Historians have become increasingly concerned to describe and to explain the role of capital and capitalists in three related episodes of Transvaal history: the Jameson Raid at the end of 1895, tne outbreak of the South African War in 1899, and the Reconstruction period after that war. This article reviews recent analyses, and seeks a new synthesis of the published evidence.

The story of signals intelligence begins in the days of the pharaohs. A letter records the intention of a foreigner to determine the meaning of fires raised by the Egyptians. (No one knows if he succeeded.) Several centuries later, in 207 B.C., the Romans intercepted a letter from Hasdrubal to his brother Hannibal, further south in Italy. It enabled the Romans to concentrate their forces at the Metaurus River to defeat the Carthaginians. This was the only battle in Edward S. Creasy's The fifteen decisive battles of the world: from Marathon to Waterloo that depended upon intelligence for its victory.

The word hero cannot be defined simply. According to time and speaker, it can imply anything from the bravery of a moment to the courage and statesmanship of a lifetime. We do not enjoy the distinction in English which La Bruyère drew in French: to him un héros was a young, dauntless and venturesome man, one like Alexander; but against him had to be set the truly great man, the grand homme, the one with judgement, foresight, experience and considerable ability - a man like Caesar. As we shall see, hero can be used to describe both kinds of men. But if it has no very specific meaning, it is an important word for any study of the Victorian era - an era that for our purposes is taken to cover the years from the 1830s to the outbreak of the First World War. For the Victorians loved a hero, and the word often came to their lips. Carlyle, whose Heroes and hero-worship was first published in 1841, thought that a nation's whole history could be told in terms of its heroes, and he and Kingsley and Froude, to name three of the important literary figures of the age, regarded heroes as being vital to any society. They thought it particularly important that the new burgeoning industrial society should have heroes of its own, and that these should act as beacons and as examples. As Froude said in Representative men (1850), ‘the only education worth anything is the education of character, and we cannot educate a character unless we have some notion of what we would form’.

The first World War ended very suddenly. Large numbers of civilian workers lost their jobs in the period of industrial dislocation that followed, adding to the numbers of unemployed already swollen by the return of demobilized soldiers from the continent. No plans existed, however, to provide for the civilian unemployed. A last-minute decision was made in November 1918 to extend free out-of-work donation to them as well as to those newly released from the army. Although this scheme proved inordinately expensive it did provide the cabinet with a much needed breathing-space. In the event, however, general policy on how to cater for the unemployed was not tackled again for many months.

At the close of World War I two schools of thought about the future conduct of international relations emerged into plain view. On the one hand, the traditionalists presumed that the principles and practices of pre-1914 diplomacy could and should be sustained. This implied a routine of continual competition among the sovereign nation states, the anarchy of which was mitigated only by the collective fear of hegemony by one state (the mechanism of the balance of power) and by a sense of belonging to a common civilization (the old Concert of Europe). Tacitly accepted as the final arbiter of vital questions was the instrument of war. On the other hand, the First World War had provided ample grounds for a swingeing critique of Realpolitik when practised in an age of mass armies and technological warfare.

In the 1930s the British peace movement expanded rapidly from a preserve of small elitist peace societies into a mass phenomenon. More specifically, it was in the period from the Manchurian crisis to the Italo-Ethiopian war that what has been loosely called ‘pacifism’ gained political weight. Whilst its effect on the making of foreign policy has been the subject of much historical inquiry, the manifestations of the peace debate, including the famous Peace Ballot, can best be explained in the domestic context of party and pressure-group politics. The divisive nature of war rejection as an issue then becomes clearly apparent. Indeed the argument that the peace movement was a point of consensus can only be valid at a superficial level. One can agree with Marwick that a ‘middle opinion’ preferring peace to war developed in the thirties.1 But in public discussion about collective security pacifists caused schisms which hindered the clarification of party and pressure-group policies.

In July 1918 it was the considered opinion of Lord Northcliffe that propaganda and diplomacy were incompatible. When, only five months earlier, Northcliffe had accepted Lloyd George's invitation to take charge of the newly created department of enemy propaganda, his appointment, coupled with that of Lord Beaverbrook as Britain's first minister of information, had held out the promise of a new phase in the efficiency and co-ordination of Britain's conduct of official propaganda in foreign countries. It was then, in February 1918, that the Foreign Office had finally been forced to relinquish its control over such work. However, the creation of the two new departments had produced an intolerable situation. After three years of inter-departmental rivalry and squabbling over the conduct of propaganda overseas, Whitehall closed ranks on Beaverbrook and Northcliffe and united behind the Foreign Office in opposition to any further transference of related duties into their hands. Now, after five months of continued obstruction, Northcliffe expressed the view that:

As a people we do not understand propaganda ways…Propaganda is advertising and diplomacy is no more likely to understand advertising than advertising is likely to understand diplomacy.

It may be thought surprising that one should attempt to reassess the 1945 general election, in view of the attention which has already been paid to it. The election was, as is well known, the subject of the first of the Nuffield election surveys, which have continued thereafter to the present day; and although that book, unlike more recent Nuffield studies, contained no account of the politics of the period preceding the election, such accounts have appeared in more recent years, most notably, perhaps that by Dr Paul Addison entitled The road to 1945. Addison’s work, however, full though it is on the politics of wartime, stops short at the election itself; and the Nuffield study, being the first of its series, was also, it is fair to say, the crudest and least adequate – although when it was published it marked an enormous technical advance on any previous rapid study of a British general election.

The inter-war years are a nomansland in the history of British decolonization. Conventional as it is to see the first World War as a great watershed in British imperial history, separating the era of strength and success from the age of decline and dissolution, it remains difficult to show conclusively that the disintegration of the imperial system had become inevitable before the second World War. Yet historians have felt instinctively that after 1918 much of the crude self-confidence had drained out of British imperialism. The age when Curzon could proclaim heroically that ‘efficiency of administration is in my view a synonym for the contentment of the governed’; when Cromer could lecture the khedive of Egypt like a schoolboy; or when Milner could set out to demolish everything that preserved a separate identity to the Afrikaners, appears in striking contrast to the post-war era when statesmen spoke the language of trusts and mandates, genuflected before the image of self-determination and claimed that self-government was the ultimate purpose of colonial rule. But for all the piety of its new principles, post-war imperial policy seemed strangely reluctant to liberate Britain's dependencies or hold out firm promises of independence; and the imperial government periodically repressed its recalcitrant subjects with a vigour and efficiency that would have impressed Lord Kitchener.

In Gordon J. Schochet's new book on Patriarchalism in political thought (New York, 1975) there is one thirty-year-old assumption that he should have challenged. Our estimate of Filmer's place in political thought and the relation of his ideas to his contemporaries’ depends to some extent on the date at which he is presumed to have written Patriarcha, and Schochet has unquestioningly accepted Peter Laslett's dating of the work in the late 1630s, or at the very latest before the outbreak of civil war in 1642. The New Cambridge bibliography of English literature, without any explanation, gives the date as 1635. It was not always so. Edmund Bohun, Filmer's first editor, thought Patriarcha was written in 1642, and James Tyrell, one of his early detractors, began his attack with the assumption that Patriarcha was the culmination of Filmer's work and contained his ‘most mature thoughts’. The implausibility of a date in the thirties seems recently to have escaped everyone's notice, probably because we are all immensely indebted to Laslett not only for finding the best text of Patriarcha at East Sutton Park in 1939 but for editing it with a scholarly introduction ten years later.

John Foster's book, Class struggle and the industrial revolution, with its central focus upon ‘the development and decline of a revolutionary class consciousness’ in Oldham in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, has aroused considerable controversy amongst historians. Indeed most recently Foster's picture of intense, often violent class conflict has been directly challenged by Dr Gadian. He has contended that ‘class collaboration, rather than class war’ was the key to the radical success in the town. On the basis of comparative figures on the size of the workforce in the factories of the various Lancashire towns, he has criticized Foster's emphasis upon the concentration of economic power in the hands of a relatively small number of capitalist families. Moreover he has even claimed that ‘the prevalence of small-scale industry in Oldham did much to enable masters and men to ‘harmonize and unite in some common remedy’, as was possible in Birmingham’.