In the history of Renaissance thought and learning jurisprudence seems to be a missing term. Not that the scholarship of civil, canon and customary law is itself lacking, or lagging, but it has not been sufficiently integrated with that of other fields, and even in the modern history of the Renaissance ‘encyclopedia’ it does not hold high priority. In some modern views of the studium, in fact, law seems to stand not only below the trivium and quadrivium but even, since it lacks utility as well as liberality, below the mechanical arts. Petrarch and other humanists would no doubt be pleased at this turnabout; and others may find justice (in a historian's if not a lawyer's sense) at the fall of the profession of law from academic grace. For present purposes, however, we must try to lay aside the prejudice which many of us may feel toward lawyers, modern counterparts of the pedants derided by Petrarch and the ‘mean and mercenary’ pettifoggers denounced by Cicero. It is not the purpose here to plead the cause of Renaissance jurists; but it may be possible, by attending to some of their less celebrated (or lamented) achievements, to do some justice to their place in the history of learning.

The French state expropriated an enormous quantity of cultural property from across Europe during the Wars of the Revolution and Napoleon, but much was returned in 1815 after the fall of the Empire. This article examines contemporary attitudes to the displacement of works of art, antiquities, scientific specimens, and rare books. The seizures were controversial: since they occurred at a time when plundering the vanquished was already considered questionable behaviour, they attracted opposition and needed to be justified. The article identifies the resulting repertoire of attitudes, arguing that this repertoire evolved with changing circumstances and was more varied than hitherto maintained. By situating this repertoire in a larger historical context, the article also reassesses the extent to which attitudes were derivative and innovative. It contends that the disputation as a whole did not amount to a decisive rupture in the treatment of foreign cultural property during wartime, but that it was nevertheless remarkable in two respects: concepts from hitherto unrelated subjects were applied to considerations about cultural property; and the perceived conditions under which cultural property could be legitimately transferred were revised.

Ruth Williams was not a typist. She was apt to be put out when the newspapers called her that. In fact she was a secretary, a confidential clerk, with a firm of Lloyds' underwriters in London. On 30 September 1948, at a registry office in Kensington, she married Seretse Khama, heir to the chieftaincy of the Bangwato in the Bechuanaland Protectorate. No-one knew whether the Bangwato would accept a white consort. British newspapers ran features headed ‘Shall typist be a Queen?’ (Sunday Dispatch, 28 November 1948), and ‘This girl can upset the peace of Africa’ (Sunday Express, 10 July 1949). White opinion in South Africa was aghast: the marriage was condemned as ‘distasteful and disturbing’ (Johannesburg Star, 28 June 1949), as ‘striking at the root of white supremacy’ (Natal Witness, 2 July 1949). Ruth's parents opposed the marriage and did not attend the ceremony. Her father, George Williams, was a retired Indian army officer, working as a commercial traveller. Ruth was born in 1923, and brought up in Blackheath and Lewisham. She attended Eltham High School, took polytechnic classes in cookery, and served for four years in the war as a corporal-driver with the W.A.A.F. Together with her sister Muriel, she was a churchgoer, keenly interested in the African work of the London Missionary Society. They were constant visitors to the colonial students' hostel at Nutford Place in Bayswater. It was at an L.M.S. meeting in 1947 that she met Seretse, a quiet, friendly, relaxed and thoroughly Anglicized law student of twenty-seven, with an alert mind and honest manner. The sexual attraction between them was apparently strong. But there was also in their decision to marry a challenging element of anti-apartheid zeal. Ruth abhorred the colour bar, and felt she could do at least as much good in Bechuanaland as missionary wives had done.

While the crucial question of the contribution of the troubles of the 1620s to the eventual dissolution of the old political order in Stuart England remains clouded in debate, with historians like C. Russell questioning the whole concept of escalating parliamentary opposition to the Crown in that decade, we are at least beginning to recognize the pattern of provincial unrest and the growing interaction of national and local agitation at this time. D. Hirst in particular has shown how constituencies were increasingly volatile and vociferous, a development which owed a great deal to the expansion of their electorates. In the boroughs country gentry joined forces with anti-oligarchic groups of citizens to broaden the franchise. Here agitation was strongly influenced by the severe economic and social problems of many county towns during the early seventeenth century.

It is increasingly common in modern literary theory to read that a text's meaning must be elicited from the textual ‘possibilities which are not said’. At this level of generality, the proposition applies equally to the interpretation of non-literary as literary texts. In this paper, I shall endeavour to illustrate the usefulness of this approach by considering the meaning of Locke's argument in Two treatises in terms of things which Locke chose not to say. I shall argue two points. First, I shall suggest that many of the controversies which have arisen in recent years about Locke's meaning have suffered because inadequate attention has been paid to the precise character of a number of silences in Locke's argument. The persistence of an inadequate framework for understanding the character of Englishmen's appeals to an original contract, constitutional law and history in the late seventeenth century will occupy my attention here. Second, I shall suggest that attention to the details of Locke's most significant silences can cast light on current controversies about the intellectual status of Locke's argument. In particular, I shall argue that the current tendency to locate Two treatises within a context of coded, conspiratorial politics is mistaken.

Historians of political thought speak of ‘languages’ of politics. A language provides a lexicon, an available resource for legitimating positions. It is looser than a ‘theory’, because protean, and not predictive of particular doctrines. Some languages attract considerable scholarly attention, while others languish, for all that they were ambient in past cultures. In recent scholarship on early modern European thought, natural law and civic humanism have dominated. Yet prescriptive appeals to national historiographies were equally pervasive. Many European cultures appealed to Tacitean mythologies of a Gothic ur-constitution. The Anglophone variant dwelt on putative Saxon freedoms, the status of the Norman ‘Conquest’, whether feudalism ruptured the Gothic inheritance, and how common law related to ‘reason’, natural law, and divine law. Whigs rooted parliaments in the Saxon witenagemot; though, by the eighteenth century, ‘modern’ Whigs discerned liberty as the fruit of recent socio-economic change. Levellers and Chartists alike talked of liberation from the ‘Norman Yoke’. These themes were explored from the 1940s onwards under the stimulus of Herbert Butterfield; one result was J. G. A. Pocock's classic Ancient constitution and the feudal law (1957).

In a jarring passage toward the conclusion of Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes endorsed the abolition of episcopacy and the establishment of an Independent religious settlement within England. Most historians have ignored this feature of Leviathan, or have dismissed it as an off-hand aside of no consequence. Others, more plausibly, have construed it as part of a royalist scheme (encouraged by Queen Henrietta Maria and her supporters) to secure a Stuart Restoration by allying with the English Independents. This article offers an alternative theory. It argues that Hobbes's attentions were probably drawn to Independency by the political machinations of a group of idiosyncratic Catholics gathered around the philosopher-priest, Thomas White (alias Blacklo). In 1649, White and his ‘Blackloist’ followers engaged in secret negotiations with Oliver Cromwell. In exchange for religious toleration for Catholics, the Blackloists promised allegiance to the Commonwealth and conformity to a Congregationalist religious settlement. This article examines Hobbes's close personal links with the leading Blackloists, documents similarities in their reactions to Independency, establishes the strong intellectual influence Leviathan had on Blackloist tracts, and demonstrates that royalists consistently linked Hobbes with the Blackloist treason. The article concludes that the Blackloist plot to betray the Stuart cause, rather than any royalist scheme to strike a deal with the Independents, provides the most compelling contextual explanation for Thomas Hobbes's endorsement of Independency.

Parliament's Protestation of May 1641 pledged subscribers to defend the protestant doctrine of the Church of England against all popery and popish innovations, while upholding the honour of the king, the privileges of parliament, and the liberties of the subject. The following twelve months saw contentious debate about the ambiguity of these phrases and the conflicting obligations they entailed. Leaders of the political nation subscribed the Protestation voluntarily in the summer of 1641, emulated in some places by ordinary parishioners. In the more polarized political circumstances of early 1642, parliament ordered the Protestation to be taken nationwide by all men aged eighteen and above. Women, too, occasionally subscribed. This article traces the tendering and reception of the Protestation on both occasions, and examines some of its local consequences. The circulation of the Protestation significantly widened the arena for political and religious involvement in the opening stages of the English revolution.

Few historical doctrines agreed better with the prejudices of what one may call the romantic-liberal school of historians of the last century than the classical theory of Germanic kingship. In early Teutonic society, according to this theory, there were normally no kings, but in each nation there was a royal race from which kings could be chosen by the ‘folk’ if need arose. ‘Kings’, wrote Tacitus, ‘are chosen by reason of their nobility, dukes because of their good qualities’, and it was assumed that such an arrangement, which so judiciously combined a romantic respect for aristocratic traditions with a democratic element of popular selection, still held good in the epoch of the Barbarian Invasions. More sober historians of a later epoch echoed the enthusiasm of earlier scholars. The king, wrote Kern, ‘possessed a certain hereditary reversionary right, or at least a privileged “throne-worthiness” in virtue of his royal descent. But it was the people who summoned him to the throne with the full force of law, in as much as they chose from among the members of the ruling dynasty either the next in title or the fittest. … What distinguished the king from a freely elected official was his hereditary right to the throne; but this was an hereditary right not of any individual ruler, but of a ruling family…All members of the ruling family are royal’. Bury put it even more clearly. ‘A German state might have a king or it might not, but in either case it was virtually a democracy.… Some of them had kings; any of them might at any moment elect a king; but the presence or absence of a king might almost be described as a matter of convenience, it had no decisive constitutional importance…. But the people who had no king required an executive officer of this kind likewise. Well, they had an officer who was called a graf…. The graf was elected by the assembly, and the assembly might elect anyone they liked. The king was likewise elected by the assembly, but in his case their choice was limited to a particular family, a royal family. In other words, the kingship was hereditary, and the grafship was not. But this hereditary character of the kingship was of a limited kind. When a king died, the office did not devolve on any particular kinsman of his; the sovran people might elect any member of the family they chose; they might refuse to elect any successor at all.

Patterns of voting in Britain between the second Reform Act of 1867 and the Franchise Act of 1918 have to be scrutinized afresh in the light of Dr Dunbabin's recent suggestion that very little changed in the period. The electoral profile of the regions, he argues, remained fundamentally constant from well before the period until well afterwards. The basis of the cleavage between conservative and anti-conservative voters was deeply ingrained in regional character and was merely modified slowly by processes of social change, of which the chief was the sprawling growth of London. This is to challenge earlier views holding that there was a deep-seated shift in the allegiance of the electorate in the years before the first World War. Of such views the most carefully worked out is that of Dr Clarke. The cleavage between the conservative and the anti-conservative at the beginning of the period, according to Dr Clarke, was founded on the gulf between different communities of which the primary social bond was religion. The confrontation between conservative and liberal corresponded to, and was the political expression of, that between church and chapel. By the end of the period, however, the basis of cleavage was no longer religion but class. Conservative strength was sapped by a tendency to working-class solidarity which at first benefited the liberals more than the infant labour party and which explains the two liberal general election victories of 1910. The social base of the parties had been transformed so that the electoral conflict was no longer a matter of ‘cultural politics’ – a rivalry of contrasted, classless cultural units – but a matter of class politics. Dr Clarke asserts what Dr Dunbabin denies, that there is a sharp discontinuity between the characteristic pattern of nineteenth-century politics and the characteristic pattern of twentieth-century politics.

It may be thought surprising that one should attempt to reassess the 1945 general election, in view of the attention which has already been paid to it. The election was, as is well known, the subject of the first of the Nuffield election surveys, which have continued thereafter to the present day; and although that book, unlike more recent Nuffield studies, contained no account of the politics of the period preceding the election, such accounts have appeared in more recent years, most notably, perhaps that by Dr Paul Addison entitled The road to 1945. Addison’s work, however, full though it is on the politics of wartime, stops short at the election itself; and the Nuffield study, being the first of its series, was also, it is fair to say, the crudest and least adequate – although when it was published it marked an enormous technical advance on any previous rapid study of a British general election.

The existence of royal ‘influence’ was central to the political system of eighteenth-century England. However, the influence of the Crown occupies a curiously tangential place in the political thought of the period. Always difficult to ignore, influence gained recognition chiefly from those groups intent on destroying it – the Old-Whig enemies of corruption, the Country opposition to Walpole and the radical reformers late in the century. But the constant ambiguity as to the exact nature of the balance of the constitution may be explained primarily by the presence of opposed views about influence. While the numerous enemies of influence seem to have had their way in the law-books and other standard accounts of die constitution, an interpretation of British government, leaning more to realism than to legalism, sometimes surfaced in those ministerialists who defended places for M.P.s as the essential lubricant to die machinery. A realistic assessment of influence not only departed from die model of three equal and independent estates, it was also to provide a basis for understanding political parties within the framework of the balanced constitution.

This article builds on the recent willingness among British, Canadian, and imperial historians to question older national histories, and to re-examine how the divergent societies, economies, and polities of the empire once interacted in a wider ‘British world’. It argues that the press acted as a key mechanism for the transmission of political ideas through the permeable internal boundaries of empire. This is demonstrated through analysis of contemporary debate over the Canadian–American reciprocity proposals of 1911. This controversy provided an opportunity for political groups in Britain and Canada to use the press to forge alliances with each other and work together on a specific issue. Two key forces made this possible. In Britain, constructive imperialists had since 1903 sought to rally Dominion support for tariff reform, initially with limited success. In Canada, neither western farmers nor eastern manufacturers seemed interested in imperial preference. It was the reciprocity proposals that changed the situation, providing the second driving force. Canadian manufacturing interests, seeking to prevent the lowering of tariff barriers against United States rivals, began to court British constructive imperialists. As a result political conflict was reshaped both in colony and metropole.

Dr Elton has now written at length (Historical J. I (1958), 21–39) to support his view that Henry VII's reputation for rapacity was undeserved, while the idea that this ‘policy turned from just to unjust exactions was based only on insufficient knowledge of the facts’. He may have shown that Henry's actions were legal; he has not shown that they were just.What is unpopular is not necessarily unjust, but the opinions of subjects merit as full and sympathetic treatment as the policies of kings. Dr Elton's argument is of a type with those which claimed that, since Hitler's was a legally constituted government, it was sentimental to complain that its persecution of the Jews was unjust.

The object of this article is to reassess received views about the significance of the 1934 rally at Olympia for the fortunes of the British Union of Fascists. It begins by analysing the debate in the House of Commons which is traditionally seen as reflecting a reaction against BUF methods, and shows the extent to which it actually revealed sympathy amongst National Government members. Then follows a discussion of reactions in the press. The article suggests that far from being purely negative, the effect of Olympia in some parts of the press was to attract more attention, and not necessarily of a hostile nature. Finally it examines the reasons for hesitation on the part of the government in using the law and the police to curtail BUF methods in the aftermath of Olympia. It shows how far Mosley continued to conduct large indoor meetings, partly because he was able to make use of the existing law. The article concludes that the British defence of free speech after 1934 was less firm than is usually supposed and that resistance to fascism by the authorities was of marginal significance.

Although the broad outlines of al-Qa'ida's story are well known, less attention has been paid to its early development and evolution. How and why did al-Qa'ida leaders latch on to the United States as a primary adversary? What motivated Usama bin Laden to form al-Qa'ida in the first place? Did this motivation change over time? This article utilizes a series of recently discovered al-Qa'ida documents – such as al-Jihad magazine financed by Usama bin Laden during the 1980s, internal memos written in the early 1990s and captured by the US military in Afghanistan, and autobiographical accounts written since 2001 by former Afghan Arab fighters – to deepen our understanding of a clandestine organization that has caused havoc for the past two decades.