In the mid-1650s many owners of inns, taverns and alehouses managed to keep their doors open and their customers in “drink” despite an increase in the regulation of alcohol and its consumption under the “Rule of the Major- Generals”. Keepers of orderly, well-trodden and visible drinking houses who offered sustenance to weary travelers, day laborers, local artisans and visiting merchants could still obtain a license from local justices. Such venues supplied their patrons with a place to rest their heads, a warm hearth on cold days and the camaraderie and conversation of good company. The Black Boy Inn served locals, travelers and traders in Aschott, Somerset for over forty years when the act of one tippler threatened its existence in December 1656. While socializing at the popular inn, William Higgory offered a customary toast (known as a “health”) to his fellow drinkers as an act of fellowship. Though health-drinking could serve as a social lubricant that forged or strengthened relationships among drinkers, Higgory's health paid tribute to the exiled Charles II rather than Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell. This was no slip of memory or drunken mistake, for Higgory allegedly declared, “Let us drink, let us sing, here's a health to our King, and it will never be well until we have one again”. The language of Higgory's health suggests that his design was to bond with his fellows through traditional customs of sociability – drink, song and loyalty – but the crowd's stunned response to the king's health recast his act as one of a social pariah. Rather than pledge Higgory's proffered health, members of the befuddled company allegedly asked whether Higgory was drunk, deranged or if he wished to be “hanged”. Though Higgory's health was blatantly seditious, the company's exasperated retort – which provoked Higgory's ire – suggests that the drinkers in the Black Boy wished to know why Higgory would openly state his opinions and force them upon others, not why he thought them. Concerned that Higgory's outburst had jeopardized the existence of this popular inn, several parishioners penned a “Certificate” defending the forty-year-old Black Boy as a “very suitable” establishment.

The primary concern of these men and women was to preserve this peaceful social site – particularly under the watchful eye of Major-General Disbrowe – not to punish Higgory for voicing his affection for Charles II.

IN a world where online social networking services allow individuals to connect with countless numbers of people from across the globe (whether family and friends, colleagues or, indeed, complete strangers), it may require some effort to imagine how figures from earlier historical periods created and maintained similarly impressive social and professional networks drawn from across wide geographical expanses. Yet while such networking may not have been achieved through the relative ease of the click of a mouse, the early modern period nevertheless witnessed an increase in the exchange of information and opinions across diverse levels of society through a variety of means. Chief among these was the method of travel, with the early eighteenth century in particular being a time of increased mobility in Europe, with aristocrats, intellectuals and merchants being far from the only groups to travel regularly or settle permanently abroad. Indeed, as Margrit Schulte Beerbühl has pointed out, the spread of cosmopolitanism during this period can equally be observed in ‘A German baker or pork butcher who introduced German bakery goods or German sausages into England, or an Italian chocolate-maker who settled in Germany.’

Musicians were among those members of early modern society who travelled frequently and whose profession allowed them access to a variety of social classes. Such circumstances created conditions perfect for the two chief national musical styles of the Baroque era – the French and the Italian – to intermingle and eventually lead to what Johann Joachim Quantz famously (if somewhat nebulously) described as a ‘mixed taste’ (‘vermischter Geschmack’). In purely practical terms, at the level of individuals this meant that working musicians or musicians-in-training considered it reasonably commonplace to venture abroad for further study or for more advantageous professional conditions, whether by attracting highly paid employment at the court of a wealthy German prince or by seeking to exploit the commercial opportunities on offer in a major European city such as London (as was recommended by Johann Mattheson in 1713), to give but two of the numerous possibilities through which such professionals sought to improve their lot in life.

John Sigismond Cousser (1660–1727) was one such well-travelled musician, whose lengthy career offers numerous concrete examples of the ways in which Baroque musical styles were disseminated across national borders, or, indeed, spread across disparate regions in a single nation state.

Shortly before Charles II's triumphant return in 1660, a broadside appeared dissecting the “Character of a Phanatique”. The term “Phanatique”, its author asserted, referenced all those who railed against “Church and State”, but particularly “religious or irreligious mad men-Hereticks”. The writer described the fanatic as “a false Conception gotten by the Air upon the sick womb of a confused phancy”, and claimed that the indistinct creature “devours greedily all doctrines, but receives nourishment from none”. Suggesting that the fanatic subverted natural order, the author noted that one “may better express him in the Negative than the Affirmative”. As this vague description suggests, a fanatic's exact beliefs were elusive; the author remarked that “you may sooner pick all religions out of him than one”, especially as his doctrines daily “metamorphosed”. Opposing “true Religion” as well as “the publick good”, this creature threatened the order of things, both “Civil and Ecclesiastical”. Over the course of the revolution, the fanatic – though nebulous – represented the destruction of church and state through excessive zeal.

The author's verbose description of the “Phanatique” portrayed the dangers of these individuals with rhetorical flair, but it left the reader with a muddled understanding of what precisely defined this menace. In inventing the “fanatic” as the ultimate example of both religious and political subversion, royalist authors created a character whose faults and transgressions represented a broad range of anxieties surrounding the growth in extremism throughout the 1650s. People's anxiety over the spread of radicalism and the breakdown of the parish community, while directed at different groups of religious deviants at different moments within different communities, reflected a general concern that the continuance of broad definitions of toleration risked the moral, social and political order. Following the abolition of the Elizabeth Act of Uniformity, the Commonwealth and Protectorate failed to supply effective legislation that people could employ to rid their communities of unwelcome religious groups and individuals. The pervading sense was that the state's ineffective policies left the public with little or no recourse. Frustration prompted agitated crowds and individuals to assault religious “Others” who threatened their community's stability. Royalist propagandists channeled this general hostility toward the many forms of religious unorthodoxy and the state's apparent inaction when they fashioned the “fanatic” – a creature borne out of the English Revolution and nurtured by the interregnum regimes.

Sometime in the late eleventh century, Eadmer of Canterbury (c. 1060–c. 1130) was sitting in the cloister of Christ Church with book in hand, hard at work, when Osbern of Canterbury (fl. 1080–90) interrupted his study with a story of legend and intrigue. ‘Long ago’, related Osbern, ‘when Lanfranc was still alive, I was investigating the reliquaries of the cathedral, when I came upon one more marvelous than the rest. When I opened this box, it was filled to the brim. Struck by fear, I closed it and left. Now, as if through a dream, I see what that box contained and lest the truth escape us for good, I have come to ask that you and I, accompanied by some sacrists, return to that box and open it.’ Eadmer and Osbern did return to that box and found the remains of a human body, complete except for the bone of one arm. A small scrap of parchment stuffed into the skull was nearly overlooked until one of the sacrists pulled it from the prized relic. It was on this parchment that Eadmer and Osbern read, ‘the relics of saint Audoenus the Confessor’.

Several decades after Eadmer and Osbern discovered the relics of St Ouen, Eadmer recorded the inventio in his De reliquiis sancti Audoeni. In this text, the discovery of Ouen, the seventh-century bishop of Rouen, would work for the Canterbury community in multiple ways. First, it would serve further to connect Canterbury to continental customs and thereby bridge the gap between traditionally Norman and English saints. Second, and most importantly for Eadmer, the discovery of Ouen's relics would help to strengthen Canterbury's claims to primacy over York in a dispute over authority between the archdioceses of Canterbury and York that had persisted since the late eleventh century. Ouen's relics forged a historical and episcopal network between Canterbury and Rouen, two out of three archdioceses in the Anglo-Norman world. It is my aim to show that in De reliquiis Eadmer emphasized this cross-Channel episcopal network in order to promote and preserve his community's prestige.

St Ouen had become well known for his sanctity soon after his death in 684. His cult's primary residence lay within the Benedictine monastery of Saint Ouen in Rouen, which historically held claim to his relics and was one of the most significant abbeys in Normandy.

The performance practice of the spel van zinne or zinnespel, the Netherlandish equivalent of the sixteenth-century moral play, seems very straightforward and obvious. Given their overtly discursive character, most of these plays may be characterised as dramatised debates that did not seem to offer their audiences much in terms of visual entertainment or spectacle, except maybe for the disclosure of one or more living images or tableaux vivants, whose function it was to visually underscore that which was said in words.

The meticulous and insightful studies by Wim Hummelen have provided much information about the spatial conditions of the platforms on which zinnespelen were performed, especially concerning the design and use of the one- or two-storey screen placed at the halfway or three-quarter's mark from the front of the stage. A contemporary illustration of such a stage can be found in the printed edition of the zinnespelen performed during the theatre contest held in Haarlem in 1606 (Fig. 1). Characters entered and exited the forestage through the curtains covering the openings in the screen. Except for some zinnespelen that dramatise historical—especially biblical—subject matter, physical action and use of props and décor remained rather limited. Thus, what characters did and what spectators perceived happening in these plays was apparently restricted to walking, talking, sometimes sitting, and, finally, quitting the scene. Given the fact that the genre is allegorical in character with most of its personae delineated as personifications, the zinnespel may even be said to breathe an atmosphere of bloodless deliberation.

Thus, questions arise concerning the kind of experience that the visual and aural perception of these plays offered to their spectators that may explain their popularity throughout the sixteenth century. Clearly the genre was able to reach large urban audiences and to satisfy intellectual and religious curiosity while creating a festive and communal atmosphere. The contention of this chapter is that it was not only topicality that accounted for the zinnespel's appeal, but also (or even more so) its dramaturgical and performative characteristics. Here, some theoretical and methodological positioning is called for. Without denying any play's potential for a purely literary analysis,4 it is hard to block out imagined conditions of what could be seen onstage while reading what was simultaneously said there.

SIMON HOLT'S TASTE IN MUSIC is extraordinarily eclectic. Rameau, Morton Feldman or David Bowie (to name a few of his favourites) are composers who spur his imagination. This diversity influences not only how his music is conceived but how it is subsequently notated and performed. He has a strong desire to compose music that is relevant for today, music that can communicate with any type of listener. It manages to express the inexpressible, the mysterious world of feelings and the subconscious, with great intensity. It can touch on the terrifyingly beautiful in a timeless moment. He captures exhilarating qualities of awe, deadly stillness, tender yearnings and violent exclamations, and couches these in a unique modern language full of surprise and unpredictability. It is music that is alluring and captivating.

The very Spanish idea of duende, the moment at which an outer spiritual force takes control in performance, particularly in Flamenco, is an energy that relates to his musical personality because of its passionate and uncompromising nature. The paintings of Francisco de Zurbarán (1598–1664) and the unforgiving terrain of the Andalucian countryside – whether the endless olive groves or the vast plains of La Mancha – all reflect his sensibility. These connections to Spanish culture, and his eclectic ear, inform Holt's musical thinking on every level.

Over the years Holt has written five works for me. They have been a revelation and a privilege to receive and to learn. All have his special essence of uncompromising beauty. They are virtuosic, physically challenging and demand an exhilarating expression, in some cases desperate in their intention.

This chapter will explore the music from a player's perspective, showing approaches to technique and interpretation, and show how the music works in performance. I will also suggest how Holt's music relates to the growing canon of contemporary music for oboe. His music requires many decisions about timbre, dynamic, tempo and articulation that can affect how the music speaks and is communicated. One's decisions are made through processes that are primarily practical, but directed towards how the music needs to express itself.

East Anglia has long been appreciated as sharing links with the Continent, and the Netherlands in particular, through its geographical position on the North Sea littoral. While the sea has always acted as a conduit between the two areas, the extent and duration of particular phases of contact has been more difficult to assess. The question is particularly interesting in the case of Frisia, as linguistic similarities have suggested a close relationship with England. Likewise, the Netherlands coastal regions appear to have had limited settlement, suggesting the movement of peoples from the Anglo-Saxon west (Bremmer 1990; Knol 2009; Nieuwhof 2013). In this paper I examine the nature of these contacts following the Migration Period of the 5th and 6th centuries and before the opening of the Viking Age.

I use the kingdom of East Anglia as the basis of study for two reasons. First, as a defined political, geographical and possibly cultural entity in the Anglo-Saxon period, it provides us with a unit that maintained its integrity at a number of levels throughout this period. Second, and perhaps most pertinent, it is the obvious place to look for evidence of cultural interaction, being the political and topographical land unit within England geographically closest to early-medieval Frisia (Fig. 10.1). In its Anglo-Saxon sense, East Anglia may broadly be defined as the modern English counties of Norfolk and Suffolk, although as Bede makes clear, the Isle of Ely was certainly included within it in the late 7th century at least (Historia Ecclesiastica IV.19). Surrounded by sea to the north and east, and partially isolated by the extensive marshlands of the Fens to the west, only to the south, and the border with the kingdom of the East Saxons, was there more traversable countryside. With its long coastline and rivers draining into the North Sea, East Anglia was a kingdom particularly suited to maritime communication, and an almost island-like territory itself on England's east coast.

Historical background

It seems right to discuss the sources that chronicle the historical kingdom's relations with the Continent first. Sadly, these are limited, reflecting the paucity of documentation for East Anglia more generally.

What then is to be made of Jacobitism in the British Atlantic world? Several important conclusions emerge from this study though two remain preeminent. First and foremost Jacobitism and anti-Jacobitism were important aspects of the British Atlantic world for over thirty years following the Revolution of 1688. Moreover, Jacobitism did not simply consist of a series of romantic rebellions or plots against the British government: Jacobitism persisted as an integral element of British political culture and religious controversies in England, Scotland, Ireland and the colonies from 1688 to the death of George i in 1727. Anti-Jacobitism developed in parallel. This then was a period fraught with religious controversies and party-driven political tensions which reverberated not just through England, Scotland and Ireland but also in the numerous British Atlantic colonies. It should no longer be possible to ignore Jacobites in the colonies as some sort of cultural or political aberration. Although it is true that Jacobites were not actively plotting colonial rebellions or participating in transatlantic conspiracies to restore the exiled Stuarts, Jacobitism – and therefore anti-Jacobitism – was part and parcel of a transatlantic British culture because it was an enduring feature of British political and religious discourse throughout the first half of the eighteenth century.

The prevalence of Jacobitism and anti-Jacobitism in the British Atlantic colonies points towards a second conclusion: the vibrancy of political and religious exchanges in the British Atlantic world. Political and religious controversies were diffused throughout a pan-Atlantic public sphere, which, in turn, facilitated the anglicisation of the British Atlantic world. As the complexity and cultural depth of Britain's Atlantic colonies becomes increasingly evident, it is necessary to broaden our understanding of Britain. In recent years, historians of colonial America have made admirable advances by conceiving of the colonies as part of an Atlantic world and incorporating scholarship examining the British Isles in order to revise traditional Whig narratives. British historians – though much fewer in number – have also benefitted from taking an Atlantic turn and envisioning the colonies as an integral part of early modern Britain. This book builds upon this established tradition in order to encourage British historians to think in more expansive geographical terms, and imperial and colonial historians to more actively embrace and engage with the diversity evident in historical scholarship examining the British Isles.

IN HIS INTRODUCTION to the Philosophy of Mind, the third part of the Encyclopedia of Philosophical Sciences, Hegel describes the work of this branch of philosophy as a sort of anthropological study. The earlier stages of “mental evolution” (Entwicklungstufen), which are characterized primarily by sensation, may be useful in pointing us in the direction of “the very highest mental life as its modification or its embodiment.” The study of these “lower grades of mental life” provides the great philosophical benefit of allowing us to examine the whole range of mental development and identify the Notion or Concept at its base: “In this way subjects will be treated by anticipation which properly belong to later stages of development (e.g., in dealing with natural awakening from sleep we speak by anticipation of consciousness, or in dealing with mental derangement we must speak of intellect).” (This example is especially appropriate, as Hegel later frequently refers to ancient India as the “dream-life” of Spirit in human history.)

A century later, Freud proposes a similar program for the study of the human mind, this time applying the metaphor of archaeology. In Civilization and Its Discontents (1929) he paints the portrait of Rome through the many stages of its history—from the Roma Quadrata to the twentieth century—and then invites the reader on a “flight of the imagination”: “Suppose that Rome is not a human habitation but a psychical entity with a similarly long and copious past—an entity, that is to say, in which nothing that has once come into existence will have passed away and all the earlier phases of development continue to exist alongside the latest one.” Freud ultimately abandons this metaphor as unworkable because of its reliance on mental pictures (what Hegel calls “picture-thinking”), but the methodology of psychoanalysis retains this vital idea of the mind as a product of evolutionary development that contains “memory traces” of its earlier stages. Thus, in Civilization and Its Discontents Freud traces modern religious beliefs to the “infantile need” of early human beings in their insecurity, just as he had traced hysteria and other psychopathologies to repressed memories in the lives of his patients in The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), the Dora analysis (1905), and Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex (1905).

KANT WAS WORKING ON THE Critique of Judgment when the French Revolution erupted in 1789. By the middle of the decade any discussion of freedom had to take on a different and more immediate importance than it had only a few years before. Kant was just as moved by the events in France as were the younger generation of German intellectuals. One contemporary recalled: “He lived and moved in it; and, in spite of all the terror, he held on to his hopes so much that when he heard of the declaration of the republic he called out in excitement: ‘Now let your servant go in peace to his grave, for I have seen the glory of the world.’” Some of Kant's works of the 1790s—most notably The Metaphysics of Morals and “Toward Perpetual Peace”—give evidence of his hopes for progress toward the realization of human freedom through politics.

Despite his enthusiasm for the cause of liberty, Kant could not offer a philosophical justification for revolution. In The Metaphysics of Morals he insists that there is no right to revolution, because such a right would be self-contradictory—it would abolish the entire condition of right upon which the state is founded. He was also doubtful that political revolution could accomplish the great goal at which it aimed—a true reformation of society. As he explains in “An Answer to the Question: What Is Enlightenment?”: “Thus a public can achieve enlightenment only slowly. A revolution may well bring about a falling off of personal despotism and of avaricious or tyrannical oppression, but never a true reform of one's way of thinking; instead new prejudices will serve just as well as old ones to harness the great unthinking masses.”

How was “a true reform of one's way of thinking” possible? In the third Critique Kant put forward the idea of a morally didactic aesthetics as a tool for such a reform. As we saw in the last chapter, it was his contention that “the beautiful prepares us to love something, even nature, without interest; the sublime, to esteem it, even contrary to our sensible interest.” Frederick Beiser has argued, contra Manfred Frank, that the third Critique “had more of a negative than a positive significance” for the Early Romantics (Frühromantiker).