Several recent studies dealing with the English church during the Norman period add immeasurably to our understanding of the era, but nonetheless represent a lost opportunity to recreate the actual ecclesiastical milieu, an English church unsevered from its Norman counterpart. Institutional differences surely existed between the two churches, yet much is lost in treating them separately. Indeed, few historians would attempt to study the great eleventh and twelfth-century cathedrals and abbey churches in England detached from those in Normandy. It is therefore the purpose of this paper to examine the customs, ideas, and especially the individuals which the two churches shared.

A concerted effort to reexamine political institutions as they once functioned, rather than as a necessary condition for the states which they later became, has already begun. In 1976 John Le Patourel produced an impressive synthesis, The Norman Empire, and asserted that following the Norman Conquest, England and Normandy formed one dominion. It was united by a ruler who was at the same time King of the English and Duke of the Normans, and by a baronial class which had extensive holdings on both sides of the Channel. This supposedly came to an end in 1144 when Geoffrey of Anjou conquered Normandy. A recent review of the The Norman Empire, which like most reviews speaks of its sterling qualities, nevertheless points out that the sections dealing with the church are, “not given much space … (and) are probably the most derivative in the book.”

Robert Curthose, the eldest son of William I Duke of Normandy and King of England, received many blows of ill fortune during his long life (1051-1134). Most damaging to his image was his inability to emulate his father by conquering England after the great king's death in 1087, and again, after William Rufus's death in 1100. He attempted twice to restore the unity of the two lands, and twice he failed. Moreover, Robert's reign in Normandy was characterized by baronial feuds, civil war, lawlessness, and decentralization of authority, and his policies appeared “weak and blundering”. He enjoyed one glittering period of distinction: during the First Crusade (c. 1096-1100) he proved himself a brave and spirited participant. But upon his return to Normandy, insufficient baronial support and territorial control led in 1106 to his final degradation—the loss of his patrimony, the duchy of Normandy, and his permanent imprisonment at the hands of his younger brother, Henry I. Henry owed his victory, in large measure, to the fact that by 1106 most of Curthose's earlier companions had deserted him.

These almost unmitigated failures affected the loyalty of Curthose's companions in adverse ways. As will be shown, factors that frequently influenced political alliances in the Anglo-Norman world—long association, genuine fondness, a need to be on the winning side, and outside pressures—were, in Curthose's entourage, overshadowed by the desire for new acquisitions and the security of landed possessions. Because the duke was unable to safeguard and advance these primary interests, his power base was insecure and his retinue was characterized by shifting membership and short-term loyalty.

English landed society after the Restoration, and especially after the Glorious Revolution, has an historical reputation for stability, and even if this has sometimes been exaggerated by those who have commented upon it, it is clearly merited if comparison is made with the century before 1640. Possession of a great estate undoubtedly gave the aristocratic families of the age a massive economic strength, and the period is generally portrayed as one in which the ownership of property tended to pass increasingly into their hands. So perhaps it did, although any measurement is not, and may never be, possible. Yet it is certain that there remained an extremely active land market, and no contemporary observers of the land market whose correspondence has yet been studied ever complained that there was any shortage of property for sale. Moreover an examination of the title deeds of any estate built up at this time will reveal that the supply of land for sale came not only from the lesser squires and yeoman farmers, to whom the economic climate and fiscal exactions of much of this period were notoriously unkind, nor yet only from town dwellers who had inherited country estates in which they had no real interest. The substantial gentry and great landed magnates, too, are frequently found selling land, often in very considerable quantities. It is not the intention of this article to argue that, contrary to all other appearance, this is evidence that in any sense the greater proprietors were a “declining” class, for clearly they were not.

During the first half of the sixteenth century, the English gentry came to realize that its continued access to the controls of power would depend less on birth and military prowess and more on literacy and learning. As a result, the sons of gentlemen flooded into the grammar schools, where they acquired a good knowledge of classical Latin and, rather less commonly, the rudiments of Greek. Together with the languages of the ancients, the schoolboys imbibed at least something of classical ideals. Principally they learned the duty of service to the common weal, a service to be expressed politically. That ideal had permeated Roman education and, through the writings of humanist educational theorists such as Erasmus, was embodied in the curricula of the English grammar schools and universities. Young men were trained in the arts of argument. They learned the trick of compiling a commonplace book, under whose artfully devised headings they entered the “flowers” of their reading. Then, when occasion demanded it, in conversation or letter, in the law courts or parliament, they could search out the appropriate topos, in their memories or in their notes, and bring to bear the weight of classical (and even modern) wisdom. So much, indeed, might be learned by all grammar school boys. Those who proceeded to the universities added further weapons to their armories. Since the universities existed principally to train theologians and preachers, a function whose importance increased as it became necessary to defend English Protestantism from the attacks of Catholics and separatists, they emphasized dialectic.

In the decade after 1807, the Whig Opposition was divided between the conservatives and the progressives, the former consisting of the Grenvillites and most Foxite-Whigs, particularly their leaders, while many of the latter associated together in the Mountain. This was led by Samuel Whitbread until his death in 1815. It was distinguished from the rest of the Opposition primarily by its independent, aggressively activist support for economical and parliamentary reform and its willingness to associate on these issues with the followers of Sir Francis Burdett and the metropolitan radicals. The Opposition as a whole, and more recently the Grenvillites, have been carefully examined as part of the ongoing study of political groups in this era, but as yet there is no systematic analysis of the Mountain. This paper identifies twenty-one Mountaineers and marshalls the evidence for the nature of their activities together. It also analyzes the sources and nature of their reformist ideology, their independence, their tactics as a pressure group and their relationship to the Whigs and the radicals.

I

Twelve Mountaineers were by birth aristocrats and gentry. The Mountain's independent character was in part shaped by country gentlemen like Thomas William Coke and Charles Callis Western. Although committed to Whiggism and the Whig party, such men also inherited in some respects the eighteenth-century country party mentality which believed that the executive was corrupt and prided itself on acting independently as a check upon its excesses. Young Lord Folkestone, even more independent, was committed to Whiggism but not at all to the Whig party for he thought of himself as an independent, virtuous aristocrat guarding against and exposing government corruption.

John Evans, Moderation Stated, 1682.

The ironic fate of Absalom and Achitophel is to be fully appreciated as one of the great political poems of the language and only partially comprehended as political argument. Recent criticism of the poem is marked by a widening discrepancy between the ways in which it is understood as verbal and as political artifact. Metaphor and allusion have been carefully and often subtly charted, yet the poem's political rhetoric and its political argument are assumed to be simple coordinates. The tensions, indeed the contradictions, between explicit language and implicit argument are not only unexamined but largely unperceived. The conventional reading, which has become an almost fixed critical response, argues that the poem rises above partisan politics, that it derives from a political intelligence committed to a conservative ideology but indifferent to, indeed contemptuous of, the “party color'd mind.”

Generalities about Dryden's temper, the poet as philosophical sceptic, as disinterested critic of extremes, together with the seemingly ingenuous and repeated claims of moderation and balance in the Preface have led a number of critics to understand the narrator's espoused moderation as Dryden's political stance—a judgment which Dryden's contemporaries certainly did not allow.

In 1835 the English Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst introduced into the House of Lords a bill to correct an ambiguity in the law concerning marriages within prohibited degrees. The existing law, based on the 1533 Henrican statute fixing the degrees of consanguinity and affinity, specified that marriages within prohibited degrees could be annulled at any time within the lifetime of both spouses by the Ecclesiastical Court. Lord Lyndhurst argued that the uncertain status of such “voidable marriages” created an inconvenience and hardship for the married persons and especially for their children, who could during their parents' lifetime be declared illegitimate. His specific motive was to guarantee the legitimacy and inheritance of the son of the seventh Duke of Beaufort, who had married his deceased wife's half-sister, a relationship within the prohibited degrees. Lyndhurst proposed that parliament pass a bill to limit to two years the time within which marriages could be annulled.

The consensus in parliament was that the ambiguity of “voidable marriages” should be eliminated, and they readily passed a revised form of Lord Lyndhurst's bill, declaring that all marriages within the prohibited degrees of affinity contracted before August 31, 1835 were immediately and absolutely valid. Yet, even as they eased restrictions on existing marriages, they tightened the law for the future by adding a clause which made marriages of both affinity and consanguinity contracted after that date absolutely void.

In the parliamentary debate on the bill, there was some opposition from those who argued that marriages within certain degrees of affinity, in particular a man and his deceased wife's sister, should be permitted.

The tradition of English verse panegyric began in the reign of James I when the accession of the Stuart line called “for a formal and specific expression of the subject's allegiance and of the values which commend it.” First adapted from Latin models by Samuel Daniel and Ben Jonson, panegyric verse combined praise of the new monarch with conciliatory rhetoric aimed at uniting the king with his subjects. Still regarded as a branch of classical oratory at the beginning of James I's reign, verse panegyric underwent important transformations in succeeding decades. While Abraham Cowley adapted the panegyric themes of national revival and monarchic restraint to his version of the Pindaric ode, Edmund Waller and John Dryden made it a “branch of epic” by depicting the king as an epic hero. Thus enshrined among the neo-classical poetic genres, panegyric verse remained both a potent form of propaganda and an outlet for traditional literary aspirations through the reign of James II.

Following the constitutional upheavals of 1688, however, panegyric began to lose its traditional ceremonial function, and in following years the great Tory satirists made the decadence of panegyric conventions an object of their ridicule. Nevertheless verse panegyric did not immediately lose its credibility as literature or its efficacy as propaganda. Writing poems of public praise and celebration remained one way for the loyalists of a new regime—and for others who longed for restoration of the old—to articulate political sentiments, respond to the obligations of political patronage, and fulfill ambitions to write heroic verse.

Historians agree that the public schools played a central role in the creation of Victorian society and that in particular they were seminal in the construction of that “mid-Victorian compromise” which made the mid-century an era of “balance,” “equipoise,” and accommodation. There is further agreement that the cadre of boys produced by the newly reformed public schools became that mid-Victorian governing and social elite which was at once larger, more broadly based, more professional and, to many, more talented than the one which preceded it. The importance of the public schools in this regard was, as Asa Briggs affirms, twofold. They assimilated the “representatives of old families with the sons of the new middle classes,” thereby creating the “social amalgam” which, in Briggs' view, “cemented old and new ruling groups which had previously remained apart.” Secondly, the singular expression of that amalgamation was an elite type, the “Christian Gentleman”—the result of an “education in character” administered under the influence of Dr. Arnold. Arnold was able to do this because he “reconciled the serious classes” (that is, the commercial middle class) “to the public schools,” sharing as he did “their faith in progress, goodness, and their own vocation.” At first, the schools “attracted primarily the sons of the nobility, gentry and professional classes.” Later, it was the “sons of the leaders of industry” who were, like earlier generations of boys, amalgamated with “the sons of men of different traditions” in a broadened “conception of a gentleman.”

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.

The concept of the deferential society appears superficially to provide a valuable sociological underpinning to the phenomenon of the continuing dominance of the landed classes in nineteenth-century English politics. According to Professor D.C. Moore, whose case is advanced most fully in The Politics of Deference (1976), rural society consisted largely of a network of hierarchically structured communities. These, “what might be called ‘deference communities’ or ‘deference networks,’ (were) the essential action groups of mid-nineteenth century English politics.” Their nature and interaction “helps to explain the perpetuation of this structure (the deferential society), the perpetuation of the related political system, and the peculiar selection and formulation of political issues within the system.” It is difficult to do Professor Moore's subtle reasoning justice in a limited space but it would probably be fair to say that he sees most of the major legislative changes of the mid-nineteenth century as shaped and conditioned by the response of deferential leaders to social and economic change, a response which was designed as much to protect and buttress the existing system as to accommodate the new disruptive forces by major concession.

Professor Moore's case depends to a considerable extent on the pervasiveness and dominance of his “deferential communities” in rural society. However, while their existence is undeniable, other historians have expressed reservations as to the emphasis put on their role. Put most simply, in the words of Professor Moore's severest critic, “the electoral history of nineteenth-century Britain cannot be deduced from Bateman's Great Landowners.”

In Florence Nightingale's correspondence a series of letters to and from J.S. Mill treat a different subject than her usual correspondence with government officials, health and sanitation reformers, and hospital administrators in many parts of the world. Although it was never her intention when she initiated the exchange of letters, she and Mill quickly became involved in a controversy concerning the role of women.

Interwoven with some religious and philosophical matters, the Nightingale-Mill correspondence which falls into two periods, 1860 and 1867, is essentially a debate on women's rights. One debate concerns terminology and hinges on the entire validity of the question of publicity for the women's movement, then in its infancy, as well as the opening of the medical profession to women. The other focuses on differing perceptions of the role of women in political action. The exchange never became public during the lifetime of the participants, emerging with little notice only in the twentieth century with the complete publication of their correspondence in the journal Hospitals in 1936.

J.S. Mill's views on women's rights were public knowledge in his own day and have continued to be studied exhaustively. Florence Nightingale has been studied as the remarkable woman responsible for opening a respected profession for women. The point is often made that she refused to sign the women's petition Mill presented to the House of Commons in 1866 and would not at first become a member of the London National Society for Women's Suffrage.

Although party was a considerably more limited force in the British political system between the repeal of the Corn Laws and the Second Reform Act than it had been either during the thirties and early forties or in the later decades of the nineteenth century, it was nonetheless a significant fact of English political life throughout the Victorian period. Few students of nineteenth-century British politics, however, would look to J.S. Mill, perhaps the most influential political thinker of his time, for insights into the role of party. The consensus has been that very little of a positive nature can be said about Mill and party. In The Elements of Politics, Henry Sidgwick observes that “Mill… hardly seems to contemplate a dual organisation of parties as a normal feature of representative institutions.” A.H. Birch asserts, in his Representative and Responsible Government, that Mill “simply ignored the existence of political parties.” Dennis Thompson's study of the structure of Mill's political thought devotes some three pages to Mill's attitude towards party government, the author concluding that he was hostile to it and did not consider it necessary “for effective, stable democracy.” Indeed, Mill's major political treatise, Considerations on Representative Government, says remarkably little about parties, and where they are referred to no constructive influence is imputed to them. His discussion of Thomas Hare's plan of personal or proportional representation, for example, makes clear that one of its numerous virtues is the security it provides for insuring the representation not of “two great parties alone” but of every significant “minority in the whole nation.”