In the light of previous historiography any reference to tory organization in the mid-eighteenth century is likely to seem a contradiction in terms. In the Enid Muir Lecture of 1954, Sir Lewis Namier argued that by the 1750s ‘tory’ had become effectively redundant as a party name: that the term could no longer be used to describe a particular set of political beliefs, nor applied to any recognized group within parliament; that those few individual M.P.'s who still called themselves tories should more properly be regarded as independent country gentlemen: ‘a nationwide group without a leader or programme or deeper coherence’. As Namier went on to remark, hardly any political correspondence between leading tories has survived for the period after 1715. The consequent temptation for historians to rely either on the ill-informed and frequently contemptuous assessments of the tory party supplied by whig observers, or to assume that the lack of any easily available evidence presupposes a concomitant paucity of tory organization, has usually proved irresistible.

One of the perquisites of having been a high ranking Conservative politician is the near-certain admiration of future biographers, even when, as in the case of Sire James Graham, the biographers have no political axe to grind and do not rise to hero worship. Professor Erickson and Professor Ward, Graham's most recent biographers, do not ignore the fierce contemporary condemnation that Graham evoked: Ward, indeed, takes Graham's unpopularity as the starting point for a re-evalution of his career. But both have distinguished between his skills in political management, his political acumen and personality, on the one hand, and his vision, ability, enterprise and industry on the other, and by concentrating on the latter have produced a picture of which Graham would have approved. What results is, in many respects, a typical Peelite self-portrait – of a bold, resourceful, tireless and courageous reformer, valiantly struggling against vested interest, ignorance and apathy, saddened but not surprised by the hostility which he experienced.

The remarkable gains made by the Conservatives in the general election of December 1868 in Lancashire have lately been widely recognized. Their extent may have suggested to some, either that there was a general movement of opinion in the area towards the Conservatives between the general election of 1865 and that of 1868, or that the newly enfranchised electors were more favourable to the Conservatives than the old constituency had been, or that some combination of the two elements was at work. It is the purpose of this article to ascertain what grounds exist for these explanations.

Most historians have agreed that only the death of Empress Elizabeth (5 January 1762) and the accession of her nephew, the prussophile Peter III, saved Prussia from destruction in that epic conflict known as the Seven Years’ War. Just when Frederick II's military fortunes were at their lowest point — by early 1762, numerous parts of Prussia had already or were about to come under enemy control — and total defeat appeared unavoidable, chance intervened in the person of the new czar, who, victor though he was, withdrew his forces from the front, offered an armistice and agreed to relinquish without compensation the gains (East Prussia and Pomerania) which Russia had made during the war. At a stroke, the great anti-Prussian confederacy dating from 1757 had collapsed.

During the First World War, the British imperial state deployed economic expertise on a new scale. This article examines how such expertise was involved in the management of the supply and distribution of red meat, a key commodity because of its caloric and symbolic value. Meat was managed not through a centralized bureaucracy, but through the often contradictory policies and initiatives of several government departments. These departments, particularly the Board of Trade and the Ministry of Food, had vastly different ideological commitments about the proper economic role of the state and the importance of market liberalism. They also had highly distinct bureaucratic agendas related to the war. But all departments shared an interest in deploying economic expertise to pursue better their policy and political goals. Economics thus became both a real and a rhetorical tool. This article explores how economic information on meat was collected, analysed, and deployed by Whitehall offices during the First World War. In so doing, it contends that the variegation and ideological divergence of the departments helped integrate economic expertise into the fabric of the administrative state, thereby increasing the power both of the economic discipline and the state itself.

For many years a consensus among historians of the Edwardian age drew a contrast between the essentially stable, liberal society of the late Victorian years, when discussion, compromise and orderly behaviour were the norm, and an Edwardian society in which tacit conventions governing the conduct of those involved in social and political movements began to be rejected – by Pankhurst feminists, Ulster Unionists, trade union militants and syndicalists. This period of crisis was so described in 1935 by Edward Dangerfield in the The strange death of liberal England, a brilliantly evocative title which, despite the lack of precision contained in the argument presented in his book, exercised an enduring influence on subsequent interpretations of British social and political history before 1914. G. D. H. Cole and Raymond Postgate reinforced this interpretation of a society in crisis, and not until Dr Henry Pelling's Politics and society in late Victorian Britain appeared in 1968 was the notion firmly rejected. There he denied that the convergence of the Irish conflict over home rule, the violence of the militant suffragettes, and unprecedented labour unrest signified either connexions or a common fundamental cause. The re-printing of Dangerfield's book in 1980 (and Pelling's in 1979) has been followed by renewed interest in these competitive hypotheses, and has led historians to re-examine the Edwardian age.

In histories of European trade union movements, the observation that women industrial workers were rarely found among the membership has become axiomatic. In virtually every developed nation, it seems that once the industrial order was established, predominantly male trade unions were everywhere the rule, and female unions and trade unionists everywhere notable exceptions.

The essay aims to close a longstanding gap in the political historiography of later Georgian Britain by examining the ‘Hanoverian Crisis’ of 1806. Drawing on a broad range of British, Hanoverian and Prussian records, the essay demonstrates that the British–Prussian conflict of that year was caused not – as conventionally assumed – by the closure of the North Sea ports to British shipping, but by the Prussian occupation of George III's electoral land of Hanover. The essay then shows how the commitment of the British government to its restitution was largely motivated by the desire of Charles James Fox and the incoming Ministry of All the Talents to build bridges to the crown. This stance was in complete contradiction both to the broad thrust of the new ‘maritime’ foreign policy of the Talents and to Fox's previous policy in matters Hanoverian. Subsequently the implications of this for our understanding of Fox's political biography are assessed. Finally, the essay illuminates the existence of a coherent ‘Hanoverian Faction’ in London headed by Count Münster which together with a highly activist George III was often able to tip the balance in the formulation of British policy.

Over the so-called ‘Jew Bill’; of 1753, the Opposition press was to wage one of the most extraordinary propaganda campaigns in English history. The Bill itself was a comparatively minor measure introduced by the Pelham ministry t o relieve at least some of the disabilities under which the Jews then laboured. Although there was probably no country in Europe in which the Jews received better treatment, and Jewish merchants and financiers had attained positions of very considerable wealth and influence in England, a number of irksome restrictions remained. This was particularly the case in the matter of naturalization, which gave to aliens the rights of natural-born Englishmen, such as the right to own land and ships, and to trade with the colonies. The Jewish Naturalization Bill–to give it its proper title—was designed to remove this disability, by providing that individual Jews who had been resident i n Great Britain or Ireland for three years might be naturalized by Act of Parliament without taking the Sacrament. It was a very modest measure. It certainly did not confer on all Jews in the country the rights of British citizens, and would, in fact, have applied only to a very small number of extremely wealthy Jews, for a private Act of Parliament was a very expensive proceeding indeed. Nor did it relieve Jews of religious disabilities. Yet this Bill was to produce a quite remarkable clamour on the part of the Opposition press, in which it was to be denounced as a blasphemous attack upon Christianity, and the unfortunate Jews were to be accused of every imaginable vice and enormity. There were few political issues in the early eighteenth century to arouse the emotions of Englishmen: but the ‘Jew Bill’; was certainly one of them.

Georges Clemenceau has traditionally been portrayed as a narrow-minded French nationalist. In spite of this reputation, he had many personal friends in England and was widely considered during his lifetime to be France's most eminent anglophile. Although his biographers briefly mention these ties, no one has systematically explored their political and diplomatic implications. Making use of new archival and journalistic evidence, this article will examine Clemenceau's relationships with several English upper-class mavericks: the positivist Frederic Harrison, the head-strong and opinionated Maxse family, and the idiosyncratic social democratic leader Henry M. Hyndman. Their influence encouraged in him an attitude toward England which blended sincere anglophilia with a deep-rooted distrust of its governing classes. Only by exploring this paradox can we understand the roots of Clemenceau's ultimate disillusionment with England.

Spain at the close of the fifteenth century had just completed a long process of unification, accomplished by a series of crusades, partly national and partly religious in character, within Iberian territory. Pride of race, skill in arms and a truculent missionary Catholicism characterized the ruling elements in the new Spanish state, especially in Castille, the dominant partner of the union. A stern royal discipline controlled the ambitions of the aristocracy. The monarchy was strong, at that time truly national, supreme in both Church and State. Its authority, however, though autocratic, was by no means lawless. Canon and Civil Law, adapted to national needs, existed side by side with jealously guarded local fueros and the interpretation and reconciliation of masses of conflicting law lay in the hands of a numerous and very powerful legal profession. Spain, indeed, carried over from the age of feudalism into the age of sovereignty the supposedly mediaeval notion of jurisdiction as the essential function of authority. The monarch was still a judge, the chief of judges. His authority was most directly and characteristically represented by the high courts of justice and in the government of his dominions the school-trained lawyer was his most useful servant.

The Munich agreement of 1938 continues to be a source of controversy, and differences concerning the reasons for British policy are unlikely to be resolved for some time to come.1 There is, however, one minor but important aspect of that policy which has been little discussed—the activities of Konrad Henlein. His supposed aims played an important part in British calculations in the years before Munich. It is the purpose of this article to take a fresh look at his visits to London. While contemporary impressions can now be compared with evidence drawn from a variety of sources, the full truth about Henlein remains elusive. Since certain crucial documents or records of conversations cannot now be traced, a certain amount of conjecture is inevitable and dogmatism about his rather enigmatic conduct would be unwise.

Before 1914, a more intimate relationship started to develop between overseas commercial activity and foreign policy. This occurred as a consequence of the politicization of international business relations that came about when other great powers began increasingly to challenge Britain's global commercial, political, and imperial supremacy. Britain had traditionally followed a laissez-faire line when it came to supporting or protecting British overseas business enterprise. In the mid-1880s, Britain was compelled to review its policy. After this, the British government was prepared to offer limited assistance to British firms, but this often took place only in regions which were significant in terms of overall policy interest, including Turkey, Iran, and China. This article examines British commercial diplomacy in the Balkans, a region which has not received much attention from historians in this framework. British commercial diplomacy there followed the general line of limited intervention and support was offered mostly on legal grounds. Local political troubles and great power politics also played a role in diplomatic decision-making as did negative cultural perceptions, but to a considerably lesser degree. In most cases, the British government refrained from supporting British business enterprise in the Balkans on account of fears about financial speculation.

Hugh Balsham, bishop of Ely from 1257 to 1286, is chiefly remembered for his services to the university of Cambridge and for his foundation of Peterhouse. His election to the see of Ely, and the subsequent dispute arising out of it, has hitherto received but scanty attention, and the treatment that this incident was afforded has usually been based on the account given by Matthew Paris. But Matthew Paris's highly romantic and colourful account is not at all accurate, nor, from a canonist's point of view, does his report make intelligible reading; it is the somewhat sensational presentation of one who relied on the necessarily somewhat distorted tales of more or less well-informed reporters. Being apparently the only contemporary source, it has served so far as the sole record of this dispute. But newly discovered material enables us to reconstruct the dispute following the election and, above all, to show the real reasons which provoked it. Although by no means aspiring to the striking publicity of the Canterbury election some fifty years earlier, this incident, in several respects, is more important than its renowned predecessor. Before we attempt to reconstruct the arguments, it will be advisable to summarize briefly the report of Matthew Paris.

Like other areas central to the royalist cause, Wales experienced a social and political revolution between about 1648 and 1660. In every county except Pembrokeshire, only a small minority of the traditional ruling families had supported the parliamentary side before 1645, and even fewer accepted the radical solutions proposed after 1648, or during the extremist revival of 1659. As a result, governments during the ‘radical’ periods had to turn to new social groups to administer these recalcitrant areas, and to supervise their conversion to puritanism and republican loyalty. The radicals in county society can normally be identified from their participation in local government in such periods (1649–53, 1659) although this is not an infallible guide, and appointment to a committee did not necessarily mean active service. If we compare the lists of justices, sequestration commissioners and committee men for, say, Pembrokeshire, Carmarthenshire and Radnorshire, then in each case we find that about thirty or forty names consistently appear during radical periods. In Pembrokeshire these were mainly drawn from the traditional rulers who had supported parliament in 1642, while the ‘radicals’ of Carmarthenshire were broadly the socially conservative followers of the powerful earl of Carbery, the old royalist leader who won and retained the favour of Cromwell. In Radnorshire by contrast, the committees for these years contained a very strong radical element, from families often not hitherto represented in county government. Of about thirty-three men whose radicalism is suggested by their periods in office, at least seven were not only strong republicans, but also followers of the millenarian Vavasor Powell, who loyally supported the Rump and the Barebones experiment, and plotted against Cromwell. Moreover, it was Radnorshire which was representative of Welsh counties in the 1650s, while the two south-western shires were exceptional in their preservation of gentry continuity in government.