The outbreak of war in August 1914 brought to a halt the activities of both militant and constitutional suffragists in their efforts to gain votes for women. By that time, the suffrage campaign had attained the size and status of a mass movement, commanding the time, energies, and resources of thousands of men and women and riveting the attention of the British public. In early 1918, in what it defined as a gesture of recognition for women's contribution to the war effort, Parliament granted the vote to women over the age of thirty. This measure, while welcome to feminists as a symbol of the fall of the sex barrier, failed to enfranchise some five million out of eleven million adult women. When war ended, feminists continued to agitate for votes for women on the same terms as they had been granted to men, but organized feminism, despite the fact that almost half of the potential female electorate remained disenfranchised, never regained its prewar status as a mass movement. By the end of the 1920s, feminism as a distinct political and social movement no longer existed. This was due to the impact of the war on cultural perceptions of gender. Feminists' understandings of masculinity and femininity became transformed during the war and in the immediate postwar period, until they were virtually indistinguishable from those of antifeminists.

As I have argued elsewhere, prewar British feminists regarded their movement as an attack on separate-sphere ideology and its constructions of masculinity and femininity.

“Who loves the state these days?” Frances Cairncross rhetorically asked in The Times Literary Supplement at the height of the Thatcher era. “People have become more cynical,” she went on, “about the central tenet of socialism: the concept of a wise and beneficent State, representing the best interests of the community at large.” The skepticism about the state as a provider of national well-being which Cairncross was referring to was of course not confined to Britain. Nor was it, in Britain, simply to be identified with “Thatcherism.” Rather, such disillusion developed over a period of several decades and across the political spectrum. As significant in this development as the thunderings of Thatcherites were the reconsiderations of those further left; David Marquand spoke for many when he declared his own tradition of Croslandite social democracy virtually bankrupt, flawed to the root by its statism, through which “civil society was seen, all too often, not as an agent, but as a patient.” The deep shift of opinion embodied in such observations has made its mark in a variety of realms, one of which is the subject of this essay: an alteration in the interpretation of British history, in particular of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the era in which this newly problematical state began to grow into its modern form.

It has become something of a truism that historical writing is a part of the wider field of social discourse.

This review article has a conventional purpose, namely, to assess the contributions made by thirteen recent books, most by British historians, to the history of British foreign policy and the European states system during the revolutionary, Napoleonic, and post-Napoleonic eras. There is, however, a problem. None of the books is conventional diplomatic history. Almost half relate only indirectly to foreign policy, while for the remainder foreign policy constitutes only part of their subject matter. The review therefore consciously runs two risks: that of judging the books by inappropriate standards and that of drawing conclusions about current historiography in this field and period from an inappropriate sample. The reader will have to judge whether the results justify the procedure.

Geoffrey Best's War and Society in Revolutionary Europe illustrates the problem. Best clearly succeeds in his goal of going beyond the study of military organizations to the study of war itself as a “unique human interest and activity.” The book is far-ranging, delightfully written, based on wide reading, and packed with insights. It also contributes substantially to the history of international politics, mainly by demonstrating how powerful an impact armies and combat had. Yet from the political historian's standpoint there is ground for some frustration as well as for pleasure. Best's descriptions of how armies developed from the Old Regime into the nineteenth century and his analyses of the impact of war in 1792–1815 are excellent for France and Britain and adequate for Prussia and Spain.

The treason trial of Connor Lord Maguire, second baron of Enniskillen, in February 1645 brought into focus competing conceptions of the constitutional relationship of England and Ireland. Maguire had been implicated in the plot to seize Dublin Castle on 23 October 1641 during the Irish revolt of that year and was tried in early 1645 before a Middlesex jury. The key issue of the trial was whether Maguire, as a peer of Ireland, having committed treasonable acts in Ireland and elsewhere and being brought “into England against his will, might be lawfully tryed … in the King's Bench at Westminster by a Middlesex Jury, and outed of his tryal by Irish Peers of his condition by the statute of 35 Henry VIII c. 2.” In the earl of Stafford's trial almost four years earlier, the defense had consistently assumed a position that will be termed Irish constitutional exceptionalism. Both Strafford and other apologists for his rule as Lord Deputy in Ireland during the 1630s adopted this constitutional stance in response to proceedings against them in both the English and Irish Parliaments during 1641. It held that while Magna Carta and the common law generally held sway in Ireland, because of circumstances unique to that particular kingdom, significant exceptions existed with regard to the legal rights and privileges these legal instruments conferred on the king's Irish subjects. In contrast, the case for Maguire rested on a view of the constitutional relationship of England and Ireland that emphasized a more closely shared heritage of legal privileges for both commoners and peers as guaranteed by Magna Carta and the common law—a position best characterized as constitutionalist.

Henry de Eastry, prior of Christ Church, Canterbury from 1285 to 1331, has long been regarded as primarily responsible for the priory's financial health. On his accession, the monastery was deeply in debt. Eastry, by his reorganization of the administration and his far-seeing policies of adding to the convent's property and exploiting these resources to the fullest, was able to raise the priory “from a state of insolvency to what was probably the highest level of productivity in its history.” One reason that Eastry enjoys such an excellent reputation is that he left behind him several extremely significant records, including a register of his writs and a memorandum book in which he set forth his achievements with elaborate detail. Yet some of his predecessors and successors followed policies that were very similar to those pursued by Eastry. It is time to re-examine Eastry's role in the priory's history and to determine whether his contribution was indeed as outstanding as has been hitherto assumed.

The area that most lends itself to this investigation is that of property investment. R.A.L. Smith, in his pioneering study of the convent's administration only touched on this aspect. He stated that during Eastry's priorate the monks “made astute investments in land,” but gave few examples. Moreover he never tackled the problem of how the priory's activities were affected by the statute of mortmain of 1279, which, in theory at least, severely restricted property accumulation on the part of ecclesiastical institutions. Nor did he consider the question of whether the tremendous fall in population after 1348 hindered or facilitated the acquisition of lands and rents. A detailed analysis, over a fairly long period, of the policies pursued by the priory with regard to investment in land, rent, and building, can not only point out the contribution made by Eastry, but also shed light on the more general questions of the economic impact of the Black Death and the effectiveness of the statute of mortmain.

When Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman was elected leader of the Liberal party in the House of Commons in January 1899, the party already was divided over the issue of imperialism. By the end of the year, the Boer War had accentuated that division. During the next six years, this disagreement over imperial policy was converted into a struggle between CB (as he was known to his contemporaries) and the Liberal Imperialists for control of the Liberal party. In the course of that struggle, Lord Rosebery, the leader of the Liberal Imperialists, repudiated CB's leadership; the Liberal Imperialists established their own organization, the Liberal League; and finally, the three most prominent Liberal Imperialists in the House of Commons—H.H. Asquith, Sir Edward Grey, and R.B. Haldane—tried to force CB to become a prime minister in the House of Lords before they would serve under him.

Despite the obvious talents of the men involved, the Liberal Imperialists failed in their efforts either to capture the Liberal party or to dislodge CB from his position as leader. Because CB's leadership in opposition has seemed weak, there has been a tendency, even on the part of his sympathetic biographers, to attribute his success in beating back the Liberal Imperialist challenge to pluck and luck rather than to political skill. CB was plucky in his willingness to stick with the thankless task of leading a divided party whose most prominent members—Rosebery, Sir William Harcourt, and John Morley—insisted on acting as alternatives to CB both as definers of policy and as focuses for the loyalty of Liberal M.P.s. CB was lucky in that the actions of the Unionist government of 1902-1905 reunited the fractured Liberals.

Political legitimacy was a shifting concept in medieval England. On the one hand were the tangible aspects of power such as control over appointments and the purse; on the other were the symbolic attributes of power. Baronial rebels were able to gain control over the material aspects of political power on more than one occasion, and they also tried to establish control over the symbolic aspects of legitimacy. Here, they usually failed, for medieval people generally failed to accept baronial use of political symbols as legitimating future developments. Monarchs, on the other hand, were more successful in exploiting the symbolic aspects of kingship to further legitimate their power.

The simultaneous success and failure of royal and baronial efforts at establishing legitimacy bear further scrutiny. After viewing the problem of the establishment of legitimacy, this essay focuses on two related episodes during the reign of Richard II: the attempted canonizations of King Edward II and Richard FitzAlan, earl of Arundel. Richard II's reign is chosen for three reasons. First, there was a clearly articulated struggle between king and barons that was fought out in both the physical and symbolic arenas. Second, the process of political canonization produced a royal and a baronial saint during the reign. Although not premeditated on either side, there was a conjunction of events and a desire by the king and the barons to manipulate the symbolic aspects of these events during the reign. The final reason for subjecting saintly symbolism in Richard's reign to examination is that the process of political canonization reached its zenith then.

It has long been recognized that British central administration rarely undergoes radical upheaval. Major changes tend to occur in a cumulative or incremental manner, rather than being imposed suddenly as part of a politically-inspired program of reform. Even when the tempo of change in Whitehall has been at its quickest, for example in the two world wars, the dominant pattern has been for ad hoc adaptation of existing practices or for uncoordinated improvisations. All this is in character for a country whose political system is determined less by institutional frameworks or legal codifications than by ever subtly changing codes of practice or conventions. As a result, however, it is not unknown for significant changes in the workings of Whitehall to go largely unnoticed by contemporaries. It is argued here that one such development was the transformation in the inter-war period of the Treasury and of the higher civil service which was presided over by Warren Fisher, Permanent Secretary to the Treasury from 1919 to 1939.

The extent and significance of these changes has tended to be masked even for later historians by the more obvious upheavals in both the work and organization of departments during each of the world wars. However, the changes wrought by Fisher and his associates had repercussions far beyond the confines of the Treasury itself. Five interrelated developments can be traced during this period.

The debates of the Army Council held at Putney church during October and November 1647 have not suffered neglect at the hands of historians and political theorists. Such an explicit examination of the fundamental tenets of government as occurred in the discussion of the franchise is a pivotal event in the history of political thought and it has been treated as such ever since Sir Charles Firth uncovered William Clarke's notes of the meetings. Emphasis upon the content of the dispute over the franchise has served to elevate the Putney debates into a symbolic event, a milestone in the struggle between privilege and liberty which dominated English history for two and a half centuries and English historiography ever since. Rainsborough's dictum that “the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live, as the greatest he” encapsulates this theme and has passed into the common stock of historical quotations. Indisputably, succeeding generations of scholars and students will grapple with the meaning of the debate on the franchise and of its place in English political thought.

The universal importance that the conflict over the franchise has assumed for political theorists and historians of the longue durée has created some difficulties for students of événement who need to understand the precise historical situation in which the meetings occurred. When abstracted the debates may have sharp contours and poetic proportions; but when viewed more narrowly they take on different, and occasionally changing, shapes.

John Rous did more than record the news that reached his isolated parish in Suffolk; he also recorded the local discussions of these reports. The latter practice was potentially dangerous. Two recent royal proclamations had expressly prohibited discussions of “affairs of state,” and, as Rous's diary reveals, these private talks could easily become extended critiques of royal policy. Perhaps for that reason Rous, the local parson, consistently sought to be a moderating influence: “I would alwaies speake the best of that our King and state did, and thinke the best too, till I had good groundes” to do otherwise. Unfortunately for Rous, he found it increasingly difficult to “speake the best” in the mid-1620s as Charles I dissolved parliament after parliament, collected taxes of dubious legality, and experimented with the established church; “our Kings proceedings have caused men's mindes to be incensed, to rove, and projecte.” Popular projections, moreover, led to the edge of “an insurrection”; in such an increasingly tense atmosphere, Rous was fearful that one misplaced word would fuel reports that “the whole state were revolting.”

His most severe trial came in 1627 when Charles I interrupted an otherwise disastrous war against Spain to invade France. The motive for the Ré expedition quite simply baffled Rous's parishioners. When the parson refuted the criticism of Mr. Paine, one of his parishioners, Paine simply “would not heare it by any meanes: but fell in generall to speake distastfully of the voyage and then of our warre with France.”

As long ago as 1981, the distinguished demographers E. A. Wrigley and R. S. Schofield threw out a challenge to historians. “A fully satisfactory interpretation of population history,” they offered, “must embrace a wide spectrum of related topics and techniques.” Such a history would “require an alertness for opportunities to quantify historical evidence and to make effective use of statistical techniques,” they continued, but it would be “equally alive to the importance of studying the attitudes of individuals and groups wherever possible. The family,” they concluded, “is the prime institutional form in population history, and the births, marriages and deaths of its members were affected by their behavioral conventions and beliefs as well as by their social and economic circumstances.” The British aristocracy is an ideal subject for such a multifaceted, family-oriented view of population history. Thanks to T. H. Hollingsworth and other demographers, the statistical record of their population history is probably better established than that of any other social group, while thanks to their own historical importance and privileged status, their domestic experiences are richly documented. Consequently, their social mores and personal attitudes can be identified along with their demographics.

While we normally assume that privileged social groups are healthier and generally live longer than those more humble in station, commonplace expectations have for centuries been reversed when it comes to one component of population history—maternal mortality. Popular culture has insisted, at least since the time of Rousseau, that ladies of fashion paid for their pleasures by being feeble and overly delicate, too weak to withstand the rigors of childbirth.

The Reformed Kirk of Scotland has a reputation for vigorous repression of festivity hardly to be surpassed by any other Protestant church. From 1560 on, the authorities of the kirk from local session to General Assembly waged a stern and unremitting campaign against the celebration of Yule, Easter, May Day, Midsummer, and saints' days; against feasting, whether at marriages or wakes; against Sunday sports and dancing and guising—in short, against anything that might distract newly Reformed laity from the central Protestant focus on the sermon, the Bible, and the godly life of moral discipline and prayer. Their goals were both negative and positive. They were intent on quashing popish superstition in part because they were convinced that its persistence helped to explain the recurrence of plague, famine, and other divine judgments on the land. In a more positive sense, they were trying to clear the way for construction of a new vision of the good life—one that exalted word over image and discipline over ritual, and in which community cohesion was achieved by a shared Protestant identity and the common goal of a devout and orderly society. Modern observers generally credit their campaign with remarkable success; certainly the popular image of Scotland after the Reformation is grim and joyless—and with some reason. Days of fasting and humiliation under presbyterian rule came close to outnumbering the old saints' days, and they vastly outnumbered new days of thanksgiving. Official policy on the matter of festivity was exemplary for a Reformed nation.

John Ruskin, art and social critic, master of English prose, is one of the most infuriating yet attractive Victorian figures. In the last twenty years, a revival of interest in his work after years of neglect has stimulated a considerable body of scholarly analysis and several biographies. As Ruskin himself would have hoped, historians have been most interested in his trenchant attacks on the assumptions and effects of nineteenth-century political economy, but paradoxically he appears in women's history only as the author of “Of Queens' Gardens,” promoting a fundamental Victorian paradigm, the ideology of pure womanhood. Yet the anthologized excerpts which are all most people read of Ruskin do not do justice even to “Of Queens' Gardens,” an admittedly cloying piece, and although biographers have analyzed his tortured relationships with Effie Gray and Rose La Touche almost to the point of tedium, there is no extended general study of his many relationships with women and the expectations he had of them. An adequate analysis of Ruskin's view of women requires familiarity with all his works, an understanding of his fears for the state of England, and a greater knowledge of his relationships with women than provided by the lurid details of his failed marriage and predilection for adolescent girls. The following is an attempt to sketch an outline of such an account.

(George Bernard Shaw)

Thus wrote George Bernard Shaw on behalf of the Fabian Society in October 1900. Shaw recognized what many historians have subsequently failed to see: the meaning of imperialism inside British politics was not fixed. Rather, the terms “empire” and “imperialism” were like empty boxes that were continuously being filled up and emptied of their meanings. Of course, the same was true of other political concepts: the idea of patriotism, for instance, was constantly being reinvented by politicians. But the idea of empire was all the more vulnerable to this sort of treatment because it was sensitive to changing circumstances at home and abroad and because it had to take account of a colonial as well as a British audience. Furthermore, the fact that opinion in Britain was widely felt to be ignorant or indifferent to the empire meant that politicians had to be particularly careful in deciding what sort of imperial language to use.

This article will consider what contemporaries meant when they spoke of empire, how its meaning varied between different political groups in Britain, and whether it is possible to point to a prevailing vision of empire during the period between the launch of the Jameson Raid in December 1895 and the outbreak of the Great War in 1914.

Eighteenth-century British foreign policy has been a marginal subject for several decades. During that period much good work has been produced, particularly on the diplomacy of the first four decades of the century, but this work has not been integrated into the general scholarship of the period. The textbooks for the century, commonly written by experts in high politics, generally offer a hurried account of foreign policy, that is, a jumble of names and dates that are not related to the problems discussed in the rest of the work. Foreign policy is rarely perceived as a crucial problem of political management or debate. Eighteenth-century scholars complain often, particularly in conversation, about what they regard as the excessively detailed nature of foreign policy studies and their supposed failure to address themselves to problems of general relevance.

The strong diplomatic bias of eighteenth-century foreign policy studies has certainly led to the production of many works that have few points of access for the general scholar. The domestic context of foreign policy and, in particular, the extent to which policy was debated are subjects that have received relatively little attention. Partly this is a result of the development of the subject. The great age of foreign policy studies was the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth, an age in which history existed to study the growth and exalt the triumphs of the nation-state.

The Gloucester weaver strike of 1825 was part of a national revival of trade-union activity following Parliament's repeal of the Combination Acts in 1824. The strike also occupied a central place in Gloucester's economic history, marking a turning point in the evolution of its woolen trade from a protoindustrial to a factory-based system. For this reason, the strike embodied in its form the transitional state of the industry, combining characteristics of preindustrial “risings” with those of modern industrial disorders. And in this anomaly lay its distinctiveness and its special interest.

Scholars have little appreciated the strike's transitional quality, however, treating it inevitably as a straightforward confrontation between capital and labor. The Hammonds and, more recently, Julia de Lacey Mann have depicted the weavers as a homogeneous social group, their strike movement as autonomous, and their conflict with the clothiers as a unitary, year-long struggle for higher wages. Such treatment, moreover, reflects widely held assumptions about the nature of class and class consciousness in the English Industrial Revolution.

This essays offers a different perspective. The strike was organized and led by master weavers whose interests could differ from those of their journeymen and apprentices. Nor was their movement completely autonomous since the deference they displayed permitted elements within the employing and governing class to manipulate them. Those engaged in such manipulation pursued the interests of their own social group, however sincerely they invoked the values of paternalism. Indeed, the dominant pattern of conflict followed a traditional vertical arrangement; a hint of modern class conflict emerged only in the strike's final phase.