All social and political classes of Colombian society have experienced a degree of vulnerability with regard to kidnapping. It has become the main narrative through which the country's vulnerability, governance, and security are assessed. Its media coverage has reached the international community, inviting the involvement of foreign countries and human rights agencies as mediators. Putting an end to the “inhuman industry” of kidnapping figures prominently in the Democratic Security and Defense policy and the measures derived from it in the subsequent years of its application. This same policy describes kidnapping as a crime that threatens all citizens of Colombia and their basic social rights; therefore, its statistics are used as indicators of good governance or political failure. Despite the fact that Colombia is far from being a kidnap-free country, these statistics claim that eight years of Democratic Security and Defense policy and its derived measures have resulted in a decrease in kidnapping.

This chapter puts forward different sets of arguments about kidnapping. Rather than depicting it as merely criminal, I inquire into what kidnapping reveals about the vulnerability, sovereignty, and the space of war of the Colombia state. This so-called third world country has been striving to establish full sovereignty against the forces that effect its waning. These forces include insurgency groups within Colombia, flows of legal and illegal capital, global media, and new forms of global and transnational governance in the areas of security, human rights, and civil law. I suggest that kidnapping is another such force. On the one hand, it consists of illegal capture through strategies of penetration, seizure, and transfer, in which the victim is relocated outside the reach of family and the state. But by challenging the ideas of Colombian citizenship, national identity, and territory, kidnapping also threatens the already contested space of authority of the Colombian state.

I pursue this argument by analyzing images derived from political kidnapping that are the only link between the space ruled by the Colombian government and the space where the hostage has been taken. They speak of and bring to the public eye an unreachable space, a space that escapes the authority of the Colombian state.

During the first few weeks of my stay in Berlin I had, busy with my cases for the Kammergericht, suddenly sunk into a near-collapse. Excitement and stress had overcome me. The first who by chance entered my apartment, was Nikolai. Through him the report with my files arrived at the Kammergericht.

Soon a carriage rolled up to my house and someone that I did not know, whose every trait emanated benevolence and support, entered. It was the Criminal Director, Hitzig. He was, he said, also employed at the Kammergericht, had heard about my accident, and offered me, who perhaps had no connections in the city yet, advice and support; his wallet was open for me. My illness, I was certain, was already on the mend; I also did not need his support, but I was touched by his noble and humane friendliness, and it filled me with joy and inner thankfulness.

In the meantime E.T.A. Hoffmann had died. His stories were then the source of general amazement in Germany, as they would later give the major impetus to the burgeoning of the romantic school in France. Hoffmann became familiar in France long before Goethe and Schiller did. And he was not only a poet, but also a composer, had provided several dramas with music, and his Undine had been a great success a short time before at the Berliner Theater. As if that were not enough, he showed himself to be a talented and spirited draftsman of portraits and caricatures; although it could not be denied that his portraits, for example several drawings of Blücher, wandered entirely unrecognizably to the other branch of his art. In addition he was an excellent jurist; his reports were often heard in session with amazement, although at the same time case files with the most amusingly grotesque caricatures were circulating amongst the lawyers, in which one thought one could recognize one or another colleague. Now, after an eventful life, he had become council for the Kammergericht.

When reading autobiographies written in the nineteenth century, it is important to remember that this was a form that was both relatively new, and still experimental. The self-reflexive habits and attitudes of the present, which have helped create an accepted set of autobiographical literary strategies, verging in the worst hands on the formulaic, were simply not yet present. Of course, there were isolated autobiographies before 1800, most notably Jean-Jacques Rous-seau's Confessions of 1782, which cast its shadow over almost all subsequent attempts at forthright self-exposure. But the trickle became a flood only after the turn of the century: according to one persuasive line of thinking, the generation that grew up around the period of the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars had not just lived through stirring events, but had as a result a new consciousness of the forward march of history, and consequently of their lives as narratives of change.

The novelty of the autobiography was especially marked in the field of music. While practitioners of the other arts had found ways of exploring and displaying their individuality - in, for example, the painter's self-portrait, a feature of visual culture since at least the sixteenth century — the musician remained a reticent figure until surprisingly late. It is perhaps again the year 1800 that provides a convenient, if approximate, locus of a major perceptual shift, from the notion of the musician as a sort of superior servant, noteworthy only as an adjunct to his master, to a self-aware, self-reliant creative force in his own right. While Franz-Joseph Haydn, who died in 1809, wore the livery of his aristocratic employer, Ludwig van Beethoven, thirty-eight years his junior, is seen as the vanguard of a new romantic ideal of the composer as assertive genius. Composers had resorted rarely to prose, and when they did, it was usually to explain their technique, not themselves; the first example of an autobiographical work by a composer was arguably the Mémoires of André-Ernest-Modest Grétry, published in 1789-1797, and even here, the personal reminiscence was packed within layers of musicological exegesis. With a few colorful exceptions, the life of a musician is not dramatic, but bounded by solitary desk-work and the routines of professional duty.

Amid its growing visibility in the transnational sphere, Colombian cinema of the first decades of the twenty-first century has increasingly turned to the countryside to narrate untold stories about rural life, nature, tourism, and violent conflict. These audiovisual mappings of rural spaces, lives, and journeys emerge at a time of major historical changes shaping the Colombian countryside. Among these are the intensification of armed conflict and the militarization of many rural areas at the turn of the twentieth century, massive internal displacements and peasant struggles for land ownership, territorial reconfigurations produced by the expansion of extractive economies, and, more recently, processes of transitional justice and concomitant postconflict discourses, as well as official tourism and investment campaigns that promote rural regions for travel and development. In this context, a number of films that showcase the journeys of characters and cameras across rural space engage with and, in certain cases, dismantle, the logics of tourism and war that are central to the visual production of landscape in contemporary times, underscoring the complex relationships between the nation and what have been historically considered its “natural frontiers.”

Seldom featured in earlier Colombian films, the rising number of fiction and documentary films focusing on life in rural regions and natural frontiers also emerge in the context of the implementation of Colombia's new legal framework for the production and the promotion of film passed in 2003 that has successfully improved the quality, diversity, and number of films produced in the country. Films such as Los viajes del viento (2009), El vuelco del cangrejo (2009), Los colores de la montaña (2010), Apaporis, en busca del río (2010), Chocó (2012), Corta (2012), Jardín de amapolas (2012), La sirga (2013), Tierra en la lengua (2014), La tierra y la sombra (2015), Alias María (2015), El abrazo de la serpiente (2015), and Oscuro animal (2016) have circulated in important international festivals worldwide. They signal a stark departure from the fixation that many Colombian filmmakers have had with urban topographies and drug-related violence in urban areas during the 1990s and the beginning of the twenty-first century.

Mose came to be performed in several more places, and finally also in Berlin. The Singakademie had provided the chorus, and its directors at that time, Rungenha-gen and Grell, provided me the most welcome assistance. King Frederick William IV had (if I am correctly informed, at the recommendation of Meyerbeer) authorized the Royal Chapel as the orchestra. In spite of this the performance was extremely deficient, and the success insignificant. The guilt was no one's, but rather the circumstances. For the jubilee of F. Schneider, according to the wishes of the Queen, one of his oratorios, one of the Greek tragedies (Oedipus, I believe was to be performed in Potsdam, while at the same time in Berlin an opera of Gluck was to be prepared. The orchestra traveled back and forth between Berlin and Potsdam almost every day, from one rehearsal to the other; at the same time the Singakademie had more than one commitment to deal with. And the solo singers also found themselves hindered and exhausted in the press of all these demands. And so a careful level of study, and sufficient rehearsals were not to be achieved; indeed, it even came to the point that not even a single complete dress rehearsal could be held.

My last joy in the work was something I had to thank Franz Liszt for, and once again, without my involvement. First I received a verbal greeting from him from Weimar, with the information that he wanted to perform Mose there. Uncertain whether this was a serious decision, I did not reply. Soon thereafter, however, the formal written request arrived.

I had met Franz Liszt in the unforgettable days, when he visited Berlin as a virtuoso, and in a series of concerts, which he could have easily multiplied by a factor of ten, put Berlin into an ecstasy, which, before or after, it had never seen the like of.

We live in a world that is, paradoxically, both increasingly multi-cultural, with all sorts of cultural, both intellectual and material, accessible world-wide, and ever more narrow-minded, in which the English language and Anglo-American culture assert dominance over cultures which have less and less prestige in the Anglo-American cultural sphere. The result is that Anglo-American culture is widely distributed through print and audio-visual media to the rest of the world (e.g. the books for sale in a Brazilian book-store are likely to be at least fifty percent translations from other languages, principally English), while transfer in the opposite direction has fallen off very noticeably. English-speakers, particularly in the United States, are not likely to have significant skills either in reading or speaking any foreign language whatsoever (the only American president in the twentieth century to speak a foreign language fluently was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, although candidates have had some skills - Kerry, Romney, Jeb Bush, Marco Rubio). And this lack of proficiency has only increased over the last generations, so that not only is foreign culture only sparsely accessible in English translation in the US, but the number of Americans who can read or understand foreign books, movies, and television in the original language is very small.

Formerly, scholars in the hard sciences and mathematics could be expected to have reading fluency in at least the languages relevant to their research (German for chemistry, Russian for mathematics, for example), but scientific publications are increasingly published initially in English. Likewise, those holding doctorates in the humanities could be expected to have a reading knowledge of French, at a minimum, and perhaps also German and Italian. As languages skills decline, even for those with advanced degrees working in the humanities, it becomes increasingly important to make available primary sources in languages other than English in translation into English. Not only will they then be accessible to readers whose native language is English, but also to the large number of non-native speakers, who may out-number native speakers by as much as three to one.

Translation is not simply a matter of a one-to-one correspondence between bodies of vocabulary (which itself is a fiction), but involves negotiating differences in syntax and language structure between languages.

William of Malmesbury's position as cantor at Malmesbury received little attention in his brief autobiographical comments, and was consequently accorded little significance by later historians. However, the connection between the office of cantor and that of chronicler in the cases of several well-known English writers of the twelfth century has received increasing attention in recent years. As David Rollason has pointed out, Symeon of Durham's role of cantor or precentor (the terminology was variable) meant that he had overall responsibility for the monastic library, the scriptorium, and the complex arrangements associated with the recording and commemoration of the significant dead. A similar point applies to Eadmer of Canterbury, who moved from hagiography to historical writing after his own period of service as cantor. The position of the cantor in relation to historical writing in the monasteries of Anglo-Norman England may never have been as powerful as it was in continental Europe, as argued by Miriam Fassler. Nevertheless, she traces a shift in the role during the eleventh century – namely, that the cantor took over the role of armarius or librarian and had fewer responsibilities for the technical aspects of musical performance – which also affected English houses. William of Malmesbury's understanding of this role is currently being explored by Paul Hayward.

However, whereas scholarly attention has focused on the role of the cantor/armarius as custodian of books, liturgical observance and remembrance, this article will address a related, but distinct, aspect of the cantor's duties, namely, his need for expertise in computus, and the light this sheds on William's views on correct historical dating.

As cantor, William would have known that the timing of the monastic day was a highly technical matter closely tied to the timing and the cyclically varying details of the Opus Dei, based on the movements of the heavenly bodies. The ringing of the bells to signal the various canonical hours was a serious matter, which required the cantor's expert advice, since these hours were meant to be calculated on the basis that there should always be twelve hours between sunset and dawn and another twelve between dawn and sunset. The result was that the actual length of day and night hours varied constantly with the seasons, and that it was only at the equinoxes that all twenty-four hours were of the same length as one another.

Johann Wenzel Tomaschek/Jan Václav Tomášek (1774-1850) was one of the most significant and fascinating musical personalities at the beginning of the 19th century. A brilliant pianist, teacher, composer and critic, he was known as the Musical Pope of Prague. Tomášek was a friend of Beethoven and Goethe, and taught such figures as the virtuosos Alexander Dreyschock and Jan Václav Voříšek and the critic Eduard Hanslick. Despite the fact that he composed over one hundred compositions, including operas, concerti, string quartets, symphonies, songs and religious works, he is known today almost exclusively for his characteristic piano pieces, variously titled Rhapsodies, Dithyrambs, and most often Eclogues. Though these titles all have their roots in classical poetry, the pieces in question combine aspects of classic style with fresh, new and even idiosyncratic takes on contemporary musical thought.

This Autobiography first appeared in installments between 1845 and 1850 in the periodical Libussa. An annotated Czech translation appeared in 1941 and excerpts have appeared in English in The Musical Quarterly in 1946 and The Musical Times in 1974. This volume is the first complete English translation of the work.

While it provides a good deal of information about the composer and his life it also offers something much rarer: a sense of historical texture and depth. A prickly figure, simultaneously confident and utterly insecure, Tomášek's writings about the great and near great, as well as his recollections of dozens of characteristic goings on, give us a rare kind of insight into both the man and his age. In the words of Kenneth Delong, “Highly opinionated, often sarcastic and projecting a sense of his own importance, Tomášek's memoirs also reveal him to be deeply concerned about all things artistic and intellectual: a man of courage and idealism, unflinching in his pursuit of truth in music and in life.”

Tomášek offers many different kinds of writing and observation: there are snapshot concert reviews; chatty gossip about celebrities, especially royalty; detailed comments about important figures such as Beethoven and Goethe. There are passages that show Tomášek's close engagement with contemporary art and science, whether paintings, architecture, gardens, or new technologies; we also find personal aphorisms about life, broadly speaking, and of course comments about his own work.

I had already learned in Berlin that it was difficult, if not impossible, to find a reception as a young composer with a grand opera. An opera by Hummel, who was highly regard as pianist and composer, and held an appointment at that time as Kapellmeister in Weimar (I believe the work was called Mathilde was accepted for performance by the direction of the theater in Berlin, and waited then seven or nine years for its production. How long would I have had to wait as an unknown newcomer, had I achieved a place on the waiting list. At any rate, I was lacking poem and poet for the serious, tragic opera for which I felt that I was uniquely suited; but the urge to work was always present.

A random impulse was decisive.

One morning I felt unwell, wanted to rest, and went to my nearby friend Sietze, — he might send me some sort of easy book. I received a volume from Goethe. Lying on the sofa, leafing through it, I came upon the SingspielIerh und Bätelh, which I, by chance, did not yet know. Without particular commitment I began to read. Then, for the little poem:

Gehe!

Verschmahe …

I came upon the mood and melody in a moment, unintentionally, and almost unconsciously. I took a sheet of music paper, and wrote down the tune. Immediately illness and everything else was forgotten. When Sietze came a few hours later to look after me, I had already composed the first five songs. He applauded them, and soon I no longer needed his encouragement — the whole SingspielwAS completed in a couple of weeks, including the overture — only as a sketch, but with a definite idea of the instrumentation.

Earlier and later undertaking had never come to fruition without my having let them first mature within me for a long time. This time everything appeared spontaneously and without previous decision, I scarcely knew how. Now for the first time, with incentive from friends and experts in music, I decided to present the work for public performance. The score of the songs, and finally the overture, soon lay before me complete.

In September 2012 the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia– Ejercito del Pueblo (FARC-EP; Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia– People's Army) released a homemade rap video announcing its readiness to participate in peace talks with the President Juan Manuel Santos. Available on YouTube, the clip shows four young rebels playing guitar and drums and singing rhymes about traveling to Cuba and intervening in the peace negotiations. Also, the guerilla members mock President Santos by echoing popular comments about his physical appearance. The video aroused hostility and suspicion in the prevailing media. Some newspapers and TV commentators questioned the clip's authenticity while others condemned its “lack of sophistication” or “bizarre” character. Absent from the public discussion was the guerillas’ decision to welcome the peace talks with a musical declaration. But this rap video was not the first musical intervention of the FARC-EP in contexts of peace talks. Back in 2000, the guerrilla musical group of Julian Conrado and Los Companeros livened up several encounters during the political negotiations between the guerrillas and the Pastrana government. At that time, international official delegations and local audiences attended guerrilla concerts and learned about Fariano cultural policies. But why have the rebels chosen to intervene in peace talks through musical performances? In this chapter I show that musical practices became compelling political means among the guerillas. I explore music produced by artists belonging to the FARC-EP guerrillas (including Julian Conrado and Los Companeros, Lucas Iguaran, and Christian Perez) and argue that, through rhythms, lyrics, and musical discourses, these Fariano artists constructed combatants as belonging to the Colombian nation, as reflecting regional identities and as sharing a commonality of knowledge with others in Colombian society. Additionally, in their music Farianos reshape the meaning of their collective struggle and disseminate personal stories throughout a geographically and territorially unwieldy organization.

The Fortuitous Configuration of a Research Topic: Sources and Assumptions

Between 1997 and 2006 I worked at the Jesuit organization Center of Research and Popular Education (CINEP; Centro de Investigacion y Educacion Popular), one of the oldest Colombian NGOs. Taking advantage of CINEP involvement with the Catholic Church and its constant presence on the field, my research team traced the history of the Colombian armed actors and their complex relationships with regional societies and the state.

Could you describe how and why you became professionally involved in peacebuilding work?

Growing up in Pakistan, I was acutely aware of constant conflict with our neighbouring countries – particularly India. The persistent stress of border clashes and the inertia on both sides to politically resolve their post-colonial tensions led me to focus on novel ways to resolve the territorial disputes in the region and beyond. Much of my research on conflicts between mining companies and communities (such as the ongoing struggles against strip-coal mining in Appalachia) has straddled the negotiating space between industries and communities. This stems from my experiences of working for a major multinational corporation (General Electric) during a time of intense environmental conflict between the company and the community in New York, where they had a legacy of chemical contamination of the Hudson River. Trained as a chemist in my undergraduate degree, I was fascinated by the complexity of products that GE manufactured and the elements which went into their manufacturing but also which ended up in ecological systems where the company operated. From that experience, I embarked on an academic career which built upon the paradigm of ‘industrial ecology’, which considers modern technological activity as an inextricable part of the ecosystem. I have thus always thought of peacebuilding at multiple scales: between companies and communities, between science and society and between nation-states.

Your work in peacebuilding is most closely associated with conflict resolution in situations where the natural environment is under threat. This book explores how cultural heritage can advance peacebuilding efforts. What do you see as the parallels between natural heritage and cultural heritage in this regard? What do you see as the biggest differences?

Most human societies have some cultural connectivity with natural systems. Natural heritage anchors cultures to particular places and is often grounded in community survival. Cultures are dynamic and are not inherently positive by any means. There is considerable negativity in many cultures that makes them exclusive and not conducive to peacebuilding. This has been the case with many cultures that are dominated by particular literalist adherence to ancient religious scriptures. Religions can also change but are more inertial. I have found this to be the case within the Islamic tradition which I have grown up with.

Colombia has the second-highest casualty rate of land-mine victims in the world, after Afghanistan. In fact, the former Landmine Observatory—currently named the Mine Action National Office (Direccion para la Accion Integral Contra Minas Antipersonal) and one of the sources of data about land mines in Colombia—shows a dramatic increase in casualties. While in 2000 the casualties did not exceed 137 per year, in 2011 there were 549 victims either maimed or killed by land mines, which means that there was on average one victim per day (Direccion para la Accion Integral Contra Minas Antipersonal). The problem has intensified in the last few years because of increased military presence and the push by illegal armed groups to maintain the control of certain areas, particularly those where their coca plantations are located. Furthermore, 98 percent of accidents and incidents occurred in rural areas of the country, of which 82 percent of the victims were injured; 30 percent of them are civilians and 7 percent are children. As a result, land mines have been the recent focus of governmental programs, NGOs, and public campaigns.

Remangate (Roll up your pant leg) is one of these endeavors. On April 4, 2011, as part of the International Day for Landmine Awareness, the campaign kicked off. This highly publicized campaign was an initiative by the Mine Action National Authority and several NGOs to create awareness about land mines and their victims in Colombia. The slogan of the campaign was “Por un dia pongamonos en su zapato” (For one day, let's step into their shoe), referring to the general assumption that Colombians are not aware of or are indifferent to the problem of land mines in the country. On that day, people all over the country were invited to remángarse (roll up their pant leg) as a symbolic act. As part of the advertising of Remangate, a highly visible and successful video was launched. The short video circulated on TV, radio, and the Internet and featured the participation of famous actors, actresses, models, directors, and wellknown entrepreneurs who invited the community to “roll it up” (remángarse).

Monte Sole is an extensive mountainous area located between two valleys formed by the Reno River and the Setta Creek in the southern part of the province of Bologna, Italy. During World War II this area was the theatre for one of the greatest massacre of civilians in Western Europe. The Peace School Foundation of Monte Sole, which was created in 2002, has its registered office and operating facilities in the Historical Park of Monte Sole, founded in 1989 by a law of the Emilia Romagna Region. Its aim is to promote non-formal training and peace education projects, non-violent conflicts transformation, the respect of human rights, peaceful cooperation between different people and cultures and a society without xenophobia, racism and any other form of violence towards human beings and their environment.

To have a Peace School in Monte Sole means trying to decontaminate the place, going beyond the mere conservation of memory. The Peace School is not, and cannot be, a place in which certain people disseminate the ‘right values’ to unaware or unenlightened people. It is not and cannot be an institution that uses heritage to speak for itself, believing that this alone would manifest a certain benevolent inner and innate power for good. The Peace School is – and aims to be more and more – a place separated from the frenzy of everyday life, a place in which different people meet in order to study, to experience the complexity of and the unanswerable questions about human beings, to share the beauty and the difficulty of intellectual and emotional research that does not accept a hierarchy of ideas but affirms a multiplicity of free contributions.

On the following day I went on foot to Iglau, where I arrived after twelve o'clock noon at the cloister of the Minorists (I know this as “Minorites” in English), and soon twelve altists were assembled for the entrance examination. Brother Donat, perhaps the most excellent student of Segert, was Regenschori and organist at the cloister. After the table was cleared, preparations were made for the test, which took place in the presence of the Father Guardian, and all of the brothers of the order. The order in which the reporting took place was also the order for the production. The test aria, composed by the Regenschori, was full of coloratura, and various difficult intonations, which ascended to the two-line F, that is, over the usual bounds for the alto, for which reason it was difficult for most of the candidates to make it through the composition; and so it happened, that I, as the last was also admitted to the test, and after the Guardian's utterance “finis coronat opus”, received the position.

Brother Donat was a colossus in terms of height and weight. His eyes shone with joy at my performance of his aria, while the poor candidates, mostly accompanied by their fathers, left the refectory in an entirely dejected state.

Father Joachim, also Chaplain, led me along with a shoemaker, who was also Balkentreter at the cloister, into the residential quarters. He had scarcely left me when I broke into the bitterest tears: the master, as well as the mistress did everything in their power to calm me down; but my sadness was so great, that they had to go fetch Father Joachim, to whom I explained that I would rather die than live with a shoemaker; - he took me by the hand, and led me to a cloth maker, the sexton of the church, who lived in one of the cloister buildings. A little clean chamber, where I lived by myself until the arrival of the sopranist, calmed me down, for I soon felt at home in my surroundings. The sexton, with bended head, an already aged but very good-tempered man, whose wife was very spry, had three daughters, who might at any moment enter the service of Hymen.

On October 25, 1814 I attended a grand ballet at the Theater an der Wien: “Antonius und Cleopatra”, which was given by the French ballet-dancers in such a way, that the Viennese was beside himself, since he saw something there which he had never imagined. Since I will later mention another, and far more exquisite ballet, I will spare myself a closer consideration of the truly remarkable dancers. On the 26th I visited Barth, who had earlier studied in Prague, but who had entered the service of Prince Schwarzenberg. His extremely pleasant tenor voice and skill in reading music earned him a place as a singer in the K.K. Royal Chapel.

From there I went to see Georg Bayer, a flutist who at the time was one of the leading stars of virtuosity. He sought through acoustics to produce double tones on his instrument, and even managed to do so. In order to produce a thicker, indeed, a manlier sound, he came up with the idea of having a longer and thicker instrument made, which he called a Panaulon, which, however, in spite of the strong and fuller tone and a range reaching down to the g of the small octave was not accepted, probably due to its length and weight.

Bayer accompanied me to see the K.K. Kapellmeister Ritter von Seyfried, my former fellow student, whom I unfortunately found was not at home.

On the 27th I heard “Johann von Paris” by Boieldieu at the Theater an der Wien. Miss Buchwieser played the Princess of Navarra very well, but vocally she was not so lucky, since she was not infrequently out of tune. Forti acted and sang the Seneschal with distinction. Wild did not give the role of the Prince the proper dignity, but his singing, with an exceptionally beautiful voice, made a marvelous effect. Madame Forti as the page acted very well, but her high, screaming tones, combined with the horrible faces that she pulled, ruined the good impression she made with her acting. And in addition, her physique is not one with which she should be taking on male roles. Mayer played the innkeeper with sensitivity, but apparently due to advanced age his voice was no longer equal to the task. Miss Teumer as the innkeeper's daughter sang and acted very badly.