative business venture in its own right. There was an extraordinary rise in the capital value of successful newspapers: the Morning Chronicle and the Morning Post, which were bought for a few hundred pounds each in die 1790s, were sold for £42,000 and £25,000 respectively in the early nineteenth century. Despite the heavy weight of taxation, which was successfully designed to restrict the sale of newspapers, proprietors were able to prosper thanks to die increasing profits diey made on advertisements. It has now been possible to calculate, from the ledgers of die Public Advertiser and Gazetteer, and from the office copies of the Morning Chronicle, some part of a newspaper's profits from advertising in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.

Reconstructing Britain's cities to accommodate the ‘motor revolution’ was an integral part of urban renewal in the post-war decades. This article shows how opposition to urban motorways had a pivotal role in the retreat from urban modernism in the 1970s. It takes as its case-study Birmingham, Britain's premier motor city, headquarters of the motor industry, and with heavy investment in roads, including the Inner Ring, Britain's first urban motorway completed in 1971. The article traces the collapse of the motor city ideal in Birmingham sparked by controversy over car pollution at Spaghetti Junction, the growth of roads protest, and the implication of the Inner Ring in municipal corruption. In so doing, it identifies the intersection of environmental, political, and economic factors that lay behind the volte-face in urban policy and compares Birmingham with other cities which witnessed similar revolts. It argues that the 1970s in Britain saw the end of a specific engineering vision of the post-war city, centred on the car and the ‘citizen-driver’.

This historiographical review explores the impact of new interdisciplinary, comparative, and cultural approaches to studying the First World War upon the historiography, as the centenary of the conflict approaches in 2014. It assesses to what extent these approaches have led to new consensus regarding five key established historiographical questions: why did war break out; why did the Allies win; were the generals to blame for the high casualty rates; how did men endure trench warfare; and to what extent did civilian society accept and endorse the war effort? It also examines how these historiographical approaches have led to the emergence of new themes – in particular, military occupation, radicalization, race, and the wartime body – in the war's historiography. Ultimately, it concludes that how the war is understood has undergone radical revision since the 1990s as a result of these changes.

This review points out the dangers of taking Jonathan Israel's volumes on the Enlightenment as a new framework for Enlightenment studies. Despite Israel's claim in Enlightenment contested to have historicized our understanding of the Enlightenment, his modus operandi is fundamentally unhistorical, and the result is a presentist interpretation with an oversimplified classification of thinkers into ‘radical’ and ‘moderate’ camps. The review suggests more effective ways to make a truly historicized Enlightenment present for us now, especially by devoting more attention to the literary and rhetorical properties of Enlightenment texts.

He might be regarded indeed as a representative specimen of the Teutonic type.1 He was essentially Teutonic in his whole personality, physical, as well as moral and mental; in his square, sturdy frame, his ruddy hair, his fair complexion, his plain and simple habits of life, no less than in his love of truth, and straightforwardness in deed and word. For the pure Celt he entertained a kind of natural antipathy, mingled with something like contempt, which often manifested itself in odd and amusing ways, suggestive of Dr Johnson's attitude towards the Scotch.

Of the making of books on the women's rights movement there is no end, but detailed study of the ways in which the role of women changed in the second half of the nineteenth century has by comparison hardly begun. Yet it is clearly such investigations alone which can show how far the conventional stress upon feminism has been well judged. The religious activities of nineteenth-century British society are admittedly very far from being the area in which the greatest changes occurred in this connexion. Nevertheless for two reasons their investigation seems well worth while. In the first place, when ‘the woman question’ first attracted widespread attention among the British middle classes, the churches were still the great arbiters of public attitudes towards social issues, and the social influence of religious beliefs, practices and institutions was undoubtedly far more extensive than, for example, that of John Stuart Mill or the National Society for Women's Suffrage.

This article focuses on the advances made to safeguard the future of the Welsh language under the Conservative governments of the 1980s and 1990s. These advancements included the establishment of a Welsh language television channel, advancements in the field of Welsh language education, the formation of a Welsh Language Board, and, finally, the implementation of a new Welsh Language Act in 1993. Challenging popular assumptions regarding the nature of Conservative governance during this period, the article examines the background and context of these developments by highlighting the limitations of ‘Thatcherite’ dogma not only in ‘second order’ areas of policy, but also in a nation where Tory roots were not deeply embedded.

Case-studies of the circle of Samuel Hartlib, one of the most prolific groups of reformers in post-Reformation Europe, are flourishing. The uncovering of rich details has, however, made it difficult to draw a meaningful generalization about the circle's bewilderingly wide range of activities. Focusing on the circle's promotion of ‘useful knowledge’, this article offers an analytical framework for building a new synthesis. The eclectic and seemingly chaotic pursuit of useful knowledge emerged, it will be shown, as differing responses to, and interpretations of, pervasive distrust and the pursuit of reformation. The article thus explores how loosely-shared experience shaped the circle's ambivalent practices of collaboration and exclusion. The study thereby contributes not only to studies of the Hartlib circle, but also to the historiography of post-Reformation culture and burgeoning studies of trust and credibility in the history of science and technology.

The history of mechanics’ institutes ‘is at once beautiful and terrible to read', Christopher Charles Cattell, the Birmingham radical republican, told the members of his Eclectic Institute in 1854. Contemporaries of the mechanics’ institute movement in the mid-nineteenth century were acutely aware of this terrible history. ‘The banquet was prepared for guests who did not come …,’ wrote Robert Elliott in 1861. J. W. Hudson referred to ‘The universal complaint that Mechanics’ Institutions are attended by persons of a higher rank than those for whom they were designed…’ The Westminster Review continued the lament, Samuel Smiles, Lloyd Jones and J. M. Ludlow joined the chorus, and later historians have followed the tune. E. P. Thompson, for example, writes: ‘After the mid-Twenties the tendency was general for the custom of artisans to give way to that of the lower middle class, and for orthodox political economy to come into the syllabus.

When faced in 1920 with allegations of unfair treatment of women civil servants, Austen Chamberlain, the chancellor of the exchequer, expressed some surprise and countered that the postwar settlement not only ‘marked a great advance in the position of women in the Civil Service, but appeared to provide the most suitable machinery for ensuring that the opportunities afforded to women in the Civil Service should be full and liberal. Indeed…the proposals are the best that could be adopted in the interests of women themselves.’ Was the chancellor right? And if not, why not? Such questions may seem surprising or even wilfully obscure to more traditional administrative historians: of what importance anyway are the real or imagined grievances of a gaggle of women, most of whom were humble rank and file? That view, however, is appropriate only if the civil service is taken at its own estimation or, rather, that of its masters, those men at the top in what was called, variously, the first division, class I, and the administrative grade. Behind its façade of bland homogeneity raged both class and gender conflict. The former has been studied at some length. The latter has not. In beginning to remedy this deficiency this article inspects the treatment by the civil service, with the Treasury at its head, of one category of staff, women; an inspection which illuminates its public image as a rational and professional body representative of society and responsive to its needs.