There were, then, substantial regional variations in the educational history of ordinands. Within this context, how did individual bishops negotiate the line between the wishes of the incumbents offering titles, their own personal concept of fitness for orders, and the labour needs of their dioceses? A close examination of those dioceses where the proportions of graduates and non-graduates who were admitted changed very significantly over the period – that is, those in the Northern Province and Wales, as well as the two Southern Province dioceses of Hereford and Norwich – will illuminate the contrasts and continuity in episcopal practice.

Canon law and the ordinand: the minimum standard

The basic touchstone of episcopal ordination practice was Canon 34. This required that an ordinand:

This is not to say that there were no attempts to raise the academic skills and knowledge of the clergy above this basic level, in order to fit them better for an active role in what was a learned – and learning – occupation. Oaths taken at ordination committed clergy to a life of ongoing study, and bishops often exhorted their clergy to remember this commitment. Similarly, in the provision of the ‘ten-year statute’ at Cambridge University, post-ordination distance-learning was made available to non-graduate clergy. And, from time to time, attempts were made to impose entry qualifications above and beyond the canonical minimum. Jeremy Gregory has shown that during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a series of archbishops of Canterbury circulated instructions to their suffragans in the Southern Province concerning the maintenance of ordination standards. Archbishop Sancroft went beyond this in his 1685 Articles for the better regulation of ordinances, stipulating that only graduates should be ordained except in special cases, of which he would be the judge, although the import of these articles should not be overstated. Only four of his suffragans were signatories, and one of them – William Lloyd of St Asaph – had strong reservations about the practicality of the policy.

JOHN BALDWIN BUCKSTONE and George Colman's burlesque burletta Hyder Ali, or, The Lions of Mysore was presented at the Adelphi Theatre in 1831. The title is somewhat misleading, as its principal subject is the rehearsal of a play that features various exotic animals as performers— lions, tigers, kangaroos, jackals, laughing hyenas, monkeys, pelicans, and boa constrictors. The play-within-a-play portrays the dramatic usurpation of Tipu Sultan Fath Ali Khan by the British. The director of this play, Yates, is forced to improvise when he learns that the expected animals have been offered higher salaries by a competing theater and consequently will not be available to perform. British audiences would be familiar with the history of Mysore and would also probably know that Ali's ubiquitous symbol was the tiger. Because there is no distinction between tiger and lion in Indian linguistics, as Kate Brittlebank points out, the words were interchangeable but clearly associated with Ali's reign and with Tipu warrior culture (262). Yates knows that his play, what he calls his “beastly piece,” must feature quadrupeds, and so in desperation he substitutes biped performers for quadruped performers. He tells the reluctant actors that they must don animal skins to avoid disappointing the public and financially ruining the stage manager.

The metatheatrical frame of this illegitimate drama gives us a glimpse of what had become popular dramaturgy from the late eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth, the staging of canines and quadrupeds. When asked whether the introduction of animals would not be derogatory to the respectability of their theater, Yates replies: “Not if the[y] bring money, money is respectability everywhere, besides we are illegitimate, we are allowed these spurious resources for entertainments, they are the legitimate property of the illegitimates” (scene 1). Because theaters were competing with entertainments that featured animal acts, such as Astley's Amphitheatre and Circus, Yates justifies his artistic decision in financial terms. In order to draw audiences away from the circus, illegitimate theater had to put animals on the boards—literally.

For a whole month in October and November 1897, Delius would be front page news in Norway on account of the scandal he caused with his music for the theatre comedy Folkeraadet. At the start of the year he had also kept the gossip columnists and headline writers of the New York press busy.

For several years, the composer had indulged in an affair with one of the most beautiful of Parisian aristocrats. Born Marie Léonie Mortier de Trévise in 1866, she had been married since 1888 to the Prince of Cystria, Baron de Faucigny-Lucinge. A child of the Belle Époque, she was more attracted to the cultural life of the great city than to her family's grand estate, which she was destined to inherit. A proficient singer herself, the Princesse de Cystria attracted the leading musicians of Paris to her salons, including Ravel and Debussy. Her love for Delius seems to have been genuine and enduring and it led to her accompanying him and Halfdan Jebe on their journey to Florida in 1897. In his 1959 biography of the composer, Thomas Beecham relates that for Delius the expedition was in part a way for him to flee the princess's obsessive attentions, and that she disguised herself as a man, stole on to the ship, and only disclosed her identity ‘[four] hundred miles out at sea, and six full days to run before reaching the haven of New York’. It is a beguiling version of the events that has been repeated in Delius biographies since. Nevertheless, it is a narrative that more than likely was invented by Delius at some later date to make the participation of the princess in the America trip easier to swallow for Jelka. The sources reveal a different course of events which – for elements of farce, masquerade and prankish mischief – trounces the invented version by a good margin.

Far from being a disguised and secret passenger, the Princesse de Cystria boarded the liner New York in Southampton together with Delius and Jebe.

ON THE COVER OF the most recent German edition of Kurban Said's 1937 novel Ali and Nino is a black-and-white picture of a woman who is identified on the book's copyright page as Elfriede von Ehrenfels von Bodmershof. The same edition contains the following statement about the text's author(s):

The authorship of Elfriede von Ehrenfels—the woman on the cover— is given as certain, while the adverb “presumably” (vermutlich) suggests that Lev (Leo) Nussimbaum's role in the text's genesis only can be assumed. The slightly pejorative term “coffee-house-litterateur” (Kaffeehausliterat) describes Nussimbaum, while “publicist” (Publizistin) in German evokes intellectual seriousness and professionalism. Something similar is going on in the afterword to the Englishlanguage paperback edition of Ali and Nino, published in 2000. The afterword was penned by Dr. Heinz Barazon, a lawyer for Leela Ehrenfels, Elfriede von Ehrenfels's niece and the current copyright holder of Ali and Nino. Barazon claims that Kurban Said is a pseudonym for two people, Elfriede von Ehrenfels and Lev Nussimbaum, that the original idea for the novel may have been Nussimbaum's, and that the book is “almost certainly” the product of cooperation between the two. He concludes, “Which sections of the novel are the work of which author remains an unsolved mystery” (282). The idea that Ali and Nino is the product of the work of two authors is a rather new one. Interestingly, the English-language edition of Ali and Nino published in 1970 mentions only one author: “A man who was, by nationality, a Tartar. He escaped from his own country to Vienna and was forced to flee again when the Nazis came.

Historical Faustus

Doctor Faustus emerges in vastly different guises in every age and culture following his appearance in late medieval times. Controversial from the outset, he has changed from villain to hero and, in the eyes of many, back to villain again, not at the mere whim of individual artists’ intent on reshaping the original material, but in accordance with the ever shifting values of successive epochs. The object of this chapter is to highlight key stages in the evolution of this extraordinary figure and thereby to convey a necessarily fleeting impression of some of the factors that made him an instrument of successive ideologies. The term ‘instrument’ is relevant in two senses: it reveals his dependence on each generation's necessarily shifting perspective, while at the same time referring to the playability and playfulness of the underlying theme. It is for this reason that Faustus has proved to be so attractive to the many musicians whose work is the focus of this volume. Their diverse settings and compositions are seen to mirror, complement and in some cases even anticipate literary reworkings of the theme.

Faustus is the product of an age from which few reliable documents have survived, but a lack of evidence has not prevented scholars from attempting to reconstruct elusive or absent data. A recent biography goes so far as to propose a precise date of birth, namely 23 April 1480. Wildly speculative as this suggestion may seem, it derives from a not totally implausible conjecture based on his first name. The given name most frequently associated with Faustus in the earliest sources is not Johann, as the chapbook would have it, and certainly not Heinrich, the alias employed by Goethe's seducer and hurled back at him by his distraught victim moments before her death. The earliest documents speak of Faustus as Jörg, a derivative of Georg or George. In those God-fearing times it was common practice to name children after the saint on whose day they were born; St George's Day is celebrated on 23 April.

On Saturday, April 14, 1810, Cockerell left London to start on the kind of travel from which nobody returns unchanged. On the first leg of the journey down to Plymouth, he was accompanied as far as Salisbury by his recent master, Robert Smirke. Cockerell sailed as a King's Messenger, carrying despatches for the British fleets at Cadiz, Malta and Constantinople, an arrangement made for him by William Hamilton, Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs and a firm friend of the Cockerell family. This meant that he was entitled to free passage on Royal Navy ships out to Constantinople. At Plymouth, on April 18, Cockerell duly embarked on the Black Joke commanded by Captain Cannady. During April, Black Joke sailed down the Atlantic coast, re-taking the Frances, which had been captured by the French, as a prize, and meeting Iris and Matchless, two privateers in the British service. Black Joke sailed safely through the Mediterranean by way of Gibraltar and Malta, by then held by the Royal Navy, to Constantinople, which she reached towards the end of May. On her return voyage, she was captured off Algiers by French privateers, and all the letters and sketches Cockerell had made on the voyage, and sent home with her, were lost, a foretaste of the difficulties and dangers of travel in the Mediterranean to come.

Cockerell found lodgings in Pera, the suburb of Constantinople outside the walls and across the Galatea Bridge over the Golden Horn, where all foreigners not subject to the authority of the Ottoman imperial government were required to live. He was to stay here for over three months, chiefly perhaps because it took time to acquire the passport necessary for travel in Greece and the Aegean islands organised for him by Stratford Canning, at this time secretary to Robert Adair the British Ambassador to the Sublime Porte. In the physical description which the passport carried, Canning described Cockerell as endowed with black and splendid eyes, a forehead of marble and, in sum, as Apollo himself; a joke between two friendly young Englishmen this may have been, but the portrait Ingres drew of Cockerell seven years later shows it had much truth.

For reasons that will be touched on in a moment, the relationship between the Faust figure and music has often been as intimate as it has been problematic. At the risk of seeming wayward, I want to begin by invoking not Goethe's Faust, but another treatment of the Faust legend – Thomas Mann's novel Doktor Faustus. I do so because Mann is as centrally concerned to understand the Faust/music nexus as is Goethe – and because there is an all-important difference between the two works. Mann's narrative of the life of the fictitious composer Adrian Leverkühn invites us time and again to reflect on both the ontology and the history of music. The ontological argument highlights the complex dialectic of music: it is both abstract and visceral. And the historical argument shows us music as deeply implicated in the broad currents and counter-currents of cultural and historical change in the first three decades of the twentieth century. In these terms, then, and in a great many others, Mann's Doktor Faustus is about music. But it is not – despite all its stunning coherence of structure and formal patterning – a work sustained by musicology. Whereas its greatest antecedent in the German tradition, Goethe's Faust, is precisely that.

In what sense, then, is Goethe's Faust a musical work? It is so in at least three ways. Firstly, it is a work that contains a great many musical numbers. Hans Joachim Kreutzer estimates that almost nineteen per cent of Part I and some twenty-four per cent of Part II are conceived as involving music in one form or another. And Tina Hartmann pushes the analogy with music even further, likening Part I to a Singspiel, and suggesting that the seemingly modern form of Part II, with its major scenic blocks, is best understood in the context of the fondness of early music theatre for masques, processions, and so on. Secondly, the musical sections that figure in the Faust text are integral rather than incidental; they are implicated in the very fabric of the work, which is, by that token, a musical drama rather than a drama with music.

Examples of Contracts and Provisions in Wills

CONTRACT 1

North-west Finland, February 1864

I, Karl Johanson Magas, give and donate to my sons, Johan and Anders Karlson, my share of Magas farm (freehold) in the parish of Nykarleby, value 2400 silver marks, purchased by me (document 9th June 1829). They are to have one half each and in addition all movable assets, excluding 1 cow.

I, Brita Lena Mickelsdotter Magas, give all my share of the movable assets, excluding 2 cows, 4 sheep and all the goods and utilities that we need to use in our retirement.

We will live together on the farm until our son Anders has reached the age of majority and I (father) will take care of his share for now. However:

1. 1. If one of the sons dies without offspring, the other one or his offspring will be the owners of the share of the deceased.

2. 2. The owners of the farm have the responsibility for outstanding debts on the land.

3. 3. We require in yearly upkeep: 6 barrels of grain, rye and barley 1/2 of each, 12 wagonloads of hay, 3 sheaves of straw, 2 wagonloads of barley straw, 10 units of salt, 1/4 barrel of salted herring, 6 pounds of tobacco, 10 pounds tobacco leaves, 4 pairs of boots, 18 kg dried meat, 4 pounds of wool and 24 marks silver per year. In addition the owner of the farm is obliged to provide us with space in the house, firewood and warmth, a potato patch, necessary transport. At the death of one of us the payments will decrease by a third. We also require a decent funeral.

4. 4. The following compensation is to be given to our other children: the daughters Anna Lovisa and Sophia are to have 400 marks silver, 1 cow and 2 sheep each when they marry by the owner of the farm. If either of them, because of illness or accident, will be unable to provide for themselves, she is to be cared for on the farm for life and be provided with a decent funeral. The payments due to her will revert back into the farm.

IN HIS WORK ON THE CONNECTIONS between conceptualizations of India's Muslim minority and Europe's so-called Jewish question, Aamir Mufti argues that “it is in the eruption of such crises around the meaning of Jewishness [in modern Europe] that we get the earliest elaborations of minority cultural practices as a critique of dominant culture and its majoritarian affiliations.” Susannah Heschel and Christian Wiese, among others, have also suggested that modern Jewish thought can be fruitfully read as postcolonial, locating the Jew as Europe's “internal other,” in a position analogous to that of colonized peoples vis-à-vis European hegemony. In her work on Abraham Geiger, Heschel argues that the scholarly movement in which Geiger took part, known as Wissenschaft des Judentums, “is one of the earliest examples of postcolonialist writing.” According to Heschel, the texts produced by the scholars of Wissenschaft des Judentums “ were the first to call into question accepted ‘truths’ about the history of the West.” It is in light of such conceptual links between modern Jewish thought and history and (post)colonial theory and modernities that this essay approaches Ali and Nino as a novel that reflects what Ivan Davidson Kalmar has called “the long history of the joint construction of Jew and Muslim.” Jews are rarely mentioned in the novel and they are certainly not explicitly linked to Muslims in the text. Rather, it is the novel's treatment of Islam and Islamic and “Oriental” responses to the West that bares comparison to Western discourses surrounding Judaism. This essay explores the links between Ali and Nino's literary representation of modernization in the Caucasus and questions related to Jewish identity in modern Europe.

This essay endeavors to read Ali and Nino in relationship to the “Jewish question,” but in a more expansive manner than Tom Reiss's treatment of the same subject in The Orientalist. The fact that the author of Azerbaijan's “national epic” was in fact born a Jew continues to be controversial.

THE poems of Charles d'Orléans (d. 1465) are well known for their employment of imagery – natural enough in their author's circumstances – of exile, solitude and imprisonment. Many of the better known among them are also marked by a playful mix of religious forms with erotic content (one thinks of the much-anthologised ‘My gostly fader I me confesse…’). Thus, while it remains a surprise to find a courtly lyric making use of anchoritic imagery, there is a certain inevitability to Charles's comparison of himself, in Ballade 97 of his English narrative-cum-lyric sequence Fortunes Stabilnes, to an anchorite in his cell. Here is the poem in full:

The ballade uses anchoritic imagery in a particularly interesting way, but it is not unique in Charles's English output.

IN addition to its devastating toll on living things, the Second World War caused the destruction of countless historic buildings, paintings, books and manuscripts. In Leipzig alone, aerial bombing incinerated fifty million volumes held in publishers’ warehouses. In London, bombs caused major damage to the British Museum Library in Bloomsbury and demolished much of the newspaper library at Colindale. By the autumn of 1941, one year after Germany and Britain began to attack each other's cities, bombing had consumed an estimated twenty million books in Britain and an untold number of unpublished documents. Although the Public Record Office in Chancery Lane emerged from the war relatively unscathed, bombs and rockets destroyed vast numbers of irreplace- able documents held at the War Office and the Treasury, and in numerous local archives, businesses and homes across Britain.

Yet military action was not the only thing that threatened Britain's cultural inheritance in wartime. Large numbers of books, as well as business correspondence, personal papers and government records, disappeared in British ‘wastepaper’ drives between 1939 and 1945. The historical documents at greatest risk of being recycled were not those held in archives but rather ones in houses, businesses and government offices. W.C. Berwick Sayers, elected president of the Library Association just before the war, estimated that in 1943 alone Britons contributed 600 million books for recycling – thirty times as many volumes as the Luftwaffe destroyed during its most intensive year of raids against Britain. This chapter examines how wartime paper recycling, although promoted as an embodiment of thrift and efficiency, functioned as a form of unsustainable consumption. While fighting to save their civilization, the British people paradoxically destroyed vital parts of their nation's heritage.

Through an escalating process of exhortation and compulsion, government officials worked hard to promote ‘salvage’, and for the most part they succeeded. Never had the British people recycled materials with so much zeal or thoroughness, and no comparable recycling effort has taken place in Britain since then. In their attempt to maximize the use of domestic raw materials in the war effort, Britain's leaders sought to redefine all ‘unnecessary’ items as devoid of value. Once deemed useless, these ‘wastes’ could be recycled into weapons or other necessities.

In Die Günderode, her fictionalized biography of the poet Karoline von Günderrode, Bettine von Arnim conspicuously excludes her beloved friend's suicide from the plot. In its place, she intersperses the novel with previously unpublished texts by Günderrode, and ends the novel with the image of a rose bush full of life—so much life, in fact, that the number of its blossoms corresponds to the years in Günderrode's life: “mit siebenundzwanzig Knospen, das sind Deine Jahre, ich habe sie freudig gezählt und daß es grad Deine Jahre trifft das freut mich so” (with twenty-seven buds, exactly your years, I counted them happily, and the fact that they perfectly match your years—that cheers me so).

I cite this moment for its stark contrast to the legacy Karoline von Günderrode has since gone on to possess in literary history. As Liesl Allingham has pointed out, it is difficult to find a piece of scholarship on this poet that does not include at least passing reference to the circumstances of her death: the foremost woman poet of German romanticism—forever associated with her final moments. Von Arnim's rose blossoms inspire brilliant optimism in the face of loss. That which may have appeared to be merely decorative (indeed, what could compare with the aesthetic potential of a red rose—the beloved trope of so many literary works?) assumes all the weight and energy of Günderrode's life. Following von Arnim, I hope to pursue two possibilities suggested by this image of the rosebuds. First, on a fundamental level, I will prioritize Günderrode's literary work, as it continues to sound a marginalized voice even within German romanticism and the Goethezeit. Second, I want to highlight another possibility for re-thinking lives that were rendered decorative.

My focus is Günderrode's “Die Malabarischen Witwen” and its romanticizing depiction of sati, otherwise known as widow immolation, or the burning of the bereaved widow upon the funeral pyre of her deceased husband. While immolations have occurred in a variety of contexts, sati is the name of the event ascribed, with dubious accuracy, to Hinduism in India. Günderrode begins by describing the women in their procession, “[g] eschmücket festlich, wie in Brautgewanden” (l. 4; ornamented festively, as if in bridal garments).

RELIGIOUS, GENDERED, AND CULTURAL CONFLICTS abound in Ali and Nino and can be understood through the lens of honor, a foundational phenomenon in nearly every culture. Honor consistently plays a central role in defining the conflict between Ali, an Azerbaijani Muslim youth, and his Christian Georgian future wife, Nino. Their Romeo-and- Juliet love story explores the tensions inherent in these pairings. Honor is part of the conflict not just between two families, but also between complex, ever-changing pairings: male and female, public and private, Muslim and Christian, East and West. The conflicts about honor and shame in Ali and Nino offer a peek at the fluid boundaries between religion, culture, and politics.

Between the Oriental and European norms concerning female and male honor, the story of the two lovers unfolds across European and Middle-Eastern stages, where Muslim Ali must defend his own honor in his Middle-Eastern culture, as well as Christian Nino's honor in both Middle Eastern and Western settings. The honor structures that Ali and Nino encounter are flexible and—despite the apparent differences between East and West, masculine and feminine—do in fact complement one another or overlap at times. Ali and Nino plays with honor systems that at first sight appear contradictory, mostly by focusing on the Azerbaijani (Muslim, Oriental) honor system, but with instances where Western honor (Christian, Occidental) is thematized as well, demonstrating that honor codes in Azerbaijan mirror the country's political and geographical situation. Parallel to the political situation, the individual female body possesses a certain geography; it can be placed within a larger social constellation and be “mapped” within a certain geography in the novel and can be placed within a larger constellation. We see this in both Nino's relations with other men and the tensions between the country Azerbaijan (easily thought of as feminine) and other, larger forces that claim the country (and its riches) as their own.

Eastern Communitarianism vs. Western Political Liberalism

Ali and Nino offers Western readers a glimpse of Eastern culture. Kurban Said wrote a text positioned between cultures, and we must keep in mind that he is interested in how social and cultural systems interact with each other. Ali's culture and honor codes are perceived within a communitarian system, in which a communitarian identity dominates all others.

WHILE rarely the focus of critical attention, the angel has long since hovered beside the solitary in the history of anchoritic spirituality. According to the conceptualisation of the religious life known as the vita angelica, men and women who devoted themselves to contemplation of God and renounced the world lived in imitation of, and even association with, the angels of heaven. As Jean Leclercq states in his chapter on the angelic life in La Vie parfaite:

Does it follow, therefore, that the most physically isolated of all religious people – anchorites – had the closest relationship of all to the celestial beings they emulated? Leclercq certainly suggests that this was the case. Later in his discussion, he provides the following extract from Nicholas of Clairvaux's sermon, On the dedication of a church:

Here, we seem to have evidence for the idea that worshippers retreated to far-flung places with the intention of seeking out celestial beings. Yet the phrase ‘in order to associate with angelic spirits’ [‘pour s'associer aux esprits angéliques’] distorts the meaning of the Latin, which implies not that hermits deliberately sought out angels, but that their highly contemplative mode of existence united them with angels, whose very function is to contemplate God.