I have written a good deal about diplomacy during the War of the Austrian Succession, in defiance of Carlyle, who calls it “an unintelligible, huge, English-and-Foreign Delirium … a universal rookery of Diplomatists, whose loud cackle and cawing is now as if gone mad to us; their work wholly fallen putrescent and avoidable, dead to all creatures.” But I have never found occasion to say all that I wanted to say about a curious and little known episode that occurred just about the close of the war. Some interesting letters about Legge's mission to Berlin were printed in the first of Archdeacon Coxe's massive volumes on The Administration of Henry Pelham. But these letters serve to whet rather than to satisfy the enquirer's appetite, and there is a great deal more material in the Record Office and in the Newcastle Papers. Also it is possible in the present day to find in the sixth volume of Frederick's Politische Correspondenz ample accounts of the mission from the Prussian point of view. As I have had occasion to survey all this evidence, it occurred to me that I might fill an obvious gap in my studies of the diplomacy of the period by taking Legge's mission as the subject of my Presidential Address, and by endeavouring to bring out is connection with the general history of Europe and especially with the contemporary negotitations at Aix-la-chappelle.

The historian Mariana, writing at the end of the sixteenth century, summed up the achievements of Alfonso X in the epigrammatic phrase Dumque cœlum considerat, observatque astra, terram amisit, and this conception of the king as a scholar incompetent to govern is, on the whole, still very generally accepted. More than a century later, the Marquis of Mondéjar, in his Memorias Históricas del Rey Don Alonso el Sabio, posthumously published in 1777, attempted a vindication of the king. His work is a narrative of the political history of the reign, based on the Crónica de Alfonso Décimo, a late and unreliable source, but the only narrative account of the reign that is of any length. Mondéjar was at pains to point out the contradictions and errors of the Crónica, and, wherever possible, to clear the king's reputation from its imputations. Since the beginning of the nineteenth century interest in Alfonso X has steadily increased. The publication of the text of his legal codes, and of collections of documents containing materials for this period, and the gathering together of records in the Archivo Histórico Nacional at Madrid have much facilitated the task of investigation. Some good work has recently been done on certain aspects of the subject. German and Spanish scholars have studied Alfonso's relations with Germany and Italy, arising out of his candidature for the Imperial crown; his relations with France have been elucidated, and much critical work has been carried out on his literary achievements. The publication of historical material, the specialized research of recent years, above all the advance in historical method and criticism, and the change in the fashion of historical writing which have taken place since Mondéjar's time have combined to make his work antiquated.

My interest in the forfeitures of 1388 was first roused by an examination of the printed inventories of the reign of Richard II, undertaken in the hope of finding references to pictures painted for the king. The examination was necessarily brief, as there is little in print except Gloucester's great inventory of 1397, a few wills, some short lists in the calendars of Close Rolls and the inventories, chiefly of forfeitures, published in Palgrave's Kalendars and Inventories of the Treasury. Palgrave naturally suggested a search in the Record Office, and I soon became aware of a considerable body of material there, relating to the forfeitures of 1388. Though none of it turned out to be directly useful for my original enquiry, it seemed to have sufficient historical interest to deserve discussion.

Orford is an East Anglian town or village, not widely known, and apt to be confounded in the post with famous Oxford unless one complies with official instructions and adds Woodbridge, Suffolk, to the address on the envelope. In this present century there are two opinions possible with regard to it according to one's temperament and circumstances: it may appear to be either a derelict town fallen on evil days, to be left at the first opportunity, or a delightfully quaint, old, picturesque village, remote from the multitude, abode of peace and quiet, peace and quiet now not even periodically broken, as once it was, by the shrill noises of weekly market and occasional fair. Its history, authenticated by monument in stone—in church, castle and house; and by muniment in parchment,—in charter, actbook and deed,—goes back beyond the ancient legal line “when the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.” Even before that, in the 12th century, it was an established port, with considerable trade, as proved by the amount of customs-duties collected. Historically, its first charter of liberties and privileges was granted by King Henry III, which was confirmed by succeeding kings from reign to reign.

ENGLISH architecture in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the subject of my paper to-day, was essentially national and autochthonous in the sense that the characteristic qualities of the English people were written on its architecture as unmistakeably as those of the French, or Italians, or of any other people with a great historic past were written on theirs, and it is not possible to understand and appreciate the value of the art of any country, unless it is read by the light of the character of the people who produced it. This is peculiarly the case in countries with a long tradition of uninterrupted civilization, such as France and England, and in regard to our own country it is necessary to insist on this point, because there is always a tendency to regard our architecture as merely derivative. If it is Gothic, it is supposed to be an inferior reflection of French Gothic, and if it is neo-Classic, it is supposed to be the blundering effort of North Sea Islanders to reproduce the elegance of the Italian Renaissance. In fact, the art of this country, of which our continental neighbours are almost wholly ignorant, is supposed to be an insignificant affair, hardly worthy of serious study. The representation of English painting in the great continental galleries is absurdly inadequate. In Vienna there are some half a dozen bad examples; at Berlin a good Gainsborough and Raeburn; at Dresden a moderate Raeburn; at Munich, in the Prado, in the Ryks Museum, and at the Hague, there are no English pictures at all.

The Royal Historical Society, with the assistance of Mr. J. F. Chance, Mr. Wickham Legg, and Dr. D. B. Horn, has rendered and is still rendering valuable assistance to the study of diplomatic history. The most direct service so far has been the issue of a series of volumes giving selections from the Instructions to British envoys at foreign courts between 1689 and 1789. I devoutly wish that some well-timed benefaction might enable us to make these volumes more complete and less selective. In the meantime, while we cast envious eyes upon the sumptuous volumes which have been published in France, and upon the still more complete series issued before the War by the Imperial Society of Russian History, we have to be grateful for what this Society can give us. Its latest contribution is Mr. Legg's third volume of Instructions to our ministers in France, which was sent out to Fellows of the Society last month. The present paper was provoked by that volume, which I read in proof, and is designed to be a commentary upon that part of its contents which refers to the so-called War of the Polish Succession (1733–5). The contentions which I put forward represent convictions formed long ago, but these convictions have been strengthened and vivified by the documents in this volume. Limits of time forbid quotations from other authorities, but anyone who may desire a more detailed study can turn to Professor Vaucher's Robert Walpole et la Politique de Fleury (1731–1742), where ample references can be found.

Of all the myriad projects to restore the House of Stuart that known as the Elibank Plot is by no means the least interesting, and it is certainly the most obscure. So little, indeed, has it been regarded in the past that few historians have thought it worthy even of mention, though it does in fact throw considerable light, not only upon the political situation in Great Britain during the years that immediately followed Culloden, but also upon the intrigues of the leading Powers in the period preceding the Diplomatic Revolution. In view, therefore, of the obscurity in which this conspiracy has hitherto been shrouded, I must crave your permission to give some account of the authorities upon which my interpretation of it is based.

There are few more remarkable developments during the nineteenth century than the movement overseas from the United Kingdom, which was to people first the backwoods of Canada and later the other Dominions. The history of this great exodus has been written only in part and one aspect has been practically neglected—the story of the Atlantic passage. Not only does this form a most important chapter in the history of emigration, but it also reveals an aspect of the humanitarian movement which has never been emphasized. It is therefore proposed in the following pages to trace the efforts made to secure the enactment of laws enforcing humane conditions on the passage to America, to follow the steps taken to secure the efficient administration of these laws, and to consider whether these efforts led to any radical improvement.

The treaty of Ryswick has been neglected by recent historians. No satisfactory account of it exists in English, for no one has touched it with serious intent since Lord Macaulay wrote his sketch during the last years of his life. Its economic and colonial aspects have been ignored by French and German historians. Yet this treaty plays a fundamental rôle in European diplomacy between the treaties of Nimeguen (1678) and Utrecht (1713). It is, in fact, a commentary upon the former and a prelude to the latter. The negotiations themselves are not without interest, as the procedure ranks among the most undiplomatic in modern history; for nothing (except the Emperor's interminable delays) passed off according to expectations.