One of the many plots woven through Karl Mundstock'sepic Helle Nächteinvolves Gerda, a young woman whose villagewas burned by the Nazis during their retreat fromthe Red Army. She was evacuated to Dresden justbefore the Allied firebombing and fell in with acharismatic smuggler named Harry. At the age ofsixteen, she was sent to the steel mills of theMaxhütte in Riesa by a juvenile court. Now, in thesummer of 1950, she finds herself in the woodedlandscape near Fürstenberg, work¬ing at theconstruction site for the Eisenhüttenkombinat-Ost.Meanwhile, in Görlitz, caught up in the heroicrhetoric of socialist construction, two young FDJfunctionaries, Jürgen and Günther – known as“Stempel- Günther,”or Rubber-Stamp-Günther, due to his rigorousobservance of bureaucratic procedurality – lay downtheir pens and depart on “the Red Bug,” a 1922 Evansmotorcycle, for the EKO site, the prestige projectof the GDR's first Five-Year Plan. They arrive bynight to find the Red October youth brigade fellingtrees by moonlight.

An important strand of Christian thought dating at least to St Augustine held the idea that God revealed himself to mankind through the ‘book of nature’ and Scripture. This doctrine of God's ‘two books’ was very popular in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Protestant countries, although the only profession of faith that explicitly included it in its confession was the Dutch Reformed Church. During the seventeenth century, this doctrine was still discussed mainly against an Aristotelian backdrop, but it became increasingly controversial and not univocal. Within the Scholastic tradition, theology and philosophy had different objects and methods, which should not be transposed to another. In Comments on a Certain Broadsheet (1648), Descartes sought to trace explicit boundaries between natural philosophy and theology: while faith was needed ‘to believe incarnation, trinity etc. […] Natural reason may be used to investigate questions having to do with faith, such as the existence of God and the distinction between the human soul and the body’. To Descartes, theology was not the end of natural philosophy, but the beginning, in that he grounded ‘the reliability of clear and distinct ideas, the existence of the material world, and the constancy of the laws of nature in the existence of a perfect and immutable being’. For this reason, Cartesian physics convinced many contemporaries that the understanding of nature was a way to celebrate God, and, as a consequence, the argument from design deriving from ‘Cicero, Seneca, Pliny, and Galen acquired new impulse’.

BISHOPS OF SODOR AND MAN – 1405–1830

John Sprotton c.1392–1410

Richard Payl / Pully 1410–33 (Payl and Pully may represent two separate individuals)

John Burwais 1433–c.1455

Thomas Burton 1455–58

Thomas Kirkham 1458–78

Richard Oldham 1483–85

Huan Blackleach 1487–1509

Hugh Hesketh 1513–c.1523

John Howden 1523–c.1540–42

Henry Man 1546–55

Thomas Stanley 1555–69

Vacant 1569–70

John Salesbury 1570–73

Vacant 1573–76

John Meryck 1576–99

George Lloyd 1599–1604

John Phillips 1604–33

William Foster 1633–35

Richard Parre 1635–44

Vacant 1644–61

Samuel Rutter 1661–63

Isaac Barrow 1663–71

Henry Bridgman 1671–82

John Lake 1682–84

Baptista Levinz 1684–93

Vacant 1693–98

Thomas Wilson 1698–1755

Mark Hildesley 1755–72

Richard Richmond 1773–80

George Mason 1780–84

Claudius Crigan 1784–1813

Vacant 1813–14

George Murray 1814–27

William Ward 1827–38

Introduction

This anonymous manuscript, written in 1637 or 1638, draws upon Scripture, legal theory and Reformed political thought to defend resistance to tyrants. The author argues that inferior magistrates (especially the three Estates of the Scottish Parliament) have a duty to resist superiors who threaten kirk and commonwealth.1 The manuscript is signifcant for two key reasons. First, it was written before the outbreak of the Bishops’ Wars (1639–1640) or the Wars of the Three Kingdoms (1642–1653). As a result, it predates standard printed works of Scottish political theory, such as Alexander Henderson's ‘Instructions for Defensive Arms’ (1639) or Samuel Rutherford's Lex, Rex; Or, the law and the prince (1644). It is thus one of the earliest defences of resistance to King Charles I (1600–1649) authored in Scotland. Second, this manuscript is also one of the frst English translations of the famous French Huguenot resistance tract Vindiciae, Contra Tyrannos (1579). The author paraphrases (but does not directly reference) large portions of the Vindiciae, follows its organisational structure, draws upon similar biblical and historical examples, and extensively compares French and Scottish forms of governance. For these reasons, this manuscript ofers critical insights into early Covenanting ideas about resistance while demonstrating the transnational intellectual context of seventeenth-century Scottish political thought.

For centuries, readers of medieval romances, satires, and anonymous lyrics in Latin, French, and English attributed to Walter Map a vast corpus of literature that he almost certainly did not write. As we have seen, his longest piece of writing did not circulate widely among medieval audiences (De nugis curialium; hence, De nugis). His most successful piece of writing – indeed, one of the most widely copied texts in late-medieval Europe – circulated commonly under names other than his own (Dissuasio Valerii ad Rufinum). If Map found humorously vexing some confusion between his compositions and such authorities as St. Jerome and Valerius Maximus, one can only imagine him succumbing to virtual hysterics upon learning that he himself had been summoned as an authorizing force for the entirety of the French Lancelot- Grail Cycle, a large quantity of satirical Anglo-Latin poetry, and the textual production of any number of persons living in England or France after the death of Henry II so unfortunate as to have composed while being named Walter. In Chapter 3, I showed how Map thought subtly about the possible consequences of fairy offspring acting out the most mundane aspects of quotidian experience. Fittingly, the many dubious heirs of his own authority still lingering within the surviving textual record pay tribute, with uncanny accuracy, to his own authorial fascinations. Bodley 851 itself reflects Walter's own obsession with what is manifest yet marvelous, with those lingering human and archival authorities at once inescapable, revealing, informative, and false.

The twenty-first century has undoubtedly been marked by societal consciousness of diversity. It called for a collective movement by people who have been invisible or discriminated against to exercise their rights: women, people of colour, the LGBTQ+ community, minorities, indigenous people, immigrants, among others. Because of increased social awareness, a coalition of feminist and human rights organisations was able to shed light on the human rights violations that marginalised sectors have endured. New robust associations among these groups sought ways to improve quality of life and protect social inclusion in Latin America.

Men have predominately authored Latin American crime fiction. Little attention has been given to diversity in this arena. It was not until the end of the twentieth century that novels written by women were included in the genre and explored women's roles in society, creating detectives and pseudo-investigators played by female characters. Crime literature's expansion into the feminine sphere, in addition to having a positive literary influence, serves to draw attention to a woman's multifaceted life and the current issues that can affect them.

Similarly, improvements in diversity have extended to other important areas during the new millennium. The evolution of crime literature in Latin America, especially during the twenty-first century, has become an effective mechanism to promote and contemplate diversity. In Diversity and Detective Fiction, Kathleen Gregory Klein explains, ‘these novels are considered familiar, accessible, and unthreatening by readers who might be resistant to other texts. And, as the authors here demonstrate, much contemporary detective fiction explores issues of cultural interaction’.

If MS francais 1 was the Bible stored in the large chest in the Welles family chapel at Hellowe, what may have been its path after the 1430 inventory was taken? How did the Welles-Ros Bible come into the possession of Louis de Bruges? In considering these questions, one may begin by reviewing the final complex chapters of the Welles barony's history.

The Welleses’ loyalty to the House of Lancaster would have significant consequences for the family and their patrimony during the three decades of dynastic and social conflict later dubbed the Wars of the Roses (1455–85). A supporter of the Lancastrian king Henry VI and his queen Margaret of Anjou, Lionel, 6th Baron Welles was killed in the Battle of Towton (29 March 1461), the Yorkist victory that secured the English throne for Edward IV (r. 1461–70, 1471–83), and was posthumously attained by Parliament. Lionel's son Richard switched sides twice. He began his career as a supporter of Lancaster, earned a pardon from Edward IV, and attained all of the Welles lands in 1465 and the baronial title in July 1467. Subsequently, he and his son Robert allied themselves with George, Duke of Clarence, Edward IV's brother, and with the duke's father-in-law, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, both of whom had switched their own loyalties to the Lancastrians.

IN WAGNER'S DAY philosophy was not the specialized and even arcane practice it is today. Members of the educated public—not as large a group as it is now, but not at all negligible—aspired to stay up to date with important philosophical ideas and systems. In Germany, especially, philosophy was a normal topic in drawing rooms, coffee houses, and even taverns, and there was an entire genre of “popular philosophy” books; Haydn, who was no intellectual, owned one of those. There was nothing unusual or surprising in Wagner's interest, then. He stood out only through his seriousness and abilities.

Interest in philosophy was broad because philosophical ideas and systems met a widespread and genuine need. For more than a millennium and a half European civilization had been held together by an intricate weave of stories, images, and explanations that centered on the tenets of the Catholic church. That was the foundation for the sense people made of their own lives and of the public life of what people tended to call “Christendom.” It hardly eliminated conflict, but it provided a common basis for arguing over significant issues. All parties shared the assumption that some resolution could be achieved, if not through human sagacity and agency then through the providential designs of an all-powerful and beneficent deity. That pleasant illusion did not survive the shock of the Reformation, the hardening of intellectual positions with the Counter- Reformation, and, worst of all, the endless and brutal wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which had roots in environmental and economic crises as well but were carried out under the banner of religion. After this “European Crisis of Conscience” Christendom looked like a phantasm, not a reality.