Selecting a name for the gold rush colony of British Columbia, although apparently trivial, embarrassed the government, threatened to become the focus for a groundswell of opposition to the whole idea of establishing a new colony, and offers a curious sidelight on the role of the Crown.

On 24 June 1858 Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, the Colonial Secretary in Lord Derby's second ministry, wrote to the Queen to inform her that “in consequence of the recent discovery of Gold in the Neighbourhood of Fraser's River, on the Western Coast of British North America, rendering expedient the immediate establishment of Civil Government,” the government had decided “to erect at once a New Colony there.” Parliament had to authorize this, “& it is desirable that the name of the new Colony shall be inserted in the Bill.” Since the measure was to be introduced within a week, the procedure was slapdash. In asking the Queen to select a name, Lytton informed her that explorers had used the name “New Caledonia,” but did point out that the name had been used elsewhere, most notably for “the chief island of the New Hebrides Group in the South Seas where the French have lately signified their intention to form an establishment.” He added that the names New Cornwall and New Hanover had also been applied to parts of the coast by some mapmakers. While the monarch retained a significant role in mid-nineteenth century government, this hardly extended to, acting as a cartographical research institute for the Colonial Office. On 27 June the Queen informed her minister that she had settled on New Caledonia as the most generally accepted name.

In 1926, Lord Beaverbrook introduced in his Sunday Express a biographical series under the oxymoron: “Splendid Failures.” The purpose was to praise public figures who had been branded failures. The first person Beaverbrook chose as a subject for his new feature was Charles F. G. Masterman, who fulfilled the purpose of the series, Beaverbrook believed, because Masterman's success outweighed his failure to endure on the political scene. Dictating Beaverbrook's choice was Masterman's work in carrying through Part I (which dealt with health insurance) of the National Insurance Act of 1911. Beaverbrook concluded that Masterman should be given “full credit” for this accomplishment. Charles Masterman was not undeserving of Beaverbrook's attention for no one worked with more dedication than he to guarantee the Parliamentary passage of this important Edwardian social reform. Masterman's support for health insurance has generally been acknowledged, but his administrative ability, used to guarantee the practical implementation of the social reform legislation, has seldom been recognized. In fact, Masterman as a political figure has received only limited attention. This perhaps has been the result of the concern by historians with the decline in the fortunes of the Liberal Party as well as their tendency to label Masterman a pessimist. Masterman, nevertheless, regarded health insurance optimistically, satisfied that it represented a positive outcome of his long-time involvement with social criticism and hoping that its success would encourage the Liberal Party to assume a more radical social reform policy.

This article has two purposes: to present some of the most basic facts about the Chartist Convention in 1839, and to offer a new structure for interpreting the Convention.

It is necessary to set forth the basic facts because historians have not bothered very much about them. The factual poverty of the historiography of the national Chartist movement was demonstrated recently by the publication of J. T. Ward's Chartism. Although the Convention of 1839 played a crucial role in the movement, Ward cannot tell his readers precisely who attended it or when it met. He states that fifty-four delegates attended it (p. 113), but in fact, seventy-one delegates attended the Convention. He incorrectly dates the adjournment for the simultanous meetings as 16 May (p. 123), and states that the Convention dissolved on 6 September (p. 133) when it met last on 14 September. Another sort of error in Ward's account involves the attendance of delegates. He asserts that Fletcher retired to Bury in March (p. 117), but Fletcher attended the Convention through July and sat in London on the Council in early August. He asserts Joseph Wood “left on 18 April” (p. 118); but no evidence exists that Wood attended the Convention after 18 February, and the evidence is overwhelming that he was not present at any time after 21 February. Ward says that Vincent and M'Douall were arrested in April (p. 121); in fact, Vincent was arrested just past midnight on the morning of 8 May, and M'Douall was taken by the authorities on 8 June. Ward asserts that Rider “led the summer resignations” (p. 125); he resigned on 2 May. Yet another source of error involves the sequence of events in localities as it affected the Convention and the delegates. Ward states that Richardson resigned to be replaced by Christopher Dean (p. 125); Dean was elected on 4 May, and Richardson resigned on 5 July. This dreary catalogue could be extended, but the point is clear.

Sometime in the second decade of the twelfth century an anonymous clerk compiled a long awkward treatise which we call the Laws of Henry I. He pompously began by declaring, “The glorious Caesar, Henry, moderate, wise, just and valiant, sheds radiance over all his kingdom in ecclesiastical laws and secular ordinances, in writings, and in displays of good works.” On the very day that Henry died in Normandy a Saxon physician, priest, and prophet, Wulfric of Haselbury, living in seclusion in Somerset, told his feudal patron that the dead king would enter Paradise because he had kept peace, had sought justice, and had even built a splendid abbey for Benedictine monks. Few later commentators would be as generous as these two. Other historians unfavorably contrasted Henry's wisdom, wealth, and victory with his avarice, cruelty, and lust.

The law clerk's short catalog contains several surprises. It suggests Henry generated ecclesiastical laws himself, an odd, but not untrue, observation. It reports that the king performed good works, but these are never specified. Most fascinatingly, it hints that “in writings” Henry composed things other than charters and writs. Unfortunately, no such texts have survived. Thus, what we most seek to learn—the monarch's own intentions and reflections—still elude us. Henry's personal understanding of his monarchial responsibilities must therefore be interpreted from his actions, rather than traced from his plans.

In 1097, King William Rufus of England was engaged in a campaign to conquer the county of Maine. When he succeeded in capturing Count Elias of Maine, the count begged Rufus to allow him to serve the Anglo-Norman king as count of Maine, and to participate in his inner council. Moved by his chivalrous instincts, Rufus agreed. But the king's chief advisor, Count Robert of Meulan, counselled that to admit a conquered enemy to one's innermost council only invited perfidy and rebellion, and gave him means to do greater injury. Rufus immediately changed his mind and assumed the governance of Maine himself.

Orderic Vitalis reports this event with some ambiguity, approving of the wisdom of Robert's advice, but mourning Rufus's abandonment of traditional chivalrous behavior. He attributes to Count Robert motives of preserving his own position as chief advisor to the king, rather than notions of service or loyalty. Such motives of self-interest would be consistent with traditional baronial practices. But the advice was sensible and practical, and clearly to the king's advantage in an objective, political sense, despite Orderic's fondness for Count Elias. It is an early example of a change taking place in Anglo-Norman politics—a change of which Robert of Meulan appears to have been the architect.

Recent studies of the social history of birth control in America have noted the importance of eugenics in securing the acceptance of family planning between the two world wars. Similarly in England the endorsement of contraception as a method of “race improvement” by eugenists in the scientific, medical, academic and ecclesiastical communities greatly enhanced the credence and respectability of the birth control movement. In the anti-racist, genetically more sophisticated climate since the Second World War it is often forgotten how pervasive eugenic assumptions about human inheritance were in learned and socially elevated circles in the early twentieth century. Belief in the inheritability of myriad physical, psychological and behavioral characteristics, identifiable, even quantifiable, in particular ethnic groups and social classes was reinforced by expert scientific testimony, and, perhaps equally important, middle and upper class prejudices.

Birth control leaders, whose respectability was always in some doubt, were for the most part no exception and readily mingled with the estimable worthies who adorned the ranks of the elitist Eugenics Education Society founded in 1907. Several officers of the old Malthusian League, including its last president, Charles Vickery Drysdale, and his wife, Bessie, were early if troublesome recruits to the Society, while Marie Stopes, the most dynamic promoter of birth control in England in the inter-war years, joined in 1912, and eventually became a Life Fellow who left the organization a financial legacy, her famous clinic and much of her library, upon her death in 1958.

W. B. Yeats has often been accused of espousing the ideal of l'art pour l'art. For example in 1898 in an essay entitled “What Should be the Subjects of a National Drama” John Eglinton expressed fears that Yeats' interest in developing ideals of literary experience in Ireland would be corrupted by his association with the aesthetic movement. A.E., though he had defended Yeats earlier, soon found himself in agreement with Eglinton. Yeats, of course, publicly renounced any intimate intercourse with the principle of art for art's sake. On the other hand, he agreed with aesthetes such as Hallam, Wilde, and Pater when they cautioned the artist against contamination by the mores and concerns of society. He also knew that the artist's ideal of beauty affected his life in a very profound way and was therefore capable of having a similar effect upon the lives of other human be-beings. I should like, in this paper, to look at Yeats' ideas about the relationship between the artist and other human beings.

To Yeats the artist and his art bore a crucial relationship to society. Certainly, Yeats did feel that society was a corrupting influence. It was certainly necessary for the artist to be in society but not of it, and to fly by the nets of family, race, and religion. Nevertheless, Yeats felt that such a separation was not ideal, neither was it the fault of the true artist. Ideally, the artist and his society should share a unity of culture and a unity of being. Even during the early years of his career, he thought that art should arise spontaneously out of society as the expression of soul, just has it had in the Renaissance, in the fifth century B.C., in the Byzantine civilization, and around the turf fires in the west of Ireland.

The origins of the Second Anglo-Burmese War in late 1851 were the subject of a Mid-Victorian bipartisan and bureaucratic coverup throughout 1852-53. The Government of India in Calcutta had successfully maintained a policy of “non-intercourse” following removal in 1840 of its diplomatic representatives from Burma despite frequent uncoordinated calls for remonstrance by merchants, missionaries and military administrators. In 1851, a convergence of factors, most notably the alleged mistreatment of British subjects in Rangoon, captured the President in Council's attention in Calcutta resulting in a policy change which led to armed intervention. Calcutta's renewed interest in Burma occurred while politicans in London prepared to scrutinize the bureaucratic relations between the London-based Cabinet and the East India Company.

Official discussions in Calcutta about Burma occurred while Governor General Dalhousie was “up country on progress” and at the very time that the Council wanted to test its capacity to act independently. The Council resorted to a unit of the Royal Navy then in Calcutta enroute from Acheh to the Persian Gulf. Commodore George Robert Lambert offered to deliver letters to Burmese authorities in Rangoon and negotiate on behalf of the English subjects. Lambert's reputation for moderation recommended him to Calcutta officials. His instructions from Council and private letters from Dalhousie advised caution and the avoidance of confrontation. Yet Lambert, a line officer, ultimately responsible to the Admiralty in London, could conceivably ignore Calcutta's wishes and chart his own course.