Berlioz had published an article on Pierre-Joseph Bernard's libretto for Rameau's Castor et Pollux in the RGM on 4 September. Although this work was given at the Opéra no fewer than 254 times between 1737 and 1785, very little Rameau was played in the early nineteenth century, and it is unlikely that Berlioz had heard it, although he had heard extracts from the opéra-ballet Les Indes galantes in 1840.

It seems to me that this study of Rameau's score comes rather late: it should have followed far more closely the analysis I made of the libretto that gives it its name. But the wish to see and the restless spirit carried the day even over the respect every contributor to the Gazette musicale owes to his readers (we all hope we have readers). I travelled to the banks of the Rhine, leaving Castor and Pollux on the threshold of Olympus, on the point of being made gods, without saying a word about the music sung by these two interesting twin heroes.

Let me repair this serious omission. The opera in question is not like the great lyric dramas of today; it has an overture, and that's one of its most undeniable faults. Like 999 operas out of a thousand from that period, we can say that it has an overture, as we can say of a man who's otherwise smart that he has a wart on his eye or a lump on his forehead, or some other deformity.

INTRODUCTION

Barbara Bowndie, living in Kirkwall in Orkney, was accused of witchcraft and interrogated before the presbytery in 1643. She was accused in a linked trial, being denounced for witchcraft by another woman. Bowndie's case had a prehistory, and it is necessary to go back to 1642 to see why she came under suspicion of witchcraft. In that year, the presbytery began enquiring into the alleged witchcraft of Marjorie Paplay, whose name would repeatedly be linked with Bowndie's for the next few years. The minister of Shapinsay, Henry Smith, raised the initial case against Paplay; as we shall see, this would spark off a complex local power struggle. The case against Bowndie started during this struggle in November 1643.

When Bowndie was ‘incarcerat for witchcraft’ late in 1643, this was the worst year of witchcraft accusations in Orkney, and a national panic was going on in mainland Scotland. She mentioned several demonological ideas in her confession: witches’ meetings, dancing at witches’ meetings, the Devil in diverse shapes, sexual intercourse with the Devil, destruction of corn fields with the help of the Devil, and denunciation of several women suspected to be witches. She was first interrogated informally, in a ‘privat’ questioning by ministers and a ruling elder, and five days later was formally interrogated before the presbytery. She confessed during the informal interrogation, and retracted her confession later. The formal interrogation consisted of nine points which all related to the Devil, use of demonic witchcraft or witches’ meetings. Bowndie now denied all points, and refused to denounce other women. Then several witnesses gave their declarations, much of which concerned what had happened during her imprisonment. It became clear that she had been offered means to hang herself.

Cours d’instrumentation considéré sous les rapports poétiques et philosophiques de l’art. Par M. Georges Kastner.

Writing this review of Kastner's Instrumentation treated according to poetical and philosophical aspects of the art may have inspired Berlioz to write his own treatise; in places the review reads almost like a preliminary draft.

M. Kastner, whose compositions deserve to be better known in Paris, has already made a place for himself among competent, conscientious theorists through his Traité général d’instrumentation, a quite different work which is the indispensable introduction to the work under review. In the Traité general indeed, the author has confined himself to explaining clearly the range and capacities of each instrument, and if the Conservatoire has been quick to adopt it for classes in composition, this has been entirely reasonable, given that not only pupils but many justly celebrated teachers needed to learn from it facts of which they were unaware.

I should never have believed, if experience had not furnished me with unarguable proofs, the curious ideas several great composers harboured in this area barely a decade ago. One of them, whom I knew well, was so ignorant that he was wholly unaware of the range of the flute. I’d already noticed several times that his parts for wind instruments were cut short in the treble, when their upward movement would have meant the flute part going above g. When I asked him why, he replied that he stopped there because the instrument couldn't play any higher.

Our objective in this chapter is to analyse the data extracted from the manuscript texts written in English in Aberystwyth, National Library of Wales, MS Brogyntyn ii.1, since those in Latin cannot provide any linguistic evidence of provenance. We aim to (1) identify the linguistic features of each of the texts in the manuscript; (2) compare them with the features of each of the texts copied by the same scribe to determine what each scribe's individual repertoire might have been; and (3) attempt to localise an assemblage of features for each scribe comparing this information with the localised sources in The Linguistic Atlas of Late Mediaeval English by applying the ‘fit’-technique. The ultimate objective is to establish, as far as possible, the likely linguistic provenance of the contributors to Brogyntyn ii.1.

Among the fifty-one entries copied in English, thirty-two are in verse, seventeen are prose, and two contain both verse and prose. For our purposes, the distinction among text types is relevant since poetic texts are more likely to retain linguistic features from earlier copies to preserve the rhyme and rhythm or other prosodic features. Thus, our data need to be analysed considering the type of text in which they occur. The subject matter is less relevant, although some topics provide more diagnostic lexical items than others; likewise, the type of narrative will determine the verb tenses used. In this miscellany, the length of texts varies considerably. The shortest entry in the collection has forty-six words (entry 50), and the longest has c. 10,122 words (entry 33).

In a 2017 post on the popular science website Edge.org, Steven Pinker provides an answer to the question, ‘What scientific term or concept ought to be more widely known?’ as follows:

The Second Law of Thermodynamics states that in an isolated system (one that is not taking in energy), entropy never decreases… Closed systems inexorably become less structured, less organized, less able to accomplish interesting and useful outcomes, until they slide into an equilibrium of gray, tepid, homogeneous monotony and stay there.

Pinker's acknowledgement of this forbidding state of affairs (one which, on a bad day, might apply to any number of long-term scientific or scholarly enterprises, not excluding musicology in Ireland), is not, however, and end but a beginning, at least insofar as it leads him to a conclusion which is as transcendent and optimistic as it is far-reaching and (proverbially) universal:

The Second Law of Thermodynamics defines the ultimate purpose of life, mind, and human striving: to deploy energy and information to fight back the tide of entropy and carve out refuges of beneficial order.

Human life as a rearguard action against the otherwise overwhelming and inevitable disintegration of the universe may not be to everyone's taste as an implicit principle of behaviour, but the resilience of this principle has a long history, even if it is not often formulated with such lapidary (not to say optimistic) grace, and especially not at the present moment, when the rage for order in human affairs is so violently contested and endangered.

In 1701, probably after the death of the exiled James II in France in September, a serious political conflict broke out in a high church Tory family. The political drama that unfolded between Samuel Wesley (bap. 1662–1735), a parson who recanted his refusal to swear new oaths of allegiance in 1689, and his wife Susanna (1669–1742), a woman educated by her learned father Samuel Annesley and persistently upholding Nonjuring Jacobitism, is in many ways similar to post-1704 Reform Comedy. Like the father and children in Cibber's The Non-Juror, Samuel and Susanna were equally adamant about their own political principles and as eager as each other to reform their spouse’s. One evening at their family prayers, Susanna said ‘Amen’ to all parts except that for King William. Samuel noticed and later questioned her about this in private. Dissatisfied with her response, Samuel ‘immediately kneeled down’ and swore not to sleep with Susanna again before she ‘had begged God's pardon and his, for not saying Amen to the prayer for the K[in]g’. And Samuel prayed for ‘Divine Vengeance upon himself and all his posterity’ if he should break his vow. Fearing that succumbing to her husband's demand might doom her soul to hell, Susanna ‘represented to him the unlawfulness and unreasonableness of his oath’ but to no avail. Since that night, Samuel forsook her bed and, perhaps for this reason, left Epworth for London for more than eight months.

As in The Lady's Last Stake, the collision of the active reform strategies led Samuel and Susanna to consider finding someone to arbitrate their dispute, but they, unlike Lord and Lady Wronglove, could not even agree on this issue.

Three days later, a telegram came: “Arriving on noon steamer. Egon.” And even though the preceding days had been filled with airing and cleaning, shifting and straightening, the zeal of preparation was now redoubled. Countess Judith was to have the rooms next to her brother’s, while for Egon, as on earlier visits, they prepared the small room at the top of the old tower, whose lower part was entirely taken up by a staircase. Egon, when he stayed here, delighted in going up to the observation platform to take in the magnificent prospect of the lake from there. The old count viewed this as “German Romanticism,” and made fun of it, even though he was susceptible to other things which were more romantic yet.

And now the day of their arrival had dawned. Franziska rose early and made one more inspection, ending in the tower room. She was about to return to her quarters through the great dining room when she noticed Hannah, standing on the balcony opposite the old chapel, and looking intently at something happening in the courtyard.

“What is it?” Franziska asked. But Hannah only made a half-mysterious gesture, beckoning her to approach as silently as possible, and when Franziska complied, she saw a pigeon struggling to unwind a large ball of yarn lying in the middle of the courtyard, where one of the maids apparently had forgotten it.

Medievalist Jaques le Goff once pointed out, discussing ideas of empire and its survival throughout time, ‘the world in every age had one heart; the rest of the universe lived according to its rhythm and impulse alone’. This idea of the empire as a living being that evolves, transforms, and even migrates for security and survival was at the core of what King Alfonso X believed to be the main reason for his imperial dream.

The empire, as an institution, had created a sense of continuity throughout the centuries. During the Middle Ages, the notion of empire took the shape of an everlasting and permanent agent that was considered the highest level of temporal power. By changing and adapting to the needs of time, it became an institution always present in the political imagination. The concept, coined during this period, that gave a name to this idea of passing on and continuity is the so-called Translatio Imperii, in which the engine for historical evolution is, precisely, the transfer of the imperium, or imperial power.

The Staufen dynasty made an exemplary use of this concept to legitimise their belonging to the imperial throne, as was discussed in previous pages. By associating themselves with the empire, and therefore with the abstract idea of the Translatio Imperii, the decision of imperial succession was taken out of the hands of the Pope, and the empire became an ‘inherited’ institution, succession to which included the one and only Alfonso X.

INTRODUCTION

This notorious trial arose from the alleged demonic possession of Christian Shaw, daughter of the laird of Bargarran, in 1696–7. A number of witches were accused of afflicting her. The documents edited below are the record of the trial of Katherine Campbell, Margaret Fulton, Margaret Laing, James Lindsay alias Curate, John Lindsay alias Bishop, John Lindsay in Barloch, and Agnes Nasmith. The trial, which was held under the authority of a commission of justiciary granted by the privy council, took place in Paisley between 14 April and 19 May 1697, with some preliminary proceedings in Renfrew on 18 March. All seven were convicted, and they were executed in Paisley on 10 June 1697. An eighth suspect, John Reid, hanged himself in prison on 21 May.

The case has attracted attention from scholars, partly because of the wealth of documentation that it generated, and partly because of the interest attaching to Christian Shaw's bizarre behaviour. It has been the subject of a fictionalised but well-researched book by Isabel Adam, and has been discussed in several other recent studies. Brian Levack has discussed demonic possession in this and other related cases. Michael Wasser has set the case in the broader context of a subsequent, related panic in the Glasgow area in 1699. The trial documents edited below have never been published before, however.

The case formed the subject of two contemporary printed narratives: A Relation of the Diabolical Practices of Above Twenty Wizards and Witches of the Sheriffdom of Renfrew in the Kingdom of Scotland (1697), and A True Narrative of the Sufferings and Relief of a Young Girl (1698).

This book examines a journey taken through most of my research life as I worked closely with people in Gokwe and Lupane in western Zimbabwe, as well as Dwesa-Cwebe on the Wild Coast of South Africa. Working with people in these three different places began in the early 1990s and has gone on ever since.

I am very grateful to Dr Yemi Katerere, the then General Manager of the Forestry Commission of Zimbabwe, who encouraged me to visit Mafungabusi Forest and broaden my knowledge of social issues within the organisation. This was around 1990; I visited Gokwe and saw the really strange trees that grew on the Mafungabusi Plateau. The visit was also enhanced by the infamous quote of “they have done it again” used by a friend who was the then manager of the Forest to express his exasperation with the ‘occupation’ of the Mafungabusi Forest that had been carried out by displaced people. The friend had been having running battles with some displaced people who kept occupying portions of the forest and would be evicted before too long. The back and forth between the displaced people and forest officials went on for some time – hence I was encouraged to find out what was at the root of these ‘battles’. Thus began my relationship with the Forest and its displaced populations, which is partially captured in chapter 4. So began the journey with Mafungabusi with the chapter I wrote with Jeanette Clarke for the Forestry Conference in 1990. I then went on to do an in-depth ethnography in 1994 for my Masters dissertation which I followed up with research for my DPhil studies between 1996 and 1999. During that period I would spend months between Mafungabusi and Gwayi Forest in Lupane District in Matebeleland North, Province of Zimbabwe.

The greatest human rights activist of the early modern history of the West, Las Casas, started his life on the island as a farmer. His father had been given some land by Columbus, and it is not surprising that the younger Las Casas farmed some of the land to grow provisions to sell to outgoing fleets. What did Las Casas see as he moved around the island on his father's business?

He knew, or was told, that the Taínos were in rebellion, which was good for the settler class wishing to exploit them, since anyone in rebellion was subject to enslavement. Others, those who couldn't escape into mountains, were distributed by the Spanish governors such as Columbus and Ovando to various settlers in an institution called the encomienda. It was a form of servitude resembling slavery but not quite classic slavery.

Taínos were “commended” to individual Spaniards, kind of like serfs in the Middle Ages of Europe, to work in the service of the encomenderos, or those who owned the encomiendas. The work consisted of panning for gold, personal service, or, in the worst instance – looking at it from the perspective of the Taínos – working in the gold mines. The encomienda became the central instrument of Indigenous depopulation and exploitation on the island.

Examining the Evidence

Here we have to stand back a bit and examine not only the primary evidence of what was happening – largely from the writings of Las Casas – but also the modern interpretations, largely the Black Legend, which we define and explore below as one of the principal contributions to Las Casas as an iconic figure.

February 1941

German Listeners!

The most recent address by the German head of state in the Berlin Sportpalast made a particularly repugnant impression in America—not so much through its content, which was of the lowest rank of wretchedness and only proved the incapacity of this defective brain to make any useful contribution to the burning questions of the day, but much more through its mirth, the unhealthy cheerfulness that rang from it, and which was evidently the main reason why in Great Britain, too, the address was perceived as “paranoic,” as insane. “Hitler frequently made jokes,” wrote the American press. “There were more bursts of laughter than there usually are when he delivers an address.” What was the nature of these witty remarks? “A British politician calculated,” said the Conqueror, “that I had made seven mistakes in the year 1940. I made 724 mistakes, but my opponents made four-million-three-hundred-and-eighty-five-thousand.”— Unsurpassable. The centuries will pass on this humoristic treasure from one to the next, along with the other gems that unleashed the howls of delight of the Myrmidons who filled the Sportpalast—provided only that a human sense of shame does not prevent it. For is there not really something excruciatingly offensive to one's sense of shame, something idiotic-obscene about being so funny under the world-circumstances of the present, for which Herr Hitler may understand himself to be blameworthy as their originator?

Introduction

Migration has played a pivotal role in shaping the historical experiences of West Africa, with the Yoruba emerging as one of the historically prominent migrant groups in the sub-region. The early migration in West Africa took diverse forms, influenced by factors such as internecine warfare, trade, colonization of new lands, slaving, and evangelism. In this chapter, we delve into the multifaceted nature of Yoruba migration, which has given rise to several diasporas, connecting them with various groups and regional economies. This historical phenomenon of the Yoruba diaspora is a significant subject of study in African migration discourses. Our focus is on exploring the trading routes and commercial activities of the Yoruba people.

The chapter aims to shed light on Yoruba migration to Ghana and northern Nigeria, which underwent significant transformations under British colonial rule. During this period, both commercial and labor migration became prevalent, with men and women actively engaging in mobility within colonial West Africa. Labor migration initially centered around the cocoa-growing and forest regions of Ghana, but eventually expanded to include commercial migration, encompassing diamond mining, trading, and commerce. In northern Nigeria, Yoruba migrants assumed vital roles in the colonial workforce and kola nut trade. Across both Ghana and northern Nigeria, Yoruba migrants exhibited wide dispersal, transcending rural and urban areas, while maintaining strong social connections within their communities and host societies. This chapter will also explore the residential patterns of the Yoruba diaspora.

In April 2024 the Medieval English Theatre conference was held at the University of Newcastle, admirably hosted by James Cummings. The theme was ‘Dramatic Margins’, and the papers covered a stimulating range of topics while exhibiting characteristic METh interest in manuscripts, historical records, and drama in performance. Papers invited us to consider how attention to margins, of various kinds, could illuminate questions about how to define ‘drama’, ‘performance’, and ‘theatre’ – questions which are theoretical but which are also made practical in the activities of collecting records of ‘early drama’ or taking words from page to ‘stage’.

Charlotte Steenbrugge discussed the play-frame of the Dutch Tspel van dOnghelycke Munte (‘The Play of the Fluctuating Currency’), with its creatively disruptive female character, Everyday Chitchat. Sarah Grandage, with Dana Key on Zoom, described a project on the use of marginal playing spaces in modern performance, in which students from the University of Nottingham presented performances of Joseph's Trouble and the Nativity among the medieval alabasters in the Nottingham Castle museum. Pamela King, joined on Zoom by David Parkinson, presented his new edition of Henry Adamson's The Muses Threnodie, a delightfully humorous Scottish seventeenth-century text which through argument and animated reading they persuasively demonstrated should be considered as para-drama. Eleanor Rycroft and Clare Wright led a lively and stimulating panel discussion of the term ‘Pre-Dramatic Theatre’, drawing on their current project with Greg Walker to explore the uses and limitations of terminology in current theatre studies.

Never before and never since have so many East Asian films been shown in cinemas in West Germany as in the 1970s. While a considerable number of Japanese monster films had already made their way to cinemas in West Germany since the 1950s, the arrival of East Asian martial arts films in the spring of 1973 opened up a whole new chapter.

Dozens of karate, kung fu, and sword-fighting films were imported, mainly from Hong Kong, then still under British rule, but also from Japan, Taiwan, and the Philippines. These films became known in West Germany as “Easterns,” thereby transforming an East Asian genre into a sort of sibling of the much older and very American genre, the Western, which is also defined by its spatial dimension. For German and migrant youths and young men, stars of the Eastern, particularly Bruce Lee, were heroes. They were pictured in illustrated magazines, featured on film posters in public spaces, and adorned the walls of teenagers’ bedrooms. Thus, the Eastern became part of West German popular culture, leading to a boom in martial arts and private karate, kung fu, and judo schools in almost every large- and mediumsized city. As Otto Kuhn noted in 1983 in the first German book on these films: “For many years, Easterns … were among the most popular and most watched films for a certain segment of the audience.