John Lilburne's extensive writings were a major part of the pamphlet output of the Leveller movement. The apparent traditionalism of his language has obscured the extent to which he developed a radical line of thought. For Lilburne, all Englishmen are ‘free-born’; his radicalism lies in his assertion that this free status is to be seen as political status. The phrase ‘free-born Englishman’ comes to be a signifier of a uniform and inclusive citizenship, and the word ‘subject’ drops out of Lilburne's vocabulary. He reinterprets the language of the English legal tradition – following the lead of Sir Edward Coke – to make a collection of ‘liberties’, ‘franchises’, and ‘privileges’ into a uniform set of citizen entitlements. His writing suggests varying and sometimes incompatible grounds for this citizen status: historical arguments, and arguments depending on different notions of positive law, are employed alongside appeals to divine or natural law. However, Lilburne's attachment to the English legal tradition persists, and is an effective vehicle for the politicized vision of the English nation which he wants to convey.

For the first two years of the war the French government drew up no programme of its war aims. When the cabinet began to consider its aims in Europe during the summer of 1916, it still avoided serious discussion of war aims overseas. Faced with the overwhelming preoccupations of the Western Front, the government paid little heed to the future of the Empire. Such war aims as France possessed outside Europe by the time of the armistice were arrived at in two ways: first, by ad hoc agreenebts with her allies in the Middle East and in West Africa, agreements forced on the government by the course of the war; secondly, by a commission d'étude established in 1918 to prepare for the peace conference, a commission from which ministers were excluded. The colonial war aims that emerged in these two separate ways were the product not of the French cabinet but of the parti colonial and its sympathizers within the foreign and colonial ministries.

Penal reformers in the 1810s and 1820s condemned the English criminal law as a ‘bloody code’: a monolithic mass of draconian statutes inherited from a former, less civilized age. This overwhelmingly negative image underpinned the dramatic and unexpected repeal of the capital statutes in the 1830s and survived to define a whole era of criminal justice history. This article explores the conditions that enabled the reformers to establish such a powerful critique of the law in such a short space of time. It contends that a key to their success was their ability to exploit contemporary scandals to argue that the law had lost touch with public opinion. Forgery aroused more controversy than any other species of capital crime in the 1820s and became the focal point for opposition to the capital laws. By analysing how reformers used the scandal surrounding forgery to foster the notion that the law was a ‘bloody code’, this article presents a new perspective on the early nineteenth-century penal reform debate.

An exploration of the origins of the Arbitration Act of 1698 and an analysis of court-related arbitration during the next century. Principal conclusions: (1) that the act originated at the board of trade, with John Locke drafting and drawing upon judicial practice of the later 1600s; (2) that use of the act's provisions was limited before the 1770s even though extra-judicial arbitration was proliferating; (3) that thereafter, with the Court of King's Bench under Lord Mansfield taking the lead, rules of court under the act multiplied; and (4) that arbitration under the act was increasingly ‘legalized’ in procedure and in the qualifications of the arbitrators.

The view that Lloyd George designed his ‘People's Budget’of 1909–10 so as to invite its rejection by the House of Lords has fallen very largely out of favour with scholars, and it is now generally accepted that he devised his Budget as an alternative to rather than as a means to a battle with the Lords. As argued by Roy Jenkins and others, Lloyd George assumed that the peers would not dare tamper with a finance bill, and he consequently looked to his Budget as a way around the veto of the Lords: by means of it he hoped to attain some radical objectives against the wishes of the Lords.

The unrest in London during the ‘Exclusion Crisis’ filled Charles II with fear and foreboding of a new civil war. Yet although recent research has highlighted the important role played by the capital's inhabitants in the period, the evidence available for studying the groups of radicals involved has been sketchy and fragmentary. This article uses a new source, in the form of a mass petition, signed by almost 16,000 citizens, which was presented to the king in January 1680. It offers a unique opportunity to measure public opinion during one of the most turbulent periods of the Restoration, and to test assumptions about the character of the opposition to the king. After a discussion of the aims and conduct of the campaign, a prosopographical study of some of the most readily identifiable signatories provides the basis for a detailed examination of the political, religious, geographical, economic and social dimension of the petition. Finally, London's popular reaction to national politics is considered in terms of its effectiveness in altering royal policy, and its impact on the rest of the country.

Andrew Marvell's ‘An Horatian ode upon Cromwel's return from Ireland’ is the most private of political poems. It may be a solitary meditation; it may be written, after Horace, for a forward youth now unknown to us; but it scarcely seems addressed to the public audience of Marvell's tribute to Cromwell in ‘The first anniversary’. We enter an imaginative landscape beyond politics, outside the movement of history, where the figures of the ode – restless Cromwell, the royal actor, the clapping soldiers, the frighted architects, the tamed Irish, the luring falconer, the hunted Pict – appear stilled as upon some ancient vase. Yet the poem's transcendence of events need not be taken for detachment from them, nor its privacy for retreat. I want to suggest that the celebrated poise and urbanity of the ode have been created from energy and urgency of feeling. Marvell has given timelessness to a desperate and portentous moment in his country's history, the arrival of Cromwell in England in the summer of 1650. Language has been immortalized too: the language of ephemeral tracts and newspapers, which is close enough to the surface of the poem to suggest a younger Marvell as politically engaged as the restoration M.P. and whig pamphleteer.

This article, through a detailed examination of the private papers of the English landed elite, argues for the important place of anger in early modern society. It investigates the verbal expression of rage, from irritation to fury, in men and women: why it was aroused, how it was articulated, its effects, and in what circumstances anger was regarded as a legitimate response. Anger was a forceful invitation to renegotiate unsatisfactory aspects of relationships. It spotlighted deficiencies in duty, unacceptable conduct, disrespect, broken promises, and frustrated expectations. The article also challenges the prevailing approach to the history of emotions and suggests that we move from a model of linear repression to one of situated experience. Rather than postulating the gradual suppression of unacceptable emotions, historians should examine the conventions governing the expression of emotions in context, as well as the many perspectives on what was acceptable behaviour and what was not. Focusing on the situated use of emotions brings to light the different emotional mentality of the seventeenth century which linked emotions in unfamiliar ways. It also enables to us to uncover the interaction of emotions and how individuals engaged in daily life with cultural scripts, as well as bringing us closer to unravelling the emotional system of early modern England.

This article re-examines the role of civility and politeness in the writings of whig authors from 1688 to 1732. It argues that politeness was not an exclusively whig concept. Nor was there any unanimity amongst the whigs about its meaning. Politeness was a hotly debated topic in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, but differences in its interpretations did not follow party lines. The notions of politeness formulated by whig authors after 1688 differed from each other as much as they differed from those framed by non-whigs. The article also reconsiders the account that the whig theorists used their analysis of politeness to defend the commercial values of post-1688 England and Britain. Again, there was no agreement on this amongst the whigs. Some of them explicitly denied the putative link between commerce and politeness, some of them were not interested in it, and even those who argued for it still interpreted politeness in its traditional courtly terms rather than in post-courtly urban terms.

Some recent studies have highlighted the importance of sounds for social interaction in the early modern period, yet the consequences for deaf members of society are rarely questioned. Those without the ability to hear lived in a world of sounds controlled by those who heard. This article explores the extent to which the deaf were socially integrated in English society between the mid-sixteenth and mid-eighteenth centuries. It also assesses the disadvantages suffered by those born deaf, or who lost their hearing. Crucial to the discussion is an understanding that experiences were not uniform, as the term deafness covered a wide spectrum of conditions, from temporary hearing loss to profound congenital deafness. Clearly some were more disabled than others, but their disadvantages were more to do with traditional social divisions of wealth and status, rather than the extent of their hearing impairment. Fundamentally, the most inhibiting factor was an inability to apprehend words.

Probably the greatest popular movement in Georgian Britain was that formed around military volunteering during the wars against revolutionary and Napoleonic France. Often cited is the number of volunteers enrolled in 1803–4, nearly 400,000. These were the most active participants. Outside the ranks there existed an even larger mass of organizers, subscribers and supporters, including sometimes female committees; at this time volunteering was one of several developments which brought Britain recognizably close to ‘total’ war in terms of its population's war-involvement. Yet historians have said little about the movement. We have not progressed very far beyond the gospel according to Victorian and Edwardian nationalism in which Napoleonic volunteering was depicted as the British people's inevitable response to the threat of foreign invasion, proud testimony of their ‘warlike spirit’, ‘love of freedom’ and ‘patriotic unanimity’. The only critical evaluation there has been remains based on an article by J. R. Western, published as long ago as 1956. This refined the established ‘wave of patriotism’ version by linking volunteering with the counter-revolution of the 1790s directed against popular radicals. Volunteers were depicted as armed loyalists, their corps as the successors of the loyalist associations and the movement as a whole as a key component of an extensive and dominant ‘party of order’. The most recent work on the anti-radical reaction barely disturbs this interpretation. While it is not denied that the threat of foreign attack was also instrumental in producing volunteers, the emphasis continues to be on volunteering, at least in its early phase, as an outgrowth of counter-revolutionary loyalism.

England has not known a simple two-party system, or a party system of any sort. The lineage of English parties is fragmented and discontinuous. Most of the apparent continuities, like the myth of a long-standing two-party system, have been invented in retrospect by politicians and publicists seeking the justification of a pedigree. Party itself has not been a constant phenomenon, which could be defined by the political scientist and then searched for by the historian. The English experience, rather, is of a succession of discontinuous two-, three-, even four-party systems whose components both develop and relate to each other through changing conventions. Often the fiction of the ‘two-party system’ has disguised the reality of three or more parties; parties which, themselves, can be the vehicles for a wide range of issues. It is a commonplace, which was evident to Hume and Bolingbroke, that whigs and tories exchanged many of their policy commitments in the early eighteenth century; but the same suggestion has been made of the Conservative and Labour parties today. The content of a party's programme has always been almost infinitely flexible; except in respect of the questions raised by a small number of threats, challenges or problems. The existence and endurance of party systems has usually articulated the ideological polarity which such challenges induce.

This article explores the response of the moderate wing of the civil rights movement to the war in Vietnam. The moderates, made up of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), the National Urban League, and leaders such as Bayard Rustin and A. Philip Randolph, were initially opposed to the civil rights movement taking a stand against the war. This reluctance was the result of a number of factors, including anti-communism and their own closeness with the administration of President Lyndon Johnson. Crucially, it also resulted from their own experiences of the black freedom struggle itself. The article also documents and analyses the growing anti-war dissent amongst the moderates, culminating in the decision of both the NAACP and the Urban League to adopt an anti-war stance at the end of the 1960s. Despite this, they remained unenthusiastic about participating in peace movement activities, and the reasons for this are explained. Finally, the article suggests that the war was important in exposing existing divisions within the civil rights movement, as well as in generating new ones.

This article demonstrates the connections between journalism, patriotism, and the culture of public discussion in late Victorian Britain, taking as a case study C. P. Scott's use of the Guardian in opposing the Boer War. It asserts that while opposing the war, Scott was simultaneously trying to redefine ‘patriotism’ and preserve a rapidly waning ideal of the press as an agent of public discussion, two interrelated goals. In contrast to a predominant image of the patriot as blind supporter of the government's imperial expansionism, the Guardian put forth an ideal of a critical patriotism. At the same time, Scott rejected the prevailing contemporary notion that the press should merely ‘represent’ the readers' interests. Instead, he sought to use leading articles and news reports to encourage a culture of public discussion. Scott's journalistic and political goals overlapped, as his notion of patriotism required maintaining a healthy public sphere. Although this study demonstrates Scott's role in the persistence of critical ideals of patriotism and journalism, it concludes that Scott had to content himself with appealing to an elite audience.

During the last two years of the Great War the British government undertook a global propaganda campaign to generate support for the military advance into the Near East, British post-war domination of the region, and the war effort in general. The objective was to transform how the West and the peoples of the Ottoman empire perceived the Orient, its future, and the British empire. To fit with the international demand that the war should be fought for the cause of national self-determination, the Orient was re-defined as the Middle East: a region of oppressed nations that required liberation and tutelage by Britain and the entente. Great Britain was portrayed as the pre-eminent champion of the principle of nationality, which was behind its move into the Middle East. It is argued in this article that these narratives constituted a significant change in Western representations of the Orient and the British empire.

The political history of Liberalism in the twenty years after 1886 was dominated by two great concerns: the need to find a unifying platform for the party which would be capable of sustaining it as an effective political force in the post-Gladstonian era and the need to come to terms with the growing economic and political strength of organized Labour. It was axiomatic that the two concerns were closely connected and that ‘social reform’ was the crucial link between them. It seemed clear that a more active social policy would not only renew the reforming impetus of Liberalism, but would also enable the Liberals to retain working-class support and so help to prevent the formation of a separate Labour party. This was the assumption that spurred Liberals to a redefinition of their political creed and led to the formulation of a ‘new Liberalism’ committed to policies of state intervention and social reform of the kind implemented by Asquith, Churchill and Lloyd George after 1906.3 However, while the New Liberalism may have acted as a cohering influence on the Liberal party (itself a moot point) and provided a firm intellectual justification for its policies, it proved less successful as a means of retaining Labour's undivided electoral support. With the formation, first of the Independent Labour Party in 1893, and then of the Labour Representation Committee in 1900, there was set in train the formal organizational separation of the Liberal and Labour parties that was so drastically to affect the subsequent fortunes of Liberalism and so decisively to shape the pattern of modern British politics. The question that remains is whether this rift was the result of the tardiness with which the Liberals adopted their new policies, whether it was the product of other, quite separate factors, or whether in some way the nature of the New Liberalism itself may have contributed to the breach.

On 21 October 1639 and 29 May 1652 the English Channel off the Downs and Dover was the scene of two highly significant events. The first of these was the crushing defeat inflicted on a Spanish armada by a Dutch fleet under the command of Maerten Harpertszoon Tromp while an English squadron commanded by Sir John Pennington watched from a distance and did nothing. On the second of the two dates Tromp and the English admiral Robert Blake clashed in the armed encounter off Dover which sparked off the first Anglo-Dutch War.

In the late eighteenth century, the British electorate began thinking about politics and statecraft in a new way. Britons challenged the natural rights of the nation's aristocracy to rule, and actively linked the personal behaviour of individual noblemen and women to real or imagined public consequences. Aristocratic gaming provided Britons with a rich vocabulary for voicing such concerns. The noble gamester, perceived as erratic, self-interested, and without honour, personified those aspects of private aristocratic vice most likely to undermine national well-being. The 1784 Westminster election specifies two aspects of this controversy. The political unworthiness of notorious gamester Charles James Fox (a front-runner in the election) was linked early on to his personal financial mismanagement, which intimated, in the public mind, his potential abuse of public funds. Fox further contaminated his suitability for public office by allowing the fifth duchess of Devonshire, herself a gamestress, to canvass for him. Her presence in Westminster not only dramatized Fox's gamester persona, but effeminized it. Pittite propaganda stressed Fox's culpability on both counts, and emphasized a new concern with private virtue as fundamental to the moral prerogative to rule.