In 1949 Beaumont Newhall published The History of Photography to accompany the similarly named exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. One way to read that exhibition and its corresponding book is to consider them a retrospective of the 100 years since Louis Daguerre made his photographic process for the daguerreotype known to the world in 1839 (15–18). Over the course of that century, the technology had modernized and gone from being practiced by scientists and other professionals to becoming a medium much more commonly used by non-specialists to register the events of their lives. Photography had become an accessible medium for recording history and creating art. Many artists had begun to experiment with the medium, and yet photography was still not seen at that time as an independent field of art by many. Newhall's exhibition would change this (Phillips 33). Having a dedicated exhibition in a canonical museum in New York confirmed photography's status as an independent field of art to many. The book that accompanied the exhibition became a portable unit of information that could then be purchased by teachers and their students all throughout the United States and the rest of the world. The history of the technology and photography's different uses and movements help to consolidate much information regarding the role of photography in our modern world and to chart its evolution. The over 300 photographs that the book contains is an important archive that anyone who is interested in photography can study to learn about many of the experts in the field and its artistic movements. However, from the perspective of the study of Latin American photography, this book has a clear shortcoming. Its coverage of Latin American photography is practically non-existent.

In summarizing John Ireland's life and work towards the end of an article for the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Fiona Richards, the most comprehensive scholar of Ireland studies to date, reiterates many of the contradictions that continue to characterize his critical reception:

One encounters this subtly exculpatory sentiment repeatedly in Ireland studies in which the words discreetly beseech the reader to excuse our inability to encapsulate the subject under discussion; the topic, with its idiosyncratic ‘complex system of personal musical symbols and images’, is simply too nebulous to capture. Richards's recourse to Ireland's dualities in demonstrating this trend is typical and accords with the perception of Ireland as embodying the features of a so-called archetypal Romantic artist, however much of an ‘epistemological bucket-with-a-hole’ that denomination may be. The literature is full of references to Ireland's ambiguity. His stylistic fluctuations mark him anachronistically as ‘an uncurable [sic] and unashamed romantic’ yet nevertheless a ‘modern’ one. The insecurity and indulgence which some critics have associated with romantic artists is likewise perceived as balanced in Ireland by a ‘firm musical invention’ that is ‘clear-cut and disciplined’. From the opposite extreme, Trevor Hold considered Ireland to be in fact an ‘anti-romantic’, only to write later in the same article that, in his attachment to a heritage of romantic poetry and his predilection for autobiographical reference, Ireland is perhaps ‘the compleat romantic song-composer’.

This chapter analyses thirteenth-century Anglo-German connections and the crusade movement via the manuscript traditions of Oliver of Cologne's Historia Damiatina: an eyewitness account of the Fifth Crusade (1217–21) that circulated widely in Germany and England, as well as elsewhere in Europe. The transmission and reception of Oliver's text in England illustrate ecclesiastical networks that should be understood in the contexts of both wider Anglo- German diplomatic relations and extensive participation from both territories in the Fifth Crusade and the Crusade of Frederick II (1228–9). There remains considerable untapped potential in understanding the English manuscript traditions of Oliver's Historia as a marker of these wider patterns of Anglo-German political and crusading activity. The present essay proposes that the transmission of Oliver's Historia in England was driven in part by a concerted campaign of copying in the homelands of the Fifth Crusade veteran, Ranulph of Chester (1170–1232), in order to curate Ranulph's reputation, as well as by scribal interest in the wider crusading movement, set against the political backdrop of increasingly entangled Anglo-German political relations. It reveals how northern English audiences associated with Chester transmitted and received the text, as well as examining the wider Anglo-German and European ecclesiastical-political contexts of the crusading movement, which the Historia reflected back to audiences.

1755 Catherine Lloyd Gwyllym, Hersedd/Hartsheath, Flintshire (Chester Courant, 1 July 1755, p. 3).

1761 Jane Williams, Peniarth, Merionethshire (CN, 7 May 1880, p. 7).

1823 Lady Erskine nee Jane Silence Williams, Pwllycrochan, Denbighshire and Bodlondeb, Caernarfonshire (Cambrian, 8 February 1823, p. 3).

1830 Crisley Thomas, Ynys-y-Plwm, Llantrisant, Glamorganshire (Cambrian, 24 April 1830, p. 3).

1843 Eliza Anne Ermine Madocks, Tremadog, Caernarfonshire (NWC, 24 April 1843, p. 2).

1857 Sarah Jane Roose, Bryntirion, Amwlch, Anglesey (NWC, 31 January 1857, p. 7).

1859 Miss Hughes, Aberllolwyn, Cardiganshire (Aberystwith Observer, 15 January 1859, p. 1).

1861 Anne Jane Williams, Tan-y-Graig, Anglesey (NWC, 26 January 1861, pp. 4–5).

1861 Maria Emma Elizabeth Conway Griffith, Carreglwyd, Anglesey (NWC, 9 Fenruary 1861, p. 5; 16 February 1861, p. 8).

1862 Louisa Janette Anne Edwards, Cerrigllwydion, Denbighshire (NWC, 22 November 1862, p. 8).

1864 Mary Lloyd, Nannerch Hall, Flintshire (NWC, 23 April 1864, p. 6).

1865 Margaret Maria Hay-Williams, Rhianfa, Anglesey (NWC, 9 December 1865, p. 5).

Initially conceived as a ‘micro-history’ focusing on a small sample of discussions on dance in Spanish neo-Aristotelian poetics, this book eventually expanded substantially the original scope and chronology it had set out to analyse. It ended up intersecting different scales in an analytical process which consisted of sifting through a plurality of erudite discourses, which in turn reflected on dance in surprising detail, and a series of discontinuous fragments recounting festivities and celebrations to find clues as to how a modern monarchy, the Hispanic Monarchy, instrumentalised the dancing body and incorporated it to its ceremonials and to the semiotic system through which the monarchy aimed to portray itself.

Along the way, this research confirmed some of its initial hypotheses. And it achieved its main aim: to analyse the cause and effect relation between a monarch's (Philip III) passion for dance and the interest in dance recorded in the poetics of the period.

This book's first result is, without a doubt, that it has demonstrated the central importance of dance to the court culture of the Hispanic Monarchy, which at the time found symbolic confirmation in the 1602 publication of the Grazie d’Amore, dedicated to Philip III. Spanish participation in this passion for dance translated into a practice exercised by the monarchs and their courts, and is evidenced by the importance afforded to dance in the theoretical debates which regulated its social praxis (within and beyond the palace), as with the instruction of the nobility and the princes.

Arngrímr Brandsson makes no direct reference to Einarr Skúlason's Geisli in his poetry, but he is likely to have been aware of the importance to his own project of both the poem and the cult of St Óláfr. The second refrain of his Guðmundardrápa, beginning at stanza 32 and repeated in stanzas 36 and 40, closely echoes the wording of ESk Geisl 66/5–6VII: ‘Lúti landsfolk ítrum | lim salkonungs himna’ [Let the people of the land bow before the bright limb of the king of the hall of the heavens [(lit. ‘the bright limb of the hall-king of the heavens’) sky/heaven > = God (= Christ) > saint = Óláfr]. Arngrímr imitates these two lines with ‘Lúti gjörvöll landsbyggð ítrum | lim stólkonungs bjartra himna’ [Let the whole population bow before the excellent limb of the enthroned king of the bright heavens [= God > saint = Guðmundr]] (Arngr Gd 32/5–6). Making allowance for the metrical change from dróttkvætt in Geisli to hrynhent in Guðmundardrápa, the similarity in wording of these lines indicates that they are likely to be consciously imitated from one drápa to the other.

Arngrímr mentions Guðmundr's proximity to the relics of St Óláfr on the former's visit to the archbishop of Niðaróss described in Arngr Gd 29/1, 3: ‘Byskup sótti skrín hið skreytta … Óláfs konungs’ [The bishop visited the ornamented shrine … of King Óláfr]. According to Geisl 41/1, 4 Óláfr's shrine (skrín it skreytta) was ornamented with bóli dreka [the dwelling of the dragon [gold]]. With Finnur Jónsson (Skj BII, 379) I understand Arngrímr's text here as a literal reference to the actual shrine that would have been on display in Niðaróss cathedral in both Guðmundr's and Arngrímr's day.

The Restoration of the monarchy in 1660 signalled a return to the Church of England and an end to the Puritan commonwealth. For English Catholics, it brought both new advantages and disadvantages. The regicide and the Interregnum affirmed the danger of nonconformists to the monarchy. Recusant gentry had demonstrated their loyalty during the recent wars, including the sheltering of Charles II after the Battle of Worcester in 1651, yet they suffered from the fines and sequestrations of the 1640s and 1650s. 1660 brought the return of Catholic queens, first the queen mother, Henrietta Maria, and then, after 1662, the queen consort, Catherine of Braganza, with their overwhelmingly Catholic households. The year also saw the Declaration of Breda, ideas of which had been circulating since 1657, which promised liberty of conscience to all ‘in matters of religion which do not disturb the peace of the kingdom’. Despite the hardships they had suffered under Cromwell, Britain's Catholic population thus faced spring of 1660 with strong reasons to believe that their status as a persecuted minority would be left behind.

However, it was not to be. Parliament revived the Elizabethan and Jacobean statutes fining recusancy and labelling priests as traitors, and a series of acts passed between 1660 and 1665 known as the Clarendon Code introduced new restrictions on the movements of recusants and dissenters alike.

If the account provided by the magazine ¡Hola! is to be believed, Franco himself chopped the wood that was to hold up the Christ without a cross that had been offered up to him to be hung above the main alter of the basilica of the Valley of the Fallen. He said that a simple wooden cross would suffice to mark his grave and, indeed, he was buried beneath that very cross in 1975 – under the cross made from the tree he himself had cut down in Riofrío. The cycle of Generalísimo Franco's life and death, and the construction of family as the epitome of the legitimation of the dictator and the basic unit of everyday life, reached Spain's inhabitants through privileged channels. Gossip magazines aimed at women, known as the ‘prensa rosa’ (literally, the ‘pink press’) in Spanish, were one such channel. These magazines brought a smiling, relatable Caudillo who was nonetheless powerful and transcendental into Spanish women's homes and hairdressers. Franco was portrayed as Catholic Spain's Christian witness. He was leading the country towards its highest destiny, even when faced with the most powerful enemies.

The aim of this book is to describe the reception of Latin medical texts from the beginnings of Anglo-Latin literary culture with the Augustine Mission of 597 to the Norman conquest of 1066. The period is significant because it represents a time before the Arabic and Persian syntheses of Greek medicine – which would form the mainstay of the medicine taught in the medieval universities – had even been composed, never mind translated into Latin. The principal evidence for this reception in early medieval England was, of course, the existence of a corpus of medical texts written in Old English which were based upon Latin models. I will thus provide a thoroughly updated account of the Old English medical corpus of the ninth to eleventh centuries, illustrating its debt to the Latin medical literature which circulated in manuscripts of a similar age, i.e. the eighth to eleventh centuries. I will also highlight the need for more fundamental scholarship on these late antique and early medieval Latin texts themselves.

In the period in question, between the decline of the western half of the Roman Empire in the fifth century and the rise of the earliest universities in the eleventh, the main institutions in which texts were copied and preserved were monasteries. However, it would be a mistake to assume that professional physicians outside the cloister did not compose, transcribe or own such books for their own use. This early period of medieval medical history has often been viewed quite unfavourably. Peregrine Horden noted that historians of the twentieth century ‘saw in early medieval medical texts, with their supposedly mindless copying of sterile formulae, clear signs of cultural deliquescence’.

This chapter moves from the ‘hodge podge’ of the early years of Elizabeth's reign to the sharp dilemmas of obedience precipitated by the Vaux mission of 1567–8, the government's response to the resulting ‘papist confederacies’, and the frst systematic drive to confessionalise ofce-holding. Two opposite forces acted on the loyalty of Elizabethan nobles and gentry. One was the state's developing construction of the disloyalty implicit in religious dissent. The other was the construction Catholic authority placed on conformist compliance and the transmission to the faithful of Rome's sharpening position on schismatic attendance.

The Elizabethan state required attendance on Sundays and holy days at the forms of worship prescribed in the 1559 Uniformity Act. It chose not to investigate inner belief and prosecute for heresy. What was required was not subscription to a doctrinal formulary but outward conformity equated with loyalty to sovereign and statute. With state and church conceived of as coterminous, an integral commonwealth under a single supreme governor, nonconformity in religion was construed as political as well as ecclesiastical disobedience, carrying civil as well as spiritual penalties, exclusion from ofce as well as ecclesiastical sanctions.

However, Catholic laity received no clear papal directive to separate from the state church until the mission from Rome of Laurence Vaux in 1566–7. Vaux brought the papal message to his native Lancashire, in efect the Stanley clientage, and from there it was conveyed across the northern counties. Government alarm at the resulting oath-taking ‘confederacies’ set of a major confrontation between the regime and its Catholic subjects. The ensuing arrests of high profle Catholic gentry in 1568 fed into a widening political crisis which issued in 1569 in the Rebellion of the Northern Earls and in 1570 in the papal bull of deposition.