This is the third in a series of studies dealing with the history of the proxy system in the House of Lords. The first, after tracing the origin of proxies to the Roman law of agency, dealt with the emergence and spread of representation by proctors in the ecclesiastical and political assemblies of medieval England. The second study demonstrated how the proxy system was perfected in the upper house during the reign of Henry VIII and how the Crown benefited from that system. The ensuing article concerns proctorial representation during the crucial years of the Edwardian Reformation. Because of the brief period under consideration — only six years — it seemed best to cast the study in an analytical rather than a chronological framework. The first section deals with the general characteristics of proctorial representation in mid-Tudor times; the second and third sections cover the spiritual and temporal lords, respectively; and the fourth section treats the relationship between the proxy system and conciliar government.

I

Knowledge of the proxy system in the mid-sixteenth-century House of Lords remains somewhat fragmentary and limited in scope. A satisfactory treatment of the subject does not exist. Constitutional and legal historians have paid little attention to proxies and less to the procedure governing their use in the upper house. As one might expect, Bishop Stubbs dealt with proxies in medieval Parliaments and correctly associated them with parliamentary privileges, but at the same time he concluded that “its history has not yet been minutely traced.

King Henry I “created men,” the novi homines of the chronicles. He also sustained, supported, and rewarded the “old men,” those men, or their descendants, who had held substantial estates in Normandy or in England prior to 1100. The “old men” who remained prominent in the reign of Henry I, however, were those willing to accept his authority, to lay down anarchical broadswords and seek peace through their loyalty to a nascent idea of the Crown, an Anglo-Norman regnum personified in the King. Loyalty was the stern arbiter, and Henry's feudal justice could be deaf to the entreaties of both family members and friends. While military organization was essential to peace and lawful order in Anglo-Norman society, the Conquest was past and soldierly virtue alone was not sufficient; Henry's kingly task was to mold the energies of his barons into administrative and judicial talents, and to cast those talents into a coherent framework of government. The paternal inheritance, as he viewed it, was an Anglo-Norman polity, its ruling class a nobility with cross-channel relationships in estates and blood ties. Whether or not the link with Normandy was deleterious, it was real to the King and his contemporaries, at the heart of the problems of the reign.

Henry drew upon his nobility for the work of governing, but “new men” also rose to prominence. The degree of attention given to the “new men” has created a congregate conception for assessments of the reign.

“A landmark in the historical landscape” — The Economist; “A major contribution … an impressive achievement, which must in future put all historians in his debt” — The Listener; “A remarkable achievement … an outstanding study of a very real and great value” — History; “A mammoth and marvellous book” — American Historical Review; “Immense value” — English Historical Review; “A model” — Journal of Economic History; “A major historical contribution … a magisterial and seminal work” — Journal of Modern History; “A brilliant and original contribution” — New York Review of Books; “Social history at its absolute best” — Past and Present.

Such was the chorus of critical encomium that greeted the publication of Lawrence Stone's Crisis of the Aristocracy, 1558-1641. Despite the chorus Stone could hardly have helped being disappointed at the actual reviews. One or two were almost as fatuous as they were brief. Others, sensible within their limits, were still too short. This seems to have been the fault of editors, so intimidated by the pejorative sense of the term “discrimination” that they refuse to discriminate between a work worth more than twenty pages and one worth less than twenty words, performing their editorial duties in the matter of book reviews with a sort of timorous and lunatic egalitarianism. Moreover, in considering Stone's work, many of the reviewers hastily plunged into what has come to be called “the gentry controversy” or “the storm over the gentry,” and some became almost totally immersed in it.

Men and women who wish to uphold the interests of the textile trade should “make fashion follow the trade, and not trade the fashion,” declared Daniel Defoe in 1705. But long before this time the East India Company had discovered that the exploitation of fashion for profit is a more artful business than a mere dictatorship exercised by the “trade.” After 1660 the Company's policy regarding the import of cotton textiles was particularly concerned to influence the type and design of goods produced in India to make them serve current English needs and trends in taste. Striking success was achieved by the end of the century, but thereafter the flow of cotton manufactures was impeded by serious difficulties, chiefly the restrictions imposed on the trade by prohibition acts in 1701 and 1721, together with the competitive development of domestic calico-printing.

The English had of course been familiar with cotton for several centuries before 1660, although the acquaintance brought little opportunity to build up technological skill in the processing of pure cotton goods from the raw state to the finished piece. Imports had included raw “cotton-wool” from the Levant for use in stuffing and quilting and fustians of European manufacture containing cotton. But probably it was not until the sixteenth century that a cotton weft was used in the production of domestic fustians, and not until the seventeenth that cotton was brought into linen and smallwares manufacturing. The early history of pure cotton fabrics in England is debatable ground, partly because of confusing terminology; so-called “cottons,” for instance, were produced in England before 1660, but the term is descriptive of the finishing process, or “cottoning,” rather than of content.

Looking back on his tenure as First Lord of the Admiralty from 1771 to 1782, Lord Sandwich considered that one of his most important accomplishments was the introduction into the royal dockyards of task work for shipwrights — “a matter very little known in the world, but the only material improvement … which will enable us to build and repair a much larger number of ships.” Task work had long been universal in private shipyards, and its use in the navy's own yards was discussed at intervals for eighty years at least before its adoption in 1775. But opposition to the method — from the Navy Board and the shipwrights and their officers — was entrenched. Arguments against it, having once prevailed, afterwards were seemingly invincible, their mere invocation being enough to stop further consideration. The obstacles after so long a time might have been insuperable to one less confident and determined than Sandwich. Indeed, the innovation when it was made produced a strike of shipwrights which forced its partial abandonment before the scheme had properly been tried.

Task workers, instead of being employed for a fixed daily wage with an additional allowance for overtime, were paid according to the amount of work actually performed, the ship itself being divided into parts, for each of which an over-all labor price was established and apportioned equally among the men. The advantages of the method appear on the face of it overwhelming. The shipwrights were encouraged to work steadily and rapidly in order to increase their earnings, which thus were greater than those of the day workers.

George Yule's “Independents and Revolutionaries” suggests that in many respects he and I are not so far apart. We agree that a “rigid two-party view” of Interregnum politics is a mistake, that not all members of the Rump were political Independents, that “Independent” was not commonly used as a political term after 1648, and that the clue to the events of 1648-49, the climax of the Puritan Revolution, lies in the existence of a group of genuine radicals who can and ought to be identified. He also seems to agree in one place that the criticisms of his statistical methods in The Independents in the English Civil War which I advanced in “The Independents Reconsidered” are justified, though in another he argues that the table in The Independents enables the reader to surmount these difficulties. This being so, if a technical dispute over methodology was all that remained between us, his latest article might well be left unchallenged. It contains, however, a number of assumptions about seventeenth-century religion and politics which are either unfounded or need serious qualification, and on which a few further comments are necessary.

First, as to method. It is true that the table referred to enables the reader to obtain Yule's estimates of the total numbers in various groups, such as (a) “Fled to Army, 1647,” (b) purged, 1648, and (c) Rumper, and of how these break down by social position and religious affiliation. But nowhere is there any entry for all of Yule's allegedly Independent M.P.s and of the breakdown for these, nor is there any way of obtaining it from the table.

In recent years the received picture of contemporary English attitudes to the American Civil War has been considerably modified. It has been demonstrated that there were a great many more currents of feeling, cutting across both party and class lines, than the traditional version, sowed by pro-Northern propagandists, allowed. Liberals, Conservatives, and intellectuals were all divided among themselves to some degree. If there was a good deal more pro-Federal sympathy among the English ruling class than was once thought, there was more pro-Southern sympathy among the middle and working classes, at least before 1863. At the same time, the British Government was more sincere in its stance of neutrality than was formerly suggested. The purpose of this article is to examine responses to the Civil War in Bradford, a West Riding industrial town where opinions were strongly influenced by newspapers, chapels, and Radical politicians — in other words, the kind of town where the Federal cause could expect to obtain solid support.

II

During the first half of the nineteenth century, Bradford's population had grown from thirteen thousand to over 100,000. By 1861 Bradford was the ninth largest town in the country. Now almost the whole of Britain's worsted industry was concentrated in an area of the West Riding of Yorkshire around Leeds, Bradford, Halifax, and Huddersfield. Within this area Bradford had replaced Halifax as “the principal seat and emporium of the worsted manufacture.” The town was predominantly nonconformist in religion and Radical in politics; in fact the two were closely linked.

Who indeed can say, in answer to Sir Thomas Browne's searching question, “whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable men forgot”? Even though the making of books promises to leave no person “forgot,” the question still abides. More than that, it accents a paradox: under the spell of behavioral science the historian wrestles with vast impersonal forces and reduces personalities to a footnote, yet biography flourishes as never before. Whether the harvest reflects academic search for topics, popular interest, or plain conviction that first and last history is about people, their thoughts, their deeds, and their influence, or, for that matter, all three, some aspiring Ph.D. may decide. Here it is enough to consider another facet of Sir Thomas's inquiry. Puzzling in itself, that question becomes even more troubling when the historian is confronted with a man whose legacy does not put him in the calendar of great men, yet whose career warrants far more attention than that given to paltry politicians, incompetent generals, and notorious whores, and indeed may take precedence over that of more highly rated contemporaries in probing the intellectual milieu. James Anderson is such a man.

The notice of his death on October 15, 1808, means little except to the initiate: “At Westham, Essex, James Anderson, LL.D of Mounie in the county of Aberdeen. He was the author of several works on Agriculture, Political Economy, and other subjects of general interest.” So concise a notice scarcely did justice to its subject, and before long magazines repaired the defect, one adding a “faithful portrait of the learned and ingenious Dr. Anderson.”

The character of public opinion concerning contemporary foreign problems, despite abundant data and sophisticated analyses, is sometimes elusive; it is of course more tenuous respecting issues of an earlier era when polling techniques were unknown. Studies of mid-Victorian public opinion and foreign policy by B. Kingsley Martin on the Crimean War and Miriam B. Urban on the Italian War of Unification have by necessity equated the attitudes of the press, Parliament, and public addresses with public sentiment. They often assume that, under circumstances such as Russophobia and sympathy for national liberty, certain pin pricks of events elicit spontaneous and genuine expressions of public opinion. To be sure, this assumption has some validity. But owing to the paucity of documentary evidence, propaganda has received altogether too little attention.

The writings of Polish agents for 1863 provide a basis for illuminating an instance of propaganda in the mechanics of mid-Victorian public sentiment. Yet J. H. Harley and K. S. Pasieka, while charting the course of English opinion in 1863, have almost completely ignored propaganda, while Henryk Wereszycki has treated it cursorily. This essay, consequently, aims to draw back the curtains a bit, go backstage, and observe how actors received suggestions, inducements, and sometimes even scripts to perform their roles.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, there was a widespread effort to reassess Victorian values so that they might be retained, but in a more viable form. The new democracy was the catalyst in this introspective process which affected political thought most of all. Before the Great War the anomalous behavior of the new citizen, in the streets and at the polls, compelled thoughtful attention to political problems in England. In reaction to the unreasonable and unpredictable behavior of the new democracy, a new democratic liberalism and a new elitism came into being. New liberalism, in trying to qualify rationalist assumptions and transform the negative program of nineteenth-century liberalism, largely succeeded. New elitism, like old elitism, in concluding that the great majority were fit only to be governed, largely failed. But the elitist critique of mass urban democracy was as compelling to many people as the new liberal's defense. While liberalism has received critical comment, discussions of elitism have been limited to Fabian methodology or subordinated to analyses of Utopian programs. Yet the most formidable elitist argument came from the infant science of social psychology, developed concurrently by William McDougall, a physiologist, and Wilfred Trotter, a surgeon and neurologist. In prewar Britain, social psychology was the basis for a political critique of democracy presented as a scientific analysis of behavior.

This paper deals with the validity of social psychology as a reading of history which concluded in political elitism. The accuracy and significance of the social psychologists' explanation of behavior are assessed solely in terms of its political implications as a plea for government by an Elect of social scientists, a plea hidden within a purportedly scientific account of social evolution.

Siam's struggle for survival against imperialism reached its nadir in the crisis of 1893. The beginning of its emergence from danger is generally marked by the Anglo-French guarantee of the integrity of the Menam basin in 1896. A number of questions remain unanswered regarding these critical three years. What was the Siamese role in the precipitation of the crisis and the formulation of the Menam guarantee? Was there a meaningful change in Great Power policy which relieved Siam from its extreme danger and brought it apparent safety? British policy lay very much at the crux of Siam's survival. This study concentrates on the impact of British diplomacy and, particularly, on the conduct of the two principal British Foreign Secretaries, Lord Salisbury and Lord Rosebery, during the crisis and the creation of the Menam guarantee. British endeavors to limit French expansion at Siam's expense significantly reveal the likenesses and differences between the diplomacy of imperialism of Lord Salisbury's Conservative Governments and the policies of the Liberal regimes of W. E. Gladstone and Rosebery.

Lord Salisbury fretted that the diplomatic need for secrecy regarding his maneuvers to achieve the Menam guarantee deprived him of acclaim for a strategic victory over France. “In Siam,” from 1893 to 1895, he wrote privately, “we found France in full process of absorbing the country.” France had taken much territory by a successful war in 1893, and “Rosebery had been unable to prevent her.” Because Britain had “no treaty rights whatever to interfere in behalf of Siam,” it would have been impossible to have “induced the English nation to go to war” over Siamese affairs.

The British General Election of May 1929 was a disaster for Stanley Baldwin's Government. The Conservatives lost 155 seats in all and in consequence became the second largest party in the House of Commons for the first time since the General Election of December 1910. The formation of a Labour Government appeared to be so unavoidable that the Prime Minister did not even wait to meet Parliament but resigned office at once, advising King George V to send for Ramsay MacDonald.

In attempting to explain this Conservative failure, historians have tended to stress the persistence of the unemployment problem and the alleged folly of Baldwin in choosing “Safety First” as his campaign slogan. Even a cursory examination of the Government's record during 1927 and 1928, however, lends support to the suspicion that a succession of controversial decisions in the field of foreign affairs may also have contributed, albeit marginally, to the magnitude of the Conservative failure in 1929. Certainly more than one well-wisher thought it necessary to warn the Conservative cabinet that its conduct of foreign policy — and especially those aspects relating to international disarmament negotiations — might have significant electoral implications. For example, on October 12, 1928, the British Ambassador in Paris, Sir William Tyrrell, wrote to the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, Lord Cushendun:

It has been noticed by various observers that in the election campaign of 1918, which focused on the issue of “reparations” versus “indemnities,” the debate was dominated not by discussions of the practical issues of international relations, national interests, or economic possibilities, but rather by abstract moral arguments about “justice” — a “just peace” and a “just punishment” for Germany. It has not been noticed, however, that these arguments about justice were very largely carried over into international politics from the sphere of domestic criminal law, to such an extent that positions expressed vis-à-vis the Prison Acts of 1908 foreshadowed the positions expressed in foreign affairs in 1918.

When, only three days after the Armistice, a parliamentary election was announced for December 14, there was little expectation that the terms of the treaty would be part of the electoral battle. It quickly became apparent, however, that despite the pre-Armistice agreement limiting German responsibility to reparations for damage done to Belgium and to the civilian population of Allied countries, there was a widespread public desire to force Germany to pay an indemnity for the entire cost of the war. Although Labour and the Asquithian Liberals refused to abandon their commitment to “reparations but no indemnity,” the Coalition leadership succumbed, though hesitantly, to popular pressure. Despite the private convictions of both David Lloyd George and Bonar Law that an indemnity would be unwise and harmful, the Coalition committed itself, before the campaign closed, to demanding the “entire cost of the War.”

A confident and victorious David Lloyd George entered Central Hall, Westminster, on the morning of November 16, 1918. Five days earlier the Germans had agreed to an Armistice, and the “Welsh Wizard” was acclaimed by his countrymen as the architect of victory. His political coalition, formed in the dark days of December 1916, had successfully prosecuted the war; now he called together political elements of that coalition to continue in peace. There were Conservatives, Liberals, a few Labour men, and others who agreed that a peacetime coalition was best for Britain and that Lloyd George should continue as its leader. These men gathered to hear the Prime Minister announce an election for the second week of December. It was his intention, he told them, to present a unified front to the nation. He wanted the best men of each party on his side.

But the Prime Minister erred, for he found a party of veterans in the election.