Few Lord Chancellors have defended the laws of England with greater steadfastness than Edward Hyde, first Earl of Clarendon. Yet the House of Commons impeached him in 1667 for attempting to subvert those laws. Standing guardian over the English constitution, he was accused of plotting its ruin. Less guilty than Francis Bacon, he suffered a harsher fate. More innocent than Lord Keeper Finch, he endured the same painful banishment from the England he loved. On 11 November 1667 the House of Commons impeached him for high treason, and though they were unable to prove their accusation, they forced him, by the violence of their prosecution, to flee to France. It was his personal tragedy to suffer disgrace, calumny, and banishment though guilty of no crime.

The Exclusion Controversy of 1679–81 echoes many of the constitutional issues debated before and during the Civil War, just as it anticipates many of the arguments used to support the 1688 Revolution. If the attempt to exclude James, Duke of York, from the succession to the throne was abortive, it still provides an important key to contemporary opinion about the vital political problems of the century; and at this time when the structure, indeed the very existence of the early Whig and Tory parties is being questioned, the Exclusion Controversy can be shown in one respect at least to have had a markedly unifying effect on the former party, as demonstrated in its literature. The attempt at Exclusion was the supreme effort of Shaftesbury to rally the early Whig party, and it was accompanied by an intensive propaganda campaign, issuing forth a steady stream of pamphlets, most of which are still extant. Some of the best of these have been printed in Somer's Tracts, The Harleian Miscellany and State Tracts: A Collection of Treatises relating to the Government, Privately Printed in the Reign of Charles II, 1693; while others are now very rare, and single copies may be found only in the British Museum or Bodleian Library, or in such repositories as the City Guildhall Library, London. Together with the Tory replies, they form a list of nearly two hundred titles, not as vast a collection as the Civil War produced, but one to compare favourably with the volume of pamphlets occasioned by the Restoration and the Revolution.

Constitutional history has not bulked large in risorgimento studies, because events of greater dramatic impact take precedence on this particular stage. The 1848 constitution of Piedmont has been studied, but this was a haphazard document drawn up hurriedly by inexperienced lawyers and open to either liberal or illiberal interpretation. Far more important was the formative period after 1848, during which first the Marquis Massimo d'Azeglio and then Count Camille de Cavour created traditions of parliamentary and cabinet rule. Cavour was the most successful and authoritative parliamentarian in Italian history. On his development of the constitution, however, we possess little more than the provocative but fragmentary essays of Adolfo Omodeo, largely because for nearly a century his papers have been inaccessible. The modern Italian parliament grew directly out of Cavour's theory and practice, and what he understood by liberal government is therefore highly important. There is room, at any rate, for enquiring whether he was the straightforward liberal that a dozen biographers make out.

Henry Sidgwick was one of the most prominent university reformers in later Victorian Cambridge. His resignation of his Trinity fellowship in 1869 helped to precipitate the final abolition of religious tests in 1871, and, in the following decades, he was the leader of those who wished to develop research and to open up new branches of study. In national politics he was, as might have been expected, a Liberal, yet, when the Home Rule crisis of 1885–6 came to a head, his allegiance veered over sharply. In 1885 he voted Liberal ‘after some hesitation’; the next year he voted for the Tory candidate for the borough of Cambridge who was elected by an increased majority. That summer he wrote: ‘Unionists gaining slowly but steadily. Dined in Hall, and was surprised to find the great preponderance of Unionist sentiment among the Trinity fellows—a body always, since I have known Trinity, preponderantly Liberal.’ In the history of Victorian politics more attention might be given to the change which converted a large part of the educated classes from the Liberal side to the Conservative. J. F. Stephen, writing in 1880 to the first Earl of Lytton, said of the Conservative leaders that they were ‘all of them people whose political creed was chosen when the Conservative party was emphatically the stupid party, and when to be a Conservative meant to be opposed to pretty well all the main intellectual movements of the time’. The phrase, ‘the stupid party’, comes from J. S. Mill, whose books had been the chief intellectual influence in triumphant mid-Victorian Liberalism. By the end of his life Mill himself was becoming sceptical of the results achieved by democracy. In Representative Government (1861) he had pointed out that a popular assembly was not fitted to conduct administration or to frame laws, and that one of the great problems of democratic government is to combine popular rule with the skilled administration of the modern state. The need for increased efficiency in a more competitive age was worrying many Englishmen by 1870, and, although their criticisms cut across party and sectional boundaries, they were hostile to much in conventional Liberalism. One answer was the ‘social engineering’ of the Fabians; another approach was Matthew Arnold's assault on our educational system and on the Philistinism of our semi-educated middle classes. The only remedy for the anarchic individualism of English life lay, he thought, in the positive activity of the state, which should purify and deepen the national culture and give it direction and purpose.