There are intrinsic defects in Whig playwrights’ use of reform plots as ‘revolutionary propaganda’ for resistance and against passive obedience, but they received little attention before the considerable public debate provoked by The Careless Husband over the behavioural code of meek obedience. First, the authors were unable to limit the application of their state–family analogies solely to politics and not to the family. There had been an inherent contradiction between the means and ends of Whig dramatic propaganda since the Exclusion Crisis. Whig dramatists, as recent scholarship on Restoration drama has shown, used ‘women's resistance’ as ‘a symbol of the subject's resistance to tyrannical government’. They drew an analogy between the family and the state, but their purpose was purely political. These defenders of resistance to political tyrants, being themselves patriarchs, would not admit whether they were tyrants at home, nor acknowledge the justness of other family members’ disobedience to them. Nevertheless, the direct, and not collateral, damage to the consensual domestic order was unavoidable, as it was the prerequisite of the intended political effects. The persuasiveness of the arguments against the political aspect of unconditional obedience was formed at the expense of its moral/ethical aspect. Second, even if their state–family analogies were understood politically, Whig playwrights could not prevent the application to the new regime. Every government wants its subjects’ obedience, and the government established by the Revolution of 1688–9 was no exception.

One can hardly measure nowadays the spectacular success of Klopstock, the most idolised author in the German countries during the second half of the eighteenth century. His odes (written from 1747 to 1780) and Der Messias constitute the largest corpus of his poetic work. A monumental poem inspired by Milton's Paradise Lost narrating the life of Jesus in twenty Gesänge (cantos), it was published over a time span of twenty-five years between 1748 and 1773 and counts among the best-selling texts of the eighteenth century published in German. The epic proportions of this work were judged all the more astounding in that its roughly twenty thousand verses are entirely written in the six-foot line known as hexameter, or to be clear, in Klopstock's own adaptation of the classical hexameter – also known as heroic hexameter – the most highly regarded verse in Greek and Latin poetry, notably in Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and Virgil's Aeneid.

Since his lifetime, Klopstock has often been nicknamed the ‘father of the German hexameter’, although the very first German adaptations of this verse go back to the sixteenth century with poets Konrad Gesner (1516–65) and Johann Fischart (c. 1546–90), if not earlier. Some commentators would have preferred to give this title to Gottsched, who had used this form in his Versuch einer Critischen Dichtkunst (1730); however, Gottsched's examples were primarily intended as didactic demonstrations. In any case, no German poet prior to Klopstock had ever attempted to adapt the Greek hexameter in such a large-scale poetic work. Klopstock's interest in the hexameter was motivated by his desire to recover the expressive potential of the German language. For this, he reconceived the rules on poetic metre – Silbenmaß in German – to develop a poetic system that he considered the most suitable for rendering the expressive genius of the German language.

If we consider figures such as John Henry Newman, Henry Manning and Gerard Manley Hopkins, some of the most publicly identifiable members of the Catholic Church in late-Victorian Britain were converts to the faith. However, the experiences of lay middle-class convert women remain historically enigmatic, despite their contributions to the English Catholic Church. Lay Catholic convert Margaret Fletcher (1862–1943), founder of the Catholic Women's League (CWL) and its mouthpiece The Crucible, fought to raise the status of middle-class English Catholic women in the secular world and the Church. She demonstrated the potential of Catholic women's groups and publications in the Edwardian era to provide a space in which non-elite lay women could assert agency and autonomy both in their private and public works.

Fletcher founded The Crucible and the CWL over 1905/6 to support converts and ‘born’ Catholic middle-class lay women, who she felt were raised apart for fear of persecution and consequently lacked a connection with the secular world. A generation earlier, Cardinal Manning had lamented the absence of the Catholic laity from public life, stating that the ‘social exile in which they had lived, and their exclusion … from public and private employment, have seriously diminished our capacity for usefulness’. To change this absence into a presence, Fletcher sought to create an organisation through which middle-class professional Catholic lay women could be ‘useful’ beyond ‘convent/ional’ expectations.

This chapter will work outwards from the description of the portals of Santiago de Compostela cathedral that form a substantial part of the Pilgrim's Guide. It will use this analysis to re-consider two famously ‘disordered’ portals: the Puerta de las Platerias at Santiago and the Puerta del Cordero at San Isidoro in Leon. The Puerta de las Platerias is the south transept portal of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, and the Puerta del Cordero is the south portal of San Isidoro in Leon that opens onto the nave. These portals share a distinctive characteristic: they are ornamented with fragments of sculpture, not reused antique pieces but perhaps a form of spolia in re. Henri Focillon famously compared the Puerta de las Platerias to a collection of casts on the walls of a provincial museum. There may be some truth in that disparagement in so far as it may be a purposeful assemblage. The Pilgrim's Guide devotes chapter 9 to describing the architecture of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, including sculpture on its south portal, on the now lost north portal, and on the disputed west portal. If it were not for that description in the Codex Calixtinus, scholars would probably have dismissed this accumulation of pieces as an improbable hotchpotch confected at a much later date. The doorway has been through a number of revisions: c.1200, in the fifteenth century and in the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries (see Figure 52).

January 1, 1945

German Listeners!

I spoke to you—or attempted to speak to you—back when Hitler's armies rolled victoriously across Europe and advanced to the Egyptian border, and I characterized his victories as false, deceptive, hopeless. I was silent when the tables turned, when the Nazis lost Rome, Paris, Brussels, the Balkans, when Fortress Europe became Fortress Germany, and the end of the war, the end of Hitler and his ilk seemed near. It is only logical that I am once again recording my short addresses, now, when Hitler or Himmler once again appear to be on a winning streak, the Wehrmacht forces have pulled themselves together for a furious counterattack and thereby once again secured a new timeline, yet another stay of execution for the Nazi Regime. Will you believe me when I assure you that these victories, insofar as one can call them that, are just as empty, meaningless, and hopeless as those earlier ones? There is no Nazi victory. Everything that looks like one is bloody nonsense, is a priori null and void. These people live under the incomprehensible delusion that, since dominion over the Earth has eluded them once and for all, they could wear out the Allies through protracted resistance and force them into a negotiated peace, peace with them. A peace between Russia, America, and Great Britain and Hitler and Himmler! A peace, in which the Nazi regime would continue to exist! Do you believe that? Do you Germans, in particular those in the still small part of the country that is occupied, believe that?

Elizabeth Montagu (1718–1800) was a seasoned traveller, not only in the British Isles but also, on two occasions, to Europe. She undertook as many as thirty-one ‘Visits of Pleasure’ in England and Scotland between 1740 and 1787 (see appendix). In relation to her role as the Queen of the Bluestockings, Montagu has been discussed by critics and historians in relation to sociability, literary and gender perspectives, as seen in the work of Elizabeth Eger, Nicole Pohl and Betty Schellenberg. This chapter examines how she and her circle contributed to knowledge about historical and topographical subjects, as derived from her domestic travels, and how interest in that knowledge shaped their travels. Born Elizabeth Robinson, she was raised within a wealthy and reasonably well-connected family, and during adolescence, she began an enduring friendship with Lady Margaret Harley (later Duchess of Portland). Elizabeth's marriage in 1742 to Edward Montagu, twenty-six years her senior, brought with it numerous estates in the north, including coal mines, but it was her social life in London that gained her recognition as a hostess of a cultural circle of friends, the Bluestockings.

In 1766 she and Edward began to earnestly develop their mining operations, which necessitated a visit to Newcastle. Writing to her sister, Sarah Scott, Elizabeth considered of herself ‘I am possess’d with a travelling spirit’.

She was making her first visit to Scotland at the time – a diversion from colliery business – and one that she was keen to make clear to the correspondents that her husband had permitted her to make, thereby maintaining matrimonial duty. Three themes surface in Montagu's correspondence.

In 1921 the Jesuit Fr Henry Browne published a book entitled The Catholic Evidence Movement: Its Achievements and its Hopes. The book set the catechetical and street-preaching work of the Catholic Evidence Guild (C.E.G.), founded in the archdiocese of Westminster three years previously, in the context of earlier and wider public witness to the Catholic faith in Britain. Browne described the many processions and rarer public-speaking engagements undertaken by the Guild of Ransom, membership of which that year had reached some 70,000. He recalled the sale of Catholic Truth Society pamphlets before the Great War by the far smaller ‘Book-Barrow Brigade’; and the foundation in 1903 of the Catholic Missionary Society: a group of clerics who held open meetings in rural areas and addressed queries or difficulties about Catholicism posted in a Question Box. He also noted the Christian Evidence lectures aimed since the war at non-Catholics and given by Fr Hugh Pope O.P. and other Dominican friars in town halls and similar venues up and down the country. These had attracted audiences of up to a thousand in Newcastle and Liverpool. The book carried a foreword by the Archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Bourne, in which the archbishop praised the Catholic Evidence Guild as ‘the most recent and in some respects, the most interesting and hopeful of our missionary endeavours in England’.

The concert took place on 10 February 1839. This description of the critic's life is one of Berlioz's many attempts to engage the reader as an ally, and not to pontificate ‘de haut en bas’. Even so, it's not hard for us to read it also as evidence that he would much rather be writing music.

It isn't enough to go to a concert and listen to fine music, you also (at least in my case) have to write down for the public what you think about it. You have to do your utmost to explain to the public, bored and importunate as it is, why a certain piece is beautiful and how it produces that effect. You also have to say why certain other pieces, which are equally beautiful, have made only a small or no impact on the audience. There are just two contrary cases that the critic must not mention, for a thousand and one reasons. If a dreadful composition is badly received, he must not use a wounding epithet, for which the composer and his supporters would never forgive him. If, on the other hand, a bad work is applauded as being good, he will refrain from saying that this applause seemed to him unintelligent and inopportune, which would offend not only the composer, but also the thousand or twelve hundred who made up the critical audience.

Oh! It's a fine trade, being a critic. ‘There are no dumb trades’ says the proverb, ‘only dumb people’. Well, despite the general opinion, I would contend that there are both very dumb trades and very dumb people. Now then, would you like me to tell you once and for all what I really think? … I … don't have the time, they’re waiting for my article on the Conservatoire concert.

At a first glance, there is nothing unusual in the first six concerts performed by the orchestra of the Hofkapelle in Stuttgart in February 1820. As reported by the critic of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, its programs include symphonies by Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Cherubini, and Peter Josef von Lindpaintner, without further description, interspersed with equally unidentified operatic arias and duets except for the finale of the first act of Don Giovanni and a quartet with choir from Peter Winter's cantata Timoteo oder die Macht der Töne (John Dryden, 1813). Only two other works are fully identified: Carl Maria von Weber's score for the accompaniment of the poem ‘Der erste Ton’ by Johann Friedrich von Rochlitz and Johann Rudolf Zumsteeg's orchestral score for the recitation of Klopstock's ode ‘Die Frühlingsfeier’. Both works are recited by Mr. Esslair, Regisseur of the Royal Court Theatre.

It wasn't the first time these two works were performed, but it was the first time they shared the same program. The premiere of Zumsteeg's score goes back to 1791, although its genesis has been routinely located much earlier, in the 1770s; as for Weber's score, it had been premiered in 1810. Both works have in common their generic ‘hybridity’: they use the structure of melodrama but belong to the genre of the declamatorium since they consist of musical accompaniment specifically composed for the recitation of a poetic text. In this chapter, I will revisit the origins of Zumsteeg's score by considering two sources ignored so far, bringing new light to the entanglement between melodrama and the practice of poetic recitation in the 1780s.

Introduction: The City of Angels

Los Angeles was in many ways an unexpected place for the government of Francisco Franco to achieve a foreign policy success. Far from Washington, D.C., outside the traditional Northeast U.S. corridor of political influence, and on the wrong side of North America for close ties of trade and travel with Europe, Los Angeles was at most an afterthought in U.S. and Spanish diplomatic circles prior to the Cold War. Although Los Angeles had been founded during the time of Spanish rule in the late eighteenth century, it had not been under the authority of the Spanish empire since 1821, when Mexico gained its independence from Madrid through successful rebellion. Los Angeles's initial Spanish and Catholic heritage had over time been subsumed by internal migration of Protestants from within the United States, although there remained a significant Spanish-speaking minority of Mexican Americans and Mexicans with some connection to the prior experience as well as contemporary Mexico through local churches, historical and cultural events, and cross-border travel.

San Francisco had long been the city considered the international center for California and where Spain had traditionally operated a consulate. Indeed, it was in San Francisco that the organizing sessions of the UN were held in spring and summer 1945. Spain was a particular object of attention, excluded from membership based on the Franco regime's origin through support from Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy.

The cultural contacts between early medieval England and the Continent developed at various levels and assumed different forms. In the complex network of relationships between North Sea peoples, a notable part was played by those English monks whose missionary activity was decisive for the affirmation and consolidation of Christianity in the Frankish Kingdom from the second half of the seventh century. They had taken up the legacy of Irish missionaries who had expanded Celtic Christianity in Scotland, Anglo-Saxon England and across territories of the Frankish domain during the sixth century.

The history of English missions in the regions east of the Rhine is not always studded with successes. Symbolic of a setback in the conversion of the heathen peoples living on the Continent is the almost legendary tale of the unsuccessful baptism of the Frisian king Redbad. In the Life of Saint Wulfram (ch. 9), it is told how, while entering the baptismal font, the king asked if he would ever meet his ancestors in heaven. Following Bishop Wulfram's negative response, Redbad withdrew his foot from the font, stating that he preferred to spend eternity in the torments of hell with his forefathers, rather than in the celestial company of his enemies, especially the Franks.

Despite their occasional failures, the evangelising activities on the Continent of such eminent figures as Wilfrid, Wihtberht, Willibrord (the ‘apostle of Frisia’), Leofwine, Willehad and of course Wynfrith-Boniface (the ‘apostle of Germany’) eventually bore fruit, thanks in particular to the financial and military support of the Frankish political authority.

The Guild of Catholic Teachers was founded in Glasgow in 1934. It was placed under the patronage of St John Bosco and had two principal aims: the social, cultural and religious formation of Catholic teachers and the development of Religious Instruction in schools.1 Study of the relevant archival material for the early years of the Guild (1934–36) reveals a heightened sense of collegiality and a related determination by lay people to achieve the Guild's ambitious aims.2 The present chapter will examine the extent to which the aims of the Guild reflected, or were influenced by, the principles of Catholic Action. It will first offer some initial thoughts on Catholic Action in Scotland before focusing on the development of Catholic education in Scotland in the aftermath of the First Word War, in order to understand the varied contexts from which the Guild emerged in 1934. The third section will draw on available archival material to present some of the key moments in the first two years of the Guild. This period offers evidence of the Catholic community's growing selfconfidence and a related desire to advance teacher formation in practical ways. The final part will show how ‘Religious Knowledge’ textbooks,3 which were underpinned by some new thinking in pedagogy, were one of the early fruits of the Guild.

Bristol Archives

• • CC/2/7. The Maire of Bristow Is Kalendar [Ricart's Kalendar]. 1479–1899

• • P.AS/B/11. William Peraldus, Sermones, etc. 15 1/2

• • P.AS/B/10. Gerard Zerbolt, De spiritualibus ascensionibus, etc. 15 1/2, the

• main portion pre-1432

• • P.St T/PM/1. The St. Thomas Bible. c. 1420

Bristol Central Library

• • MS 1. Bible. 13 1/2

• • MS 2. Missal. 15 4/4 or 16 1/4

• • MS 3. Anthology of Isidore and Augustine. Pre-1242

• • MS 5. Jacob Voragine, Sermones quadragesimales. 15 2/2

• • MS 6. Devotional Compilation. 1502

• • MS 11. Book of Hours. 1479

• • MS 12. Psalter. 12 3/4

• • MS 14. Book of Hours (The Ruddok-Clyve Hours). 14 4/4 with additions

• 15 1/4 and 1/2