One hundred years ago the most scholarly of the whig historians, Samuel Rawson Gardiner, gave the Petition of Right a leading place in his interpretation of early Stuart England, as the beginning of a constitutional revolution in which parliament took sovereignty from an autocratic Stuart monarchy. To Gardiner this was part of a movement, his portrayal of which was coloured by ideas of patriotism and moral good, and which had the sanction of historical inevitability. Clearly there were serious flaws built into Gardiner's view: teleology, narrowness of theme, implausible simplicity, belief in inevitable progress, and the selective attribution of unconscious motives to men such as Sir John Eliot. Recent historiography has demonstrated the inherent weaknesses of the traditional liberal-whig and indeed the Marxist views of this period. A most stimulating revisionist argument and a whole industry of scholarship seem likely to reduce Gardiner's work to a great narrative, graced frequently with sane judgement, but in conceptual terms virtually abolished. Nevertheless the Petition of Right remains a salient and significant feature of the early Stuart landscape. Conrad Russell has established clearly that the making of the Petition was important as the culmination of a national war crisis and as an ideological watershed. Indicative of an emerging fear of subversion – of the alteration of government and religion together – it anticipated the attitudes of those in the Long Parliament who came to oppose the Caroline regime. The Petition needs to be given due attention in seeking to understand the important relationship between the political events of the 1620s and those of the 1640s.

How and why did the civil wars begin? Were they the result of fortuitous circumstances – rebellion in Scotland and Ireland and financial crisis? Were they the product of an inexorable, inevitable slide which began at some indeterminate date in the 1620s (or indeed before)? Or does the answer lie somewhere between these two extremes?

Few international agreements have provoked more controversy among historians than that concluded at Dover, on 22 May 1670, by representatives of the English and French Crowns. Its main provisions were for an offensive war against the Dutch republic of the United Provinces, leading to its destruction as a European power, and for the public profession by the English king, Charles II, of the Roman Catholic faith, which had been regarded by most English people for a hundred years as the bitterest enemy of their own church. The existence of this treaty was concealed not only from the other European states and the subjects of the respective monarchs, but from the greater number of their own ministers. The motives of Charles in making this amazing pact have remained a mystery. In the present century, they have been represented by Sir Keith Feiling as an attempt to unite Catholics and Protestant dissenters as a foundation for a stronger monarchy; by Cyril Hartmann, K. H. D. Haley, David Ogg and Lady Antonia Fraser as a decision to hitch England to the fortunes of Europe's strongest state, France; by Sir Arthur Bryant as a wish to ensure his country a share of the Spanish empire and his throne a dependable group of supporters in the form of the Catholics; by Maurice Lee and J. R. Jones as a grand design to make himself independent of his subjects in general and of parliament in particular; and by John Miller as a desire for vengeance upon the Dutch.

Britain's most important American colonies did not rebel in 1776. Thirteen provinces did declare their independence; but no fewer than nineteen colonies in the western hemisphere remained loyal to the mother country. Massachusetts and Virginia may have led the American revolution, but they had never been the leading colonies of the British empire. From the imperial standpoint, the significance of any of the thirteen provinces which rebelled was pale in comparison with that of Jamaica or Barbados. In the century before 1763 the recalcitrance of these two colonies had been more notorious than that of any mainland province and had actually inspired many of the imperial policies cited as long-term grievances by North American patriots in 1774. Real Whig ideology, which some historians have seen as the key to understanding the American revolution, was equally understood by Caribbean elites who, like the continental, had often proved extremely sensitive on questions of constitutional principle. Attacks of ‘frenzied rhetoric’ broke out in Jamaica in 1766 and Barbados in 1776. But these had nothing whatsoever to do with the Stamp Act or events in North America.

Modern historians of the Jamaica rebellion of October 1865 have attached much causal importance to a document of 14 June the same year, known as ‘the Queen's Letter’. This was the official response to a petition in which ‘certain poor people’ of St Ann's parish in the island had naively asked their sovereign for ‘a quantity of land’ and other means of relief from distress. Drafted by Henry Taylor, clerk and senior clerk in the West India department, of the colonial office since the mid-1820s, and approved by permanent under-secretary Sir Frederic Rogers and secretary of state Edward Cardwell, it has acquired an unmitigatedly bad reputation. It is not merely that it was naturally based on the knowledge that no imperial funds or other competence existed or could exist for relieving the consequences even of admittedly bad seasons in colonies (or at home), but rather that it thrust austere advice upon the suffering petitioners. Any labouring population, it stated, whether in Jamaica or England, could provide against adversity only by ‘industry and prudence’: above all, by undertaking – what was understood to be notoriously lacking amongst creoles – regular work for wages. Even the most sympathetic critics have considered this to be ‘harsh’ and ‘callous’. One writes that it reflected the sentiments of an imperial bureaucracy whose expectations had been influenced by the remarkable changes in English society, whose attitudes were governed by evangelical propriety, and whose notions of progress were inextricably tied to productivity, trade figures, accumulating property, and the refinements which these entailed.

The political history of Liberalism in the twenty years after 1886 was dominated by two great concerns: the need to find a unifying platform for the party which would be capable of sustaining it as an effective political force in the post-Gladstonian era and the need to come to terms with the growing economic and political strength of organized Labour. It was axiomatic that the two concerns were closely connected and that ‘social reform’ was the crucial link between them. It seemed clear that a more active social policy would not only renew the reforming impetus of Liberalism, but would also enable the Liberals to retain working-class support and so help to prevent the formation of a separate Labour party. This was the assumption that spurred Liberals to a redefinition of their political creed and led to the formulation of a ‘new Liberalism’ committed to policies of state intervention and social reform of the kind implemented by Asquith, Churchill and Lloyd George after 1906.3 However, while the New Liberalism may have acted as a cohering influence on the Liberal party (itself a moot point) and provided a firm intellectual justification for its policies, it proved less successful as a means of retaining Labour's undivided electoral support. With the formation, first of the Independent Labour Party in 1893, and then of the Labour Representation Committee in 1900, there was set in train the formal organizational separation of the Liberal and Labour parties that was so drastically to affect the subsequent fortunes of Liberalism and so decisively to shape the pattern of modern British politics. The question that remains is whether this rift was the result of the tardiness with which the Liberals adopted their new policies, whether it was the product of other, quite separate factors, or whether in some way the nature of the New Liberalism itself may have contributed to the breach.

There are few questions as intriguing and as baffling as the reasons for the terror unleashed upon the U.S.S.R. from 1936. The purpose of this paper is to reconsider the issue in the light of further research into the social, economic and political problems faced by Stalin from 1932.