During the last half of the twelfth century the kings of England ruled a vast constellation of lands stretching from Ireland to the Mediterranean, known traditionally, if not quite accurately, as the “Angevin Empire.” While the empire lasted, its rulers were the richest and strongest in Christendom. When King John lost Normandy, Anjou, Maine and Touraine, he also lost much of his income and influence, and the kings of France became the great royal figures of the thirteenth century. It is the purpose of this paper to explore the origins of the Angevin empire, and in particular the union of its two chief components — the Anglo-Norman state and the county of Anjou. Did the empire come about by accident or by political design? And if by design, who was its architect? Was it Henry I, who arranged the crucial marriage between his daughter Maud and Geoffrey, heir to Anjou? Was it Geoffrey, or Maud? Or was it their son, Henry Plantagenet — the ultimate beneficiary of the marriage?

At first glance, the empire would seem to have been conceived in the calculating mind of Henry I, who could hardly have failed to grasp the implications of a marriage joining the Anglo-Norman heiress to the Angevin heir. Indeed, many treatments of the subject, both old and recent, have suggested that the Angevin empire arose from King Henry I's “immensely grandiose designs” to absorb Anjou. But did Henry I have any such desire, or any such intention? The question can only be answered after a careful analysis of Henry I's diplomacy, both in its general contours and in its relation to Anjou.

On such diary entries as this one of Samuel Ward's, historians have built an edifice called “puritanism.” It is rigid, narrow, and quaintly absurd in design. It is the sort of structure on which twentieth-century people can look down with complacency from the heights of their own intellectual towers. It makes one glad to have escaped the confining corridors of faith and piety by rendering them dark, small, and rather shabby.

The Oxford and Cambridge man has long inspired fascination both in Great Britain and abroad. Many have, in fact, acquired an illusory understanding of these enigmatic university students through various caricatures and representations created in literature and film. Yet, despite an apparent level of popular interest, relatively few attempts have been made to understand the culture of male undergraduates at Oxford and Cambridge in a systematic and scholarly way. With the exception of Sheldon Rothblatt's work on student life in the early nineteenth century, J. A. Mangan's skillful exploration of the cult of athleticism's impact on the ancient universities, and some select studies of individual student societies and organizations, we know very little about the ways in which undergraduates lived their lives, saw their worlds, and viewed those who were traditionally excluded from these milieus. We know even less perhaps, despite the existence of Richard Symonds's examination of the relationship between Oxford and empire, about the ways “Oxbridge” undergraduates saw themselves as Britons and leaders of an imperial and “superior” English race. The conflation of English and British is intentional here. Applying English attributes to Britons did not generally present many problems for university men, even those from Scottish, Welsh, and Anglo-Irish backgrounds. “Britishness” and “Englishness” were often applied interchangeably by Oxford and Cambridge undergraduates although, as others have observed, uses of the term “English” tended most often to refer to the admired attributes or “personal” and “communal” traits of Britons, particularly those among the elite.

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.

The outbreak of the Peasants' Revolt in the summer of 1381 was arguably the most serious threat ever posed to the stability of English government in the course of the Middle Ages. All historians are agreed that government policy was in large part responsible for the rising. The failure of the crown to maintain its hold over territory in France and to defend the coasts of England, the tendency to bow to pressure from the landed classes and restrict the economic and legal rights of the peasantry, and the outrageous and inequitable taxes of the 1370s, culminating in the commissions to enforce the poll tax in the spring of 1381, all these factors combined to provoke a widespread and perhaps coordinated outbreak of rebellion in southeast England, as well as many more spontaneous and isolated revolts in the West, the Midlands, and the North. Not surprisingly, in most areas the rebellion was directed principally against the agents of the crown. The young Richard II may have been immune from attack, but this only served to increase criticism of his ministers and agents, who were believed to have usurped royal authority and abused the trust placed in them by king and community.

Considering the dramatic events surrounding this assault on royal government and the wealth of material available in the chronicles and the official records, it is surprising that so few historians have examined the specific question of how administration was affected during and after the events of 1381.

In the 1760s and 1770s, rancorous struggles over the rights of French Catholic subjects threatened the political and economic stability of Grenada and Quebec, both formerly French colonies ceded to Britain at the close of the Seven Years' War (1756–63). This article analyzes claims of subject status made during those decades, focusing on petitions in which numerous inhabitants made demands for privileges they believed to be their due. These memorials reveal the fundamental role that “new” and “adopted” subjects played in shaping the boundaries of “British” subjecthood, as well as highlight key characteristics that made subjecthood an organizing principle of the mid-eighteenth-century British Empire. Indeed, the bonds between subject and sovereign, the ones articulated and performed each time subjects approached their monarch or his representatives, operated at a symbolic and functional level to integrate an empire that had become increasingly diverse by the 1760s.

During the late nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries in Britain, Fabians stood out among socialists as diverging from the Marxian view. Fabians rejected Karl Marx's analysis of surplus value, the most widely accepted and influential socialistic theory of capitalist exploitation. In its place the Fabian Society expounded an entirely distinct notion of exploitation, a radical theory of rent. That theory led to a program for the electoral overthrow of bourgeois liberal societies and the creation of democratic socialism.

The Fabian theory of rent – an ethical touchstone for evaluating the wealth and income of every man – is the subject of this essay. When the theory is abstracted from Fabian writings and fully elaborated, it becomes a blueprint for building a socialist society. That such a society could be founded upon an understanding of rent should be noteworthy to scholars interested in the philosophical origins of Fabianism. Moreover, the point may also be generally significant since it demonstrates that a socialist society may have a non-Marxian genesis and a nonauthoritarian end, two propositions that require constant reiteration in an American political climate which, as Louis Hartz has pointed out, is predominantly liberal.

I

For reasons indicated below, this analysis of rent theory centers upon the years from 1887 to the 1920s. To begin with the term itself, in this period the word “rent” appeared often in Fabian and non-Fabian writings alike and carried two possible meanings. In everyday affairs rent was money received by an owner for the use of his land or goods; thus one paid rent for a farm, an apartment, a truck, or an adding machine.

In 1835 the English Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst introduced into the House of Lords a bill to correct an ambiguity in the law concerning marriages within prohibited degrees. The existing law, based on the 1533 Henrican statute fixing the degrees of consanguinity and affinity, specified that marriages within prohibited degrees could be annulled at any time within the lifetime of both spouses by the Ecclesiastical Court. Lord Lyndhurst argued that the uncertain status of such “voidable marriages” created an inconvenience and hardship for the married persons and especially for their children, who could during their parents' lifetime be declared illegitimate. His specific motive was to guarantee the legitimacy and inheritance of the son of the seventh Duke of Beaufort, who had married his deceased wife's half-sister, a relationship within the prohibited degrees. Lyndhurst proposed that parliament pass a bill to limit to two years the time within which marriages could be annulled.

The consensus in parliament was that the ambiguity of “voidable marriages” should be eliminated, and they readily passed a revised form of Lord Lyndhurst's bill, declaring that all marriages within the prohibited degrees of affinity contracted before August 31, 1835 were immediately and absolutely valid. Yet, even as they eased restrictions on existing marriages, they tightened the law for the future by adding a clause which made marriages of both affinity and consanguinity contracted after that date absolutely void.

In the parliamentary debate on the bill, there was some opposition from those who argued that marriages within certain degrees of affinity, in particular a man and his deceased wife's sister, should be permitted.

This article rethinks the concept of the “British World” by paying close attention to the voices of those who attended the 1903 Allied Colonial Universities Conference. They identified not one, but three different kinds of British world space. Mapped, respectively, by ideas and emotions, by networks and exchange, and by the specific sites of empire, this article suggests that, in the light of criticisms the British World concept has faced, and in the context of recent scholarship on the social and material production of space, this tripartite approach might offer a useful framework for British and imperial historians interested in the history of the global.

Robert Sanderson was a Calvinist, indeed, he was an evangelical Calvinist anxious to impart, through pulpit and press, the central tenets of Calvinism to the laity. He also hated Puritanism and said so loud and often. During the 1630s Sanderson cooperated enthusiastically with the Laudian regime. As a Royalist during the Civil War, he was one of the divines taken by Charles I to the Isle of Wight to provide spiritual counsel as the king struggled to save the church from its Puritan enemies. Nevertheless, during the 1650s Sanderson felt able to take the engagement and to give over the use of the prayer book in order to preserve his place in the ministry. At the Restoration, however, he returned to the establishment as the bishop of Lincoln, in which role he proved himself less than sympathetic to the nonconformists. In short, Sanderson's career is difficult to accommodate within many of the received categories currently in favor in the religious history of the period. As if to prove the point, Sanderson figures prominently both in C. H. George and K. George's attempt to demonstrate the homogeneity of English Protestant opinion before 1640 and J. Sears McGee's assault on precisely that proposition. Sanderson seems to offer particular difficulties to those of us committed to the notion that the English church was dominated by Calvinism down to at least the 1620s and that thereafter the confrontation between Calvinism and Arminianism represented the crucial division in English religious opinion before the early 1640s.

Late in March 1604, as his biographer John Strype records, Archbishop John Whitgift's “Corps was carried to Croydon … and there honourably interred in the Parish-Church … with a decent Solemnity.” Sir George Paule concurred, noting that the “Funerall was very honourably (as befitted his place) solemnized.” The funeral's honor, decency, and solemnity were somewhat marred, however, for among those laudatory elegies and epitaphs traditionally placed upon hearses, some audacious soul had contrived to pin a far from complimentary piece of doggerel. Entitled “The Lamentation of Dickie for the Death of his Brother Jockie”—Jockie being Whitgift and Dickie his successor as archbishop, Richard Bancroft—the poem was a vicious tirade against the late archbishop and his policies. The fullest extant copy survives in a collection of political papers once owned by the Kentishman Sir Peter Manwood:

The prelats pope, the canonists hope,
The Cortyers oracle, virginities spectacle,
Reformers hinderer, trew pastors slanderer,
The papists broker, the Atheists Cloker
The ceremonyes procter, the latyn docter
The dumb doggs patron, non resid[e]ns champion
A well a daye is dead & gone,
and Jockey hath left dumb dickye alone.
Prelats relent, Cortyers lament
Papiste bee sadd, Athiests runn madd
Grone formalists, mone pluralists
frowne ye docters, mourne yee Procters
Begge Registers, starve parators
scowle ye summoners, howle yee songsters
Your great Patron is dead & gone,
& Jockey hath left dumb dickye alone.
Popishe Ambition[,] vaine superstition,
coulured conformity[,] canckared envye,
Cunninge hipocrisie[,] faigned simplicity,
masked ympiety, servile flatterye,
Goe all daunce about his hearse,
& for his dirge chant this verse
Our great patron is dead and gone,
& Jhockey hath left dumb dickey alone.
Yf store of mourners yet there lacke
lett Croyden coull[i]ers bee more blacke
And for a Cophin take a sacke
bearing the corpes upon their backe
dickye more blacke then any one
as chief mourner may marche alone
Singinge this requiem Jhocky is gone,
& dickye hopes to play Jhocky alone
holla dickye bee not so bould,
to woulve yt in Cheif Jhesis fould
as yf to hell thy Soule weare sould,
lest as Jhocky was oft foretould
If thou a persecutor stand,
God likewise strike thee wth his hand:
A-rankinge thee in the bloudy band
of ravening cleargie woolves in the land.

In early 1831, the novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton contributed a comparative essay to the Edinburgh Review on “the spirit of society” in England and France. A key issue for discussion, of course, was that of fashion. “Our fashion,” stated Bulwer-Lytton, “may indeed be considered the aggregate of the opinions of our women.” The fundamental dichotomy which ran through these pages was that between public and private: “the proper sphere of woman,” Bulwer-Lytton continued, “is private life, and the proper limit to her virtues, the private affections.” And in antithesis to the aggregate opinions of “the domestic class of women”—in his view, the only virtuous kind of women—which constituted fashion, stood “public opinion”; that exclusive masculine realm, that should remain free of “feminine influence.”

Some two years later, in his two-volume England and the English, Bulwer-Lytton restated the antithesis between fashion and public opinion, both repeating his earlier formulation and at the same time significantly modifying it. By 1833, his definitions of fashion and opinion ran as follows: “The middle classes interest themselves in grave matters: the aggregate of their sentiments is called OPINION. The great interest themselves in frivolities, and the aggregate of their sentiments is termed FASHION.” Here, Bulwer-Lytton no longer designated fashion as the aggregate of the opinions of women but, instead, as the aggregate of the opinions of the upper classes; and public opinion was no longer the domain of men but, instead, the aggregate of the opinions of the “middle class.”