The Action Française was neither a widespread nor a powerful nor a successful political movement, and its political objectives were anachronistic to the point of absurdity. Its intention to carry out a coup d'état could not be taken seriously when its leaders were so eager to find reasons for avoiding or postponing action.1 Critics of the movement rightly claimed, for this reason, that it did not deserve its name.2 Of course, the Action Francaise always claimed to have considerable political influence, but its very poor showing in the elections of 1919 and 1924,3 when what influence it had was probably at its height, only emphasized the movement's real complexion.

The Wyndham Land Act was the most important land reform introduced by any British government during the period of the Act of Union (1801–1922); and this article provides a new interpretation of the origins of this revolutionary legislation. Whereas previous accounts attribute the Act to the initiative of the Irish chief secretary, George Wyndham, this article locates the legislation in the wider context of both popular and ‘high’ politics. The state of the land question in fin de siècle Ireland is examined, as is the United Irish League's extensive agitation for compulsory land purchase between 1901 and 1903. Finally, the impact of the agitation on the British government is considered, and the article demonstrates that the Wyndham Land Act was introduced as a result of the United Irish League's campaign for land reform.

On the morning of 19 August 1772 Gustavus III seized supreme power in Sweden, overthrew the authority of the Estates, and amid the applause of almost all Swedes outside the circle of professional politicians brought the Age of Liberty to an end. On the morrow of the revolution he explicitly abjured sovereignty for himself; he promised his.subjects the constitution of Gustav Adolf; and he did in fact confer on them a liberal and tempered despotism, which may be described as being by Mercier de la Rivière out of The Patriot King. It was a revolution bloodless, popular, and uniquely clement; but it was profoundly disturbing to international relations. Twice in the next nine months it produced crises from which, for a moment, there seemed no issue save a general European war involving all the great powers. It might have been supposed, indeed, that England could stand aside from such a struggle: the countrymen of Wilkes and Junius cared little for Swedish liberty, and had but a dim and confused notion of a parliamentary system in some respects more advanced than their own. But by an odd combination of circumstances, the Constitution of 1720—which Gustavus had overthrown on 19 August—had for some years acquired the status of a major British interest; its maintenance had become one of the linch pins of British foreign policy; and its overthrow was a challenge to a whole system of ideas which had prevailed and grown stronger in the years since the Peace of Paris.

This article establishes the significance of elections held in the annexed departments of the Napoleonic Empire from 1802 to 1813. It thus represents an original, and perhaps surprising, contribution to recent debate on the nature of Napoleonic imperialism, in which attention has shifted from core to periphery, and away from purely military matters. The electoral process under this authoritarian regime has been alternately neglected or derided, especially where the newly created departments of the Low Countries and parts of Germany and Italy are concerned. However, extensive archival research demonstrates that it was taken extremely seriously by both regime and voters, especially outside metropolitan France. These ‘First European Elections', as they may be dubbed, took place in regular fashion right across the Empire and are studied here on a transnational basis, which also involves the metropolitan departments. Though open to all adult males at the primary level, they were not exercises in democracy, but they did create some rare political space which local people were not slow to exploit for their own purposes. Above all, they served as a means of integrating ‘new Frenchmen’, particularly members of indigenous elites, into the Napoleonic system.

Contrary to the widespread assumption that in imperial Germany urban affairs were conducted by a homogeneous ‘unpolitical’ notable elite until around 1900, a review of recently published case studies suggests that politics had entered local government by the 1870s. Frequent causes for the politicization of local affairs included confessional divisions, territorial change, or simply the wish of local elites to buttress their own positions. The ways in which liberals in particular took advantage of this emergence of political discourse at the urban level is highlighted by the case of Frankfurt am Main. The city's three liberal parties developed in competition with each other. Each managed to address and articulate the citizens' peculiar grievances with differing degrees of success. By 1880, public life inside and outside the town hall was conducted according to political ground rules, and this was accepted by every party. Against the still prevailing view of a rigid liberalism which after 1874 was in evident terminal decline, the decade after 1866 needs to be recognized as the period in which liberals took charge of municipal government across most of Germany, through the politicization of often highly individual local concerns with astonishing sophistication and flexibility.

Royalists of the Civil War period readily employed the English legal system to recover lost estates, even at the nadir of their political fortunes, namely the years just after the king's defeat. Rather than accept the verdict of a war lost, royalist and Catholic ‘delinquents’ successfully sought their own verdicts at law against former tenants for rents on lands that had been confiscated by parliament. The radical MPs staffing the Indemnity Committee respected the principles of due process of law and, ironically, given the fact that the committee's purpose was to protect parliament's supporters, upheld royalist claims to confiscated lands, thereby assisting the law courts in thwarting parliament's plan to repay war debts with rents collected from losers' property. So pervasive was the legalistic mindset in both the courts and the Indemnity Committee that royalists received favourable rulings against many on the winning side of the conflict, including famous leaders such as Sir William Brereton.

The story of the Pardon of the Clergy in 1531 and all that it entailed has long been familiar to historians of the English Reformation; and despite the several gaps, not to say incongruities, in the accepted narrative, no writer has found difficulty in repeating the inherited version. Indeed, this most important episode in the story of Henry's overthrow of the medieval church has been distinguished by the unquestioning and brief, even peremptory, treatment which it has usually received. In the course of time, minor accretions have added to the first statement of events contained in the Chronicles. But perhaps because the Calendars are disappointingly reticent about public affairs during the winter of 1530–1, no author has seriously questioned that statement, however uneasy he may have felt about it on a priori grounds. The earliest version, therefore, compounded from Hall and Wilkins, still stands. According to it, shortly after Wolsey's death at the end of November 1530, the whole of the English clergy were indicted on a praemunire charge in the King's Bench by the Attorney General for having submitted themselves to the late cardinal's legacy. To escape from their dilemma, the two Convocations made a cash payment to Henry allowing him at the same time a new, if guarded, title of overlordship that was to prove full of consequence. Whatever the significance of the celebrated ‘saving clause’ and despite the reluctance of the clergy to concede any ground, the fact remained that Henry had won the first round with comparative ease and it was only a matter of time before he would proceed with confidence and equal success to the second.

Visions of history, Irish and otherwise, ancient and modern, critically inflected through St Patrick's College, Maynooth, the National Roman Catholic Seminary of Ireland, are central to John Hume's intellectual formation. This can be dated back to his experiences as a seminarian at St Patrick's during the mid-1950s – particularly his schooling in history under Tomás Ó Fiaich – long before the ideological gestation suggested in the existing literature. There the emphases are on the wider evolution of nationalist politics in Northern Ireland during the mid-1960s, as opposed to Hume's early intellectual biography. Thus, a wider context to his influential thought is suggested, one supplied by a discourse on the concept of patriotism evolving amongst Ireland's Catholic intelligentsia during the 1950s, indicative of the modernization of Catholic thought on the island in the era preceding the convening of the Second Vatican Council in 1962. Yet the article also situates Hume's once-progressive mode of nationalist ideology within a much older tradition of Catholic loyalism in Ireland. The conspicuously Platonic dimension of his thinking is likewise observed, facilitating a conceptually driven exploration of the relationship between Hume's vision of his native walled city of Derry, and of that larger partitioned entity, Northern Ireland.

Between the Restoration in 1660 and the Revolution in 1688 the English public abandoned its century-long animus against Spain and began to identify France as its chief enemy. Historians often hold that the most significant intervention in shifting the balance of public opinion was the Dutch-inspired pamphlet, England's appeal from the private cabal at Whitehall (1673), written by the Huguenot Pierre du Moulin. It is argued here that an immensely influential earlier intervention was made by François-Paul de Lisola, in his Buckler of state and justice (1667), which, at a critical juncture, presented a rhetorically powerful body of arguments about the nature of the European state system. A Catholic in the service of the Habsburg emperor, who spent nearly two years in England in 1666–8, Lisola was an accomplished and versatile diplomat and publicist. This article interweaves diplomatic history with the history of geopolitical argument, tracing paths which led to Europe's Grand Alliance against Louis XIV.

The study of early modern diplomatic history has in recent decades expanded beyond a bureaucratic, state-centric focus to consider the processes and personal interactions by which international relations were maintained. Scholars have begun to consider, among other factors, the role of diplomatic gifts, diplomatic hospitality, and diplomatic culture. This article contributes to this discussion from an East Asian perspective by considering the role of ‘brush talk’ – written exchanges of classical, literary Chinese – during diplomatic missions from the Korean Chosŏn court to the Tokugawa Shogunate in Japan during the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries. Drawing upon official records, personal diaries, and illustrations, I argue that brush talk was not an official part of diplomatic ceremony and that brushed encounters with Korean officials even extended to people of the townsman classes. Brush talk was as much about ritual display, calligraphic art, and drawing upon a shared storehouse of civilized learning as it was about communicating factual content through language. These visual, performative aspects of brush talk in East Asian diplomacy take it beyond the realm of how a lingua franca is usually conceived, adding to the growing body of scholarship on how this concept applies to non-Western histories.

Note, the King by his proclamation, or other ways, cannot change any part of the common law, or statute law, or the customs of the realm … also the King cannot create any offence by his prohibition or proclamation, which was not an offence before, for that was to change the law, and to make an offence which was not; for ubi non est lex, ibi non est transgressio; ergo, that which cannot be punished without proclamation, cannot be punished with it…

The years immediately after the Glorious Revolution saw the Irish parliament establish itself as an active legislative body. Local government in the country then received something of a fillip, both through legislative action in Dublin, and by reason of the extended period of social and political stability that followed the end of Queen Anne's reign. This essay seeks to outline the responsibilities and functions of the grand jury in Ireland, and thus to establish its position as perhaps the most important component in the governance of provincial Ireland. Further to this it attempts to analyse the social composition of juries through a study of the methods of selection, and the attendant qualification criteria. The available evidence suggests that despite its extensive power and influence, membership of the grand jury was not completely monopolized by the land-owning Anglican elite. Rather, service on the grand jury reached some way down the social scale, and could be undertaken by men from outside the established church. Over time, however, jurors came to be selected from a diminishing pool of candidates : a practice which led to the creation of a largely homogeneous local administrative elite.

In the summer of 1920, as the I.R.A.'s guerrilla campaign against the Royal Irish Constabulary and the British Army approached its climax, the British government attempted to reinforce the R.I.C. by raising a force of ex-officers to act as a mobile police striking force. The new organization was called the Auxiliary Division of the R.I.C, and its members, though officially referred to as ‘cadets’, were popularly called Auxiliaries or Auxis, a denomination which suggests a kind of subconscious analogy with their I.R.A. opponents, who were generally known as ‘Volunteers’. In the subsequent mythology of the Irish ‘Troubles’ the Auxiliaries were generally lumped together with the ‘Black and Tans’ but were in fact a more elite body. The ‘Black and Tans’ were ex-servicemen recruited to serve as R.I.C. constables and initially kitted out in a motley of R.I.C. dark green and Army khaki. The Auxiliaries on the other hand were nattily dressed in tarn o'shanters, khaki tunics and puttees (or officer's gaiters) and were paid a pound a day — twice the R.I.C. constable's rate — which made them the most highly-paid uniformed force in the world at that time.1 Altogether only 2,214 were recruited (with perhaps two-thirds that number in service at the peak of the formation's strength), but they did more than their fair share to discredit the British regime in Ireland.

Based on sources from the East German regime's internal archives, this article examines how the exodus of over 3 million people from the German Democratic Republic (GDR) before the construction of the Berlin Wall undermined the communist regime's ability to exert its authority over internal affairs. Instead of focusing on the relatively well-known economic and diplomatic costs of the mass exodus, it considers rather the grass-roots political ramifications of this unique phenomenon among the Soviet satellite states. The article focuses on three interrelated issues: first, the government's little-known efforts to curb and control emigration before the Wall; second, the myriad causes of the mass emigration and how these were perceived by the party/state apparatus; and third, the variety of strategies through which ordinary East Germans who stayed in the GDR attempted to use the possibility of flight to the West to enhance their bargaining position with state authorities. It argues that the refugees to the West were not the only East Germans to capitalize on the permeable border around West Berlin. The possibility of emigrating westwards also gave those who stayed a degree of power vis-à-vis the regime that they otherwise would not have had.

Sex, populism, and the search for universal religious freedom were the overwhelming preoccupations of Russia's Silver Age, and no churchman did more to engage with them than Archimandrite Mikhail (Semenov). Having spearheaded the Russian Orthodox church's mission to the intelligentsia in the years before 1905, he fell from grace when Russian social Christianity was irrevocably politicized by revolution. Sacked from his chair at the St Petersburg theological academy when he declared himself a Christian socialist, he was unfrocked for converting to the Old Belief, and imprisoned for fomenting sedition. Yet even as he lurched from the established church, via the schism, to a revolutionary form of Golgothan Christianity, obsessed with suffering, Mikhail never abandoned his burning desire to build the kingdom of heaven on earth. His career, which has so far escaped detailed historical investigation, encapsulates most of the ecclesiastical tensions of his time, and reveals in particularly acute form the difficulties experienced by the Russian church when it attempted to respond to modernist intellectuals and to popular spiritual need.