This essay reviews the historiography of the Vikings, especially in England, from the nineteenth century onwards. Successive constructions of Vikings as ‘ancestors’ or ‘Others’ are shown to reveal more about quests for identity on the part of those who devised them than about ninth-century Scandinavians. In the rest of the essay, the interactions of Danish groups and individuals with Franks and Anglo-Saxons are examined in particular places and times. It is argued that these display contacts of multiple kinds, including much collaboration and some integration, often promoted by lordly and royal interests. It is suggested that these findings are explicable in terms of reshapings of individual and group identities in a broad context of cultural likeness and adaptability.

The story of the English farmers of the customs has hitherto concerned historians mainly because of its bearing on the history of the House of Commons. By their control over the customs and through the influence they exerted over the other English merchants, these financiers obstructed the efforts of the commons to establish parliamentary control over indirect taxation. The nature of this challenge has been clearly explained by George Unwin and Eileen Power. Edward III wished to finance the war with France by levying a heavy subsidy on exported wool (ultimately 40s. per sack) over and above the traditional light duty of 6s. 8d. per sack. The subsidy was disliked by the producers of wool, because they were convinced that it pushed down the price of wool in England. The commons who voiced this opposition were, however, powerless to prevent the collection of the subsidy as long as the wool merchants were willing to sanction its continuance and as long as the king could find English business men who would make satisfactory advances on the security of this revenue. Unwin has discussed in detail one set of developments that gradually ended this challenge to parliamentary control over indirect taxation. He was able to show how the leading financiers, by their selfish behaviour, destroyed the unity of the English wool merchants, made impossible further concerted action by merchant assemblies and forced the majority of the merchants to act in future ‘with and through the commons’.

The thirteenth century was a crucial time in the history of the English borough. It saw towns at the height of their prosperity before the calamities of depression and plague, and the last burst of town-making until the spas of the seventeenth century inaugurated our present urban society. It saw an apparent attempt by Edward I's government to define a hierarchy of towns, in which that which was not a borough would be seen plainly to be something else. It marks the time during which the continental commune was tamed and assimilated to English politics, and commune, gild and portmanmote fused together, in as many different ways as there were boroughs, to make the communities for which the Common Law had evolved the doctrine of incorporation. It also produced for us the first substantial quantity of original records written in the towns themselves, records which are from that time onward our principal source of information about municipal affairs. The purpose of this paper is to display the nature and scope of borough archives before 1300, both as a guide to the mass of material that survives from later centuries, and as a commentary upon the thirteenth-century borough. It is confined to those towns, such as the shire boroughs of Domesday Book, which may be presumed to have recruited their own clerks, and not, like the numerous enfranchised manorial towns of this time, to have had someone else provide them.

The bicentenary of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in 1807 prompted a remarkable wave of public commemorations across Britain. In contrast to the low-key events of 1907, 2007 saw a sustained and nation-wide urge to commemorate, publicise and discuss the Atlantic slave trade and its abolition. Government interest proved an important influence, and was reflected in a lively educational debate (resulting in changes to the National Curriculum.) This political interest may have stemmed from the parallel debate about modern human trafficking, and contemporary slave systems. Equally, the availability of funding (from the Heritage Lottery Fund) may have persuaded a host of institutions to devise exhibitions, displays and debates about events of 1807. Perhaps the most striking forms of commemoration were in broadcasting and publishing: the BBC was especially active. There were few regions or localities which remained unaffected by the year's commemorations.

But why was there such interest? Was 1807, with the outlawing of an unquestioned evil, seen as a moment of national virtue? But if so, how are we to recall the role played by the British in the perfection of Atlantic slavery and the slave trade? The lively debates in 2007, from major national institutions to small local gatherings, revealed the problematic nature of abolition itself. After all, slavery survived, and even the slave trade continued after 1807. So what was important about 1807? The commemorations of 2007 raised public awareness about an important transformation in the British past; it also exposed those intellectual and political complexities about the ending of the Atlantic slave trade which have proved so fascinating to academic historians.

What is pain? This article argues that it is useful to think of pain as a ‘kind of event’ or a way of being-in-the-world. Pain-events are unstable; they are historically constituted and reconstituted in relation to language systems, social and environmental interactions and bodily comportment. The historical question becomes: how has pain been done and what ideological work do acts of being-in-pain seek to achieve? By what mechanisms do these types of events change? Who decides the content of any particular, historically specific and geographically situated ontology?

In 1576 William Cecil, Lord Burghley, was engaged in one of the most painful disputes of his distinguished career: a bitter conflict with the earl of Oxford who had married, and then repudiated, his beloved daughter Anne. Cecil's distress erupted in a series of memoranda enumerating die injuries inflicted by die earl. At the end of the most comprehensive of these documents he briefly resumed his other role, as mentor and Polonius to the young de Vere. Remember, he begged him, who he was and what the world expected of him: above all remember that ‘the gretest possession that any man can have is honor, good name, good will of many and of the best sort’. This appeal to honour as good reputation among the wisest and best was unlikely to move his renegade son-in-law, whose understanding of the honour code, if we may judge by his actions, is that it provided justification for the wilful individualism of the nobleman. But Cecil's choice of language has resonance in the broader context of thinking about reputation in the late sixteenth century. It eschews excessive personal pride in favour of a balanced appeal to the judgment of one's peers, yet it is scarcely an elevated perception of virtuous Protestant honour of the kind associated with another of Cecil's protègès, Philip Sidney.

In the course of the fifth and sixth centuries, barbarian warbands acquired property rights in the former provinces of the Roman west, in a process that established the broad structural characteristics of early medieval society in western Europe: that is the central contention of this essay. Focusing on the western Mediterranean heartlands of the Imperial government and senatorial aristocracy, it argues that these property transfers were fundamental to the emergence of ethnic identity as the crucial political marker in the post-Roman west. Latent conflict over the respective rights and obligations of barbarian ‘guests’ and their provincial ‘hosts’ structured the first attempts at post-Roman state-formation in the west, for the nature of the ‘hospitality’ offered to barbarian warbands accommodated within the Empire became a matter of contention as second and third generation ‘guests’ continued to enjoy the fruits of the property of their ‘hosts’. Interpreting these new social relationships in the light of established legal forms, barbarian kings identified agreed mechanisms for the legitimate transfer of Roman property to their followers: this process allowed Roman landowners to seek remedies for illegitimate or violent seizure, but at the price of acknowledging a significant redistribution of land to a new class of barbarian soldiers whose liberty was rooted in their military service. The result was the emergence, by the seventh century, of regionalised and militarised elites who appropriated the language of ethnicity to legitimate their position.

THE period spent in opposition between 1945 and 1951 has generally been thought of as a key to the understanding of the activities of the post-war British Conservative Party. Autobiographies of the Party leaders of the time began to appear at the end of the Fifties, already looking back to a period in which the Conservatives had decisively changed their approach. So for example, Lord Woolton's Memoirs reviewed not only a term as Party Chairman which had been a highlight of his own crowded career, but also his sharing in a major act of transformation, a transformation that had led on to Conservative success since 1951: ‘the change was revolutionary’. Other key figures in the organisation reached similar conclusions as their own accounts appeared: David Maxwell-Fyfe argued that the new Party rules which he had drawn up had not only decisively widened the political base of British Conservatism, but that events since had confirmed the importance of the change. R. A. Butler's account of The Art of the Possible argued in 1971 that ‘the overwhelming electoral defeat of 1945 shook the Conservative Party out of its lethargy and impelled it to re-think its philosophy and re-form its ranks with a thoroughness unmatched for a century’. The effect was to bring both the policies of the Party and ‘their characteristic mode of expression’, as he puts it, ‘up to date’. As recently as 1978, Reginald Maudling—a key figure behind the scenes in 1945–51 as a speechwriter from Eden and Churchill and as the organising secretary of the committee which produced the Industrial Charter of 1947—reached much the same view: ‘We were at that time developing a new economic policy for the Conservative Party … It marked a substantially different approach for post-war Conservative philosophy.

Thus the Venetian envoy wrote in his ‘Relation’ a few years after Henry Tudor's accession. The history of Tudor policy in Wales has often been interpreted by way of commentary on this assumption, that Henry Tudor, born at Pembroke Castle and descended from the family of Penmynydd, Anglesey, was considered a Welshman and was himself conscious of this heritage. The Welsh origins of the dynasty have been invoked by historians in the past to explain the relative success of its rule in Wales. Both the so-called ‘union’ with England and the reception of the Reformation were achievements in state and church which have been attributed to the general popularity of the dynasty in Wales and to the favour in which the Tudors (particularly the two Henrys and Elizabeth) regarded their Welsh subjects.

The Royal Historical Society will not be startled to learn that one of the best-informed essays on William Camden was written by its quondam president, Sir Maurice Powicke:

A great book might be written about Camden, his life and his works, his wide circle of friends and correspondents and his humanity. It would be a very difficult book to write, for its author would have to be steeped in the social history of the time and to be familiar with the personal life, the friendships and all the correlated activities of scholars all over the western world in Camden's day. To recapture that society with learning and imaginative amplitude might well engage a fine and patient and sympathetic scholar in the work of a lifetime.

Historians love to sail under bare poles with the spares tophamper of theoretical disquisition. Yet in the last resort their differences resolve themselves largely into differences of methodology, and nowhere more patently than in the history of bureaucracy where contingency and a priori ideas have long contested for the key position in historical explanation. This must be the excuse for an historian of colonial rule who finds himself driven to study the richer historiography of bureaucracy in metropolitan Britain and to trace out its movement with the simplicity of caricature before he can settle to his satisfaction the mechanics of historical causation in government house and secretariat.

In every generation since the pace of economic and social change began to accelerate in the late-eighteenth century the wildest hopes, aspirations and fears of the previous generation have been realized. The revolutionary prospect of heeding the will of the people in the 1790's became the conservative measure of 1832. The terrifying demands of the Chartists were well on the way to enactment by 1885, and with the payment of M.P.s in 1911 were substantially achieved, apart from the silliest of all the demands, that for annual parliaments.

The many non-theological controversies which ranged about the Church of England in the first three decades of the nineteenth century fell into two classes, the one inspired by the deficiencies in the church's physical equipment for performing its allotted functions as the state's religious establishment, the other by the superiorities and advantages enjoyed only by its members. The controversies in the latter class went the deeper. In discussing ‘church reform’, the fact of establishment could be taken for granted: but in discussing the legal disabilities and social inferiorities under which both Protestant and Roman Catholic nonconformists suffered, the establishment's superiorities had to be defended against liberals who maintained that an established church could do without them, and its very existence as an establishment had to be justified against the charges of those Protestant dissenters and secularists who maintained that established churches were iniquitous, oppressive, and absurd. The discussion thus ranged freely between the poles of political practice and political philosophy, and joined the immediate problems of the hour to the most serious philosophical and theological problems with which thoughtful statesmen could be concerned.

The origins of that strange amalgam of constitutional and religious issues which provoked England's civil war have not yet been fathomed. The painstaking researches of the historians of parliament have established that from early in Elizabeth's reign, the Commons assumed an increasingly Puritan complexion; from the 1621 Parliament until the last stormy session before the Personal Rule, the constitutional crisis came forward to meet and merge with the religious in the first of the three stirring resolutions voted by an expiring Commons in defiance of Mr. Speaker. Yet, the identification of sacred concerns with secular by the few hundred who sat in St. Stephen's was not the norm for the greater England beyond Westminster. Parliament had moved further and faster in the 1620's than had the country, the constitutional questions alone having been bruited about the countryside. The religious issue—the growing divergence in faith and practice within the Church—had not been generally perceived by a nation largely unaware of Laud and his adherents on the one hand and the ‘Preciser sort’ of Puritans on the other. During the Personal Rule, however, the religious issue became a matter of common knowledge, concern, rumour, and controversy. Under the impact of Laudianism, Puritanism grew more extremist. The inexorable destruction of the Elizabethan settlement, ground between an ever more rigid orthodoxy and an increasingly radical heterodoxy, forced the countryman to choose sides in matters religious. Once the identification of religious heterodoxy with political opposition was accomplished, the necessary ingredients for civil war were mixed, awaiting only the loosening of royal and episcopal authority in the Long Parliament in order to work their destructive ends.

A YEAR ago I took the opportunity presented by this obligatory address to survey the working out of a classical formula for historical writing during the three hundred years which separate Einhard's Life of Charlemagne from Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniae. History written in accordance with these rules had many merits, and its emphasis is often right, or at least illuminating, but it never had a more than uncertain hold on the matter-of-fact world. Geoffrey of Monmouth was a historian who followed the old rules, but he did his job so well that he could have no successor except in the realm of romance. This is no place for us, and it is time for us to come down to earth again.

Few historians of the Long Parliament would regard the form of Church government as the first concern of the parliamentary leaders in their negotiations with the king. Contemporary historians considered that the early struggle was not about religion. The royalist Clarendon, the parliamentarian Thomas May, even Richard Baxter, a deeply religious Puritan, were unanimous. To the aristocracy and gentry, it was essentially a conflict over political power and public safety. Religious fervour would inspire the New Model Army, rouse the London citizens, and stimulate the printing presses. But how many members of Parliament or of the gentry in 1640 supported fundamental religious change? Sir Edward Dering told the Commons on 20 November 1641 that he had heard no one there declare themselves for either Presbyterianism or Independency. When Baxter described the composition of the Rump Parliament, he did not see it as the culmination or fulfilment of a religious movement, the expression of Independency.

The rapid spread of print in the fifteenth century masks considerable difficulties that faced the industry in adapting to the new disciplines of mass production. Many early print shops were short-lived. Within two generations production of printed books was concentrated in a comparatively small number of major centres of production. This paper explores the implications of these developments for our understanding of the ‘print revolution’. It considers in particular the contrasting fortunes of three major markets: France, one of the largest centres of production; the Netherlands, a major hub of international trade; and England, which lay towards the periphery of the European book world.

ALL the world's a stage, as we know, and the concept of a theatrum mundi is a venerable one. So too is the specific idea of politics as theatre. As an idea it may not seem very remarkable. Politics lives off metaphor, after all, and theatrical metaphor might seem especially appropriate to describe political activity. Do we not refer naturally to the political stage, to politicians assuming roles, to dramatic political scenes? This very naturalness, derived from repeated usage, presents a challenge. For one of the tasks of the historian is to show how what has come to seem natural came to seem so: to restore the novelty of artefacts and institutions we take for granted, to recover the impact of ideas and metaphors worn smooth by repetition. I want to argue below that metaphors of politics as theatre can be more than just a figure of speech: that they had specific and revealing meanings in the period of German history from the revolutions of 1848 to the advent of National Socialism.

Taking William Marshall at his word, a comparison of his Defence of Peace of 1535 with the Latin editio princeps of the Defensor Pacis, printed in Basle in 1522, reveals that there is much need for ‘correction’ or rather, it reveals that Marshall had himself corrected and amended the original to suit his own purposes. What those purposes were, the nature of the amendments and their consequences for our understanding of the royal ecclesiastical supremacy will be the subject of this essay.

M. Varin's learned monograph at present stands alone as an attempt to ascertain the origin of the double monastery, or monastery for men and women. He deals with the subject incidentally as part of a thesis on the points at issue between the Breton and Roman Church, and he handles his whole theme controversially. In spite of this fact, his argument on the subject of double monasteries has met with general acceptance, for example, from Montalembert, Ozanam, Haddan, Professor Mayor, and M. Maurice Prou. M. Varin seeks to prove that St. Rhadegund' foundation at Poitiers was the first example of this form of organisation among the Western nations of the Continent, and that its origin is directly traceable to Irish influences. It is the object of this essay to suggest a different conclusion, to collect the evidence on the subject from the scattered sources where alone it is at present accessible, and incidentally to criticise the arguments adduced by M. Varin.