The question of why the Liberal Party failed to absorb and channel the increased political activity of the working class after 1885 is one that historians continue to debate. This paper is an attempt to assess the viability of the Liberal Party as a vehicle for working class political aspirations within the context of a single by-election in Sheffield, a city with a strong tradition of Liberal-Labour cooperation. To put the 1894 by-election in perspective, one must first look briefly at the development of the Liberal Party in relation to the demand for Labour Members of Parliament in the last third of the nineteenth century.

1.The Early Movement Toward Labour Representation

The beginning of the movement for direct trade union representation in parliament is usually dated from 1868, when William Newton of the Engineers, William Cremer of the Carpenters and Joiners, and George Howell of the Bricklayers stood for election. All three were defeated despite some Liberal support “notably (if secretly) from party headquarters.” In the following year the Labour Representation League was launched. According to its prospectus, “its principal duty will be to secure the return to Parliament of qualified working men", and it proposed to organize workers' votes regardless of party despite the radical connections of many union leaders. But its party affiliation was soon apparent, and by 1875 the League declared: “we have ever sought to be allied to the great Liberal Party, to which we by conviction belong.”

Edmund of Langley, Earl of Cambridge, Duke of York. Just the mention of the name for most historians conjures the image of an historical figure with all the moral fortitude and intelligence of Rowan Atkinson's Black Adder. The fourth surviving son of Edward III, born too late to join in the glorious campaigns of his father, young Edmund became a pawn in the futile games of Plantagenet martial diplomacy. After his father's death, all of Edmund's incursions into the political arena resulted in total failure. Abroad, Earl Edmund's “monumental stupidity” in Portugal tore asunder John of Gaunt's grand strategy to acquire the throne of Castile. At home, Edmund of Langley's “lazy and indifferent” support of Richard II during the appeal of treason against the Duke of Ireland and a number of the young king's other favorites ensured the success of Thomas of Woodstock and the appellants. Though Edmund served as custodian of the realm during Richard's Irish campaign of 1394 and presided over Parliament the following year, such high office overmatched the Duke of York's abilities. Duke Edmund's “fatuous” vacillation in the face of Henry of Lancaster throughout the summer of 1399 cost Richard his throne. As the noted historian and natural philosopher David Hume observed, “The Duke of York was left as guardian of the realm; a place to which his birth entitled him, but which both his slender abilities, and his natural connections with the Duke of Lancaster, rendered him utterly incapable of filling in such a dangerous emergency.” Edmund of Langley's choice to “remain as neuter” in response to Henry of Bolingbroke, along with his treacherous submission to Duke Henry, allowed him and his family to survive the usurpation unscathed. But the new king could find no use for a man who possessed such titanic infidelity, and Henry quickly cast the loathsome York from council and government. Though York lived on until 1402 he remained on the periphery of the Lancastrian establishment. Even Duke Edmund's death attracted little notice, being, as-it-were, only a footnote to his colorless, uninspiring existence.

From the beginning of the seventeenth century, Englishmen professed as Benedictine monks in mainland Europe began returning to their homeland. Until that point, the Catholic mission to England had been run by secular clergy and Jesuits, relationships between the two clerical parties growing increasingly troubled over how the Catholic Reformation should be implemented in England. The arrival of the Benedictines saw the offering of a “third way” to England's proscribed Catholics. Yet with the various missions dependent on lay Catholic resources and support both in England and in mainland Europe, it was necessary for the Benedictines to justify their presence in this often fraught environment. As such, they forcefully laid claim to contemporary English Benedictine martyrs against rival claims by other clerical groups. These battles for validation reached a new level of intensity following James I's serving of the Oath of Allegiance. This article explores how competing groups of English missionary clergy sought to justify their presence in England. Taking the case of two conflicting images of the executed George Gervase, it argues that the contest for martyrs sheds new light on the ways in which martyrdom was exploited by different groups; it also contributes to debates about the Oath of Allegiance, which was threatening to derail the wider Catholic Reformation across mainland Europe. By placing these clashes over English religious identity in both domestic and international contexts, the article makes evident that events on the peripheries of mainland Europe affected discussions at its center.

During the nineteenth century, British public schools became increasingly important, turning out thousands of elite young men. Historians have long recognized the centrality of these institutions to modern British history and to understandings of masculinity in this era. While studies of universities and clubs have revealed how fundamental the rituals and everyday life of institutions were to the creation of masculinity, public schools have not been subjected to the same scrutiny. Approaches to date have emphasized the schools’ roles in distancing boys from the world of the home, domesticity, femininity, and women. Focusing on three case-study schools, Winchester College, Charterhouse, and Lancing College, this article offers a reassessment of the relationship between home and school in the Victorian and Edwardian period and contributes to the growing literature on forms of masculine domesticity in the second half of the nineteenth century. In the reformed public schools, the ideal of the patriarchal household was often essential, and in producing it, the presence of significant women—the wives of headmasters and housemasters—could be vital. The schools also worked to create a specifically masculine form of domesticity through boys’ performance of mundane domestic tasks in the “fagging” system, which was often imagined in terms of the chivalric service ideal. Letters from the period show how the everyday worlds of school and home remained enmeshed, revealing the distinctive nature of family relationships forged by the routine of presence and absence that public schools created.

There seems to be no doubt about it: the century-old truisms about the literature variously called “Augustan” and “Neo-Classical” are in the process of dissolution. Premises induced by J. S. Mill and Matthew Arnold, explored by Oliver Elton, dogmatized by G. E. B. Saintsbury, and summarized by Leslie Stephen now appear inadequate to more recent scholars, whose research and rereading of Neo-Classical texts run counter to the general testimony as well as the specific judgments of their grandfathers. For the past few decades at least, published commentary has increasingly indicated the need to overhaul received ideas about those writers identified with the revival of classicism in England following the Restoration of Charles II and continuing throughout the eighteenth century.

The deficiencies in Victorian and Edwardian assumptions about Neo-Classicism revealed by latter-day findings are several, some of them due to false criteria of taste, morality, and literary excellence. But chiefly the research of the present age has disclosed a vast range of literature simply ignored — or, perhaps, suppressed — by earlier critics. Based as they were on a limited, prejudged selection of Restoration and eighteenth-century literature, the premises inherited from Victorian criticism have naturally failed to account for the discoveries of twentieth-century scholars.

The resulting disparity between limited assumptions and expanded information has called into question the very possibility of formulating any critical schema that accurately describes the characteristics of English literature between 1660 and 1800. The relativistic — not to say atomistic — inclinations of contemporary scholarship enforce the view that indeed no schema is possible.

This article takes a new look at British radicalism in the 1790s and explores it within broad geographical and cultural frameworks and through the early career of Henry Redhead Yorke, a West Indian Creole who became a radical in England but frequently recanted his politics. It views radicalism within the Atlantic World and provides a broader interpretation of the excluded majority than as an English working class. It examines the radical “citizens of the world” and sheds new light on the apparent conflict within English radicalism between universalist and constitutionalist ideologies. Politicization and identity are the key themes here examined within micro- and macro-histories.

Following the loss of Surinam to the Netherlands in 1667, the English Crown attempted to evacuate those of its subjects living in the colony under Dutch rule. In doing so, its representatives laid claim to members of the Jewish population, who Surinam's English governors had previously declared to be “considered as English-born.” In the resulting dispute between the English and Dutch over who could be removed, Crown officials embraced articulations of subjecthood forged in the colony that differed from metropolitan norms. In asserting that Surinam's Jews remained subjects of the king, and by implying that they would continue to do so once evacuated, the English delegation departed from the Crown's frequent rejection of the wider efficacy of colonial naturalization. Surinam's Dutch governor, meanwhile, dismissed the assertion that members of the “Hebrew nation” could be subjects of an English king, arguing that subjecthood and nationality were identical and that only those of the English nation could be removed. The dispute between the English and the Dutch over the status of Surinam's Jews reminds us that English subjecthood was shaped by colonial settings and by the contested status of groups who found themselves transferred between imperial powers.

On Commencement Sunday in the summer of 1826, Hugh James Rose ascended the pulpit of the University Church at Cambridge to deliver a sermon. As Rose surveyed the assembled crowd, he would have been well aware that before him sat the future of English political, religious, and intellectual life—present and future members of Parliament, the leaders and local prelates of the Church of England, and the next generation of Cambridge scholars. While commencement addresses today are rather formulaic in their celebratory character, the sermon Rose had prepared for that day was far from uplifting. Rose had chosen to preach on Ecclesiastes chapter eleven, verse five: “No man can find out the work, which God maketh, from the beginning to the end.” Using this passage as a decree upon the limits of human knowledge, Rose launched into a blistering attack on the University and the educational philosophy that he believed it espoused. Far from praising the University and its graduates, Rose called into question much of what Cambridge had been doing to educate its students. The essence of Rose’s critique was that the University had lost its way as a religious institution and had become dominated by the search for “knowledge of the material Universe.” Pursuing this end, Rose warned, was a tremendous danger, because in so doing Cambridge was failing to provide a proper moral and religious foundation for those who would guide the nation. Naturally, Rose’s sermon came as a shock to many of those gathered before him, especially since it not only took the University to task but also implicitly seemed to indict some of Rose’s closest friends. His sermon battered one of the girders of Cambridge intellectual and religious life, and of Anglican theology more generally: the notion that natural philosophy was an appropriate handmaiden to religion. The tradition of reasoning up from nature to the Creator had long flourished at Cambridge in the hands of both men of science and theologians. Most at Cambridge took for granted the compatibility between the study of God’s creation and religious faith. For the previous three decades Cambridge had made the works of alumnus William Paley, replete with the ways nature manifested the wisdom and goodness of God, a cornerstone of undergraduate instruction. Ironically, many of Rose’s acquaintances from his own undergraduate days at Cambridge were themselves involved in scientific and mathematical pursuits and were generally sympathetic to Natural Theology. His dearest friend at the University was William Whewell, an intellectual polymath who excelled in mathematics, physics, and mineralogy, as well as moral philosophy, history, and theology. Rose also was a close associate of John Herschel and Charles Babbage, men who were renowned for their astronomical and mathematical work. Himself a fairly accomplished mathematician a decade earlier, Rose even had considered publishing some work to support Herschel and Babbage’s efforts to revitalize Cambridge mathematics during his undergraduate days.

Marriage has been a means of climbing the social ladder in most societies, and post-conquest England was no exception. The Conquest had provided a sweeping opportunity for men of all strata of the feudal hierarchy to gain lands and wealth in England, but high social status and prestige remained the prerogative of magnate families who had constituted the aristocracy of Normandy and northern France before 1066. Most of these families had themselves risen only recently to wealth and power through ducal patronage, but by 1066 they were firmly entrenched in their Norman estates and in the duke's inner circle of advisors. Many magnates possessed comital titles and ties of kinship with the Norman duke-kings, and all profited greatly from the Conqueror's victory at Hastings and his subsequent redistribution of English lands. Families such as the Beaumonts, Montgomerys, Clares, Mandevilles, and Warennes continued to enjoy the highest aristocratic honors in Anglo-Norman society.

In the second generation after the Conquest, a number of men of lower social standing amassed land and political importance through service to William Rufus and Henry I, desiring to be accepted as peers by the great magnates. Their striving for social success is illustrated by William of Malmesbury in his History of the Kings of England. In recounting the plan of William fitz Osbern to marry the widow of Count Baldwin of Flanders, the chronicler ascribed his motives to a desire “to increase his dignity.” Many men also wanted to impress the lower orders of society with their rank. Orderic Vitalis's contemptuous tale of one of Henry I's “new men,” Richard Basset, suggests that acquisition of social prestige was a possible motive for marriage. Having married a daughter of the earl of Chester, Basset returned to Normandy “and made a show of superiority to all his peers and fellow countrymen by the magnificence of his building in the little fief he had inherited from his parents.…”

One of the few remaining points of agreement among Stuart scholars is that the Crown's political difficulties, especially the conduct of foreign affairs and wars, stemmed in large part from inadequate revenues. The Crown's “ordinary income”—so named by scholars but not by law or tradition—was eroded in the early seventeenth century by inflation, royal extravagance, and increased demands upon government. The bulk of the ordinary income came from the Crown lands whose traditional structures and management were unable to compensate for inflation. B. P. Wolffe has shown that medieval monarchs had never viewed Crown lands as a source of revenue in the same manner as parliamentary taxes or the customs. Rather, Crown lands were used primarily for the uneconomical purpose of providing royal bounty to political elites. Wallace MacCaffrey has argued that the royal clients in the bounty system shifted during the Tudor era from the feudal barons to an emerging state bureaucracy. Moreover, by the seventeenth century the list of clients grew again to include members of Parliament, especially the Commons which increasingly held the fate of royal finances in their hands. Finally, Linda Levy Peck has emphasized another profoundly entrenched English attitude, modeled after classical Roman authorities: the Crown must husband its resources against waste or corruption lest it become impoverished and the body politic decay. A monarch without ample treasure could command neither private (i.e., clients) nor public (i.e., national policy) authority.

The morale or fighting spirit of an army has always been a most important if intangible factor in military success. Clausewitz believed that “the moral [psychological] elements are among the most important in war.” Field-Marshal Montgomery went so far as to claim that “the morale of the soldier is the greatest single factor in war.” And Napoleon's dictum has often been quoted: in war “the moral is to the physical as three is to one.” Since morale is such an elusive quality, however, its role in military history can be nearly lost in the study of battles of long ago. Indeed, the historians of medieval warfare have been little concerned with it. Philippe Contamine, in his War in the Middle Ages, includes a short chapter on courage, which focuses on theological definitions of courage as a virtue and risk assessment in the wars of the later middle ages. J. F. Verbruggen makes a number of valuable comments on the psychology of war. But these two are notable exceptions. Of course, the evidence for mental states in medieval battles is severely limited, but even what little there is has been largely overlooked.

For at least one significant battle, the Battle of the Standard, there is evidence which shows the psychology of one of the two armies which faced one another on a foggy August morning in 1138. We can see in considerable detail the low morale of the northern English forces as they tried in desperation to stop a devastating invasion by the king of Scotland. We can see their concerns and fears, and some of the attempts by the leaders to overcome them and rouse their spirits. We indeed get a remarkable glimpse of “the face of battle”—or at least the pre-battle. Military historians of the middle ages have neglected this building of battle morale entirely; although other historians have made passing reference to it. Since the evidence for the morale of the English army at the Battle of the Standard is so unusual and full, it deserves greater attention. The developments leading up to the battle will be considered briefly, and then evidence that reveals the psychology of a medieval army will be considered in detail.

An important aspect of John Knox's thought is his concept of divine providence. Closely related to and partially dependent on his notion of providence are the reformer's ideas on God, history, politics, and predestination. Knox did not, however, write a specific tract on divine providence. In fact, he denied being a speculative “theologian” and regarded himself as a preacher, being called “to blow my master's trumpet,” rather than “to compose books for the age to come….” Consequently, he did not approach the subject systematically. For example, Knox did not, as John Calvin had done, logically relate the subjects of creation and providence. In fact, the Scottish reformer seldom spoke of God's act of creation. Despite this nonsystematic approach, Knox did have a doctrine of divine providence, even if at times it was implicit rather than explicit. As a result, his concept of providence must be derived piecemeal from his historical, polemical, and pastoral writings.

What then is the value of studying the concept of providence in the thought of a reformer who did not think systematically? First, such a study will demonstrate that a coherent conception of the nature of divine providence can be found in Knox's writings, though not expounded in a single treatise. Second, his thoughts on this subject have not been the object of an extensive scholarly investigation, either by historians or theologians. Third, Knox's concept of providence had a practical and motivational significance for both the reformer's thought and actions, thus revealing more about Knox the man, his mission, his motivation, and worldview. His great objective was the reformation of religion, particularly in his native Scotland.

Revolts against English monarchs, varying in scope and intensity, marked every reign from 1100 to 1272. After that, if we consider what happened to Edward II and Richard II, and the Wars of the Roses and the troubles of the first Tudor, we see pattern emerging in the shape of constitutional change induced through revolt. Even in the context of that centuries-long pattern, there was something special in the revolt of 1173-4, when three sons of Henry II united with an array of anti Plantagenet barons and continental neighbors to try to unseat the powerful king of England, who also held Normandy, Maine, Anjou, and the feudal conglomeration that comprised Aquitaine.

For reasons that I shall attempt to develop, the complex events of those two years constituted a watershed for mediaeval England, separating an age of feudal institutions from an age of royal bureaucracy that bore hints and suggestions of the modern era. The generational gap between sons and father added drama to the conflict, and psychological forces were inextricably bound to political forces as the revolt developed.

Few places in early nineteenth-century Britain had as grim a reputation as the Manchester suburb of Ancoats. In this concentration of “dark, satanic mills” and festering slums were some of the worst social problems of the Industrial Revolution. Angus Reach, a journalist with the Morning Chronicle, who visited Ancoats in the late 1840s, described it as “entirely an operative colony” containing “some of the most squalid-looking streets, inhabited by swarms of the most squalid-looking people which I have ever seen.” While making his way through this “labyrinth,” Reach saw no promise of anything better. Even the handful of chapels seemed to complement the scene of hopelessness; in a pathetically futile attempt to carry the eye up to a vision of something better their “infinitesimal” Gothic arches and ornaments only served to reinforce “the grimy nakedness” of the surrounding factories.

In the past twenty years there has been a renaissance in Jacobite studies in Britain and North America. It started with the publication in 1970 of Romney Sedgwick's The History of Parliament: The House of Commons, 1715–1754, in which the post-1715 Tory party was resurrected from the untimely death to which earlier historiography had consigned it in the face of the so-called Whig hegemony under Walpole and his successors. This section of Sedgwick's volumes was the work of Eveline Cruickshanks, who not only showed that there had been an active Tory party under Walpole, but also claimed that it had been essentially a Jacobite party. Dr. Cruickshanks has, since 1970, produced a book, several articles, and essays expanding her thesis. She has been joined in the quest for Jacobites by many others, and the flow of work on Jacobitism seems unabated. This body of work has, however, left other historians with a good deal of unease, not only over the conclusions reached, but also the methodology used and the sources upon which these conclusions are based (most notably the uncritical use of the Stuart Papers in the Royal Archives at Windsor Castle).

This article explores the connections between the seventeenth-century Leveller movement and the democratic radicalism of the period 1790 to roughly 1840. At first glance the two appear to have much in common. Both were concerned with the extension of the franchise, the idea of a written constitution, and the equality of citizens before the law. Various commentators on the subject, including some historians, have suggested that such a continuity does indeed exist. Unfortunately this conclusion has been based for the most part on vague connections indicating a lack of solid research on this topic. An exception in this regard is the 1962 essay of Olivier Lutaud which traced many of the linkages of Leveller ideas and phrases in European literature.

By contrast historians of seventeenth-century England have tended towards a too ready acceptance of a discontinuity between the Levellers and the democrats of the post-1788 era. They have been content to consign the Levellers to “relative oblivion” and “near-oblivion,” and to assert, quite erroneously, that Leveller pamphlets were not reprinted in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At the same time we must be aware that the historian of early nineteenth-century radical movements is not confronted with a powerful body of evidence indicating strong Leveller-radical connections. The influence of Levellerism on subsequent radical-democratic movements was subtle and somewhat oblique in nature.

It is the intent of this article to restore to Lanfranc's early career some of the luster that recent scholarly investigations have chipped away. I intend to show that historians have become overly skeptical of the traditional view of Lanfranc's dominating position during his eighteen years as prior of Bec (c. 1045-63). On the basis of the best current research, he is no longer regarded during these years as a major ducal adviser but as a back-bencher, overshadowed by other Norman churchmen. His once-celebrated school at Bec has gone the way of the school of Chartres: it was a good school, but it functioned for only a short time, opening c. 1059 or 1060 and closing three or four years later on Lanfranc's elevation to the abbacy of St-Étienne, Caen, in 1063. And some of its most famous alumni, including Pope Alexander II, are now believed not to have studied there at all. Similarly, Lanfranc's association with the papacy is thought to have been much exaggerated by earlier scholars. It is now doubted that he had anything to do with the dropping of the papal ban against Duke William's marriage with Matilda of Flanders, or with William's establishment of the two great abbeys at Caen.

It will be argued here that Lanfranc was indeed intimately associated with both the duke and the papacy, and that the school of Bec flourished as an international center of learning for many decades. No such reinterpretation can be attempted without taking into full account the growing sophistication in source analysis that has characterized recent scholarship on Lanfranc, and the systematic doubt that has been directed at the testimony of twelfth-century writers about eleventh-century Normandy. The dominating prior of Bec who emerges from A. J. MacDonald's 1926 biography of Lanfranc is no longer fully recoverable; yet the sources, when carefully evaluated, continue to portray Lanfranc as a major force in the political and intellectual life of his times.

They were unlikely choices for revolutionaries and hardly the haughty autocrats the phrase “Little Tin Gods” conjures up. Yet many East African district officers felt it their duty to change the lives of the Africans they ruled, and against great odds they did. Sent out by their superiors in London and Nairobi as policemen and tax collectors, they saw themselves as secular missionaries for a superior culture. Working in the decade before the catastrophic first world war, they were the last generation of Europeans who easily believed their own superiority. Under pressure to produce revenue many district commissioners fostered economic development as a first step in reforming African society. They wished to develop an exchange economy based upon the fruits of a settled and productive peasantry working on its own land. They believed the Africans would adopt the basic values of hard work and even self-reliance, making an Edwardian revolution. If their assumptions about social change, economics, or even civilization itself seem unsophisticated, it is because they were amateurs. They had few resources beyond their own confidence and sense of mission. They began a revolution, but it was not the one they intended for they failed to retrieve colonial Kenya from the clutches of a handful of white settlers. Their vision of peaceful prosperity for the Africans was ultimately denied, and the hopes they raised became murderous frustrations. They offered Kenya an alternative course which imperialism could not accept.

Kenya's first district officers came from diverse backgrounds, but most shared the middle class values they proposed for the Africans.