I grew up in a small place called Tre-Mostyn in rural Flintshire, in a home which formed part of a crescent of eight houses, built by the Mostyn family in the 1930s to house employees of their estate. The large ‘M’ inscribed on these houses signified the Mostyn connection (and, disappointingly, not Ronald McDonald of ‘Happy Meals’ fame, as I liked to believe when I was a boy!). My dad worked as a forester on the estate. Growing up, the presence of nearby Mostyn Hall was strongly felt. Most of the farms and farmland in the locality formed – and still form – part of the estate (Berth-y-Maen, Bryn Coch, Bryn Digrif, Coed Isa, Garreg, Hen Dyfrydd, Mynydd Mostyn, Pentreffynnon, Plas Uchaf, Trelogan Isaf, Wern etc.) and many of our neighbours were tenants or worked for the estate. On Sundays, Lord and Lady Mostyn entered Whitford parish church through their own door and sat in their own pew amidst the memorials of their ancestors; Lady Mostyn sent around boxes of chocolates at Christmas; into his final years Lord Mostyn could be seen driving around the locality, inspecting his estate in his golf buggy; and I well remember the estate hosting the International Sheepdog Trials in the 1990s.

Just up the road from Tre-Mostyn, near the farm and former tollgate of Plas Uchaf, there was a tree standing in the middle of the road: a stumpy old chestnut positioned at the intersection of four roads and lanes which lead to the village of Whitford, through parkland to Pentreffynnon Hall and up the hill to Penrallt and the venerable stone cross of Maen Achwyfan.

Table of Medieval Irish Classical Adaptations

This chapter will consider the Old English fortunes of the Latin illuminated herbal tradition, and the texts on animal medicine transmitted with it. The Latin illustrated herbal and animal texts were by far the most commonly copied texts of the Latin medical textual tradition in early medieval Europe. They seem to have been directly translated into Old English in the tenth century, a translation which survives in three eleventh-century manuscripts and a twelfth-century alphabetical redaction, but the texts also seem to have been used in the compilation of the earlier Leechbook and Lacnunga recipe collections. This complex form of reception, with a single Latin source influencing multiple separate Old English recipe collections, helps to illustrate some of the various forms of translation and compilation which characterise early medieval medical texts. The features of compilation and transmission which are considered here include the transmission of clusters of recipes in Old English, and the errors and variations which can accumulate between versions. These include not only unconscious errors but also the deliberate improvement of texts through the comparison of two or more witnesses or versions – a vital part of the process of reception and compilation and the differences which emerge when the same Latin text is translated by at least two different translators. By comparing recipes from the Old English Herbal with recipes from Bald's Leechbook and the Lacnunga, we will see that the Latin Herbal complex must have circulated in at least two different versions in England.

Sunday Collections By Year: 1500/1–70/1

Sir,

I am very much obliged to you and Mr. Dallone for your kind concern for me. The gentleman you mention seems to be in very friendly terms with me, and I have no reason to think that he means otherwise. As for the others, I see little appearance of my being in their way or going so far off, though if I should, you may be sure my endeavours would not be wanting where the public good of all Europe and the welfare of the Protestant religion are so much concerned; however I must always own this caution of yours as an effect of your great friendship which I shall study to improve on all occasions, being truly

Sir your most faithful and humble servant M.

The above letter, written to the Whig soldier and diplomat (and MP) James Stanhope in 1704, makes clear that the duke of Marlborough was supportive of attempts to improve public life in Europe and promote the Protestant religion. But could this letter be concerned with the movement of poor Protestants from the continent to the New World? Written four years before the Kocherthal party set out for London, relieving the plight of poor people burdened by high taxes, quartering of troops, and the misery of life in a war zone must have seemed desirable. After all, Marlborough's camp was close to where the Neckar meets the Rhine, an area from which many Palatine migrants were drawn. Furthermore, Marlborough relied on troops provided by the Elector Palatine, at least 3,000 of whom were paid from the British public purse.

In the 1670s, the London Catholic print trade converged around Covent Garden and Lincoln's Inn Fields with printers, binders, publishers, and sellers often working only minutes apart. Catholics had previously gathered in these neighbourhoods in the 1630s under the patronage of the French Catholic queen consort Henrietta Maria, only to be dispersed with the outbreak of the civil wars in 1642. Then, in 1669, Queen Catherine of Braganza assumed control of the royal residence of Somerset House shortly after the death of Henrietta Maria, and the surrounding streets once more became a safe haven for recusants across the social milieu. Somerset House operated a legally permitted Catholic chapel, where masses were attended by the wider public despite parliament's protestations, and which housed and employed a vast number of Catholic retainers, including several authors of Catholic texts. It was not just the abundance of Catholics, but the queen herself who made Somerset House a centre of patronage and protection. Her support was sought out by authors but was also granted to bookmen as part of larger efforts to protect and foster the English Catholic population. Several other Catholic sites populated the neighbourhoods around Somerset House, bolstering its attraction for Catholic print networks, including the ambassadorial residence at Weld House. This concentration created a supportive community but also drew the focus of the anti-popish censors. Catholic London, therefore, occupied a mappable space, detectable by both friend and foe – and also by later scholars.

While the first two chapters laid out the situation of Catholics and Catholic books in the early Restoration, the next two chapters focus on the spaces in which print networks operated and grew. Each chapter adopts a different approach to, and focus on, these various networks, mirroring the paradox of print markets being both cohesive and diverse.

Three notable copies of the Sinfonietta include annotations by conductors who performed the work during Janáček's lifetime, two of them in his presence. The first is annotated by František Neumann, conductor of the Brno premiere and of the last live performance Janáček heard. This copy is now part of the Universal Edition collection in the Wienbibliothek im Rathaus, Vienna; the other two are in the Royal Academy of Music (RAM) Library in London: the score used by Otto Klemperer for the Berlin performance attended by Janáček in 1927 and that used by Henry Wood for the British premiere in 1928. Neumann's and Klemperer's copies are of particular interest as both conductors performed the Sinfonietta in Janáček's presence, in Brno and Berlin, respectively. Henry Wood's copy was marked up by him for the first performance in London on 10 February 1928, about which Janáček corresponded with Rosa Newmarch.

All three copies are the first issue of the full score, published by Univer¬sal Edition (Vienna and New York) in January 1927, with a print run of one hundred copies (PN U.E. 8679, 72 pp.). Klemperer also owned a copy of the 1927 Wiener Philharmonischer Verlag miniature score (PN U.E. 8680, W.Ph.V. 224, 115 pp.), which is in the RAM Library. It has his ownership stamp on the front cover but contains no markings. The 1927 full score (72 pp.) is referred to below as UE 1927; the 1927 pocket score (115 pp.) is referred to as WPhV 1927.

We have discussed the vibrant cultural presence of Charlemagne in the French- and Occitan-speaking areas in the medieval period, but Charlemagne did not disappear with the passing of the Middle Ages. In the post-medieval period, the legends of Charlemagne are found in both popular and elite culture, including among the theatre- and opera-going public. The bridge of Mautrible from the Fierabras narrative was evoked in Rabelais’ humanist tale Pantagruel (1532), and across Europe Cervantes alluded to Fierabras in Don Quijote (1605), while Schubert composed his three-act opera Fierabras in 1823; all these assume that their readers and audiences would be aware of at least Carolingian echoes. But legends of Charlemagne also survived in popular narrative, including children's literature. Representations of Charlemagne in the visual arts have also ensured that he is not forgotten: he remains as much a ‘king of France’ as a Germanic emperor; the most famous of these, a monumental product of nineteenth-century medievalism, must surely be the bronze of Charlemagne and his paladins on the square in front of Notre-Dame in Paris. The sacrality of kingship is evoked by the locus of this statue, outside the most iconic religious building in France, but it is a warrior who is depicted.

The Bibliotheque Bleue

Throughout the early modern period the Bibliothèque bleue, a French publishing phenomenon, was a significant vehicle for Charlemagne narratives. Originating in Troyes with the publishing house of the brothers Oudot, the very cheaply produced booklets of the Bibliothèque bleue, so called because the volumes were bound in blue sugar paper, would keep medieval narratives of Charlemagne alive.