In the proem to the Book of the Duchess, Chaucer's sleepless narrator does what no dream-vision narrator had done before: he seeks to relieve his insomnia by reading.

The narrator suggests that the stories contained in this book will be restorative, that they will bring a sense of balance back to his addled brain:

The book, the narrator reveals, will not simply ‘drive the night away’ but will put him ‘in minde’ of a time when ‘men loved the lawe of kinde’. The particular appeal of such a golden-age vision of peace and accord can be found in the narrator's account of his sleeplessness. At the outset of the proem (1–27) the narrator complains of his ongoing torment, a cycle of despair that combines disorientation and exhaustion with a frenetic listlessness:

Chaucer's use of ydel here plays on the several connotations of the word current in the late fourteenth century. The narrator's thoughts are ‘empty’ or ‘void’ (OED s.v. ‘idle’ [adj.] A.1; MED s.v. ‘idel’ [adj.] 2a): they are closely associated with nothingness or absence (repeated three times in 11 lines; four times if we include ‘noght’ in line three); the idle thoughts furthermore lead to his ‘felynge in nothyng’ (11).

THE pre-Reformation Church rested mainly upon corporations, some regular, others secular. Having enjoyed unrivalled eminence in the High Middle Ages, regular institutions were giving ground to secular foundations which, quite simply, could better satisfy current needs and circumstances. For the time being, monasteries endured and, in most cases, amply fulfilled the purposes for which they had been founded; moreover, in a centre such as Bristol, the friars – late arrivals to the ranks of the regulars – continued to make a valuable pastoral contribution to the town's spiritual armoury. But new foundations tended to be collegiate and, at the same time, existing secular establishments also developed prodigiously. As another relative latecomer, but taking their place in the array of secular institutions, parishes had started out as truncated corporations, served by single priests and depending mainly upon their congregations to achieve any corporate status. By the early sixteenth century, however, many parishes had themselves come to resemble colleges – or, in terms of staffing and their capabilities, had much in common with the minster churches from which they had long ago developed. While the implications of so thoroughgoing a development have hardly been accorded the attention that they deserve, this study has at least attempted to construct a paradigm revealing in detail how one parish was remaking itself. Had more written evidence survived for a greater number of parishes, it seems likely that many aspects of All Saints’ evolution could be judged as reasonably typical. More generally, while the means they employed may have differed, many parishes shared the institutional ambition of remaking themselves.

The century that preceded the Reformation need not, therefore, be regarded as a time of stasis in English devotional life: it witnessed a wide-reaching transformation in the broader reaches of the secular Church, as many parishes developed into corporations. This was unquestionably the case in larger towns: not only did a number of parishioners among most urban congregations normally enjoy reasonably healthy disposable incomes, but wealthy donors were also inclined to largesse since they stood in particular need of the intercessory services best discharged by the surrogate extended family of co-parishioners, in the present and for generations to come.

The collection of the municipal papyri of Ravenna contains nearly a hundred documents and covers the period between 445 and the mid-seventh century. All surviving archival material was incorporated into the municipal records of Ravenna during the Ostrogothic and first Byzantine period (445–ca. 600) and then into the chancery of the Ravenna Archdiocese of the Exarchate (642/3–665/6). The critical edition of fifty-nine of those papyri was published by Jan Olof Tjäder beginning in 1954. These are all private documents, such as settlements of inheritances, donations, leases, sales, and wills.

In the cases of inheritance settlements, testamentary executors surrendered legacies of land, property, and movable objects to beneficiaries of post-obitum bequests or donation charters sanctioned in front of the municipal curia, the city's judicial institution. The transactions were authenticated and incorporated into the public record for taxation purposes in the form of the Gesta Municipalia (city document register). While these inheritance settlements are, strictly speaking, donation charters, many of them refer to the proving of the will and to its ceremonial character, which are traits common to Late Roman legal practice produced within the multicultural, multilingual trade centre of sixth-century Ravenna.

All the extant documents testify to a continuation of Roman legal practice of the municipal curia, involving the publication formulae and the probate procedure. Very few Italian or other towns around the Mediterranean or north of the Alps offer such solid evidence of post-Classical socio-juridical continuity during the turbulent sixth century.

During my research for a book-length comparative study on early medieval dress and accessories among large regions of early medieval Europe, I became aware of the diverse lexicological evidence for garments and accessories found in the accounts of testamentary provisions in the Gesta Municipalia of Ravenna. The terms relating to these items came with a specification of their exact monetary value, which can be put together with the semantic and etymological study of the vocabulary.

In this article the focus will be on the non-gender-specific dress of mid-sixth-century Ravenna, a multiethnic city containing Latins, Greeks, Ostrogoths, and perhaps a few Franks, Avars, and Langobards of various religious faiths and denominations. A lexicographical enquiry into the clothing of this period is possible thanks to the special historical and geographical conditions of Ravenna and its continuous intraregional and maritime trading relationships over and beyond the Po plain, the Byzantine south, and Rome.

TAKING OFFICE AS Master of the Mint had marked Hawkesbury for advancement, but opportunities seemed limited as Pitt's government looked increasingly threadbare. Pitt and Dundas had held power for more than fifteen years. Divisions within the cabinet had taken their toll. The prospect of victory receded as domestic strains grew. A clash with George III over Catholic Emancipation shattered political alignments that had held since the mid-1780s. Pitt's resignation brought Hawkesbury to the Foreign Office in a new government formed by Henry Addington. Two decades of fairly intelligible politics gave way to a renewed factionalism where no one group could form a stable ministry. Leaders instead bid for support from rivals with whom they had ostentatiously disagreed. The change brought to mind Gibbon's observation on Pitt taking office in 1783 with “patriots whom I left ministers, ministers whom I left boys, the whole map of the country so totally altered that I sometimes imagine I have been ten years absent from England.” It complicated politics by weakening successive governments while opposition cohesion also declined. Violent parliamentary debates, broken careers, and settling of scores among rivals marked a period when a brief peace gave way to renewed struggle with Hawkesbury at the center of events.

Ministers had stumbled in their pursuit of an effective path to victory. The king remarked perceptively at an early stage that “the misfortune of our situation is that we have too many objects to attend to, and our force consequently must be too small at each place.” A poor war leader, Pitt eventually admitted distrusting his own ideas on military subjects and he relied heavily upon the judgment of cabinet colleagues who differed. Dundas had long warned that public opinion strongly distrusted Continental wars or directing the country's strength into any channel besides naval operations. Past conflicts which ended with colonial gains bartered for French concessions in Europe supported his view. But overseas victories had little impact in Europe and the Caribbean became a graveyard for British soldiers. The Duchess of Gordon quipped that before the war's end George III would be in possession of every island in the world save Great Britain and Ireland.

Sometime after the death of Blanche of Lancaster, the wife of John of Gaunt, in 1368, Geoffrey Chaucer undertook to compose the poem that he called The Death of Blanche the Duchess, now generally known as the Book of the Duchess. As its original title suggests, the poem is topical: the recall in its opening section of the tragic Ovidian tale of Seys and Alcyone and the definitive closing pronouncement ‘She ys ded’ (1309) frame it with dramatic revelations of the death of a beloved spouse and the despairing grief of the bereaved partner. This response to the death of the wife of the most powerful prince of the realm has also been termed ‘the first clear instance of “courtly” literature in English’, a suggestion due in part to its borrowing from a substantial number of French poems.

Here I examine the strong intertextual presence in the Duchess of the Remede de Fortune (after 1341, and before 1357), one of the major dits of Guillaume de Machaut, against the background of what Elizabeth Salter has aptly characterized as ‘the cosmopolitan years’ that followed the Battle of Poitiers in 1356, during which the ‘captivity’ of King John II of France and his sons intensified the already considerable prominence of French courtly poetry in England. That presence is particularly prominent in the longest segment of the Duchess, the story told by the Man in Black, which in its telling closely follows the account in the Remede of the origin, development, and effects of love for a highborn lady widely known for both her beauty and her virtue. The lady of the Remede, generally acknowledged to be John II's first wife Bonne of Luxembourg, is identified by the narrator as ‘ma dame, qui est clamee / De tous sur toutes belle et bonne. / Chascun par droit ce non li donne’ (54–6) [my lady, who is proclaimed by all to be the most beautiful and best above all. Everyone rightly gives her this name]. This discreet but transparent anonymity enables the depiction of her beauty and goodness with an intimacy and candor that might well have appeared presumptuous in the poet's own voice even within the courtly fiction in which he portrays her.

‘Almost the richest city’: Bristol and its environment in the late Middle Ages

AS a provincial centre, Bristol was unorthodox: it had not developed on a Roman settlement, nor was it an ecclesiastical centre – its situation on the southern edge of the Worcester diocese meant that, with the growth of the suburbs of Temple and Redcliffe, the town also extended into the northern periphery of the diocese of Bath and Wells. Bristol had owed its origins, in the tenth century, to its suitability for trade with Ireland, then enriched by Viking endeavour; having gained a commercial rationale, strategic factors worked to its advantage. The original burh occupied a rocky mound, some twenty acres in extent, almost encircled by the waters of the Rivers Avon and Frome. Land access was only possible from the east, via an isthmus defended by a keep strengthened immediately after the Conquest. The quays sited at the confluence of these rivers, mainly to the west of the burh, were also notably secure, given that approach was possible only through the easily defensible channel of the Avon Gorge. But Bristol's position a short distance from the confluence of the Avon and Severn afforded access not only to river systems serving the Marches and the English midlands but also the open sea and, thus, to south-western England, south Wales and Ireland, and also the Bay of Biscay. In addition, Bristol benefited from a hinterland rich in agricultural, mineral and, in time, manufactured product. As well as easily profiting from exchange by river and sea, the local road system – especially the old Roman road between Bath and the Severn that ran through the suburbs of the town – facilitated access to centres such as Gloucester, Cirencester, Oxford and, thence, London.

Bristol's significance in the post-Conquest period was exploited by a series of magnates, most notably, in the twelfth century, Robert of Gloucester, the bastard son of Henry I and half-brother to the Empress Matilda. He strengthened Bristol castle, which became his principal residence and, in the civil war of the midtwelfth century, Robert championed his half-sister's cause against King Stephen.

A big part of the attraction of the co-op model was the co-op principle that the co-op is democratically controlled by its members. The attraction of this notion was heightened by the lack of democracy at a political level in the wider societies in which the NUM co-ops were operating: with the co-ops appearing to prefigure desired political and economic futures.

Operationalising such democratic control was, however, a real challenge. So while the difficulties achieving economic viability discussed in the previous chapter might apply to any start-up enterprise, these problems were compounded by the need to institutionalise democratic processes of decision making. Elements of the contestation around these issues are reflected in an interview with Leribe Co-op Chair Molefi Molefi in 1993. Molefi was asked how he understood the meaning of production democracy:

The execution of Charles I left parliament facing enemies at home and abroad in 1649. European monarchs, repulsed by the killing of the king, initially refused to recognise the new regime and some, such as the Tsar of Russia, broke off trade relations. Royalist forces opposed the Commonwealth in Ireland, Scotland, the Channel Islands, the Isle of Man, and in British colonies in the Americas such as Virginia and Barbados. This opposition posed a significant danger to the Commonwealth because of the considerable naval strength commanded by the late king's supporters, who now gave their allegiance to the prince of Wales, whom they proclaimed Charles II. Between 1649 and 1653 the navy became parliament's first line of defence in dealing with these overseas threats. As N. A. M. Rodger argued, it was ‘the fear and insecurity of a military dictatorship surrounded by enemies real and imagined which made England a first class naval power’. In order to understand how this came about, this chapter will examine the final years of the civil wars from a maritime perspective. In particular it will focus on the activities and pursuit of Prince Rupert's squadron, and the vital role the Commonwealth's navy played in supporting military campaigning in Ireland, Scotland, and further afield. The navy expanded and developed in this period because of the need to deal with the variety of threats faced by the Commonwealth. Its success ensured that as the civil wars ended the state possessed a substantial and capable naval force that could see off other maritime challenges.

Royalist resurgence at sea, February–December 1649

In 1649 the most pressing danger came from the royalist coalition in Ireland (the confederates had also chosen to support Charles II), which possessed substantial military and naval resources. During the first and second civil wars, confederate privateers had lacked the strength to successfully take on English men-of-war, but the arrival of Prince Rupert's fleet at Kinsale on 21 January added a new dimension to the naval war. The royalists now possessed a large squadron of men-of-war and privateers who could undertake operations against the English navy, but in order to achieve success at sea the royalist leadership in Ireland needed to devise a strategy to make best use of their newly acquired naval strength.

Narratives of the encounter with the “Other” in early modern Sweden, its hinterland and newly-acquired overseas territories have in recent years often focused on colonialism and exploitation, and rightly so. This aspect has to a great extent been neglected, ignored or treated with indulgence in a country so much of whose self-image since World War II has been built around an idea of Sweden as a paragon of virtues, both human and political. The fact that Sweden too has a tainted colonial past, in many respects comparable to several other European countries, has been a salutary, albeit hard lesson to take in. The slave forts in western Africa, the New Sweden colony on the Delaware River, the silver mines in Sápmi and many other endeavours in the early modern period were all part of the same picture: the ambition of a relatively poor and sparsely-populated country on the northern fringes of Europe whose leaders wanted to play an active part on the political stage of the continent. And acquiring colonies was an important element in that scheme. The problem was that Sweden never had the muscle to compete with the great sea powers of the 17th century and consequently lost its short-lived possessions overseas. The internal colonization of Sápmi (Lapland) gave far better returns. And it still does to this very day, despite continuing infringement on the rights of the Sami people. These are topics that beg discussion, both from a historical/ archaeological point of view and as political matters of today.

This chapter investigates and analyses al-Hakkamat women, as individuals, and as a traditional institution of authority within Darfuri Arab society, specifically the Baggara agro-pastoralists. It argues that the attendant uncertainties surrounding the pastoralists’ livelihood patterns have dictated the creation and development of al-Hakkamat using well-established procedures that usually start at a quite young age for females who aspire to be Hakkamat. The dynamism of circumstances within the tribal boundaries have enabled and reinforced al-Hakkamat's agency and power as the successor to a rich history of women and gender power relations in Darfur. This chapter clarifies and discusses the trajectory of the emergence and development of al-Hakkamat.

AL-HAKKAMAT: MEANING AND SIGNIFICANCE

Many Darfuris think that the term al-Hakkamah (pl. al-Hakkamat: al is the definite article in Arabic) is the feminine form derived from the Arabic meanings of the word ‘hukm’, a semantic field that ranges from ‘judgement’, ‘ruling’, ‘governing’ or ‘condemnation’, to hākim or hakkam, meaning a male arbiter. This is reminiscent of the common vernacular term that the Darfuris often use to describe themselves as hukkām (sing. hākim), meaning ‘people with a sense of ruling canon and etiquette’ (Kamal El-Din, 2007, p. 93). The senses of these male-oriented descriptions are feminised in a single word: ‘Hakkamah’, denoting a female who possesses a raft of special qualities: a poet, a performer and a singer. Her verse focuses on the words of wisdom, and she can exercise judgements and arbitration. These are the qualities that the respective society distinguishes as the basis for individual female's excellence.

Baggara society thus generally agrees that ‘Hakkamah means hukum – ruling; if she orders you to offer help, you should obey, otherwise, she would dub you a coward’. ‘She is a person of wisdom and has the ability to judge others’, and she is ‘one of the women in the village or the camp who have a specific form of authority of arbitration. It is her power to exercise authority that qualifies her to be Hakkamah.’

However a retired Baggari teacher who is well versed in Baggara culture argues that the term Hakkamah is definitely not the feminine form in the Arabic language; rather, it is the neutral form of exaggeration (having more of a something) derived from hukm, just like the Arabic words allāmah, meaning a knowledgeable person, from ilm (knowledge), and fahhāmah (a very perceptive person) from the word fahm (comprehension/ understanding).

In July 1916, at last, Rodó managed to fulfil his long-standing design to travel to Europe, a dozen years after he first mooted to his confidant Francisco Piquet that he intended to publish Motivos de Proteo there and to supervise the edition in person (OC 35–36; 1347–51). His journey was supported by a contract to write three monthly columns for a Buenos Aires weekly. In a letter to Juan Antonio Zubillaga written shortly before departing, Rodó informs him of the arrangements: he will get a salary of 650 Argentinian nacionales, equivalent to 250 Uruguayan gold pesos; and in response to his friend's request to contribute to a new cultural review, he adds that he has agreed to a sole commitment to Caras y Caretas and its sister publication, the monthly supplement Plus Ultra. According to a note that accompanies his obituary in the magazine, which has a photograph of the typed clause of the contract with the signature of Rodó, the exclusivity is something that he chose to include himself. This appears to confirm the impression that Rodó had wanted to break most ties with his homeland during the trip and to devote himself intensely to the experience of travel as a way to “oxigenar el alma” (oxygenate the soul), as he put it to Unamuno in a hopeful letter of 1904 (1393).

We shall study the material in the following order: the contemporary political context in Uruguay; the meaning of the title chosen for the posthumous collection of columns, El camino de Paros; and the four main thematic strands that come through in the material, namely proteism, politics, Europe and Latin America, and the intimate dimension. In the final part, we shall also consider Rodó's finances during his trip, his deteriorating health and his death.

The World Left Behind

As well as the realization of an enduring intellectual aspiration, Rodó's European voyage also meant leaving behind his tense relationship with former president José Batlle y Ordóñez and his circle, as we saw in Chapter 7. This is made explicit in the aforementioned letter to Zubillaga: “Dentro de breves días estaré, pues, lejos de la patria y de Batlle” (Within a few days I will be far from my country and from Batlle) (1430).

In January 1729, the wife of a bookkeeper at the Tolvfors ironworks in northern Sweden gave birth to a son. Barbro Strandman came from a family of clergymen, so it is not surprising that she and her husband Erik Löfling planned for their boy, Pehr, to train for the priesthood when he came of age. The chances were that if he had done so, he would have been able to live out his life in relative comfort as a minister of some rural Swedish parish. But this was not to be. Instead, Pehr Löfling became a botanist in the service of the king of Spain, travelled to the province of New Andalusia in what is today Venezuela, and died at 27 years of age from a tropical fever. At that time he was the leading naturalist in a major expedition tasked with settling a long-standing border dispute between Spanish and Portuguese colonies.

Löfling was one of the so-called “apostles” of the Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus, a group of 17 or 18 young men who travelled beyond Europe between 1746 and 1799 in order to collect and describe plants, animals and other specimens of natural history. These travels engendered many encounters with “the other” in different contexts around the world, and like few other Swedes at the time the students of Linnaeus were confronted with their own notions of identity and belonging in a multitude of ways. As a group, they were also responsible for a significant share of original Swedish printed travel accounts of non-European regions in the latter half of the 18th century.