With the recent four hundredth anniversary of the sailing of the Spanish Armada came a virtual flood of new works concerning the great invasion fleet and the English ships that opposed it. While it would seem that there would be little new to say about such a heavily researched subject, there is one aspect of this momentous year that has been received relatively short shrift by historians of the period, the national mobilization of England to meet the threatened invasion. Often referred to as the Great Muster of 1588 because one of its most important elements was the muster of the militia to fill the ranks of the army, it was an administrative feat of massive scope that involved months of preparation, extensive military planning, and precise timing. Because these arrangements were never tested in battle, however, the effectiveness of this effort is hard to judge, and its importance is often missed by historians. While Garrett Mattingly devoted an entire chapter of his well known work on the Armada year to events on land, he found the queen's visit to the army at Tilbury after the departure of the Armada more important, or at least more interesting, than the actual state of the nation's defense. More recently, Geoffrey Parker has used the discovery of a large quantity of siege equipment on an excavated armada wreck as a jumping off point for his article “If The Armada Had Landed.” Approaching the issue from the standpoint of a historian of the Army of Flanders, and leaning heavily on continental sources, he adheres to the view that England was totally unprepared for fighting on land if the Spanish had succeeded in landing troops on the island. While this view reflects the common opinion of both nineteenthand twentieth-century historians on the subject, a careful review of English sources, particularly the surviving muster records, military papers, and coastal surveys, leaves a good deal of doubt concerning the accuracy of Parker's judgment. It is the purpose of this article to examine the English side of the story of the Great Muster of 1588, by illustrating the extensive defensive preparations that were organized to face the Spanish threat.

Professor Gertrude Himmelfarb, in her stimulating essay, “The Haunted House of Jeremy Bentham,” examines Bentham's projected prison, the Panopticon, in order to reassess prevalent views of Philosophical Radicalism and its founder. She rightly directs attention to the central importance of the Panopticon in Bentham's doctrine, but her interpretation of its significance is, I believe, wide of the mark.

The major object of Ms. Himmelfarb's essay is to note and explain the extraordinary personal involvement—the obsession—of Bentham with this his most cherished project. Bentham not only waged a battle with Parliament stretching across decades to win acceptance of his plan; but, more importantly, he intended that he himself become the first warden of his novel prison. In later years, he still could not reconcile himself to defeat. Ms. Himmelfarb sees in the warden Bentham's alto ego. Bentham's scheme places the warden, the contract manager, at the literal center of the Panopticon. Invisible and apparently omniscient, all power is vested in him without any formal regulatory authority reserved to the government. The contract manager is absolute within his realm. Ms. Himmelfarb concludes that such a striking departure from conventional penal principles indicates a plan tailored to suit the personal needs and wishes of its author. There is “a poetic Tightness' to Bentham's attempt personally to play the part he had written for himself. Even if this touch were lacking, “one would be tempted to assume” psychological identification. However, Ms. Himmelfarb is able to give only one specific meaning to this identification she so rightly intuits: the Panopticon is a design for the unmitigated economic exploitation of an unfortunate few for the pecuniary advantage of society in general and the warden, Jeremy Bentham, in particular.

The middle classes, seduced by the gospels of growth and of laissezfaire, abandoned the older areas of London to the artisans and laborers, to the thousands of migrants from rural England, Scotland, and Ireland, and to Jewish immigrants from Russia. By 1880 the middle classes in the suburbs were isolated from the working classes and ignorant of their poverty. Then “The Bitter Cry of Outcast London” by Andrew Mearns, the Pall Mall Gazette edited by W. T. Stead, and the writings of others exposing the squalor of the laboring classes led to a rediscovery of poverty. Many observers thought that charity would solve the problem, ome went slumming or joined the settlement movement begun at Toynbee Hall. Others, like Octavia Hill, were determined to improve the lives of the poor through the proper management and gradual upgrading of their living quarters. The philanthropic and semi-philanthropic dwellings companies such as the Peabody Trust, Guinness Trust, Improved Industrial Dwellings. East End Dwellings, and Four Percent Industrial Dwellings constructed new housing suitable for the working classes. All these efforts were limited because of the attitudes of the affluent classes toward the poor. Many believed that improvidence, intemperance, and licentiousness caused poverty and failed to realize that crowded living conditions and underemployment encouraged these vices. Beatrice Webb, who recognized this problem, wrote in her diary: “The Drink demon…undermines the constitution of a family.…There are times when one loses all faith in laisser faire [and] would suppress this poison at all hazards, before it eats the life of the nation.”

In his pioneering study of the British electoral system, David Butler notes that “One of the main problems of the historian of the second Labour Government is to discover what action the Liberals took to exact the fullest return for their support in the division lobbies.” Owing to the preponderance of economic issues in this period, however, scant attention has been focused on the constitutional question of electoral reform which had the greatest bearing on the relationship between the Liberal and Labour parties in Parliament. Robert Skidelsky's Politicians and the Slump, the most thorough economic and political analysis of the Second Labour Government, is curiously jejune on this subject. Recent biographers of Ramsay MacDonald and David Lloyd George, the Labour and Liberal protagonists, describe in detail a series of joint enterprises between the parties, but they fail to delineate the precise nature of their relationship in light of the critical electoral reform question. And Butler was never able to come to close quarters because of a paucity of primary sources. Now, however, it is possible to merge these separate strands, along with a neglected Conservative view, into a comprehensive explanation of the Liberal-Labour nexus.

Despite much suspicion by contemporaries, especially among Conservatives in Parliament and the press, of a supposed Lib-Lab “bargain, ” it was repeatedly denied by prominent Liberal and Labour members. In light of the inability of historians to produce even a shred of evidence to the contrary and the glaring lack of legislative cooperation, it must be concluded that there was never any formal alliance between the two parties. Nevertheless a strong, and as yet unspecified, attachment did exist as a result of the unique parliamentary circumstances emerging from the general election of 1929. What emerges is an unattractive picture of political manuevering, calumny, and subterfuge where the potential allies worked at cross-purposes—the object of the Government being to create conditions favorable to retaining office while the Liberals desired some greater prospect for attaining office in the future. Despite their interdependence, the party leaders were never able to reach an agreement on the vital issue of electoral reform, which would involve some possible sacrifice of their individual ends. The result was a process of mutual destruction which contributed to the fall of the Second Labour Government and opened the way for a Conservative bid for power.

It is generally assumed that the earl of Salisbury's last years were a time of political decline, largely because of the failure of the Great Contract. “In 1610,” one historian has written recently, “Salisbury lost the confidence of both king and Parliament. The collapse of the Great Contract, in which so much of his credit was bound up, was a blow from which his prestige never recovered.” The outlines of the story are familiar. Salisbury, lord treasurer since 1608 and James's chief minister since the beginning of the reign, was securely established in the king's trust and affection at the beginning of 1610. His fall began with court opposition to the Great Contract, opposition which it has been suggested may have been the real cause of the contract's failure. According to Godfrey Goodman, a “great peer” on his deathbed advised the king

The dying peer blamed those who “did endeavour to engross and monopolise the King, and kept other able men out of his service.” From that point, according to Goodman, Salisbury, “who had been a great stirrer in that business, and was the man aimed at, began to decline.”

The “age of religious wars” usually serves as the main interpretive framework for students of late sixteenth-century European history. This period is often conceptualized as just preceding the establishment of a secularized, politique-based state system that provided domestic tranquility as welcome relief from extended, highly partisan warfare. It is true that religious sentiments ran high among certain Protestants and Catholics who believed millions of souls were at stake, and that passionate defenses of doctrinal purity, to the point of taking up arms, characterize a good deal of the polemic of the age. Consequently, since prominent clerics were most vocal and influential in stirring up pious fervor for holy causes, many historians have focused on clerical martial rhetoric and found in it the ideological basis for the “religious wars” that ensued. Unfortunately, a hint of teleology informs much of the historical narrative that then follows, as if confessional devotion were synonymous with volatile, even bellicose calls for godly reform. A broader, more nuanced look at some of the pertinent sources, however, suggests that in many, perhaps even the majority, of cases, newly energized evangelicals found holy causes abhorrent and contrary to the gospel message.

The failure of the Anglo-French peace negotiations of 1761—the so-called Stanley-Bussey talks—is usually ascribed to two principal causes: British intransigence over the Canadian fisheries and, closely related, the inadequacy of William Pitt's diplomacy; the fact that he lacked both the technique and personality for successful negotiation. British historians in particular, have tended to assess the course and failure of the negotiations with exclusive reference to the policies of the elder Pitt, another example of the mastery that Pitt supposedly wielded over government and administration at this time. The picture they present is that of a domineering figure, subduing cabinet opposition to his extreme demands with the same harsh tactics he employed against defeated France. In the words of Kate Hotblack (taking a view which is still current), “Until his resignation in October, Pitt dominated the peace negotiations as he had dominated the war.”

The purpose of this article is to question this interpretation by showing that Pitt, leading political figure though he was, did not singly control the cabinet and its decisions, but worked more in collaboration with his coministers, most notably his fellow secretary Lord Bute, who played a much greater role in decision-making than has hitherto been recognized. Indeed, if any single factor proved decisive for the deliberations with France, it was their alliance—long in materializing, uneasy in practice, and brief in duration. While Bute sided with Pitt, the latter managed to prevail against his opponents in Council and Britain's policy remained firm; when early in August of 1761, Bute shifted support to the moderates, those favoring last minute concessions on the fishery, Pitt swiftly lost ground and resigned shortly after.

Enclosure riots were a prominent manifestation of social tension in England in the 1530's and 1540's. Although enclosures of land for pasturage and tillage had been undertaken since the beginning of English agriculture and did not usually cause social conflict, the rapid increase in population of the sixteenth century pressed hard on the available supply of land. The necessity of increasing the food supply speeded up the process of enclosure. The supplies of corn and meat could not be increased significantly without the year-round use of enclosed and consolidated plots of land, which was inconsistent with communal access to common and waste land and the stubble remaining after the harvest on arable lands. Other causes of friction in agrarian society included the greater fluidity in the land market resulting from the dissolution of the monasteries together with revolutionary methods of exploiting the land. The social relationships existing among great landlords, small holders and tenants could not remain unaffected.

The main purpose of this essay is to analyze the early Tudor enclosure riot as a primitive or pre-political form of social protest. This will necessitate: (1) describing the forms and extent of violence employed; (2) distinguishing between those riots that accompany the Pilgrimage of Grace and the rebellions of 1548-49 and those riots that occur outside of the years of rebellion; and (3) modifying the assumption that the typical enclosure riot was perpetrated by an exasperated peasantry venting their rage upon the hedges and ditches of a commercially-minded, grasping gentry.

Throughout much of the nineteenth century relations between Britain and Germany were blessed not only by the absence of any fundamental conflicts of national interest, but also by positive factors tending to encourage friendly ties. Memories of the common struggle against Napoleon, the predominantly Protestant character of tioth countries, and the marriage of Queen Victoria to a German prince all suggested a natural affinity between them. German liberals and conservatives alike found much to admire in English political institutions, while Englishmen in turn approved the steps, however halting, by which many of the German states adopted constitutions and representative institutions.

During the late 1840s British statesmen did appear to have recognized the benefits that would accrue for Britain through consolidation of the German Confederation, and there was also some discussion regarding the prospect of an Anglo-Prussian alliance. After 1846, thanks to Palmerston's stridency in the affair of the Spanish marriages, Britain lost the good will of France and thus remained diplomatically isolated in the face of the powerful conservative coalition of Austria, Prussia, and Russia.