It is my contention in this paper that Spenser's Muiopotmos is an allegory of the life and death of Sir Philip Sidney much like Astrophel. My reasons, in brief, are the following. The two poems tell fundamentally the same tale. The symbolical meaning of the butterfly is peculiarly suited to Sidney. The episode of Astery favors the supposition that it alludes to Stella. The departures from classical authority noticeable in the episode of Arachne combine to allegorize an important event in Sidney's life.

One of the allegorical motifs in the Vision of Piers Plowman which has often been specially noted on account of its boldness and picturesqueness is the description of Christ jousting against Satan upon the Cross clad in armor and embodying the chivalric virtues.

Dès 1843, J. -J. Ampère faisait honneur à Jean de Meun d'être le devancier ‘des érudits païens et matérialistes du XVIe siècle’; il voyait dans la seconde partie du Roman de la Rose l'origine d'une série d'œuvres où se remarquent les éléments d'une philosophie naturaliste, et il indiquait que, par un curieux mélange du sacré et du profane, cette philosophie se présente à l'aide d'images et de comparaisons suggérées par le rituel catholique. Nous nous proposons d'étudier d'abord cette utilisation de la liturgie chrétienne à des fins étrangères à celles de l'Eglise. Nous verrons ensuite comment le culte de la Nature s'accompagne de la glorification de l'homme, de l'éloge de la science, et de l'idée que la dignité humaine réside dans le travail et dans l'amour. Nous nous demanderons, enfin, dans quelle mesure le naturalisme du XVIe siècle se relie à la tradition médiévale.

Of all the commonplace antitheses of literary history none seems more solidly justified than that which opposes Descartes to Pascal. Critics, depending upon their prejudices, have taken sides with either Pascal or Descartes, with either religion or reason. Pascal, whose total view seems more comprehensive, has received the lion's share of favorable comment. To many, his wider awareness, allowing for reason and more-than-reason, makes Descartes appear insufficient and incomplete. The little religion in Descartes is seen chiefly as an excrescence, or a strategic back-tracking: Descartes, seeing the dangerous implications of his rationalism, attempts the always unhappy marriage of Faith and Reason, one he regards as at best a mariage de convenance. Pascal, on the other hand, with his divorce of Faith and Reason, is on “le véritable chemin.” In short, Descartes pays the lip-service to Religion which Pascal pays to Reason.

World Literature is a Notoriously Ambiguous Term. Since Goethe Began Referring to a Universal Weltliteratur IN 1827, the meaning of world literature has passed through many mutations, and, with the resurgence of interest in the term that followed David Damrosch's publication in 2003 of his provocative What Is World Literature?, it has generated a good deal of controversy. Although it appears to describe a type of literature or group of texts, world literature is more often used to designate a critical perspective. World literature is not so much a canon of works conceived to be globally or universally significant as an approach to literary criticism. What this critical approach entails, however, is often unclear and frequently freighted with cultural and sociopolitical assumptions that challenge the supposed openness of world literature. Most theorists agree that the notion of world literature invites exploration of the ways in which texts exceed national borders, but the relative status of national and international sociocultural frameworks remains highly contentious, as do critics' understandings of a text's “worldliness” and mode of circulation. As Franco Moretti famously asserts, world literature is “not an object, it's a problem”; it requires ongoing debate.

Much of the richness, as well as the fascination, of Rimbaud's art is due to the incongruities with which it is studded. These incongruities indicate a boyish sense of humor noticeable even in his treatment of serious subjects, imparting to them a certain cocasserie—a tough and sardonic humor indeed for a boy, but still a distinctive quality, savored by many. Like Hamlet, Arthur Rimbaud was given to madness, half feigned, half tragically-true, and his peevish jokes are of the same kind as those of that other embittered youth. These surprises also serve to color his descriptive poems, in verse and in prose, and in fact they may be thought to arise necessarily in the poetic process consciously cultivated by Rimbaud the voyant, who was not afraid to force his senses out of focus as a means of gaining access to the paradise of pure truth.

For well nigh a century and three-quarters the authorship of The Taming of the Shrew has been a Shaksperian problem; Warburton was apparently the first to question that it was the work of a single author. According to him The Shrew represents the work of Shakspere to the extent “that he has, here and there, corrected the dialogue, and now and then added a Scene.” This view was held by Steevens, who believed, however, that Shakspere's hand was visible in almost every scene, particularly in those scenes between tamer and shrew. In 1857 Grant White proposed the theory of dual composition: a collaborator supplied the love element of the underplot, whereas to Shakspere belonged “the strong, clear characterization, the delicious humor, and the rich verbal coloring of the recast Induction, and all the scenes in which Katharine and Petruchio and Grumio are the prominent figures, together with the general effect produced by scattering lines and words and phrases here and there, and removing others elsewhere throughout the rest of the play.” In general, White's theory has prevailed down to the present day; it was supported by that industrious student, Fleay, and Professor A. H. Tolman. On the other hand, not a few writers, on aesthetic or general grounds, have voiced the opinion that Shakspere worked unaided: notable among these is Miss Charlotte Porter. It is the purpose of the present study, by undertaking a more systematic investigation, to show that Shakspere is responsible for the entire play.

In 1963 J. N. Hook, the first Coordinator for Project English in the United States Office of Education, reviewed briefly the growth and current status of Project English for the profession (“Project English: The First Year,” PMLA, lxxviii, September 1963, Part 2, 33–36). In 1964 Erwin R. Steinberg, the second Coordinator, reported at length to the profession on the history and prospects for research in English funded by the Office of Education (“Research on the Teaching of English Under Project English,” PMLA, lxxix, September 1964, Part 2, 50–76). He incorporated into his account summaries of the current status of each Curriculum Study Center, prepared by the Directors of the Centers themselves.

As their schools reopen this year after the summer vacation, about 7,000,000 Japanese children from 12 to 18 years old are spending five hours a week studying English. They are taught by some 85,000 teachers, few of whom have ever heard the language spoken by a native—except, perhaps, over the radio. In the universities hundreds of thousands more are busy with their seventh, eighth, ninth, or tenth year of English. In large cities tens of thousands of clerks and secretaries, waitresses and salesgirls, bankers and government employees of all ages go several evenings a week to commercial schools to learn English conversation and business correspondence. Many of these are among several hundred thousand listeners to radio English courses. At newsstands and bookstores, on streetcars and buses, electric trains and subways, thousands more are poring over magazines with English articles, movie scenarios and jokes; over grammar books whose chapter headings, such as “Elliptical Negation” and “Concessive Clause,” suggest their contents; over cram books, word lists and sample examinations. For high schools follow the lead of universities in making English grammar and translation a part of the rigorous ordeal called shiken jigoku, or “examination hell,” a stiffly competitive process of admission. And ever more business firms are requiring job applicants to take English tests.

“Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murther!” Is there anything more in this phrase than meets the casual eye? Though the skull and jaw-bone of Hamlet's brooding comment are without doubt human, it has been suggested by no less an authority than the late Professor Skeat that here is an allusion to an old tradition according to which Cain killed Abel with the jaw-bone of an ass. The suggestion might seem almost fantastic were it not for several corroborative circumstances: namely, that the tradition was English; that it was wide-spread and familiar; that it found a place in the mystery plays; and that Shakspere was not unaccustomed to making allusions to the primitive and cruder art of the religious drama.

For an admirer of Coleridge's literary criticism it is most unsettling and mortifying to observe that the scholars who have questioned his reputation, though they have been in the minority, are among the most distinguished students of literature in our time. Sometimes, it is true, this distinction has come in Wordsworth studies, which often produce not only the inevitable study of Wordsworth's friendly association with Coleridge but also an unconsciously partisan defence of Wordsworth against the criticism in Biographia Literaria. In other cases one assumes that these doubters of Coleridge's fame have been annoyed by the uncritical and sanctimonious chorus in his praise, and wish to work back toward a more balanced judgment. Yet when Mr. Lucas—to take the most explicit and severe critic for a first instance—ridicules a few selected absurdities of Coleridge without acknowledging his profundities, one does not get the impression of balanced literary criticism but of urbane and deadly satire. Such absurdities as he quotes are numerous enough in Coleridge, no doubt; one might even agree that many of them are not exceptional, but characteristic. But we do not judge Shakespeare by Titus Andronicus or Wordsworth by The Excursion or Keats by Endymion. Even if we consider the whole mind of a great man as the background of his genius, we judge him ultimately only by the genius itself, which can never be more than part of his mind. Surely this is more necessary with Coleridge than with almost any other writer whom one could name, for his ill-health, unhappiness, and slavery to opium, and the instability of his temperament, all clouded his genius so much that it is easier to see the clouds than the light. Students who have collected fragments never intended for publication have given only too ample a field of choice for those who wish to illustrate the dullness or the nonsense of Coleridge's prose, but these students have presumably worked for other students, who wish material for complete historical information. As a finished and sensitive historical student of English and classical literature, Mr. Lucas is surely as fully qualified to select for praise as for blame, though he limits himself to the latter. The illustrations which he so deftly and plausibly presents of “the art of sinking” in criticism might well be matched by similar bits from the poetry, which Mr. Lucas, like Mr. Garrod, praises at the expense of Coleridge's criticism. Yet neither he, nor any one else, has ever offered the poorer poems as a proof that The Ancient Mariner has no excellence.

That numerous commentators on Paradise Lost have been repelled by the presentation of the Father in Book III is common knowledge. The objections raised have been voiced variously, ranging from Mark Van Doren's flat statement that Milton's God is a “dull dictator” to G. Wilson Knight's persuasion that sulphur is more appropriate to the poet's Heaven than ambrosia. Behind these and similar statements stands the opinion that Milton's defense of the ways of God to man is, as Sir Herbert Grierson put it, “too purely legal.”.

In one of his most stimulating discussions Ortega y Gasset declares that the function of the critic is neither to defend nor to attack, but to understand. In this sense the critic, he says, actually interprets and completes the work of the author so that the public can better understand him.

This study is of the position of Thomas Dekker in a literary genre, prison literature, which comprises descriptions in prose works, poems, and plays, of one or more of London's fourteen prisons. The study seeks to establish the canon, chronology, and significance of Dekker's contributions to this literature, and, at the same time, it undertakes to overcome the absence, in literary and social history, of an examination of penal writings published during the reign of James I of England. The genre first flourished in the Jacobean period, and Thomas Dekker was its earliest principal writer. He wrote or collaborated upon about half of the entire output of Jacobean prison works; he composed all of his prison writings, with the possible exception of one, throughout the course of more than twenty years; and he cast the material into the four literary types of which this genre is composed: rogue exposures, dramatic settings, reformatory essays, and “characters.”

One of the most important literary manifestations of that direct interest in the Near East which travellers and travel books created, appears in English prose fiction of the early nineteenth century. The prose fiction thus supplements the Near East poetry of Byron, Moore, Southey, and numerous minor versifiers as well as the travel books themselves, which may be considered a kind of minor literature. Throughout the first half of the eighteenth century English readers had shown considerable interest in the Near East, particularly in the oriental tale; yet this interest was almost wholly indirect—the product of French accounts or French translations of the Arabian Nights. It was not until the last quarter of the century that new developments brought “the Orient much nearer to England than ever before … In letters, this modern spirit was first expressed by the increased number of travelers' accounts.”

The nearer the knights of Arthur's Court approach the Grail, the more illusive and intangible the holy vessel appears. In Sir Percivale's own words:

“Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself
And touch it, it will crumble into dust.“

Thus one might say the Grail symbolizes in its evasiveness the problem of its own origin. For if its source is still to be sought, this is largely because the problem involved so easily eludes one's grasp. The difficulty is to fix the eye on the main issue, to the exclusion of secondary considerations. The Grail stories have been classed as Perceval and Galaad forms, as those in which a quest is the burden of the tale, as those in which it is the history of the sacred vessel itself.

The English poem Widsith (composed in the 7th century) contains two passages (v. 116 and v. 119 ff.) that refer to stories known to us also from the Icelandic Hervararsaga. The present paper is primarily an attempt to determine the form and relationship of these stories as the Widsith poet knew them. Any such attempt, however, necessarily involves an examination of the Hervararsaga. This saga has been much studied, but never investigated with the Widsith primarily in mind. Even R. W. Chambers, in his monumental edition of Widsith, relegates to a few footnotes his comments on the relation of the English poem to the Icelandic saga. That there is much to be said, the length of the present paper will suffice to demonstrate! It is my hope, moreover, that my discussion will serve likewise to clear up some of the obscurities of the saga.

It seems to be a widely accepted opinion that the words father (<OE fæder) and rather (OE rather <*hrathor) have had an identical historical development since ME. Both words occur in the questionnaire of the Linguistic Atlas of the United States and Canada. Both have been recorded regularly with rather placed in two entirely different contexts—“I'd rather go” and “rather cold.” The more than 400 records of the Atlas reveal conditions in present-day dialect. We shall try to establish, by comparing the vowel qualities as recorded in father and rather, whether the theories of the scholars are confirmed or not.

Henry porter and his one extant play, The Two Angrie Women of Abingdon, are included in nearly all the catalogues of dramatists since 1600, but none of them give us any information about the man, although Francis Meres in 1598 mentioned him along with Shakespeare as “the best for comedy amongst us,” and critics since that time have compared the Two Angrie Women not unfavorably with Shakespeare's early comedies. The popularity of Porter's plays may be inferred from the fact that he appears no less than twenty-four times between 1596 and 1599 in Henslowe's accounts with the Admiral's Men. The extent of his dramatic work is not accurately determined, but five plays are credited to him alone or to him in collaboration with Chettle or Ben Jonson.