The theory behind the Henrician religious settlement was that certain papal and episcopal powers of jurisdiction were vested in the Crown by parliamentary enactments because the Pope and the English bishops had failed to reform abuses in the Church. In the absence of an alternative administrative system, the bishops continued to govern the Church as agents of the royal ecclesiastical supremacy. Although some episcopal powers of jurisdiction were returned to the Elizabethan bishops, the actual authority allowed them did not suffice to effect a reformation or to enforce conformity to the established church. In order to resolve this crisis of episcopal authority the seventeenth-century prelates and divines elaborated theories of divine-right episcopacy, but the Elizabethan bishops found it more expedient to fall back upon extraordinary grants of royal authority contained in ecclesiastical commissions.

I

The Henrician and Edwardian alienations of episcopal jurisdiction are spectacular and dramatic, yet the erosion of episcopal authority began long before the Henrician Reformation. For over two centuries English bishops had been primarily royal servants. They were, by temperament and training canonists and diplomats rather than pastors; like the Renaissance popes they had grown accustomed to compromise rather than providing spiritual leadership. Not only in England, but throughout Western Europe, bishops rarely sat as judges in their own courts. Much of their authority had been permanently delegated to commissaries, who tended to become independent agents. They were, moreover, hard put to resist encroachments upon their ordinary authority by archdeacons and cathedral chapters, while ecclesiastical corporations devoted considerable effort to securing exemption from episcopal visitations.

Few habitual activities of government engender more dissatisfaction than conscription for military service. Complaints about taxation are, perhaps, more frequent but only because governments wage war more spasmodically than they collect revenues. From the perspective of the twentieth century, which has seen more men pressed into military service than any other period in the known past, the history of conscription and its impact on the political and social order ought to be of some interest.

The seventeenth century, like the twentieth, was wracked with continuous warfare, naked power struggles for international hegemony and fierce ideological combat. As a consequence, while at the beginning of the century no major European state had a standing army, at its end all had. In England, as in the rest of Europe, the century echoed to the banging of the recruiter's drum. Our view of the recruiting process under the Stuart monarchs is framed at each end of the century by two brilliant and brutally satirical portraits, Shakespeare's Falstaff and Farquahar's recruiting officer Captain Plume with his ever present Sergeant Kite. What they tell us is that the crown was horribly served, getting for soldiers the Feebles of mind and body, that providing men for military service (whether pressed or “recruited”) was a dirty, unfair and corrupt process and that the situation under good Queen Anne was the same as it had been under good Queen Bess. This “Falstaffian perspective” on the early Stuart period has never been challenged or examined in detail.

It is a truism that the most distinctive features of the peculiarly English genius in politics are moderation and compromise. The sources of this spirit must be sought throughout the whole fabric of English history, but it should be easier to examine some of the stages by which it emerged onto the conscious level of political thought. How long have Englishmen spoken of political moderation as a good in itself? Herbert Butterfield awards to the Whigs the honor of contributing to modern British history their instinct for compromise. Locke has often been thought of as doing the same. But Toryism has come in for its share of the credit, and a student of John Dryden's thought has suggested that the Tory Dryden well illustrates the tradition of avoiding political extremes and reconciling liberty and authority. This is a fruitful suggestion, and it may be carried further by seeking evidence of this tradition in the predecessors of the Tories, the royalists of the Civil War period. These latter, far from being diehards or extremists, were the advocates of a political mean, and tried to defend at once the king's authority and the subject's liberty. In some degree, this is now widely conceded, but the significance of this moderation is not as clear as it ought to be, because its nature is not understood. When it is understood, it will be possible to say that the most important characteristic of seventeenth-century English royalism was not its defense of the king, but its defense of political moderation and limited government.

The revival of the Foxite opposition from the demoralizing effects of its rupture of 1792-1794 and the subsequent secession of 1797 is an important and not fully understood episode in Great Britain's political history. The central feature of that recovery was the alliance struck in January 1804 between Charles James Fox and William Lord Grenville. It was not only to provide the foundation for the “Ministry of All the Talents” of 1806-1807, the whig opposition's sole tenure of office between 1783 and 1830, but it was to have profound effects on the activities of the whig party for at least a decade after the fall of that ministry. The arrangement and reception of the “cooperation,” as it was termed, illuminates the condition and the preoccupations of the Foxite opposition during Henry Addington's tenure in power. The alliance involved the most important political decisions Fox made in the last decade of his life, and the history of its establishment explains many of the workings of his mind after the secession. The actual proposition of association was one of the key incidents in the career of its initiator, Grenville, and it provides much information on a man who remains one of the least understood major politicans of George III's reign. The alliance has as well its own interest as a study of how two opponents with differing aspirations and ideals could form a successful union, each with motivations more complicated than the mere desire for office.

The struggle between King and Parliament in 1641-42 for command of the militia was to King Charles I “the Fittest Subject for a King's Quarrel.” As the King himself and a group of pamphleteers, preachers and members of Parliament realized, the controversy was not just a contest for control of military power. The fundamental issue was a change in England's government, a shift in sovereignty from King or King-in-Parliament to Parliament alone. As Charles explained, “Kingly Power is but a shadow” without command of the militia. His contemporaries, representing various political allegiances, also testified to the significance of the contest over the militia. They described it as the “avowed foundation” of the Civil War, “the greatest concernment” ever faced by the House of Commons, and the “great quarrel” between the King and his critics. To some men it was this dispute over military authority and the implications for government which were inherent in it, rather than disagreements about religion, taxes or foreign policy, that made civil war unavoidable.

Concern about military authority first erupted in the fall of 1641 in response to a series of events – rumors of plots involving the King, the presence in London of disbanded soldiers who had returned from the war with Scotland, the “Incident” in Scotland, and above all the rebellion in Ireland which required the levying of an army to subdue those rebels.

Ireland in the eighteen-fifties was quiescent through exhaustion. The great famine of the eighteen-forties had resulted in heavy population losses through death and emigration and demoralized tenant farmers had offered but a feeble resistance to wholesale evictions. The failure of the Irish Confederate risings of 1848-49, the collapse of tenant-right agitation and the disintegration of the Independent Irish Party at Westminster, had left the country sunk in political apathy. The trade union movement did not escape the general paralysis and the Regular Trades Association, a central organization that had developed in Dublin during the eighteen-forties, disappeared. Not until 1859 was there renewed trade union activity in the form of a campaign to abolish night-baking; though it had only limited success, it helped to bring about the appearance in 1863 of a new grouping of Dublin trade unions, the United Trades Association. It was, however, not a trade union organization but the Irish Republican Brotherhood that aroused the country from political torpor.

The I.R.B., known in North America as the Fenian Brotherhood, was a secret oath-bound society pledged to establish an independent Irish republic. Its first leader was James Stephens, who had founded it in 1858 after his return from an exile following the 1848 rising. Its membership was drawn from the rural and urban working class – the sons of small farmers, mechanics, artisans, laborers and petty shopkeepers. In 1861 Stephens skillfully stage-managed the funeral of Terence Bellew McManus, a Confederate exile whose body was brought back for burial in Ireland, and thus aroused an unprecedented interest in “The Organization,” as its members called it.

In 1876, and again from 1894 to 1896, thousands of Christians in Bulgaria and Armenia, then provinces of the Ottoman Empire, were massacred by Turkish troops, local irregulars known with romantic barbarity as bashi-bazouks, and Moslem tribesmen. The victims were raped or mutilated, many were burned alive. Weeks later streets were littered with corpses. The Armenians, even in the best of times, were subjected to an almost systematic starvation: Moslem tribesmen were permitted to take the crops of Armenian farms when times were peaceful, and to burn them in periods of violence. Naturally such treatment provoked insurrections, which renewed the cycle of repression.

These massacres drove a section of the English public to peaks of moral indignation. Nonconformist ministers and liberal academics, and their followers, were imbued with a reverence for the independent individual. High church clergy had rediscovered a religious affinity with the ancient Churches of the Near East. Humanitarian concern for the sufferings of one's fellow men – prison inmates and child laborers at home, for example, or slaves abroad – had been a steady force in the nineteenth century, and fortified these sectarian sensitivities. These Englishmen would have been distressed by the Ottoman massacres even if the British Government had been in no way involved. Since they believed the Government to be in fact gravely responsible, they conducted extensive political agitations.

Britain was the foremost defender of the territorial integrity of the Ottoman Empire.

In recent years, the “party history” of William's and Anne's reigns has been the subject of renewed interest and controversy, centering especially on the structure of Augustan politics. But amidst the debate over the usefulness and validity of two-party or multi-party analyses, uncharted regions of the political terrain remain to be mapped. Not least among them is the electoral history of the 1690s, and the general election of 1690 is a leading case in point.

Historians from Boyer and Burnet down to the most recent student of the politics of William's reign, D. A. Rubini in his Court and Country 1688-1702, have commented briefly on this election, describing its conduct and characterizing its results primarily in terms of the rivalry of Whig and Tory. However, in his passing comments on the 1690 election, Rubini does challenge the received notion that the new Commons of March 1690 was “at least moderately Tory” in complexion. Noting that historians have failed hitherto to use the “black lists” published by supporters of the opposing groups during the campaign as a yardstick of its outcome, he goes on to suggest that the Whigs “did considerably better than has generally been supposed and the Tories less well.” His brief, but questioning remarks may perhaps serve, then, as a point of departure for a somewhat fuller account of the campaign and a more detailed analysis of the results of the election which returned the longest lived of William III's parliaments.

Ever since J. A. Hobson characterized financiers as monolithic and conspiratorial, particularly those who were supposed to have been responsible for manipulating decisively events which led to the outbreak of the South African war, historians have stressed the need to examine their financial activities. However, the South African goldmining financiers have not been as thoroughly scrutinized as the politicians (Chamberlain and Kruger) or the administrators (Loch, Rosmead and Milner). Rhodes, of course, has been much studied, but more as politician and imperial strategist than as a Randlord. One recent exception to this neglect is G. Blainey's study based on an examination of mining techniques and technology. He asserts that a certain sector of the mining industry was hard hit by the policies of the Transvaal government, and that it was Randlords from this deprived sector (the deep-level operators) who triggered the Johannesburg uprising. What follows, based on the records of the mining houses, attempts to answer several questions about the key Randlords in 1895 which have often been raised but not satisfactorily answered. How monolithic and conspiratorial were the Randlords? What devices did they use to generate capital and take profits? What in 1895 were precisely their financial requirements and expectations? Was there, as Blainey suggests, a common concern about capital wants and anticipated profits which distinguished Randlords who participated in the attempt to overthrow Kruger's republic in 1895 from those who did not?

II

Groups which search for profits are no more free of internecine disputes than groups which seek power.

When the third Earl Grey attempted, between 1846 and 1851, to promote federations in Australasia, South Africa, and British North America, he found scant support either at home or in the colonies concerned. He failed (except, in a sense, in New Zealand) partly because his schemes were more visionary than practically suited to existing colonial conditions, and partly because measures “imposed by the imperial authority” were apt to encounter difficulties abroad and, therefore, political trouble at home. Following Grey's departure from the Colonial Office, imperial policy makers refrained from prescribing federal systems for the settlement colonies. His abortive plans, however, had consequences during the next twenty years which, though different from Grey's intentions, amply vindicated the ability of the imperial government to exert its authority, and established, in the end, the desirability of colonial federations. For a decade and a half after 1850, the home government repeatedly and successfully frustrated local proposals for federation in the three continental groups of colonies. Then, between 1864 and 1870, it hurried to completion the union of British North America, and set about promoting that of South Africa. At the same time, it refrained from pressing any such development upon Australia, and actually arranged the dismantling of New Zealand's federal/provincial system.

No inconsistency was involved. Britain's policy towards all these colonies was designed in favor of its own interests, tempered by a remarkable consideration of those of the colonies. The chief imperial object during the period in question (c. 1850-1870) was to reduce the country's military and political commitments; and the chosen device for the purpose was encouragement of colonial self-government, in various forms, including republican independence in the Boer states of South Africa.

At the beginning of the Edwardian period no young British politician appeared so assured of a bright future as Lord Hugh Cecil. A son of the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, he was not only of distinguished lineage but possessed great intelligence and eloquence. His parliamentary oratory was compelling despite his lanky, ungainly appearance and nervous gestures. He combined a logical approach with transparent honesty and courage. So sincere was he in his convictions, no matter how eccentric some might be, that even the most sophisticated (and cynical) in the Commons listened to him with respect. Even the normally reserved Annual Register commented admiringly on Cecil's performance in a debate on the 1902 Education Bill. Lord Hugh, it claimed, had made the “most striking speech” — one which “was recognized by the best judges as bringing him within the front rank of modern parliamentary orators.” Two years later that shrewd observer of the House of Commons, Sir Henry Lucy, predicted an even greater achievement for the young Conservative. Lucy asserted that by remaining with his party despite an aversion to Tariff Reform, Cecil would “in due time, succeed to the Premiership held by his father and in succession by his cousin.”

Yet by 1914 no one of prominence expected Lord Hugh to gain (or perhaps even to seek) high office. He remained, as the Guardian later stated, one whose speeches “would always fill the House,” but as a politician to be reckoned with in terms of power, his career was finished.

“The revolution is made,” the Duke of Wellington declared in 1833, “that is to say power is transferred from one class in society, the gentlemen of England professing the faith of the Church of England, to another class of society, the shopkeepers being dissenters from the Church, many of them being Socinians, others atheists.” Wellington's political postmortem was, to say the least, premature. The gentlemen of England and Wales continued to prosper, especially in the counties. In fact, most local government historians have argued that the landed classes virtually monopolized the administration of county affairs before 1888 when county government was institutionally restructured by the County Councils Act. The instrument of their control was the county magistracy acting in Quarter and Petty Sessions. K. B. Smellie, expressing a widely-held viewpoint, describes the county magistracy in the nineteenth century as the “rear guard of an agrarian oligarchy,” the “most aristocratic feature of English government.” Yet no one has furnished statistical evidence for this contention on a countrywide basis or for an extended time span. Is the notion of an aristocratic stranglehold over the counties really more impressionistic than substantive? By examining the “Returns of Justices of the Peace” between 1831 and 1887 in the British Parliamentary Papers, a nearly untapped statistical storehouse, it is possible to determine the degree of continuity in the social composition of the county magistracy.

Before doing so, it might be helpful to sketch the changing character of the Quarter Sessions.

For the British, the Anglo-Russian Convention was the culmination of repeated efforts, first begun by Lord Salisbury's government in the 1880s, later reiterated by the ministry of Arthur Balfour after the turn of the century, to come to terms with Russia in Asia. What was the effect on the British position in Asia of the agreement which the Liberal administration of Henry Campbell-Bannerman finally obtained in 1907? The actual working of the Convention in Asia has not received close attention. Since Britain and Russia were wartime allies, it appears to have been taken for granted that, before World War I, the Anglo-Russian Convention produced no major disenchantment or dangers for either partner. One purpose of this essay is to show that for the British, the Convention eventually generated serious dissatisfaction, that it failed to fulfill the British aim of halting Russian expansion in areas strategically crucial to the defense of India, and that in Central Asia after 1912, the Anglo-Russian Convention hindered rather than furthered the British quest for security. Further, a thesis of this paper is that Anglo-Russian relations dominated British policy in Central Asia, and that it was British anxiety about Russian expansion in Central Asia which led the British after 1912 to attempt to establish a veiled protectorate in Tibet. This view diverges from that of a recent major work on the once obscure history of Central Asia: in The McMahon Line, Professor Alastair Lamb emphasized the importance of Sino-Indian relations to the formulation of British policy in Central Asia.

Political history is the record of the pursuit and exercise of state power. In a democracy the search for such authority usually begins with the contest of elections. Elections, as a consequence, are of great importance and their systematic analysis, particularly the extrapolation of conclusions about popular attitudes from their results, has achieved in the last few years the status of a separate scholarly craft.

Historians have their own way of explaining elections. Traditionally, they tend to concentrate upon comparisons of programs and of party leaders. They assume the electorate made a choice between platforms and personalities and they tend to explain observable results in terms of most easily demonstrable causes. In dealing with the British General Election of 1945, for instance, they argue that the Labor party won because voters found its program more believable than that of the other party. This explanation, of course, is tautological. One is reminded of Calvin Coolidge who explained his victory in the race for governor of Massachusetts by saying that he received the most votes.

Yet of all elections in the twentieth century, the poll of 1945 needs critical investigation. The importance of its results have obscured the complexities of the election itself; historians have been so fascinated by what Labor did in office that they have ignored how the party got there. Labor's victory was as unprecedented as it was unexpected. As neither Churchill nor the leaders of the Labor party could believe, even in the face of much evidence to the contrary, that the electorate would dismiss the man who had led Britain through the war, the mystery of the election derives not from the Labor victory but from the breakdown of understanding between the leaders of the nation and its citizenry.