December twenty-ninth of this year will mark the eight hundredth anniversary of the martyrdom of Thomas of Canterbury. There will be no such superfluity of books as commemorated the nine hundredth anniversary of the Conquest, the one hundredth of the American Civil War, or the fiftieth of the Soviet Revolution. Few will even recall the murder, since the propers have been deleted from the general calendar of the Roman Church. If Thomas's feast has been quietly dropped from the missal, his career has by no means been neglected by historians in recent years. New editions of the writings of participants in the dispute have appeared, new interpretations of the quarrel are numerous, and important new studies in the history of canon law have altered traditional perspectives on the dramatic confrontation. Now is therefore an opportune time to survey modern scholarship on the Becket controversy and to indicate fruitful directions for further research.

There is, first, the problem of context. The most recent scholarly study of the dispute is that of H. G. Richardson and G. O. Sayles. The eccentricities of the provocative, peppery, and erratic Governance of Mediaeval England have been amply, if cautiously, alluded to by reviewers. Richardson and Sayles commence their discussion of the relations of regnum and sacerdotium in the later twelfth century with the reign of Stephen, neglecting questions of continuity from the reigns of earlier Norman kings. They dispute the received interpretation of Stephen's Second Charter, of which the central clause has been generally interpreted to mean that this King granted benefit of clergy in some form to the English church.

This trimmer's prescription, with its blast of the breath of experience over the unguarded optimism of theory, is crucial to an understanding of More's Utopia and an appreciation of its unity. Was Thomas More seriously recommending the accommodational approach to politics here put forward by the fictional “More” in Book I of the Utopia, and what was the relationship between this approach and the ideal state described in Book II?

The various answers given to these questions can be seen as hinges on which the various interpretations of the Utopia have turned. The accommodational argument stands at the crux of the debate on counsel, which takes up almost the whole of Book I. Upon the interpretation of this debate can depend the view taken of More's intention in depicting the fictional society of Utopia, and involved in this interpretation is the knotty problem of whether the real More's opinions are voiced by Hythlodaeus or by the fictional “More.”

An examination of the two approaches most frequently adopted will reveal the importance of the problem. The first approach is that which sees the real More's views as expressed by the fictional “More” of the Utopia.

The Scottish role in the English Civil War, although generally recognized by historians to be a major one, has never been investigated in depth. Every student of the period knows how the resistance in Scotland to the English prayer book impelled Charles to summon first the Short and then the Long Parliament, thereby setting in motion the events leading to the Great Rebellion. Yet the Scots did more than help to precipitate the conflict: just a year after the actual fighting between the King and his Parliament began, they entered the fray as allies of the latter and remained active combatants in the first Civil War until its conclusion. Military aid was just one facet of this alliance. Scottish commissioners in London became embroiled in parliamentary politics, influencing positions taken by the two houses, while Scottish ministers stimulated the religious debate which characterized these years and assisted (despite their annoyance with the outcome) in the establishment of a new church government in England. Quite obviously the English Civil War was never exclusively an English matter.

The Scots' intervention in their neighbors' affairs is also recognized to have resulted in disaster. Not only did they fail to realize their original ambitions; they were eventually forced to endure the humiliation of a military occupation. How then did Scotland manage to become involved in the upheaval taking place in England? The answer usually given by historians is a simple one: the Scottish Kirk, desiring to export Presbyterianism, worked successfully for an alliance with Parliament as a first step toward making England a Presbyterian nation.

The text for this essay comes from Sir Lewis Namier. “One has to steep oneself in the political life of a period,” so the decree reads, “before one can safely speak, or be sure of understanding, its language.” This article is an attempt to supply, not a complete grammar of Augustan politics, but a minor lexicographical entry. Historians sometimes talk as though the most urgent need were for an advanced glossary. The assumption behind this essay is that a more elementary gradus is required. The two key words under review, “party” and “faction,” have always occupied neighbouring berths in the British synonymy. Unfortunately, in the eighteenth-century vocabulary of politics, they became overlapping concepts. Or rather — this is the trouble — they sometimes merged, partially or completely; sometimes they did not; and sometimes they were even employed as antonymous terms. Examples of all these contrary applications are found in the work of Swift and Bolingbroke. As with other lexicographical enquiries, then, usage and abusage must be considered, as well as the simple dictionary definition of these terms.

I

Edmund Burke is still, in some quarters, valued more highly as a prophet than as a political thinker. His forecasts of the likely course of the Revolution have brought him a reputation for the occult among those who hold his moral views in little esteem, even though he may be regarded, most unfairly, as a sorcerer's apprentice who was engulfed by his own charmed vision.

“During the late 1830's and 40's two forms of class consciousness were being forged in Britain, not one — middle-class consciousness and working-class consciousness.” Asa Briggs's belief is shared in all its starkness by many students of early Victorian Britain, including R. K. Webb, who has even referred to “the working class point of view,” which middle-class men could adopt only by becoming “traitors to their class.” Such statements have been severely taken to task by various historians, and from the beginning Briggs has seen the need to admit important qualifications. Quoting the nineteenth-century economist W. T. Thornton, he has agreed that “the labouring population … spoken of as if it formed only one class” was “really divided into several,” each distinguished from the other by wage rates, social security, regularity of earnings, climate of industrial relations, status in the local community, prospects of future advancement, and sophistication of political attitudes.

Unfortunately these qualifications are productive of confusion: it is by no means obvious why Briggs's readers should believe that only one form of working-class consciousness existed in such conditions of diversity. Nor is it obvious why similar qualifications should not be made concerning the middle classes. Was the gulf between William Lovett and those whom he called the “vicious many” not similar in extent to that between most members of the Leeds middle classes and their fellow citizen J. G. Marshall, “a millionaire mill-owner, a man aristocratically allied, and the manager of the largest factory in the world”? Nor is it necessary to rely on such an extreme example, if one believes Gibbon Wakefield, who detected the existence of an “uneasy class,” the product of a division within the ranks of the professionally qualified:

Richard Jefferies is most often remembered and read as a writer on wild life and as the author of Bevis. His novels and strange autobiographical writings are largely forgotten; his agricultural writings — with the exception of Hodge and His Masters — are equally neglected. But it was with three letters on the Wiltshire labourer which appeared in the Times in 1872 that Jefferies first reached a more than local readership. During most of the 1870s he earned his living as an agricultural journalist, and such was his reputation that he was writing leading articles for a national farming weekly and essays on farming topics for the principal reviews when he was still only in his late twenties. Until his early death in 1887 he remained an occasional writer on fanning and the countryside.

The son of a not very successful small farmer, Jefferies was a realist rather than a romantic when writing on rural and agricultural topics. As a countryman he was both knowledgeable and exceptionally observant. His native north Wiltshire afforded him examples of several systems (and standards) of fanning and of a variety of views on the nature of the depression. His journalistic activity covered the last prosperous years of “high farming” in the late 1860s and the first decade of depression from the early 1870s to the early 1880s. This was a period of increasing difficulty for a large number of farmers and landowners, culminating in the almost universally disastrous summer of 1879.

The controversy over the respective merits of free trade and protection was an old one in 1903 when Joseph Chamberlain launched his campaign for tariff reform which became a dominant theme of Edwardian polities. Workingmen, with the exception of those in the Conservative workingmen's clubs and the National Free Labour Association, had not generally been very receptive to the ideas of fiscal reform mooted in the last years of Victoria's reign. In 1887, for example, J. M. Jack, chairman of the Trades Union Congress, had claimed that although there existed a “somewhat hazy conviction that the depression we are suffering from is in some way attributable to the fiscal system of the country,” it was well known that in protected countries “trade depression existed in an equal, if not greater degree.” The Social Democratic Federation took its opposition to fiscal change even further, organizing counterdemonstrations against the meetings held by the Fair Trade League in the 1880s. One such demonstration attracted an audience of thirty thousand in February 1886.

In spite of its extravagant claims, however, it is doubtful whether the N.F.L.A. enjoyed a very wide influence; thus when Chamberlain left Arthur Balfour's Government in 1903 to concentrate on his national campaign, he knew that he needed the support of workingmen on a far larger scale than protectionists had hitherto been able to secure, a fact he openly admitted in October 1903: “If I do not convince the working classes I am absolutely powerless. I can do nothing.”

In January 1919 thousands of delegates, diplomats, and academic experts poured into Paris to redraw the map of the world and to settle its problems, supposedly forevermore. While the confusion attendant upon the negotiations was evident to contemporary observers, who also complained of the delay before the conference began, few considered the magnitude of the job of organizing so vast an assembly and of providing the larger delegations with the facilities for the many tasks facing them. In retrospect, it is indeed remarkable that Paris, after four and a half years of war, so well absorbed so many people and that anonymous officials laboring unobserved behind the scenes were able to provide the essential services necessary to the reasonably efficient functioning of the luminaries in the limelight.

The burden of arrangements for the conference itself fell upon the French, but so far as their own delegation was concerned, they had the inestimable advantage of operating upon home ground and of requiring few special arrangements. For the Americans, who sent the largest delegation, the problem of distance was so great that while an entire boatload of delegates and documents was shipped across the Atlantic, the personnel of the delegation remained stable and facilities for them were obtained largely from the French and from the American army because the oceanic barrier eliminated other alternatives. The Japanese, faced with the difficulty of even greater distance and the added complication of a language barrier, rested upon the French for their facilities and sent a small delegation composed of a few dignitaries from Tokyo and a number of senior officials from their European embassies.