In recent years the outpouring of historical work on witchcraft has been prodigious. Twenty-first-century studies encompass every conceivable chronological and geographical area, from antiquity to the present, Massachusetts to Muscovy. Approaches have been varied, with witchcraft explored as an intellectual, legal, political, social, cultural, and psychological phenomenon. Of particular interest – and difficulty – is the ‘reality’ of witchcraft: how historians might recover contemporary meanings, beyond the meanings imposed by rationalists, romantics, and social scientists. This article examines nine books from the last five years to assess the state of the field, and to offer some suggestions for research in the future.

This article presents new and conclusive evidence to resolve the long-running controversy over whether the loyalist association movement of 1792 was spontaneous or was crafted by government. It shows that Pitt and his colleagues did not know in advance of John Reeves's proposals for the Crown and Anchor association before they were published on 23 November and it suggests who Reeves's original collaborators probably were. It then goes on to show how Pitt and his cousin, Lord Grenville, confronted with many demands and proposals for associations at this time, quickly seized upon the Reeves project as the most adaptable to their own ends and produced a new draft, redefining his proposals in the directions they were prepared to see such a movement take. This they induced Reeves to publish as a second declaration on 26 November and they went on to promote as the example and inspiration for a wider association movement.

For French political commentators and polemicists of the Bourbon Restoration period (1814–30), England's history of revolution and of royalist restoration between 1640 and 1688 offered striking and suggestive similarities to the trajectory of France's own political experience since 1789. Elaborated not just in the historical writings of men like Villemain, Guizot, and Carrel, but in a host of political speeches and pamphlets and other forms of ephemeral literature, allusions to Stuart and Cromwellian history carried a potent charge in debates and polemics over France's own political prospects. Drawing on statements by politicians and writers as diverse as François-René de Chateaubriand, Louis de Bonald, and Benjamin Constant, this article explores the meanings that were read into the comparison or juxtaposition of French and English histories, the ways in which these meanings were argued and contested, and the political uses to which they were put, both by critics and by supporters of the Restoration regime. If references to the Stuarts, to Cromwell, or to 1688 were sometimes politically opportunistic, they also sometimes reflected an aspiration to comprehend France's political destiny by relating its present position to broader frameworks of historical understanding – a point which the later parts of the article seek to develop by scrutinizing the ways in which French and English histories are connected in specific writings by Augustin Thierry, Guizot, and Chateaubriand.

Much as late-Victorian Nonconformists were inclined to take a simplified view of national politics, which they saw as a perpetual conflict between the agents of darkness and the apostles of light, students of the period have tended to take a simplified view of political Nonconformity, which was as multifarious in its secular loyalties as in its theological variations. The self-appointed guardians of the Nonconformist Conscience spoke with many voices, rarely in unison. Indeed, the individual who gave currency to that catchphrase, the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes, was - much by his Wesleyanism as by his idiosyncrasy - among the least typical of those whom he was alleged to represent.

On 18 October 1826 the final English state lottery was drawn at Coopers' Hall. It was the one hundred and seventieth of the state lotteries to be held since their parliamentary inauguration in 1694. Although the economic importance of the lotteries to the eighteenth-century exchequer has been widely recognized, their demise has received scant historical attention. This is despite stark contrast between the promotion of the lottery by government or government contractors, and the strident protests against the lottery's allegedly corrupt and ruinous influence. Why exactly was the lottery abandoned as an instrument of public revenue? Was it in response to moral argument or as a matter of fiscal policy? At issue is not only the effectiveness of organized opposition in transforming participation and policy-making, but also the relationship between Treasury strategies, systems of management and the response of the market.

Few international agreements have provoked more controversy among historians than that concluded at Dover, on 22 May 1670, by representatives of the English and French Crowns. Its main provisions were for an offensive war against the Dutch republic of the United Provinces, leading to its destruction as a European power, and for the public profession by the English king, Charles II, of the Roman Catholic faith, which had been regarded by most English people for a hundred years as the bitterest enemy of their own church. The existence of this treaty was concealed not only from the other European states and the subjects of the respective monarchs, but from the greater number of their own ministers. The motives of Charles in making this amazing pact have remained a mystery. In the present century, they have been represented by Sir Keith Feiling as an attempt to unite Catholics and Protestant dissenters as a foundation for a stronger monarchy; by Cyril Hartmann, K. H. D. Haley, David Ogg and Lady Antonia Fraser as a decision to hitch England to the fortunes of Europe's strongest state, France; by Sir Arthur Bryant as a wish to ensure his country a share of the Spanish empire and his throne a dependable group of supporters in the form of the Catholics; by Maurice Lee and J. R. Jones as a grand design to make himself independent of his subjects in general and of parliament in particular; and by John Miller as a desire for vengeance upon the Dutch.

This review reconsiders the place and importance of urban political culture in England between c. 1550 and c. 1750. Relating recent work on urban political culture to trends in political, social, and cultural historiography, it argues that England's towns and boroughs underwent two ‘renaissances’ over the course of the period: a ‘civic renaissance’ and the better-known ‘urban renaissance’. The former was fashioned in the sixteenth century; however, its legacy continued to inform political thought and practice over 150 years later. Similarly, although the latter is generally associated with ‘the long eighteenth century’, its attributes can be traced to at least the Elizabethan era. While central to broader transitions in post-Reformation political culture, these ‘renaissances’ were crucial in restructuring the social relations and social identity of townsmen and women. They also constituted an important but generally neglected dynamic of England's seventeenth-century ‘troubles’.

The five years 1917–21 are commonly regarded as a period of unusual turmoil in Britain when fears of revolution reached an intensity unknown in more than three generations. In explaining this unrest, historians have naturally concentrated upon the organized Labour movement; upon the complex dialectics of a conservative rank-and-file marshalled behind creative revolutionary leaders in the engineering trades; and, in the trades unions and Labour party, upon the genesis and meaning of Clause IV. In all such studies the state's most powerful servants have, however, commanded relatively little attention. Other than as an instrument of public order intruding into industrial disputes, historians of the working class have shown scant interest in the serviceman who remains very much the ‘candy man’ in uniform. This article, by way of redress, is concerned to examine the character of unrest in the armed forces, to compare and contrast disaffection in the army and navy, and to review Labour's response to both veteran and serviceman.

At a meeting of the Birmingham Political Union in May 1833, the principal guest, Daniel O'Connell, congratulated his audience on having carried the Reform Bill through to success, for, he said, ‘it was not Grey and Althorp who carried it, but the brave and determined men of Birmingham’. In the heat of the struggle, even some of the whig ministers were willing to admit in the famous words of Russell that ‘it is impossible that the whisper of a faction should prevail against the voice of the nation’. One of them told Thomas Attwood in May 1832 that ‘we owe our situation entirely to you’. Lord Durham maintained that ‘the country owed Reform to Birmingham, and its salvation from revolution’. Earl Grey himself, after the safe passing of the bill, thanked Attwood for all that he had done ‘to maintain popular support for the measure outside the House of Commons’.

For much of English history, the law punished felons not just with death, but also with the loss of their possessions. This article examines the practice of felony forfeiture in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, focusing on who profited and with what effects. It argues that recognizing the role such profit-takers played challenges common depictions of the nature and meaning of participation in law and governance. The heightened use of judicial revenues as tokens of patronage under Elizabeth and the early Stuarts impinged upon participatory aspects of the law's operation.

The word hero cannot be defined simply. According to time and speaker, it can imply anything from the bravery of a moment to the courage and statesmanship of a lifetime. We do not enjoy the distinction in English which La Bruyère drew in French: to him un héros was a young, dauntless and venturesome man, one like Alexander; but against him had to be set the truly great man, the grand homme, the one with judgement, foresight, experience and considerable ability - a man like Caesar. As we shall see, hero can be used to describe both kinds of men. But if it has no very specific meaning, it is an important word for any study of the Victorian era - an era that for our purposes is taken to cover the years from the 1830s to the outbreak of the First World War. For the Victorians loved a hero, and the word often came to their lips. Carlyle, whose Heroes and hero-worship was first published in 1841, thought that a nation's whole history could be told in terms of its heroes, and he and Kingsley and Froude, to name three of the important literary figures of the age, regarded heroes as being vital to any society. They thought it particularly important that the new burgeoning industrial society should have heroes of its own, and that these should act as beacons and as examples. As Froude said in Representative men (1850), ‘the only education worth anything is the education of character, and we cannot educate a character unless we have some notion of what we would form’.

This article addresses the extent to which Protestant states in Europe and North America depicted the French Protestants who had found refuge in these states, as having contributed to the process of nation building and the formation of national identity. It is shown that the arrival of Huguenots was portrayed positively as the historians of these nations could contend that Huguenots had been absorbed readily into the host society because their virtues of frugality and industry corresponded admirably with the ethic of their hosts. The article demonstrates that, in no case, did this depiction correspond with reality. It shows that within those countries of refuge, Huguenots fostered a distinctive French Protestant identity that enabled them to remain aloof from the culture of their host society. In all cases Huguenots asserted themselves as a self-confident minority, convinced of the superiority of their language and culture who believed themselves to be privileged in this world as in the next. When national histories came to be composed, this dimension to the Huguenot minorities came to be expunged from historical memory as was also the fact that the Huguenots were but one of several minorities whose distinctiveness had contributed largely to the shaping of the state, culture, and society of the emerging nation-states.

The following attempts a modest reconsideration of one of the most well-known early modern Englishmen, Samuel Pepys. More precisely, the article suggests that much closer attention needs to be paid to Pepys's textuality (not sexuality). In modern times, his diary has achieved canonical status to the detriment of other texts scripted in unison with the famed Cambridge manuscript, now meticulously transcribed. Tracing the multiple textual transactions elided by the final manuscript allows for important insight into the diary's partiality. We need to resist, as much as possible, the temptation of contextualizing the diary with biographical detail because that detail is so often derived from the diary itself. We should reverse our interpretive strategy: begin with Pepys's texts (plural), unravel their main interconnections, and only then reach tentative conclusions about the man. Establishing motive is a risky business when there is no subject for interrogation. There is, however, a text that wants a more rigorous contextualization.

The success of wartime governments in the twentieth century is determined not just by their effectiveness in waging war, but also by their ability to plan for peace. Mobilizing the population for total war and winning the benevolent neutrality or active support of major uncommitted powers require the projection of a vision of a better, peaceful world which will be the necessary consequence of victory. The reordering of international society is therefore proclaimed as a war aim of each belligerent. By December 1916, when Lloyd George displaced Asquith, the desirability of establishing a league of nations was already a matter of serious popular and diplomatic discussion. The new administration almost immediately had to state its attitude on questions of post-war international organization. In launching his peace initiative President Wilson called for the establishment after the war of a ‘league of nations to insure peace and justice’. The joint reply of the Entente powers endorsed the setting up of such a body. In a separate commentary, which was given wide publicity in America, the foreign secretary, A. J. Balfour, explained that, as a condition of durable peace, ‘behind international law, and behind all treaty arrangements for preventing or limiting hostilities, some form of international sanction should be devised which would give pause to the hardiest aggressor’.

At the Paris Peace Conference of 1919 the Polish state was reconstituted as a result of the German defeat in the Great War, and the break-up of the Austro-Hungarian and Russian Empires. In the years that followed, Poland refused to come to terms with her neighbours and sought a guarantee for her future safety in a close attachment to Britain and France; a course of action which ultimately led to renewed subjugation, under the hand of each of her neighbours in turn. It is with the first years of this course that we are here concerned.

During the half century (1854–1904) which followed the opening of Japan's ports, Westerners scrutinized the rediscovered archipelago and attempted to classify its inhabitants within their racial system. Despite the claim for ‘scientific’ objectivism, Western racial views of the Japanese were largely dictated by contemporary political and moral attitudes toward Japan. Hence, writings on the Japanese ‘race’ reflected not only the racial knowledge of the period but also the asymmetry between the West and Japan. These writings embodied a genuine discourse: they were propounded in texts, historically located, and displayed a coherent system of meaning. Critically, the Western discourse regarding the identity of the Japanese people aimed to maintain, and even produce, power relations between the colonial powers and the local population, and as such it exerted ideological influence on both Western readers and the Japanese. The present article traces this racial discourse, and attempts to explain the rapid transformation of the image of the Japanese people from an almost unknown racial entity to a national group Westerners perceived as a major racial threat.

The capture of Cadiz in 1596 was a spectacular but short-lived success in England's war against Spain. More enduring were the many partisan accounts of the victory, which were prepared and disseminated by various officers from the expedition. This article traces these rival narratives and explores their circulation in manuscript form, including the earl of Essex's notorious ‘True relacion’. Such documents illustrate the increasingly bitter divisions of late Elizabethan politics. The stories of Cadiz gained a fresh currency when England and Spain went to war again in the 1620s, placing a heavy burden of expectation on the government of Charles I.

This article argues that many traditional historical narratives of individualism have been reproduced in more recent discussions of the self and selfhood, and that attempts to discover a point at which the ‘modern’ self came into existence have been hampered by such assumptions. To provide an alternative to these approaches, discussions of the self in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries will be examined. Eschewing overarching narratives, the discussion will focus on how neo-stoic sources were employed in the context of challenges to traditional forms of the humanist ethics of office-holding. Such ideas, important in writers like Montaigne, Pierre Charron, and William Cornwallis, have been associated with an idea of ‘new humanism’, but this article aims to discuss with precision how they relate to early modern ethical discussion. Here an insight can be gained into a particular philosophical development of the idea of the self. This can be more productive than some recent ‘new historicist’, or sociological, approaches to the literature of this period, which tend to the deconstruction of a particular set of sources through the use of the self as a theoretical heuristic.

By the winter of 1648–9, demands for retributive justice on Charles I and his supporters had built to a crescendo. But regicide was generally regarded as an extremely bad idea, and the king's trial was contrived as a final bid for peaceful settlement, not a prelude to king-killing. In return for a place at the heart of a new constitutional order, Charles I was required to abdicate his negative voice by pleading to charges brought on the sole authority of the House of Commons. This was a high-risk strategy inspired and justified by the weakening of opposition to the trial in the House of Lords, the city of London and at Edinburgh, and by some of the encouraging signals emanating from deep within the royalist camp itself. However, in their anxiety to avoid having their ultimate sanction forced upon them, the commissioners of the high court of justice gave the king rather more opportunities to plead to the charges against him than was consistent with the maintenance of their own authority. Rather than persuading him to give in, they encouraged him to stand firm, with fatal consequences. Far from being a providential act of vengeance, or indeed the inexorable fate of a man predestined to martyrdom, the execution of Charles I was a highly adventitious occurrence – predictable, perhaps, yet contingent on a wide range of unpredictable circumstances.