The name John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, evokes the image of the ambitious and selfish politician who was responsible for the death of Lady Jane Grey. The son of an executed traitor, and a traitor and apostate Protestant himself, Northumberland has been defamed by chroniclers and historians since his death in 1553. His reputation rests upon alleged character defects and a political career that putatively divided, weakened, and dishonored the country. Attributions of crime and misdeeds, regardless whether proved, have made him one of the most notorious villains of the early modern period.

Notwithstanding the inevitable disagreement over the particulars of Northumberland's life and work, the consensus is that he was the worst of a group of grasping, unprincipled new men who gained favor with Henry VIII and acquired status and wealth through the plunder of the church. Northumberland served the king as a soldier, courtier, and diplomat, and appealed to Henry's baser instincts, seeking only to advance himself socially and financially. It was only after the accession of Edward VI in 1547, so the traditional interpretation would have us believe, that circumstances permitted Northumberland to betray his true character and motives, and the full extent of his perversity. First, he allegedly supported a coup d'état that overthrew the will of the deceased king and installed the Duke of Somerset as Protector. Later, he intrigued to destroy the Protector's brother, Thomas, Lord Seymour, and then to depose Somerset. Following the overthrow of the Protector in 1549, Northumberland, aided by a small faction, instituted a regime of social repression, entered into a dishonorable alliance with France, and instigated the trial and execution of Somerset on entirely spurious charges. Throughout the reign of Edward VI, he encouraged the more radical Protestant reformers although he is said to have lacked sincere religious convictions.

In late 1912 British domestic social politics were dominated by the noisy dispute between David Lloyd George and the British Medical Association over the details of the national health insurance act. Led by the B.M.A., doctors bitterly opposed the insurance scheme and threatened to boycott panel medical service. The profession's inept political maneuvers and the skillful gamemanship of Lloyd George have been well documented by Bentley Gilbert, as well as Alfred Cox and William Braithwaite, two participants in the controversy. Yet, the story of the medical profession's relationship with the insurance act remains unfinished. Almost nothing is known about what followed the political collapse of the B.M.A. after medical benefit became a reality in January 1913. The post-January period, however, was nearly as tumultuous as 1912, and certainly more important to the efficient working of the insurance act which was for the next thirty-five years to provide health care to Britain's laboring poor. This essay will examine the conditions and politics of medical practice during the initial year of national health insurance in Britain.

Mary made the unfortunate mistake of antagonizing her successor, without being able to impose any limitations upon her freedom of action. Writing in 1557 the Venetian ambassador, Giovanni Michieli, observed “although it is dissembled, it cannot be denied that [the queen] displays in many ways the scorn and ill will she bears her [Elizabeth]….” The younger woman reciprocated such feelings in full measure, and a few days before her accession, when there was no longer any need to be discreet, the Count of Feria reported, “She is highly indignant about what has been done to her in the queen's lifetime….” Such personal antagonism may not go far in explaining Elizabeth's decision to reverse so many of her sister's policies, but it certainly helps to account for the animus that the new queen's most trusted servants so quickly developed against their predecessors. In the last days of 1558 a royal commission was issued “to discover by what means the realm hath suffered great harm” under the previous regime, and soon came up with a long list of secular and ecclesiastical grants. Most of the latter were immediately resumed in the succeeding Parliament. It was to be another quarter of a century before Elizabeth finally emerged as the winner, and Mary as the loser, of the English reformation struggle, but those in power after 1558 did not wait to celebrate their victory.

Reform of the law and the courts, especially the Court of Chancery, has been one of the most active areas of interest among historians concerned with the Interregnum period of English history. However, the authors on law reform have relied primarily upon the plethora of pamphlet literature and other printed materials which have led them to conclude that the legal profession obstructed reform of the law to protect its vested interests in offices and fees. Bulstrode Whitelocke, one of the lords commissioners of the great seal (the Chancery judges of the Interregnum) from 1649 to 1655, has long served historians as an example of the legal profession's refusal to assist or to cooperate in any meaningful reformation of the law or equity. Recently, Donald Veall, David Underdown, and Blair Worden have again laid the failure of reform at the door of the lawyers and judges who sat in the Rump, on commissions of law reform, and in the Protectorate parliaments. They have also assigned to Whitelocke a major responsibility for the defeat of law reform in the Rump, both before and after the Hale Commission's comprehensive plan of reform in January 1653, and in the first Protectorate Parliament in 1654. They believe, despite Whitelock's fervor for professional standards and his mild reforming tendencies, that he represented the major hurdle for any successful reform in law or equity.

In Elementary Schooling and the Working Classes, 1860–1914, J. S. Hurt employs what has become a classic opening in works of social history. “Much of the history of education,” he declares, “has been written from the top, from the perspective of those who ran and provided the schools, be they civil servants or members of the religious societies that promoted the cause of popular education. Little has been written from the viewpoint of those who were the recipients of this semi-charitable endeavour, the parents who paid the weekly schoolpence and the children who sat in the schoolrooms of nineteenth-century England.”

Hurt's point is well taken, but he leaves himself open to the retort that he also draws his information mainly from official sources. The parents rarely speak in his book, the children almost never. One could make the same criticism of Phil Gardner's The Lost Elementary Schools of Victorian England. Gardner claims that the so-called dame schools, the private venture schools that served a large fraction of the Victorian working class, were unfairly disparaged and suppressed by educational bureaucrats. But he too depends largely on bureaucratic reports to reconstruct the history of schools outside the state system. Neither Gardner nor Hurt quite succeeds in plumbing educational history to the very bottom: they do little to reconstruct the classroom experience from the viewpoint of the working-class child.

What sources could we use to recover that history? There are, of course, the reports of school inspectors, but Gardner warns us that they had a vested interest in condemning dame shools.

It has long been accepted as fact that Raleigh was an important figure in a coterie of maverick intellectuals, generally referred to as the School of Night. The assumptions are that this coterie was a structured group; that it concerned itself with iconoclastic attitudes toward religion and philosophy, politics, literature, and the sciences; and that the Raleigh coterie was in active opposition to a rival group, the members of which included the Earl of Essex, the Earl of Southampton, and William Shakespeare. However, two concerns need clarification to evaluate the evidence that Raleigh was a member of such a group: were the attacks on him as an atheist justified, and what were his attitudes toward intellectual pursuits ? It would then be most practical to ascertain on what evidence the School of Night theory is based, how it is presented and interpreted by twentieth century scholars, and whether or not earlier accounts of Raleigh ascribe to such theories, examining along the way what Raleigh's beliefs were as can be determined by his writings and what contemporary attitudes were toward Raleigh and his associates. It may then be possible to judge if there is justification for asserting that Raleigh was a leader--or even a member--of such a group, and indeed, if any such group is likely to have existed.

In 1592, in answer to Elizabeth's proclamation against the Jesuits, Father Robert Parsons published his Responsio in which he deplored the notion that Raleigh might become a privy councilor and thus introduce an atheistic policy into England, through the agency of his conjurer, usually taken to be Thomas Hariot. An Advertisment, the English summary of the Responsio, repeated the charge but did not speculate on Raleigh's appointment to the Privy Council. “Of Sir Walter Raleigh's school of atheism by the way, and of the conjurer that is M[aster] thereof, and of the diligence used to get young gentlemen to this school, wherein both Moses and our Savior, the Old and New Testament are jested at, and the scholars taught among other things to spell God backward”.

The corrody is harshly judged by many medieval historians; it is condemned because it introduced into the cloister a distracting and often boistrous presence from the secular world. With sharp hindsight, they argue that the corrodies were poor financial policy and often saddled a convent with an unwelcome boarder who lived off its resources long after his original investment had been consumed. But the corrody was most often used, at least in the fourteenth century by bishops and archbishops, to reward a faithful servant or to provide care and maintenance for those who were unable to sustain themselves. In this article, the corrody and its recipients are examined in an effort to redress the balance and demonstrate its praiseworthy character as an institution of medieval charity.

But first things first. What is a corrody? Following the etymological derivation of the word made by A. Hamilton Thompson, corredium, corradium, corrodium and other variations are derived from conredum and conredium, which have “the primary connotation of equipage, and among others, it was especially applied to the provision made by a feudal vassal for the entertainment of his lord when he made his round. The corrody was the provender or prebend which was the lord's due …. [The[ corrody became first and foremost a grant of money or victuals, or of other means of livelihood, made by a monastery or other religious or charitable corporation to dependents upon its bounty.” According to one authority, the first usage of the word in this sense in England was in a deed of 1197.

The First World War ended Great Britain's nineteenth-century world economic supremacy, which had been steadily eroded in the decades before 1914. Within Britain, the war also changed the way in which individuals carried on business, the attitudes of the business community toward government, the government's own policies toward trade and traders, and public opinion on these matters, as reflected in the press. Although it is far too simplistic to claim that the war spelled the end of laissez-faire in Britain, state control of the economy did increase in a country whose economic culture was based on free trade and minimal government interference in business. Moreover, before 1914 Britain had to export to pay its way in the world, and its economy, more than that of any other great power, depended upon peace for prosperity. In this setting, Germany was the biggest European customer for British exports, as well as being the source of vital imports, such as aniline dyes, optical, and electrical goods. Thus the application of economic warfare against Germany and its allies deeply affected the British economy and businessmen who were suddenly forced by official edict to relinquish a traditional market in patriotic support of their government's blockade of the German Empire.

For over two generations, scholars have studied Sir Edward Grey's response to the Sarajevo crisis, apparently considering every aspect of his dual effort to find a diplomatic solution while convincing the cabinet that England must intervene in a general war. Historians have generally agreed that Grey's last hope to prevent war evaporated by the end of July, although the cabinet did not decide to intervene until August 2. In this light, the events of August 1, 1914, are only considered to be either a prelude or a postscript to more significant events. The purpose of this essay is to suggest that Grey pursued two distinct, yet interrelated, courses of action on August 1, 1914: (1) for as long as he was unsure of cabinet support for intervention, he sought to make a diplomatic deal with the German ambassador so that a neutral England could salvage something from the crisis, but (2) once confident England would enter the conflict, he sought to prevent the war altogether by applying diplomatic pressure on France.

Historians have overlooked Grey's diplomacy on August 1 primarily because of the cloud cast over the events of the day by the so-called misunderstanding between Grey and the German ambassador, Prince Karl Max Lichnowsky. The first Grey-Lichnowsky exchange took place that morning when Sir William Tyrrell, Grey's private secretary, brought a message to the German embassy. After subsequently receiving a personal call from Grey, Lichnowsky, at 11:14 a.m., sent a wire to Berlin in which he indicated Grey had proposed that, if Germany “were not to attack France, England would remain neutral and would guarantee France's passivity.”

In recent years, historians have brought into sharper focus the role of rebellion in the political, social, and religious life of sixteenth-century England. Indeed, the Tudor dynasty established itself on the throne in 1485 as a result of a successful baronial rebellion, and each succeeding generation experienced a major rebellion as well as numerous lesser stirs and riots. Until the revival of interest in Tudor rebellions, the majority of historians preferred to portray the century as an era of law and order in which a strong but popular monarchy ruled over grateful and largely obedient subjects. Although contemporaries living in the sixteenth century knew of rebellion and popular disorder, often through direct personal experience, the government quite understandably opposed anything resembling impartial and disinterested study of the rebellions. Government propagandists denounced rebellion vigorously in royal proclamations and manifestos, while the clergy echoed similar themes from the pulpit. Of the two histories of rebellion published during the sixteenth century, the first, John Proctor's history of Wyatt's Rebellion, was unadulterated government propaganda, and the other, Alexander Neville's history of Kett's Rebellion, was a polemic written in Latin to guarantee a select readership. Without specialized books on rebellions, the literate public had one primary source of historical information, the general chronicles that appeared with greater frequency and variety as the century progressed.

Although best known for his Survey of London, John Stow was the most prolific chronicler of the sixteenth century. Beginning with the brief octavo A Summary of English Chronicles, which appeared in 1565, Stow published no fewer than twenty-one editions and issues of chronicles in three different formats, the octavo Summary, a sextodecimo abridgment of the Summary, and the more substantial Chronicles and Annales of England in quarto.

Welshmen and Scotsmen provoked their stronger neighbors of England in the late thirteenth century into wars that almost filled the reign of Edward I. Whether in keeping with “Manifest Destiny” or not, King Edward accepted the provocation of the Welsh and sent his troops into their land in an attempt to subjugate them; by a workmanlike series of campaigns he conquered and pacified them between 1277 and 1294. Then began an almost unbroken period of war against the Scots, a period lasting well beyond Edward's own death in 1307. By their persistence and by their tactics the Scots forced Edward and his people to a major effort, one that made every Englishman aware of his obligation, whether to fight, to feed the fighters, or to support the fighters with works.

For medieval soldiers, like their modern descendants, war was mostly a matter of working and waiting. Battles punctuated the wars, then as now, and at these times the combat troops spent their strength. During the long stretches between battles, however, support elements continued to supply the troops and put them into position to fight. The men in the armies of Edward I who kept the war going in this way and kept going themselves were the auxiliaries: the ditchers, woodcutters, smiths, carpenters, paymasters, provisioners, and the engineers. Important as they were in medieval warfare, the engineers have received little credit for it. Their work, bridging, building fortifications, and operating artillery, rarely rates a description in a chronicle and they receive little notice in secondary works.

Thomas Bilson, in the eyes of his contemporaries, soared like a Jewel or a Hooker above his fellow writers; unlike Jewel or Hooker his fame has not endured. He seems at first sight to be another writer with a tiny talent, overpraised in his lifetime. If this were all that there was to Bilson, then better to leave him to “such as delight in things obsolete and antique” (as an unsentimental critic said of a later, more prolix, writer).

Yet there are curiosities about the rise and fall of Thomas Bilson. He was born in 1547, became Bishop of Winchester in 1597, and died in 1616. He is a shadowy figure, whose fame rests principally on two works: The True Difference Betweene Christian Subjection and Unchristian Rebellion (1585); The Perpetual Government of Christes Church (1593). If one were to plot a graph of his public reputation, it would show a steady rise after his death, reaching a peak as late as the 1640s, and then followed by a precipitous decline. Now this is not what common sense would have led us to expect. If he had been merely an overvalued mediocrity, one would have expected a redress of the critical balance to follow close on his death. Neither the length of time taken up by the rise nor the abruptness of the fall could have been anticipated. It is true that Bilson lacked the stamina for enduring greatness, but he was not exactly shortwinded either.

In the militia ordinance of March 5, 1642, the houses of Parliament declared an emergency and “ordained” a solution. The emergency was the “imminent Danger” posed to king, Parliament, and kingdom by the “Rebellion and Insurrections” of “Papists, and other ill-affected Persons.” The solution was the selection of suitable county lieutenants, who were authorized to appoint deputies and officers and otherwise perform their duties.

Charles rejected the ordinance, ensuring a double confrontation: an arms race and the public exchanges known as the “war of words.” The Civil War—the predictable outcome of the rattling of words and swords—was bound intimately to the defense or attack of the three propositions stated or implied by the militia ordinance: that there was an emergency, that to address it the two houses required control of the militia, and that an “ordinance” was the appropriate constitutional strategy for the occasion.

The third matter is the focus of this study. But the genius of the militia ordinance and, more generally, the central constitutional assertion of the two houses on the eve of civil war was that the emergency, the mobilization of force, and the ordinance were intertwined beyond untangling. It was not merely that the militia ordinance was a response to an emergency situation beyond the reach of exact precedent. It was equally true that the constitutional thinking of parliamentary leaders, developed well before the militia ordinance and the train of events to which it specifically refers (the Irish rebellion of October 1641 and the attempt upon the five members of January 1642), more or less obliged them to produce an emergency as the grounds for the type of action they took.

The tradition of English verse panegyric began in the reign of James I when the accession of the Stuart line called “for a formal and specific expression of the subject's allegiance and of the values which commend it.” First adapted from Latin models by Samuel Daniel and Ben Jonson, panegyric verse combined praise of the new monarch with conciliatory rhetoric aimed at uniting the king with his subjects. Still regarded as a branch of classical oratory at the beginning of James I's reign, verse panegyric underwent important transformations in succeeding decades. While Abraham Cowley adapted the panegyric themes of national revival and monarchic restraint to his version of the Pindaric ode, Edmund Waller and John Dryden made it a “branch of epic” by depicting the king as an epic hero. Thus enshrined among the neo-classical poetic genres, panegyric verse remained both a potent form of propaganda and an outlet for traditional literary aspirations through the reign of James II.

Following the constitutional upheavals of 1688, however, panegyric began to lose its traditional ceremonial function, and in following years the great Tory satirists made the decadence of panegyric conventions an object of their ridicule. Nevertheless verse panegyric did not immediately lose its credibility as literature or its efficacy as propaganda. Writing poems of public praise and celebration remained one way for the loyalists of a new regime—and for others who longed for restoration of the old—to articulate political sentiments, respond to the obligations of political patronage, and fulfill ambitions to write heroic verse.

The notion that parliamentary politics in the days of William III and Queen Anne revolved around the conflict of the Whig and Tory parties is deeply rooted in the historiography of the later seventeenth century. Nourished by the many contemporary references to the existence and activities of the Whig and Tory parties, the “two-party concept” had its first flowering in the nineteenth century and came to full blossom in the early decades of the twentieth in the works of W. C. Abbott, K. G. Feiling, W. T. Morgan, and G. M. Trevelyan.

The canons of orthodoxy of one generation of historians, however, have often proved to be little more than the cannon fodder of their successors. In this case, it was one of Abbott's own students, Robert Walcott, who has led the way in the task of reinterpretation. As early as 1941, Walcott — remarking upon the obscurity enveloping accounts of party groupings in the period 1689 to 1714 — advanced the hypothesis that “the description of party organization under William and Anne which Trevelyan suggested in his Romanes Lecture on the two-party system is less applicable to our period than the detailed picture of eighteenth-century politics which emerges from Professor Namier's volumes on the Age of Newcastle.”

Walcott's invocation of Sir Lewis's studies of mid-eighteenth-century politics was, of course, a testimony to the advance in historical methodology that had gained prominence with the appearance in 1929 of The Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III.