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The Invention of the Modern World 14.

Spring-Summer Serial 2012.

Chapter 14: MYTHS OF UNITY

 By Alan Macfarlane.

BY THE LATE Anglo-Saxon period, England was not only a State but also a Nation. By then, a common language, law, currency and government largely unified the country. This sense of unity and pride in the English nation can then be found throughout the rest of English history, but it was taught indirectly.

The Scotsman Lord Kames was disappointed that the rulers of Britain were not taught patriotism at their boarding schools. ‘It is deplorable that, in English public schools, patriotism makes no branch of education: young men, on the contrary, are trained up to selfishness.’1 The same was true at my preparatory and public school. But the reason seems clear. There was no need to teach patriotism overtly – it was assumed that as we learnt about the glorious history, literature and inventions of our nation in numerous lessons and on playgrounds with our friends, we would pick up a deep sense of loyalty and patriotic warmth. We did not need to be taught. Unlike other larger European countries like Italy or Germany which remained States but not Nations until the nineteenth century, England felt itself to be united from very early on. The famous speech before the Battle of Agincourt  in Shakespeare’s play Henry V is but a late echo of this.

When trying to understand the central core of his adopted England, Huizinga believed that it was an ancient and powerful myth of unity, of ‘We the English’, or ‘We the British’, which covered over the reality that it was a nation composed of people of diverse origins. He believed that ‘the one and only distinctive quality of the British was their exceptionally strong love of country, patriotism, nationalism, civic sense, tribal instinct or whatever one liked to call it…’ As to what caused this, Huizinga admitted, ‘I have no idea … nor ever would have. Not having been born among them nor brought up in their patriotic faith nor having fought with them, I could obviously never hope to “get religion” and thus be vouchsafed the revelation myself.’2 I was brought up in this nationalist religion and may be able to provide a few further clues as to what causes it.

Even if he did not understand its origins it is intriguing that Huizinga, from the famously independent and nationalist Holland, should feel that ‘in so far as one can speak of a distinctive national character at all, religious, mystical patriotism more than love of freedom was its central feature… an intense, overriding patriotism was indeed the quality that more than anything else distinguished the English from other peoples.’ Of course, the unity is mythical, or, in the modern jargon, the English had ‘imagined’ their community in the face of all its divisions. Huizinga recognized this: ‘… every political entity, however closely knit, was essentially a myth and only able to manifest itself as reality by virtue of the believers’ willingness to live up to – and, if need be, die for – their myth. The strength of their belief, and not whether they had chosen to inscribe it on tablets of stone or merely to carry it in their hearts, was what really mattered.’3

WHAT IS MORE, such was the strength of this sentiment, and the peculiar practice of sending children home from the Empire that England was later carried everywhere. The sentiment of Sir Thomas Brown was prevalent. ‘All places, all airs make unto me one country; I am in England, everywhere, and under any meridian’.4

The English made their Empire in their image and carried ‘the home country’ in their hearts.  Of course nearly all countries carry their own culture with them – overseas French, Italians, Chinese, Indians. What is special is the artificial way in which by sending their children back to the motherland for ten or more years of intensive indoctrination in ‘Englishness’, this was refreshed and the children, on the whole, did not ‘go native’. I experienced this in my life. I was trained to be ‘English’, learning the history and culture which define me.

What we were learning during our days at school was to recognize the powerful symbols of our imperial identity. It is these shared symbols that make a community hold together – the flag, the mottoes, the music, the art, the processions and the pomp hold together far flung people. People become ‘we’ when they share symbols, feel them in the blood, distinguish themselves from others who have their own different system.

So we were learning the pomp and majesty, the ‘habits of the heart’ of being united – though we might be spread six thousand miles apart. Through sports triumphs, through the symbols of common religious heritage, Christmas as a family feast, Easter Eggs, Goodwood and the Boat Race, we ‘felt’ linked together even if there was no Internet or television. All this came together when a new monarch was crowned. I was a little boy of twelve at school, watching it on television, but sensed something of what Huizinga witnessed the at the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953. What struck him ‘as much as anything in this superb spectacle was the primitive, tribal aspect of the ritual.’ Later he notes that the ‘ceremony had been unique also in its mingling of fantasy and reality, past and present, superb charade and solemn constitutional act, Christian dedication and tribal sacrifice, hymn and martial trumpets.’5

Anthropologists distinguish between ritual and ceremonial or secular rituals. Puritan England is not over-fond of ritual (in the sense of actions which automatically have spiritual effects, such as the Catholic mass), but as I have seen in England, we are a ceremonial people. We put on big shows, whether our own such as the Coronation, or those of our ex-colonial peoples, such as Carnival. We put large emphasis on the processes of symbolic unity, though we are also suspicious of submerging ourselves in the crowd. These British mass ceremonials were also important in various parts of the overseas Empire, as in the Indian durbars.

These ceremonials had a strange feeling about them. Maillaud described two Coronations he had witnessed in England which ‘have left on my mind a single impression: a feeling of “out-of-timeness”, by which I mean something very different from archaism. the sensation was not that the clock had been put back some hundreds of years because the rites performed, the scenes enacted and garments worn had not changed for centuries; it was that what I saw and heard did exist irrespective of time and present circumstances, and that both were transcended. Here was a national symbol of permanence beyond the reach of contingency.’6

The pleasure of these large ceremonials is to have a well ordered, concerted, unified and dignified process. And we were trained at school how to behave and react during them. We learnt, for example, how important our house and school colours, crests, mottoes, flags and songs were. We were deeply affected as we processed onto the stage after the grueling ten-mile run and sang the school song.

The point about symbols is that they are multi-stranded and can be read by many different peoples in different ways, yet they unite. The inner feelings of thousands watching the Remembrance Day laying of wreaths at the Cenotaph or the Christmas lights in Piccadilly are all different – but each is united to the others by the focus on the symbol.

THE BRITISH, LIKE all peoples in civilizations with writing, have a vast range of stories about their history and attributes. These tell us a great deal about what they think themselves to be. They have also contributed powerfully to our current world through the spread of British culture, often by way of America. British poetry, drama, novels and children’s stories are a notable contribution to the stock of the world’s great literatures, alongside the great traditions of India, China, Japan and Russia.

Let me start with the literature. Here several features stand out. One is the continuity and continuing intellectual and emotional resonance of the works. Beowulf, Gawain, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, the Romantics, the great eighteenth and nineteenth novelists, all seem alive today. It is seamless. There are great differences between Chaucer and Dickens, or between Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde, but there are also continuities.

At a deeper level, it would seem that much of the great literature in Britain has been about certain themes or contradictions which, as Levi-Strauss argues, is the essence of myth, trying to express some of the most intractable contradictions of our divided and uncertain modern world. There is predestination and free-will (Shakespeare, Milton, Hardy); love and duty (Shakespeare and Jane Austen); mortality and immortality, social class and social conformity (Swift, Pope, Austen, Wilde, Shaw).

I think that the reason why we find this corpus is still alive, that Shakespeare and Wyatt and Spenser still amuse and amaze us, and even Chaucer feels relevant, is that they are all ‘modern’ in the sense which I have defined. We recognized the conflicting emotions, the contradictions of head and heart, the divided oppositions,  the profit motives, the individualism and conformity, the class and gender oppositions, the loneliness and the fun. Yet when Shakespeare’s ‘King Lear’ was taken to a very different setting as in the Japanese filmmaker Kurosawa’s Ran, it has to be totally changed in its inner dynamic to fit with another emotional world.

So the literature provides the introspective playing with irresolvable oppositions which continues through the great children’s story traditions. The folk traditions of the Grimm Brothers, Perault or Hans Anderson are not to be matched in England – though there is something of them in Celtic folklore. Instead the world of Alice in Wonderland, The Wind in the Willows and the stories Beatrix Potter up to the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter and Narnia is something special – modern in its characterization and concepts.

There is something special about this literature which I have found well expressed by French observers. It is partly to do with fantasy and imagination. As Maillaud wrote,  one word which captures the  essence of a part of Englishness is  ‘fancy’. ‘It conveys to my mind a combination of qualities which have been traditionally characteristic of the English: not only fantasy of which it is the contraction, but nimble freedom of will, dislike of rational obligations, whim and imaginative moodiness. The word has, so to speak, a propulsive suggestion; yet, like all others, it also has its brakes: reserve, a touch of shyness, some elusiveness, and an instinctive reluctance to follow any pursuit, cultivate any taste, or carry any belief to the point of mental strain.’7

Or, to put it in another way, there is a kind of escape from the heavy weight of too much rationality and this-worldliness. Cammaerts writes of this when he draws attention to the strong tradition of nonsense verse in England, which again links to children’s stories:

Of all the surprises I experienced in the course of my study of English literature, the most striking was the discovery of the poetry of nonsense.  (Lear, Carroll, Belloc, Kipling et al) … How was I to explain the care lavished by some of the best modern English poets on a world of topsy-turvydom and freakishness?’ He thought that  ‘There seems little doubt that, like many excellent things, the poetry of nonsense was born in the / nursery, and that the attraction it still has for adult writers and readers is due to the hold that the nursery retains on them. The child possesses a powerful imagination, yet he moves in a narrow world. His only means of satisfying this imagination is either by “slipping through the crack” into a new world of dream and wonder, or by upsetting completely the conventional relation of the objects with which he comes into contact… In other words, the child-poet may either fly to the moon or compel the cow to jump over it.8

  

IT IS A noticeably ‘modern’ literature that I learnt at school. My reading at secondary school was Chaucer (in depth over two years) Shakespeare (seven plays over four years)), Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ (books 1 and 2), and the Metaphysicals, then Dryden, Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge, Shelley and Gerard Manley Hopkins. We also studied Samuel Johnson, Hazlitt’s Spirit of the Age and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and the Brontes. We were learning a literary landscape which would mean that later in our lives, as we travelled round the country, it resonated with associations, weaving together my past and present with ties that fed my patriotism:  ‘the landscape of England is the landscape of its imaginative inheritance. The Chilterns are Bunyan’s Delectable Mountains, Langland’s Field of Folk lies beneath the Herefordshire Beacon, Dorset belongs to Hardy, Sussex to Kipling, George Herbert claims Wiltshire as powerfully as Wordsworth the Lake District, Jane Austen Hampshire or Emily Brontë the moors of west Yorkshire.’9

I was soaked in all this so that, as I pined in foreign parts – as an eighteen year old lonely, homesick, seasick – on a Norwegian cargo ship, I wrote to my parents for a copy of the famous speech of Bolingbroke when he was exiled from England in Shakespeare’s Richard II. It still spoke to me and soothed me. The British Empire was held together by the shared tradition of ‘Once More into the Breach …’, ‘To Be or Not to Be’,  ‘My heart aches and …’,  ‘Silent, upon a peak in Darien’. We were British middle class because our hearts were filled with the nationalistic, joyful, yet moving ‘slow sad music of humanity’, through our poetry and literature which bound us to our ‘emerald isle’ and to each other, just as other countries are united by the Bagavad Ghita or The Dream of the Red Chamber or The Tale of Genji.

Our romantic ruralism was partly a product of our far-flung Empire. As Raymond Williams wrote of England, ‘Its green peace contrasted with the tropical or arid places of actual work; its sense of belonging, of community, idealized by contrast with the tensions of colonial rule and the isolated alien settlement. The birds and trees and rivers of England; the natives speaking, more or less, one’s own language: these were the terms of many imagined and actual settlements. The country, now, was a place to retire to.’10 Abroad was a temporary posting, the heart was always in England. Here the English were different from many imperial races, as Elspeth Huxley observed of East Africa, ‘Africa … is seldom home. He[the white official]  is a man of divided loyalties, looking back and looking forward to the first and the last periods of his life spent in another continent, and with other ties. This is where he differs most from the settler, the European who has come to Africa to make his home, as a white African to live and die.’11

WE WERE ALSO held together by a distinctive representation of history. Our historical tradition began early and it is significant that the first great work, completed in about 731 A.D. by Bede was entitled the Ecclesiastical History of the English People, (or Nation – Gentis Anglorum). England was conceived of by Bede, a century and a half before the final political unification by Alfred the Great, as one people, one nation.

The history was written and re-written over the centuries. For example, Sir John Fortescue in his Governance did not believe that the rich and free land he was describing in the middle of the fifteenth century was new. His explanation for its existence to his royal pupil Henry VI was a combination of natural fertility, limited monarchy and Common Law. He wrote that ‘The customs of England are of most ancient antiquity,’ and traced them back through the Normans, Saxons, Danes, and Romans to the ancient Britons. There had been no basic changes in the customs in the preceding thousand years or more; ‘in the times of these several nations and of their kings this realm was still ruled with the self same customs that it is now governed withal.’12

One could find similar sentiments in many other works.  It is to be found indirectly in books on laws such as Bracton’s great treatise on The Laws and Customs of England in the early thirteenth century, or Coke’s majestic Institutes of the Laws of England in the early seventeenth. It culminated in the  historical accounts of Macaulay, Froude, Green and Maitland and later Trevelyan and Churchill. On the way the Scottish historians, particularly Hume and Robertson, had enriched it.

Much of the history was implicitly or explicitly within what is called the ‘Whig’ theory of history, most famously in Macaulay’s three volume History of England. It was a story of continuous evolution, progress, development, and organic growth from acorn to oak. It spoke of a manifest destiny. It was a suitable origin myth for the greatest Empire in history. It harked back to rougher glories, watched as the Enlightenment added its touch, saw the emergence of reason from the superstitions of the darker past, watched the early stream of the Anglo-Saxons was made broader and stronger by the Vikings, the French, the Huguenots and the Scots. It told how the British never had been slaves, how they still spoke a sturdy language and ate roast beef and good bread.

Shorn of its triumphalism and evolutionary fervour, it reached its highest peak in the works of the late nineteenth century constitutional historians who based themselves on meticulous study of English primary sources. One was William Stubbs, Professor of History at Oxford. In various books he laid out the basis of the system of English government which were complete by the mid-thirteenth century. In fact, it was already old, for the political and social system was already present in Anglo-Saxon England. Stubbs wrote:

The great characteristic of the English constitutional system … the principle of its growth, the secret of its construction, – is the continuous development of representative institutions from the first elementary stage, in which they are employed for local purposes and in the simplest form, to that in which the national parliament appears as the concentration of all local and provincial machinery, the depository of the collective powers of the three estates of the realm.’ It grows out of strong Anglo-Saxon roots and is consolidated by the Normans. In the eleventh and twelfth centuries ‘The nation becomes one and realizes its oneness…. It is completed under Henry II and his sons. It finds its first distinct expression in Magna Carta.’[1215]13

Stubbs was of course aware that there were turmoils ahead and that political and constitutional changes of consider­able importance would occur over the next six centuries. Yet he believed that the basic rules changed little. There is no notion of any ‘revolution’ in Stubbs’s work, no hint of a cataclysmic change from a ‘medieval’ to a ‘modern’ world. This was not because he was blind to changes when they did occur. He noted that the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries ‘witnessed a series of changes in national life, mind, and character, in the relations of the classes, and in the balance of political forces, far greater than the English race had gone through since the Norman Conquest.’ These changes he listed as the Reformation, the ‘transformation of the baronage of early England into the nobility of later times’ and the ‘recovered strength of the monarchic principle…’14 Yet he did not believe that the continuity of English history was ever broken.

Meanwhile F. W. Maitland could end The History of English Law in 1307, for the major foundations of modern law, political organization and society had been established by then. His immense work told a story of continuity with change, constant small shifts but not no revolutionare divide. The theme was summarized in his Constitutional History of England, originally given as a course of lectures at Cambridge.

It was because English history was so continuous that at school we were encouraged to believe that the present could only be understood by studying the long distant past. Maitland’s belief that a lawyer in the late nineteenth century still needed to know a good deal about medieval law was extended over all of our knowledge. To understand democracy, the class system, the Anglican Church, our landscape and art, all required us to go back through the centuries to the Anglo-Saxons. We lived in an old country and to understand our present we must understand our deep past. The past was not a foreign country – or only slightly so.

This was what I learnt at both my schools and also when I studied history at Oxford. The courses started with the Anglo-Saxons and went through until the end of the nineteenth century. It was ‘Our Island Story’ as Churchill called it, a narrative of a hard drinking, hard fighting, games loving, poetic, rough set of islanders who finally became the rulers of a quarter of the world and created the largest revolution in production of recorded history.

The sense of continuity was reinforced in our historical studies and as we looked around us at our leaders (during my school time Sir Alec Douglas-Home, Sir Anthony Eden, Sir Harold Macmillan and others). We could see that England had always been, and still was, a mixture of aristocracy and democracy. As Huizinga observed, English history and culture ‘could be summed up in two interrelated propositions: England was “an aristocratic state, the only one in white civilisation”, and the English aristocracy or gentry, which, again in Belloc’s words, had “created the whole history of England up to our time” and whose traditional way of life still remained the national ideal, had always had its roots in the countryside.’15

The nature of this curious state and its tenacity led to further reflections by the Dutchman Huizinga.  He believed on the basis of his many years in the country that ‘England was essentially still an aristocratic country “in the sense”, as Belloc had said, “that its citizens are ordered, its laws are made and administrated, its customs preserved by a comparatively small governing class and in which such a social structure … and government by gentlemen is found natural”…. I dimly sensed … the British system of government was not representative government or popular government but something very different, Government by the Right People, Government by Gentlemen.’ As he continued to live through a good part of the middle of the twentieth century in England, my original sense of wonder at the discovery in our modern age of the system of government by Gentlemen, or aristo-democracy, has deepened into a sense of marvel at its tenacity, its apparent ability to survive every kind of political, social or economic upheaval.’16

THERE IS A paradox in the English attitude to the past. On the one hand, there is a strong sense that people are ‘living in an old country’. In this view much of our present world has deep roots in ancient times. There have been no ‘revolutions’, except perhaps material and technological ones; the laws, language, customs, politics and landscape go back in a continuous line to the Anglo-Saxons. This is tied in with a love of older things – some valuable, some almost rubbish.

In 1930, Cammaerts wrote, ‘The present is not, for them, a hard line of demarcation between two opposite worlds, but a gentle mist through which they wander leisurely…They travel through time, as they do indeed through space, dragging behind them a quantity of useless luggage.

This kind of box-room or lumber-room is not only characteristic of the English home but of all English institutions. There is a positive objection in England to anything that looks like “scrapping”. Past traditions and titles and costumes are essentially respectable; they may have become useless, but if they do no good they can certainly do no harm, and then – who knows? – there is an attractive element of doubt as their future destiny. The English, for these reasons, preserve their seventeenth-century university gowns, their Warden of the Cinque Ports, and such obsolete ministerial titles as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster and Lord Privy Seal…. The Beefeaters made a good show on the day of the Opening of Parliament, and the Guy Fawkes carnival enlivens the gloom of our November climate.17

The English are filled with nostalgia and memories – though they always believe that this is disappearing. So the museums, the National Trust that was set up to preserve old houses and landscapes, keeping of strange traditions, a desire not to change things, all that is something I have witnessed in the institutions I have moved through.

This does not arise from fear of the future, but respect for the past. ‘The English do not wish to preserve for preservation’s sake, in order to build up a bulwark against forthcoming changes. It is not because they dread the future that they are fond of the past. Alone among nations, they are equally well-disposed towards the Middle Ages and towards the wildest prophecies concerning the present and the coming centuries. … The present is not, for them, a hard line of demarcation between two opposite worlds, but a gentle mist through which they wander leisurely, turning sometimes to the right towards a group of Knights galloping out of a Moat House, sometimes to the left towards a number of Robots flying from the tops of sky-scrapers…’18

Combined with this nostalgia is the feeling that the old ways are best. ‘From this high opinion which the English entertain of their country, and of their nation, it may be explained, why they adhere so much to their old customs, and to certain habits; perhaps, for no other reason, but because they have been told, from their infancy, that nothing is so good and so perfect as Old England.’19 My own experience is reflected in Emerson’s observation of a middle class house. ‘Hither he brings all that is rare and costly, and with the national tendency to sit fast in the same spot for many generations, it comes to be, in the course of time, a museum of heirlooms, gifts, and trophies of the adventures and exploits of the family.’20 As Paxman observes:

Every traditional English family home has a room, a cupboard, an attic, cellar or garage piled with everything from ancient prams to odd rolls of wallpaper in the patterns of twenty years ago, old light-fittings to the boxes in which long-broken electrical appliances were sold. They are kept because “they might come in useful some day”. Really, their pragmatic and sensible owners were just reluctant to part with them.21

The paradox arises from the fact that simultaneously there is an acceptance that the past should no longer dictate the present. Here there is something similar to the Japanese belief that past battles are over – ‘let the dead bury their dead’ – let us forgive and forget the emotions of the past and live into the future. The past is like a finished football game – it was fun to play, we may remember and replay the highlights, but we should not dwell on it too much.

Here the English have exemplified Renan’s famous statement that the art of building a nation consists of ‘the art of forgetting’. The English half forget so much, both the injustices to themselves, and the horrors they committed. They look on the British Empire with a certain complacency, easily forgetting the abominations in the slave trade, the Opium Wars, the Irish or Bengal famines. They stress the positive, asking that sleeping dogs be let to lie, don’t stir up ghosts.

TOCQUEVILLE SUGGESTED THAT egalitarian nations with their disinterest in ancestry cut the web and warp of history. The constant immersion in the pursuit of material goals also altered the whole attitude to time and the momentum of history. Time past was irrelevant. ‘Aristocracy naturally leads the mind back to the past and fixes it in the contemplation thereof. But democracy engenders a sort of instinctive distaste for what is old.’ Tocqueville saw that political, social and physical time is interrelated, an Einsteinian view of the relativity of concepts of time and social relations. ‘Amongst democratic peoples new families are constantly springing up, others are constantly falling away, and all that remain change their condition; the woof of time is ever being broken and the track of generations effaced. Those who went before are soon forgotten; of those who will come after, no one has any idea; the interest of man is confided to shoes in close propinquity to himself.’22

The lack of interest in ancestry was something that also struck Fukuzawa in his visit to America in the early 1870s:

One day, on a sudden thought, I asked a gentleman where the descendants of George Washington might be. He replied, “I think there is a woman who is directly descended from Washington. I don’t know where she is now, but I think I have heard she is married.” His answer was so very casual that it shocked me. Of course, I knew that America was a republic with a new president every four years, but I could not help feeling that the family of Washington would be revered above all other families. My reasoning was based on the reverence in Japan for the founders of the great lines of rulers – like that for Ieyasu of the Tokugawa family of Shoguns, really deified in the popular mind. So I remember the astonishment I felt at receiving this indifferent answer about the Washington family.23

America faced the future and not the past. England is a hybrid case. It reverences and tries to preserve the past and is in some way a vast museum. Yet it also systematically and largely successfully forgets the divisions and conflicts, thus allowing a sense of unity, a combining together at the cenotaph, or the King’s College Carols. ‘Let bygones be bygones’ was a favourite phrase of my mother’s parents and many English would agree.

The synthesis between the desire to retain the past and the urge to forget it, to restlessly seek the new while also not wanting to throw aways the old, is described as a characteristic of modern democratic societies by Tocqueville. ‘I am not making out that the inhabitants of democracies are by nature stationary; on the contrary, I think that such a society is always on the move and that none of its members knows what rest is; but I think that all bestir themselves within certain limits which they hardly ever pass. Daily they change, alter, and renew things of secondary importance, by they are very careful not to touch fundamentals. They love change, but they are afraid of revolutions.’24

With all of this went a sense of the superiority of the English way of life, which could be taken to amusing extremes. Emerson noted in the nineteenth century,  ‘An English lady on the Rhine hearing a German speaking of her party as foreigners, exclaimed, “No, we are not foreigners; we are English; it is you that are foreigners”.25 It became assumed that the English were the standard, normal, rational – foreigners were odd. I was educated to believe this, and to a certain extent this book is an attempt to reverse this and to stress how peculiar and unusual the world I grew up in was (and still is).


The lecture on which this chapter is based:

2012 Serial Index: Introduction and Contents | Preface | Bibliography.

Chapter 14 of The Invention of the Modern World by Alan Macfarlane.

© 2012 Alan Macfarlane. All rights reserved.

NOTES (please see the bibliography for citation details):

  1. Kames, Sketches, II, 249
  2. Huizinga, Confessions, 90.
  3. Huizinga, Confessions, 150, 202
  4. In Quotations (Oxford), 42
  5. Huizinga, Confessions, 153, 202
  6. Maillaud, English, 89.
  7. Maillaud, English, 58.
  8. Cammaerts, English, 159-160.
  9. Paxman, English, 169
  10. Quoted in Paxman, English, 144-5
  11. Huxley, East, 231
  12. Fortescue, Governance, fols, 38, 38v
  13. Stubbs, Constitutional, I, 544-5
  14. Stubbs, Constitutional, III, 3.
  15. Huizinga, Confessions, 61
  16. Huizinga, Confessions, 96, 101
  17. Cammaerts, English, 89
  18. Cammaerts, English, 91
  19. Wendeborn in Wilson, Strange, 133
  20. Emerson, English, 85
  21. Paxman, English, 154
  22. Tocqueville, Democracy, II, 621; Tocqueville, Democracy, (abridged), 193-4
  23. Fukuzawa, Autobiography, 116
  24. Tocqueville, Democracy, II, 828
  25. Emerson, English, 116
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