John Ireland's music is occupied by characters and places of varyingly erotic scope. His most frequent dedicatees were adolescent boys; his songs and piano music include depictions of angelic choristers and street urchins; sensualized landscapes position works in eroticized pastorals of both exuberant and dark potentialities; his choice of poetry displays a preference for homoerotic narratives; and the sentiment of his music, vacillating between bitter frigidity and intimate care, is often couched in an obsessive and delicate musical language of erotic fixation. These features and interests find analogous qualities in Arthur Machen's weird fiction. Both men submerged the erotic beneath a game of equivocation, of ‘saying by not saying’. Allusion and obliquity allowed Ireland, a homosexual and self-described ‘pagan’, to signal transgressive elements in his music while remaining a member of the cultural conservative middle class. Contrastingly, Machen was a conservative Anglo-Catholic who infused his work with transgressive eroticism in order to illustrate its horror rather than its appeal.

Though their intentions starkly diverged, Ireland and Machen were aligned in their use of art as a medium in which to speak the unspeakable. By embedding erotic signals in a medium that is both pre- and post-verbal, and whose meaning can never be fully disentangled from its form, Ireland and Machen participated in social and aesthetic developments well beyond the enclosures to which they are popularly circumscribed. This chapter contextualizes parallels between Ireland's and Machen's work within the context of fin-de-siècle eroticism. Its tandem reading of Ireland's Decorations for solo piano explores the ways in which the composer exploited aspects of Machen's work. This reveals new erotic narratives in Ireland's music while simultaneously demonstrating how one weird artist (mis-)reads another to express private inclinations.

Sirs,

It shall not be for your Instruction (I am not so impertinent as to imagine myself capable of doing any thing for That,) but for the Use of it which I shall make in the Conclusion, that I shall presume to remind you, of the strange Influence that Climates appear to have on the Humours & Manners & Actions of the People that inhabit them. What should be the Meaning of it, I beseech you, that tho’ the Nations of some Climates have undergone such Revolutions, yea, quite another People have come in the Room of the old Inhabitants, yet the People remarkably retain the same Qualities, by which their Prædecessors were distinguished, some hundreds above a Thousand Years ago?

Every Body knows, what it was, Græcari, a great while ago; and that the Ancient Greeks began with small Cups, at their merry Meetings (in which they would be as merry as Greeks) and then call for large ones, when they were half-Seas over. But the modern Travellers tell us, That their Posterity are noted for keeping up their old Fashion, To this very Day. Tacitus, you remember, observes concerning the ancient Germans, that it was no Disgrace among them Diem Noctemque continuare potando; and that it was their Custome, De jungendis Affinitatibus, de Bello denique et Pace, in Conviviis consultare; From whence a learned Antiquary, will have the present Assemblies of the Circles in the Empire to hold the Name of Diets. Now, since the Days of Tacitus, how often has Germany shifted its People with successive Colonies of Sueves & Sclaves & Goths and Huns & Vandals & Saxons, & how many more?

London was the primary residence of both John Ireland and Arthur Machen for the greater part of their adult lives, though it was considerably more than a mere address. It was a central fixture of their imaginative universes. The literary and musical works that resulted from this relationship exploit elaborate juxtapositions of urban space, including disparate elements of landscape, aesthetics, and identity. By addressing this same landscape across multiple works, Ireland and Machen further complicated their representation of London with aspects of memory and phenomenological layering as later works became commentaries on earlier ones.

Previous scholars have recognized this shared fascination with a city beneath a city, but this book is the first to engage with weird correlations between Ireland's and Machen's London works in pursuit of broader aesthetic implications. In doing so, it proposes that both artists conceptualized the city as a weird landscape, ‘the city of Resurrections’, one which demands the imaginative participation of the observer in order to actualize unfinished scenes. This chapter first places the urban weird as practiced by Machen within a broader historical, social, and aesthetic context. This is followed by a reading of Ireland's London Pieces that, in turn, provides an interpretative framework for a case study in weird aesthetics featuring Ireland's Ballade of London Nights.

From its beginnings in the 1840s until the early twentieth century, the new system of early-childhood education called kindergarten came under attack both for its religious teachings and for its employment of professional women teachers. In 1851, the Prussian educational ministry forbade the kindergarten, calling it a “part of the Froebelian socialist system that intends to raise our youth as atheists.” Friedrich Fröbel, the kindergarten's founder, protested that, on the contrary, he offered an educational process without harsh discipline, in which “sensory and religious development” led to “an intuitive consciousness of the divine.” Despite much opposition, the kindergarten became the basis of an international movement, and the German word “kindergarten” was adopted into many languages.

The widespread success of this movement was due largely to its support by educated women. Not only did it offer new opportunities by creating one of the earliest female professions—that of kindergarten teacher—but it also endowed women with a broader mission based on an allegedly gender-specific gift that many of these women called “spiritual motherliness” (geistige Mütterlichkeit) or “spiritual motherhood” (geistige Mutterschaft).

Francoland. That is how Antonio Muñoz Molina bitterly referred to the stereotypes about Spain and Spaniards that proliferated in the international press coverage of the political and territorial crisis of 2017, when the bid for independence by the Catalan government and the majority of Catalonia's regional parliament was front-page news. Francoland refers to the allegedly poor and scarcely democratic country depicted by cultural agents paid by the Generalitat de Catalunya. International media outlets repeated this claim without screening and cross-checking their sources. It was alleged that Spain was a country that had not taken accountability for its past and remained culturally, politically, and emotionally tied to Francisco Franco Bahamonde (1892–1975). But it must be asked: To what extent is this depiction accurate? Where does the political and narrative centrality attributed to Franco by Catalan nationalism come from? What was (and is) Franco's place in the public imaginary? What remains today of the man and his legacy?

Imagining Franco examines the public image of the dictator Francisco Franco and the social construction(s) of his public biography in four different contexts: the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), the post-civil war period (1939– 1949), the rest of the dictatorship (1950–1975), and the democratic period and recent times (1975–2020). It analyses the role that the ‘idea of Franco’ has played and continues to play in contemporary Spain, presenting a comparative interplay between biography, narratives, and public and political uses. The book's central hypothesis is that the multiplicity of narratives that have existed in Spain and abroad regarding the figure of Franco are closely related to both the rhetoric and images generated by those in power and a sort of popular ‘idea of Franco’ (which exists independently of the official narratives).

6.1 Introduction

Having presented a quantitative analysis of the relevant evidence in Part I, in this chapter I begin to broaden the focus, to consider the general purpose of church-raiding and its relevance to Viking political and wider goals in Ireland, something that is most evident from the mid-ninth century onwards. After the first phase of raiding, ending in the 820s, there are clear signs of transition to more organised, sustained activity, and of more or less permanent Viking settlement in Ireland.

There is a tendency to associate Viking settlement with trade, but raiding did not cease because of settlement. Rather, Vikings who settled in Ireland from the mid-ninth century at the latest continued to raid, especially churches, while also practising trade and craft industry. Trade and raiding could be linked, since human captives comprised the key prize of Viking raiders, as shown in Chapter 4. Captives might become objects of trade, either as ransomees or as slaves. However, settlement doubtless altered the perspective of Vikings, not least because they were now themselves potential targets of attack. Relations between Vikings and native Irish royal dynasties created a new context for church-raiding. Even temporary bases afforded opportunities for alliances of Viking and Irish elites and for other non-adversarial contact, such as trade not directly related to raiding. Trading activity is attested by archaeology but not by annals. It is unquantifiable, but its impact is likely to have been mostly limited to the elite, in a pre-modern and predominantly agriculture-based socio-economic order. It is the politico-military sphere of relations between Vikings and Irish that is best documented in the annals. Detailed study of these relations and the implications for church-raiding is the preoccupation of the following chapters.

In the first place As to the account and Discourse concerning Giants in the first Letter upon the finding the large Teeth and bones found buryed in the Earth.

There may yet remain some doubt whether these were ever human. Wherefore it were very desirable that an exact figure or draught were made of these Teeth and bones if possible to be procured. Especially to the bone 17 foot long supposed to have bin a thigh bone of a Man wherewith the measure or girth of it in its several parts this would determine whether human or not.

A Catalogue and Description of those American Plants, which are strangers to our Climate would be very acceptable to us. But as to this Article I suppose my good friend Mr. James Petiver fellow of the Royal Society will give you a farther Information by Letter as he promised me. Next as to Birds, the largness of your wild Turkeys and Eagles is remarkable an exact figure of these with a scale as to their proportions with what observable in them were very desirable.

﹛A﹜s for your Itinerants the vast flights of Pigeons were it not so well attested would be almost incredible. It might be worth notice what winds favour their coming, as likewise with what winds they depart, which might possibly point out their Native country. But as for any other attendant on our Earth except the Moon it could not always so shelter it selfe under the Rays of the sun as to be invisible. To what Species of the Numerous Tribe of the Pigeons these belong, with a figure and description is desired.

From 1780 to 1787, the Commissioners for Examining the Public Accounts produced fifteen reports, filling more than 1,200 large-format pages in the Journals of the House of Commons. The results of the Commissioners’ work went well beyond the intended remit of their assignment. Instead of the expected description of particular abuses and accounting deficits, the Commissioners delivered a systematic survey of British public offices. In this survey, public administration appeared as a coherent subject for the first time.

The appointment of the Commissioners was a result of the financial and political crisis, which was exacerbated by the alarming course of the American Revolutionary War. The Economical Reform Debates had exposed serious administrative deficits and a lack of overview of the state's financial administration that was disturbing to an already shaken ministry. In their reports, the Commissioners reacted to this sense of crisis. In their eyes, piecemeal corrections or the exposure of corrupt individuals was not enough. A general reform was needed to resolve the crisis. To work out lasting solutions, the Commissioners made good use of the powers they had received. They examined books and systematically interviewed office-holders under oath. By comparing equivalent departments, they identified best practices. In their inquiries, the Commissioners brought to bear their diverse expertise, which shaped their joint approach and allowed for a perspective that was very different from the perspectives dominating the parliamentary discussion. It is likely that the members with a background in military administration were crucial for the Commissioners’ familiarity with the administrative structures.

Armed with the panoply of responses to the book of Genesis, both exegetical and literary, Martin Evans endeavors to rescue Milton from his principal detractors and the numerous other critics who have found fault with his magnum opus for numerous reasons. He opines that Milton's imagination “was at once both imitative and creative,” and that he deserves credit for not only the ways that he has emulated traditional materials, but for the ways he has transformed them. He argues the Paradise Lost is the “culmination” of the re-presentations of a myth that “had surprisingly humble origins.” Even so staunch a defender of Miltonic craftsmanship as Evans, however, concedes that “the theological reconciliation of foreknowledge with free will worked out in Book III is, admittedly, unsatisfactory.” In this essay I will suggest that the failures in Book III are attributable to both Milton's attempt to present an unrepresentable theological doctrine dramatically and the fundamental incompatibility of Christian modes of theological representation with the classical modes of theological representation that Milton chooses to imitates.

Keenly aware of the “defects” of Milton's God in Paradise Lost, C. S. Lewis concludes his discussion of the poem with: “The theological flaws … would not be poetically disastrous if only Milton had shown more poetical prudence. A God … much worse than Milton’s, would escape criticism if only He had been made sufficiently awful, mysterious, and vague.” He then quotes some lines from the poem that meet his criteria

In the 1940s, Ernst Brugger published a major work on ‘Der Schöne Feigling’ (the Handsome Coward or the ‘Biaus Mauvais’) in Arthurian literature. He suggested that several Arthurian heroes were based on this archetype, including Durmart le Gallois, Brunor (the youth with the ill-cut coat) and particularly Gareth, the hero of Malory's ‘The Tale of Sir Gareth of Orkney’. Some non-Arthurian heroes, including Ipomedon, also came within the sphere of his ambitious study.

Following in Brugger's footsteps – and sometimes standing on his shoulders – this article will propose a different Arthurian ‘archetype’, the ‘Biaus Niais’ (Modern French le Beau Niais, which we might render in English, rather inadequately, as the Handsome Fool). For any reader familiar with Brugger's magnum opus, it will be apparent that this article uses, mutatis mutandis, some of the same arguments he advanced. Not every instance will be noted, but the essential element is the view expressed here that these arguments point towards, and often work better with, the idea of a Biaus Niais than that of a Biaus Mauvais. There will also be one other, fundamental difference. The great weakness of Brugger's work, interesting and useful though it is, lay in his insistence that there was one model of the Biaus Mauvais story, from which all others must stem, and that he could reconstruct. While it is possible that any one type of literary text may have started with a single exemplar, it is not certain, since two authors might independently compose their own version of an oral tale. It is also highly unlikely that, even if that were the case, we would be able reliably to reconstruct the bones of that exemplar.

In the Alliterative Morte Arthure, a poem composed in English by an anonymous poet at the turn of the fifteenth century, the above two passages describe Arthur's experience of what we would today term ‘mountaineering’: the physical act of climbing a mountain or promontory. The brevity of these passages, in contrast to the ever-expanding body of literature on mountain ascents since the advent of Alpinism, is one example of the radical shift in our attitude towards mountains in recent centuries. For many in the modern world, mountains are a source of pleasure, excitement, wonder and escape, in a way that would seem alien to our medieval forebears. And yet mountains and hills are as much a part of the medieval world as they are our own, linked to worship, military strategy, defence, geopolitics, agriculture, industry, travel and commerce. In art and literature, they serve as sites of contemplation, as figurative embodiments of worldly and spiritual power, and as otherworldly landscapes associated with monstrosity and otherness. In the specific context of the medieval Arthurian tradition, the primary focus of this essay, they are also linked to the figure of King Arthur.

As laid out in the last two chapters, London served as a centre of the book trade and of English Catholic culture, including the persistent production of Catholic books. However, the London-printed books served more than the local, urban market. They can be found throughout Catholic and Protestant library catalogues, though only rarely with a recorded London imprint. They were accompanied by even more books smuggled in from the continent, many of which passed through contacts in London. The books travelled through various networks that linked the capital to the provinces. This connection is particularly important for studies of non-urban English Catholics, who can come across as isolated from the urban centre. It reinforces the active mobility of early modern people from a variety of backgrounds. Importantly, these circulation networks were not one-directional from London: books, and the ideas they carried, travelled back and forth, widening the reach of print culture.

Texts travelled along various paths, facilitated by networks constructed around different types of relationships. Unlike those of dissenting groups like the Quakers, who at this time had developed tightly organised networks of distribution involving travelling ministers and lending libraries, Catholic books found themselves in the hands of readers through a wide variety of less formalised means. Hawkers, priests, servants, friends, and family all transported books with a range of destinations in mind. Some items were re-sold in local markets, others found places in collegiate libraries, while still others went into private homes (including those of Protestants).

Few dates in British or European history can rival 1066 for its sheer magnetic pull. It is one of just ‘two genuine dates’ in Sellar and Yeatman's scurrilous 1066 and All That (the other being the Roman invasion of Britain by Julius Caesar in 55 BC). It is also the only date from the Middle Ages with genuine public visibility, at least within the Anglophone world. Yet as the historian's mantra runs, things are more complicated than ‘1066 and all that’. The Norman Conquest was a process, not an event – one that began well before 1066 and encompassed all parts of Britain, not just the southern English heartlands of Edward the Confessor's kingdom. Some thirty years ago, C. P. Lewis spoke insightfully of ‘The French in England before the Norman Conquest.’ Since then, we have come to appreciate that almost all features once associated with Norman rule can be found before 1066, be they Francophone earls, reforming continental prelates, Romanesque architecture, aristocratic castles and towers, or even forms of knight service.

In light of this work, I wish to take the opportunity to turn our attention to the diplomatic record, which has often played second fiddle to other evidence for these years. The last half century has completely transformed our understanding of the relevant documents here. It is now clear that 1066 represents a caesura in documentary culture no more than it does anywhere else. It is equally clear that it did lead to substantial change. My focus in what follows is on the activities and person of Baldwin of Bury St Edmunds (alias Baldwin of Saint-Denis), an extraordinary figure, whose significance has long been noted, yet whose influence on the documentary record has not been traced in any detail.