This article examines the place of the literary lower-middle-class clerk in the English landscape between ca. 1900 and 1940. It draws attention to “clerical literature”—as typified in works by Arnold Bennett, H. G. Wells, and Shan Bullock—and, more specifically, a subgenre that signposts the emergent interest in getting “back to the land.” At the heart of this subgenre of “rambling fiction,” the male clerical protagonist not only engages with the natural landscape on a journey through rural England but also explores notions of masculinity, heritage, and national identity. By focusing on middlebrow works, largely those written by former clerks themselves, this article argues that clerks were pioneers in drawing connections between a re-masculating exposure to the great outdoors—necessary for suburban, domesticated, office workers—and an appreciation of a particular palimpsest of England's history. In doing so, the clerk helped to popularize the continued association of medievalism, the South of England, and the rural “idyll.”

Contemporary perspectives on the activities of English medieval ships and mariners are somewhat distorted, since historians are rarely able to examine mercantile or marine activity from the personal records of merchants, mariners, shipbuilders, corderers, or others involved in maritime affairs. The sources are overwhelmingly royal and so they reduce the individual efforts of men and their ships to entries of income and expenditures in exchequer records, commissions of arrest or impressment, legal briefs, and occasional parliamentary records. The chroniclers prove of little help because of their general unfamiliarity with maritime affairs or because of the restricted interests of their patrons. Consequently, historians are forced to revert to the well-preserved English archival material which can shed light on the topic. The purpose of this paper is to demonstrate the value of the administrative records of medieval England in the study of ships and mariners. The focus of the essay is on the early history of the royal navy as opposed to the merchant ships impressed by the crown. Although this approach is not unique, questions regarding the composition, maintenance, or manning of royal fleets are traditionally answered by a discussion of the merchant marine. This study has been confined to the fourteenth century — a period crucial to the English experience because of the origins of the Hundred Years' War with France and the demands which the war placed upon the naval resources of England.

English fleets in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries relied heavily upon the Cinque Ports whose commitment of 57 ships for 15 days' service per year was formalized in the thirteenth century by “ancient custom.”

The crown's tenuous control over remote regions of the realm created a persistent problem in sixteenth-century England. Feudal ties and social unrest presented greatest danger in the North, but the early Tudor monarchs worried about the West as well. For one thing, the western counties were especially vulnerable to possible foreign invasion. Secondly, the internal power structure in the West included a loyal but independent gentry and a commons far from passive. In such circumstances, royal control in the West might have disappeared entirely without solid aristocratic support. King Henry VIII depended upon his cousin, Henry Courtenay, Marquis of Exeter, to provide such support during the first three decades of his reign. Until Courtenay's execution for treason in 1538, his lands and offices ensured his position as the leading aristocrat, the role which John, Lord Russell assumed in 1539.

W. E. Gladstone resigned twice as leader of the Liberal Party. His final retirement of 1894 has received much attention, but his resignation two decades earlier is not well known. At age sixty-five, the recent loser in a surprise general election, the former prime minister stepped down from the Liberal leadership in January, 1875. Some observers doubted the permanence of his retirement, but previous speculation about the Liberal succession had assumed that Gladstone could hope at most for one further premiership. After he regained the leadership in 1880 and soldiered on as the Grand Old Man at the head of three further governments, Liberal sympathizers dismissed his 1875 resignation in retrospect as an unrevealing mistake, a temporary meandering from the true path of his career.

Recent studies have pointed to the decisive importance of Gladstone's course in the 1870s, especially to the implications of his return to public life. R. T. Shannon ties Gladstone's resignation to his loss of rapport with the popular forces that had once rallied to the banners of Reform and Irish disestablishment. His government's rejection at the polls in 1874 seemed to end “his great romance with the people of England.” Bitter, disillusioned, and mystified about the popular verdict, he resigned his post as Liberal leader. Freed from parliamentary responsibilities, Gladstone went on, almost in spite of his conscious intentions, to capture the soul of popular Liberalism, beginning with his hesitant but inspiring participation in the 1876 agitation against the Bulgarian atrocities, a campaign which held few attractions for the official Liberal hierarchy.

William Austin (1802–1857), the child of Deptford laborers, was adopted de facto as an infant by Princess Caroline, the estranged wife of the Prince of Wales. She rendered the child's identity such a mystery that it prompted the Delicate Investigation in 1806, a quasi-judicial affair published in 1813 in the vexed volume known as The Book. “Prince Austin” was regularly on stage during Caroline's carnivalesque rambles on the Continent from 1814 to 1820, frequently attacked in the loyalist press as “that bastard Billy Austin.” In the uproar of the Queen Caroline affair in 1820, Austin remained a target of loyalist scorn. Because Queen Caroline named him her residuary legatee at her death in 1821, his name registered aftershocks of queenite disruption through the middle of the century. In these narrative contests about Austin's identity, the metonymic traffic between a provisional family form and an absolutist national model bobbed and weaved in a disorderly fashion on the conspicuous stage of a dysfunctional royal family. On this prominent platform, adoptive contingency intermittently confounded closed absolutism.

This article focuses on the Irish-born metropolitan radical and parliamentary journalist Peter Finnerty, exploring, in particular, the distinctive nature of his political engagement. Chiefly remembered as a friend of William Hazlitt and an implacable opponent of Lord Castlereagh, Finnerty was an influential figure in his own right, who moved between a range of social and political spaces. Framing him as an unrepentant Irish radical, indifferent to the coercive power of authority, this article will examine Finnerty's involvement in a range of scandals, controversies, and causes célèbres, and will highlight the ways in which he succeeded, through enacting a contempt for authority, in subverting both the courtroom and Parliament itself.

The English Royal Navy's relationship with Scotland during the years preceding the Union of 1707 is usually cast as problematic in scholarly discussion, with the navy viewed as the enforcer of an embargo on Scottish trade with France. This study examines the Scottish use of Royal Naval convoy in the first years of the War of Spanish Succession through to 1707, focusing on the North Sea region. It adds nuance to security issues surrounding the parliamentary union by arguing that convoys to Scotland were more frequent than generally acknowledged, an improvement on the situation in the 1690s, and that when combined with the small Scottish navy, provided coverage that largely met Scottish needs. As a result, in a period of otherwise fierce debate, naval protection for Scotland was relatively uncontroversial. Convoy was therefore an unusual, if belated, success for regal union, and that success meant that Scots were more deeply enmeshed in the English system of maritime security than has been often been credited.

News of a great victory over Napoleon's forces in Portugal was published in London on the morning of September 2, 1808. The celebrations that began the night before with the firing of cannon in the parks and the pealing of the city's church bells spread from one end of the country to the other and did not subside for nearly two weeks: it was the first important victory for a British army since the war began in 1793. Ever since, the glorious Battle of Vimeiro has been associated with the name of Wellington who, as young General Sir Arthur Wellesley, won his spurs on that occasion by (in his own words) winning “a complete victory” with only half his army over “the whole of the French force in Portugal … under the command of the Due D'Abrantes in person.” Following publication of his vainglorious communiqué and the more sober official announcements, the country waited impatiently for details of the French surrender.

Historical accounts of the event are all in agreement as to what happened after the battle and who was to blame for what proved to be a fiasco in Portugal: after leading his troops to victory, Wellesley (through no fault of his own) had been superseded on the field by General Harry Burrard who, in turn, was replaced on the following day by General Hew Dalrymple. These peculiar revolutions in the command are traceable to political in-fighting at home and the vagaries of travel in the days of sailing ships and have nothing to do with the story except that it was Dalrymple not Wellesley who was in command when the armistice between the contending forces was negotiated. Dalrymple, according to the orthodox exegesis, a stubborn blunderer, negotiated the agreement with the French representative, General Kellermann, and literally gave away the hard-won fruits of Wellesley's victory.

When Miss Himmelfarb published “The Politics of Democracy: the English Reform Act of 1867” in this journal in November 1966, she drew one courteous protest, the substance of which, on W. E. Gladstone as “Utilitarian,” she has silently admitted in the essay as republished in Victorian Minds.

Nevertheless, some important misinterpretations survive in the new text. It appears with several notable essays on Victorian thinkers, and the collection is likely to be widely read; given the confidence of Miss Himmelfarb's style and footnote polemic, both alluring to undergraduates, it seems worthwhile to correct four main props in her argument. Miss Himmelfarb is concerned to establish that Benjamin Disraeli (the Earl of Derby is virtually ignored with four minor references) throughout 1866 and 1867 believed in a “national” inclusive electorate and that this faith permitted him an ease of manoeuvre and a hardheaded realism in the power struggle denied to the “Utilitarian” Whigs, Liberals, and Radicals. This ideological difference, she insists, is the key to the Liberals' failure and the Conservatives' triumph in 1866-67. The argument may well be true, but at two central points the evidence she adduces does not establish it.

Her view involves Miss Himmelfarb in attempting to show that both parties were committed to reform in 1866 and had been so committed at least since 1858. One would never know from her account that between 1851 and 1864 these Disraelian Conservatives attacked and repulsed three unofficial motions for extension of the franchise and three Whig Government reform bills, apart from seven motions for the ballot.

The conscience of British humanitarians of the early nineteenth century was troubled by many practices which they regarded as inhumane — none more so than the practice in India of suttee or the self-immolation of widows. The prevailing humanitarian drive for the abolition of suttee drew its strength from an alliance between evangelical and utilitarian propagandists who urged upon the British public a sense of responsibility for the welfare of their brethren across the sea. During the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, however, the efforts of these reformists were offset by what amounted to a determined indifference on the part of the East India Company to all aspects of Indian society. At the turn of the century the practice of suttee was well protected by the Company's policy of noninterference with native “religious usages and institutions” established in 1772. Governor-General Cornwallis refused to allow a Collector at Shahabad to dissuade a suttee victim. Yet his successors, Lord Wellesley and Lord Hastings, pondered at considerable length the possibility of abolishing suttee. With the Regulations of 1813 the Supreme Government in Bengal began a consistent policy of prescribing strict limitations upon the practice of suttee. Although interpreted by some as official government approval of suttee, these regulations were continued sine die by the superior court in Calcutta. Encouraged in part by the example set by the Supreme Government, Governors Elphinstone and Malcolm in Bombay were less inclined than the Supreme Government itself to seem to interfere with native socio-religious custom, and therefore in western India toleration of suttee was more apparent than its restriction.