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.

Our exploration of spatial expansion in variation form continues with the ‘Eroica’ Variations Op. 35 which, together with Op. 34, inaugurated Beethoven's ‘new path’, the stylistic shift towards his ‘middle period’, exemplified also in the 32 Variations on an Original Theme in C in C minor WoO 80 considered below. The chapter concludes with an analysis of high registral structure in the masterly ‘Diabelli’ Variations, Op. 120.

15 Variations in E flat Op. 35

Composed soon after Six Variations on an Original Theme Op. 34, the 15 Variations in E flat Op. 35 represent an important stage in the genesis of the Eroica Symphony, which most boldly embodied Beethoven's ‘new path’. The theme was eventually to generate the symphony's finale, yet its prehistory was as a concluding scene of the successful ballet The Creatures of Prometheus Op. 43, reworked soon after as a ballroom dance, no. 7 of the Twelve Contredanses WoO 14 (1801). While referred to as the ‘Eroica’ Variations, Op. 35 was originally intended to have ‘Prometheus’ mentioned in the title.

As we have seen in the previous chapter, Op. 34's originality lies both in its tonal scheme amongst the variations and in the transformation and expansion of pitch-space towards a climax in the final composite variation and coda. If Op. 35 is less radical tonally, its spatial trajectories are no less radical.

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.

Carl Dahlhaus, the eminent German philosopher of music, observed of the ‘middle period’ sonatas that ‘musical form presents itself emphatically as the process of coming into existence, and not as “static” existence, unfolded in time but not produced in it’. Dahlhaus's point may be extended beyond the elements of motive and tonality to aspects of space and shape. If such ‘form as transformation’ is already evident in the spatial unfolding of the Op. 31 sonatas composed for five-octave pianos, it emerges to the fore in the innovative and expansionist approaches developed in the group of sonatas Opp. 53, 54 and 57, composed expressly for the five-and-a-half-octave piano range of the French Erard piano, F1–C7, a gift from the Parisian makers which arrived at his Viennese dwelling by August 1803. The ‘Waldstein’ and the ‘Appassionata’ sonatas, in particular, represent the composer's response to his new instrument, breaking boundaries and stretching spatial structures, exemplifying what Dahlhaus recognises as ‘total course of assumptions, denials, reinterpretations and contradictions that the musical consciousness has travelled along’.2 Indeed these works project complex journeys fuelled by an awareness of and striving for new sonorities, especially in the newly available upper registers. We shall examine the expanded approach to keyboard space in the next two chapters, and see how the sonatas joined ranks with formal expansion in different genres from Beethoven's ‘heroic’ middle period.

Fire on board was one of the most dangerous of the misadventures faced by mariners. Outside the risks of fire associated with warfare, there were risks associated with lightning strike; the carriage of gunpowder or saltpetre or fibrous cargo such as cotton; wood fires in the galley; or a spark from candle or lantern falling into a broached keg of spirits, with tarred rope and oiled canvas always ready to burn. As well there was the possibility of arson on the part of disgruntled seamen while in port. Lascars were commonly blamed for fires, the idea being that after taking wage advances they would burn the ship and abscond. James Horsburgh was one of those who believed that ‘a rage for burning ships pervaded the native sailors of India’. Four of the ships that protested at Malacca in 1816 and 1817 were later destroyed by fire, attributed to arson, while in port: the Bombay Castle bound for China with a load of cotton burnt off Saugor Island in May 1846; the Cornwallis was burnt in Bombay with a load of cotton on board in 1841; the Duchess of Wellington burnt in Saugor with a cargo of saltpetre in 1816 and the Upton Castle, again in Saugor, laden with cotton in 1817, the latter after a foiled first attempt. In the case of the Duchess of Wellington the report in the Asiatic Journal asserted that:

In 1599, Gerónimo de Huerta (1573–1643) began translating the Natural History of Pliny the Elder, the 1624 edition of which contains a “Tabla de las efigies de gentes monstruosas, animales, pescados, aves e insectos.” The Historia natural / de Cayo Plinio Segundo; traducida por el Licenciado Geronimo de Huerta … y ampliada por él mismo, con escolios y anotaciones, en que se aclara lo oscuro y dudoso y añade lo no sabido hasta estos tiempos provides in the Castilian language – as the complete title of the translation indicates – more information on the many things there are to say about animals. Both the Latin writer and the Spanish humanist contributed to the encyclopedia on animals. The last words of the title of the translation relay that Pliny's work was expanded by Geronimo de Huerta, who added material on previously unknown topics. Here, the question arises: what information pertaining to animals, according to the translator, was unavailable in Pliny's time, which the Spaniard, as a scholar of philosophy and natural history, thought should be included to bring the work's zoological matter up to date? To answer this question, using comparative literature as a methodology, I explain how Gerónimo de Huerta incorporated zoological findings from various sources into his notes. Thus, both the “Table” and the annotations to the translation of the Natural History present, on the one hand, the fauna that inhabited the territories identified by Pliny (first century), and, on the other, reveal the fauna that inhabited the places known to the Spanish translator (sixteenth to seventeenth century).

The above piece, an extract from a letter published in the “Thanksgivings” pages of the Irish Messenger of the Sacred Heart in September 1932, is eloquent in its expression of feelings: despair, pain, sadness, depression, the determination to persevere, and, finally, relief and delight. If emotion is, in William M. Reddy's terms, “a dialogue between one's conscious and subconscious thoughts in which numerous sensory inputs are being decoded and translated,” the writing above is a powerful expression of this process. As the study of history moves on from seeing humans merely as “actors in shifting historical scenery,” the aim is to focus more on the experience and emotions of individuals. As Rob Boddice explains, “The historian's role has come to include an appraisal of what it was like to be in the past: we have come to ask, what did it feel like?”

INTRODUCTION

Edmund Spenser made a fleeting appearance in early scholarly discourse on the Irish dánta grádha (love poems): in his introduction to T. F. O’Ra¬hilly's pioneering Dánta Grádha: An Anthology of Irish Love Poetry (1916), Robin Flower suggests that, had Spenser been introduced to the dánta grádha, ‘he would have recognised a familiar note in them’ due to their similarity to contemporaneous English love poems such as those published in Tottel's Miscellany in 1557. While Spenser can rightfully be categorised as a love poet, he is not among those English poets whose work has been shown to have had a direct influence on the dánta grádha. The present chapter takes inspiration from Flower's imagined encounter by examining a contemporary of Spenser’s, Eochaidh Ó hEódhusa (c. 1568–1612). I will focus on Ó hEódhusa's love poems, most of which have received little critical attention to date, and I will consider the question of how appropriate the label of ‘love poet’ is to this most multifaceted of poets.

EOCHAIDH Ó hEÓDHUSA

Eochaidh Ó hEódhusa was from the townland of Baile Uí Eódhusa (Bally¬hose), Co. Fermanagh. His father was Maoileachlainn Ó hEódhusa, also a poet and chief of his name. Ó hEódhusa (junior) received training as a poet in the northern half of Ireland and in Thomond in Munster. He returned to Ballyhose as an adult, was later granted land at Currin near Ballinamallard, Co. Fermanagh, and in 1610–11 was granted a plantation grant of 210 acres in the barony of Clanawley in that same county