Introduction

Migration has played a pivotal role in shaping the historical experiences of West Africa, with the Yoruba emerging as one of the historically prominent migrant groups in the sub-region. The early migration in West Africa took diverse forms, influenced by factors such as internecine warfare, trade, colonization of new lands, slaving, and evangelism. In this chapter, we delve into the multifaceted nature of Yoruba migration, which has given rise to several diasporas, connecting them with various groups and regional economies. This historical phenomenon of the Yoruba diaspora is a significant subject of study in African migration discourses. Our focus is on exploring the trading routes and commercial activities of the Yoruba people.

The chapter aims to shed light on Yoruba migration to Ghana and northern Nigeria, which underwent significant transformations under British colonial rule. During this period, both commercial and labor migration became prevalent, with men and women actively engaging in mobility within colonial West Africa. Labor migration initially centered around the cocoa-growing and forest regions of Ghana, but eventually expanded to include commercial migration, encompassing diamond mining, trading, and commerce. In northern Nigeria, Yoruba migrants assumed vital roles in the colonial workforce and kola nut trade. Across both Ghana and northern Nigeria, Yoruba migrants exhibited wide dispersal, transcending rural and urban areas, while maintaining strong social connections within their communities and host societies. This chapter will also explore the residential patterns of the Yoruba diaspora.

In April 2024 the Medieval English Theatre conference was held at the University of Newcastle, admirably hosted by James Cummings. The theme was ‘Dramatic Margins’, and the papers covered a stimulating range of topics while exhibiting characteristic METh interest in manuscripts, historical records, and drama in performance. Papers invited us to consider how attention to margins, of various kinds, could illuminate questions about how to define ‘drama’, ‘performance’, and ‘theatre’ – questions which are theoretical but which are also made practical in the activities of collecting records of ‘early drama’ or taking words from page to ‘stage’.

Charlotte Steenbrugge discussed the play-frame of the Dutch Tspel van dOnghelycke Munte (‘The Play of the Fluctuating Currency’), with its creatively disruptive female character, Everyday Chitchat. Sarah Grandage, with Dana Key on Zoom, described a project on the use of marginal playing spaces in modern performance, in which students from the University of Nottingham presented performances of Joseph's Trouble and the Nativity among the medieval alabasters in the Nottingham Castle museum. Pamela King, joined on Zoom by David Parkinson, presented his new edition of Henry Adamson's The Muses Threnodie, a delightfully humorous Scottish seventeenth-century text which through argument and animated reading they persuasively demonstrated should be considered as para-drama. Eleanor Rycroft and Clare Wright led a lively and stimulating panel discussion of the term ‘Pre-Dramatic Theatre’, drawing on their current project with Greg Walker to explore the uses and limitations of terminology in current theatre studies.

Never before and never since have so many East Asian films been shown in cinemas in West Germany as in the 1970s. While a considerable number of Japanese monster films had already made their way to cinemas in West Germany since the 1950s, the arrival of East Asian martial arts films in the spring of 1973 opened up a whole new chapter.

Dozens of karate, kung fu, and sword-fighting films were imported, mainly from Hong Kong, then still under British rule, but also from Japan, Taiwan, and the Philippines. These films became known in West Germany as “Easterns,” thereby transforming an East Asian genre into a sort of sibling of the much older and very American genre, the Western, which is also defined by its spatial dimension. For German and migrant youths and young men, stars of the Eastern, particularly Bruce Lee, were heroes. They were pictured in illustrated magazines, featured on film posters in public spaces, and adorned the walls of teenagers’ bedrooms. Thus, the Eastern became part of West German popular culture, leading to a boom in martial arts and private karate, kung fu, and judo schools in almost every large- and mediumsized city. As Otto Kuhn noted in 1983 in the first German book on these films: “For many years, Easterns … were among the most popular and most watched films for a certain segment of the audience.

Traces on the internet show that people with Dalcroze backgrounds have engaged in innovative practices and research in education, therapy, and medicine for more than a century. In each of these contexts, practitioners have noticed the impact of their work on the health and well-being of participants, with many publishing their observations and some collaborating with various kinds of specialists in medicine and psychology. These alliances have often been crucial in developing Dalcroze practice itself, providing new theoretical insights into how it functions in relation to health and well-being, and disseminating it more widely. In 2016, a special issue of the interdisciplinary music therapy journal, Approaches, focused on Dalcroze Eurhythmics in music therapy and special music education. In this chapter, we provide a guide to navigating examples of past and present work by practitioners and researchers whose histories have not been considered together. Our strategy combines two case studies with a broader narrative on the interplay of experiment, research, and inclusion in Dalcroze practice.

Jaques-Dalcroze thought everyone should have the chance to experience music actively. He focused on movement and health early in his career, according to the flyer for a “Practical Course for the Development of the Ear and the Musical Faculties” in September 1894 in his private studio, which offered group classes for very young children as well as music students and adults.

Berlioz had already reviewed this opera by Louise-Angélique Bertin (1805–77), on a libretto by Victor Hugo, adapted from his novel Notre-Dame de Paris (RGM, 20 November 1836). While recognizing aspects that spoke of her inexperience, he could at least find it in him to praise beauties ‘that overall give evidence of a feeling for style and a power of invention that are extremely rare’. This extract translates four paragraphs from the middle of the feuilleton.

Before turning to a study of this work [Esmeralda], which is remarkable from many points of view, it may perhaps not be irrelevant to mention the cause of a number of inaccurate criticisms about which composers, more than other artists, have undoubted reason to complain. This cause is prejudice.

There is in fact no art more vulnerable to suffering from such unfair judgments than music. Painters, sculptors, engravers, architects, poets, and prose writers all have a real advantage in the fixity of their work: once out of hands of its maker, it can be immediately seen by the critic without its message being undermined, changed or weakened in any way. A painting or a statue is always the same; nothing can prevent the critic from seeing it as it is and understanding it perfectly. If an initial inspection is not enough to judge it overall and in detail, then the critic is free to come back next day, the day after, and several days in a row: the work is there waiting for him, immobile and unalterable.

Abstract: This article examines the comparison Jean Paul draws between his notetaking practices and a game of cards in an often-cited footnote to the Vorschule der Ästhetik (Preschool of Aesthetics). Setting out from the knowledge that the footnote's description of a “collection of notes” that could be shuffled together like cards does not reflect the material reality of Jean Paul's literary estate, the article reads the passage instead as a hypothetical reflection on the roles of chance and witty combinatorics in the author's work. It does so by setting its focus on a series of intertexts, including Hegel's critique of Jean Paul, Lessing's accounts of the role of chance in his bibliographic and literary work, and a parallel description of note-taking in Jean Paul's own short text “Die Taschenbibliothek.” These texts, which focus in various ways on the relationship between information management and the aleatoric, pave the way for an appraisal of Jean Paul's poetics as a playful yet risky way of engaging with the overwhelming amount of information made available by industrial modes of production—a problem that has only increased in relevance in the centuries since Jean Paul.

Keywords: Jean Paul, Cards, French Revolution, Vorschule der Ästhetik, Hegel, Lessing, Media, Materiality

Introduction In 1790, the French National Assembly formed a committee to oversee the creation of a national bibliography. The project aimed to catalogue every book belonging to the newly formed republic, among them many books that had recently been seized from the church.

The preceding chapter concluded with an exploration of the divine dimension inherent in the lessons imparted by the Estoria de Espanna. Indeed, the presence of God and the influence of divinity in matters of governance have, in various forms, been a recurring theme throughout this book. The last two chapters have explored the dual systems of legitimation that the chronicle builds around the concept of rightful succession, which underscores the continuity of the process outlined in Chapter 4, namely, the Translatio Imperii. However, as we have seen throughout this study, the binding agent between these ideological tools built by the Alfonsine scriptorium was the presence of divinity within the historical account, always necessary to secure the transmission of the imperium. In this chapter, I will explore how this divine legitimisation worked hand in hand with the principles described previously: the use of kin-right to legitimise succession and an elective system based on the personal traits and merits of the candidate. The involvement of the divine in these inheritance mechanisms secured, according to the Alfonsine ideological framework, the progression of the Translatio Imperii. The figure of God acted as an overseeing agent, supporting the position of the aspiring emperor.

The following pages will therefore explore the relationships established between divinity, the monarchs, and the Christian Church in the Alfonsine ideological framework, with a particular focus on how these are represented in the Estoria de Espanna. To fully grasp the ideological significance of the divine in the chronicle, this chapter will start by tracing the evolution of the Castilian monarchy's sense of sacrality during the medieval period. This topic has sparked considerable debate in academic circles.

Francisco Franco's authoritarian regime continues to be the main focus of Spanish historians and foreign Hispanists. The Spanish Civil War of 1936–1939 and subsequent dictatorship, which only came to end with the Caudillo's death in 1975, is rightly seen now as an anomaly in the history of twentiethcentury Spain. The military uprising of July 1936 initiated a long parenthesis in Spanish political development that was characterized by liberal monarchy and a democratic republic, before the fratricidal conflict, and a parliamentary monarchy, following the transition to democracy and the promulgation of the 1978 Constitution.

Yet it is also true that Francoism is inseparable from the broader history of Spain and the international context in which the dictatorship emerged. The enormous and ever-growing historiography on the Spanish Civil War shows that it maintains an extraordinary presence in the imaginations of Spaniards and foreigners alike. While some prominent historians – Stanley Payne, Paul Preston, Edward Malefakis, Santos Juliá, and Hugh Thomas – have written about the war and the long dictatorship in general, others – for example, Joan María Thomàs, Enrique Moradiellos, Julius Ruiz, Fernando del Rey, Manuel Álvarez Tardío, and Mercedes Peñalba – have penned empirically based monographs on specific aspects of the sad story of the collapse of Spanish democracy in the 1930s. Unsurprisingly, there is no historiographical consensus on the subject, and these debates have resonated far beyond the ivory towers of academia as the meaning and legacy of the war remain high on the contemporary Spanish political agenda. Certainly, the recent, controversial Law of Democratic Memory has kept these difficult years firmly in the public eye.

The abundant similarities between the English and Frisian languages either side of the North Sea, especially in the Old and Middle English and Old Frisian periods, were observed and described very early in antiquarian scholarship. From nineteenth-century Stammbaum philology through to contemporary historical sociolinguistics, we are the heirs to some two centuries of scholarship that has been devoted to the goal of producing a satisfactory explanatory ‘model’ of the relationships between these branches of the Germanic language family. An important facet of this endeavour in recent decades has been recognition of the contribution that can be made by archaeological evidence, contextualising the history of populations not only within specific regions but also in terms of their connexions and interactions with neighbours and more distant groups. While maintenance of the critical methods intrinsic to the individual historical, philological and archaeological disciplines remains essential, there is no disputing that only an integrated cross-fertilisation of all such relevant specialisations can now be considered a proper basis for understanding relationships in the relatively distant past.

The scholarly study of the runic script has become sufficiently well founded now for ‘runology’ to be claimed as the name of a field of specialist knowledge. Here, too, a distinct ‘Anglo-Frisian’ branch of the runic writing system has long been argued for, even though it was a later arrival on the scene than the concept of an anglofriesische Sprache. In the early 1930s, Otto von Friesen, Professor of Swedish Language at Uppsala University, used the term anglofrisiska runor, and he declared ‘I have named them thus because they occur only in English lands besides also in Frisian areas’ [author's translation].

Old Toldy, having changed his role from gardener to gallery attendant, was already waiting at the entrance ramp. With him, Andras.

“Is everything ready, Toldy?” asked the count.

Toldy nodded.

“Fine. But we’re not going up this way, not the grand staircase. I want to show the countess the old tower.”

With these words he took Franziska's arm and, as Andras went ahead and Toldy followed, he led her to an ancient fieldstone tower, now incorporated into the newer castle building. Within it was a spiral staircase that ascended two stories. The only light came in through narrow openings, no wider than a hand, which pierced the thick stonework every five steps. At one of these, the count paused and pointed to the landscape, which was particularly beautiful from this angle. In the far distance the lake shimmered, while to its right there arose a tall, sharply profiled rock formation known as “the Bishop,” since people professed to see in it a bishop's miter and crosier.

A few steps higher, and instead of these apertures there was a low door with a pointed arch, leading to the newer part of the castle, and here Andras stood, to show them the way through the tunnel-like passage. The count bent down and reached his hand back to Franziska.

Between the years 1450 and 1509, England endured a tremendous amount of upheaval and unrest springing from the civil wars we know today as the Wars of the Roses. The feuds, revolts and other related violence that occurred during this conflict resulted in a startlingly large number of monarchic changes. In this relatively short amount of time, there were five different kings of England – Henry VI (r.1422–61, 1470–71), Edward IV (r.1461–83), Edward V (r.1483), Richard III (r.1483–85) and Henry VII (r.1485–1509). Except for the twelve-year-old Edward V, each of these kings was married. Consequently, there were four different queens consort – Margaret of Anjou (c.1430–82; r.1445–61, 1470–71), Elizabeth Woodville (c.1437–92; r.1464–83), Anne Neville (c.1456–85; r.1483–85), and Elizabeth of York (c.1466–1503; r.1486–1503). In a father–son monarchic changeover, the queen consort's successor would typically have been her daughter-in-law, the wife of the new king. None of these queens was related to each other in this manner.

Margaret of Anjou, a niece of the French king, Charles VII (r.1422–61), was married to the Lancastrian king of England, Henry VI, in 1445 as part of diplomatic efforts by England to resolve the long-standing war with France. Henry, however, lost the throne to the Yorkists in battle in 1461. Although he regained his crown (and Margaret her title as queen consort) in October 1470 with the help of Richard Neville, earl of Warwick – who had famously changed sides from the Yorkists to the Lancastrians – he lost it again after only six months. This short period is known as Henry VI's Readeption.

From the beginning of the patristic project to the end, William Dyngley was in control of his manuscripts. He acquired exemplars, hired the scribes, paid for parchment and decoration, and provided the guard pages. Dyngley's first patristic manuscript, MS 169, was a training ground for the skills he used to create his own patristic library. As we saw in Chapter Three, Dyngley did not just copy Tabula super custodiarum and Registrum Anglie: he shortened incipits, deleted words he deemed unnecessary, and rearranged material. As the Rouses demonstrated, his was a ‘deliberate policy of alteration’. He similarly reconstructed Robert Kilwardby's tabulae, alphabetising, deleting and rearranging details for thirty-five individual works by Augustine (Table 3.2). He also created his own tabulae for Augustine's letters (MS 88) and three opuscula in his patristic anthology (MS 203). For the patristic anthology he also indexed the entire volume.

Early in 1523, around March, Las Casas was formally initiated as a Dominican novitiate in Santo Domingo. These vows constituted a radical change of direction for the worldly “protector” of the Indians. He accepted the discipline of the order that “is a trial period of his new vocation. It is an apprenticeship in the obedient life, renouncing one's own will, with little communication with the outside world from inside the cell of the Dominican monastery.”

A test to this commitment soon appeared in the form of letters from Cardinal Adrian and some of the Flemish gentlemen at the court. They wanted Las Casas to return to the court where he had found so much favor.

We don't know who opened the letters. Las Casas himself says that “the Dominicans in the monastery [he was still in Santo Domingo] did not wish to show him the letters so as not to disturb him.” One of his biographers, Huerga, wrote that “at the least they told him what was in the letters.” But, for the time being, Las Casas renounced the world and went into a metaphorical “sleep,” as he himself described it.

But “sleep” to one man is quite different to another. From 1523 to about 1526 he devoted himself to the discipline demanded by his Dominican brothers in Santo Domingo – study and prayer. Indeed, much of Las Casas's erudition displayed in the next forty years originated during these years as he dug into the books of the great church fathers, read the ancient pagan philosophers, and immersed himself in Scripture. He may have been quiet and superficially contemplative, but his voracious appetite for knowledge and wisdom drove him on.

The pseudonym ‘Calixtus’ appears throughout the Codex Calixtinus, although he is not the only author mentioned in the manuscript. The liturgical section features the “prescription of Pope Calixtus on the matins of Santiago”. He is also the named author of elements in the second book that recounts the miracles of St James, and again as the author of a prologue to the first account of the translation of St James. The opening of the Pilgrim's Guide is presented as the argumentum of Pope Calixtus. Even Book 4, the Pseudo-Turpin, assigns its last chapters to ‘Pope Calixtus’, after the death of ‘Turpin’. At the end of the manuscript a false bull of Innocent II reiterates the fiction. The author portrait on fol. 1r of the Codex Calixtinus shows ‘Calixtus’ seated on an arcaded stool and writing his name on the recto of an open codex (see Figure 1). The decision to set the figure within the bowl of a dragon initial ‘C’, with one dragon head hovering above his head and a second under his feet, may also signal the satiric nature of this pseudonym.

Berlioz's general unwillingness to accept the status quo in any field is manifest in this review, emphasising the useful improvements orchestral instrument makers were introducing to their products. While we today may marvel at the expertise he displayed in his Grand Traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration modernes (1843), his surprise was that so many composers should be so ignorant of the tools of their trade.

Among instruments of the orchestra, the only ones to have called for and received technical improvements recently are the woodwind. The flute, the clarinet, and especially the bassoon had long suffered from serious faults of intonation and tone which the skill of virtuosos had only managed to disguise up to a point. Boehm's invention for the flute, consisting of a new way of boring the holes for the player's fingers but which unfortunately alters the conventional fingering, has led to important improvements for bassoons and clarinets. We’ve already had an opportunity to mention this excellent development, thanks to which these instruments, whose sound was the most unsatisfactory, will soon boast one that's perfectly in tune and absolutely equal through all registers. As for the violins and lower strings, there's nothing left to say: you don't find Stradivariuses round every corner. Only the piano continues to make progress, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another. Érard has got them to produce a volume of sound which means that, at least in Liszt's hands, they can compete with a standard orchestra. Pape has produced them in various shapes to suit amateur tastes, so that this instrument, which is growing in popularity the world over, from London and Paris as far as the Philippines and the Indies, can cater simultaneously both to every musical need and to the dictates of fashion and luxury.