Classical artifacts, particularly busts and statues, play an important part as image, symbol, plot element, or even character, in a large number of “Gothic” (i.e., romantic horror) contexts. Eighteenth-century neoclassicism provides “classically” serene artifacts to contrast with “Gothic” ones in, for instance, Poe and Hawthorne. But medieval tradition provides the Venus statue story, where the statue itself is the focus of Gothic horror, in Eichendorff, James, Merimee, Gautier, and others; this, especially in the subtler artist parables, is the key nineteenth-century usage. For the twentieth century, statues become “Dionysian,” classical yet fearful, as in Forster and Lagerkvist. More recently, statues represent a frivolous, melodramatic terror, or else mere emblematic pageantry. In contemporary poetry, however (Rilke, Plath, Seferis), the wheel has in a sense come full circle; classical statues are serious emblems of art and of the artist's obligation to put together the maimed and shattered fragments of a personal and “classical” tradition.

The virtues of L'Allegro are incorporated into II Penseroso, and both mirth and melancholy serve the progress of the soul. The activities of II Penseroso complement those of L'Allegro, but at each point they are nearer to the contemplation of God. The progress of the poems culminates in the final section of II Penseroso, which has no parallel in L'Allegro. This vertical structure encompasses image patterns that range from humor psychology to music, and from hermeticism to topology. These patterns are further organized into parallel thematic units. Chief among these are the education of a superior mind, the subordination of flesh to mind and of mind to spirit, the syncretic nature of Christian vision, and the progress of the mind and soul through the complementary disorders of black melancholy and vain deluding joy. The delights of L'Allegro are real and valued, but they cannot stand against the ecstasy of Christian contemplation.

In the voluminous literature which has arisen in connection with all possible aspects of Shakespeare's Hamlet, a respectable percentage is found to deal with the Ghost. The character, function, and antecedents of the Ghost, like those of the other dramatis personae, have been subjected to the most searching scrutiny and analysis. In particular, Shakespeare's use of a ghost rôle in Hamlet has been discussed in relationship to the evolution of the Senecan ghost in Elizabethan drama, and compared to other “revenge” ghosts of contemporary or earlier authors. In the light of the obvious relationship of the ghost rôle in Hamlet to that of the Senecan-Elizabethan stage ghost, no further pedigree has seemed necessary for the Ghost himself as a character in the play. This is the more understandable in that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, the scholars who have discussed the sources of Hamlet have been unanimous in stating or implying that no trace of the Ghost exists in any of the accepted sources of the play. With the general accuracy of these impressions regarding the genesis of the rôle there can be no quarrel. It should nevertheless interest and perhaps startle researchers and students in the field to learn that the ghost of Hamlet's father did “appear” in one of the accepted sources of the play, the Histoires tragiques of François de Belieforest.

The verse-epistle comprising all but a few sentences of the letter which Keats wrote to John Hamilton Reynolds on March 25, 1818, is a mixture of half-morbid jocularity and half-cynical seriousness. In lines 67–85 Keats tries to explain his strange mood by declaring that he feels the obligation to “philosophize” in poetry, does not yet “dare” to do so, fears that he never will be able to do so, and does not really wish to do so because “It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.” This conflict between “sensation” and “thought” is an old story to students of Keats. It has never been sufficiently emphasized, however, that in the concluding verse-paragraph what really “spoils the singing of the Nightingale” turns out to be not moral philosophy, but natural philosophy of so pessimistic a kind that it forbids any hope of harmonizing the sensuous love of beauty with a helpfully benevolistic view of the universe.

In one of the several accounts Théophile Gautier gave of the life and works of his friend Gérard de Nerval, he expatiated on the extraordinary modesty of the man. The tumult and turmoil of the age was destined to die down; the whisper of Nerval's voice has been echoed down the years, and has become sweet music. His poetical lineage has radiated in every direction, and constitutes the purest lyrical filiation of the century.

The parish of St. Giles without Cripplegate is a most important one in the history of the early English drama. Within its confines and some five minutes walk to the north of the parish church stood the Fortune theatre, whose ancient site is still marked by the Playhouse Yard running between Golden Lane and White-cross Street. There are Elizabethan aspects to the parish still. One cannot elbow his way through the grimy crowds of White-cross Street Market and hear the occasional “Buy, buy, buy!” and the commoner “They're love-ly! They're love-ly!” and watch the haggling over fish and peepshows and lace and panaceas without thinking of earlier days.

Swift's Project for the Advancement of Religion and the Reformation of Manners, though clear enough on the surface, has raised various questions as to its subtler meaning and its purpose. In the eighteenth century Thomas Sheridan asserted that this essay was in fact “a very strong, though covert attack, upon the power of the Whigs,” written to encourage Queen Anne to dispense with their services and to form a Tory ministry. That Swift had any such highly contrived political intent seems doubtful. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that he later cited the Project among other works as evidence that, even while associated with the Whigs, he had publicly expressed opposition to their lowchurch position. Another question raised is: to what extent, if at all, was Swift being satiric in the Project? Most contemporary scholars, like Herbert Davis and Ricardo Quintana, have viewed it as an entirely serious production in which little if any irony appears, but William B. Ewald feels that, to some degree, the author composed it with his tongue in his cheek. Finally, did Swift have a personal motive in publishing this work? We know that for some time before its appearance he had been endeavoring to obtain preferment. It also seems pretty clear that one obstacle to his advancement was the fact that he was known as the author of A Tale of a Tub. One may strongly suspect, therefore, that he hoped the Project would help to counteract the damaging effect on his reputation of the earlier work and prove that, besides being a wit who had dared to satirize religious institutions and practices, he was also a clergyman genuinely devoted to the welfare of church and state. If this was his motive, however, did he have any further reason for believing that his anonymously printed pamphlet might serve to advance his fortunes? Some light may be shed upon this point and upon others raised by the Project if we consider 1) certain influences that led Swift to write it, 2) the emphasis in the essay, and 3) his position at the time he composed it.

Like eyes that looked on Wastes—
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank—and steady Wilderness—
Diversified by Night—

Just Infinites of Nought—
As far as it could see—
So looked the face I looked upon—
So looked itself—on Me—

I offered it no Help— Because the Cause was Mine—
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless—as divine—

Neither—would be absolved—
Neither would be a Queen
Without the Other—Therefore—
We perish—tho' We reign—
—Emily Dickinson, poem 693

Herman Melville, Anne Carson, and Emily Dickinson. These authors' bits of language just claimed me as I stared at some books on my office shelf, and I'm not sure exactly what to make of these passages except that I like them. So I'm listing them for you. You might also like them. I like many things, and in no particular order. For instance, here's what I “liked” one day, not long ago, on Facebook: a picture of the word Puppies! scrawled on a sidewalk; a New York Times story about the disorganization of the bicentennial of the War of 1812 (that war has a huge, nearly comical significance in my adopted country of Canada—did you know that Canadians burned down the White House?); an audio clip of Justin Bieber, featuring Busta Rhymes, singing “Little Drummer Boy”; my friend and colleague Jordan Stein's “vegan homo Thanksgiving” photo album; a posting by my “friend” “Emily Dickinson”; numerous updates about and images of the November 2011 pepper spraying of protesting students on the University of California, Davis, campus. I could go on and on, which is probably one of the reasons I, and millions of others, go on and on Facebook. Disorderly is the right word, but the likes are not quite random. People have generated these items, these virtual objects of interest, for rapid public consumption and, with the ubiquity of the “Like” button, for rapid public response. They (we) put stuff out there in part because we're showing off our preferences, or if not our preferences (even though they will be acknowledged with our liking) then at least things that interest us and (we hope) others. It's hard to know exactly what liking something on Facebook means because a like is nearly the same thing as an acknowledgment, something that says, “Yes, I clicked on this item, and it did not displease me.” And often people complain in comments that they wish there were variations on the “Like” button (“I want to express my anger with this piece of information—I wish there were a ‘Hate’ button”). Whatever our motivations or the nature of our interest in what we curate for the world on Facebook, these objects for consumption often go under the heading of like; so, like it or not, we're reading for like—we're doing a little like reading.

Swift wrote brilliantly of the Dissenter, or Puritan, as revealed in the person of Jack, one of the three brothers in the Tale of a Tub, but there was a century of attack on the Puritans behind him. It is not the purpose of this paper to try to show that Swift was influenced by earlier writers. All that will be attempted is the analysis of the various themes of the attack on the Puritans in the Tale of a Tub, and a comparison of the results with those obtained from a similar analysis of the more prominent earlier satires of the Puritans. There may well have been various influences of earlier men on Swift, but, as has been said, this question will not be raised. The real contribution of Swift—what he alone thought and said about the Dissenters—will be more easily seen if we first eliminate the themes which had already been used. Of equal importance is the listing of the points Swift definitely avoided using or emphasizing but which the earlier men had delighted in employing.

The expressivness of the progressiv form of the English verb has attracted the attention of many foren grammarians, who briefly but with painstaking care hav endevord to analyze its force. Also more ambitious attempts hav been made to penetrate into its history and meaning. Pessels in his doctor's dissertation The Present and Past Perifrastic Tenses in Anglo-Saxon (1896) has patiently recorded the exampls of the construction in a large number of Old English works. Alfred Åkerlund in his On the History of the Definit Tenses in English (1911) has treated both the older and the modern fases of the development with considerabl penetration. Also a number of other scholars hav delt with different fases of the study or hav investigated the development in particular periods or particular sections of the English speaking territory. Several foren scholars hav studied the progressiv form in other Germanic languages and dialects. A brief treatment of the Gothic progressiv in Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie, vol. v, pp. 421-6, by Professor H. Gering is refreshingly suggestiv. In spite of this extensiv literature there remains much to be said, and this paper is offerd as a further contribution to the subject.

Under every great political, social, religious, and educational movement, there are found certain truths or principles that act as motive power. The movement may be very complex and varied in its manifestations, but the underlying truths or principles are generally clear and simple. The Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century, for example, with all the civil and ecclesiastical disturbances it brought about, was based on these two well-known principles: 1. Men are saved by faith alone; and 2. The Bible is the only rule of faith and practice in religion. The American Revolution, with all its multiplicity of events, was founded on the principle that taxation without representation is tyranny. Illustrations might be multiplied indefinitely; but the truth will hardly be questioned that great movements in society generally derive their impulse from one or more principles which admit of perspicuous statement.

Within the past few years several scholars have been attracted by a challenging passage from the “Preface to the following Hymns” in the second edition of Henry Vaughan's Silex Scintillans (1655): you will (peradventure) observe some passages, whose history or reason may seem something remote; but were they brought nearer, and plainly exposed to your view, (though that (perhaps) might quiet your curiosity) yet would it not conduce much to your greater advantage.—Silex Scintillans, Part ii, Sig. B-3-v.

Franz Kafka’s “Eine alltägliche Verwirrung” ‘An Everyday Confusion’ is a skeletal, or “poor,” text in that one code of reading—the referential—dominates it, while other codes present in a classic, or “rich,” text are almost absent. Using a method freely adapted from Roland Barthes’s S/Z, my article closely examines the referentiality of Kafka’s text, juxtaposing the proverbial (or common-language) response evoked by the text with the personal reactions of a single reader. Kafka’s theme, the inability of common, proverbial language to make real communication possible, is allegorized in the brief tale of A and B, whose comings and goings are mirrored, and at times interfered with, by the language in which these events occur.

The poem Vingtième Siècle (Pleine Mer—Plein Ciel) forms the climax of the Légende des Siècles, and presents in mythical form a picture of man's ascent through science, out of a state of ignorance, slavery and hatred, into one of enlightenment, freedom and brotherly love. Hugo typifies the idyllic future by an air-ship, (Plein Ciel), the sombre past and present by the colossal steamship “Léviathan,” (Pleine Mer). The same idea, of the deliverance of man through science, had found expression in Le Satyre; but there locomotive, steamer, and airship were equally honored as factors and symbols of man's emancipation, one leading up to and merging into the other. The invention of the steamship was specifically celebrated in the lines:

Qui sait si quelque jour, grandissant d'âge en âge,
Il ne jettera pas son dragon à la nage,
Et ne franchira pas les mers, la flamme au front! (ll. 611–613)

The lost Middle English romance which we may call Olive and Landres was written before 1286. It was, therefore, one of the earliest English romances of which we know—among extant romances only four are certainly as old as that, and hardly half a dozen others can conceivably be as old. Before it disappeared it was translated into Old Norse prose. A foreword to the translation tells us how, in the winter after the death of the Scottish King Alexander, grandfather of the Maid of Norway (that is, in the winter of 1286), Lord Bjarni Erlingsson of Bjarkey was busy on a political mission to Scotland. There he found this saga written down in the English language. Impressed, ostensibly by its high moral lessons, Lord Bjarni had the saga translated from English into Norse.

In the Prologue to the Man of Law's Tale we are told that any one who will read Chaucer's Legend of Good Women may see—

The crueltee of thee, queen Medea,
Thy litel children hanging by the hals
For thy Jason, that was of love so fals;

but when one turns to the Legend of Medea, one looks in vain for the promised bit of sensationalism. In the closely related Legend of Hypsipyle, to he sure, the unhappy Lemnian queen prophetically prays—

That she, that had his herte yrafte her fro,
Moste finden him to her untrewe also,
And that she moste bothe her children spille.