For several years I have been exploring the projection of Britain in America during the late 1930s and the early 1940s. My focus has been on aspects of cultural propaganda initiated for the most part unofficially, although often with government complicity. Simply put, I have been concerned to discover what ordinary Americans were seeing and hearing and reading about England in the crucial years before the onset of the Second World War and, even more significantly, in the period from the summer of 1939 to American entry in December 1941.

By 1190, King Richard I of England (1189-1199) had departed for the Third Crusade and had settled on William Longchamp, royal chancellor and bishop of Ely, as the chief justiciar, the king’s regent during the royal absence. But before Richard had even left the European continent, Longchamp’s justiciarship had provoked a powerful reaction from those subjected to it. The hue and cry lifted against the chief justiciar by leaders of the revolt that ousted him included accusations that Longchamp filled England and its offices with “foreigners and unknown men” and that he ruled without the appares, associates whom Richard had included in the regency to assist the chief justiciar. Recent research has shown that the latter charge is patently untrue but the former, utilizing foreigners and others unfamiliar with England and its government, was fundamentally true, at least with regard to justice and the shrievalties. Does Longchamp’s style of management repeat itself with castles and what were the implications for him, the kingdom, and the king? A cursory glance at events during his justiciarship shows that castles played a large role in the narrative, from the massacre of the Jews at York Castle to the arrest of Archbishop Geoffrey at Dover Castle. Though the evidence is of a more tentative nature than that for judicial activity and shrievalties, Longchamp employed in this critical position men close to him, both personal dependents and tested curial servants, a pattern of appointment markedly different from that of the king. Richard I’s practices benefited the baronage, but the chancellor’s determination to bring as many castles as possible under his direct control worked to alienate the chief justiciar from his subjects and disastrously eroded his power base.

In July 1648 John Bond, Master of the Savoy, delivered a thanksgiving sermon to the House of Commons, in which he praised God for the series of victories that the New Model Army had recently won in many parts of England and Wales. The tangled, multi-layered conflict known to posterity as the Second Civil War was still raging, rebel forces were holding out in Colchester and the Scottish army of the Engagement was marching south, but Bond—anxious to buoy up the Army’s allies and to cast down the spirits of its enemies—did everything he could to emphasise the universality of the recent successes. “The garment of gladnesse reacheth all over…the Land,” he declaimed, “the robe [of victory] reacheth from…Northumberland in the North, to…Sussex in the South…[and] from Dover…in the East, to Pensands, the utmost part of Cornwall, in the West.” Bond’s reference to Penzance would have struck a chord with many of his listeners, for accounts of an insurgent defeat in the little Cornish town had been read out in the House some weeks before. Yet, from that day to this, the rising at Penzance—and indeed the entire “Western dimension” of the Second Civil War have been largely forgotten.

Recent years have seen growing interest both in the influence of the British Empire on metropolitan culture—what John M. MacKenzie described as “the centripetal effects of Empire”—and in the relationships between gender and imperialism. Early studies of European women and imperialism described the activities of women as “memsahibs,” travellers and colonists in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, challenged the notion that “women lost us the Empire,” and began to analyze the roles of white women in the “man’s world” of imperial rule. More recently attention has been drawn by Vron Ware, Barbara Ramusack and Antoinette Burton to the complex relationships between British and colonized women and, by Burton especially, to the ambiguities of “imperial feminism.” Nevertheless, apart from the well-documented female emigration societies, and the isolated study of Flora Shaw, colonial editor of The Times, by Helen Callaway and Dorothy O. Helly, the considerable activities of women as imperial propagandists have received little attention. This article traces the imperial activism of Violet Markham, the daughter of a Northern industrialist and sister of a Liberal M.P. who, roused from the aimless existence of Victorian young ladyhood by the Boer War, spent much of the Edwardian era promoting the cause of the British Empire. Through a study of her imperial career it explores the options available to an imperialist woman in an era when women were barred from formal politics, and when imperial politics in particular were considered a “masculine” preserve, and considers the obstacles—practical, ideological and psychological—which confronted her.