The collaboration of Richardson and Sayles in the investigation of early English parliamentary history has long been justly celebrated. A full generation has passed since the publication of the first of those studies of theirs which have done so much to widen and deepen knowledge about medieval parliaments and have made their names, usually coupled, household words with students of medieval English constitutional history. The authors were influenced, no doubt, by some earlier historians, and the statement that they built on foundations laid by Maitland and McIlwain is not incorrect. In the volume, however, which is here under special consideration, The Governance of Mediaeval England from the Conquest to Magna Carta, they do not undertake, qua historians as distinguished from historical critics, to come this side of the reign of King John, when parliaments had not as yet assumed their later form and functions.

I

Why, it seems not inappropriate to ask, was this latest joint product of their historical activities written; to what class or classes of readers was it particularly addressed? It was evidently not designed as a manual of the type that students of English constitutional history have long been familiar with; for one thing, its chronological scope is limited to about two centuries, from c. 1000 to 1215; and much of the book would be unintelligible to beginning students of the subject. An apologia, which serves as a Preface, and a preliminary chapter suggest answers to the questions that have just been asked.

Tudor statesmen, in their statutes and debates, and Tudor jurists, in reports and treatises, recorded their awareness of an antithesis between regal power and political law. Political action and juridical argument made them increasingly sensitive to an oppugnancy between executive authority and constitutional control. Medieval men of law, too, had noted this inconsonance in England's polity. Sir John Fortescue, while Henry VI's Chancellorin-exile in 1468, faced the dilemma; but he resolved it only verbally. He wrote: “regal power is restrained by political law.” Then he added, “such is the law of the Kingdom” of England. So facile a formula as Fortescue's might make nice theory, yet it was one easier to prescribe than to apply to a live monarch.

The pragmatic Tudors, however, succeeded in surmounting the antithesis between political law and regal power, paradoxically, by augmenting both. To solve immediate political crises and to enhance the effectiveness of government, Privy Councilors and parliamentarians passed act after act that increased the King's prerogatives. At the same time, moreover, these very statutes afforced, by implication, the principles of political, or public, law. Kings and queens, judges and councilors, Lords and Commons during the sixteenth century formulated a concept of the rule of law and made it transcendant. By the 1590's they had accorded the rule of law statutory, judicial, and regal recognition. For the Tudor time-being, this principle served to balance regal power and political law and to give to this antinomy a congruity.

It seems impossible to begin an article these days without invoking, either as saint or devil, the shade of Sir Lewis Namier. Those who inhabit regions remote from the classic years around 1760 are absolved from acquiring more than a general understanding of the reversionary interest, the Court and Treasury party, and the rest of the Namierite stock in trade. Yet the merits and limitations of the methodology must concern and fascinate scholars who reassess the traditional interpretations of other periods of English history. They should not, as the Master of Peterhouse has warned, swallow the Namier method whole. But used with due caution, it may offer valuable insights for other centuries besides the eighteenth. The rigorous compilation and analysis of biographical data, the penetration of ideological smokescreens to the deeper motives behind them, the ruthless discarding of outworn shibboleths like “party,” the careful use of sociological criteria: at their best the Namierites have much to offer historians of other periods. Sir John Neale has applied the method, with modifications, to the reign of Elizabeth I, Norman Gash has carried it into the age of Peel, while the authentic members of the school proceed with their task of cleaning up the eighteenth century.

The winds of Namierite change have begun to blow only fitfully, however, in the seventeenth century. One reason for this, perhaps, is that historians of the Stuart period have generally been absorbed in destroying each other on the gentry battlefield, or attempting in more constructive ways to solve the politico-economic problems of the “Century of Revolution”; there has been less effort applied to the details of parliamentary affairs.

The purpose of this paper is not to reconsider Sir Lewis Namier either as a person or as a historian. Since his death in 1960 there has been a spate of critiques, ranging from sound discussions of his historical method appearing in this and in two sister journals to the treatment by a Hindu journalist of Namier and other contemporary British historians which appeared in the New Yorker magazine under a title provided by the epigraph to Sir Lewis's most famous work. Whether his work should properly be interpreted in terms of his “continental conservatism” as Sir Edward Carr suggests, or whether Namier's influence on British historiography on balance has been pernicious (as one L.S.E. don believes), are not questions with which this discussion will be concerned. Its function is much narrower; to examine a recent contribution to these pages, the article by Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr., entitled “Sir Lewis Namier Considered.”

In this essay Mansfield purports to explain just how Namier interpreted the early years of George III and exactly what his line of argument was in reaching his conclusions. Inevitably the question is raised: “Was there actual danger of tyranny in the political philosophy of the youthful George III?” This is an important question to which a number of distinguished historians have turned their attention; but Mansfield does not use the methods of the historian — whether sympathetic to Namier like Richard Pares, or admittedly hostile like the Master of Peterhouse. Mansfield is not a historian but a political scientist, and he writes that he is not proposing to question Namier's investigations of political facts.

Walcott's critique raises three general issues: whether Sir Lewis Namier thought that the foremost task of an historian is the destruction of legends; whether he tried to write the whole truth about the eighteenth century; and whether anyone can properly be designated a professional historian or professional political scientist. Some of Walcott's particular criticisms can be answered in the discussion of these three issues.

The first issue is whether Namier thought that the foremost task of an historian is the destruction of legends. At the beginning of his critique, Walcott doubts it, but does not deny it. Yet at the end of his critique, he summarizes “what Namier did do” as the removal of certain misconceptions about eighteenth-century politics; these misconceptions Namier called “legends,” according to Walcott. The misconceptions consist in analyzing eighteenth century politics in nineteenth-century terms, but they are not confined to nineteenth-century historians. They are held by twentieth-century historians as well, in fact, by all historians of the ante-Namier period, as Walcott calls it. Namier shows how much contempt he has for these historians and their legends in a sentence which cannot be considered innocuous. Namier says: “… I hardly remember having come across any contemporary materials, or any book reproducing such materials, which did not contribute something to my information.” Since “contemporary” means “eighteenth-century” here, Namier says by implication that no later ante-Namier historian has contributed to his information, unless he has reproduced eighteenth-century materials.

The Whig ministries of 1830-34 were faced with problems in regard to foreign affairs and parliamentary reform that were almost certain to reveal differences of philosophy within the Cabinets, yet it was on the Irish issues, more particularly that of the Episcopal Reformed Church of Ireland, that the ministries divided and broke. It is generally known that questions concerning the revenues of the Irish Church drove Stanley, the future Conservative Prime Minister, out of the Whig Party, enabled the House of Lords to rally after the Reform Bill and block measures passed by the Commons, and gave William IV an opportunity to dismiss a ministry which still retained the confidence of the lower house and replace it by a Government of his own choice. There is less knowledge, however, of the specific issues behind these events, and of the peculiarities of the Irish Church which hampered an easy solution of its problems. A study of both will serve to illuminate the conflict of parties and of personalities in the first five years of the reform age.

From the utilitarian point of view, the temporalities of the Church were absurdly large. Containing only 852,064 members — less than there were in the see of Durham alone — it had a total of twenty-two bishops, including four archbishops. Many holders of benefices had no religious duties, nor, indeed, even a church in which to perform the one service required by their appointment; where parish duties were necessary, they were frequently discharged by a curate who received only a small fraction of the income of the incumbent.

Joseph Chamberlain, British Colonial Secretary from 1895 to 1903 in the Salisbury administration, remains a subject of controversy for historians largely because of his role in the Jameson Raid. Just as his contemporary protagonists and antagonists, known as Unionists and pro-Boers, marshalled official and unofficial documents to support their cases, so have historians of recent times. There is a difference, however, between the historians writing in Chamberlain's era and those whose work is of recent date. At the turn of the century historians and polemicists had to depend upon official Blue Books and popular sources, while recent historians have had access to more extensive forms of evidence, such as personal letters and memoirs, edited and unedited diaries, and unexpurgated governmental records. Access to original sources, although it has not resolved differences in interpretation, has enabled Jean van der Poel to construct a good case for Joseph Chamberlain's complicity in the Jameson Raid. Van der Poel defines complicity as Chamberlain's foreknowledge of, failure to stop, and alleged advice in favor of the Johannesburg uprising and the Rhodes-Jameson plan, which she argues were integral parts of the same master scheme that set off the Raid. Similarly, historians of the earlier period, although precluded by lack of evidence from asking all of Van der Poel's questions and although not inclined to link the Raid and uprising into a single master plan, did, with few exceptions, address themselves to the question of Chamberlain's responsibility as an accomplice of the Raid and uprising.