Britain's abortive attempt in January 1762 to conciliate Austria and restore the “Old System”—generally known as the Hague Overture—and its subsequent impact on Frederick II of Prussia (then Britain's ally), has never been investigated in detail. Altogether, only two works have ever focused on the episode directly: a brief, but in some ways useful monograph by A. von Ruville, the biographer of Pitt and a later article by W. L. Dorn. Essentially advancing the same interpretation, both authors agree that: Newcastle, by unduly interfering in the Northern Department (held by the Earl of Bute), stands solely responsible for the misleading proposals transmitted to Vienna; and that Bute, lacking a definite policy of his own, submissively followed Newcastle's lead throughout and finally, Kaunitz divulged the story in its most expansive form to Berlin where, as a result, it irreparably damaged Britain's already tarnished reputation. Though forming the nucleus of what is probably the traditional or standard account, endorsed uncritically by most historians up-to-date (among them D. B. Horn, F. Spencer, and R. Browning), these conclusions are highly questionable if not inaccurate, and clearly require substantial revision and modification when reappraised within a wider framework of documentary evidence. Equally, certain important, inter-related aspects have never been studied at all: for instance, the motive forces behind Newcastle's initial formulation of the scheme; the ambivalent role played by Lord Bute; the views and aims of the chosen mediator, Prince Louis of Brunswick; and the deliberations of Baron Knyphausen and Louis Michell, the Prussian envoys in London. This article by utilizing new material from heretofore unexplored sources, aims not only to rectify these and other vital defects, to provide a more coherent, comprehensive outline of events, but also to assess the significance of this episode for Anglo-Prussian relations during a singularly critical period of diplomatic history.

The subject of mutilations is one I would cheerfully have left to others were it not for its bearing on the character of King Henry I. The sources for his reign disclose a number of instances in which alleged wrongdoers were punished by mutilation, and these punishments have earned Henry a somber reputation among modern historians. Christopher Brooke calls him a “savage, ruthless man”; Emma Mason deplores his “reign of calculated terror”; R.H.C. Davis speaks of his “reputation for brutality.” To Sir Richard Southern, “Henry's vengeance was terrible and barbaric … . He had a morbid dislike of ridicule and he punished with a Byzantine ferocity already outmoded in the humaner society of feudal France, not only treachery and rebellion but slights to his dignity and honour.”

Perhaps the best known contemporary mutilation story comes from the 1125 account in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, where it is disclosed that Henry had the minters of England castrated and deprived of their right hands. We learn of Henry's morbid dislike of ridicule from an event of about the same time reported by the Norman monk, Orderic Vitalis. Henry had ordered the blinding of three captive rebels when Count Charles the Good of Flanders, who happened to be visiting, protested that it was unjust to mutilate prisoners captured in the service of their lords.

World War I brought about a crisis within the British Liberal Party for it confronted Liberals with issues which they found difficult to resolve on the basis of traditional liberal principles. On numerous occasions, Liberals were placed in situations in which they were forced to choose between liberal principles and illiberal measures which were necessary for the effective prosecution of the war. The dilemma of whether or not to support British involvement in the war was a painful one which many Liberals would have preferred to avoid, and it was followed by other scarcely less painful decisions involving conscription, the extension of state controls over the economy, freedom of expression and personal liberties, the future of free trade, the right to refuse military service on the ground of conscientious objection, and the larger problem of whether to seek military victory or a negotiated peace.

The effect of the war on those Radical Liberal intellectuals who comprised an important segment of the left-wing of the Liberal Party was especially profound. Although they were not a highly organized group before 1914, there did exist a number of Radical Liberals who were bound together by their common agreement on the overriding importance of a “pacifistic” foreign policy and additional measures of social reform. This loose coalition of Radical Liberals was shattered by the war, for a large proportion of the group supported the war while others did not. Moreover, the issues generated by the war tended to drive the dissenting Radicals further to the Left, while the conservative assumptions of pro-war Radical Liberals became more prominent. By the end of the war the gulf between the two factions of Radical Liberals had become a deep chasm, and in the post-war years the division became a permanent one; many of those who had been dissenters during the war joined the Labour Party, while pro-war Radical Liberals tended either to remain in the Liberal Party or adopt an independent position.

The year 1655 might with reason have been described as the “annus horribilis” of Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate. January saw the dissolution of his first Parliament, which had signally failed to ratify the Instrument of Government, the constitution imposed by the Army in December 1653. This undermined the already dubious constitutional basis of the government's ordinances, resulting in legal challenges and even recalcitrance among some of the judges. The policy of “healing and settling” had gained at best a grudging acquiescence from the political nation, and the determined enemies of the Protectorate sought to exploit its instability. Former allies of the Army, such as the commonwealthsman John Wildman and the Fifth Monarchists, continued to publish bitter condemnations of the regime designed to incite rebellion; in March, Royalist plotting culminated in Penruddock's abortive uprising. Instability and disaffection at home coincided with military disaster abroad: July brought news of the failure of Cromwell's “western design,” the expedition against the Spanish island of Hispaniola. This was the first major defeat suffered by the New Model, and was received by Cromwell and many of the godly as an indication of divine displeasure.

In August, Cromwell abandoned “healing and settling” for more military counsels, appointing Major Generals to provide security by raising a new militia, financed by punitive taxation of the Royalists, and by imposing godly order on the localities. Despite the initial optimism of the Major Generals, it was plain by the beginning of 1656 that they could not finance the new militia, and that their efforts to impose reform were far from uniformly effective.

Did late Victorian strikers have a right to poor relief? Historians have suggested they did not. Scholars point out that nineteenth-century strikers rarely turned to the Poor Law for assistance, and when they did, during a colliers' strike in South Wales in 1898, Poor Law officials were taken to court by disgruntled coal companies. In the subsequent High Court ruling known as the Merthyr Tydfil judgment of 1900, the Master of the Rolls decided that the policy of relieving the strikers had indeed been unlawful. However, it is argued in this article that the judgment has not been properly understood by historians. Contemporaries did not think it obvious that the giving of poor relief to strikers was illegal. On the contrary, in 1898, there was widespread agreement that Poor Law officials had no choice but to support destitute strikers; the Poor Law demanded they relieve the men and their families, a point confirmed in an earlier High Court ruling in 1899. Thus, Poor Law scholars should view the Merthyr judgment as a notable innovation in Poor Law policy. Labor historians should see the ruling as part of the employers' counteroffensive against the labor movement of the 1890s and 1900s. Merthyr came out of the same febrile atmosphere that produced the Taff Vale judgment. That its true significance has been forgotten can largely be explained by the labor movement's unease at having a striker's right to poor relief confirmed in 1899. Respectable workers, union leaders averred, should not be supported out of the poor rates.

Historians of the medieval English peasantry have tended to assume that the history of peasants and their culture can best be revealed through the history of the village as a social and economic unit. As a result, the important recent advances in our understanding of peasant culture have been made by historians who, borrowing heavily from the disciplines of sociology and anthropology, have written studies of particular villages or small towns. The mystique of the “village community” has retained a hold on the historian's imagination. Even as the peasant and his family now attract more attention from scholars, studies of family size, household structure, and inheritance and marriage patterns are usually carried out within the context of a particular village or small town, largely because collections of local records naturally coalesce around a parish name. These close examinations of specific vills have been made possible primarily through the exploitation of the village court rolls that survive from the mid-thirteenth century. Ironically, it has been these very village court rolls that, in the end, have forcefully demonstrated that the assumptions identifying peasant history with village history must now be abandoned.

The numerous studies of medieval English villages that have made possible the study of peasant family structure and behavior are now demonstrating that the history of the peasant family and the history of the particular village must part company. Certainly, the study of a single series of village court rolls makes possible the discovery within the village of family groups with characteristic behavior patterns.

From the mid-twentieth century, England's coroners were crucial to the supply of organs to transplant, as much of this material was gleaned from the bodies of people who had been involved in accidents. In such situations the law required that a coroner's consent first be obtained lest removing the organs destroy evidence about the cause of the person's death. Surgeons challenged the legal requirement that they seek consent before taking organs, arguing that doing so hampered their quick access to bodies. Some coroners willingly cooperated with surgeons while others refused to do so, coming into conflict with particular transplanters whom they considered untrustworthy. This article examines how the phenomenon of “spare part” surgery challenged long-held conceptions of the coroner's role.

On January 6, 1649 the House of Commons set its seal of approval on the agency by which Charles I would be tried and sentenced to death. By an Act “for erecting of a High Court of Justice for the Trying and Judging of Charles Stuart, King of England,” he was charged with “a wicked design totally to subvert the ancient and fundamental laws and liberties of this nation, and, in their place, to introduce an arbitrary and tyrannical government.” The Commons maintained that they had shown tolerance toward such “high and treasonable offenses.” But the King's persistence in perverse activities — his raising of “new commotions, rebellions and invasions” — had forced them to take the present course. They were determined that no future ruler should “presume traitorously or maliciously to imagine or contrive the enslaving or destroying of the English nation, and to expect impunity for so doing.” The measure designated one hundred and thirty-five persons to try and adjudge the royal defendant.

Thus came into being the most extraordinary judicial body to be met with in English history. Certainly, no court has ever been so vigorously disclaimed as to jurisdiction, or so bitterly vilified as to personnel. To the Cavaliers, who had fought for Charles at Marston Moor and Naseby, as well as to the Presbyterians, who had trooped under the banners of Parliament to reshape, but not destroy, the monarchy, the court and its works were anathema.

The origins of the Civil War are apparent from the outset of the History of the Rebellion: “he who shall diligently observe the distempers and conjunctures of the time,” Clarendon contends, “will find all this bulk of misery to have proceeded, and to have been brought upon us, from the same natural causes and means which have usually attended kingdoms swoln with long plenty, pride, and excess, towards some signal mortification, and castigation of Heaven.” The relationship between prosperity and calamity is, of course, commonplace in classical as well as seventeenth-century chronicles of civil conflict, but both the sections of the History written in 1646 and those added some twenty years later insist that “the like peace and plenty and universal tranquillity for ten years was never enjoyed by any nation” (I, 84). Although he modifies his praise of this peaceful era in The Life of Edward Earl of Clarendon, claiming that “England enjoyed the greatest Measure of Felicity that it [and not, as he earlier said, any nation] had ever known,” this view of Caroline prosperity remains extreme. Clarendon likens the years of Charles's personal rule to a golden age. Without specifically invoking the classical tradition of the halcyon calm or the return of Astraea, his recollection of the 1630s gives central importance and new immediacy to a well-established Caroline myth of peace.

Modern historians have generally found much amiss in the decade of Charles's personal rule, and they have naturally questioned Clarendon's characterization of unrivalled happiness. Only B. H. G. Wormald's seminal study of Clarendon accepts the notion of “unparalleled prosperity,” which, it argues, “is an indisputable fact so far at least as the gentry were concerned.”

In June, 1829 Ralph Wardlaw, Scotland's leading Congregationalist, wrote to his American friend, Leonard Woods of Andover, explaining the current fascination of America for British Dissenters. “An important experiment is going on there …, “ he noted, “of what Christianity when fairly excited can effect by her own native energies in the support and propagation of her cause, independently of the aids of civil power. I look to it … with high expectation, as I think it of vast consequence that a new practical manifestation of this should be given to the world.” Wardlaw was writing at the beginning of the Jacksonian era in America, a period when Nonconformists inspected American religion with a concentration never again quite equalled. For this scrutiny there were reasons beyond the general fascination with republican novelties. The emergence of a more vital and politically assertive Nonconformity, the eruption of voluntaristic controversy in both England and Scotland, the excitement of the Reform Age, and the perennial anticipation of revivals at home on the scale of the American awakenings all played roles in directing British attention overseas. And as Wardlaw indicated, the element of “American Protestantism” which most intrigued British evangelicals was the apparent vindication of the voluntary system, which with the accompanying phenomenon of revivals raised the prospect of a free spiritual and vital Christianity, indeed a new age in Christian history.

Despite its prominence in the literature of the 1830s, this British examination of the American voluntary church has received only scant attention from scholars.

On April 30, 1939, President Franklin Roosevelt proclaimed the New York World's Fair open. Moments later a flood of eager humanity surged onto the one-and-a-quarter thousand acre former municipal dump in Flushing Meadow, Queens, now home to what the New York Herald Tribune termed “the mightiest exposition ever conceived and built by man.” While Europe shivered on the brink of a war, the United States focused its attention on the distinctive silhouette of a seven hundred foot spire and a globe two hundred feet wide: the “Trilon” and the “Perisphere,” centerpieces and emblems of the New York World's Fair. The fair stretched around their base in a teeming sprawl of concrete and electric lights. Its precincts embraced all manner of amusements, including a vast funfair with such thematic attractions as a Cuban village, an African jungle, and a Merrie England area. While most of the visitors seemed intent on enjoying themselves, the fair was intended by its organizers to serve a serious educative purpose. Its theme was “building the world of tomorrow,” with two-thirds of the fair ground given over to exhibitions by corporations, U.S. federal agencies, and foreign governments. The fair's corporate exhibitors vied with each other for the most spectacular vision of what this world might be. General Motors offered the “Futurama” exhibit designed by Norman Bel Geddes, in which 28,000 visitors a day traveled on a conveyor belt ride through a projection of the American landscape forward twenty-five years, to a Utopia liberated by the automobile. In a similar vein, inside the Perisphere visitors could view a diorama of a future metropolis, “Democracity.” But popular acclaim lay elsewhere.

The career of Ernest Belfort Bax provides a special perspective on the early development of British Socialism when, as someone observed, “generals without soldiers” were using Marxist ideas to scout a new path into the future. For Bax, as the only philosophical thinker among the early British Marxists, set out to develop the broader meaning of the new theory for his countrymen. This article will examine Bax's interpretation of Marxism with particular attention to his view of history, his approach to ethics, and his metaphysical position. It will also consider Bax's role in the movement and his relations with the three central figures in the early development of British Marxism — Henry Mayers Hyndman, William Morris and Friedrich Engels. Finally the article will attempt to explain the reasons for Bax's departure from a strict Marxism and suggest its implications for the development of Marxism and for late Victorian society

Bax, like so many of those figures who assumed the leading roles in the early development of European Socialism, grew up in a prosperous middle class family. His social background combined the economic affluence and evangelical piety which gave such a distinctive stamp to mid-Victorian life. For the young Bax, as for numerous other spirited sons of the English bourgeoisie, family wealth provided access to a wider world of culture and ideas. He soon discarded the simple piety and religious dogmatism of his upbringing. Indeed, he developed a deep hatred of middle class beliefs and conventions.

At the time of the Restoration, Charles II seemed to give every indication that his first and most important alliance as King of England would be with Spain. Contemporary circumstances were such that this policy would have been logical, and Charles's behavior in 1660 encouraged Europeans to expect it. Yet, within a year of his return, Charles had not only failed to forge the Spanish alliance, he had entered into a marriage-alliance with Spain's rebellious province, Portugal. The events surrounding this apparent change of attitude encouraged the Spanish government and others to misinterpret Charles's intentions. At best, the new King was seen as a weak monarch who was lured into a comfortable dependence on Spain's natural enemy and self-appointed protector of Portugal, Louis XIV, King of France. At worst, Charles was accused of duplicity, of falsely courting Spain while maneuvering into an anti-Spanish coalition being constructed by France. In both interpretations, Charles was believed to have been seduced by the French King very early in his reign. The Portuguese alliance raises the question of the nature of Charles's foreign policy immediately after the Restoration. What were his relationships with France and Spain? What did he intend by the Portuguese alliance? The key to understanding his behavior lies in his treatment of Spain, and from an examination of his Spanish policy in light of the controversial alliance, it is possible to see both reason and consistency in Charles II's initial diplomacy.

After John Buchan, Nevil Shute. In the long progression of popular British writers who have woven stories around the social facts and cultural values of empire, a progression which extends from Charles Kingsley and G. A. Henty through Paul Scott and, arguably, Ian Fleming, Nevil Shute occupies a distinguishable and important place. Both in his own right and as a representative figure he deserves analysis on account of his part in the literary re-statement of what has fairly been called the ‘imperial idea,’ that matrix of assumptions, beliefs, and attitudes which had sustained and rationalized the endeavors of several generations of politicians, publicists, and civil servants, but whose relevance to Great Britain's circumstances after the Second World War was increasingly open to doubt. This essay offers the elements of such an analysis and suggests some lines along which further inquiry might proceed.

For at least a decade before his death in January 1960, Nevil Shute had been the best selling of English novelists. Altogether, his nearly two dozen works of light fiction have sold over 14 million copies. When he died his books were earning him an income of about $175,000 a year. Such extended popularity can hardly have been fortuitous. Without venturing too far into the psychology of literary response, it seems reasonable to conclude that Shute must have gauged accurately the issues and situations which, imaginatively presented, would interest his readers, and further, that he must have expressed in his work a pattern of values which conformed generally to their moral predispositions (or at least did not offend them.) Hence it should prove worthwhile to take a close and comprehensive look at his themes and ideas on the premise that they can tell us something useful about his audience.

This is the third in a series of studies dealing with the history of the proxy system in the House of Lords. The first, after tracing the origin of proxies to the Roman law of agency, dealt with the emergence and spread of representation by proctors in the ecclesiastical and political assemblies of medieval England. The second study demonstrated how the proxy system was perfected in the upper house during the reign of Henry VIII and how the Crown benefited from that system. The ensuing article concerns proctorial representation during the crucial years of the Edwardian Reformation. Because of the brief period under consideration — only six years — it seemed best to cast the study in an analytical rather than a chronological framework. The first section deals with the general characteristics of proctorial representation in mid-Tudor times; the second and third sections cover the spiritual and temporal lords, respectively; and the fourth section treats the relationship between the proxy system and conciliar government.

I

Knowledge of the proxy system in the mid-sixteenth-century House of Lords remains somewhat fragmentary and limited in scope. A satisfactory treatment of the subject does not exist. Constitutional and legal historians have paid little attention to proxies and less to the procedure governing their use in the upper house. As one might expect, Bishop Stubbs dealt with proxies in medieval Parliaments and correctly associated them with parliamentary privileges, but at the same time he concluded that “its history has not yet been minutely traced.