It has been traditional to regard the reaction of Henry VIII in the face of treason and rebellion as savage and extreme. Perhaps for this reason, historians for long considered it superfluous to examine in any detail what fate actually befell those who took up arms against their king. More recently, however, findings that relatively few persons were executed by Henry, despite the savagery of his reign, and that in general his bark was worse than his bite,1 have suggested that this question could profitably be pursued further. There seems, for instance, to be a significant difference between the 178 executions in the aftermath of the Lincolnshire rebellion and the Pilgrimage of Grace in 1536–7 and the rather larger number for which Elizabeth was responsible following the much less dangerous Northern Rising of 1569.2 Yet how these figures were achieved and what considerations shaped and determined the extent of the government's retaliation is much less clear. Perhaps the surviving evidence will not normally admit of answers to such questions, for it was not in the government's interests to disclose that external considerations might influence the enforcement or otherwise of the law. The manifestation of this fact was therefore inconvenient, but exceptionally such disclosures might be unavoidable.

If English reform lacked a Luther or a Zwingli at least it had Thomas Bylney. In his capacity as an inflammatory preacher and a leader of men, he took the lead in starting the English Reformation. He often evoked the epithet of ‘Little’ – a reference to his slight stature – but a more fitting description would have been ‘aggressive’ or ‘tough-minded’ Bylney. Although he expressed doubts about the papacy he never openly repudiated the see of Rome: nor did he doubt the traditional doctrine of the real presence in the eucharist. Clearly, he cannot be called a Protestant although he is often portrayed as one. His conversion to evangelical reform came through reading the Novum testamentum of Erasmus, but his subsequent attack on the saints puts him beyond the pale of the milder, conservative Erasmianism. His personal influence at Cambridge was immense since he was responsible for converting key men in the coming Reformation of England: Thomas Arthur, Hugh Latimer, Robert Barnes and John Lambert. The portrait that Foxe paints of him is of saintly hue. Like the apostle Paul he was an insignificant-looking man, temperate in his habits, ascetic in his tastes, and unflagging in his concern for others. He visited ‘lazar cots’ where he comforted the sick, and went to the prisons to reclaim the hopeless. He was something of a Puritan since when his college neighbour, the future Bishop Thirlby, practised his recorder, Bylney would resort to prayer.

J. H. Hexter's brilliant analysis of More's Utopia in the Introduction to the Yale edition of the text in 1965 was favoured by a resounding endorsement from Quentin Skinner in a no-less-brilliant analysis of the Yale edition in Past and Present in 1967. Given the status of both scholars as interpreters of the political thought of the early modern period, Skinner's prediction that Hexter's analysis would ‘cause a reorientation of [the] entire historiography’ of the subject was bound to be something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Skinner, in any case, clearly considers the claim to have been justified in the event. In his recent masterly study of the history of political thought in the early modern period his treatment of Utopia is especially-and avowedly-indebted to Hexter's work. Meanwhile, the most stimulating challenge presented to Hexter's thesis-by Dermot Fenlon in the Transactions of the Royal Historical Society in 1975-serves in its way to vindicate Skinner's prediction. Fenlon is concerned not to contradict Hexter's basic hypothesis but to stand it on its head. Fenlon's thesis in turn was assimilated into the survey literature when it was adapted by G. R. Elton to hammer Christian humanism in his Reform and Reformation in 1977.

On 28 July 1540 Thomas Cromwell went to execution, and two days later Robert Barnes, Thomas Garret and William Jerome, leading protestant preachers and the minister's protégés, were burned at the stake.1 These reformers were sacrificed to implicate Cromwell in apostasy, but their deaths were more than judicial murder; they died for making a reality of the conservatives’ old fears that religious radicalism would engender social disorder. With the coming of the Reformation issues of faith for the first time deeply divided the people, and the rift went beyond the schism between orthodox and reformed alone. Many who witnessed the confusion thought that ‘the devyll reyneth over us nowe’ and believed that ‘alle thys devysyon comyth through that ffalse knave that heretyke Doctor Barnys and such other heretiks as he ys’.2 The faction struggles in court and council which dominated the last years of Henry VIII's reign produced the shifting policies of reaction or toleration towards reform, but while political intrigue determined the incidence of persecution and decided the victims the events of 1540 were to reveal that Protestantism was spreading independently, thwarting the restoration of Catholic orthodoxy, whatever the policy of government. The religious history of London was inextricably linked with the feuds of contending factions at court in the confused months of the spring and summer of 1540, not least because many of the protagonists and persecuted were Londoners themselves. The tensions witnessed in the capital between orthodox and reformed, and popular disturbance there, underlay all the machinations in high politics and influenced the outcome.

S. R. Gardiner, the doyen of English historians, wrote of the earl of Northampton's oration, delivered at a conference between the two houses of parliament in 1607, that it was ‘a speech which hardly any other man in England would have allowed himself to utter. In him was combined the superciliousness of a courtier with the haughtiness of a member of the old nobility. He treated the Commons as if they were the dust beneath his feet.’1 Furthermore, Northampton was accused by some contemporaries and most later historians of engineering the abrupt dissolution of the Addled Parliament in 1614, an abortive two-month session that was the last for seven years. For both, Northampton epitomized the authoritarian and anti-parliamentary views which came to dominate the early Stuart court.

One of the most striking features of recent writing on early modern social history has been the emergence of the family as a subject of central concern. As befits an historical area being subjected to new scrutiny, much of this concern has expressed itself in the form of specialized, and often narrowly-focused articles or essays.1 To these have been added a number of more general works intended to examine the broader developments in and implications of family life in the past.2 Several themes within family history have already received considerable attention: the structure of the family, for example, a topic already rendered familiar by earlier work on historical demography; the concomitant topic of sexual practices and attitudes; and the economic role of the family, especially in its capacity as a unit of production. These are, of course, important matters, and the research carried out on them has revealed much of interest and consequence to the social historian; this should not, however, obscure the existence of a number of other significant dimensions of family life in the past which await thorough investigation.

François due de Guise, commander of the French catholic forces, was assaulted by Poltrot de Mérey (or Méré) before Orléans on 18 February 1563. He succumbed six days later, on 24 February, to the attentions of his surgeons, whose lethal ministrations are horribly retailed by the Spanish ambassador, Chantonnay. On that fatal day, Guise had gone to inspect his camp in the suburb called Portereau from which his forces were sapping and mining the stronghold of Orléans, occupied for the past year by the protestant confederates of the prince de Condé. The capture of this city, then considered imminent, would have been the fourth military episode of the first French civil war. But, instead of the expected collapse of Orléans and the continuation of war, France was rocked by the unexpected death of Guise which effectively interrupted hostilities.

Twenty-five years ago J. G. A. Pocock first argued that the Norman conquest was the rock upon which all arguments for the continuity of the common law finally came to wreck. Believe in the conquest qua conquest, and you could not believe that English law represented a continuous stream of unviolated custom or fail to see it as very much the offspring of Norman parentage. In the English revolution, the Levellers exemplified the logical necessity of Pocock's argu ment. Having seen the conquest for what it was, the group criticized the common law as none other than a Norman yoke and surrendered all appeals to history. By re-examining the Leveller use of history, this essay tests that proposition, turning it not upside down but on its side, and suggests an alternative conclusion both about the Levellers and the doctrine of continuity itself.

The early years of Thomas Hobbes are almost entirely sunk in obscurity. Biographers from George Croom Robertson (1886) to Miriam Reik (1977) have added little, for the period before 1628, to the scant information provided by Aubrey and the Latin Vitae. If to this we add the handful of details which have been gleaned by modern scholarship, the picture remains a bare one, and one that can be briefly summarized.

It is now more than twenty years since Peter Laslett argued that the Exclusion controversy and not the Revolution of 1688 was the occasion of the composition of Locke's Two treatises. Nevertheless, scholarly interpretations still resist treating Two treatises as mainly an activist tract and persist in characterizing it always as something loftier, viz. ‘political philosophy’, ‘systematic moral apologia’, and the like. Resistance to the implications of a rigorous historical mode of interpretation is surely part of the problem. The perennial or transcendent purposes with which the classics are haloed often get diminished in too specific an historical location of the motives and situation of the author. Oddly, however, even critics friendly to a strictly historical approach have hesitated before the implications of Laslett's dicta that Locke wrote as a whig pamphleteer and for Shaftesbury's purposes. This, in turn, parallels the widespread contempt felt by many contemporary English historians (Locke's interpreters among them) for the early whigs. Righteous indignation against the whigs is even detectable in those modern writings from which we take our view of the whig Exclusion pamphleteers.

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.

In the last forty years the accepted portrait of the parliamentarian party during the Great Civil War has changed almost beyond recognition. A score of books and articles have been devoted, with much debate, to reinterpreting the nature of the factions comprising that party. By contrast, the accepted view of its opponent, the royalist party, is still that established by Gardiner over a hundred years ago. This situation is not unduly surprising. Some of the principal sources for a study of the royalist party, such as the journals of the royalist parliament, were destroyed at the end of the war. Furthermore, the royalists may seem ultimately less significant objects of study than their rivals, in that they lost the war and therefore contributed nothing, save as a menace, to the subsequent formation of English polity and the making of the modern world. Though not surprising, such an attitude is none the less indefensible. Considerable material for such a study does survive. Clarendon's comments, whether in his History1 or his Life2, are well known. By contrast other retrospective sources, notably Prince Rupert's ‘Diary’, a summary of his career by an unknown admirer,3 are almost unused. These may be compared with the contemporary evidence of hundreds of letters preserved in the British Library, Bodleian Library and local record offices. In favour of such a study, it may be argued that until the royalist party is understood the nature of the Great Civil War cannot be properly appreciated. Moreover, the significance of the parliamentarian victory for a future England is only clear if some suggestion can be made of the possible consequences of a royalist triumph.

Oliver Macdonagh’s ‘model’ for social legislation in the mid-nineteenth century is, after more than twenty years, a familiar one. It requires the exposure of a social evil, preferably in sensational terms, which sets in motion ‘an irresistible engine of change’. The increased scale of industrial processes, coupled with the ‘ widespread and ever-growing influence of humanitarian sentiment’, and stricter views of sexual morality and ‘decency’ combined to put pressure on legislators to assume new social responsibilities. This pressure, it has been said, frequently owed its origin to a pervasive Christianity, or at least to the work of churchmen, while legislation rested less on philosophic foundations than on forces which, if not inevitable, were at least inherently probable in the context of Victorian social and political life - in short, were part of a ‘self-generating’ process.

He might be regarded indeed as a representative specimen of the Teutonic type.1 He was essentially Teutonic in his whole personality, physical, as well as moral and mental; in his square, sturdy frame, his ruddy hair, his fair complexion, his plain and simple habits of life, no less than in his love of truth, and straightforwardness in deed and word. For the pure Celt he entertained a kind of natural antipathy, mingled with something like contempt, which often manifested itself in odd and amusing ways, suggestive of Dr Johnson's attitude towards the Scotch.

A revisionist explanation of the political events of the Glorious Revolution has crept into recent literature virtually unscathed. Briefly summarized, the argument contends that it is difficult to discover evidence of resistance to the Crown in the debates of either the House of Lords or the Convention parliament during 1689. According to J. P. Kenyon, a major advocate of this new interpretation, John Locke's Second treatise of government misled historians and even some contemporaries into believing that parliament deposed James II for breaking the original contract between sovereign and people. Actually, during the long debates in and between both houses ‘it was clear that the word “abdicated”, or the Lords’ preferred choice, “deserted” both implied a voluntary act, if not a rational choice, on James's part’. The Lords especially, Kenyon argues, were careful to dissociate themselves from contract theory. Whig ‘revolution principles’, then, built upon the ‘haste and confusion of the occasion’ were rooted in a misunderstanding of actual events, a mis-understanding fostered by the writings of Locke and Algernon Sydney and enshrined as doctrine by whig politicians and historians.

On the fourth of July 1754 a garrison of Virginians, under the command of the young George Washington, marched its British colours out of a small log fort in an isolated valley of the Appalachian mountains, where it had capitulated to a French detachment the previous evening. Washington's defeat had an impact upon world history no less significant than did his more famous victories subsequent to a more dramatic removal of British colours, on another fourth of July twenty-two years later. The French expulsion of British colonials from the Ohio valley led to nine years of war in America and quickly escalated into seven years of general war, so wide in its geographical extent that Churchill called it the first world war. At the end of hostilities in 1763 the acquisition from France of Canada and a number of West Indian islands laid the foundations of the nineteenth-century British empire.

The first object of this article is to present some findings from an analysis of criminal activity in an early modern society, as measured primarily through various records of the Massachusetts Superior Court of Judicature, Court of Assize, and General Jail Delivery (the Assizes) from its creation in 1692 to the eve of the American Revolution. Since the amount of serious criminal behaviour revealed by this evidence seems small, the article will then seek to identify the most important components of the system of social control over criminality evidently at work in provincial Massachusetts. These include a conscious effort to maintain a homogeneous population, a pattern of collective settlement in townships, an effective system of prosecuting serious breaches of the criminal law, the commitment of elite groups in town, church, county, and province to law and order, and the role of the family in teaching and assuring appropriate behaviour.

Recent historical writing has shown the petite bourgeoisie to have been a distinctive group within British politics and society during the nineteenth century. Its politically active members provided a fluctuating and positive challenge to the authority of both the landed aristocracy and the developing urban elites. In the 1790s, an active fringe of small masters, shopkeepers and less prosperous professional men joined with the wage earners and artisans of the Corresponding Societies. They were cautious Painites, giving depth and breadth to the eighteenth-century radical tradition which sought to extend the franchise and reduce the power of government.

The Russian ruling elite, by the end of the nineteenth century, could be seen as being composed of three loosely defined elements, representing respectively the interests of the hereditary landed gentry, of a bureaucracy that was fast becoming hereditary and of emerging capitalist groups. Each of the three was a significant component of the old regime in Russia in its final decades, each fulfilled important social functions and each was, and was perceived to be, of importance for the Autocracy. It was their balance and interaction which helped to sustain the ancien régime in the reigns of Alexander III and Nicholas II.

The Second International's socialism saw itself as a moral force. That moral force served to maintain a precarious balance between politics conducted perforce within a national framework, and an internationalist rhetoric; between politics which in practice worked within an established system, and a theoretical rejection of that old society. The First World War broke one part of this precarious balance by demonstrating the impotence of the organized working class in stopping an imperialist conflict; but another pillar of marxist orthodoxy, economic dogma, remained for the marxist parties of the post-war world. That pillar was unshaken by the collapse of societies and politics in Central Europe; it held up an intellectual elite in the world of post-war socialist politics.