This book explores the complex socio-economic and power dynamics that entangled Yoruba migrants and their host communities in northern Nigeria and Ghana between 1900 and 1970. Centered on the cities of Tamale (Ghana) and Kano (Nigeria), it reveals how Yoruba migrants navigated internal and international migration through kinship networks and personal connections, engaging with their host societies and homeland in ways that both empowered and constrained them. Using ethnographic research methods and grounded in an identity politics theoretical framework, this work analyzes the evolution of Yoruba diaspora identities and examines how dual citizenship, once a source of empowerment during the colonial period, transformed into a paradoxical challenge in post-colonial contexts.

The adoption of diaspora identity as a postmodern social theory in this book elucidates the phenomenon of migration across colonial boundaries and highlights the Yoruba communities’ interactions with their homeland for mutual development. Many of the early twentieth-century migrants effectively “absconded” from home, driven by the pursuit of wealth, modernity, and liberation from patriarchal constraints. By the end of World War II, migration had become normalised, with the early pioneers serving as influential role models and esteemed figures in their hometowns. Subsequently, young men and women, fueled by their ambitions or familial encouragement, embarked on their own migration journeys. Numerous migrants completed this cycle, preparing themselves for eventual return and reintegration into their ancestral communities in Southwestern Nigeria.

This paper provides a linguistic analysis of the Old English material transmitted in St Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 913. This eighth-century manuscript is famous among Old High German scholars, as it includes the so-called Vocabularius Sancti Galli, a Latin-German glossary, which was mistakenly identified as belonging to Gallus, the patron saint of the Abbey of St. Gallen, who died in c.645. Old English glosses mainly occur in a small Latin-Old English glossary on birds and animals from Leviticus 11. The presence of Old English as well as the script of the codex points to strong links with the Anglo-Saxon mission on the Continent in the late seventh and eighth centuries. The Vocabularius Sancti Galli – at least in part – is also based on Anglo-Saxon glossarial material. Much ink has been spilt discussing different aspects of this manuscript.

The Latin-Old English glossary has received its share of attention as a work transmitting material that can be traced back to the school of Theodore and Hadrian in Canterbury in the seventh century. Yet, to the best of my knowledge, no one has analysed the Old English material from a linguistic point of view. The glossary was copied on the Continent; many of the lexical items transmitted in it show up in later Old High German glossaries, which may have led scholars to discount it as a genuine source of Old English – even though it was identified as such early on. However, the Old English elements display no Old High German influence and, as I aim to demonstrate in this article, their graphemic and phonological features are comparable to other early Old English texts.

The programme on 20 February included Mendelssohn's overture The Hebrides (‘Fingal's Cave’), Pauline Viardot-Garcia singing scenes from Gluck's Orphée, and Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.

Before M. Habeneck began, he several times expressed his desire to exact from the audience a more serious, profound silence. He succeeded, not without some readily understandable gestures of impatience, in finally quelling the confused rumble circulating in the hall, and his insistence seemed to be saying to the public: ‘Now listen, you pitiless gossipers, frivolous cavatina fans, be finally, totally, completely, absolutely quiet! No moving about, no breathing (no point asking you to stop thinking!). My task is to perform an incomparable work of art in your presence. It's a work of new music, of fresh, poetic inspiration, which will remain an enigma to you, but to which we musicians, together with various intelligent amateurs, need to listen with all the respect it deserves. Silence!’ And in fact there was silence, and Mendelssohn's overture Fingal's Cave began.

In the Orkney islands there's a cave well known for its natural colonnade and for the strange noises the sea makes there. When Mendelssohn visited this strange palace, raised above the waves by some volcanic explosion and nowadays traditionally dedicated to Fingal, he was struck by the mysterious harmonies with which the breaking waves surround the listener, multiplied by echoes resounding from the crags of these numberless pillars, and the idea came to him of turning them into a musical composition.

The opening two lines of Franz Schubert's song cycle Winterreise, here given in the original and in one of the most often-used translations, seem to encapsulate everything about it. They tell us that the narrator of Wilhelm Müller's poetic cycle at some point arrived friendless and alone at his most recent place of habitation, and is now also leaving it thus. To be more precise (given the heteronormative context in which both words and music were written, and in which we still hear the work today), we are implicitly informed that he is girlfriendless—an assumption confirmed in the fifth line when he tells us that “The girl spoke of love / The mother even of marriage” (Das Mädchen sprach von Liebe, Die Mutter gar von Eh’). The plodding tread of the piano accompaniment and the title of the song—“Gute Nacht,” Good night—have already intimated that he's leaving after dark; the next lines tell us that it's winter, and that the paths are covered in snow. This is just as well, as he would hardly have a hope of seeing where he's going were it not for the white, nocturnal landscape into which he ventures (all the same, it later seems he's going in cir^#cles anyway).

This is the topos of the lonely wanderer, rejected in love, whose winter journey is more inner than outer, whose goal lies in the journey itself, a journey that can only end in death, madness, or both (a fact that also may, or may not, be this wanderer's redemption).

The folios referred to as the Becket Leaves are the remaining vestiges of the only known illustrated Life of the Canterbury martyr, Thomas Becket in any English manuscript. The images and poetry contained therein, long attributed to Matthew Paris, have been studied by various scholars, whose general conclusion is that the manuscript was created between 1220 and 1240, and that Matthew Paris may have designed the programme for the illustrations. Since the figures in the images have been deemed much too angular to be his work, it has been argued by Nigel Morgan that they were based on Matthew's exemplar, now lost. Further, the Leaves were probably not created in the scriptorium at St Albans, but rather in a lay professional workshop located in London.

The document illustrated below is not in its final form, but it conveys sufficient information to enhance our understanding of the way in which this vital operation worked.

Once the sale of St Pierre and her cargo had been completed, the distribution of the proceeds could take place.

The Power of Attorney form provided the names of the officers and men on board the Kinsale. The muster book would provide the ‘department’ into which every individual was ranked. The agent organised the list into the ‘departments’ or rankings which received the shares.

Within each department the names were sorted alphabetically to make the distribution easier.

• • Three eighths went to the captain: £2,343 17s 9d

• • One eighth went to each of the lesser departments, the eighth being divided into smaller and smaller portions: Division 2 officers each received £192 15s 23/4d

• • Division 3 warrant officers each received £96 7s 71/4d

• • Division 4 petty officers each received £32 2s 61/4d

• • Division 5 was the remainder of the crew. Their much larger numbers meant each received only £7 8s 113/4d

• There were 245 names on the distribution list:

• • Forty-two (seventeen per cent) received nothing:

• • Six (two per cent) of these had died (DD) before taking the prize

• • Twenty-two (seventeen per cent) had deserted (D) or (R)

• • Two had been discharged to sick quarters (DSQ)

“Follow the music,” calls the teacher who improvises at the piano. A group, who could be children or adults of any age, listens momentarily before they move around the room, connecting their speed and energy to the music she plays. Their crisscrossing paths bring the space to life, filling it with fleeting encounters. Then, as if by magic, everyone slows down and finally they end together. All the cues have come from the teacher's playing – she hasn't said another word.

This vignette describes the beginning of many Dalcroze lessons. Within this way of learning, people move to experience the sounds, feelings, and forms of music. Whose music? Music the teacher invents or chooses, or music the participants sing or make with body percussion or hand-held instruments. How do they move? They might swing, lunge, run, stop, draw a phrase in space, or bounce a ball to the downbeat. They are not studying a dance technique, so they do not imitate the teacher's demonstration. Instead, they shape and time their own movement within the group activity. Dalcroze-based study focuses on the body's central role in making music. It assumes that by listening and responding through movement, people learn to concentrate, coordinate, connect, and remember. Using movement and voice, they practice music in an atmosphere of exploration.

The Iconic Experiments to Make Things Right

In the following chapters we are going to move away from what has been to now largely a chronological narrative story of Las Casas from birth to when he decided to return to Spain in 1515. We needed to provide the rationale, the reasons why he devoted the rest of his life, in fact developing as an icon in the Hispanic world, to defending the Indian in the face of the Spanish conquest and settlement of the New World. Much of the rest of his story is available in biographies and other studies of both the man and his life. We examine those in the bibliographical essay at the end of this book (p.243). I would recommend, for example and not being too brazen, my biography of the man, Bartolomé de las Casas: A Biography published by Cambridge University Press, in 2012.

Now let's take up his return to Spain, his meeting with King Ferdinand and Las Casas's first attempts actually to bring his theories on justice and freedom to pass, or, in other words, not simply to espouse them but to put them into practice.

There are, of course, thinkers and activists across the centuries. Often they represent very separate approaches to the world. Occasionally they are one and the same man. Las Casas fit that bill. As the Book of James phrased it, “be doers of the word and not hearers only” (James 1: 22). Bartolomé was a close student of Scripture, just like his contemporary, Martin Luther, and you can be certain he was familiar with James. Don't just listen to the Word of God, put it into action. That is fairly easy to write; not so easy to put justice and truth into action.

The deliberately oxymoronic title of this chapter has been chosen to stress the deeply cultural nature of wilderness. As the Raymond Williams noted in 1980, ‘the idea of nature contains […] an extraordinary amount of human history’. This observation was transposed by the environmental historian William Cronon to the context of American settler colonialism in his seminal essay of 1996, ‘The Trouble with Wilderness: Or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature’, which interrogates the wildness of wilderness with broad implications for eco-socialism and postcolonial environmentalism. Cronon's approach resonates with the author of this chapter, a scholar of British Romanticism with a strong interest in labouring- class nature poetry, and as a Singaporean acutely aware of colonial-era depictions of south-east Asian locales as tabula rasa.

The historical archive indicates that labouring-class and working-class people identified with colonised and enslaved peoples overseas, both being casualties of what Jordana Rosenberg and Chi-ming Yang have termed ‘practices of dispossession [in] a world system’ connecting ‘English agrarian reform’ to ‘colonial settlement and mercantile expansion in Africa, Asia, and the Americas’. In representing the eighteenth century as the age of dispossession, Rosenberg and Yang highlight the survival of the notion that people working the land were proletarianised by the enclosures taking place ‘between 1760 and 1820 […] in which, village after village, common rights [were] lost’.

A divorce, particularly when there are children involved, is a disaster. The pain of loss, and the pain of worrying about A. and H., were with me every day.

The String Quartet written that year for a local ensemble, Music from Salem, looked both forward and backward. As in the Bartok Sixth Quartet, all three movements start with the same sorrowful theme. The first movement is slow, hesitant, and lyrical. The second is full of intense energy and quotes from the waltz section of And In The Air These Sounds. As in the Bartok, the third movement is a lament based solely on the melody that had served as a recurring introduction.

I also had another piece in which to channel intense feelings. Steve Klimowski of the Vermont Contemporary Music Ensemble asked me to write a short piece for bass clarinet and piano in response to the massacre of September 11th. I felt unqualified to make a musical statement about something so tragic, and on such a scale, and I was also wary of being associated with the brand of Islamophobic patriotism that accompanied the invasion of Iraq.

In composing the piece, I focused my mind not on politics, but on the pain of one imagined individual who had lost someone. I called the piece Dark Song.

Much of what I wrote up until this point had been to a greater or lesser extent rooted in tonality. But with my greater immersion in the world of late twentieth-century music, I now relied increasingly on invented scales or collections of tones, and this gave my music a different orientation. I was making much clearer determinations about what compositional pallet I was using at a given time.

The magazine here returned to printing letters from Berlioz which were thought to be of general interest. Ferdinand Friedland (1810–72) was a German industrialist and patron whom Berlioz had probably met in Breslau. The full heading of the article is ‘Musical Journey in Bohemia. To M. Friedland in Prague’; the translated part mostly concerns music in London. A personal note reflects Berlioz's attitude to the February 1848 revolution: ‘You’ll be reading this letter seven months after it was sent to you, but will you actually be reading it, my poor Friedland? Our beautiful Prague has been under attack! You will assure me that you’re still alive? They’re killing each other with as much enthusiasm as in Paris’.

London, 4 January 1848

You reproach me, my dear Friedland, for the long interruption in the account of my journey in Austria, and you seem to attribute the delay in my article about Prague to some sort of coolness I was feeling towards you. Your reproaches and suppositions are both unfair. I haven't written during the last four months because I’ve spent all that time in London, where I’m living such a terribly busy life that, far from having a moment for dreams and memories, I’ve barely got time for my job. To launch a serious opera house in England, with no repertoire chosen in advance, with a troupe of young singers most of whom had never appeared on a stage before, was a dangerous enterprise of considerable difficulty, as the outcome has already proved.

Viking seems to be a word … that has expanded and developed to fill a gap, to give a name to a phenomenon which previously had no name but needed one.

Viking medievalism has been a topic of popular interest ever since Sir Walter Scott's The Pirate, a novel published in 1822 and set on Shetland. Scott's novel does not mention the word ‘viking’, but it does distinguish between the savage ‘Bersarkars’, ‘who used to run like madmen on swords’, and the noble war-leaders, ancestors of the Shetlanders, ‘the old Norsemen, who swept sea and haven with their victorious galleys, established colonies, conquered countries, and took the name of Sea-Kings’; this distinction between the good and bad Viking is intrinsic to later medievalist imaginings. In the nineteenth century, the most popular and best-known Icelandic saga was the late romantic Viking tale of Fridtjofr: Fridtjofs saga. Adapted in poetic form as Fritjofs saga by the Swedish bishop Esias Tegner in 1825, the saga relates the history of the noble Viking and his beloved Ingibjorg, his daring sea-voyages and his implacable enemies and quickly became very popular in both Germany and England. George Stephens translated it into English in 1839; this was, in fact, the first complete translation of an Old Norse saga into English. Fritjofs saga was an early example of transmedia medievalism and medievalism–tourism; set in the scenic Sognefjord, the story was instrumental in the establishment of the Norwegian tourist industry.