Welshmen and Scotsmen provoked their stronger neighbors of England in the late thirteenth century into wars that almost filled the reign of Edward I. Whether in keeping with “Manifest Destiny” or not, King Edward accepted the provocation of the Welsh and sent his troops into their land in an attempt to subjugate them; by a workmanlike series of campaigns he conquered and pacified them between 1277 and 1294. Then began an almost unbroken period of war against the Scots, a period lasting well beyond Edward's own death in 1307. By their persistence and by their tactics the Scots forced Edward and his people to a major effort, one that made every Englishman aware of his obligation, whether to fight, to feed the fighters, or to support the fighters with works.

For medieval soldiers, like their modern descendants, war was mostly a matter of working and waiting. Battles punctuated the wars, then as now, and at these times the combat troops spent their strength. During the long stretches between battles, however, support elements continued to supply the troops and put them into position to fight. The men in the armies of Edward I who kept the war going in this way and kept going themselves were the auxiliaries: the ditchers, woodcutters, smiths, carpenters, paymasters, provisioners, and the engineers. Important as they were in medieval warfare, the engineers have received little credit for it. Their work, bridging, building fortifications, and operating artillery, rarely rates a description in a chronicle and they receive little notice in secondary works.

The royal court known variously as the “court of the verge,” the “court of the steward and marshal,” or the “Marshalsea court,” and which was said to try “pleas of the hall” (placita aule), appeared as a distinct and separate tribunal during the second half of Edward I's reign. It is difficult to trace the process whereby it distinguished its highly specialized jurisdiction over matters of personal interest to the king and his household from the general jurisdiction exercised coram rege and thereby succeeded in separating itself from the undifferentiated Curia Regis. Since at least the early thirteenth century the steward of the household was viewed as having a special judicial role within the household, of which he was the appointed head. As a result of that process of departmentalization which created the other agencies of royal justice and administration, a special household jurisdiction appeared toward the end of the thirteenth century. About the year 1290 the court of the steward and marshal of the household emerged as a separate and identifiable judicial body with its own personnel, procedures, and rolls, and with a jurisdictional competence encompassing pleas of trespass within the verge, cases of debt involving members of the household, and pleas of contempt of the king's rights of purveyance and carriage. In substance, the court claimed to try cases involving the domestic servants of the crown and certain acts affronting the royal dignity and, in geographical terms, breaches of the king's peace within the vicinity of the royal residence, which was assumed to extend twelve miles in every direction from the especially sacrosanct presence of the sovereign.

In his recent examination of licensed absenteeism and proctorial representation in the Edwardian house of lords, Professor Vernon F. Snow sustained and elaborated the thesis which he first postulated in an earlier article on the upper house in Henry VIII's reign. He claimed that these procedures benefited both the Crown and the individual member. They permitted the latter to secure leave of absence in the case of bona fide personal difficulties — sickness, age, poverty — yet to retain, in the person of his proctor, a voice in the affairs of the house. At the same time they satisfied the Crown. They committed the licensee to decisions taken in his absence. They could be used to authorize the royal servant to remain at his post. And above all they enabled the Crown, through the privy council, to control the House of Lords. The procurators “possessed latent power in proportion to the number of proxies they held.” As the great majority of proxies were concentrated in the hands of councillors, the Crown was able to control proceedings in the upper house through a large, perhaps majority, bloc of committed spokesmen and voters. The arithmetical essense of Snow's thesis is that parliamentary power in the Lords, whether it be of the individual or of the Crown, increased in direct proportion to the number of proxies held. The council's possession of most of them constituted a power additional to the traditional devices for influencing the composition of the upper house and the distribution of power within it: the ennoblement or promotion of faithful lords temporal, the translation or deprivation of obstinate lords spiritual, detention or the denial of writs from prominent opponents of the Crown.

The life of James Harrington is singularly ill-documented. None of his manuscripts is known to survive; he makes few and insignificant appearances in the state papers of his time; and though he was clearly a sociable and talkative man, in an age when scholars and writers all knew one another and wrote letters which they kept, correspondence from, to or about him is altogether lacking. Apart from the personal reminiscences of John Aubrey (who knew him well) and a few details from Thomas Herbert, we depend for our knowledge of his life on information supplied through John Toland, deist and literary adventurer, who edited his works in 1699-1700. It seems that a sister, Lady Assheton, formed a collection of papers by and concerning her brother, which entered the possession of a younger half-sister, Dorothy, the wife of James Bellingham, then of Levens Hall in Westmoreland. She was alive in 1699, though no longer living at Levens, and made the Assheton collection available to Toland. He found there, and published, a number of Harrington's manuscript writings, and we must suppose that the detail he gives of Harrington's life and circumstances is based either on personal information from Dorothy Bellingham or on material from Lady Assheton's papers. But whether these still exist is unknown, and though some of Toland's statements can be corroborated and few have been proved wrong, there is a great deal of what he says which is very hard to test against independent evidence. This state of affairs is especially unsatisfying when one is trying to reconstruct an account of the intellectual and political situation in which works were read and responded to by their first public; for it is here that Toland (though a serious and conscientious editor), writing forty years later with strong ideological prepossessions of his own, is least likely to be of help.

On October 30, 1673 Sir Paul Neile took his seat in the House of Commons. In early August he and Henry Savile had been elected the first members from Newark-on-Trent, newly enfranchised by a royal charter granted the preceding March. But the seating of the two new members proved to be no simple thing. Determined parliamentary opposition not only to the king's grant itself but also to the terms of that grant were to delay the admission of Newark's burgesses for four years and to require a second election before that admission was finally accomplished. The Commons saw in this, Charles II's only attempt to enfranchise a borough by charter, a royal design to dilute and weaken their newly and hard-won power. In the charter's offending clauses, which limited the parliamentary franchise to the Mayor and Aldermen, or Corporation of Newark, they saw a scheme to grant privilege only to those whom the crown could readily control and through whom it might strengthen the court faction in the lower House. The debate was protracted, but intermittent. The Commons knew the force of legal precedent to support the king, but they also recognized what the consequence would be if the Newark attempt were to succeed. For though the argument was legal, the debate was political.

The question itself seems slight, but its implications were not. In the end the king was forced to acknowledge defeat. The increasing momentum of the opposition, and the emergence of more important issues finally indicated that to insist would be impolitic, and the king's faction settled for compromise.

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 the course of the debate over Puritan contributions to the scientific movement it sometimes has been asserted, and even more often assumed, that the English universities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were either unsympathetic towards or even hostile to the “new philosophy,” and that scientific studies had no place within their confines. Proponents of this position acknowledge one major exception to the scientific hiatus at Oxford and Cambridge, that of the Wadham group organized by John Wilkins in the 1650s which was the precursor of the Royal Society. However, the exception itself is said to result from Puritan intervention in the universities, and the dissolution of the group to follow from the demise of the Puritan regime.

It will be the purpose of this paper to examine the state of the sciences in Oxford and Cambridge prior to, during, and after the Interregnum in order to suggest that universities had shown a continuous interest in science, that Puritan intervention did not significantly alter the pattern of scientific concerns and that the existence of the Wadham group of the 1650s does little to lend support to the notion of a connection between Puritanism and the development of science.

The evidence for science in the universities before the Puritan Revolution is necessarily incomplete and scattered as is much of our knowledge of university life in that period. It might be best to begin with the work of Mark Curtis and F. R. Johnson who have already shown that the traditional framework of studies permitted the introduction of new ideas. By 1610 Oxford men had been disputing about such topics as the Copernican thesis, the infinity of the universe, the plurality of worlds, the habitability of the moon, and the earth as a magnet in formal university exercises.

“Shortest damn age in history” was The New Yorker's comment on this little gem; and the phrase, which for some decades did manful duty among writers of school textbooks and “popular historians” like the Durants and Sir Harold Nicolson as a substitute for study and thought, deserves no better epitaph. To the serious historian, these questions of labeling — “Shall we call the Dark Ages the Age of Faith, or shall we call the Age of Faith the Dark Ages? Shall we call 1660-1800 in Britain the Age of Reason or the Enlightenment or the Neo-Classical Age or the Augustan Age?” — seem only tedious pseudo-problems, better left for journalists — and professors of literature — to play with if it amuses them and their readers; for his purposes, it suffices to call 1660-1800 “1660-1800.” He knows too well that such labels represent not only naive oversimplifications and distortions of history, but sometimes even reversals of the historical actuality. “The Age of Reason” is certainly one of these latter. Nothing is easier than to demonstrate that “reason,” as signifying the power of the human mind, without external aid, to arrive at valuable truth, was, together with its handmaid “logic,” seldom in worse repute than in Britain from 1660 onward. The whole tendency of the ruling empiricist philosophy of the time, that of Locke, Berkeley, and Hume — “Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of the passions” — is to minimize it and exalt experience in its place.

Borrowing was a necessary and important part of government finance during the period from 1660 to 1688. During Charles II's reign, over twelve per cent of the government's receipts were loans paid directly into the Exchequer and, during some years, loans made up as much as one-third of the total receipts. Clearly borrowing was essential. Anticipatory borrowing, for instance, was necessitated by the very nature of government finance. With the exception of the scheduled payments made by private tax collectors, tax revenues were received by the government irregularly during the course of a year. In addition, the government's expenditure was not easily apportioned over the entire year; in most cases, large lump sums were required, and consequently it was necessary for the government to anticipate future revenue receipts by borrowing in order to meet its current expenditure obligations. Of course the government could have solved this problem by accumulating surplus revenue and using it as reserve from which large payments could be made without recourse to borrowing. But during Charles II's reign, the demands on the revenue were generally larger than the income.

Before 1688, in most cases the only guarantee a potential creditor of the government had that the loan would be repaid on time, if at all, was the vague security of the king's word. This was largely the result of the constitutional status of government finance. When Charles II was restored to the throne in 1660, there were no major changes in the constitutional status of government finance.

Bentham has been the subject of much controversy in recent years, a controversy which has illuminated an important area of English social history but has left obscure an essential part of Bentham himself. The main point at issue has been his influence as a social reformer — the extent to which he was personally or ideologically responsible for the reforms of the nineteenth-century, ultimately the extent to which any person or ideology was responsible for those reforms. But a prior issue has been largely ignored. This is the question of his character as a social reformer, the character and quality of the reforms which he proposed and which are presumed to have inspired, or not to have inspired, the reforms later adopted. The only aspect of this question which has been raised is the hoary one of whether he was primarily a laissez-fairist or government-interventionist. And even here his general pronouncements have been quoted more often than his actual proposals for reform. For the rest, it has been assumed that his reforms were humane, benevolent, philanthropic, enlightened, rational, progressive; the words recur with tedious predictability in one account after another. Even those critics who have found his philosophy unsatisfactory have been content, and more than content, with his practical efforts to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number. But while we are often called upon to admire and emulate “the humble, rational, humanitarian spirit of this great man,” we are rarely shown the actual working and practical results of that spirit — the reforms themselves.

It has been Octavia Hill's fate to survive, rather like some great “classic,” well-known by name, but neglected and unread – of the major Victorian social reformers perhaps the most misunderstood and inadequately handled. Geoffrey Best in his study of the Church of England Ecclesiastical Commissioners has drawn attention to her profound respect for the principle of self-help and comments, “She was on one of history's losing sides, and, as is the way with losers who are in no way romantic, she has rather dropped below the horizon of modern knowledge.” Octavia Hill has, unfortunately, been the victim of partisan history. Abruptly dismissed, on one hand, as an absurd anachronism, a devout believer in individualistic solutions in an age of creeping state and municipal socialism, she has been too uncritically praised, on the other, by those who were related to her or closely associated with her work. Her life (1838-1912) encompassed many vital reforms. She was co-founder of the National Trust and a great Victorian conservationist, whose devotion to the preservation of commons and parks, and concept of a “green belt” enabled London and other large towns to pass into the twentieth century, civilized and relaxing places in which to live. Her successful efforts to save Parliament Hill and Hampstead Heath from the encroachments of late Victorian speculative builders deserve the closest examination, from all those interested in urban development and the preservation, in and around our cities, of the natural environment.

Throughout the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the British authorities, both in London and Calcutta, were becoming progressively more concerned about the security of India's undefined northern border along which the empires of Britain, Russia and China and the kingdom of Afghanistan met. Although the Russian capture of Francis Younghusband in 1891 and the consequent danger of war had forced the British and Russians to the conference table, Russia, China and Afghanistan were still on a collision course in those reaches of the Pamirs beyond the purview of Anglo-Russian bilateral border talks. Consequently, when the Russians forced the Chinese to withdraw from Ak-Tash and defeated an Afghan force encamped at Somatash, the nightmore vision of Russian armies poised at the gates of India suddenly appeared both real and terrifying.

The Government of India's reaction was prompt. The governor general, Lord Lansdowne, determined to strengthen the garrison at Gilgit, the British station to the north of Kashmir. But the position in Gilgit was viable only if Chitral, to the west, were secure. This mountain satrapy was, in the eyes of Calcutta, the key to the defense of the whole northern border, and while Mehtar Aman-ul-Mulk occupied the throne of the state, British influence was paramount. But in September 1892, this venerable and crafty autocrat died, opening a Pandora's box of succession controversy that had remained largely sealed during the deceased ruler's lengthy hegemony.

The immediate consequences of the mehtar's death gave little indication of what was to follow.

At the turn of the century the temperance question ranked among the handful of public issues which dominated British politics. It aroused powerful pressure groups which insinuated themselves in the political process at every level from constituency to Cabinet. The politics of drink raises difficult questions about the effectiveness and style of these temperance and trade pressure groups, the internal dissension which sometimes dissipated their influence, and their relationship with political parties and factions at a time of uncertain allegiances and narrow pluralities. The temperance question worried the Conservatives intermittently, the Liberals incessantly. It strengthened the Liberty Party, strained it, and sometimes threatened to shatter it.

Paradoxically at a time of decline in per capita consumption of alcohol, the temperance movement gathered impressive new support and the beleaguered drink trade achieved unprecedented political effectiveness. The dominant tradition in the temperance movement, that of the prohibitionist activists, was rooted in a hatred of drink as innately and infectiously evil, a force destructive of everything good, and in a Christian humanitarian concern for the security of the home. Many moderate reformers who did not look upon drink as sinful in itself or share the ideology of the teetotal home also worried about the effect of heavy drinking on the country.

When a powerful state seeks to impose its will on a weaker one, it expects to be subject to condemnation, which must be weighed against its assessment of national interest. Failure does not eliminate the condemnation; indeed it may intensify it. In most books and articles on the Jameson Raid and its antecedents, the fact that it was a fiasco foredoomed to disaster seems to add to the gravity of the indictment against those who planned it. In recent years scholars have devoted considerable attention to the question of the complicity of Joseph Chamberlain. Most of them have concluded that he was aware of an impending rising but that he was not acquainted with the details, principally because he did not choose to know. Most investigators have also averred that the High Commissioner in South Africa, Sir Hercules Robinson, knew far more about the preparations for a coup than he was willing to admit.

The overthrow of the Transvaal Government, of course, had been the subject of discussions among Imperial officials long before the Raid. Robinson's predecessor, Sir Henry Loch, had plans as early as 1893 to intervene in the Transvaal in the event of an insurrection and the Secretary of State for Colonies, Lord Ripon, knew of these plans and did not prohibit such action, even though he did not encourage it, and at the time of Robinson's appointment in 1895 he discussed with Ripon intervention to support a Johannesburg rising. Edmund Garrett, who talked to Ripon at this time, stated that if the raid had occurred while Ripon was in office, he could have telegraphed, “Ripon is in it up to his neck.”

Nation-making, said Canadian journalist Sir John Willison, was one of Canada's infant industries. Canada had first become a nation in 1867, and, according to party literature, with every subsequent change of government “we have been made a nation over again.” Sir John was not exaggerating the number of times that writers have made Canada a nation, and, since historians have often been employed in the same nation-making industry, this paper will concern itself with the problem of the historian in dealing with the conceptions of “nationalism” and “imperialism” in Canada and other colonies of British settlement.

The study of nationalism in British settlement colonies is hampered by difficulties of terminology, conceptualization, and ideological inflection. Looseness of word-usage, such as using “nation” for both state or country and as a word to describe a group of people with some common features, constitutes a major difficulty, especially when historians accept the looseness uncritically and without analysis. Sometimes “national” is used as a euphemism for the policy of protection – Sir John A. Macdonald's Canadian National Policy was originally little more than that. The same term was used by Queensland's Premier McIllwraith in 1882, and there “national” could only have meant the economic development of the Queensland “nation.” “National” sometimes simply means a geographic whole or a common, central institution – that is, a “national” government can merely mean one government governing four provinces, or six states. The word can even, as in “national schools,” mean non-denominational.

Eric Hobsbawm recently observed that “a good deal of economics has the function not so much of telling government or business what they ought to do, as of telling them what they are doing (or not doing) is right.” Economic history, happily or unhappily, does not suffer from the same weakness. Its problem is rather the reverse: a good deal of economic history has the didactic function of telling us what should have been done, as though that were always possible. So it is with the critics of the Lloyd George coalition's postwar economic policies; they work from a retrospectively-divined ideal back to an explanation for the coalition's melancholic failure to grasp and pursue that ideal. This has made for portrayals of the untried paths as relatively unobstructed, clearly marked and negotiable, while the route actually taken is seen as a gamut, bordered by briars and surfaced with quagmires, through which the nation emerged badly scathed and shaken. To veer off the course of this prickly metaphor, the critics of the coalition's refusal to deflate or its negligence – one might almost say abandon – toward inflation and permissiveness make two types of arguments.

Most conspicuous by their unmitigated scorn are the socialists who see in the wartime state the first buds of what a socialist Britain could flower into.