Scholars have long described the reasons for Anne Boleyn's execution and the nature of her guilt. Recent analyses have suggested that Henry VIII lost interest in his second wife after she miscarried of a male child in 1536 and that his secretary, Thomas Cromwell, wanted to exclude her family from positions of power at court. With royal approval, so it is claimed, Cromwell caused the queen and five men to be executed for the fictitious crimes of adultery and incest. Although some scholars have conceded that she was careless of her honour, most have assumed that Anne was not guilty of these charges. Historians have consequently adopted the cynical conclusion that Cromwell succeeded in orchestrating a wide-ranging conspiracy involving numerous people with the intention of using the legal system to kill six innocent victims in order to satisfy both his own schemes for power and the king's domestic whims.

The efforts of Charles V (1500–58) to consolidate and defend his hereditary possessions gave a powerful boost to the development of public credit in western Europe. To meet a scale of expenditure which surpassed anything seen before, Imperial agents had recourse to an entirely new series of financial devices, necessity providing, as it normally did, the spur to invention. Charles V's servants exploited the facilities of the Antwerp Bourse to encourage the investing public to sink its money into government debt rather than commercial enterprises or speculations in commodities. Additional funds were raised on the credit-worthiness of provincial taxgatherers in the Low Countries. Thanks to the ingenuity of his financial advisers, the emperor survived the dramatic collapse of his position in Germany during the spring of 1552; and he was able shortly after to attempt the recovery of the Imperial bishoprics of Metz, Toul and Verdun, which the Lutheran princes had bartered away in their bid for French support.

Although Maximilien de Béthune, duke of Sully (1559–1641), held many high offices under Henry IV (superintendent of finances, grand voyer, grand master of artillery, among others), he never held the realm's highest military post, constable of France. Sully once had the chance to acquire the position, he tells us in his memoirs, the famous Économies royales, but turned it down. The occasion came when Henry IV offered Sully succession to the office held by the aged duke of Montmorency if Sully and his son would convert to Catholicism (Sully's son Maximilien II was to receive Henry's illegitimate daughter Mlle de Vendôme in marriage). Sully thanked the king but claimed he already held sufficient offices and declined to convert. When pressed further, the duke agreed to consider the offer for a month, at the end of which time he informed the king that his Calvinist convictions forbade a conversion’. Henry ‘showed great regret that you remained so firm in that resolution’, Sully's secretaries wrote, ‘and told you that he saw that you no longer loved him, and that since you were more attached to the Huguenots than to him, he would speak to you no more of it…’ This, Sully wished posterity to believe, was all there was to the episode. Since historians of the duke have credited his version of the affair, his wish prevailed. A close scrutiny of the episode and its aftermath reveals, however, that Sully's account concealed far more than it revealed. Henry's offer was far more than just a great ‘temptation.’ What really happened was that Sully tried to secure the ‘great elevation’ without converting. Henry grew angry when Sully refused to yield to his will and briefly threatened him with disgrace. In the end the king acclaimed his minister's firmness of will and forgot his pique. Sully did not, however, and decided that even if his master refused to reward him sufficiently for his contributions to Henry and France, posterity would learn of them. Thus was born the idea of, and very possibly a first draft of, Sully's famous Économies royales.

Though much has been written about Wyatt's rebellion, it remains controversial. There is, first of all, lively debate about the rebels' motives in rising against Mary Tudor in January and February 1554. It is generally agreed that some rebels wished only to force changes in royal policy, while others sought to replace the queen with her sister Elizabeth and Edward Courtenay, the earl of Devon. But, while D. M. Loades and his adherents contend that the rising was caused almost entirely by opposition to Mary's proposed marriage to Prince Philip of Spain, others argue – to varying degrees – that religion was significant and that many rebels were protestants seeking to thwart a catholic restoration.

The successes and failures of British foreign policy from the end of the American war of independence until the outbreak of the conflict with revolutionary France will be familiar, at least in outline, to many students of late-eighteenth-century history. In 1783 Britain was widely regarded as having been reduced to the status of a second-rank power. British ministers, and especially Pitt the Younger and his first foreign secretary, the marquess of Carmarthen, sought a European alliance to end their country's isolation and vulnerability. The Anglo-French commercial treaty of 1786, the product of French rather than British pressure, was of little help in this respect, as it never developed beyond a limited trade agreement. Negotiations for similar reciprocal commercial concessions with other powers all proved fruitless. In 1787 and 1788, however, political and military arrangements were concluded with the Dutch and the Prussians after Prussian troops – with British encouragement and support – had intervened in the United Provinces to secure the position of the house of Orange and to crush the pro-French ‘Patriot’ party. Fortified by this new British – Prussian – Dutch connexion, or Triple Alliance as it was called, Pitt's government was able to exert considerable influence in Europe and farther afield. In 1788, when the Swedes attacked Russia, which was already at war with the Turks, Denmark, in accordance with its treaty obligations to Russia, invaded Sweden. The British and Prussians threatened the Danes and forced them to withdraw. A few months later, in April 1789, renewed Anglo-Prussian pressure compelled Denmark to maintain a strict neutrality in the continuing Russo-Swedish conflict. In 1790 the British were just as successful in a confrontation with Spain over the Nootka Sound in North America. Only when the government backed down during the dispute with Russia over possession of the Turkish fortress of Ochakov on the Black Sea coast, were the limits of British power fully exposed.

Kevin Sharpe has recently offered a new interpretation of English politics and government in the 1630s in which he seeks to assess the events of the decade as they might have seemed to contemporaries, rather than to use them as a vehicle to explain the events of the Long Parliament and the subsequent outbreak of civil war. Without questioning the validity of such an exercise, it may none the less be observed that the picture of the 1630s which results does raise the question of how the mood of the Long Parliament in its early stages is to be explained. Sharpe characterizes the 1630s as a period of ‘calm and peace’ in which, though tensions and grievances existed, in particular as a consequence of Charles's religious policies, they ‘neither stymied government nor threatened revolt’. If politics and government operated so smoothly during the 1630s, why were such extensive and radical demands for reform in church and state put forward when the Long Parliament met in November 1640? Was the critical attitude of so many members of the political nation in that November merely the product of short-term factors, such as Charles's use of force to impose a new prayer book in Scotland, or even of political opportunism, or was it a reflexion of grievances which had earlier lain beneath the political surface? This paper seeks to investigate the question of how far the attitude of 1640 was rooted in the experiences of the previous decade in one particular aspect: the career of Sir Edward Dering, with special reference to his position with regard to religion and the church. Dering's career is an appropriate object for a study of this kind because it is illuminated by an unusual variety of sources; this makes it possible to compare Dering's political actions with his ideological position as implied by documents which remained private. Apart from the well-known published Long Parliament speeches and a substantial collection of family papers (embracing both correspondence and documents arising from the offices which Dering held) and apart from the evidence of Dering's antiquarian and historical interests, there survive two published works of polemical theology (together with partial drafts for others), and a number of personal memorandum books.

As Oliver Cromwell set out on his controversial reconquest of Ireland in 1649, it was widely believed in England that the Levellers were opposed to all English rule in Ireland, and that these pro-Irish views were responsible for the mutinies and disorders in the commonwealth's armies which delayed the setting out of Cromwell's expedition.

On the afternoon of 7 July 1610, two petitions of grievance, one temporal and one spiritual, were presented to James I. According to the French ambassador, he received them with ‘un assez mauvais visage’ and uncharacteristically few words, although later the king permitted himself the tart comment that the petition of temporal grievances was long enough to be his chamber tapestry. Although James exaggerated its size, politically it was a weighty document, for among its complaints it set out the Commons' view that the new impositions, already bringing in around £70,000 per annum, were illegal. ‘With all humility’, they presented ‘this most just and necessary petition unto your Majesty, that all impositions set without assent of parliament may be quite abolished and taken away.’ To answer the grievance, on 10 July James turned to his lord treasurer, Robert Cecil earl of Salisbury, for a full statement. The speech which he then gave formed the basis for all future defences of the royal power to impose on trade made by crown spokesmen up to 1640. Salisbury described how, early in 1607, his friend and predecessor, Lord Treasurer Dorset, had proposed new impositions to help fill the empty royal coffers. The privy council, after discussion, decided instead to raise money on loan; but in October 1607 renewed rebellion in Ireland rendered the situation more urgent, and by spring 1608 it was apparent that loans could not meet the king's necessities.

Eighteenth-century Jamaica, the ‘devil of a country’ to which Dr Alexander Johnston referred, seems an unlikely candidate, at the historian's first glance, for consternation. Today's visitor would find that the ‘Garden Parish’, St Ann's, truly exudes everything warm and wonderful associated with tropical stereotypes. Yet two hundred years ago Dr Alexander Johnston, ‘Practitioner of Physick and Chiurgery’ rarely observed this very paradise, the foothills of coastal St Ann's, in a positive light. To this particular Scot, the bright reds and greens clearly took second place to the shabby problems of daily life in the Caribbean.

This paper is a study of the relationship between economic culture and trade union economic subculture during the years in which both the Victorian trade union movement and the classical economists' view of it reached their maturity. This period represented a turning point in the history of the movement, which achieved a full institutionalization and legitimation. The Webbs, and a historiographic tradition since them, maintained that these results were obtained at the price of a complete submission to the ideological hegemony of the bourgeoisie. In the 1960s R. V. Clements challenged this view and argued that such a subordination had never taken place, and that trade unionists had managed to keep their independent views – especially at the level of economic thought. Recent discussions have been content to stress the sound and ‘aseptic’ pragmatism of the working men, and the abstruse dogmatism of the economists. A footnote quoting Clements' article seems to be all that readers can reasonably ask for. The possibility of an alternative interpretation – namely, that classical economics could actually be useful to trade union strategies and interests – has not yet been sufficiently considered. The aim of this paper is to argue that there is much evidence in support of such an interpretation.

On 21 October 1639 and 29 May 1652 the English Channel off the Downs and Dover was the scene of two highly significant events. The first of these was the crushing defeat inflicted on a Spanish armada by a Dutch fleet under the command of Maerten Harpertszoon Tromp while an English squadron commanded by Sir John Pennington watched from a distance and did nothing. On the second of the two dates Tromp and the English admiral Robert Blake clashed in the armed encounter off Dover which sparked off the first Anglo-Dutch War.

Ours is the age of the Jacobite restoration – not in dynastic terms, but in historical scholarship. Parliamentary Jacobitism in the period after 1710 has particularly attracted recent attention. While disagreement persists among historians as to the extent and seriousness of tory involvement with the Jacobite cause, few would deny that the issue is significant. By contrast, the influence of Jacobitism on politics under William III has been almost entirely neglected. Beyond the shadowy conspiracies that have long fascinated researchers, little is known of the role of Jacobite sentiment in the political life of England between 1688 and 1702. Not much has been added to Keith Feiling's sixty-year old assessment of the Jacobites as ‘that right wing of Toryism, in which the whole pre-Revolutionary sentiment survived’.

For many years a consensus among historians of the Edwardian age drew a contrast between the essentially stable, liberal society of the late Victorian years, when discussion, compromise and orderly behaviour were the norm, and an Edwardian society in which tacit conventions governing the conduct of those involved in social and political movements began to be rejected – by Pankhurst feminists, Ulster Unionists, trade union militants and syndicalists. This period of crisis was so described in 1935 by Edward Dangerfield in the The strange death of liberal England, a brilliantly evocative title which, despite the lack of precision contained in the argument presented in his book, exercised an enduring influence on subsequent interpretations of British social and political history before 1914. G. D. H. Cole and Raymond Postgate reinforced this interpretation of a society in crisis, and not until Dr Henry Pelling's Politics and society in late Victorian Britain appeared in 1968 was the notion firmly rejected. There he denied that the convergence of the Irish conflict over home rule, the violence of the militant suffragettes, and unprecedented labour unrest signified either connexions or a common fundamental cause. The re-printing of Dangerfield's book in 1980 (and Pelling's in 1979) has been followed by renewed interest in these competitive hypotheses, and has led historians to re-examine the Edwardian age.

On 26 July 1647 Westminster, in the grip of plague and political crisis, exploded with rioting. With the connivance of leading Presbyterian politicians in parliament and the City, a throng of apprentices and demobilized soldiers besieged the two Houses, coercing the imprisoned members to accede to their demands. Many of the rioters had subscribed to an outlawed ‘Solemn Engagement’, calling for the restoration of the king: they demanded the reversal of parliament's declaration against this Engagement, and the return of the City's militia forces to its own strongly ‘Presbyterian’ Militia Committee. As the main body of rioters swarmed into the Court of Requests, through the Painted Chamber and assailed the doors of the house of lords, another smaller party led by one Brace, a grocer, ran down the Water Lane leading from the house to the river, to block this means of escape. Reminded by one of the rioters that ‘not at anie hand [was] this house to be forced’ Brace retorted ‘what they did, they were aduised by a Member of the house of Comons’.6 ‘Keepe them in, keepe them in thises three daies’, shouted their ringleader, the reformado captain, William Musgrave, ‘and if they will not grant your desires, cutt their throates’ ‘Through the barred doors of the Lords’ chamber came cries of ‘Traytors, put them out, hang their guts about their necks and many other like words’.

Blackstone's Commentaries have traditionally evoked two responses. On the one hand, from Bentham on, the work has been seen as confused and contradictory, based on theoretical foundations which were either irrelevant to his task, or ignored in practice in the book. On the other hand, although his achievement and in particular his theorising have been criticised, the Commentaries have also been seen as the first attempt to systematise English law and to ground it on solid principles, thereby creating a new ‘science of English law’. Both Lord Mansfield and Bentham himself praised Blackstone on this score, while Sir William Jones enthused that ‘his Commentaries are the most correct and beautiful outline that was ever exhibited of any human science’ Modern writers have agreed that Blackstone made a significant contribution to the development of law as a science.

Modern history, introduced to Oxford in the 1850s, was a subject that was hardly ‘modern’. The governing bodies of the university, as well as its teachers, intended history to strengthen and perpetuate the traditional values of liberal education. Beginning with the fall of Rome and concluding in the eighteenth century, history was not an innovative or experimental study of recent, let alone contemporary, issues and events. Instead, the study of history began and continued as an epic illustration of the qualities required of England's governing elite. Within a rapidly changing society that found the future more compelling than the past, modern history organized history, politics, economics and law as testaments to the enduring qualities of individual character and national institutions. All the liberal disciplines at Oxford, as well as those at Cambridge and subsequently at the new civic universities, reflected a national consensus about moral progress and social order which was reinforced by the content of those disciplines. The general frame of mind and expectations could not be attributed uniquely to Oxford. But there can be little doubt about the powerful influence Oxford exercized upon those graduates who left the university to assume careers of considerable national importance. It may be argued that among the various disciplines, none made so earnest and sustained an attempt to produce the right kind of men, fit for any undertaking, as did the Honours School in Modern History.

When Adam Smith set out to re-shape the dominant economic policies and assumptions of his time, he knew success in pressing for ‘free trade’ would depend on his ability to imprint his views on the minds of contemporary statesmen and legislators. But he was never confident that this operation might take place during his lifetime. In the Wealth of Nations, he declared that to expect freedom of trade to be accepted entirely in Great Britain was ‘as absurd as to expect that an Oceana or Utopia should ever be established in it’, and this was by no means an offhand remark. Much of the massive book was coloured by Smith's awareness that liberal economic doctrines, whatever their considerable intellectual merits, ran far ahead of actual political and social attitudes in eighteenth-century Europe. In the first half of the nineteenth century, a variety of political and economic developments of course refuted Smith's view that ‘free trade’ was an unattainable ideal. But the historical verification of his economic thinking was a slow, difficult, and limited process.

Although often differing dramatically in their methodologies and conclusions, most studies of the slave societies of the American South either draw to a close by the middle years of the eighteenth century or begin their story only in the 1820s and 1830s. Moreover, whilst some scholars have differentiated between particular patterns of black behaviour, as for example between African- and country-born slaves, field hands and domestic slaves, until quite recently comparatively little interest has been shown in delineating the ways in which black women perceived and responded to their status and condition.

The historiography of leisure has made considerable advances since the pioneering years of the early 1970s. Research into Victorian leisure has shown that some of the ruling elite attempted to fashion the life-style of working people in order to create a disciplined and reliable labour force which suited the needs of a maturing industrial and urban society, although it must be added that sections of the British public remained immune to attempts at moral reform and improvement. Professional labour leaders were also eager to control and regulate the amusements of the poor. According to trade union bosses like John Doherty, only a sober, industrious and thrifty working class could hope to achieve progressive reforms and some form of political and economic emancipation: workers who were intemperate would apparently stifle the opportunities and aspirations of the emerging Labour movement. Nowhere is this more true than in the Labour leadership's perception of and policy towards working-class drinking.

There is one major gap in the historiography of British strategic policy during the interwar years. Historians have not examined that policy of the 1920s as if it was a coherent topic in its own right. Although writers like Brian Bond, James Neidpath, Stephen Roskill and Malcolm Smith have elucidated aspects of that matter, such as the development of the Singapore base or of the policies of the fighting services, they have still treated each such issue and department in isolation from the rest. Even those scholars like Correlli Barnett and N. H. Gibbs who have sought to examine strategic policy in the interwar years as a whole, have primarily seen the strategic decisions of the 1920s not as an autonomous historical subject but rather as a prelude to Britain's position in the 1930s. Consequently, historians have made these decisions seem inexplicable and unconnected, by removing them from the context of their time and of strategic policy. This approach has led writers to misconstrue the evolution of strategic policy during the 1920s. They have done so because of their assumptions about that issue. They have not recognized these assumptions as being such, but have treated them instead as a bedrock of self-evident fact. Yet when these assumptions are examined, they can be demonstrated to be false.