But who shall parcel out
His intellect by geometric rules,
Split like a province into round and square?
Who knows the individual hour in which
His habits were first sown, even as a seed?
Who that shall point as with a wand and say
“That portion of the river of my mind
Came from that fountain?“ (The Prelude, II, 203ff).

To what extent, it may profitably be asked, did German literature exert an influence, direct or indirect, upon the life and writings of Wordsworth?

The problem offered by Count Leo Tolstoy to the world has not been advanced appreciably nor has a definite soluio been offered during the past years. Large numbers of hitherto unknown articles and stories have been brought to light. Nearly every person connected with the great writer during his last years has published memoirs and reminiscences. Nevertheless the serious question as to the nature of the real greatness of the man is still unanswered and no one has attempted a synthesis of the various views held about him.

Realism in Howells's A Hazard of New Fortunes is a process of imagining and managing the threat of social change identified with urban life in late nineteenth-century American culture. As a narrative of settlement, it seeks to establish a knowable community and to control a foreign and unreal territory. The strategies for representing the city are generated in an introductory scene in which the main characters look for an apartment. The narrative progresses through an escalating struggle between conflicting trajectories in realism—coherence and fragmentation, containment and excess—that explode in the pivotal streetcar strike. The novel ends with the impossibility of closure, at the limits of Howells's theory of realism.

A solution to the mystery of Pearl must meet certain tests if it is to answer the questions: What is typified by the jewel and the jewel-maiden, and how are they related? What is the symbolic import of the story? Specifically, as J. P. Oakden has indicated, the gem must stand for something which the poet could represent as a pearl and at the same time as a maiden who had died in infancy and had been redeemed by Christ. Further, says Oakden, it must signify something that the poet (or his protagonist speaking in the first person) “lost, mourned, and could recover through the grace of God, strengthened by partaking of the Blessed Sacrament.”

A writer in The Annual Register, soon after the death of Charles Churchill, gave to the world the first account of his life; this was followed by The Genuine Memoirs of Mr. Charles Churchill. To Bell's edition of the poet's works is prefixed a life of the author by Doctor Johnson; this does not add anything new. Kippis, in his Biographia Britannica, followed most of the inaccuracies of the first biographer, but added some new material from his personal information. Anderson used these sources in the British Poets (1795). Robert Southey in his Life of Cowper, and William Tooke in an edition of Churchill's Works (1804) made more elaborate studies of the poet's life, but, unfortunately, were satisfied with earlier biographies or neglected to give careful references to original material. John Forster, in The Edinburgh Review (1845) pointed out many of Tooke's inaccuracies. Every biographer of Churchill from Chalmers in his English Poets to Leslie Stephen in The Dictionary of National Biography, followed Tooke, or Tooke modified by Forster. In 1903, R. F. Scott in his Admissions to the College of St. John the Evangelist in the University of Cambridge, made several valuable contributions to our knowledge about the early career of the satirist. Ferdinand Putschi, in Charles Churchill, sein Leben und seine Werke (1909), had not seen Mr. Scott's book, and followed the earlier biographers.

Few readers of Hudibras have escaped the fascination of trying to identify the characters in the poem. Yet after two hundred and fifty years, during which readers have wondered and scholars have pondered, we are little nearer the goal. We do not even know whether Butler intended his titular hero to be the satiric portrait of a particular Puritan or the personified picture of a type.

In his edition of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth Ernest DeSelincourt published for the first time over thirty poems of Wordsworth's juvenilia.1 Among these he discovered three poems previously thought to be the work of Coleridge and long published under his name. In The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge,2 these poems are entitled “Lewti, or the Circassian Love-Chaunt” (I, 253), “Inscription for a Seat by the Road Side” (I, 349), and “Alcaeus to Sappho” (I, 353). Since the publication of Wordsworth's juvenilia, I have found three more poems in the works of Coleridge which DeSelincourt failed to note as also originally belonging to Wordsworth: “To Lesbia” (I, 60), “The Death of the Starling” (I, 61), and “Morienti Superstes” (I, 62); besides these, a conjecture may be made as to the authorship of a fourth, “Moriens Superstiti” (I, 61), for it is paired with a poem clearly belonging to Wordsworth.

The Little Boy lost
Father, father, where are you going
O do not walk so fast.
Speak father, speak to your little boy
Or else I shall be lost,
The night was dark no father was there
The child was wet with dew.
The mire was deep, & the child did weep
And away the vapour flew.

The Little Boy found
The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wand'ring light,
Began to cry, but God ever nigh,
Appeard like his father in white.
He kissed the child & by the hand led
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale
Her little boy weeping sought.

In William Blake's Songs of Innocence appear two tiny, apparently simple poems that have, until recently, attracted relatively little critical attention. Some critics have ignored “The Little Boy lost,” and “The Little Boy found” entirely; others have treated them as relatively insignificant examples of innocence preserved.Several critics are clearly puzzled by the poems: Joseph Wicksteed, for example, finds the disappearance of the vapour in “The Little Boy lost” both mysterious and ultimately inexplicable (pp. 46–47), whereas E. D. Hirsch, Jr., has more recently admitted that the “best symbolic interpretation” of these two poems is “not characteristic of the Songs of Innocence.” Only one critic, Robert Gleckner, has argued for their importance in the Songs of Innocence, but Gleckner has perhaps gone too far in attempting to elevate them to the status of key poems in the Songs of Innocence.

To have been elected to the presidency of this great Association of men and women of good will, of knowledge, talent, and rare discrimination, constituting what is probably the biggest congeries of first-class brains in this country, is the crowning honor of any teacher's career and an awe-inspiring experience. Your president for 1960, as he prepares to vanish into oblivion after his one address in sovereign capacity, first wishes to express his gratitude to those who selected him, and his apologies for the pretentious title announced. In this country, from the beginning and throughout her entire history, action has prevailed. Yet the nation has never showed much aversion for words. Politicians, preachers, college presidents, generals, men of affairs spreading relaxation through warmed up after-dinner anecdotes, members of those faculty committees to whom, in these days of trial and error and perseverance in error, the Almighty seems to have relinquished the running of the world, all indulge their propensity for eloquence. Those whom Homer might have called the shepherds of people, in Moscow and Havana and equatorial Africa, strike back at our garrulous nation with massive retaliation. Torrents of words may flow in the sumptuous hotels where our Association once a year congregates late in December (just before the inebriating vigil through which we shall pray for a virgin year to wash out our unfulfilled promises and our harrowing regrets over unwritten articles). But your President is severely restrained by the petrifying gaze of the Executive Secretary, and prevented by tradition from falling back upon the worthiest of all themes for any academic address: the eulogy of his predecessor. His predecessor, whose steel whip sheathed in velvety skin had long guided this Association, is comfortably assured of immortality as it is. An in domitable Samson Agonistes whom no Delilah or Pamela can ever betray, he hardly needs our words of gratitude, however deeply felt, to pursue his wrestling, in Washington, with the “innumerable force of spirits armed / that durst dislike” the power of foreign languages in the dubious battle now raging on our planet.

In British Museum Addit. MS. 34360 on folio 22 occurs one stanza of rime royal entitled “The question of halsam.” It is smooth in meter, well-balanced in thought, and practically perfect in stanza form, comparing very favorably in these respects with other minor lyrics of the early fifteenth century. The popularity of this poem is attested by its presence in many manuscripts of that century and by the fact that Caxton printed it together with a second seven-line stanza also ascribed to Halsham. Both of these lyrics are found in Bodley 3896, f. 195a (MS. Fairfax 16), which affords not only the earliest, but the most authentic text of these pieces:

The worlde so wide / thaire so remuable
The sely man / so litel of stature
The grove and grounde / of clothinge so mutable
The fire so hoote / and subtil of nature
The water neuer in oon / what creature
That made is of these foure / thus flyttyng
May stedfast be as here / in his lyving

The more I goo / the ferther I am behinde
The ferther behinde / the ner my wayes ende
The more I seche / þe worse kan I fynde
The lighter leve / the lother for to wende
The bet y serve / the more al out of mynde
Is thys ffortune not I / or infortune
Though I go lowse / tyed am I with a Lune

In 1988, in the midst of the often acrimonious debates about the North American Free Trade Agreement, a button began to appear on Canadian lapels. It featured a section of the Stars and Stripes with a red maple leaf in the place of one star, and a caption read, “No, eh.” Through this image, the anti-free-trade side offered parodic resistance to what it saw as the assimilation—not to say wholesale economic engulfing—of Canada by the United States. Typically self-deprecatory, Canadian humor demanded that the rejection be couched in a gentle mocking of the national verbal tic: eh? is the terser but less elegant Canadian version of the French n'est-ce pas? and the German nicht wahr? In some ways the intellectual equivalent of NAFTA, the MLA is much older than the economic institution and somewhat less controversial. Nevertheless, it too is not unproblematic for Canadians, and to see why and how, one needs to understand something of the political and cultural relations between a very small and a very large nation when they adjoin.

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?

German lexicographers are practically unanimous in deriving Kartaune, together with its variant Kartauwe, from an Italian word quartana, interpreted to mean either ‘a gun of the fourth magnitude’ or one ‘which shoots a ball of 25 pounds.‘ Kluge, for example, says:

The original manuscript of this poem is preserved in Hanover, and over it is written, in Goethe's hand: “For the 17th of September, 1826.” This date Goethe crossed out, writing in its place: “ September 25, 1826.” It was printed during his lifetime, without title, at the end of Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre, published in 1829, and is followed by the words in parenthesis, “ Ist fortzusetzen.” Only after Goethe's death, in the Cotta edition of 1833, appears the usual title, “Bei Betrachtung von Schillers Schädel,” doubtless added by Eckermann. Nearly all texts, with the notable exception of the Weimar edition, repeat this title. The Jubilee edition has the heading, “Schillers Reliquien.”

The duodecimo volume which is known in the British Museum as Additional MS 10,309 comprises 155 folio sheets, closely written on both sides. It is completely filled with written matter, all in the same hand but showing the gradual variation in handwriting that would normally occur in one person with the passage of time. That the filling of the book took several years, is made more apparent by the wide range of interests shown in its contents.

Just a few days after Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick's death last April 12, I received an e-mail from Lee Edelman. “I sometimes think,” he wrote, “that Eve was the only person who really thought this day would come.” Lee's “really” resonates with a talk Eve gave a decade ago. I don't recall that she shared it with me at the time she wrote it, or I may have forgotten, not wanting to take in what she was saying. The piece was made available to me as Eve's literary executor, a task I agreed to several years ago in something of the same state of mind: not wanting to accept what I knew I was agreeing to, not wanting to believe what Eve realized would come. I'm aiming now to put together a volume of Eve's writing that represents her work since Touching Feeling appeared in 2003. Thanks to David Kosofsky, I have on one of those mass storage devices the contents of Eve's computers; there I found “Reality and Realization,” the 1999 talk to which I refer. It was “learning that a cancer I had thought was in remission had in fact become incurable,” Eve wrote, that made “inescapably vivid in repeated mental shuttle-passes the considerable distance between knowing that one will die and realizing it.” Just this shuttle, I would suggest, colors much of the work Eve was doing toward the book on Proust she was writing in the last several years.

If disability studies is often overlooked at universities today, cognitive disability is often overlooked by scholars in disability studies. How should we think and talk about mental difference? Our academic enterprise privileges intellect, as is appropriate. But how should we properly account for human beings who are intellectually disabled? How does mental disability relate to other disabilities or to more familiar identity categories like race and gender? Perhaps no one illustrates these questions better than an intriguing figure who captivated audiences in nineteenth-century America: Thomas Wiggins, also known as Thomas Bethune but most popularly known as Blind Tom.