The first statute to become law during the Long Parliament of the 1640s was the Triennial Act, the act “for preventing Inconveniences happening by the long intermission of parliaments.” The statue was enacted in extraordinary circumstances. Ambiguously phrased, substantially amended, and ultimately supported as a means to other ends, the act provided no real solution to the problems which had given it birth. Had it done so, it most assurredly would have failed to pass. The strange tale of the genesis and passage of this act is the subject of this article.

The Triennial Act developed from a bill for annual parliaments introduced by William Strode, MP for Beeralston, Devonshire, on 24 December 1640. Strode's was the first bill for that purpose actually to be introduced since James Stuart had acceded to the throne in 1603. The idea that there should be annual parliaments was not, however, new. Twice during the reign of Edward III statutes providing for yearly meetings of parliament had been enacted. Although these measures were not observed, they had not been forgotten. They had coexisted over the centuries with the belief that the summoning and dissolving of Parliaments was an indisputable prerogative of the Crown and were cited from time to time when men became anxious about subjects' liberties. Sir Francis Bacon reports that during the debate in the Privy Council in 1615, the earl of Exeter “insisted upon a speech of the Lo. Cooke's that there was a law inforce to require a Parliament to be holden every year for redress of the people's grievances.” There is, however, little evidence that Englishmen prior to 1640 believed that the confirmation of these statutes, or enactment of other measures to that effect, was of prime importance.

The standard interpretation of 1848 in Britain is that while Continental Europe reached a turning point and failed to turn, as the famous aphorism states, Britain reached its turning point in 1832, turned, and thus avoided revolution in that year of revolutions. The British middle classes, unlike their Continental counterparts, were loyal in 1848. They enjoyed a broader franchise, some reforming legislation already passed, and commitments to various welcome changes in the future made by diverse politicians. All of this gave the British middle classes great confidence in British institutions and their own future under them, as well as the belief that their country was fortunately different from all the other nations. Without the middle classes, the Chartists could have never succeeded with any kind of insurrection. So, while the capitals of Europe echoed with sounds of musketry and cannon, Britain was at peace because her Constitution was essentially better than anything that prevailed elsewhere.

Modern historiography has done little to change this interpretation of 1848 that was first proclaimed by self-congratulatory and relieved Victorians. All the accounts stress the fortunate uniqueness of Britain and the key role of middle class loyalty. Priscilla Robertson wrote, “During the days of 1848, England stood apart, unshaken, apparently unshakable. Her reformers were already in power. …” In a recent study of the 1848 revolutions, Peter Stearns focuses on the ways the middle class abetted Continental revolutions at the same time that they were instrumental in preventing revolution in Britain. These are really restatements of Elie Halévy's classic explanation. While John Saville's treatment of 1848 differs from traditional accounts in several ways, particularly in stressing the vigor of the Chartist left's resistance after April 10, his explanation for the failure of revolution does not. He concludes that the British government could count on “whole-hearted support” much further down the social scale than could Continental governments. Moreover, despite all the newer research on political violence, crowds, and revolution, the standard interpretation of Britain's fate in 1848 remains: middle-class support for the regime was too strong while Chartist support for an insurrection was too weak.

Historians have traditionally emphasized Gladstone's support for liberalnationalist movements, especially in Europe. His great biographer, John Morley, saw him as being captivated by the new doctrine of “nationality” after one of his frequent visits to Italy. Philip Magnus described him as an enthusiastic champion of freedom; and Paul Knaplund made an extraordinary fuss over his gospel of “freedom and voluntaryism.” Even G. E. Buckle, who must be considered a hostile witness, conceded that Gladstone was much more sympathetic to national movements than his famous rival, Disraeli. Gladstone is generally depicted in Victorian historiography as the outstanding champion of liberal and national ideas, especially in Italy, Ireland, Greece, and the Danubian principalities. There survives a vivid picture of the Grand Old Man fighting to the end to save the hapless Armenians from the butchery of the Turks. This image of an unusually devout Christian striving against overwhelming odds to promote the cause of liberty, justice, and humanity is still an integral part of the Victorian mythology.

Yet, as long ago as 1961, Derek Beales did his best to show that Gladstone's approach to the Italian question was, at best, ambivalent. Even before that, S. Gopal had suggested that Gladstone's contribution to Italian unification was inferior to that of Palmerston, Russell or Sir James Hudson. Two Polish sympathizers have drawn attention to Gladstone's failure to promote the Polish cause. A. J. P. Taylor, for all his wit and wisdom, failed to put more than a minor dent in Gladstone's reputation when, in 1957, he dissected that statesman's foreign policy only to find incompatible elements of Cobdenism and Palmerstonianism. Modern scholars, like C. J. Lowe and D. M. Schreuder, have also argued that Gladstone's attitude towards nationalism was suspiciously flexible. But, in curious defiance of all this scholarship, the Gladstonian myth persists. It is the purpose of this article to put this myth to rest by demonstrating that Gladstone was cautiously conservative in his attitude toward nationalist movements and that he put much more store on order and stability than on national liberty.

The British people and their rulers have always been concerned about the possibility of an invasion of their island home by a hostile power striking at them from the European continent. Arthur Balfour, the Prime Minister who did so much to modernize the defense arrangements of his country in the early years of the present century, was especially concerned with this problem of invasion. He called it “This eternal and most important question of our safety against invasion.” In 1908 an entirely new element was introduced into this area of strategic thinking when it was realized, for the first time, that Britain might be invaded from the air. Until this year the British could take comfort from the often quoted words of Admiral Lord St. Vincent to a group of nervous fellow peers at the time of the French invasion danger early in the nineteenth century: “I do not say they cannot come, my Lords, I only say they cannot come by sea.” Now, as a result of unprecedented technological developments it was possible for a vigilant and forward-looking observer to contemplate an air assault upon the United Kingdom that would put Lord St. Vincent's pithy maxim in an entirely new light. Eventually, the fear of air attack assumed a dominating position in the minds of British defense planners; but the origins of this problem have not been studied closely by scholars, even though they deserve attention.