Koditschek Theodore. Liberalism, Imperialism, and the Historical Imagination: Nineteenth-Century Visions of a Greater Britain

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rescue his religion from persecution. Fleets and armies, collected to withstand

him, had without a struggle, submitted to his orders. Factions and sects, divided

by mortal antipathies, had recognised him as their common head ... In a few weeks

he had changed the relative position of all the states in Europe, and had restored

the equilibrium which the preponderance of one power had destroyed.

This over-reliance on the mystique of the manly, plenipotent William is

symptomatic of a deeper problem in Macaulay’s epic strategy: for

“William” has almost ceased to be a real historical actor. He is in danger

of becoming an artiﬁcial plot device, invoked to negotiate the treacherous

currents of the 1689–99 period, and for banishing the dread specter of

renewed popular agency.

Macaulay’s own death in 1859 – just after he

had buried William in his book – meant that we cannot say how he would

have extended his continuitarian narrative of English/British progress

without the binding glue of William to make the center hold. Yet in the

later volumes that he lived to complete, we can already see the problems

that such a work would have faced. All the vicissitudes of the 1690s – the

French Wars, the 1692 Bubble, the renewal of the EIC Charter, and

the Darien Fiasco of 1698 – gravely challenge Macaulay’s romance of

the via media. Once Whig and Tory factionalism re-emerge on the narra-

tive surface, we may legitimately question what enduring gains 1688 has

achieved.

While Macaulay’s mature essays on the Augustan and Georgian periods,

“War of Succession in Spain” (1833), “Horace Walpole” (substantially

about Robert Walpole, 1833), “Chatham” (1844), and “William Pitt”

(1859), are no substitutes for the epic narrative that remained unwritten,

they give us some idea of how he might have treate d the develo pments

of the eighteenth century. In each cas ethereisamoreorlessunsatis-

factory effort to ﬁnd an heroic manly ﬁgure who can advance the linear

ascent of progress through a corrupt and confusing age.

So far from

propelling the continuitarian narrative, however, these essays only

MHE, II: 205, 422–506, III: 1–101, 196–299, quote on 38. Macaulay had been reﬂecting

on the historical role of William since 1822, when he had written a college prize essay on

the subject, “Essay on the Life and Character of King William III,” printed with editorial

comment by A. N. L. Munby in the Times Literary Supplement (London), May 1, 1969,

468–9.

MHE, III: 38. See also Macaulay’s description of William’s heroism on the battleﬁeld, in

MHE, III: 502.

MHE, IV, V, passim. The one partial exception here is in the handling of the Bubble and

recession of 1692, which is masterful, considering the time when it was written.

“War of Succession in Spain,”“Horace Walpole,” and “Chatham” (William Pitt the Elder),

in MEL, 238–66, 267–87, 288–313 respectively, and “William Pitt” (the Younger), in

MMW, 395–436. For other relevant essays on eighteenth-century English themes see

“Boswell’s ‘Life of Johnson’” and “Life and Writings of Addison,” in MEL, 160–85 and

699–744 respectively, and “Samuel Johnson,” in MMW, 372–95.

The historical romance of the British center 135

serve to reinforce the conclusion that the modern (nineteenth-century)

progress that Macaulay celebrated at the start of his book was not the

direct result of 1688. On the contrary, it represented a much later

reaction against the corruption and degeneracy of the eighteenth cen-

tury. Yet to acknowledge these inglor ious eighteenth-century realities

openly would have cast doubt on the signiﬁcance of 1688 in setting a vital

center in continuous motion, or of putting the nation on an inevitable

path of social and political improvement. The only essays that seem to

work in this way are the two that Maca ulay wrote on Robert Clive and

Warren Hastings betw een 1839 and 1841, just as his work on the Histor y

was getting underway.

7 Peripheral nightmares: the Indian and Irish

centers do not hold

That Macaulay fell so easily into the romance of Clive and Hastings was,

in no small part, because their story was his own. As ambitious young

aspirants who were compelled to seek their fortunes in India because of

the dearth of opportunities available at home, they were eighteenth-

century precursors of himself. In 1743, Clive shipped out without resour-

ces or prospects. Seventeen years later, he returned in a shower of riches ,

having transformed the EIC into the ruler of Bengal. Clive’s triumph,

Macaulay shows, was partly a matter of luck and timing. But it was also a

consequence of his qualities of truculence and daring that emboldened

him to seize every opportunity that came his way. Like all Macaulay

heroes, Clive is presented as a paragon of manly self-possession. He was

prepared to take risks to achieve great objects, but he was always hard-

headed, even-tempered, and disinclined toward needless extravagance.

The story of Hastings, a generation later, was similar, although by now

the British were more ﬁrmly entrenched. In contrast to Clive, who was

primarily a soldier, Hastings was a scholar and an administrator who

secured British control over Indian institutions and (perhaps most impor-

tantly) made the Indian Empire pay. Equally adept at commanding

troops, managing subordinates, drafting position papers, and vanquishing

opponents in policy debates, Hastings also embodied those manly qual-

ities of self-assurance that enabled true Englishmen to dominate those

who (like the native Ben galis) were feckless and irresolute.

One of the most striking features of these two essays is the way

Macaulay makes it clear from the ﬁrst sentence that they are intended

“Clive,” in MEL, 502–47; “Hastings,” in MEL, 602–67.

136 Imagining a Greater Britain

for metropolita n audiences. Whereas the author of the epic of 1688

envisions a universal readership, in “Clive” he explicitly enjoins his fellow

Britons to take an interest in “the actions of our great countrymen in

the East.” Contrasting the British conquest of India with the Spanish

conquest of America, he notes that “the people of India, when we subdued

them, were ten times as numerous as the Americans whom the Spaniards

had vanquished, and were at the same time quite as highly civilized as the

victorious Spaniards.” In contrast to the blanket denunciations of Mill,

Macaulay emphasizes the wealth and sophistication of Mughal India.

“They had reared cities larger and fairer than Saragossa or Toledo, and

buildings more beautiful and costly than the cathedral of Seville.”

Indeed, India’s weakness was its over-civilization during the early modern

period, a decadence reminiscent of the Roman Empire just before its

collapse: “A succes sion of nominal sovereigns, sunk in indolence and

debauchery, sauntered away life in secluded palaces, chewing bang, fon-

dling concubines and listening to buffoons. A succession of ferocious

invaders descended through the western passes to prey on the defenseless

wealth of Hindustan.”

It was thus to spare the Indians a millennium of dark ages that the

British intervened on the subcontinent during the eighteenth century. In

the beginning, Macaulay acknowledges, the ﬁrst generation of Britons

who appeared in India were scarcely distinguishable from the horde of

other plunderers and predators who picked at the corpse of the Mughal

regime. The role of Clive and Hastings in Macaulay’s imperial romance is

to effect the necessary transformation in Britain’s Indian administration

from the ﬁrst Empire of pillaging freebooters to his own second Empire of

improvement and utility.

Since these men could not be depicted as both

tyrants and liberators, Macaulay’s vacillation between the characteriza-

tions imparts an undertone of defe nsiveness into his accou nt of their

glorious escapades. Was Clive’s conquest of Bengal really undertaken

for the cause of justice, or so that he could appropriate “between two

and three hundred thousand pounds,” and then be “astonished at his own

moderation”? His reorganization of the Bengali government under direct

British rule was followed within three years by a devastating famine in

which a third of the popula tion died. Were the new British ofﬁcials in any

way responsible for this disaster, or did British proﬁteers beneﬁt from

“Clive,” in MEL, 502–25, quote on 645. Note how Macaulay effortlessly locates

eighteenth-century India in the scale of civilization as a bit more civilized than sixteenth-

century Spain. Thus he accomplishes en passant (and rather more favorably to the Indians)

the laborious task that took James Mill six tedious volumes.

“Clive,” in MEL, 507.

“Clive,” in MEL, 502–47; “Hastings,” in MEL, 636.

Peripheral nightmares 137

starvation and dearth? “There is no reason,” Macaulay avows, “for think-

ing that they either proﬁted or aggravated an evil which physical causes

sufﬁciently explain.” In the case of Hastings, the gap between aspiration

and achievement was even more striking. Lover of oriental literature and

learning, he accumulated a thick dossier of peculation, evidence tamper-

ing, and judicial murde r along the way to his impeachment trial.

Notwithstanding these lapses (which were scarcely minor), Macaulay is

determined to praise Clive and Hastings for introducing honesty into

Indian politics for the ﬁrst time.

English valour and English intelligence have done less to extend and preserve our

Oriental empire than English veracity. All that we could do by imitating the

doublings, the evasions, the ﬁctions, the perjuries which have been employed

against us, is as nothing, when compared with what we have gained by being the

one power in India on whose word reliance can be placed.

And yet were Clive and Hast ings actually honest? Macaulay has to

acknowledge that, in practice, they were not. “He [Clive] knew that the

standard of morality among the natives of India differed widely from that

established in England. He kne w that he had to deal with men destitute of

what in Europe is called honor, with men who woul d give any promise

without hesitation, and break any promise without shame.” And so, in

India, Clive and Hastings became as deceitful and duplicitous as the

people they ruled.

Unable to reclaim his heroes for the causes of truth and justice, the

historian can only attribute their shortcomings to the pollut ed environ-

ment in which they worked.

The physical organization of the Bengali is feeble even to the point of effeminacy.

He lives in a constant vapour bath. His pursuits are sedentary, limbs delicate,

his movements languid ... During many ages he has been trampled upon by

men of bolder and more hardy breeds. [He] shrinks from bodily exertion; and

though voluble in dispute and singularly pertinacious in the war of chicane, he

seldom engages in personal conﬂict, and scarcely ever enlists as a soldier ...There

never, perhaps, existed a people so thoroughly ﬁtted by nature and habit for a

foreign yoke.

If we recall Macaulay’s Minute, with its dismissal of racial differences

and its aspiration to make moral Englishmen out of “Indians in colour

and blood,” these insinuations of the inherent servility of Bengalis come as

a shock. They strike a false note in the author’s celebrations of British

“Clive,” in MEL, 502–47, and “Hastings,” in MEL, 602–68, quotes on 527, 542, and

543–4.

“Clive,” in MEL, 521, 526.

“Clive,” in MEL, 517; “Hastings,” in MEL, 611.

138 Imagining a Greater Britain

India. Did he secretly doubt the beneﬁcence of its own administration, or

its utilitarian power to bring Indians the gift of modernity? Could some

fatality in the extremes of India’s hothouse environment leave the British

themselves un-manned and de-centered, once they too acclimatized to

this torrid periphery? In the privacy of a letter to his sister, Macaulay

acknowledged “the truth that every enemy is formidable in India. We

are strangers there. We are as one in two or three thousand to the natives.

The higher classes whom we have deprived of their power would do

anything to throw off our yoke. A serious check in any part of India

would raise half the country against us.”

After Hastings, Macaulay had little more to say about India, and it

was with relief that he turned from these conundrums of imperial

coercion to his metropolitan romance of English liberty. Yet the two

could not be quite so easily separated. By the time he reached volume III

of his epic, he found that the Irish Question had rudely intruded on the

Glorous Revolution in the home country. “When the historian ... turns to

Ireland,” he reluctantly acknowledged, “his task becomes peculiarly difﬁ-

cult and delicate. The seventeenth century has, in that unhappy country,

left to the nineteenth a fatal heritage of malignant passions.” In a judicious

show of apparent impartiality, Macaulay avows that “neither of the hostile

castes can justly be absolved from blame.” Yet the historian knows that the

crux of this problem is that the two sides were unevenly matched. “Though

four ﬁfths of the population of Ireland were Celtic and Roman Catholic,

more than four ﬁfths of the property of Ireland belonged to the Protestant

Englishry.”

In his youth, Macaulay might have interpreted these inequalities as the

creative basis for class struggle – an opportunity to redress the grievances

of a rising subject people, through an auspicious dose of progressi ve

reform. In Parliament, he had vociferously defended the rights of Irish

Catholics, and supported their demand s for equality before the law. But

now, in his History, the mature Macaulay seems immobilized by the Irish

conﬂict, which appears as a hopeless labyrinth, in which progress does not

advance, and the center does not hold. Although Macaulay makes a judi-

cious show in assigning both sides responsibility for this disaster, he

exculpates Britain’s Glorious Revolutionaries for this inglorious disaster

that plays out on Irish ground. On the contrary, it is the Irish Catholics

who precipitated the catastrophe of 1690 by indulging in a reactionary

conspiracy to bring back the Stuarts.

For thus allowing themselves to be

made into the dupes of a despot (James II), Ireland’s Catholics were

TBM to E. Cropper, June 27, 1834, in PLM, III: 50.

Quotes in MHE, II: 97, and III: 123.

MHE, II: 104–5.

Peripheral nightmares 139

reduced to a condition of despotism. In Macaulay’s eyes, this despotism

can be explained, if no t entirely justiﬁed, by emphasizing the cultural

backwardness of the victims, even by dropping hints of their innate

inferiority. “No man of English blood then regarded the aboriginal Irish

as his countrymen. They did not belong to our branch of the great

human family. They were distinguished from us by more than one

moral and intellec tual peculiarity, which the difference of situation and

of education ... do not seem altogether to explain.”

In 1690, when these barbarians rose up to throw off the yoke of their

Anglo-Saxon liberators, their true incapacity for self-government was

revealed for all to see.

The destruction of property which took place within a few weeks would be

incredible if it were not attested by witnesses unconnected with each other ...

All agreed in declaring that it would take many years to repair the waste ... The

Protestants described with contemptuous disgust the strange gluttony of their

newly liberated slaves. The carcasses, half raw, and half burned to cinders, some-

times still bleeding, sometimes in a state of loathsome decay, were torn to pieces

and swallowed without salt, bread, or herbs.

These brutal creatures, scarcely superior to the animals that they bestia-

lized, could only gain from the sometimes-less-than-benevolent despotism

that Protestant Anglo-Saxon settlers re-imposed. Macaulay will not quite

defend their colonial rule of insolence and injustice, but their “power [was]

derived from superior intelligence,” from their exceptional “knowledge,

energy, and perseverance,” which concentrated the best qualities of the

lands from which they came. It is striking how Macaulay’s English Puritans

and Scots Presbyterians – the very men who had been troublemakers and

“austere fanatics” in the broils of the mother country – suddenly trans-

formed themselves into stalwart, resourceful frontiersmen at the moment

when they usefully emigrated across the Irish Sea.

In Macaulay’s account

of the brutal Irish War, with its heroic climax in the siege of Londonderry,

his romance of liberal imperialism suddenly takes an unexpected turn. In

Scotland, in America, and perhaps even in India, the colonized natives are

becoming candidates for civilization. In Ireland, however, they are deni-

grated as hereditary inferiors – menials to be subjected more or less indef-

initely to an authoritarian power. What can account for this sudden reversal

of rhetoric?

One obvious explanation is that Macaulay is angry at the Irish for having

spoiled his Gloriou s Revolution: for having forced him (and his readers)

reluctantly to see that the deliverance and emancipation of England (and/

MHE, II: 325–6, III: 125–6.

MHE, III: 152–3.

140 Imagining a Greater Britain

or Britain) is inextricably interconnected with the conquest and subjuga-

tion of the periphery. Yet Macaulay might have chosen to separate his

narratives, walling off his Irish story from the British m ain event. In this

reading, William’s victory over James would continue to be celebrated.

But the subsequent penal laws and decades of religious persecution could

be written off as a regrettable instance of imperialist oppression, all too

much of a piece with the retrogressive Empire of the mercantilist age.

Here the rhetorical strategy would be to point out all the ways in which the

Anglo-Irish connection had been transformed and liberalized by the nine-

teenth century: the repeal of the penal laws, the Act of Union, Catholic

Emancipation, the rise of O’Connell, the appearance of benevolent

Protestant landlords like the Edgeworths. Macaulay was perfectly well

aware of all these arguments, for he had articulated them many times in

his Parliamentary speeches over the years. In the 1820s, he had been

a staunch supporter of Catholic Emancipation. Yet Ireland remained an

anomaly. Culturally and economically too remote to be fully incorporated

into Britain, it remained physically too close to be romanticized away as

some exotic jewel in the Imperial Crown.

Then, in the late 1840s, just as he was pr eparing to write his account of

the Irish War of 1690, the Great Famine struck. It seems likely that the

tenor of his account in the History was as much affected by the events of

the 1840s as by those of the 1690s. In the late summer of 1849, Macaulay

paid a visit to Ireland to gather materials for the coming volume of his

History. He was profoundly disturbed by what he saw.

From Limerick to Killarney, and from Killarney to Cork, I hardly knew whether to

laugh or cry. Hundreds of dwellings in ruins, abandoned by the late inmates, who

have ﬂed to America; the labouring people dressed literally, not rhetorically, worse

than the scarecrows of England; the children of whole villages turning out to beg of

every coach and every car that goes by.

How was this catastrophe in modern Ireland to be explained? The country

had now enjoyed over two centuries of Anglo-Saxon tutelage. The Union

of 1800 had afforded political and economic integration into the multi-

national British, imperial state. The legitimate grievances long nursed by

Irish Catholics had, for the most part, been satisfactorily redressed. For

“The State of Ireland,” in MMW, 642–7. Hall, “At Home with History,” notes that “the

Empire was banished to the margins of his [Macaulay’s] volumes” (49). On the other

hand, his account of the Irish campaign reﬂects his recognition that the two could not be

separated.

See, for example, Macaulay’s speeches on pre-famine Ireland: “Union with Ireland,”

“State of Ireland,”“Maynooth,” and “Church of Ireland,” in MMW, 535–43, 641–57,

680–700; CM, 229–30.

Quoted in TLL, II: 202. See also Macaulay, Journals, II: 125–45.

Peripheral nightmares 141

decades, the Irish had enjoyed the beneﬁts of full access to the British

economic miracle with its open sesame of migration and emancipated

trade. What had been the consequences of these advantages? A blight of

biblical proportions, which had reduced the population to starv ation and

savagery!

Who was responsible for this incomprehensible disaster? Such a ques-

tion was bound to bring out all of Macaulay’s unctuous defensiveness.

Certainly not the British governments that he had so effectively served.

Certainly not his own brother-in-law, Charles Trevelyan, who was

now the senior Treasury ofﬁcial in charge of emergency famine relief.

Trevelyan was the best of the rising generation of colonial administrators

with whom Macaulay had worke d closely in India. At considerable emo-

tional cost, he had given his sister away to this man in marriage. In the

famine, Trevelyan had done everything consistent with humanity and

sound policy to relieve distress. For this disaster, the Irish could have

only themselves to blame. “I cannot mend this state of things,” he senten-

tiously closed his description, “and so there is no use in breaking my heart

about it. ”

Since the British imperialist could not accept responsibility

for the fruits of his dominance, the dominated had to be impugned and

the victims had to be blamed. If the Catholic Celt had been unable to

beneﬁt from eight generations of British opportunity, then the explanation

must be that he suffers from some irre mediable cultural or organic deﬁ-

ciency. The secret source of the Irish disaster of the 1840s had not lain in

the Irish War of the 1690s. The Irish peasant was starving not because his

ancestors had been conquered. On the contrary, both the starvation and

the conquest could be interpreted as outward badges of his inherent

inferiority.

From his account of the “Inglorious Revolution ” in seventeenth-

century Ireland, no less than from his own reaction to the Great Famine

of the ninetee nth century, Macaulay might have questioned some of

his most fundamental assumptions: that British identity opened the

path to economic emancipation; that British imperial expansion was the

recipe for the universalization of English liberty. In his mind, however,

the cases of Ireland and, to a lesser extent, India always remained

troubling anomali es. The reverberations of brutal revolt with sharp

repression, which had resounded the discordant note of Irish and Indian

discontinuity, had to be seen as deviations from the consensual norms of

unilinear British history. To explain these deviations from the “manly”

center, Indians and Irishmen had to be cast as either infantile or

For a recent study of British governmental response to the famine see Peter Gray, Famine,

Land and Politics: British Government and Irish Society, 1843–1850 (Dublin, 1999).

142 Imagining a Greater Britain

effeminate – which attributes were then taken as justiﬁcations for their

exclusion from English liberty.

8 The reception of Macaulay’s History

On December 2, 1848, a crowd of eager customers gathered at the ofﬁces

of Longmans in Paternoster Row, awaiting the ﬁrst two volumes of

Macaulay’s History of England from the Accession of James the Second.

Within three months, 13,000 copies had been sold in Britain, and

100,000 in the United States. To a world still reeling from the shock of

revolution, this paean to consensus came as a welcome relief. Indeed, the

enthusiasm that greeted the book’s appearance seems astonishing to our

jaded, media-saturated age. “The ﬁrst volume was cut and read aloud

after breakfast without a break until luncheon hour,” Lady Frances

Balfour later recalled, “after which the reading was resumed until the

shades of evening drew on.” Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot) found the

History “delightful.” Thackeray thought it as beguiling as a sparkling

dinner party. Lord Auckland r esented a friend who interrupted his read-

ing. The ﬁfteen-year-old future Lord Acton read it four times. Even as

far away as County Longford, the eighty-two-year-old Maria Edgeworth

pronounced it a most enjoyable book.

Within fairly short ord er, Macaulay’s History was translated into all the

major European languages. When the third and fourth volumes were

published, in 1855, there was another, even more spectacular explosion

of sales. By 1863, in Britain alone, 267,000 volumes had been sold. By

1875, when a new wave of che ap editions had begun to appear, 133,653

copies of volume I were in circulation. Meanwhile, the Collected Essays

and Speeches were selling nearly as well.

By the end of the century, it

seems likely that over 1,000,000 volumes by Macaulay had been placed in

circulation. To say that Macaulay’s books were bestsellers then is some-

thing of an understatement. The numbers alone make it clear that they

replaced the novel not only on the night tables of ladies, but in the arm-

chairs of many other readers as well. When we consider that many of these

Amy Cruse, The Victorians and their Reading (Boston, 1935), 314–15; TLL, II: 204–6;

Gertrude Himmelfarb, Lord Acton: A Study in Conscience and Politics (Chicago, 1952), 25;

Hugh MacDonald, Racial Myth in English History: Trojans, Teutons and Anglo-Saxons

(Hanover, 1982), 108. For Macaulay’s own reaction to the acclaim, see Journals, II:

10–34, 46–9, 65–71.

TLL, II: 182–90; Edwards, Macaulay, 50; Thomas Pinney, “Preface,” in PLM, V: vii–ix;

Richard D. Altick, The English Common Reader: A Social History of the Mass Reading Public,

1800–1900 (Chicago, 1957), 296, 310, 388. According to Blackwood’s, the History had

“been read by almost every person in the three kingdoms pretending to intelligence”; see

Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 490.80 (Edinburgh, 1856), 126–41, quote on 128.

The reception of Macaulay’s History 143

copies were purchased by lending libraries, and were passed along

through many hands, it is clear that Macaulay’s readership went beyond

the middle class. In Manchester, a group of workers voted him thanks “for

having written a history which worki ng men can understand.” The avail-

ability of cheap editions, from the 1860s onward, also made it a book that

working men could afford. “From Eton and Harrow down to an elemen-

tary school in St. Giles and Bethnal Green,” declared John Morley in

1881, “ Macaulay’s Essays are a textbook.”

What did these readers, from so many different backgrounds, geo-

graphical locales, and walks of life, make of Maca ulay’s works? The ﬁrst,

overwhelming reaction was simply to be seduced by the brilliant sparkle of

the romance. If we understand both the History and the later Essays not

simply as calculated political and historiographical interventions, but also

as subliminal love letters to his departed sisters – graven monuments to

the memory of happier days – this reaction begins to make more sense.

Macaulay had poured all his formidable emotional, intellectual, and

rhetorical powers into producing works that would be both instructive

and entertaining. The overwhelming response from the public indicated

how well he had succeeded in this aim. The rolling periods, the thrusting

narration, the telling juxtapositions, and the middlebrow sensibility were

each enormously seductive. His ability to paint vivid word-pictures, to

place his common readers in the company of the powerful and at the

center of events, all contributed to his appeal.

Drawn in by the lure of Macaulay’s romance, it was all too easy to assent

implicitly to the message that was being transmitted to the various out-

siders, who stood some paces back behind the author, outside the

Establishment’s gates. “A people which takes no pride in the noble

achievements of remote ancestors,” Macaulay reminded these aspirants,

“will never achieve anything worthy to be remembered with pride by

remote descendants.” It mattered little that all the Macaulayite heroes –

Sydney, William, Bentinck, and Fox – were not the biological ancestors of

his readers.

In buying the romance, they were grandfathered into the

progress narrative that it expressed. Instructed in the path that led to

enfranchisement, these others would be emboldened to the deeds of

political cons equence that their own descendants (biological or otherwise)

would, in future, recount with pride. Thus understood, history became a

call to action. What the British gentry had gained in 1688, and the British

Cruse, Victorians and their Reading, 127, quote on 295; Altick, English Common Reader,

160–1, 182, 296; Clive, Not by Fact Alone,83–4; John Morley, Nineteenth Century Essays

(Chicago, 1970), 73–97, quote on 74.

Clive, Not by Fact Alone,83–5.

MHE, III: 191.

144 Imagining a Greater Britain