Writing just before the outbreak of the Second World War, Joseph Schumpeter remarked that English socialism, in contrast to European socialism, was at bottom an ethical creed. For socialist intellectuals, the Fabians for instance, there was no difference between slums and the House of Lords. Both were bad things and ought to be eliminated. I do not suggest that by the time Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy was published in 1942 this was by any means a new idea. The briefest survey of the speeches or writings of George Lansbury or James Keir Hardie, not to mention those of the Webbs and Bernard Shaw, would show the same attitude. They dwelt less in terms of the people's need than of the people's rights. By and large, they talked not of what could be done, but of what should be done. Accordingly, they sneered at the social legislation of the New Liberalism as a plaster bandage which did nothing to heal the working man's wounds, but made them hurt less. They saw clearly that national insurance and old age pensions were prompted less by recognition of the moral imperative behind the public welfare than by fear on the part of the nation's rulers of a politically aroused working class which might effect a parliamentary revolution through the agency of the Labour party, or, indeed, after the war, a violent revolution

The only criticism that need be made of Schumpeter's analysis of the extent of the permeation of English socialism is that he did not see by the end of the 1930s how far it had gone. My own research suggests that by the time of the outbreak of the second World War, socialism — or social justice in the sense that the physical and economic welfare of the ordinary citizen was the unquestioned responsibility of the state — had become the creed of the ordinary English citizen. He took for granted that it was society's business to support him when unemployed and that in old age the state should provide him with a pension. Sidney Webb's national minimum had become part of the ethical furniture of the mind of the working man.

While the English Glorious Revolution has been the subject of considerable investigation, the Scottish phase of this vital conflict has been virtually ignored. The purpose of this paper is to look briefly at the degree of Scottish participation in the revolutionary events of 1688. It is not my intention to investigate either the underlying or the immediate reasons for the ousting of James VII & II from the thrones of Scotland and England, for that would necessitate a a detailed consideration of James's policy of political and religious despotism.

It would be a very rash judgment to charge any single person or event with catapulting the Scottish nation into revolution. Yet, if ever one person came close to individually fomenting a revolution, that person was James VII of the ill-fated house of Stuart. In Scotland James's attempts to cajole, bribe, or threaten influential men into lending their support to Roman Catholic relief was without success. His personal policy of religious oppression and arbitrary rule progressively alienated politically important segments of his Protestant kingdom so that by 1688, despite their differences and personal rivalries, they coalesced to a degree that left the king virtually isolated in Scotland. The failure of James's policies had created a situation ripe for revolution. Nevertheless, there is no evidence of any readiness on the part of the Scots to initiate such a revolt. However much one might wish to be able to point to the catalyst of revolution in Scotland, one is still left with the hard fact that from June to October 1688, while Englishmen plotted their revolution and William of Orange prepared his invasion, Scotsmen remained loyal to their native king, and Scottish royal administration continued its rule virtually unchallenged by dissenters. James's rule may have been detested by the majority of Scotsmen, but Scotland was too weak a nation to unilaterally overthrow a monarch who also commanded the superior strength and resources of England. Scottish hesitancy to precipitate a revolution persisted despite the fact that the birth of the Prince of Wales in June 1688 seemed to assure the permanence of the hated Catholic regime.

British historians agree that from 1756 to 1761 William Pitt was the driving force behind England's victories in the Seven Years' War. Historians are divided, however, in their assessment of Pitt's relations with his generals. Basil Williams concisely stated one position when he linked success with Pitt's “wise choice of commanders on land and sea.” Julian S. Corbett best represents the opposite opinion. “It is commonplace,” he observed, “to credit him [Pitt] with a remarkable talent for choosing commanders. Yet surely no great War Minister ever appointed so many bad ones.”

The lines for debate are clear, and the question is vital for a general interpretation of Pitt's career and England's role in the war. Surprisingly, modern students of the elder Pitt have uncritically followed the opinion represented by Williams, and they have disregarded Eric McDermott's call in 1955 for a fresh examination of the “Great Commoner” and civil-military relations during the war. This essay deals with the question by telling the story of three English military operations on the French coast in 1757 and 1758. They are important in themselves for what they reveal about military planning and execution. More important, the story supports Corbett's conclusion by shedding light on the relationship between Pitt in London and the commanders in the field.

Pitt came to power when the country's military fortunes were at their lowest point. General Braddock's defeat in western Pennsylvania and the loss of Minorca, the Royal Navy's best base in the Mediterranean, punctuated the pre-war hostilities with France. At home, the armed services were undermanned, and abroad the search for allies left England with Prussia to face the combined forces of France, Austria and Russia.

In the year 1676 there appeared on the London stage a new kind of comedy. The play was The Virtuoso, by Thomas Shadwell; and the new element was its satire on the contemporary amateur scientist called a “virtuso.”

Shadwell's play marked the beginning of a trend. For the next hundred years the “virtuoso” became a familiar figure in English literature. He was described, mocked, praised and lectured in plays, poems, and essays. He attracted the attention and interest of such authors as Dryden, Addison, Swift. Pope, Akenside, Johnson, and Shenstone.

Exactly what was a virtuoso? Originally he was a Renaissance gentleman of wealth and leisure who, inspired by the revival of classical learning, became a collector of Greek and Roman antiquities — paintings, sculptures, coins, and medals. His motives were varied: partly sheer curiosity and delight in knowledge for its own sake; partly the need for occupation as an escape from boredom and melancholy. But it must be genteel occupation: one suited to his class and fortune, divorced from manual labor or money-grubbing, and from any kind of practical utility. The reputation to be gained by a note-worthy collection furnished added incentive. Finally, sensibility played a part: the romantic desire for “some living contact, however vicarious, with the heroes of old, classical and national.”