Das “Ist fortzusetzen,” den Terzinen auf Schillers Reliquien beim ersten Abdruck in der A.l.H. unmittelbar angefügt, kann nach dem Augenschein nur auf das Gedicht bezogen werden. Wer das tut, stellt keine Hypothese auf; sondern hält sich an einen Tatbestand, den er nach der Lage der Dinge als Aeußerung von Goethes Willen zu verstehen ein klares Recht hat. Der äußere Befund gibt so wenig den Grund zu einer andern Auffassung her wie das gesamte dokumentarische Material. Weder in Goethes Briefen noch in denen der Mitarbeiter an der A.l.H., weder in irgendeiner schriftlichen oder mündlichen Aeußerung des Dichters, seinen Aufzeichnungen oder Tagebüchern ist von diesem Zusatz direkt oder indirekt die Rede. Das ist einigermaßen merkwürdig, vielleicht aber so zu erklären, daß Goethe den Mitarbeitern darüber mündliche Erklärungen gegeben hat. Die Vermutung, daß es mit dem Zusatz eine vom Augenschein abweichende Bewandtnis haben möge, ist reine Philologen-Spekulation. Sie ist veranlaßt durch das Bedenken, daß ein in sich abgeschlossenes Gedicht nicht fortgesetzt zu werden pflegt, und durch die Erwägung, daß die “Wanderjahre,” an deren Schluß (in der zweiten Fassung von 1829) das Gedicht gestellt wurde, eher hätten fortgesetzt werden können oder sollen.

Defoe, on his first arrival in Edinburgh in 1706 to serve his master Harley in the Union cause, selected Mrs. Agnes Campbell Anderson as his main Scottish printer. His choice of Mrs. Anderson should occasion no surprise; for in 1706 she had the largest printing establishment in the city; she was “printer to the good toun and college of the samen,” and she still held the Royal prerogative granted to her deceased husband Andrew Anderson in 1671. So far as I have been able to determine, Mrs. Anderson was Defoe's sole Scottish printer up to 1710 when he began to place some of his work with John Moncur. As is now fairly well known, Defoe's Review was printed in Edinburgh (1709–10) by Mrs. Anderson and off and on, say, to 1713 she probably printed an occasional pamphlet for him. It is certain that as late as 1712 she printed Defoe's A Seasonable Warning against the Insinuations of Papists and Jacobites. Being a Letter from a Gentleman at the Court of Hanover. In addition to the Edinburgh edition of the Review, James Chalmers credited Mrs. Anderson with the printing of ten of Defoe's writings published between 1706 and 1710. Of this number all save one, have been accredited to Defoe by several Defoe scholars including Dr. Henry Clinton Hutchins, the latest and one of the most reliable of Defoe bibliographers.

Depuis l'article que Barbey d'Aurevilly écrivit pour le Pays, à l'occasion de la publication de la première édition des Fleurs du mal, le terme d'architecture s'est imposé à la pensée des commentateurs qui ont voulu s'occuper de la composition du recueil baudelairien. Il me semble, pourtant, que l'intention de Barbey d'Aurevilly a générale-été mal comprise et qu'on s'est en vain efforcé de trouver ce dont le critique du Pays ne parlait pas, ou, tout au moins, qu'on a négligé ce qui, pour Barbey, était l'essentiel. Les Fleurs du mal, a-t-il dit, en effet, ‘sont moins des poésies qu'une oeuvre poétique de la plus forte unité. Au point de vue de l'art et de la sensation esthétique, elles perdraient donc beaucoup à n’être pas lues dans l'ordre où le poète, qui sait bien ce qu'il fait, les a rangées. Mais elles perdraient bien davantage au point de vue de l'effet moral que nous avons signalé en commençant. Cet effet sur lequel il importe beaucoup de revenir, gardons-nous bien de l‘énerver!’ La thèse que défendait Barbey d'Aurevilly, c’était celle de la moralité de l'oeuvre baudelairienne. L'intention de Baudelaire, disait-il, c’était de flétrir les Fleurs du mal. La manière du poète, ajoute-t-il, ‘n'est rien moins que celle de la Toute-Puissante Providence elle même, qui envoie le châtiment après le crime, la maladie après l'excès, le remords, la tristesse, l'ennui, toutes les hontes et toutes les douleurs qui nous dégradent et nous dévorent, pour avoir transgressé ses lois. Mais, pour comprendre la leçon des Fleurs du mal, il faut avoir soin de considérer l'ensemble: ‘une pièce citée n'aurait que sa valeur individuelle, et, il ne faut pas s'y méprendre! dans le livre chaque poésie a, de plus que la réussite des détails ou de la fortune de la pensée, une valeur très importante d'ensemble et de situation, qu'il ne faut pas lui faire perdre en la détachant. Les artistes, qui voient les lignes sous le luxe ou l'efflorescence de la couleur, percevront très bien qu'il y a ici une architecture secrète, un plan calculé par le poète, méditatif et volontaire.’ Les Fleurs du mal, conclut-il, n'ont pas été ramassées ‘dans un recueil sans d'autre raison que de les réunir,’ elles ont été disposées dans un ordre voulu, moins en vue d'un effet artistique que d'un effet moral: ‘Cet effet sur lequel il importe beaucoup de revenir, gardons-nous bien de l’énerver!’ Et telle était si bien la pensée de Barbey d'Aurevilly que Me Chaix d'Est-Ange a cité, au procès de Baudelaire, des extraits de l'article du critique, et a choisi les passages mêmes qui se rapportent à l'unité des Fleurs du mal et à leur effet moral: le poète, plaidait-il, ‘vous montre le vice, mais il vous le montre odieux.’ Mais le terme seul d'architecture, que l'avocat de Baudelaire a, d'ailleurs, omis de citer, a attiré l'attention des commentateurs. Aussi, malgré les déclarations du poète lui-même, ce n'est pas l'effet moral qu'on a retenu, c'est l'idée que le recueil avait un ‘plan logique.’

Interpretations of Coleridge's Kubla Khan have varied widely. The commonest view has always been that the poem is a beautiful meaningless vision, “delicious nonsense” to be read or heard as pure music. Many ingenious and some over-ingenious explanations have however been published, the most extraordinary being that of Mr. Robert Graves, which Professor Lowes demolished with obvious gusto. According to this theory Mrs. Coleridge is represented in the “Abyssinian maid” whose music the poet could not remember; the “caves of ice” are Dorothy Wordsworth, whose love for Coleridge is thus shown to be purely intellectual; and the closing lines of the poem describe Coleridge's own superego getting after him about his opium. After this pseudo-Freudian flight, a mere literal interpretation will no doubt come as an anti-climax. It seems necessary now, however, to revise certain traditions, most of them outgrowths of Coleridge's own note prefixed to the poem upon its publication in the Christabel volume of 1816. The note is too familiar to require full quotation. The poet says that he had been prescribed an “anodyne, … from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair” while reading Purchas. “The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.” “On awaking,” Coleridge continues, with what seemed a complete recollection of the whole, he “instantly and eagerly” wrote down the lines that are preserved. After an interruption by a man from Porlock on business, he was unable to recall the rest.

The phrase “ridicule, the test of truth,” which has long been associated with Lord Shaftesbury, was originally fathered upon him by both his disciples and his adversaries in controversies to determine whether ridicule be test or jest. Both groups expended quantities of forensic ammunition on the assumption that Shaftesbury had advocated the use of ridicule as a test of truth even though the phrase does not appear anywhere in the Characteristics. That Shaftesbury does not propose ridicule as a test of truth has been acknowledged for many years, but not widely enough, for many contemporary authorities repeat this erroneous assumption. Shaftesbury merely began the debate over ridicule by discussing its social utility, and the discussion was continued by Anthony Collins, Berkeley, Warburton, Akenside, John Brown, Allan Ramsay and Lord Karnes. The first of the group to refer to ridicule as a test of truth was Berkeley, and after his use of the phrase, nearly every eighteenth-century writer on ridicule took it up. Collins, who preceded him in discussing the ridiculous, had not even mentioned the relation of ridicule to truth. Brown was the first to state that Shaftesbury had advocated the doctrine, in fact, going even further in misrepresenting Shaftesbury by falsely charging that the latter had maintained that ridicule “may be successfully applied to the investigation of unknown truth.” A thorough analysis of Shaftesbury's real position on ridicule is necessary to show the manner in which he has been variously interpreted and misinterpreted. Furious as the controversy may have been in the eighteeenth century, it did not extend itself into the nineteenth, and today we may even apply to it Shaftesbury's own derogatory question directed against pedantic treatises: “What is already become of those mighty controversies with which some of the most eminent authors amused the world?” The present paper is not intended to perpetuate this mighty controversy, but merely to clarify Shaftesbury's meaning and show how the controversy developed. A subject which occupied famous philosophers, poets, physicians, divines and artists of the eighteenth century is a subject of both historic and esthetic importance.

In Sainte-Beuve's Volupté the hero, Amaury, upon sighting the shores of the New World at the end of his voyage from France, asks this rhetorical question: “Est-il vrai qu tu contiennes, ainsi qu'on en vient de toutes parts à le murmurer, la forme materielle que doivent revêtir les sociétés humaines à leur terme de perfection?” Volupté appeared in 1835 at a time when many French people were asking themselves this very question, when travelers by the thousands were crossing the Atlantic to have a look at this new democracy, which might possibly prove to be an antidote to “le mal europeen.” It was the time, in Robert Mahieu's phrase, of the “Third Discovery of America.” The enthusiasm for liberty which fifty years earlier had sent so many young French aristocrats to fight in Washington's army had somewhat changed its character and France, plagued by internal strife and reaction, was endeavoring to discover the answer to her problems in a knowledge of the young American republic.

Shortly after 1800 S. T. Coleridge gradually developed a set of personal symbols which he used thereafter in poetry and prose, sometimes consciously, to symbolize great turnings in his life and great, steady longings. The number of symbols seems rather limited; the referents lead mainly toward his love for Sara Hutchinson. It is possible that symbols for other important elements of Coleridge's experience will yet come to light. So far as I have been able to discover, there is nothing “universal” in the symbols which I have identified: they are specifically, and of course connotatively, allusive to events in his past life.

The unhappy fate of the man whom choice or chance has alienated from the human community greatly interested Hawthorne, as is well known. The theme held a similar fascination for Melville—even before he became acquainted with many of Hawthorne's tales. The probable discussions subsequently with his friend and neighbor, however, may well have strengthened his interest in the Ishmael motif. As might be expected, Melville explored the moral and philosophical implications of the theme, and out of them he evolved a doctrine of racial and social community as an ideal to set opposite the isolated individual. This positive doctrine need concern us here, however, only in so far as it is implicit in his delineation of individuals who, because of birth or achievement or action or character—a white jacket of some kind, in short—were set apart from normal human relationships. These persons may appropriately be called “Isolatoes,” a term coined by Melville himself in describing the crew of the Pequod: “They were nearly all Islanders … ‘Isolatoes’ too, I call such, not acknowledging the common continent of men, but each Isolato living on a separate continent of his own.” In each of his books one character at least is just such an exile, either by accident or volition.

That Charles Reade was interested in art, along with Cremona violins, Scottish herring fisheries, and other such hobbies, has long been known. Coleman listed some of the paintings in Reade's private collection and declared him a connoisseur; Elwin pointed out that he had a genuine taste in art and was the best sort of collector; and Rives added still further information of much the same type. One of Rives' quotations is particularly interesting.

Bergson est mort le 4 janvier 1941, dans une période qui comptera parmi les plus tragiques qu'ait traversées la France. Dans sa patrie opprimée peu de voix ont eu le courage de s‘élever pour remettre en lumière l'action extraordinaire exercee par le bergsonisme sur les destinées de la philosophic et de la littérature françaises. De cette action, l‘étude présente n'exposera nécessairement qu'un aspect, d'ailleurs assez méconnu, qui concerne Paul Claudel et plus particulièrement son Art poétique.

In his correspondence, Keats refers more than once to the difference between himself and Byron. In a letter to Charles Wentworth Dilke, dated September 21, 1818, he distinguishes jokingly between: “1. superfine rich or noble poets—ut Byron. 2. common ut egomet—.” A few months later, on February 18th, 1819, he tells George and Georgiana Keats: “Lord Byron cuts a figure—but he is not figurative—Shakspeare led a life of Allegory: his works are the comments on it—.” Perhaps one might better read “Keats,” or at least “Keats as he liked to picture himself,” instead of “Shakespeare.” Just seven months later, in a letter written on September 18th of the same year to the same recipients, there occurs the celebrated, and utterly unconvincing, axiom: “You speak of Lord Byron and me—There is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees—I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task. You see the immense difference.”

In 1790 (with approbation 1793) a very quaint novel was published in Naples: Tizio o sia le vicende dell' umanita. The very reading of the table of contents is a most baffling experience. The first chapter speaks of Tizio, the hero of the novel, as a boy. In the second he is a girl. He is the paragon of a husband, but in the next pages he deserts his wife. He is born of rich parents and of poor parents. He is a slave … and a member of the Roman nobility. He is a gentleman—and a criminal, a pauper and fabulously rich. On one page he gives lavishly to the poor and needy, but on the next page he is one of the most antisocial of human beings. He is a scholar and an illiterate: has the most influential public position … and is an outlaw. He dies as an infant and of old age.

This bibliographical essay brings together for the first time all evaluations of Housman's poetry and poetic-theory 1920-1945. It effects a twofold end: (1) historical—a survey of Housman estimates by scholar-critics and by poet-critics; (2) critical—a survey of all critical ideas and problems of contemporary criticism as focussed upon a poet of the preceding age.

During most of his life Samuel Butler carried a note-book in his pocket in which he wrote down thoughts that he wanted to preserve. After 1874, in an attempt to make his copious collection more useful and interesting, he began to revise the entries, transcribing them into a larger book, and keeping an index. For eighteen years he followed this system until his collection had grown so enormous that it was once more disorganized and hard to use; then, in 1891, he began a second thorough revision, re-editing all the notes, copying them neatly on good paper and, when enough pages had been filled, having them bound into large volumes provided with careful indexes. He used copying ink in this work or had his secretary Alfred use the typewriter, and as an insurance against total loss of the notes by fire he made a pressed copy which was kept in the rooms of his friend Henry Festing Jones. By the time of Butler's death in 1902 his notes had grown to fill six large volumes of about two hundred pages each. These volumes were bought by Mr. Carroll A. Wilson and are now in the possession of the Chapin Library at Williams College as part of the Butler collection.

For more than a century Thomas De Quincey has been regarded as one of the greatest fantasy writers among English authors. Critics list his works as the highest possible flights of imagination. He himself gave them the title of “dreams.” That there was a connection between his writing and his use of drugs has always been recognized, but always with the idea that the opium set him free to exercise his imagination. No one has pointed out that instead of being an imaginist he should be considered a clinical reporter of facts.