The compositional history of the three op.1 piano trios has been the subject of much debate. It was Ferdinand Ries who set the cat among the pigeons, by relating that the works had been tried out in Haydn's presence at a soirée given by Prince Lichnowsky, to whom they were dedicated.

Most artists and music lovers were invited, especially Haydn, for whose judgement everyone was eager. The trios were played and immediately made a great stir. Haydn, too, said many nice things about them, but advised Beethoven not to publish the third, in C minor. This greatly astonished Beethoven, as he regarded it as the best, just as today it is the favourite and the one that creates the greatest effect. Therefore this remark of Haydn's made a bad impression on Beethoven and left him with the idea: Haydn was envious and jealous, and bore him no good will. I must admit that when Beethoven told me this I gave it little credence. I therefore took the opportunity of asking Haydn himself about it. But his answer confirmed Beethoven's statement, inasmuch as he said he did not think that this trio would be as quickly and easily understood, and as favourably accepted by the public.

For a long time, Ries's anecdote was unquestioningly accepted – not least by Alexander Wheelock Thayer, who advanced the theory that the trios had originated during the composer's Bonn years, and had been radically after Haydn had left Vienna for his second visit to London. On the occasion described by Ries, explained Thayer, the trios had been heard in a preliminary form.

A term commonly used in Old Norse to refer to the gods, or at least a group among them, is áss (pl. æsir). The word is glossed “One of the Æsir, pre-Christian Nordic god” in ONP. The Æsir are the dominant group of gods in the Prose Edda and in Heimskringla, where they are under the leadership of Óðinn. Another group of gods, the vanir, seems to occupy a more subordinate position, although three Vanir, Njǫrðr, Freyr, and Freyja, have been incorporated among the Æsir and live among them. There seem to be other Vanir, in addition to the three named ones, living separately from the Æsir, but the mythological sources are not concerned with them and have very little to say about them.

The term for the Vanir, as well as their names, is primarily known from Scandinavian tradition, while that of the Æsir had wider currency, and cognates are known from all three main branches of the Germanic languages. On this basis, one can establish with some certainty the existence of a Proto- Germanic form of the noun áss and seek to determine the etymology and meaning of this term. The Proto-Germanic root is commonly recognized to be *ans- although, as will be seen, the various branches of early Germanic may have assigned this root to different stem-classes. The existence of the Vanir group, on the other hand, cannot be established with certainty for the Proto-Germanic stage, and they may represent a distinct Scandinavian element or development of a common Germanic tradition.

The first season of Barbaren (Barbarians), premiered on Netflix in 2020. The series is an original German-language production that dramatizes the legend of Arminius and his victory over the Romans in the year 9 CE. Barbarians joins a catalog of recent television series that celebrate a variety of national historical fictions, particularly those that have defined what we now know as Europe. Collectively, these series reveal that, in a supposedly post-national Europe, we continue to tell national histories – stories of place and of these places are still tied to national mythologies.

In Netflix's retelling, the ancient story of Arminius resonates in the present as a narrative of belonging. The story itself follows the general arc of the familiar tale in which the Germanic tribes defeat the Roman legions led by Varus. The first season shows the brutal and exploitative Roman occupation of Germanic territory, the return of Arminius (Ari) to the lands from which he was taken as tribute when he was a child, and his eventual accession to the leadership of his tribe. Season one ends with the defeat of the Romans and the death of Varus.

Hand-made and hand-ruled manuscript paper sometimes offers useful evidence about the music written upon it as well as the context in which sources were created. In seventeenth-century England, the availability of commercially produced manuscript paper contributed to a cultural change apparent both in the success of instruction books such as Playford's Introduction to the Skill of Music and in the variety of material created for and by amateur as well as professional musicians.

English manuscript sources of the later seventeenth century normally display a remarkable degree of standardisation. Their paper is sourced from specific areas, and stave ruling is normally applied by practised hands using multi-stave compound rastra. Formats are usually confined to folio, in which a single complete sheet of paper creates two leaves of a book, oblong quarto, in which the sheet is also folded and cut horizontally to produce four folios, and oblong sexto, with two horizontal folds making six folios; oblong formats were preferred to their upright equivalents because they preserve the original width of the paper, thus allowing for longer staves and fewer line-ends. Such consistency in paper, format and ruling is highly unlikely to have arisen by chance or through a common understanding of what was needed, suggesting, on the contrary, a well-informed and highly centralised controlling commercial interest. The Playfords, who dominated the market in printed music during the later seventeenth century and regularly advertised ‘Rul’d paper for Musick’ in their publications, undoubtedly played a pivotal role in this aspect of the music trade, and GB-Lbl Add. MS 31430, a set of manuscript partbooks demonstrably linked to John Playford, may be taken as representative of the kind of material he supplied as blank volumes or scribal copies.

MUCH OF THE philosophy of Wagner's time, and certainly his own, evokes and tries to make manifest a dynamic identity of unity and difference. For Wagner this is the interplay of a shared, primordial necessity with its splintered reflection in individual experience; the first is ungraspable but is present as feeling, the second is present as conscious thought but can never escape the limits of self-consciousness. Neither can stand alone or be reduced to the other. They must be thought together.

It is that vision that dictates the very structure of Wagnerian music drama, which develops a unity-in-difference between poetry and music and between the actions and voices of the characters on stage and a continuously transforming orchestral fabric. These are essentially different reflections of an inexpressible oneness. The web of motivic development does not merely accompany the singers, but neither are the singers reduced to the status of extra color in the instrumental palette or additional threads in the orchestral tapestry. The poles are never merged. Instead, each one interacts with the other.

A majestic, turreted castle surveys the landscape. The camera pans, and a familiar orchestral motif plays out, a magical trail of fairy dust arching above the castle. Wordless it may be, but the audience knows the melody's implied text, “When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.” The Disney logo is immediately recognizable, projecting a fantasy medievalism rooted not only in one of its earliest attempts at a medieval tale – for this is Sleeping Beauty's castle – but also in its lavish use of music. Both castle – and music – are intimately connected too with one of Disney's most lucrative franchises: the Disney Princess brand. With perfectly coiffed blond hair, and in an elegant pink dress, Princess Aurora, Sleeping Beauty herself, has lent much of her own medievalism to the franchise, imbuing it with dancing grace, beautiful song, and a large dose of fantasy. Yet if her medievalism helped create the initial vision of a Disney Princess, then the advent of a new medieval heroine, Scottish Princess Merida from Disney/Pixar's Brave, ushered in a new approach to the type of femininity idolized by the franchise: one rooted in adventure and fiery independence.

In the multifaceted sphere of music, where a ‘consumer’ may attend or participate in concerts, purchase sheet music or accessories, receive music tuition, or acquire a musical instrument, there are potentially considerable overlaps between the people who work in the trade. In eighteenth-century Britain, most professional musicians forged freelance careers: as William Weber noted, in order to maintain a living, ‘a musician had to “undertake” … a variety of enterprises as performer, composer, arranger, and, most important of all, as teacher’. Although the most common forms of employment for professional musicians were as teachers, performers, concert promoters and composers, the subsidiary trades that facilitated these activities – instrument making and maintenance, music printing and selling, etc., – were undertaken as much by these professionals as others.

By the mid-eighteenth century, a growing number of individuals, often referred to as the ‘middling sort’, were able to experience culture more readily than before, that the elite – nobility and gentry – already enjoyed. The increased financial security and resulting gain of leisure time enabled them to experience music on similar terms to the elite: as an audience – attendance at public concerts, opera and theatre – but also as practising amateurs making music at home and in musical clubs and societies. The result was increased sales of printed music and musical instruments and, therefore, the subsidiary trades that served both the concert platform and private music room. In the Midlands, where the geographical spread of employment opportunities was far wider than London, there was a greater diversity in the portfolio of trades and services offered by those serving the communities there.

The Lull before the Storm

The opening years of the twenty-first century brought no sudden change to music in the cathedrals and choral foundations, but rather a continuation of trends set in motion in the previous few decades. The participation of girls, in varying ways, was to spread to virtually every cathedral by 2020; opposition to them virtually disappeared, at least in any formal way. The fear that chapters would see a single mixed-sex treble line as a means of saving money has, so far, not been realized. A few places have gone down that route since 2000, but difficulty in finding sufficient boys has often been the chief cause. For virtually all cathedrals and similar institutions have found their recruitment a continuing challenge in modern times, requiring ever more effort to fill the choirstalls. One institution, Leeds Parish Church (since 2012 Leeds Minster), for long musically a cathedral in all but name, has exemplified the problem in a particularly stark manner. Whereas the church had for over 150 years maintained a large all-male choir with around 30 boys, singing several weekday services in addition to Sundays, by 2000 the organist, Simon Lindley, was struggling to find 14 boys; in 1997 a separate girls’ choir, about a dozen strong in the 11–16 age range, had also been started. But recruitment problems continued, resulting in the abandonment of both boys and girls in 2015 and their replacement by an adult mixed choir of 24, singing just a Thursday Evensong and two Sunday services.

Smetana's Personality

An artist's character is shaped by inherited traits, education, environment, and tradition. Smetana's artistic inclination was grounded in both natural talents and developed skills. Guided by a strong will and a deep sense of responsibility, he is believed—as Helfert suggests—to have inherited his distinctly Czech musical abilities from his mother's family, which included the eighteenth-century composer Jiří Ignác Linek. This innate gift was nurtured early on by his father and devoted mentors, refined through Proksch's structured education, and ultimately inspired by Liszt's profound influence, which oriented Smetana toward the highest aims of contemporary music.

Smetana blended rhythmic and melodic depth, drawing from the rich traditions of both popular and classical Czech music, channeling his work toward the ultimate artist's goal: to construct flawless forms and content that enrich national and modern art. This ambition was not motivated by chauvinism but by an earnest pursuit of truth. From maturity onward, Smetana's conscious dedication to his people permeated his being, driving all his major works.

Czech music had never achieved such a high standard, whether in its national significance or international prominence. Past eras occasionally transcended local horizons, beginning with the Hussite epoch of the fifteenth century. During this time, singing became accessible to the public, transitioning from the domain of the elite (in the form of ecclesiastic and troubadour music) to the collective voice of the people, symbolizing the arrival of religious and national democracy. Though faced with political suppression, it momentarily flourished through resolute conviction.

Introduction

The document presented here is the minute-book of the Justiciary Court of Argyll, established in 1694 as part of a broader Judicial Commission for Pacifying the Highlands. The minutes begin with the court's inaugural sitting on 29 August, and continue unbroken until 1 December. They thus record only the very earliest stages of the court's work, and it is not known for certain whether this activity continued beyond 1694 – although, given that the Highland Commission more generally persisted until around 1705, it seems likely that it must have done in some form, albeit without surviving records.

The minutes are preserved in a slim book, roughly A4 in size and bound in vellum. They occupy the frst seventeen pages of the volume – well below half of the available space – with most of the remaining leaves being blank. This, combined with the appearance in the text of several errors and corrections, suggests that it was the working record of the court, rather than a later fair copy. Apart from a title page, all pages bear Arabic numbering in the top left corner, and the text on each page is indented from the left by approximately two inches. Discounting occasional endorsements written by Archibald Campbell, 10th Earl (and later 1st Duke) of Argyll, there appear to be at least two diferent hands, presumably belonging to William Paton, named as the clerk of court, and James Taylor, the deputy clerk, and both are fairly easily legible, albeit the second boasts generally better-formed letters, as well as a slightly more famboyant style.

Treason seems a strange offering for a mentor's Festschrift. Allowances might be made, however, when the focus is on John Lane, a poet who, more than two hundred years after the completion of the Canterbury Tales, breathes life into a tale Chaucer left unfinished, a tale in which a royal heroine counters treason with prudence. Given Karla Taylor's own attention to “Prudence's hard-fought battle to deter Melibee from revenge on his enemies, by propounding a new vocabulary of public life,” and our stimulating conversations about law and literature, this essay hopes to qualify as a loyal tribute.

John Lane completed his continuation of Chaucer's Squire's Tale c. 1615 and revised it in 1630. Its two versions exist in the Bodleian Library in Douce MS 170 and Ashmole MS 53, respectively, and have been collated and edited by Frederick Furnivall. Lane continues Chaucer's tale by drawing on medieval discourses of prudence as put forth by the Tale of Melibee. Prudence informs the feminine governance embodied by Canace, John Lane's heroine, who reassembles a royal personhood fractured by treason and war. Through her unfailing love and prudence, Canace turns treason into an opportunity for the enthroned king to practice wise governance and consolidate his royal person.

With the rise of the reform papacy, a distinctive vision of papal monarchy and supremacy emerged. Its origins and causes are complex and somewhat obscure, but the age of the reform papacy and papal monarchy stands as distinct and significant. A particular image of the papacy shone increasingly brighter from Rome, permeating Latin Christendom. When the papacy dispatched its legates, these legates had to capture the light of the papacy to position themselves as extensions of the pope. The most pivotal moment for a legate to express his papal identity was during his reception and entry into his province: his adventus.

This study has examined how Anglo-Norman commentators processed this important ceremony, focusing on their receptions, interpretations, and adaptations of the meaning of the legatine adventus within each one's framework and agenda. It has demonstrated the variety with which English commentators approached this topic. This study has also enhanced our understanding of the papacy's perspective on the reception of its legates. Moreover, it has contributed to our comprehension of the intricacy of the adventus as both a performance and a message. Performance, message, and interpretation were intricately interwoven. The study has revealed the anxieties and cares of recipient communities, providing insight into the diverse perspectives surrounding legatine adventus ceremonies. Such insights will enable us, in this conclusion, to peel back some of the layers of the supposed consensus that the legatine adventus was intended to elicit, and to delve into the underlying dynamics.