Henry Parker's The Case of Shipmony (1640) may be the first intellectually significant political pamphlet of the Long Parliament era. In this crisp and well printed quarto, Parker, a publicist and man of affairs, used issues raised during John Hampden's celebrated test case of 1637 to develop his own political views.Parker wrote in opposition to the royalist majority in the case. But his carefully circumscribed objections to ship money in The Case of Shipmony show him of two minds – his opposition was of a different order from that heard in the house of commons in 1640 and 1641, and was strangely resonant of the royalist arguments. This was not a sign of political timidity. Rather, as Parker grew bolder and as his notions matured in 1640– his views and those of the royalist counsel and judges, mutatis mutandis, became even more congruent. This can be seen by comparing the ship money arguments not only with the positions taken in The Case of Shipmony but also with the idiom of Parker's fully developed thought, which is usually (though excessively) identified with his most famous tract, Observations upon Some of His Majesties Late Answers and Expresses (June 1642).

Little has happened in the century since Masson wrote those words fundamentally to alter his assessment and both the operation of Protectoral central government 1653–8 and the role of the Council within it remain sadly under-studied. Although recent historians would doubtless deny that they have simply forgotten the Protectoral Councillors, in practice most surveys either ignore the Council or allude to it in a few passing and usually dismissive sentences. For example, the Councillors are mentioned only once in Kenyon's Stuart England, a reference to their ‘clumsy decision’ to exclude M.P.s in 1656. And the assessment of the Council as a politically powerless vehicle for the Protector's will still generally prevails, albeit expressed in more cautious tones. Thus in his recent study of interregnum Britain, Barnard asserts that ‘in practice the Council seldom deflected him [Cromwell] from his chosen courses’ and that it is ‘likely that the councillors would usually defer to him’. Barnard himself laments the dearth of surviving evidence about the Council's work, a dearth which has all but stifled serious examination of the operation of Protectoral central government and which may have led contemporaries and later historians alike to under-rate the role of the Council and correspondingly to inflate that of Cromwell. For despite the paucity of evidence, there are clear indications that the Council was not the impotent cypher nor Cromwell the boundless autocrat of so many histories and biographies.

Thomas Blood was born in Sarney, county Meath in Ireland around the year 1618. The circumstances surrounding his early life are obscure but his father was said to have been a blacksmith and ironworker of ‘no inferior credit’. Blood's first real appearance in the historical record occurs during the survey taken in Ireland in the period 1654–6. In this he is listed as a protestant who had owned some 220 acres of land at Sarney since at least 1640. In between these dates, however, Blood had evidently undertaken some sort of military service. The evidence concerning this military service is both slight and contradictory and there is at least the possibility that his later claims about an army career were partly bogus, or certainly inflated to suit his particular company.

In the early eighteenth century, the language of politeness became a major fixture of English discourse. Centring on the term ‘politeness’ and consisting of a vocabulary of key words (such as ‘refinement’, ‘manners’, ‘character’, ‘breeding’, and ‘civility’) and a range of qualifying attributes (‘free’, ‘easy’, ‘natural’, ‘graceful’, and many others), the language was used to make a wide range of objects intelligible. Though the word ‘polite’ had been in the English language from at least the fifteenth century, denoting the state of being polished or neat in quite literal and concrete ways, the term entered on its significant career only in the mid-seventeenth century, when it began to convey the meanings of studied social behaviour of the sort inspired by and associated with princely courts. However, in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, ‘politeness’ grew to cover a range of meanings, considerably freed from the initial association with courts. Several broad categories of usage of the term ‘polite’ are indicative: as a behavioural and moral standard for members of an elite (e.g. ‘polite gentlemen’, ‘polite ladies’, ‘polite society’, ‘polite conversation’); as an aesthetic standard for many kinds of human artifacts and products (e.g. ‘polite arts’, ‘polite towns’, ‘polite learning’, ‘polite buildings’); and as a way of generalizing about and characterizing society and culture (‘polite age’, ‘polite nation’, ‘polite people’). In the latter usage, ‘politeness’ was frequently deployed retrospectively as an attribute of classical civilizations. ‘Politeness’ helped recast the renaissance model of history, in which modernity was separated from its true ancestor, the ancient world, by the vast dark gulf of the middle ages: the ‘politest’ nations were ancient Greece and ancient Rome; the ‘politest’ ages, the spells of Hellenic and Roman creativity.

The general view still prevails that the French bishops performed badly in the elections held to the estates-general in the spring of 1789. The final figure of only 49 bishops going to Versailles amid a horde of curés tends to be treated by historians as a clear demonstration of the new power of the lower clergy, confirming the view of the episcopal corps as aristocratic, out of touch, and unprepared for an electoral contest on a level of equality with the parish clergy. Prestigious casualties like Rohan-Guémenée at Cambrai, Mont-morency-Laval at Metz, Marbeuf at Lyon, and Dillon at Narbonne have attracted much notice, but they are really the exceptions. Closer examination indicates that the majority of prelates in fact put up a spirited performance, faced with Necker's electoral règlement of 24 January 1789 – arrangements weighted deliberately in favour of the curés.

It is hardly surprising that, for many years, historians of the political crisis of 1885–6 gave relatively little attention to the land purchase proposals which accompanied Gladstone's first Home Rule Bill. For the Land Purchase Bill progressed no further than its first reading on 16 April 1886, one week after that of its partner. Within weeks it was recognized by its sponsors as a political liability and, unlike the Home Rule Bill, never reached a parliamentary division. In recent years, there has been a re-evaluation of its significance as a policy initiative for Ireland. Two major works published in the centenary year of the crisis challenged Professor John Vincent's claim, in an article which appeared just over a decade ago, that the Land Bill was a ‘dummy’ whose place in Gladstone's scale of priorities was dictated by the exigencies of the parliamentary timetable and of internal cabinet manoeuvrings. Both Dr James Loughlin and Dr Alan O'Day see purchase as part of a coherent policy designed by Gladstone to tackle the problem of agrarian violence and to lay the foundations of a more secure social order in Ireland. For the first time, then, the content of the Bill has received serious and lengthy treatment. What remains to be discussed in some depth is its reception in the country in the spring and summer of 1886.

From its inception, the committee on national expenditure chaired by Sir Eric Geddes has been regarded as one of the most controversial exercises in the reduction of public expenditure essayed by any modern British government. The appointment in August 1921 of Geddes and a team of fellow businessmen to report on means of reducing supply services expenditure drew the criticism from contemporaries that it represented the abrogation of the executive's responsibilities for fiscal policy. The three reports which the committee produced in early 1922 were no less controversial: seeking a reduction of almost £87m in supply estimates of approximately £528m, they have been seen as the most radical statement of the policy of retrenchment adopted by the Lloyd George coalition. In view of this, and of the proud hopes of reconstruction which had been fostered after the armistice, the Geddes committee has often been the subject of obloquies from post-war British historians of liberal sensibilities.