Through the gracious courtesy of the Hungarian authorities I have been permitted to seek for Slavonic material in the Royal Hungarian National Museum. I was gratified to find that owing to a millennium of close contacts between the Magyar and the Slav, Budapest contains much interesting material. During this search I was fortunate enough to come upon the unpublished manuscript which is here reproduced. It was found by itself and was not a part of any collection. For purposes of identification I suggest calling it Slovak Manuscript M.M.C.

In confuting Schlegel's ideas on the rôle of the chorus in Greek tragedy, Nietzsche said that he believed in an aesthetic audience and thought the single spectator to be the more capable, the more he was able to take the work of art as art, namely aesthetically. Some forty years thereafter modern drama felt called upon to awaken the spectator from his “illusionist period”—as if there had been any danger that, again in Nietzsche's words, the ideal spectator might rush onto the stage to free the God from his torment. Yet to prevent this once and for all seems to have been one of the foremost axioms of the Expressionist and kindred revolts of the first decade of this century.

The proceedings somehow opened. The talking and laughing and shuffling suddenly subsided … a figure rose; she took her way from among us; she mounted a platform; she spoke for precisely five minutes; she descended. Directly she sat down another rose; mounted the platform; spoke for precisely five minutes and descended; then a third rose; then a fourth—and so it went on, speaker following speaker, one from the right, one from the left, one from the middle, one from the background—each took her way to the stand, said what she had to say, and gave place to her successor. … They were like marksmen, I thought, standing up in turn with rifle raised to aim at a target. Sometimes they missed, and there was a roar of laughter; sometimes they hit, and there was a roar of applause. (Woolf 229)

The degree of Hemingway's frequently confessed debt to Stendhal as master and model is best seen in his adoption of The Charterhouse of Parma as the matrix of A Farewell to Arms. His use of Stendhal's novel is consistent with his esthetic practice of finding imaginative models to extend the meaning of autobiographical experience. He employed the battle and retreat experiences of Fabrizio at Waterloo as the paradigm of Frederic's experience during the Caporetto retreat. Both protagonists play the roles of outsiders in their armies, endure the suspicions of others, leave their retreating columns and seek survival in smaller groups, desert their routed armies, seek refuge in Switzerland, and later attempt to understand through reading and reflection the changes worked in them by their experiences in the debacles. Hemingway also followed Stendhal's lead in depicting the way in which language becomes a casualty of military catastrophe. In his larger development Frederic builds on the example of Fabrizio, changing from a man initially unable to love because he has no religious belief to one who loves and believes passionately and finds his destiny in his identity as a believer.

Les trois points de vue qui seront successivement adoptés peuvent être considérés comme dérivés des trois mots du titre de la pièce. L'examen de la mythologie est dicté par le mot “Godot.” En attendant Godot, les personnages parlent; nous examinerons le statut de leur langage. Les résultats négatifs obtenus au cours de ces deux premières démarches dévoilent ce qui reste positif dans le sens de la pièce: l'attente. Les numéros entre parenthèses dans la suite de Particle renvoient aux pages de En attendant Godot (Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1952).

This curious product of mediævalism, translated from some Latin treatise by an unknown hand in the latter half of the fifteenth century, carries symbolism to its last stage. It is interesting as showing how the preachers in the abbeys and cathedrals of England found, on occasion, “sermons in stones.” It would seem as if Longfellow must have read this poem; for a part of his Golden Legend, the close of Friar Cuthbert's sermon, is an accurate reproduction of the spirit of this piece.

No better “optical symbol” can be found for one aspect of Henry James than the photograph taken in 1906 showing him in top hat, cane and gloves in hand, bending slightly forward in the classic Daumier pose, taking in impressions of a painting. This is a portrait, however, not merely of the occasional James— the art critic, friend and befriender of painters, biographer of a sculptor—but also of the essential James—the master of the art of fiction. That his love of pictures and familiarity with the studio world were grist to his mill is evident in stories and novels such as “The Madonna of the Future” and The Tragic Muse in which his depiction of the artist and exploration of aesthetic questions are thematically central. Reflecting his experience of art less obviously but more significantly are the pictorial effects and art allusions permeating his fiction, both early and late. For though James was first and foremost a literary artist preoccupied with the problems of his own craft, his responsiveness to the visual arts was so keen, was so much an integral part of his consciousness, that it inevitably made itself felt in his literary technique. Clearly, a study of the pictorial aspects of his fiction is justified for the light it may cast on his method as well as on individual works.

The visitor to Karl Marx's Grave in London's highgate cemetery is confronted by a large polished granite plinth, atop which squats an imposing bronze head and shoulders of Marx. Although the artist Laurence Bradshaw designed the rectangular plinth as a proxy for Marx's body, the effect is still to emphasize the head, the supposed locus of Geist, esprit, intellect. Marx was a headworker, it is true. Even in the depths of poverty, plagued by bodily ailments, he was never obliged to purvey körperliche Arbeit (“body work,” “manual labor”) in the restricted sense—that is, a körperliche Arbeit located in a social split that structurally denies the body worker access to the abstractions of a developed geistige Arbeit (“intellectual labor”).

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.

The centenary of the death of Arthur Hallam, noted in England by a leading article in The Times Literary Supplement (September 14, 1933) and in America by an exhibition of Hallam's works in the Yale University Library (January, 1934), served as a reminder not so much of what we know of the youth who was so important an influence on Tennyson as of what we do not know fully, a partial ignorance which results from the difficulty with which the study of Hallam is attended. The “lost” poem here reprinted after more than a century is lost only in the sense in which nearly half the printed poems of Hallam are unknown because they are missing from the editions commonly available. When Hallam died in 1833 in his twenty-third year, he left behind him one small and now very scarce volume, privately printed in 1830, and other poems and essays, some of which were collected by his father, Henry Hallam the historian, and privately issued as the Remains of 1834. Most of this material, also edited by Henry Hallam, was privately printed in 1853, and this volume is the basis of such subsequent collections of Arthur Hallam's work as have appeared.

1. In order to place our subject in a proper setting, let us note what moods were distinguished by representative grammarians of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The table below reproduces their terminology:

The year 1935, celebrating the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the birth of Bach, that great writer of a type of “program” music that for years was never suspected of being such, is an opportune time for a closer study of attempts made by literary men at criticizing and evaluating program music. Even for the great Bach there were no real “program notes” to suggest the attempts to portray definite stories and incidents in his organ chorales until Albert Schweitzer unearthed his clearcut attempts at writing program music, or music based upon facts or with a story. Bach seemed to feel that the music should actually tell the story without further use of words than those of the simple chorale tune he was developing.

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.

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.

This article reexamines the role of the folding fan in Mallarmé's poetics by placing the fan in the context of its history as an art form, its evolving significance in European and East Asian culture, and its practical materiality as a writing medium. The fan is uniquely important in Mallarmé's lifelong quest to challenge the standard written and print media and to transfigure the physical form of the book into a work of art fully implicated in its literary content. The fan is a flexible, hybrid medium that resolves Mallarmé's numerous and contradictory criteria for the ideal book. It is also a metaphor and an instrument of thought. The essay attempts, therefore, to think like and with Mallarmé: taking its cue from the fan, it unfolds the fan's material aspects and tropological incarnations until it reaches the butterfly, Mallarmé's choice symbol of poetic flight and evanescence.

In 1949, A. Norman Jeffares declared that, although Yeats's poetry “had reblossomed in The Wild Swans at Coole [1919] and Michael Robartes and the Dancer [1921], the flowering came with The Tower” [1928]. In 1954, Richard Ellmann called The Tower and The Winding Stair “the two finest volumes” of the period 1917–33. Today, this estimate is the generally accepted one: B. Rajan has recently written, “With The Tower and The Winding Stair, Yeats's writing comes fully into its strength and words respond completely to the poem's call to order. To say that Yeats was incapable of writing a bad poem during this phase is an exaggeration, but one within the limits of critical licence.”

The title of understudies, Mary Wilkins Freeman's 1901 short story collection, situates us in the realm of theater, of performance—the space where actors and their seconds together learn the grammars of verbal and visual representation.1 On the cover of Understudies, cameo portraits linked by garlands mimic the arrangement of actors' head shots on a playbill (fig. 1). But the profiles are those of a horse, a dog, a parrot, a monkey, a squirrel, and a cat. Freeman's book displays on its face the art of representing animals and humans—and animals as humans. And her title articulates a distinctly turn-of-the-century (if still unresolved) question: who are the understudies and who are the leads—animals or humans?