“Oh, Mr. Pym, this breaks the heart,” lamented Sir Richard Grosvenor in the House of Commons in 1629; “if God be God, let us follow him, and if Baal be God, let us follow him, and no longer halt between two opinions.” The Baalites, it was clear to the Commons, were the Arminians, who threatened “the very ruin and desolation if not dissolution of Religion in this land.” Such was the threat of Arminianism that when the Commons presented its Protestations on March 2, the first article read,

This was no ordinary condemnation of schism or theological haggling. The members of the Commons shared a strong suspicion of Arminianism as a political as well as religious heresy. They had a clear idea of what English Arminianism was and who was an Arminian. Before 1624, no Englishman had even been accused of Arminianism, either in Parliament or in contemporary literature devoted to religious controversies. How did the definition of English Arminianism develop between 1624 and 1629? How did Arminianism, originally a moderate Dutch Calvinism, come to be considered along with Popery as a treasonable theology?

At the turn of the seventeeth century, Jacobus Arminius, Divinity Reader at the University of Leyden, had proposed a theological compromise between Supralapsarian and Infralapsarian Protestantism.

For several years C. Warren Hollister has been picking his way through the “treacherous bog” of Anglo-Saxon and early Anglo-Norman military institutions. Out of that bog he has brought medievalists fresh knowledge of the nature of the Anglo-Saxon fyrd, the relation of fyrd-service to knight's service, the importance before and after 1066 of mercenary troops, to name only a few of the questions he has touched on. As a result of his work, in fact (along with that of Eric John and Michael Powicke), the Berkshire customal in Domesday Book threatens to become as written about as the final clauses of the Statute of York. But inevitably the presentday medievalist decides to emerge from his dusty inquests and cartularies, to step boldly out from behind his philological barricade and survey the surrounding landscape, to extract more from his laconic charters than a few plausible conclusions about some minor issues. Old-fashioned self-inhumation in the details of local antiquities is no longer for him, nor Bury's sanguine belief that if each historian adds his little stone to the dry wall of History, some future age may finally be able to see its shape. Thus the historian's growing concern with his generalizations. Thus especially the recent debates about the proper definition and delimitation of “feudalism.” Thus Hollister, after ducking the general issue of “feudalism” in his Anglo-Saxon Military Institutions, recently on these pages decided to attack it head on.

That mighty prince, Henry VIII, died on Friday, the 28th of January, 1547, at two of the morning. The final years of the reign had been moving ponderously and inexorably to this moment when the King must die. The instant, however, that Henry slipped from life into death, a fundamental change took place. Not only was an irascible old man gone but so also was the dread and anxiety that had surrounded the concluding months of the King's life. For half a decade Tudor England had lived with the terrible certainty that Henry's reign was drawing to a close and the equally terrible uncertainty of not knowing when death would claim its sovereign. Thrice within the final year, in March, October, and December, Henry had approached death and had drawn away. No prediction could be secure, no plan assured so long as the moment of death remained unrecorded.

If Henry's death cleared the air and dispersed the atmosphere of fear and insecurity enveloping those who attended upon his passing, it also introduced a new and befuddling note for those who must record and narrate his departure. The ultimate irony of the historical profession is that the historian is a victim of his own knowledge; the breadth of his vision backward through the glass of time distorts his image of the past. He knows when, where and how the old King died; he can even date the event to the hour. In contrast, those who so impatiently awaited or dreaded the sovereign's demise could only speculate and form their plans upon the slender thread of surmise.

It has been nearly half a century since R. H. Tawney published Religion and the Rise of Capitalism, and in spite of many efforts to refine and to dispute Tawney's thesis, the work has retained great influence over sixteenth and seventeenth-century English historical studies. There is considerable debate over the nature of the connection between Calvinism and capitalism, but amidst this disagreement there is a basic acceptance of the idea that the Puritan “work ethic” and the development of an entrepreneurial spirit were related to each other. Tawney suggested that the Puritans' doctrine of the calling engendered a new appreciation of diligent labor and a gradually developing certainty that the wealth which resulted from diligence should be considered a measure of godly activity. Thus, Puritanism discarded the suspicion of economic motives which had been a characteristic of earlier religious reform movements:

Tawney was speaking of the “later stages” of Puritanism; he took his examples entirely from post-restoration works.

It would be rewarding at the outset of this rejoinder to single out several areas of agreement between Mr. M. A. R. Graves and myself. First, we share a common objective: both of us aim to describe the system of parliamentary politics in the Edwardian House of Lords. Since Graves found little fault with section I of my article, which explained the proxy procedures, I assume that he concurs with that explanation. Secondly, we both are attempting to account for the behavior of individuals and groups within that system. Here we seem to agree on intention, although we differ on many specifics. Thirdly, we both rely upon quantitative techniques to explain certain political actions. It is in this area that the gap between objectives and results appears to be greatest. Graves has leveled most of his criticism at my statistical evidence, the method of quantification and the conclusions drawn from that evidence.

It is appropriate at this juncture to make some concessions. Graves has made a more complete survey and intensive study of attendance and absenteeism than I have. While I confined my attention to proctorial representation and absenteeism reflected in the proxies, he has amassed statistics and calculated percentages from the daily attendance records as well, and in so doing has improved the methodology and produced more accurate calculations pertaining to the political behavior of absentees. In short, he has out-quantified me and I concede that most of his conclusions relating to the incidence of absenteeism are sound.

In recent years a great deal of scholarly energy has been expended in attempts to identify differing religious parties and movements in Elizabethan and early Stuart England. On the one hand, J.F.H. New has described the actions of Anglicans and Puritans as “teleological acts – attempts to make practice conform to preconceived philosophies.” He believes that Anglican and Puritan doctrines derived from quite different conceptions of human moral capacity, conceptions which were distinct from their sixteenth-century origins and which grew more so as time passed. On the other hand, Charles and Katherine George have insisted that we can at best talk about minor differences of emphasis and of degree within a doctrinally unified “English Protestant mind” before 1640. There were, so this thesis goes, no really significant Anglican-Puritan ideological distinctions, and therefore religious differences had nothing to do with the coming of the English Civil War. The effect of these efforts has been to make historians aware that defining the terms “Anglican” and “Puritan” is a much more difficult enterprise than used to be thought. Despite the Georges' book, the terms are still being used; but New's argument about their meaning has not gone uncriticized.

It would be impossible in a short article to deal with all of the points raised in this extensive debate. The present purpose is to concentrate upon only two of many points of difference between writers traditionally identified as Anglicans and Puritans by means of their activities, attitudes, and associates.

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.

Late eighteenth-century London was a center of political debate, expressed variously in countless pamphlets, in coffee house discussions, and in extra-parliamentary political organizations. Intellectuals and political activists who argued about the problems of ministerial corruption and relations with the colonies had great faith in the power of reasoned discourse and the development of knowledge to improve the human condition. Most of them were interested in science and religion as well as politics. They were part of that broad intellectual ferment that we call the Enlightenment; yet for all the originality of some of their ideas and the radicalism of their political thinking, they owed a great deal to longstanding English political and religious traditions. They were rationalists who believed in God, and radicals who believed in history.

Catharine Macaulay was one of these intellectuals; she was surely not a particularly original thinker, but was unique in using history as her primary medium of political debate, and in being a woman tolerated in male intellectual circles. Macaulay and her associates owed a great intellectual debt to earlier radical thinkers, the “commonwealthmen” of the seventeenth century. What is perhaps less well understood is the extent to which their ideas were informed by religious beliefs as well as political ideology. Beliefs in both the ancient rights of Englishmen and in millennial perfectionism provided the basis for the particular brand of political radicalism espoused by Macaulay and her associates. History was an important part of their political thinking, both because the rights of Englishmen were rooted in historical experience and because the process of history was part of the ultimate achievement of perfection.

The term “backwoodsmen” originated in the rhetoric of an embattled Liberal Government intent on discrediting an overwhelmingly Unionist House of Lords during the struggle over the “People's Budget” of 1909. The description applied to those peers, supposedly the great majority of the Upper Chamber, who almost never attended debates and had nothing to do with national affairs. The “diehards”, the 112 temporal peers who voted against the Parliament Bill of 1911, have been characterized by both their contemporaries and later historians as conforming to the “backwoodsmen” stereotype. This politically motivated description of the “diehards” has been accepted as substantially accurate since it was first formulated. It is a prime example of a received historical “truth” repeated by many historians, but left uninvestigated.

Like other clichés used by historians, this characterization of the diehards as “backwoodsmen” has hindered the effort to understand the politics and society of the period in question. As Lord Willoughby de Broke, a prominent diehard, stated in his autobiography, the result of contemporary and later comment has been that “backwoodsmen” have “occupied a special niche in the public vision. They were presented as being a rare and rudimentary species of the human race.” The study of the diehards, believed to be composed of members of this odd species, has been perfunctory at best. For if the group is thought to be almost completely divorced from national politics and affairs, perhaps by its own choice, and if it is further thought to behave either simply in terms of landed reaction or as the willing tool of the Unionist leadership, further analysis would seem to be both unnecessary and unproductive for the understanding of modern British society.

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.

In the last two decades of the nineteenth century, Britain joined other European nations in the scramble for territory in Africa. Guided largely by strategic considerations, she showed little interest in exploiting the areas which she had acquired. In what might be called the first phase of colonial rule, lasting until about 1914, a thinly staffed colonial administration was preoccupied in each tropical African dependency with maintaining law and order and achieving economic self-sufficiency. To this end Africans were encouraged to grow crops such as cocoa and coffee, while a rudimentary communications system was established so that produce might find its distant markets. European plantation agriculture was allowed in only a few enclaves, such as the highlands of Kenya, but substantial mining concessions were widely granted to European companies. Politically, normal British policy was to retain and rule through such large traditional units of government as existed; among them were Buganda and the emirates of northern Nigeria. This policy was substantially modified in Ashanti, which therefore furnishes an important exception to the general pattern.

British policy remained essentially empirical throughout the second colonial phase, which roughly coincides with the interwar years. With the growth, however, of the notion of trusteeship, the British Government recognized a duty not only to govern but also to develop its dependencies economically, socially, and politically. After 1918 a modest expansion of government agricultural, medical, and educational programmes therefore took place — mainly financed, however, from local revenues.

Siam's struggle for survival against imperialism reached its nadir in the crisis of 1893. The beginning of its emergence from danger is generally marked by the Anglo-French guarantee of the integrity of the Menam basin in 1896. A number of questions remain unanswered regarding these critical three years. What was the Siamese role in the precipitation of the crisis and the formulation of the Menam guarantee? Was there a meaningful change in Great Power policy which relieved Siam from its extreme danger and brought it apparent safety? British policy lay very much at the crux of Siam's survival. This study concentrates on the impact of British diplomacy and, particularly, on the conduct of the two principal British Foreign Secretaries, Lord Salisbury and Lord Rosebery, during the crisis and the creation of the Menam guarantee. British endeavors to limit French expansion at Siam's expense significantly reveal the likenesses and differences between the diplomacy of imperialism of Lord Salisbury's Conservative Governments and the policies of the Liberal regimes of W. E. Gladstone and Rosebery.

Lord Salisbury fretted that the diplomatic need for secrecy regarding his maneuvers to achieve the Menam guarantee deprived him of acclaim for a strategic victory over France. “In Siam,” from 1893 to 1895, he wrote privately, “we found France in full process of absorbing the country.” France had taken much territory by a successful war in 1893, and “Rosebery had been unable to prevent her.” Because Britain had “no treaty rights whatever to interfere in behalf of Siam,” it would have been impossible to have “induced the English nation to go to war” over Siamese affairs.