Alfred's royal anointing by Leo IV has long been one of the puzzles of Alfredian scholarship. Despite the ingenuity of the greatest Anglo-Saxon specialists, no really satisfactory explanation has yet been given of the strange story retailed by the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle under the year 853, and repeated in Latin translation by Asser in his Vita Alfredi. Such near-contemporary evidence demands careful attention, especially since it has important implications for the authorship of the Chronicle itself.

The Christian ministry of bishops, priests and deacons is essentially an urban one. It developed in the two generations after the fall of Jerusalem when the Church, though practically destroyed in Palestine, emerged as a religious and cultural force among the synagogues of the Dispersion. These were predominantly urban communities, and their organisation had developed accordingly. Except, however, for the final phase in Jerusalem, Jesus's message had been directed almost exclusively to the inhabitants of rural Palestine. The Greek cities he had passed by: he had preached in the territory of Caesarea Philippi, but not in Caesarea itself (cf. Mk. viii. 27) and the illustrations for his parables were drawn from the daily life of the Palestinian countryside. In this paper I propose to trace briefly how this message ultimately penetrated the countryside of the Graeco-Roman world and beyond, and to suggest how its inhabitants, finding the plain words of Jesus's teaching more intelligible than the philosophic commentaries of the urban Christians, may have played their part in shaping the development of thought and doctrine in the early Church.

In 1927 Dom Berlière published a series of articles in the Revue Bénédictine entitled ‘L”exercise du ministere paroissial par les moines dans le haut moyen-age’. These give a careful, analytical survey of the evidence for the performance of pastoral work by monks from the fourth to the fourteenth centuries. In a period so long treatment was necessarily brief: and there is room for amplification of many of the topics he discussed.

Every student of plainsong in the later Middle Ages and the sixteenth century is bound sooner or later to come up against problems of terminology. Some of the more puzzling ones are those connected with the practice of alternatim. It is not easy in every case to determine whether a writer is speaking of the organ or of a group of polyphonic singers when he mentions sections alternating with the plainsong.

The relations of England with the Curia in the thirteenth century is hardly a subject neglected by historians. From A. L. Smith to C. H. Lawrence stretches a long line of scholars who have been concerned during the last sixty years or so with the impact of papal authority on this country in that century. Meanwhile, on the continent, the vast output of studies on papal doctrine and curial machinery elucidate the particular question of England's links with Rome. When so much has been written, and where so many experts are in the room, it is temerarious to say more. I do not intend to present a startling new view of Anglo-papal relations in the time of Innocent III. My object is much more modest. For the last few years Mrs. Cheney and I have been tracing as much as possible of the correspondence between the Roman Curia and England during that pontificate, 1198–1216. All I want to do is to offer a few facts and figures and reflexions which come from our search.

Archbishop Matthew Parker's claim to a place of respect in the estimation of posterity is as nearly secure as could be hoped for by any historical figure. This secure position is based primarily upon his implementation of the Elizabethan Settlement, his scholarship, his conveyance of an impression of mildness in an age not especially notable for its tolerance, and, finally, his efficiency as an administrator. As archbishop of Canterbury he had many functions and duties of national importance. He was royal advisor, president of the Convocation of the Clergy, visitor of Oxford Colleges, gaoler of deprived bishops, host to foreign dignitaries, sede vacante ordinary (i.e. temporary acting bishop in sees which fell vacant), one of the Queen's Commissioners in Causes Ecclesiastical, etc.

In 1620, twenty-two years after his death, Thomas Stapleton received the tribute hoped for, I suppose, by many, if not all professors. Four of his friends collected together his works and published them. His Opera Omnia fill four folio volumes: translation, controversy, the fruit of his years of lecturing worked over and set out in lengthy, ordered dissertations, history, biography, moral instruction, panegyric, speeches made on academic occasions, commentaries on the Sunday, feast-day and Lenten gospels. The whole was prefaced by a life of the author written in Latin verse by Henry Holland. The best preserved and best cared-for copy is to be found in Lambeth Palace library.

The subject of the present paper is only seemingly a national German development—it has, in fact, to do with the universal situation of the Christian Church in modern times. The question of mysticism runs through almost all denominations. The imposing French Roman Catholic Dictionnaire de spiritualité ascétique et mystique shows it in every column. We know how important a contribution to Christian preaching and devotional literature was made by the early Greek and Oriental monks, like Ephraem Syrus, Johannes Klimakos and others, how fundamental and lasting theological concepts were developed on mystical lines by Clement of Alexandria and Dionysius the Areopagite, by Bernard of Clairvaux, by the Victorine School, by Richard Rolle of Hampole. The mystical impact of the devotio moderna on Erasmus of Rotterdam was considerable. Luther praised, though with some reservations, John Tauler and the Theologia Germanica which he edited himself. In the Anglo-Catholic school of Lancelot Andrewes we find an original union of rational clearness and distinctiveness with mystical depth and personal feeling. The influence of Spanish mysticism was enormous in France, Germany, and also in England. Even John Wesley recommended throughout his whole life the biographies of Gregor Lopez of Mexico and of the French marquess de Renty, the disciple of Teresa of Avila, and was impressed by Henry Scougal, The Life of God in the Soul of Man and by Jeremy Taylor.

Père Lecler, in his survey of Toleration and the Reformation, concluded that ‘among all the countries that were divided by the Reformation … England comes last so far as tolerance is concerned. Even the simple freedom of conscience which was gradually extended to the whole of Europe, was constantly threatened in England by police inquiries’. With the exception of Spain, Italy and possibly Scotland, the English government was more successful and persistent in its attempts to enforce unity of religion than its counterparts. The explanations of this fact are probably largely political: in most European countries, the willingness to listen to tolerationist arguments was in proportion to the practical difficulty of suppressing dissenters. As Professor Owen Chadwick said, ‘Catholic France accepted the Edict of Nantes in 1598 … not because Catholic France affirmed toleration to be merely right, but because without the Edict France must be destroyed’. The victory of toleration was normally a victory of expediency over principle. Featly, for example, says that ‘toleration of different religions falleth in some respects, within the compass of the mysteries of State, which cannot be determined in the Schools, but are fittest to be debated at the Council table’.