During the period from the Reform Act of 1832 to the early 1880s, when a change set in, the house of lords was perceptibly weaker than the house of commons. The prevailing view of its position, accepted for the most part even by the peers themselves, was expressed in Walter Bagehot's highly influential English constitution (1867, rev. 1872), where the house of lords is described as safe from rough destruction but not from inner decay, the danger coming not so much from assassination as atrophy, not from abolition but decline. This description drew on Bagehot's distinction between the dignified and efficient parts of the constitution. The house of lords belonged to the first category: that house in its dignified capacity inspired a reverence in the people that attached them to the government. Yet, paradoxically, in view of the great respect for the aristocracy, the house of lords had been subordinate as a legislative chamber to the house of commons even before the Reform Act of 1832; and since then this subordination had grown ever more pronounced.

This historiographical review offers an overview of new approaches to the global history of the First World War. It first considers how, over the last decade, there has been a move to emphasize the war's imperial dimensions: in reconsiderations of the war in Africa, the experience of soldiers and workers from across Europe's colonial empires, and the German ‘global strategy’ of fomenting unrest within the Allied empires. It then suggests that new global histories of the First World War give further attention to its economic aspects, particularly in two ways: first, by recovering understudied global financial aspects of the war, including the effects of the 1914 financial crisis and wartime inflation on economies and societies far outside of Europe; and second, by investigating wartime histories of primary production, both in colonial territories and sovereign states in Latin America, Africa, and Southeast Asia. It argues that these approaches can offer an important corrective to common assumptions that the First World War led to a dramatic break with pre-war globalizing trends.

‘Cambridge idealism’ – the phrase sounds like a mischievous verbal paradox. Idealism, as Richter has accustomed us to suppose, set the tone of late nineteenth-century Oxford; while contemporary Cambridge, Lord Annan teaches, preserved a tradition of empirical rationalism. At Balliol Green and Toynbee evolved a ‘secular religion’ from the metaphysics of Hegel and Kant; at Cambridge Sidgwick and Marshall embarked upon a rationalist revision of utilitarianism, developing (for the most part) suggestions incompletely worked out by Mill. Green and Toynbee were idealists; Sidgwick and Marshall were rationalists: the differences between the philosophic systems thery constructed seem crystal clear. Yet the contrast can be exaggerated. Whether their fundamental premiss was the principle of utility or the conviction that ‘the Universe is a single, eternal activity or energy, of which it is the essence to be self-conscious, that is, to be itself and not-itself,’ Oxford idealists and Cambridge rationalists were both preoccupied by contemporary social problems, both formulated essentially social philosophies concerned with the right conduct of individuals in their relations with others, and both arrived at comparable policy prescriptions at almost exactly the same time.

Divide et impera. So much of Western imperial behaviour reflected a wilful policy of ‘divide and rule’ in order first to establish and then to perpetuate control over subject peoples in Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Accordingly the administration of foreign rule often amounted to artfully manipulating, emphasizing and exploiting local divergencies, whether tribal, sectional, ethnic or economic, and playing off one group or state against another. As a shorthand summary and epigram for imperialism divide et impera may be satisfactory. But it suggests merely one stage of the process: for in asserting its mastery over others the imperial power often opened itself to internal cleavages on the more technical question of exactly how to rule, or, during the decline of empire, whether or not to yield control. This was certainly the British experience. And one of the more dramatic manifestations of ‘divide and rule’ in reverse (‘rule and be divided’) came in 1937 in the instance of partition for Palestine.

Beyond the repression of the national waves of food rioting during the subsistence crises of the 1790s, workers in the English countryside lost the will and ability to mobilize. Or so the historical orthodoxy goes. Such a conceptualization necessarily positions the ‘Bread or Blood’ riots of 1816, the Swing rising of 1830, and, in particular, the agrarian trade unionism practised at Tolpuddle in 1834 as exceptional events. This article offers a departure by placing Tolpuddle into its wider regional context. The unionists at Tolpuddle, it is shown, were not making it up as they went along but instead acted in ways consistent with shared understandings and experiences of collective action and unionism practised throughout the English west. In so doing, it pays particular attention to the forms of collective action – and judicial responses – that extended between different locales and communities and which joined farmworkers, artisans, and industrial workers together. So conceived, Tolpuddle was not an exception. Rather, it can be more usefully understood as a manifestation of deeply entrenched cultures, an episode that assumes its historical potency because of its subsequent politicized representations.

Few would argue against the intimate relationship between citizenship and speech in early modern England. Historians of political thought and literary scholars have explored the cultural and political impact of the English Renaissance, which turned subjects into citizens and which produced a learned, humanist, and oratorical model of citizenship, centred upon the virtues of the ‘articulate citizen’. But the English Renaissance did not give birth to citizenship. There was an older, vernacular, urban-based concept of citizenship, which was grounded in social practice rather than in intellectual tradition. This citizenship was shaped by multiple, competing, and conflicting impulses: inclusive, yet exclusive; participatory, yet discriminatory; a mixture of rights and duties. Speech both exposed and amplified these different senses of citizenship: who could speak and act against authority, and were there limits on what citizens could say and do? The tensions between urban citizenship and speech persisted throughout the late middle ages and into the early modern period. Local power struggles about the nature of civic authority helped to define ideas of citizenship and of free speech.

Contemporary reactions to the 1832 Reform Act were diverse. Concomitant with the feeling of relief that a revolution had been avoided was a fear even among some of the Bill's most earnest advocates that the whigs had perhaps gone too far. The long period of political agitation by extra-parliamentary associations suggested that a radical House of Commons might emerge from the forthcoming elections. In fact, the expected radical onslaught never really materialized. Although they were returned to the Commons in strength by the election of December, the radicals failed to find common ground for action and the whigs successfully defended the pact given royal assent the previous summer. That sentence of failure is not unreasonable. Radicalism in the early nineteenth century was by its very nature the province of the individualist whose imagination often ranged beyond the bounds of practicality and who found compromise irksome. Membership of the House of Commons was to prove a chastening experience for men accustomed to the adulation of the common people. Rules of procedure and the traditional circle of agenda so circumscribed these enthusiasts that energy became sapped and their sense of mission vitiated. Woodward's suggestion, too, that the radicals floundered because they ‘defended the interests of a class to which they did not belong’ may contain a measure of truth. But apart from the odd chapter in the occasional biography, there has been a marked lack of interest in proceeding beyond these general conclusions; failure is too often equated with justified obscurity.

Cardinal Manning in old age wanted his successor to follow his lead into the temperance movement: ‘I pray God that my successor will humbly and with his whole heart go into the midst of the people as I have tried to do’, he wrote in 1890, ‘and will give to the League of the Cross a warm and encouraging countenance.’ He also wanted his successor to join the prohibitionist United Kingdom Alliance as ‘the only real power outside of Parliament to hold the Drink Trade in check’. When Herbert Vaughan attended a dinner of Manchester publicans who advocated winter-gardens and light beers as the agents of temperance, Manning was furious and excluded him from the list of his executors. In many statements from the 1870s onwards Manning expressed his passionate enthusiasm for the temperance movement. His temperance speeches show that he took great trouble to keep his arguments up to date, and that he read widely in temperance literature. Here, then, was no passing enthusiasm, but a cause to which Manning devoted his life after 1868, and for which he laboured through literature as heavy as Dr F. R. Lees' Alliance Prize Essay and the report of the 1853–54 Select Committee on Public-Houses. He travelled about the country on temperance tours, gave evidence before a parliamentary committee on the drink question, and braved much hostility from within the Catholic world by creating the League of the Cross, an association of Catholic abstainers.

New entrants to the British peerage between 1700 and 1850 included both traditional landed magnates and men from humbler backgrounds. The rate of recruitment accelerated rapidly after 1782. This article identifies and analyses the social and economic backgrounds of new peers and the reasons for which titles were bestowed. While the inclusion of large numbers of Irish and Scottish grandees sustained the longitudinal sinews of the peerage, war and empire produced an increasing number of titles awarded on merit. Men of modest backgrounds had always been admitted to the elite, but ‘Old Corruption’ and the marriage market allowed most of their descendants to blend in with the old peerage after a few generations. The wave of new recruits, especially after 1782, included numerous relatively poor or landless men, and governments increasingly intervened with grants of multi-generational annuities in order to protect the status of the peerage while continuing to use titles to reward new men. Ministers boldly and astutely acted both to preserve the pre-eminence of the old order and encourage the prowess of state servants as Britain bestrode the globe. A new peerage emerged to help save the old.

Throughout its relatively brief existence, the English East India Company's college in Hertfordshire was hotly debated in Company headquarters, parliament, and the press. These disputes are deeply revealing of contemporary attitudes to the inter-related issues of elite education, government, ‘Britishness’, and empire. Previously, historians interested in the relationship between education and empire have concentrated largely on British attempts to construct colonial subjects, but just as important and just as controversial to contemporaries was the concomitant endeavour to create colonial officials. On a practical level, disputes in educational theory made it difficult to decide on how to train recruits who would satisfy growing demands for transparency, accountability, and merit. Furthermore, on certain points contemporaries fundamentally disagreed about which qualities an imperial official should have. These disagreements reflected deeper uncertainties, particularly regarding the ideal relationship to be fostered between the Company, Britain, and India. In short, this debate highlights the tensions, anxieties, and ambiguities surrounding reform and imperial expansion in the early nineteenth century.

The outbreak of the First World War in Europe and the subsequent Ottoman–German alliance presented Great Britain with some severe dilemmas as to her interests in the Middle East as well. Striving to consolidate their position in the Middle East should a war against the Ottomans become inevitable, the British began to search for local allies. In the Arabian Peninsula, three rulers emerged as potential allies: the Sharif Husayn, the guardian of the Holy Places in the Hijāz on behalf of the Ottoman sultan; the Idrisi Sayyid of 'Asīr, the area south of the Hijāz and north of Yemen; and 'Abd al-'Azīz Ibn Saud, the Amir of Najd, who became a Persian Gulf coastal ruler in May to 1913 by virtue of his occupation of Hasa the coastal strip stretching from Kuwayt to the base of the Qatar peninsula.

‘So Arthur Balfour is really leader – and Tory Democracy, the genuine article, at an end!’ Conventional historical wisdom has endorsed Randolph Churchill's judgement of 1891, attributing the demise of tory democracy partly to Balfour himself and partly to the inexorable forces of class division. Balfour's tactical ingenuity secured the defeat of Joseph Chamberlain's tariff reform, a valiant bid to revive tory democracy and turn back the tide of class politics; thereafter the Liberals, anxious to retain their working-class support, made the running on social reform, while the Unionists fell back on ‘negative’ policies and the middle-class vote. Yet perhaps historians have become the prisoners of their own orthodoxy. Though the ideology, the policies and the electoral bases of the new Liberalism have been extensively explored, the Unionists have been relatively neglected. Because it is assumed that before 1914 the Conservative party was devoid of proposals for social reform, one of the most obvious sources for such proposals has been overlooked: the Unionist Social Reform Committee of 1911 to 1914.