This chapter considers Francis Kirkman’s Restoration reprints of two anonymous Tudor plays, Gammer Gurton’s Needle and Tom Tyler and His Wife. I argue both the form and contents of these reprints underscore the antiquity of English drama at a moment of its resurrection. The playbooks’ respective paratextual apparatus and contents tether them to the distant cultural and political past, while also gesturing to the extensive dramatic tradition that emerged over the course of a century. Each edition refers to publications or performances “about” or “near a hundred years ago.” Appearing when Restoration drama was developing a new idiom and updating pre-1642 professional plays to suit contemporary tastes, these reprints are resolutely old-fashioned. This essay argues the 1661 reprints of Tudor drama illuminate Restoration drama’s complex negotiation of its dramatic inheritance, in which English drama’s value derives partly from its longevity.

The American Dream and its utopian “America” are tropes that transcend US geographical boundaries. They distinguish between a nation-state and a myth that can be interpreted differently around the world. American popular culture has relied on this myth as a global export, a form of corporate imperialism attempting to Americanize the world – best exemplified by the Hollywood film industry. Recently, however, the global media landscape is more diversified and fragmented due to social media, digital platforms, and streaming services. The transnational success of South Korean popular culture, MTV Europe, and Netflix illustrate how contemporary cultural differences are recognized and absorbed in American-modeled popular entities. For example, the global TV talent shows Pop Idol, American Idol, and The Voice deliver American identification regardless of country of production. Another recent example of unstated “Americanness” as a global phenomenon is singer Taylor Swift, whose worldwide popularity is connected to an explicit cultural identity

The Pilgrim's Guide lingers on descriptions of sculpture around the portals of the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. By contrast, it has nothing to say of the spectacular theophanic tympana completed at Cluny, Autun, Vezelay, Sainte-Foy at Conques, Saint-Pierre at Moissac, Beaulieusur- Dordogne and Paris. It does not even mention the Ascension depicted on the Porte Miegeville at Toulouse. Indeed, beyond his detailed account of the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, the author of the Guide acknowledges few architectural achievements elsewhere. He is content to refer only to the occasional “immense” basilica on the other side of the Pyrenees, which may also be “of admirable workmanship”. Yet, around the time of the compilation of the Codex Calixtinus, an unusual number of churches in Iberia received new facades. In this chapter, I shall argue that they can be seen as reflections of changing institutional identities, parallel to foundation legends and forged charters. Their archives or scriptoria often inform these displays. The backdrop for the new facades was an architectural landscape that preserved a large number of buildings, including palaces and mosques built by the taifa kingdoms and a significant number of Christian structures from the ninth, tenth and eleventh centuries.

Popular culture's interest in the Middle Ages has rarely been as great as it is currently. Fantasy adapts and popularises motifs, archetypes and epistemes of medieval literature and culture. Yet stories such as The Lord of the Rings, The Once and Future King and A Song of Ice and Fire neither revive the Middle Ages as an historical period nor have an interest in a scientifically legitimised representation of the period. In fact, fantasy has a special relationship to the Middle Ages, as ‘[n]eomedievalism finds a way of clinging to the past by rejecting the “history”, the alterity, the time and space that separated it from its desired object and bringing it into the present’. In epic fantasy, medieval motifs, narratives and inventories are removed from their original contexts, recombined and thus transformed within modern narratives and aesthetics. The ‘hyperreal, neomedieval texts’ created produce a simulacrum that appears authentically medieval to the reader. This is how neomedieval narrative worlds are formed: they are not trying to be ‘the Middle Ages’. Rather, they create a ‘secondary Middle Ages’, which in various media (such as literature, film and TV shows) frequently achieve top positions on bestseller lists, in download charts and at the cinema box office. The secondary Middle Ages of fantasy are popular.

This neomedieval fantasy frequently combines elements from medieval literature and culture with key themes within contemporary social discourse. Neomedieval worlds, such as Arda, Gramarye or Westeros, reflect on race and diversity as well as on female agency (gender) or question fair political governance.

I returned to a very different campus in the fall of 1994. My original colleagues had been my musical family of origin at the college. Even those who were my own age had been my mentors, giving me a footing in a way of life that included composing, performing, and teaching.

Like me, many faculty felt set adrift by the administration in a situation in which we were simultaneously bereft and also singled out as fortunate, or worse, complicit, in something brutal.

I met with all of the music students. My classroom was packed, with at least seventy-five students crammed into the small space. No one had expressed any sympathy for their grief, their grievances, their feelings of having been betrayed, their concerns. It was astonishing.

For a while, I was like a pontoon bridge over which people walked as they established a new campsite across a ravine. I held the music program together on both ends, hanging onto the spirit and practices of the past while trying to facilitate the new. Some changes were for the good, others I resisted. Some of the changes I advocated for didn't happen. Some of my resistance I later regretted. Gradually, I just became one of many faculty members, and no longer a pontoon bridge.

It took many years for the music program to fully rebuild itself. When it did, it was on a new basis, suiting a new time.

A lot of excellent composers were essentially self-taught, Poulenc, Schoenberg, and Takemitsu among them. Bernstein was highly schooled in piano, conducting, and orchestration, but apart from receiving personal critiques from Copland (“This passage isn't you”), he evolved as a composer without interference. In fact, he mainly used his counterpoint classes with Arthur Tillman Merritt at Harvard as a stimulus to write his own spiky, dissonant, and rather Coplandesque piano pieces.

On one occasion, when Merritt pointed out that what Bernstein was playing did not fulfill the assignment, he pounded his fist on the piano and said, “Well, I like it!”

As someone who has now tried to “teach” composition for roughly fifty years, I would say that composers need information and practice most of all: information, practice, and support. Much of the information they need comes from hearing what they write. No teacher can tell them more than their own ears can. And if their ears learn nothing from hearing their own work, then no teacher can help them. But aside from information and practice and support, composers mainly need respect (including respectful listening on the part of the teacher) and to be left alone.

Erudition in music is a good thing, but music itself is not academic. It is actual.

Study that is beneficial tends to be at an angle to original work: playing, listening, score study, analysis of other (mainly older) music, ear training, counterpoint and harmony study, and many other kinds of practice and immersion in the substance of the art. Listening as broadly as possible is a good idea. You never know where the tentacles of a mind will stick: it could be in the Middle Ages, or in Indonesia, or in the West Indies, or Appalachia.

On May 23, 1889, Brahms received a telegram from Carl Petersen, the mayor of Hamburg. This brought word of the Hamburg Parliament's decision to confer on him the right of honorary citizenship (Ehrenbürgerrecht). The composer gratefully acknowledged receipt of this news by return wire and then, on May 30, followed up with Petersen in a heartfelt letter of gratitude. Playing a discreet role behind the scenes was Hans von Bülow, a long-time friend and champion of Brahms who was then serving as the conductor of the city's Abonnement Concerte. In late March the archivist of the Hamburg Senate, Otto Beneke, prepared a memorandum of recommendation for that body's consideration—likely ghostwritten by Bülow—in which he vouched for Brahms's artistic significance by referring to his sterling reputation in the leading music journals and encyclopedias of the day and suggested that the conferral of an honorary citizenship might induce the composer to write a new work specifically for the inauguration of the city's new city hall, which was then in the early stages of construction. On April 26, the Senate submitted its formal nomination to the Hamburg Parliament. Word of this soon leaked in both the political and musical press, and on May 8 the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik published the text of the nomination in full.

The long eighteenth century provides the setting for countless studies of gambling by historians, cultural theorists, literary critics, philosophers, and sociologists. Champions and detractors of wagering and games of chance, from rulers and local administrators to public intellectuals and average citizens, contributed to the era of play that grew out of the Enlightenment. Around the middle of the century, the expansion of lotteries across Europe exemplified both the ascent of reason and the enduring appeal of superstition. As rational beings weighed the costs and benefits of wagering, the contrast between homo economicus and homo ludens blurred. At the same time, unchecked Spiellust fueled with a belief in luck could quickly be transformed into Spielsucht. Gambling has always been about calculated risks, but by the eighteenth century, the calculation of probabilities and emphasis on mathematical outcomes augmented how gambles were evaluated. Fate gave way to chance and, by the end of the long century, the calculability of accidents. The contributions to this special section address gambling and its various forms— cards, dice, lotteries—in the work of marquee authors and important yet lesser-known figures. Drawing on a variety of approaches, the essays analyze the intersecting topics of play within limits, managing information overload, the subjective experience of gambling in the age of reason, and fallibility in decision-making. The authors demonstrate how major cultural, political, and scientific developments across Europe shaped approaches to contingency and risk in Germany during this period. Since the Age of Goethe, forms of gambling have not changed significantly. However, technological advances have transformed where and how bets are placed as well as the speed with which one learns the results.

Coming Out to Battle As Las Casas “came out” of his outpost on the north coast of Española in the early 1530s, he came out fighting. In 1533 the judges of the Audiencia of Santo Domingo accused him of preaching sermons while prior at Puerto Plata, “prejudicial to the service of His Majesty and people of this land.”1 Preposterous, Las Casas responded with a Pauline-style defense that sounds whiney, and self-serving at first glance.

By now we know that Bartolomé was no loving, saintly, quiet individual given to piety, forgiveness, and suffering in silence. In a long letter to the Council of the Indies sent in 1534, he recounted his past endeavors, over many years, in the service of the Crown, trying to protect the Indians, although “now I’m getting old, and, to tell the truth, I’m a bit tired.” But that was just the prolog to the letter. He then lambasted the council. Perhaps he was imagining his smug, self-righteous adversaries in Guatemala, or Mexico, or Spain reading this, and so wrote with special force, his concentration probably scaring off even his closest retainers used to puttering around his quarters.

“But, for the glory of God and the service of Your Majesty, and Your Excellencies, I cannot stop.” Indeed. He was coming out swinging.

“Why, in your service, I have not only done so much on this (Española] island, but also specially in securing all of the island of Cuba [emphasis added] and subjecting it to your Royal Service.”

This chapter explores the degree to which Vasari designed his Pieve altars to integrate, alter, or reproduce the liturgical and artistic precedents in the Romanesque church. It evinces a surprising level of stylistic, iconographical, and functional harmony between them and other works in the Pieve—an early sixteenth-century Madonna of Mercy altarpiece in particular. The conception and creation of Vasari’s altars for the Pieve was nowhere near as carefully orchestrated as it was for his better known Medici-sponsored church renovations in Florence, but this chapter shows that his gradual transformation of the Pieve’s interior constituted an important precedent and counterpart to those better-known Florentine projects.

Chapter 6 examines zero-sum thinking (ZST) – the idea that one party’s gain must be another’s loss – and contrasts it with the Economist Mental Model (EMM), which recognizes that economic interactions can be positive-sum. Historically adaptive in static, resource-scarce settings, ZST becomes counterproductive in modern, dynamic economies built on cooperation and specialization. Using survey data from the US, the chapter differentiates between generic ZST (a broad tendency to see life as win-lose) and policy-specific ZST, which can reveal partisan divides. Democrats often display zero-sum views about redistribution, whereas Republicans do so regarding immigration or trade. Crucially, people with higher economic knowledge – those more aligned with the EMM – show markedly lower generic ZST and are less inclined toward protectionist policies than those with lower economic knowledge – aligned with Alternative Mental Models (AMMs).

The aim in preparing this edition has been to provide an accessible edition of the second part of William Porlond's Brewers’ Book.

Passages in Latin are indicated [Latin] and have been calendared. In this part of the book Latin was used only occasionally for margin notes or side headings.

The names of London parishes and streets have been modernised, for ease of identification.

Place names have been modernised unless they are obscure or unusual, as in ‘Flanndrissh tile’. Where dwelling places or names of brewhouses were given, the entry ‘atte Lamb’ has been translated as ‘at the Lamb’.

First names have been modernised, unless they are unusual, or have no modern equivalent, such as Weveyne.

Surnames have been left as written, with a Head Word in the Indexes and the variations shown.

Money has been converted from Roman numerals to Arabic, i.e. xijd. to 12d.

The accounting has been left as Porlond recorded it, without the addition of corrections. Frequently the amounts are correct. Sometimes, however, there must have been more information, known to the clerk, but now lost.

Round brackets ( ) show a repeated or unnecessary word in the manuscript.

Square brackets [ ] indicate an editorial insertion.

Regnal dates are taken from C. R. Cheyney (ed.), A Handbook of Dates for Students of English History, revised by Michael Jones (Cambridge, 2000). Dates falling within 1 January–24 March have been silently modernised.

On March 9, 1888, Emperor William I died in Berlin just two weeks shy of his ninety-first birthday. He was followed on the throne by the moderately liberal Crown Prince Frederick William. As everyone had known for months, the new German emperor, who took the regnal name Frederick III, was not well. Already deep in the throes of throat cancer, he was unable even to speak, and on June 15 he died after reigning for only ninety-nine days. Thereupon his twenty-nine-year-old eldest and decidedly non-liberal son became Emperor William II.

Kalbeck supposed that Brahms “sought to find comfort” at this time of “distress and affliction” by giving musical expression to the words of the Fest- und Gedenksprüche. Beller-McKenna expands this tragedy trope to take in a far broader context than Kalbeck intended. Attributing a personal piety to the composer that strikes me as unfounded, he proposes that Brahms offers in the work a series of national prayers for Germany at a time of what he calls “ominous divisions in the Kaiserreich” between those who viewed the German state in terms of top-down dynastic patriotism and those who viewed it in terms of bottom-up völkisch nationalism.

THE ARREST AND ATTAINDER OF THE EARL OF KILDARE, 1495

On 27 February 1495, the recently appointed governor of Ireland, Sir Edward Poynings, placed the eighth earl of Kildare, Garret Mór (i.e., ‘the Great’) FitzGerald, under arrest. For much of the later fifteenth century, Kildare and his father, the seventh earl, Thomas, had maintained a nearmonopoly on the gubernatorial offices of the crown's Irish colony. The earls had served under the Yorkist kings, Edward IV (r.1461–70/1471–83), Edward V (r.1483) and Richard III (r.1483–85) and, following the battle of Bosworth in August 1485, Henry VII (r.1485–1509) had been content to retain the earls as his Irish deputies. However, by the mid-1490s, and following a series of dynastic crises, Henry's confidence in Kildare had been severely shaken. In 1487, Kildare became embroiled in a scheme with the exiled earl of Lincoln, John de la Pole, and the dowager duchess of Burgundy, Margaret, to have Henry VII deposed in place of the infamous Yorkist pretender, Lambert Simnel. Kildare not only crowned Simnel King Edward VI in Christ Church Cathedral Dublin, he also provided the pretender with an army to invade England. It is a well-known fact that Simnel's bid for the English throne proved brief: his army was crushed at the battle of Stoke by Newark in June 1487, Pole was killed alongside Kildare's brother, Sir Thomas FitzGerald of Lackagh, and Simnel taken into royal custody.

During the long period considered in this edition, there must have been numerous proposals for religious anniversaries that did not result in the issue of orders or forms of prayer, and are consequently not listed in the main section on anniversaries. Many were no doubt informal suggestions by individuals, which gained little or no support. Two of these are noted elsewhere in the edition: by Richard Morison during the late 1530s for an annual commemoration of the Henrician break with Rome (p. 7 in this volume), and by Sidney Godolphin in 1705 for an anniversary thanksgiving for Marlborough's victory at Blenheim (volume 2, p. 234). It would be supererogatory as well as difficult to attempt a listing of all known proposals from individuals. This appendix comments only on a number of the more substantial proposals for religious anniversaries, defined as those sufficiently advanced as to be raised in parliament or submitted formally to the sovereign, and which reveal points of political or religious significance.

1621: proposed anniversary sermon day to commemorate a royal speech (England & Wales)

In March 1621, members of the House of Lords were unusually pleased with the turn of political events. After seven years, James I had summoned a new parliament. In contrast to the acrimonious meeting in 1614, the new session began well. While the king persisted with his desire for peace with Spain, he was now prepared to undertake rearmament to assist the defence of continental protestants, and more particularly the lands of his son-in-law, Frederick, Elector Palatine. The House of Commons obliged, by supporting the king's requests for financial subsidies.

Historians of military history have tended to emphasize the infantry of the city states of the plain of the Po. In fact, aristocrats played a very important role in their political and social life and, as a result, were especially important in military affairs. This article examines the wars between the cities in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, and suggests that their armies, while they did have good steady infantry, were dominated by knightly cavalry, reflecting their complex social make-up.

Studies in English of the military history of the Lombard cities have tended to emphasize the infantry element in their armies. Hans Delbrück remarked: “With independence, there grew a unified sense of citizenship, a communal patriotism that bound the classes together and reawakened the warlike spirit in the previously unwarlike classes,” while according to Verbruggen, in many ways a great champion of the knightly virtues: “The foot-soldiers of the Italian cities were the forerunners of all good medieval foot-soldiers.” Albert Settia has remarked that “Italian communal armies were, as is well known, largely made up of infantry,” and has convincingly argued that their foot had a degree of training. Michael Mallett was primarily interested in late medieval military developments, but he believed that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries “The communal militias were largely, but by no means exclusively, made up of infantry.” Mallett's qualification is important, and points the direction of this article.