A major scholarly concern in the field of medieval costume history is the origin of the textiles: not only the source of the fiber and where the textile was woven, but also where it was found. For our present study, the final fate of textiles is at issue. Fabrics are very fragile and often survive only as fragments. Indeed, most material remains of medieval furnishings and dress come from two main categories of sources. The first one is the funerary context; the second is composed of objects kept in religious institutions. Of course, such remains provide a great deal of valuable information, but they must be contextualized properly and cannot be considered usual garments. It is clear that albs and dalmatics were far from ordinary people's clothing. In light of their extraordinary nature, how can we interpret the fabrics—sometimes found in tiny pieces—from tombs and religious treasuries? Are they representative of fashionable fabrics, or could they have had some very specific uses and meanings, even for the wealthy?

ORIGINS OF THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL SOURCES

The silks we will consider appear to be of two main kinds of silk fabrics: samite and lampas. Samite, from the glossary of Medieval Dress and Textiles in Britain, is defined as

Lisa Monnas discusses variations in samites as well as their popularity and provides a useful definition of lampas:

For those residing in the industrial city in the early twentieth century, day-today interactions were still affected by the fragmentation of society heralded by nineteenth-century urbanisation. To live, work and socialise in Manchester or Chicago was to be brought into contact with a diverse range of people who did not necessarily share beliefs or values. This experience, sometimes dislocating yet often exciting, shaped both the theory and reality of modern citizenship. Foregrounding the importance of the city in this way encourages an appreciation of the urban as an independent factor or ‘variable’ – the idea that towns and cities were not just sites that reflected the wider societies that sustained them, but that those societies were themselves, in part, constituted through urban place, experience and identity. This study has, in common with those of other historians, acknowledged that this was especially the case in the nineteenth century: the zenith of the ‘shock of the new’. Cities both housed and catalysed rapid change, and so were in the front line when it came to rethinking society. In this assessment of the following decades however, and the 1920s and 1930s especially, it has been shown how the city continued to shape ideas about community and belonging long ‘after the shock’. Urban life and government was comparatively stable by the early twentieth century but cities continued to grow, and civic leaders did not consider urban problems to have been solved. In responding to new forms of leisure, conflict and social fragmentation they none the less still stressed the suitability of the city as the basis for good citizenship. Municipal councils, supported by a network of voluntary associations, public-minded businessmen and increasingly the central state, demonstrated considerable ambition in their attempts to build urban community. Their goal was to transcend ‘traditional politics’ by ‘steering’ urban-dwellers towards a shared identity – one where small interlocking communities created a larger civic whole.

Investing in the future of the city, both materially and emotionally, these leaders entwined intervention with a language of local belonging. Looking back to the shocking city from where they had come, they celebrated a narrative of resilience, progress and determination.

There can be few subjects about which so many people hold stronger views, many of which are either prejudiced or ill-informed, than imprisonment. Of course, victims of crime are entitled to view perpetrators differently from others; but there is no justification for those frequently referred to as ‘hangers and floggers’, who, not knowing anything about the circumstances of those who find themselves in prison, regard every prisoner as a combination of mass murderer, paedophile, rapist and arsonist, who deserves nothing more than being locked up and the key thrown away.

Their attitude is far from the truth and distorts the purpose of imprisonment. It is often said that there are three types of people in prison – the mad, the bad and the sad – of which by far the fewest number (15% maximum) are incorrigibly bad. There have always been prisons in this country, initially holding people awaiting sentence, which, because it was corporal or capital, meant that they were not incarcerated for very long. Prisons were local, paid for by local taxes. The use of imprisonment has changed over the years, as the number of capital offences decreased, including the period when transportation was in vogue, the introduction of convict prisons, nationalisation under a Prison Commission, the abolition of the death penalty and, finally, putting it under the control of a government Ministry, first the Home Office and currently the Ministry of Justice.

The great thing about Harry Potter's book is the way that he sets about correcting the ill-informed and, by recounting the history of imprisonment and explaining the motivation and ideas of some of the giants of penal reform, educating the prejudiced. But, by deliberately bringing the history of imprisonment up to date, he is also informing the public about current issues. I am particularly pleased that he tells us so much about one of those giants, Alexander Patterson, who uttered one of the inalienable truths about imprisonment, when he said that ‘prison was punishment, it was not for punishment’. The only punishment involved is the deprivation of liberty, for a specified time, awarded by the courts following conviction for a crime. We do not practise double jeopardy in this country, and therefore it is not the job of prison officers, or prison conditions, to inflict further punishment.

‘Causa vitandi curiositatem verborum’

The text or textual cluster known as The Mirror of Holy Church represents one of the more egregious examples of Paul Zumthor's mouvance – the unregulated proliferation of versions and rewritings endemic to many forms of manuscript culture – found in medieval religious literature. Written in Latin in the early thirteenth century, the work could be regarded as having led a relatively decorous existence for 150 years or so, circulating widely in books that make clear the high regard in which it was held by literate Christians of different backgrounds, were it not for the fact that all twenty-eight full or partial copies that survive from before the second half of the fourteenth century preserve not the original Latin text but an elegantly colloquial translation into French (F). Making no mention that it is rendering a work first composed in Latin, this translation travelled in at least two versions, A and B, as one of the best-known insular French prose texts of the period.

It is largely as a result of this translation that the identity of the work's famous author remained known to medieval (and modern) readers. He was Edmund Rich, the learned, ascetic, and passionately driven eldest son of a well-off devout merchant couple from Abingdon. After periods of study at Oxford and Paris, Edmund became in turn master of arts and doctor of theology at Oxford (c. 1196–1202, c. 1214–22), secular canon, cathedral treasurer, and celebrated preacher at Salisbury (c. 1222–33), an unusually embattled archbishop of Canterbury (1233–40), and finally ‘seynt Edmund de Pounteny’ (as many copies of F call him), a cognomen that identifies him with the Cistercian house of Pontigny in France, where he is buried. The flurry of vitae and other life records written in the period immediately before and after his canonization in 1246 never allude to the work, and most, perhaps all, allusions to his authorship in later copies directly or indirectly derive from F.

Entrepreneurship – defined here as the process of managing, and often launching, an income-generating entity – is often depicted as a combination of personal attributes that enable certain individuals to perceive and act on economic opportunities more quickly and effectively than others do, and economic conditions in which economic opportunities are abundant and widely accessible. The present chapter seeks to shift the focus from innovation and individual ability to entrepreneurship as a form of work – as Austin points out in Chapter 16, most capitalists are entrepreneurs, but not all entrepreneurs are capitalists. In Africa, many who launch and manage productive enterprises operate too close to the margin to accumulate even small amounts of capital.

In sub-Saharan Africa, where small and medium-sized enterprises have greatly outnumbered large ones throughout the twentieth and early twentyfirst centuries, proprietors often work alongside their assistants (employees, apprentices, clients, unpaid family members), gathering information about market conditions and methods of production, negotiating prices and delivering goods to market. Entrepreneurs also engage in what might be called ‘social work’ – creating and managing relationships with a variety of other people (customers, creditors, employees, authorities) to gain access to markets and resources, direct and coordinate processes of production, and keep the enterprise going in good times and bad.

After outlining major shifts in economic and political contexts for entrepreneurial endeavour in Africa since the late nineteenth century, this chapter takes a closer look at entrepreneurial social work, placing it in the literature on entrepreneurship in twentieth-century Africa, then presents a few examples from my own research in Nigeria and Ghana to illustrate variations in entrepreneurial labour that have taken place at different times and locations. Approaching entrepreneurship as a social process rather than a collection of personal attributes, I argue that, while forms of social work vary across space and time, all entrepreneurial endeavour involves managing and sustaining social relations. Like relationships with co-workers, neighbours, etc., family relationships involve ongoing exchanges of material goods, attention and affect.

HISTORICAL OVERVIEW

Throughout the twentieth century, African economies were dominated by small-scale enterprises, many of them run by a single proprietor with the assistance of a few other people.

DESPITE all the anxiety about the fragility of James Cook's fame in the eighteenth century, decades of colonial activity in Oceania ensured that, by the 1820s, he had reached something approaching the status of imperial founding father promised by Anna Seward's Elegy. In his 1821 A Vision of Judgement, the Poet Laureate Robert Southey enlisted Cook among his ‘Worthies of the Georgian Age’. Still a silent ‘shade’, Southey's Cook is eligible to join the kind of national pantheon from which the Stowe monuments and early odes had excluded him:

Southey's underworld of immortals has an explicitly monarchist and imperialist function. As Timothy Fulford argues, the invocation by George Gordon, Lord Byron, of native ‘shades / from Otaheite's Isle’ in his counterblast The Vision of Judgment, represents in part a refusal of Southey's authority to allocate national fame in this way and for these purposes. Intensified by forty years during which British colonialism had caused cultural repression, environmental degradation, and widespread suffering and depopulation in Oceania, Byron's response recalls the handful of anti-colonial newspaper writers who had responded to the news of Cook's death by citing the ‘misery and destruction’ visited by explorers on indigenous people. A year later, for a more subtle dismantling of Southey's authoritarian politics of fame, Byron would turn to the Bounty mutiny. As a disillusioned, even parodic, sequel to the Cook voyages, the story of the Bounty generated forms of Oceanic celebrity and notoriety that highlighted an existing sense of fame's power to alienate the individual from his own publicity. This sense is perceptible under the surface even of heroic representations of Cook.

The first shoots of an ideology of reform in houses of correction. Conditions in the counters and the Clink. Imprisonment as experienced by John Bunyan in Bedford and by Quakers throughout England. The exploitation of the incarcerated by gaolers whose prisons were a private enterprise. Disease and disaster struck prisons. Newgate and its most notorious inmates were celebrated on the page and on the stage. Popular detestation of prisons grew, culminating in their destruction during the Gordon riots.

How far were the military religious orders involved in secular warfare? The vocation of the Knights Templar, Knights Hospitaller, Teutonic Knights, and similar medieval institutions bound them to fight in defense of Christians, to prevent injustice to Christians and to lay down their lives for their brothers. Hence modern scholars of the medieval military religious orders have argued that the Templars, Hospitallers, and Teutonic knights generally avoided involvement in secular warfare and any warfare outside their own vocation.

Yet there were also occasions when the military religious orders were physically involved in hostilities against Christians: not necessarily in battle, but in various forms of conflict. This article will examine some of these instances and discuss how the military religious orders saw their role in the West, asking whether the military religious orders’ role in “worldly” conflict was much more fundamental to their overall activity than previous studies suggest. The subject of religious orders’ involvement in secular warfare calls into question the division between the ecclesiastical and secular realms and how far these were divided in practice during the later Middle Ages; the relationship between the religious orders and wider society; and the difference between canonical theory and practice. However, before proceeding into detailed discussion, it will be useful to set out how these Christian institutions were founded, and to investigate their original purpose.

The military religious orders first appeared in the city of Jerusalem in the early twelfth century, in the wake of the conquests of the First Crusade. Their members took life-time monastic vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, combining permanent religious vows and military activity within their religious vocation.

A VIAL OF CHRIST'S BLOOD, the Holy Blood, is kept in the cathedral in Bruges. It is the focus of an annual procession each Ascension Day which brings together the local aristocracy, civic guilds and ecclesiastical community. The first reliable record of the Holy Blood's material presence in Bruges dates from 1250. The Bruges Confraternity of the Holy Blood was formed in 1400 and has continuous records dating back to 1441. The President of the current Confraternity expresses the view that ‘we don't know the DNA of the Holy blood, but the DNA of the Holy blood is in all the citizens of Bruges’. The relic is a part of local identity, and the procession links relic, historical town and present-day citizens by creating communality on the streets, but also by representing the history of the community in the final part of the procession, after the biblical narrative. The annual sequence of processions was interrupted during the period of the Calvinist Republic, the French Revolution and both World Wars, but has proved remarkably tenacious despite dissent from the secular left.

The so-called ‘Fetternear Banner’, preserved in the National Museum of Scotland (see Figure 3.1), is a remarkable survivor connected with another confraternity and procession dedicated to the Holy Blood which was suppressed by Calvinist reformers, never to be revived. This Confraternity of the Holy Blood, founded sometime in the fifteenth century, was based in St Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh. In the following pages, I shall link the persistent iconographic schemae associated with devotion to the Holy Blood, their didactic and meditative organization, with the impulse to devotional discipline which presents itself as a preoccupation in the point of view of one of the Fetternear banner's apparent patrons.

The Fetternear banner has three coats of arms on it, and space for a fourth. One of these is that of one who was both aristocratic and in holy orders, the poet Gavin Douglas. The arms are surmounted by a mitre, dating the banner to the period 1515–22 when Douglas was bishop of Dunkeld, but he also held the Provostship of St Giles from 1503 to 1521, a period when he was reputedly more in Edinburgh than in his bishopric.

Agriculture has been the most important economic activity and socially structuring force around the world until very recently – and it still is for many people. While the ratio of urban residents is constantly rising in Africa, 63.9 per cent of its population were still living in rural areas as recently as 2011. However, neat statistical divisions into urban and rural areas, agricultural and non-agricultural occupations do not capture the much more intertwined reality of African labour relations. Today and throughout history, households have adopted diversified livelihood strategies combining food production and the selling of agricultural surpluses with non-farming activities, which are becoming increasingly important. However, compared to other regions of the world, agricultural work still looms large on the African continent.

Agricultural labour has not been at the core of conventional labour history, which was for a long time preoccupied with industrial and urban work, class formation and proletarianization. Agricultural history in its early variants focused on commercialization and colonialism, outlining how agricultural production and labour relations transformed under capitalism. Case studies showed how companies and colonial governments drove Africans towards producing particular cash crops, entangling peasantries in global networks of production and consumption under often disadvantageous terms of trade. On the other hand, important studies showed that African farmers were also active agents of commercialization and complicated existing models of agrarian capitalism, arguing, for instance, that accumulation and differentiation among farmers occurred unhindered by communal tenure or expectations of kin. In line with broader trends in African labour history, studies from about the 1980s and 1990s shifted away from the earlier structural focus towards asking how African producers experienced, shaped and resisted commercialization and colonial agricultural planning.

Some of the still-existing lacunae pertain to categories of dependent agricultural work, particularly agricultural wage labour, since historians have focused on peasants. Moreover, environmental historians have rightly deplored the lack of systematic engagement with ecological factors, as only a few studies address the ways in which agricultural labour has been shaped by climate, topography, soil quality or short-term events such as droughts or pests. Recently, global or transnational perspectives, also under the umbrella of Global Labour History (GLH), have opened up new research fields for the history of agricultural work, including transnational entanglements in terms of agricultural knowledge and technology.

[On “Front” Cover]

BEETHOVEN [presumably in his apartment in Mödling; writing later]: August, September. [//]

[Inside “Front” Cover]

BEETHOVEN [presumably Vienna, seemingly walking the streets, making notes to himself; early morning of Friday, August 25]:

No. 8 near Blöchlinger’s.

At Härter's on the Freyung: a notable new edition of old classics, inquire about the subscription, [edited] by Stuttgart scholars according to [Blatt 1r] the oldest, rarest editions. //

3 fl. 26 [kr.] at the Adler.

The sketches, as before, in 12-line [paper]. //

Mölkerbastey 95, apartment. [//] [Blatt 1v]

Mödling No. 8 is for sale.

[eventually stopping at a coffee house, possibly reading newspapers, making notes to himself, until accosted by an unidentified couple, Husband A and Wife B:]

HUSBAND A: No. 6 near the Bad. [//] Do you know that Fräulein Schulz married Baron Gudenus? // You must visit us in Döbling, since we have a very nice house, No. 199. We would be very happy to entertain you as an old, valuable friend. [//]

[Blatt 2r]

WIFE B: I even still sing and occasionally listen to music. //

HUSBAND A: Why don't you place your trust in Guldner any longer? He would so gladly take care of you! He has time enough for friends; you must constantly use solvents, and not absent yourself from society because of your hearing. People are always glad to see you! [//]

At the Apothecary’s. [Blatt 2v] Because the doctors don't know much, we must have recourse to [fresh] air, baths, exercise, and [mineral] waters. Do you drink [water from the] Kreutzbrunn?

Where is the handsome boy [Karl], whom you had here last year? [//]

WIFE B: Do you still remember the Meier [proprietor of the dairy shop]? And the Brigitten Au. [//]

HUSBAND A: Married, in the Solms’ [family]. [//]

Those were the happiest years, when a person did not have second thoughts; finally, though, everything comes out at the end. [//] [Blatt 3r]

Do you know that the Neapolitans, at the head of 6 regiments, have demanded the constitution? [//] It is official. [//]

Memory and introspection lay at the heart of the spiritual relationship between the clergy and laity in late medieval England, and this is best exemplified in confessional interrogation. In 1240, Walter de Cantilupe, bishop of Worcester, composed a Summula that counselled confessors on how to extract memories of sin from penitents. Later appended to the Statutes of Exeter in 1287, the tract interpreted biographical memory as a chronicle of past misdeeds. The penitent was instructed to ‘return to the beginning of his life how he had been born, reflecting on all the years of his life that he can remember, and what he did in what years and on what days’. Parish clergy with the cure of souls were ordered to hold a copy of the Summula, while those lacking a copy received a penalty of 1 mark. The Summula and similar treatises on virtues and vices embodied the Church's mounting interest in pastoral care, which intensified from the late twelfth century onwards. This programme gained formal confirmation in ecclesiastical councils and a raft of provincial and diocesan legislation, facilitating a growth in Latin and vernacular literature dedicated to pastoral duties.

This pastoral drive in the parishes coincided with the emergence of the ecclesiastical courts as a mechanism for detection and arbitration in medieval society. In theory and practice, the Church's pastoral and legal functions reflected similar concerns with the interior lives and moral behaviour of parishioners. As less rational forms of proof declined across Europe in the twelfth century, the more widespread use of witnesses generated written forms of evidence based on subjective depictions of past events. Canonists already familiar with traditions from Roman law produced an increasing body of work on the examination of witnesses. From the late twelfth century onwards, both proceduralists and decretal law explored and attempted to reconcile agreed methods of weighing the value of witness testimony. In common with the expansion of confessional practice, the ‘routine of interrogation’ provided the force behind these developments, fostering a novel emphasis on selfexamination among penitents and canonical witnesses alike. Theological teachings on conscience were framed in terms of its relationship to sin, while introspection in both penitential and legal terms was achieved through the remembrance of past behaviour.