The tangled web of polemical debate, theological dispute and scholarly investigation surrounding the ‘Filioque question’ is essentially the consequence of the union newly created in the eighth century between the Franks and the papacy. It is our purpose, therefore, in so far as it is pertinent to our topic, to characterise the nature and bases of that unique union and its relevance to the historical kaleidoscope of events which made the new alignment a necessity. By this method it is hoped that the Filioque controversy may be integrated into the larger historical context from which it sprang and removed from its confinement to a segmented aspect of the development of ecclesiastical dogma. It is well-known that the addition to the creed of the words ‘and from the Son’, as they pertained to the procession of the Holy Spirit, resulted in a long-standing conflict of twelve centuries which only in our own days would seem to reach its term. In re-examining the origins, evolution and outbreak of the disagreement over the revised creed and in asking how what appears to modern eyes as a mere liturgical variation could become such a major issue during three centuries, we should like to demonstrate the exceptional character of a liturgical issue as it illuminates the then prevailing relationship between pope and Frankish emperor. By contrast, its significance for later doctrines of Church and State should also become apparent.

Much work that is absolutely essential for the continuance and progress of an ordered society has a severely limited attraction for those who perform it. How, nevertheless, men and women were persuaded to work regularly or at all in the Middle Ages has provided one of the central themes in the study of the period, for this is what we study in the institutions of slavery, serfdom and villeinage—all three were ways and means of persuading reluctant workers to work. But these were also means of escape from toil, and it is with one of these, the custom of abstaining from many habitual forms of work on church festivals, that this essay is concerned.

Adam Orleton successively held the sees of Hereford (1317–27), Worcester (1327–33), and Winchester (1333–45). Such progression was accounted exceptional in his day, recalling for the uncharitable the remote and unfortunate precedent of archbishop Stigand rather than that of the estimable Richard Poore about a century before. In any case, within a few years of Orleton's death double translations were not uncommon. So respected a pastoral bishop as John Thoresby was to move without repercussion from St. David's (1347–9), by way of Worcester (1349– 1352), to York (1352–73). In the fifteenth century the process was too common to merit remark, save by the unduly censorious, Gascoigne for instance, who had a barbed tale on the theme with a play on the posthumous translation of the newly sanctified. But Orleton's promotions provided excellent ammunition for the scurrilous, who ascribed them to mere greed.

Recently the revolution of 1688 has again become a fashionable topic. Renewed research and reinterpretation have provided valuable new insights into the role of William of Orange as well as the larger European setting of the event. The danger exists, however, that the pendulum of historical interpretation will swing too far in discounting the significance of the domestic scene. While much of the glory and simplicity of the traditional Whig approach have evaporated under close scrutiny, the fact still remains that the movement against James n was basically English in origin. In this connexion the need clearly emerges for reexamination and further investigation into the part played by those prominent in promoting the conspiracy. The point is nicely illustrated by the case of Henry Compton, bishop of London, whose importance to the revolutionary cause in the last few months before Torbay has never been fully appreciated.

As is well known, the Balfour Education Act of 1902 was the subject of bitter and prolonged controversy between Anglicans and Nonconformists. Ever since 1870 the Church schools had been struggling in unequal competition against the rate-aided School Board system, and many of them by the turn of the century were ‘dragging along a miserable existence’ with inadequate buildings and inadequate staff. Yet, believing their schools to be vital for their Church's survival, Anglicans hung on grimly, hoping that the Unionist government of Lord Salisbury would at last provide its long-promised succour. Fundamentally Anglicans were concerned not just for denominational teaching, but for the presentation of such teaching in a suitable atmosphere. ‘The necessity of a religious temper in teaching religion’ meant the subjection of teachers to religious tests and the retention of denominational control of the schools.

Historians and biographers have written at length about Philip Melanchthon, both as a humanist and reformer. Among recent studies are those by Michael Rogness, Philip Melanchthon: Reformer Without Honor (1969) and Clyde L. Manschreck, Melanchthon: The Quiet Reformer (1958). The most massive study is Wilhelm Maurer's Der junge Melanchthon zwischen Humanismus und Reformation, in two volumes. The first, published in 1967, is the thinner; it deals with Der Humanist. The second, exceeding 600 pages, published in 1969, portrays Der Theologe. Maurer did not go beyond the year 1529; he gave much attention to the Loci of 1521.

Scholarly life in eleventh-century Italy comes to the notice of English historians chiefly in connexion with Lanfranc of Pavia, who (in a striking phrase of Dom David Knowles) ‘sought a career and found a vocation north of the Alps’, and with Anselm of Aosta, who succeeded him as prior of Bee and as archbishop of Canterbury. About their early education we know but little. However, the pattern of their lives—an education in north Italy, then travel to distant lands, and the eventual discovery there of an employment or vocation which would scarcely have been possible at home—was not untypical. I shall seek to describe the kind of north-Italian scholarly circles in which Lanfranc, in particular, grew up, with a view to illustrating how scholars were educated, their later careers, and their place in the history of medieval learning, culture and society. Thus we may hope to learn something about the Italian background of the two great Norman archbishops of Canterbury and, more generally, about the ecclesiastical life of north Italy which the Gregorian Reform would soon in such large measure sweep away.

Professor L. A. Stone, writing on the ‘educational revolution’ of the period 1560–1640, came to the conclusion that one of the ‘most striking characteristics of the English Puritans was their belief in the value of education as a weapon against the three great evils of Ignorance, Prophaneness and Idleness’. He found that a significant number of puritan gentry and merchants supported the ‘teaching of the three R's and religion to the many, and Latin and religion to the few’ through the many scholarships and foundations that appear in this period. One may, however, question Stone's contention that the Puritans' educational motives were tied to the inculcation of obedience to the established social and political order. It is more than likely that, by spreading the Word of God, defeating what he calls the aesthetic and emotional attractions of the counter-reformation, and establishing a truly protestant nation, Puritans sought to educate a breed of reformed men dedicated to the coming of the Kingdom of God in their own lifetime. This, conceivably, was what was meant by a genuinely learned and protestant society.

As Sir Thomas More reflected upon the religious atmosphere during the first months of 1528, he could not conceal his dismay that the situation was steadily deteriorating. Indeed, he thought the popular orthodoxy so weak that any ‘senseless clown’ could gain wide support for an attack on the Church. Within the year, Simon Fish's Supplication of the Beggars had made More a prophet, forcing the busy new chancellor of England to reply to Fish with The Supplycacyon of soulys. Historians have hesitated to label Fish senseless or a clown, for the tremendous impact of his short tract upon Henry vm and the English Reformation is generally recognised. While it is manifest that the Supplication was a rabble-rousing piece of anti-clericalism, perhaps another measure should be taken of Fish before closing off the subject of his significance from discussion. Specifically, if evidence should place Fish and his writings within that group identified with William Tyndale, more credence would be lent to chancellor More's repeated assertions that a number of ‘evangelicall brethren’ existed to propagate Tyndale's beliefs.

The struggle of the Confessing Church', wrote Otto Dibelius, ‘was a struggle of theologians, backed by a very small group of courageous laymen’. The importance of Karl Barth among these theologians was soon recognised. Even today in England and Germany many write almost as if Barth had been the sole theological resource of Hitler's protestant opponents: ‘It was he who nerved the Confessing Church in Germany to resist the attempts of the Nazis to corrupt the Christian witness, and who was driven into exile for doing so’. This is an exaggeration. My purpose here is to draw attention to the Catholic or high church movement in this same struggle. The theological ideas of this movement can be shown to have influenced, directly or indirectly, a considerable number of the protestants who opposed Hitler.

The early years of the twentieth century prior to the outbreak of World War I have been described as a period in which the Liberal Party was in a state of decline. One significant aspect of this decline was the deterioration of what in the late nineteenth century has been labelled as political nonconformity. Gladstone's statement that Nonconformists supplied the backbone of British Liberalism perhaps best symbolises the political significance of this group for the vitality of the Liberal Party.

Victorian religious thinkers were peculiarly concerned with the problem of discovering the origins of religious knowledge and with analysing the correct relationship between that knowledge and contemporary scientific and philosophical developments. Among others, the small group of mid-nineteenth century English Roman Catholics was much given to discussion on the matter. Apart from Acton, the outstanding men concerned—Newman, Manning, Richard Simpson, and William George Ward—were converts from Anglicanism. Considerable attention has been devoted to those who, as Roman Catholics, adopted what is generally (if inaccurately) labelled a ‘liberal’ position.

After Elizabeth's accession the Church in England was in a confused condition. The queen envisaged a politique settlement which, although protestant, was not reformed, thereby enabling her to avoid both international conflict and open internal rebellion. This meant that the established Church must not follow too closely the radical changes in ceremony, doctrine and administration associated with the continental Reformed Churches. However, Elizabeth was compelled to recruit the necessary new bishops and chief ecclesiastical officers from amongst the returned exiles and other convinced Protestants.

By far the greatest proportion of the time and energy that is expended on the study of church history is devoted to the areas where the Church has, for practical purposes, died out, or where it is demonstrably declining. The history of that more considerable part of the Christian world which is still expanding, is the preserve of a tiny minority of specialists.