At the height of the fierce political infighting among Jacobins, royalists, Girondins and an assortment of French but also British, Italian and German political conspirators that took hold in France before Napoleon Bonaparte seized power in 1799, Sieyès was accused by his supporters of not showing enough firmness towards the Jacobins. ‘There is a sect that is even more redoubtable than the Jacobins’, he was reported to have replied, ‘it is the sect of those who are impatient’.1 It is a revealing comment not only because it captures something long-lasting in Sieyès’s view of how events in France had unfolded over the past decade but also because it highlighted the mixture of blindness and insight that was one of the abiding characteristics of his political vision. Sieyès had a plan, based in large measure on Rousseau’s political thought and, more specifically, on Rousseau’s advice to his Polish interlocutors about how to prevent Poland from falling off the political map.

When we think of a medieval manuscript, we often picture an illuminated prayer book or bible. We might think of a massive book, hundreds of leaves of smooth, off-white parchment, often illuminated with gold leaf. Such deluxe manuscripts made up a small number of medieval books, being for the most part luxury items rather than those intended for frequent use. The most common working manuscripts were religious, and the most common of these were liturgical. A liturgical book might be illustrated and illuminated if it came from a well-endowed religious establishment like a monastery or cathedral, and then might subsequently serve as a ‘hand me down’ to a parish church. More often, liturgical books were less lavishly illustrated (on which, see Chapter 3). Another common type of working manuscript was that containing works designed to aid clergy in pastoral care.

In the Christian tradition, the pastor is an ordained clergyman who looks out for the needs of other Christians, primarily in the domain of the spiritual, but also in feeding the poor, ministering to the sick, and the like. Throughout the Middle Ages, learned churchmen had drawn up treatises to help clergy with the major components of pastoral care: moral guidance and the hearing of confession, teaching Christian morals and doctrine, and administering the other sacraments, those rituals like communion through which the Church administered the visible grace of God through physical processes. The sense of a need to look out for the spiritual needs of laypeople went back to the early days of the Church. Writers such as St. Augustine of Hippo (354–430) and Pope Gregory the Great (r. 590–604) had composed guidebooks for giving laypeople moral and spiritual guidance.

Things now moved quickly. In November, the South German states of Bavaria, Württemberg, Baden, and Hesse were joined by treaty to the North German Confederation. In December, the Confederation was renamed the German Reich. On January 18, 1871, in an august ceremony held in the Hall of Mirrors of the Versailles Palace, King William I of Prussia accepted the title of German Emperor. Ten days later Paris capitulated, an armistice was signed, and hostilities ceased. On February 26, the armistice was solidified through the signing of the preliminary Treaty of Versailles, and on May 10, a formal peace treaty was concluded in Frankfurt. This called for substantial reparations to be paid, but its most controversial provision required France to cede to Germany most of Alsace and a smaller portion of Lorraine, regions on the west bank of the Rhine that had long been the subject of dispute. There was much for the liberals to like about the unification that their one-time nemesis Bismarck had brought about. The boundaries of the Reich were now firmly decided (at least until 1919). Germany had a constitution (largely taken over from that of the North German Confederation), with a parliament elected by universal male suffrage (although with a three-tier voting franchise in Prussia that gave disproportionate representation to large-estate owners and the wealthy) and a German chancellor (albeit one appointed by and answerable only to the emperor).

In one of the cross streets that lead from the Graben to the Josephsplatz and Augustiner Street stood the town residence of the counts of Petofy: a mansion built in the days of Prince Eugene, with a half-hipped roof, and two side wings extending forward. A main floor raised above the ground, in the old-fashioned manner, a central courtyard, and enclosing all this in the front, a somewhat dilapidated iron fence. If one walked directly along this fence on a dark day and looked at the graveled courtyard through its rusted bars, one would have the impression that everything here was long dead and deserted; but from the other side of the street, an abundance of small clues, not least the muted glow of light which in the evenings came through the not quite fully drawn curtains, suggested that the building was occupied—if not in its entirety, at least in the two projecting wings.

And so it was. The last two Petofys were Count Adam and his sister Judith, a long-widowed Countess von Gundolskirchen; they lived in the mansion, keeping separate households, and only shared the use of the opulent public rooms in the corps de logis.

The company that would assemble in these rooms varied greatly, depending on whether the invitations had come from the brother or the sister. Both siblings took satisfaction in the generous patronage they extended, but while the count's patronage was for the world of art, that of the countess was for the church.

This chapter interrogates two misconceptions about Ngũgĩs early life and shows how his early years informed Ngũgĩ’s early writing. Ngũgĩ’s parents were not ahoi (tenants-at-will), as he once claimed. Drawing upon his recent memoirs and the ‘autobiographical moments’ in his later essay collections, I foreground Ngũgĩs birth ‘in a large peasant family’ and parse their diminishing property rights, from peasants with reasonably large land-holding to land-poor peasants who hired out their labour. I parse the family dynamics that inform Ngũgĩ’s investment in equity and communitarian values, and his emerging interest in oral storytelling and performance, coupled with a motivation to escape the trap of poverty through Western education. While Kamĩrĩĩthũ defined much of Ngũgĩ’s later work, it was not his birthplace. The dislocation to Kamĩrĩĩthũ during the Emergency (1955–9) anchored him in the primal scene of postcolonial Gĩkũyũ identity, but also nurtured an interest in theatre as a tool for community-building and carceral institutions more generally. Both the colonial school and the Emergency village became major settings for his early works. Ironically the recursive image of the train station at Limuru in A Grain of Wheat occurred to Ngũgĩ while on a train ride from Leeds to Scotland, uniting two planes of coloniality.

This chapter discusses a number of generalizations of the Bernoulli random graph. The first is to Erdős–Rényi mixture models, in which each vertex belongs to one of a small number of distinct types, and the probability of an edge between two vertices being present depends on the types of the two vertices. Much as for the Bernoulli random graph, the neighbourhood structure is approximated by a multitype branching process. A threshold theorem for the existence of a giant component is derived, and the asymptotic proportions of the vertices in the giant component that belong to the different types is determined. Finally, the distribution of the length of the shortest path between two vertices of given types is approximated. The properties of some special network models of this kind, vertex weighted random graphs and bipartite networks, are examined. Another set of models considered is that of directed Bernoulli random graphs, in which there may be edges in either (or both) directions between any pair of vertices. Finally, Poissonized Erdős–Rényi mixture models for multigraphs are introduced, in which edges may be present between any pair of vertices, and the number of such edges has a Poisson distribution, with mean depending on the types of the vertices, the numbers being chosen independently. The extent to which these models differ from the standard Erdős–Rényi mixture models in the sparse regime is discussed.

Hustling movement, crowded thoroughfares, furtive exchanges: these are fleeting images that emerge as traffic collides with trafficking in the twelfth-century Ordo representaciones Ade, an astounding “Play of Adam” that trades in religion openly and under cover. Biblical encounters tucked into metaphors of traffic and trafficking carry along a variety of Jewish- Christian interactions with potential for positive and negative results. When polemical contestation between Old Law and New leads to figurative meetings between Jews and Christians, their dialogue and disputations make rival claims on who has the right of way – and the right way – to interpret sacred texts. This traffic in Paradise plays out across the Jeu d’Adam's three acts in which biblical and exegetical traditions, Jewish and Christian, masterfully intertwine. First, two dramatic re-enactments offer Adam and Eve's life in the Garden of Eden leading to their Fall (1–590), followed by Cain murdering Abel in a quick demonstration of original sin (591–744).

This chapter considers settings in which networks are used in statistical inference. First, there is often dependence between measurements taken at vertices of a network, with vertices at small graph distance more highly dependent. Methods for accommodating such dependence, including network effects and network disturbance models, are discussed. In such cases, the network is treated as a nuisance parameter. In contrast, the network itself may be the object of primary interest. Fitting a model to the network may make possible inference, for instance about the presence or absence of a particular edge, or of characteristics of vertices; this is valuable if knowledge of the network is not perfect. If more than one network is available, it may also be possible to compare the properties of different, but related networks, using the fitted models, and to use the comparisons to uncover scientifically interesting features. It can also be of interest to find ways of comparing whole networks with one another, when they may have very different vertex sets, but are conjectured to be related; methods discussed include the graphlet correlation distance, Netdis and NetEMD. For instance, the similarities between the protein–protein interaction networks of different species can be used as a basis for constructing phylogenies.

Identity, Originality and the Culture of Musical Practice in Quebec and Ireland

If God had intended Canada to have music’, the Canadian composer R. Murray Schafer acerbically remarked in 1984, ‘Mozart would have been born in Regina’. Easy to dismiss as a mere provocation, or at best as a challenge to the sonorous if benign tyranny of popular musical culture (and not only in Canada), Schafer's remark nevertheless belongs to a growing region of discourse centred upon the validity and transmission of European art music, much of which originates in North America. Anglo-American musicology of the present day, whatever its other preoccupations, is dominated by an anxiety of influence (to put it no more strongly than that) which revokes the hegemony of classical music to an extent which could scarcely have been envisaged even thirty years ago. The mere presence of classical music (or art music) as a category of experience is vestigial among most cultural historians, other than those professionally engaged with specialised repertories, and the general condition of once-prominent genres of European music in cultural theory is, at best, tenuous (and often negative). The very narrative of classical music becomes, instead, a history of privileged beginnings and inert or voided endings, a ‘triumph of music’ (in Tim Blanning's phrase) which culminates in a triumph for popular culture.

Sites in Aragon lie on the first road described in the Pilgrim's Guide. The route starts in Arles, and after staging posts at Saint-Gilles-du-Gard, Montpellier, Toulouse and Borce, it crosses the Pyrenees by the Somport Pass. After the col, the Guide praises the hospice of Santa Cristina as a place of rest, comfort and salvation. On the Spanish side, there are five staging posts, including Jaca, before the road joins the other three routes at Puente la Reina.1 When the author recommends visits to specific shrines, he highlights the body of Saint-Trophime at Arles; ‘les Alyscamps’, the consecrated cemetery that is also celebrated in the Pseudo-Turpin; the reliquary at Saint-Gilles; and Saint-Sernin in Toulouse, the basilica of St Saturninus. It is then envisaged that anyone following this route would, like the other pilgrims, visit the few Spanish shrines that the author endorses: Santo Domingo de la Calzada; SS Facundus and Primitivus at Sahagun; San Isidoro at Leon; and, of course, St James at Compostela. Several aspects of this route are perplexing when they are viewed alongside documentary and visual evidence. The most significant decision is the omission of the Gascon cities of Auch and Oloron-Sainte-Marie, although they are often included in modern reconstructions of the route. They appear neither as staging posts nor as destinations in the itinerary of holy bodies, despite the presence in Auch of the body of St Orens and its sarcophagus.2 Their exclusion fits with the route's emphasis on eastern connections, although these were not what mattered to Aragon in the first decades of the twelfth century.

Since the readmission of Jews into England during the 1650s, the Jewish religious communities have consistently expressed their loyalty to the English and British state. Prayers for the sovereign have been part of their regular services since the 1660s. From an early date, the communities appear to have joined in the occasions of special worship ordered by the crown for observance in the Church of England, beginning at their synagogues in London: at Bevis Marks for the Sephardi or Spanish and Portuguese Jews, and at Duke's Place, in the Great Synagogue for the Ashkenazi or German Jews. The earliest surviving forms of prayer for these occasions, for Bevis Marks and published in Portuguese or in Hebrew, date from the early eighteenth century. Particular synagogues – including from the 1840s those of separatist Reform and Liberal synagogues – have continued to publish their own forms for occasions of special services or prayers.

As the main communities grew and as they founded new synagogues, they began, in the same manner as the Church of England, to organize general acts of special worship, observed in numerous places of worship on the same day or for a specified period, and to issue and distribute special forms of prayer (or ‘orders of service’) for general use.

Again weeks had passed, and in place of the sunny days that had shone over Arpa Castle since early August, rainy days had set in. “This rain is like the Szekely assembly,” Franziska said, as a jest, and when the count asked what this meant, she recited Chamisso's poem of that name to his no little amusement.

“Just think, I have to learn about the Szekely assembly from a North German poem!” the count laughed, and whenever he encountered Franziska, he would point to the incessant downpour outside and repeat the refrain, “The rain is raining, raining still.”

When this weather began, they first tried to continue their walks, but after three days, the paths had become so muddy that they had to abandon them. They were reduced to strolling through the hothouses and the dutiful daily game of billiards, which Franziska, at least at first, made visible efforts to learn. But neither one nor the other gave her any real pleasure; in the hothouses the air was too warm and muggy, and playing billiards was vexing since she could not master it all at once. She wished for rapid results in all she did. Nonetheless they kept their spirits up and found ever-new ways of warding off the lurking threat of unease. There were immense fires blazing in all the fireplaces; the little priest, when he came for lessons, was prevailed on to stay for half the day; and Toldy's youngest daughter Marischka, barely three years old, saw her birthday celebrated as if she were a princess at the very least.

Jaume Roig was born in Valencia toward the beginning of the fifteenth century and died there in 1478. Like his father, he worked as a physician and served as the medical examiner of physicians, surgeons, and veterinarians for the city on different occasions between 1434 and 1477. The position of medical examiner contributed to the ideology and legal strategy of the professionalization of medicine, an initiative that was supported by municipal and royal authorities in different municipalities throughout the Iberian peninsula to dignify the male physician and elevate the discipline of medicine as the ideal approach for treating people's health and well-being. One of the consequences of the professionalization of medicine were the royal and municipal efforts to marginalize and disempower traditional women and Jewish and Muslim men healers who had dominated healing practices until the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Roig served as physician to fifteenth-century royals and practiced medicine at various hospitals in Valencia until his death. He was active among Valencia's powerful elites, including the Catalan-Aragonese crown, municipal authorities, and the city's most important religious institutions.

Roig composed only two literary works during his life, the caustic and misogynist Espill and a praise poem to the Virgin, which was included in a collection that might have been the first literary book printed on the Iberian peninsula.

This chapter is interested in understanding the appropriation of literary templates which African writers like Ngugi draw on; their relevance and limits as they travel into new contexts. How does Ngugi, in the instance of Devil on the Cross, complicate his borrowing and what cultural formats does he draw on to mediate and revise received templates? What do these forms of borrowing tell us about the world of the writer? Ngugi has increasingly turned to allegory in his narration of the postcolonial situation in Kenya. The chapter argues that it is not difficult to see why Ngugi resorts to allegory in his postcolonial narratives in Kenya because, as a writer of praxis, whose freedom of expression has constantly been suppressed by successive postcolonial regimes, Ngugi is always dogged by conditions of fragmentation. He was detained for his writing by the authorities and he wrote his most compelling example of allegorical narrative, Devil on the Cross, in prison. As Bunyan wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress in Bedford gaol, Ngugi wrote Devil in Kamiti Maximum Security Prison in Kenya. Both Ngugi and Bunyan fought for the underdog and were scathing of the rich, and they both evoke the image of Lazarus.