It was Harold J. Laski who said “the road from Constance to 1688 is a direct one,” and he did so when speaking of the constitutional theories enunciated by the Conciliar thinkers and put into practice at the Council of Constance. These closely related theories had their roots deep in the corporative thinking of the medieval canon lawyers but sprang into prominence during the years after 1378, when the Western Church was divided first into two and then into three “obediences” under the sway of rival claimants to the Papacy. Basic to all the Conciliar theories was the central insistence that the final authority in the Church lay not with the Pope but with the whole body of the faithful and that the Pope possessed, therefore, not an absolute but merely a ministerial authority delegated to him for the good of the Church. This belief made it possible to appeal from the obduracy of the rival pontiffs to the decision of the faithful as expressed through their representatives assembled in a General Council of the whole Church, and such a possibility was actualized at the Councils of Pisa (1409) and Basel (1431-1449) and, most strikingly of all, at Constance (1414-1418). There it found expression, not only in the judgment and deposition of popes, but also in the promulgation of the decree Sacrosancta (1415), which declared:

King John Lackland was surely one of the most enigmatic figures ever to rule England. The dramatic ambivalence of his personality, the passions that he stirred among his own contemporaries, the very magnitude of his failures, have made him an object of endless fascination to historians and biographers. Whose interests would not be piqued by the man who was recently described by a distinguished scholar as “cruel and ruthless, violent and passionate, greedy and self-indulgent, genial and repellant, arbitrary and judicious, clever and capable, original and inquisitive”?

As one might expect, King John has received a great deal of scholarly attention. Nearly every historian who touches on any aspect of his reign feels compelled to offer his own judgment of John's puzzling character, his effectiveness, even his personal morality. The present century has seen, in addition to numerous specialized studies of various facets of John's reign, no less than three major biographies of that indefatigable but luckless king. The first of these, by Miss Kate Norgate, was published in 1902 and reflects the traditional viewpoint of the late nineteenth century. The second, Sidney Painter's work of 1949, stresses the monarch's relations with his baronial and administrative subordinates and presents a more genial and sophisticated interpretation of John himself. Hopes for a promised companion volume dealing with military and naval institutions and the development of the common law under John have been shattered by Painter's untimely death.

The reign of Charles II was described by Wodrow as “one of the blackest periods,” and by the late Hume Brown as “the most pitiful chapter” of Scottish history, The former attributed Charles's tyranny to the influence of popery; Hume Brown thought it stemmed from his desire to maintain his prerogative and to fill his purse. Doubtless the latter was more nearly correct. Nevertheless, a re-examination of the events of 1660-61 in the light of certain new materials suggests that the restoration of Scottish episcopacy was accomplished only after much hesitation by the King and his principal advisers, who were far less sanguine of success than the firebrands in Edinburgh. The interdependence of Scottish and English developments was also probably more important than has hitherto been supposed. In this paper the Erastian character of the restoration in Scotland has rendered necessary the inclusion of certain political questions, but its main purpose is to elucidate the ecclesiastical settlement.

The extravagant rejoicings at the restoration of monarchy afford ample proof of Scotland's relief at the prospect of the dissolution of the union with England. The nation eagerly looked forward to the withdrawal of the English forces, the end of the cess, and the re-establishment of the old government by King, Council, and Parliament. The King's return seemed so desirable that no one thought to impose any conditions as the price of his restoration, and no Declaration of Breda was issued for Scotland.

Popular enthusiasm temporarily concealed the deep divisions between the Protesters (or Remonstrants) and the Resolutioners, the two principal parties in both church and state.

Once upon a time men who read and wrote about Sir Thomas More, the author of Utopia and Henry VIII's Lord Chancellor, were convinced that he was a modern man, by which in some measure they seem to have meant their kind of man. This conviction became fully standardized in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Those, however, who saw him as a modern man — Lord Acton, Bishop Creighton, Principal Lindsay, Sir Sidney Lee — could not help but view More with impatience. For in their eyes he reneged on his modernity. He did not in the end stand firm for free thought, or for toleration, or for emancipation from the bondage of medieval bigotry and superstition. And although Karl Kautsky was sure that at the horizon Sir Thomas had seen the red light of the Marxist dawn, More did not even throw himself into the struggle for socialism. Instead he approved of the execution of men who were burnt at the stake because they rejected the spiritual control of the medieval church; and in the end he died a martyr for the unity which through the centuries that orthodox and persecuting Church had imposed on Europe.

In the sixteenth line of his Essay on Man Alexander Pope announced that his purpose was to “vindicate the ways of God to man.” John Milton waited until the twenty-sixth line of Paradise Lost to state that his aim was to “justify the ways of God to men.” It would be pedantic to inquire why Pope used the singular noun for the human race, Milton the plural. But it might be instructive to investigate why Milton chose to justify the ways of God, and Pope, two generations later, to vindicate them — especially since both words scan equally well. Moreover, even though Pope may have picked his verb to convey a hint of self-parody, Samuel Johnson two generations after Pope misquoted Paradise Lost when he wrote in his “Life of John Milton” that the epic's purpose was “to vindicate the ways of God to man.”

But before one proceeds down any such semantic-theological path he should be aware of two dangers. The first is the general warning that scholars who look for needles in haystacks almost always find them. The second is the specific caution that the word “justify” is a shaky foundation on which to build a case: its designations and connotations were — and still are — many-sided, and Milton may not have used it with any sense of defensiveness, even though today the word “vindicate” has a more positive, more assured ring. Yet despite these dangers, the path is inviting and the destination very possibly significant.

Mr. Frank's engaging argument is convincing up to a point. Milton was indeed a protestant of the protestants and in true protestant fashion kept pressing on in his thinking to ever more extreme conclusions which seemed to him of the very essence of rationality. Such a course pointed in one direction logically enough to the reduction of the many divagations of protestant doctrine to a religion of common sense free of dilemmas and miracles. But such a conclusion would seem more natural to minds seeking a repose that ever is the same from the uncharted liberties taken by protestant revolutionaries than to a poet whose devotion to protestant individualism was as unflagging as Milton's. Mr. Frank seems to me more convincing when he says that “perhaps the Milton who wrote Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes was more than an incipient deist, that he was what can be called a total Protestant.” But before one can say whether or to what degree Milton was even an incipient deist, surely one must consider what it amounted to in his case to be a “total” protestant, for not all total protestants turned out to be deists. In considering that question, since it was by way of their Pauline-Augustinian-Calvinistic theology that English protestants, not excepting Milton, arrived at their protestant ethic, it seems to me impossible to limit the term protestant as Mr. Frank suggests to its “ethical rather than theological signification.”

The most familiar view of party, and one held almost universally for a century and a half, sees a continuity in party history from the Whigs and Tories of Charles II's reign to the Liberals and Conservatives of Victoria's. This view received its classic expression at the hands of Macaulay, and with him it was a verdict arrived at before he even began The History of England and more than thirty years before he finished with it. In an election speech at Edinburgh in 1839 he proudly traced his Whig ancestry back to the Roundheads of the time of Charles I. In the opening section of the History he was more specific and selected a certain day in October of 1641 for the birth of the modern party system. “From that day,” he wrote, “dates the corporate existence of the two parties which have ever since alternately governed the country.”

Macaulay was not the first historian to reach such a conclusion. Writing some twenty years earlier the Catholic John Lingard, in dealing with the 1678-1681 crisis over Exclusion of the Duke of York, wrote that “it was during this period that the appellations of Whig and Tory became permanently affixed to the two great political parties which for a century and a half [1680-1830] have divided the nation.” Even before the turn of the nineteenth century the same idea had been suggested by Thomas Somerville in his History of England which appeared in 1792.

Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, like most other Restoration politicians, has suffered from a bad press. He has always been spoken of slightingly by what J. P. Kenyon calls the “bed-spring and chamber-pot” school of Restoration historians; and for once the serious scholars have agreed with the romancers. David Ogg, for instance, says of Arlington, “He had the gift for making the right friends and discarding them at the right moment; but as he lacked courage, he never rose to real greatness among the bad men of Charles's Court. … Always civil and obliging, his chief talent was that of anticipating and fostering what he thought to be the secret wishes of his royal master.” Arlington's biographer, Miss Violet Barbour, says nothing quite so harsh as that, but her implied opinion is clearly not very high. Of modern historians only Keith Feiling, in his work on British foreign policy from 1660 to 1672, is at all favorable. Most of Arlington's British contemporaries took an equally critical view of him. The attacks of Burnet and Clarendon are well known. Here is what the Duke of Buckingham, Arlington's great rival in the Cabal, had to say in his poem, “Advice to a Painter To Draw my L. A-----ton, Grand Minister of State”:

First draw an arrant fop, from top to toe

Whose very looks at first dash shew him so:

Two goggle-eyes, so clear, tho' very dead,

That one may see, thro' them, quite thro' his Head.

Let every nod of his, and subtle wink

Declare the fool would talk, but cannot think.

Let him all other fools so far surpasse

That fools themselves point at him for an ass.

Whether all this denigration is entirely deserved is open to serious doubt. Foreign observers had no such low opinion of Arlington. When he became secretary of state in 1662, the Venetian resident described him as "a man of wit and ability, affable and courteous, possessing several languages, . . . and competent for his position from his knowledge of the interests of foreign princes." And nine years later another Venetian resident called him "tried and prudent."

The recent death of Professor Sir Lewis Namier (19 August 1960) provides an occasion to assess, albeit most tentatively, if not the man (I did not know him well), then at least his contribution to the writing of English history. The need for such an assessment is a little ironic, for Sir Lewis, for all his renown, has left a somewhat indistinct after-image among historians in this country. Ever since the appearance in 1929 of his great work on the Structure of Politics at the Accession of George III, his name has been a fixture in bibliographies and in the knowingness of knowing graduate student and cannier undergraduate. Yet few in this country have read his work through – that is, his monumental works on eighteenth century politics on which most of the estime of his succès d'estime has been built. Many more are familiar with the lectures, reviews and critical works on modern German and diplomatic history to which he devoted much of his productive effort between 1933 and 1953. Though these last are works of some importance, the ultimate reputation of Namier as a scholar must rest on his eighteenth century work — in fact upon his publications of 1929 and 1930. It is this work and some of the methodological questions it raises which are under discussion here.

In most histories of Great Britain in the eighteenth century the ministry of Henry Pelham, 1743 to 1754, is accorded small space. For example, Basil Williams' The Whig Supremacy, in the Oxford History of England, devotes only slightly more than thirty pages to these eleven years. No full-scale biography of Pelham has appeared since Archdeacon Coxe's enormous two-volume work in 1829, and this, as Macaulay wrote of a similar work, was the product of the author's scissors and paste pot rather than of his pen. Much has been done on phases of the career of Newcastle, but no complete biography has been attempted. It has been suggested that the enormous mass of material in the Newcastle and Hardwicke papers available in the Manuscript Room of the British Museum has scared off possible biographers. This, however, is not the only explanation. At one time I gave serious consideration to devoting several years to a full biography of the Duke; but in the end it was the quality of Newcastle and not the quantity of the material which deterred me.

The neglect of Pelham, however, is more puzzling; and appears to be a case of unsalutary neglect. Possibly the best explanation lies in the Pittolatry (if the term is allowable) of the great majority of both English and American historians writing on this period. Usually Pelham is not even ranked as a John the Baptist to William Pitt, but rather is treated in the same relationship to him as the older interpretation of the Old Regime in France is to the French Revolution and the Unreformed House of Commons to the Reform Bill of 1832.

Of the many books which have been written about Edmund Burke, very few compare in importance with a book which was never written. Burke's “official biography” was first promised by his literary executors four years after his death; it was to be the final volume in their edition of his Works. When contemporaries realised, as they soon did, that the bringing out of the Works was going to take many years, some guessed that the biography might be postponed indefinitely. Sir James Mackintosh late in 1806, having remarked of Burke that “perhaps a fit biographer is more important to his just fame than ever such a person was before to a great man,” added a sharp comment:

Alas! it was exactly the case. When Dr. French Laurence, the most energetic of Burke's literary executors, died in 1809, he had seen through the press four volumes of the octavo edition of the Works but no portion of the promised biography. He had collected biographical materials, which are still among Burke's papers, but nothing was thrown into form. His collaborator and successor, Dr. Walker King, went on collecting materials, and renewed the promise of a biography, but he too put off its execution until his other tasks could be accomplished.

There is a “black legend” about the climate of tropical countries, that lives on in spite of the knowledge geographers, meteorologists, and specialists in tropical medicine have gained over the past half century. With all the recent publicity given to West Africa, most people in the Western world carry a half-conscious image of “The White Man's Grave”. It is usually elaborated with such elements as “primitive tribes”, burning heat, fever-laden swamps, swarming insects, and miles of trackless jungle. Above all, West Africa is thought of as a place where white men cannot work. Only Africans can work there, and Europeans “go out” for brief periods at a considerable risk to their lives. Most of this image is, of course, quite false. Maximum temperatures on the West African coast would be moderate summer heat in the American mid-West. Insects are generally less annoying than they are in the United States. The forest is by no means trackless, but the home of sedentary agricultural people who have for centuries periodically cut it down to burn a place for their farms. Neither physical capacity for work nor immunity to disease is significantly different between Europeans and Africans on racial grounds.

Still, the image was not made up from imagination alone. In its British version, it was based on facts — facts misunderstood in Africa, reported “at home”, and repeated over several generations. Both the facts and the image have a part in shaping West African relations with Great Britain, and both the facts and the image have changed through time in significant ways. The early nineteenth century represents a crucial phase in these changes. British traders had been on the Guinea coast for two centuries before 1783, but the loss of the American War and the thirteen colonies brought a new phase in Anglo-African relations.

In ancient Greece the priests of Apollo asserted that freedom of movement was one of the essentials of human freedom. Many hundreds of years later, toward the end of the eighteenth century, people in the Atlantic world again talked of emigration as one of man's natural rights. It was in northern and western Europe that easier mobility was first achieved within the various states. The next step was to use that mobility to leap local boundaries to reach the lands across the western sea. From the “unsettlement of Europe” (Lewis Mumford's phrase) came the settlement of America.

Americans and those who wished to become Americans felt at home in the geographical realm conceived by Oscar Wilde. “A map of the world that does not include Utopia,” he said, “is not even worth glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. Progress is the realization of Utopias.” It was the belief that Utopias were being realized in America that caused millions to leave Europe for homes overseas.

I

A Scottish observer, Alexander Irvine, inquiring into the causes and effects of emigration from his native land (1802), remarked that there were “few emigrations from despotic countries,” as “their inhabitants bore their chains in tranquility”; “despotism has made them afraid to think.” Nevertheless, though proud of the freedom his countrymen enjoyed, Irvine was critical of their irrational expectations in setting forth to America. There were few individuals or none in the Highlands, he said, “who have not some expectation of being some time great or affluent.

It has often been observed that the agreement underlying British politics today extends beyond the constitution to issues of public policy. To the historic consensus on “the rules of the game” the British have added a stalemate on “the welfare state.” Common sense dictates that electoral demands have shaped the terms of political debate, so that the Conservatives, whose interests obviously are served by lower taxation and less government interference in the affairs of business, have had to bow to the pressures for collectivism built up during World War II and institutionalized by five years of rule under a Labour Government. By the same token the Labour Party has had to re-evaluate its policies of government direction and control of social and economic affairs in the face of decided satisfaction recently with the Conservative operation of the welfare machinery.

Sole emphasis on electioneering, however, can overlook simultaneous and related developments on the ideological plane. For the community this can be observed in the gradual acceptance of Keynesian economics. The fact that government action can achieve and maintain full employment helped broaden and define the area of effective policy for both parties in Britain. More important for our purposes here is the inherent collectivism of British Conservatism — its “Toryness” — which permitted its adaptation to modern welfare policy and helped build the framework for that policy in the in ter-war years. It is my contention that British Conservatism exhibits its doctrinal element through its Tory tradition and that it is this tradition of the organic society, paternalism and authority, that served to interpret the demands of Conservative interests. The Tory tradition helps explain not only the collectivist similarity of the two main parties, it also contributes to an understanding of the endurance of Conservatism.

In the familiar line “Time makes ancient good uncouth”, James Russell Lowell enunciated what can almost stand as a natural law of endowed charities. Over the decades, as social values change and new institutional arrangements develop, obsolescence becomes the inevitable destiny of masses of these benefactions in perpetuity, especially those with specific and rigid trusts. And broadly speaking, the more ancient the good, the more uncouth it will seem in the light of latter-day needs.

The goodly company of Victorian reformers numbered in its varied ranks a small group of individuals whose particular concern was the condition of Britain's charities. Here, they suspected, was a national resource that might be made to contribute more productively to the new age. Early in the century Henry Brougham had professed to see in properly administered endowments the basis for an adequate system of elementary education, and had inspired the exhaustive survey of the nation's nearly thirty thousand charitable trusts. The inquiry lasted for two decades, cost more than £250,000, and filled about forty volumes — the “Domesday Book of Charities.” Parliament took nearly fifteen years to act on the report, and in the end granted to the Charity Commission (the agency that emerged from it all) less ample powers of initiative and supervision than the more eager reformers had demanded. As a general thing, only when the administration of an endowment became so scandalous as to raise questions of breach of trust or when its objects were so antiquated as virtually to immobilize the charity was the state inclined to intervene.

Customarily, the British Labour party has been regarded as the natural product of an advanced industrial society. Given a sufficiently developed economy, like Britain's in the early years of the twentieth century, it was assumed that a socialist working-class party was due to emerge as an increasingly large and effective force. In this democratized version of Marxism, the absence of such a party in the United States had to be explained as the result of the relative immaturity of American industrial society. Labor in the United States was on the same political road as labor in Western Europe, but well behind. Especially did it seem behind labor in Britain, “the country in which modern Capitalism first emerged to full growth — the country which was, therefore, the pioneer of Labour organisation.

That this entire approach needs to be reconsidered is now plain. Recent American political trends fail to support the expectation of a European-style working-class movement in the United States, and this type of party in Western Europe itself appears by this time to have had more of a past than it has a future. Socialism is hardly a thriving faith in advanced western nations, and the old class base for protest movements is being shaken as Western European societies share larger national products, assimilate increasingly their higher paid workers to bourgeois styles of life, decrease the proportion of manualists in the total work force, and provide wider educational opportunities. As Aneurin Bevan said deploringly of the new generation of British working-class voters, whose support Labour had failed to attract in the 1959 general election, “This section of the population has become thoroughly Americanized.”