The editor of the RGM wrote the following preface to Berlioz's text: ‘Since the excellent Philharmonic Society are to perform extracts from Gluck's Alceste next Tuesday, we think we shall be doing a real service to our readers to quote the fine pages written by Berlioz on these same extracts’. The ‘extracts’ are actually continuous from act 1, scene 3 to the end of the act in the French version of the opera (1776), and not much changed, bar the language, from the Italian original of 1767. The text translated below quotes two passages from reviews previously published in 1835 (they appear in quotation marks in the article). Since Gluck's operas constitute such an idée fixe in Berlioz's writings, it's only right that these final words should celebrate Alceste.

The third scene opens in Apollo's temple. Enter the high priest, the priest who will conduct the sacrifice together with the censors and other necessary instruments, and finally Alceste leading her children, the courtiers and members of the public. Here Gluck applies an extreme of local colour; it's ancient Greece he reveals to us in all its majestic, beautiful simplicity. Listen to the instrumental movement (aria di pantomimo) to which the cortege enters; listen to this gentle, veiled, calm, resigned melody, this pure harmony, this almost inaudible rhythm of the contrabasses, whose undulating patterns steal beneath the orchestra like the priestesses’ feet beneath their white tunics; lend your ear to the strange timbre of low flutes, to the intertwining of the two violin lines sharing the melody, and say whether there's any music more beautiful, in the ancient sense of the word, than this religious march.

Soon after this, her toilette was complete, and while Hannah busied herself with other tasks in the room, Franziska took a random book from the shelf and sat down in the window recess to read. But she was distracted, and her mind was elsewhere, and so she put the book aside again and said:

“It's no use, Hannah. I’d rather take a look at something—the park or the garden. Tell me, what's the large room next to us for? Right now, probably to its surprise, it just seems like an antechamber to my room.”

“That's the dining room from the days of the Turks or Prince Eugene, when they’d just completed the new part of the castle. Toldy even showed me the very spot where Prince Eugene himself sat.”

“Oh, now, that's interesting. Prince Eugene! Come along, I want to see it. You have to take me through the whole castle and tell me everything you know. Then I’ll have something to talk about, when I make conversation with the count. He's fond of that. So far, I only know my own three rooms.”

As she was saying this, Franziska, followed by Hannah, had gone into the grand hall. It ran through the entire depth of the castle building; thus it had two balconies, one with a view of the lake and the distant countryside beyond, and another which had to content itself with overlooking the castle courtyard. Tall glass doors led to each balcony.

Since the day of their arrival, some time had passed—more than three weeks—and Egon had long since returned from the great hunt at Pejevics's estate. It was now mid-October, and there was already talk of departing for the season; however, the splendid weather, as if to compensate for the earlier rain, meant that the date kept being postponed. And the talk of moving on was much less serious than it appeared, at least on the part of Egon, who never wearied of declaring “life inside an ellipse, or, what comes to the same thing, life with two centers—two aunts,” to be a new and highest form of existence.

Indeed, he was now on teasing terms with Franziska and assured her that, from the very first moment, she had disappointed him in her new quality of “Magyar.” It had started right away, at the boat. He had expected to see her on a thoroughbred, in equestrian clothes, with a flowing veil and an English riding crop; instead she had arrived escorted in a carriage, just like little Protestant countesses being driven into town for Sunday school or a children's ball. Yes, that was the start, and what he had experienced since had only increased his surprise and consternation; more and more, he had been forced to acknowledge how wrong a path she had chosen.

Matthias (Hun: Mátyás) Hunyadi (r.1458–90) was elected king of Hungary in January 1458. The first ruler of Hungary to have come from a non-royal family, his accession to the throne of St István (St Stephen) was due to the European reputation of his father, János Hunyadi (d.1456), as a champion of the war against the Ottomans, his popularity amongst the nobility, and the support of the papacy which hoped that the son of the great Hunyadi would continue the fight against the infidel. Matthias was fifteen years old when the diet (congregatio generalis) at Pest elected him king. At that time, he was not residing in his new kingdom: he had been taken as a hostage to Vienna by King Ladislaus V (r.1440–57) in June 1457, whence he was escorted to Prague in November that same year. It was Ladislaus V himself who ordered Matthias to be taken to the Czech capital; he wanted to marry the young Hunyadi to the daughter of Jíří z Poděbrad (George of Poděbrady), former governor of Bohemia. Within days, the seventeen-year-old Ladislaus V was dead. Matthias Hunyadi left Prague at the beginning of February 1458 as the elected king of Hungary, followed later by his new bride, Kateřina z Poděbrad. In March, her father was elected king of Bohemia and soon he was crowned by two Hungarian prelates delegated by Matthias. Everything seemed to presage that the two ‘national’ kings, Jíří of Bohemia and his son-in-law, Matthias of Hungary, would co-operate harmoniously, assisting each other in the consolidation of their newly won royal authority.

This chapter advances a simple argument. From the moment designated coastal legislation and administration started to impact on the physical geography from the 1690s, the coast became a politically distinct space. Whereas geography had influenced social and economic realities in coastal regions for centuries, it was only with the designated attempts at ordering littoral space and controlling coastal mobility that this also became true in a political sense. The coast, in legal and practical terms, became an area of state activity and, thereby, a space apart. By looking at how legislators and administrators attempted to order coastal space with designated sets of laws and new bodies of coastal officers from the late seventeenth century onwards, the chapter aims to illustrate this larger argument by a number of smaller points.

Once the coast appeared on the political map of the United Kingdom in the context of political concerns specific to the reign of Mary and William (chapter 1), there was no returning to a state of ignorance. And yet for a long time, ignorance as to what the coast was and where it began or ended was not eliminated from legislation. With increasing amounts of legislation targeting coastal areas, there was not necessarily an awareness of how best to control coastal space. Such regulation was, secondly, often profoundly at odds with priorities in the executive. This was only natural, given that enforcement was a different matter from legislation. It is argued here, however, that these differences not only derived from different positions in the governing apparatus but originated in diverging understandings of space.

For each item, ‘untitled’ means that there is no title in the manuscript. Modern titles are given in modern English, in quotation marks, preceded by ‘Called’. Titles found in the manuscript are given in Middle English with modern capitalization, in italics, preceded by ‘Title’ and followed by parenthetical identification of location and any rubrication. Headings found in the manuscript are given in Middle English, in italics, preceded by ‘Heading’.

In this list, ‘no other manuscripts’ means that none are identified in the DIMEV or NIMEV, the IMEP, or In Principio; in the absence of such a note, it may be assumed the item appears in at least one other manuscript. For other witnesses to items in Middle English verse, see www.dimev.net.2 For other witnesses to items in Middle English prose, see William Marx, The Index of Middle English Prose. Handlist XIV: Manuscripts in the National Library of Wales (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 19–27, and https://imep.lib.cam.ac.uk/ for updates. For other witnesses to items in Latin, see In Principio – Online at https://www.brepols.net/series/INPR-O.

Scribal hands have been named (A, D, H, etc.) in accordance with Margaret Connolly's analysis in Chapter 3 in this volume.

Quire 110, fols. 1–10, parchment

• 1. fol. 1r–v, English prose. Begins: The man tat fallet syke te fyrst day of eny monet te tirde day folowynge he schall be hole. Ends: Thys is a trew wytnesse found of wise men. Untitled. Heading: Secundum anticos Grecorum. Prognostication. Hand A.

These descriptions had prompted quite a lively chat between Fessler and Franziska. He asked to hear about the social life in the small North German town and posed one question after another. What he found most interesting were the scenes from the Lutheran parsonage: the many children, the games of whist, and the pastors’ conferences. All of this garnered his unmistakable interest, and that of the countess, as was clear from their expressions; and only Count Adam, usually the most vocal admirer of such descriptions and exchanges, had fallen strikingly silent. He was obviously pondering other matters and questions, as he gave absentminded replies and toyed with a curtain tassel that hung down by his chair. He did not demur when the guests left earlier than usual or indulge in teasing or objections when Fessler requested the honor of accompanying Franziska to her lodgings. In fact he hardly smiled, and when the two guests left, he withdrew to his room which was directly above his sister's salon.

She was used to seeing her brother's nervous vivacity change into its opposite without any particular reason, and so she felt no surprise until the next morning, when he excused himself from breakfast without further explanation. At the same time she could hear him pacing back and forth in his room, like a man tormented by some deep inner disquiet. What could it be? What had happened to put him in this humor? She was still turning this over in her mind when the old count walked into her salon, more elegantly clad than usual, and in every way carrying himself like someone about to appear at an audience or to deliver a speech of great import.

Appendix 3: Dyngley’s Purchased Books

The Codex Calixtinus begins with a letter supposedly from Pope Calixtus II at the Lateran in Rome (see Figure 1). Carefully written in ars dictaminis, a rhetorical style often employed in papal correspondence in the twelfth century, its fictional nature is signalled not least by the use of the first-person singular throughout much of the text, when usually the papal nosism would be employed. The letter's salutation is addressed to the most holy community of the basilica of Cluny (santissimo conventui cluniacensis basilic[a]e), to William, patriarch of Jerusalem, and to Diego, archbishop of Compostela. Despite this prime place accorded to the Burgundian house of Cluny in the introductory letter, Cluny is notable for its absence from the book as a whole, and most egregiously from the routes in the Pilgrim's Guide, as described in the introduction above.