In an article entitled “Terminal Pause in Milton's Verse“ I have tried to show that in spite of the great and very proper concern of critics with Milton's use of the “verse-paragraph,” the study of Milton's prosody must be in terms of the linear unit, the study of the paragraph being largely a rhetorical problem. In these terms, Robert Bridges' Milton's Prosody is a formulation of the rules of Milton's later blank verse. But Bridges gives very little attention to any of the poems in the Trinity College Manuscript, and none to the readings peculiar to the manuscript, from which we may learn a good deal of Milton's concern for prosody. Of the poems in the manuscript, Comus alone is in blank verse. We shall examine it first, after a brief review of Bridges' findings.

No major English writer contemporary with William Congreve has left such scant information about himself. Biographers have feared, as Edmund Gosse tells us in 1888, that “the opportunity for preparing a full and picturesque life of this poet has wholly passed away.” When Gosse revised his life of Congreve in 1924, he found that the intervening thirty-five years had added practically nothing to our knowledge.

The discovery of Henry Lawes' musical setting for Lovelace's poem A loose Saraband not only brings to light some interesting variants of the text of the lyric and an old dance tune, but dispels a slight doubt which Mr. C. H. Wilkinson in his recent edition of Lovelace's poems, cast upon the first editor of Lucasta. As Mr. Wilkinson could not locate the music, he suggested that perhaps the words Set by Mr. Henry Lawes which appear beneath the title A loose Saraband on page 26 of the 1649 volume should have been placed below To Ellinda. The existence of the Lawes' score, however, exonerates the original editor.

Im 19. Kapitel des 5. Buches seines Simplicissimus berichtet Grimmelshausen ”etwas wenigs von den ungarischen Wiedertäufern und ihrer Art zu leben.“

Hatte man in früheren Jahrzehnten geglaubt, “für dieses Erlebnis [mit den Wiedertäufern] fände sich hochstens Raum im Anschluß an seine Reise von Baden nach Wien, so daß die . . . Lücke [in Grimmelshausens Biographie zwischen 1640-45] vielleicht durch einen Aufenthalt in Ungarn auszufullen wäre,” so steht heute fest, daß von ausgedehnten Reisen abzusehen ist. Nach den neueren Forschungsergebnissen ist Grimmelshausen nicht einmal in Wien, viel weniger je in Ungarn gewesen. Auf Grund des angeblichen Mangels an personlicher Bekanntschaft mit den ungarischen Wiedertäufern soli Grimmelshausen die munsterischen Anabaptisten als Vorbild verwandt haben; oder er soil Gelegenheit gehabt haben, “die Art der Wiedertaufer in den Tälern des Schwarzwaldes”6 kennenzulernen. Außerdem erinnere “die staatliche Regelung der Arbeit und des Familienlebens bei den [ungar.] Wiedertaufern . . . stark an ähnliche Einrichtungen in Thomas Morus' Utopia und Valentin Andreas' Christianopolis. Auch einige Einrichtungen der Civitas Solis des Campanella, z. B. die Sauglingspflege,” fände sich bei Grimmelshausens ungarischen Anabaptisten wieder.

During the colonial period, Spain maintained such close contact with her American possessions that Spanish styles in writing as well as in art and architecture became the standard for the colonists. It is not surprising, then, to find that Gongorism had many ardent supporters across the seas. In Mexico, the poems of Góngora were studied in the same manner as those of the ancient classics, as is attested by Vera Tassis' account concerning Agustín de Salazar y Torres. The youthful Agustín, when less than twelve years old, recited from memory the Soledades and Poliphemo and interpreted some of the most obscure passages at a public examination held by the Jesuit School of Mexico.

Dans la ière scène du iiiême acte de l'Etourdi, le rusé valet Mascarille se demande s'il doit continuer à intriguer pour son maître Lélie, qui, par ses “étourderies,” fait échouer à chaque fois ses ingénieuses combinaisons, et il prononce le monologue suivant:

That the title of the Esprit des Lois is an accurate description of the contents of the book has not been seriously questioned, nor has the form of its translation into English as the Spirit of (the) Laws. But the extensive use of esprit by Montesquieu in the book has attracted the attention of most of its critics from the eighteenth century on. In the Lettres persanes, an ironical reflection of the manners, morals, customs, and laws of eighteenth-century France, the use of esprit is taken for granted; merely to amuse and interest is, clearly, a legitimate objective in a work of this type. But in a treatise of universal jurisprudence the frequent introduction of esprit has naturally provoked much comment, and some criticism.

The introduction of French neo-classical drama into Spain in the eighteenth century met the most determined opposition on the part of patriotic Spaniards. French lyric and epic poetry had little influence, for France had given comparatively little attention to them during the great period of Louis XIV. The fable, satire, letters, and other genres were accepted in Spain without causing much disturbance. It was not so with the drama.

Dr. Bernard Mandeville in reissuing in 1714 the doggerel verses which he had first published in 1705 under the title, The Grumbling Hive: Or, Knaves Turn'd Honest, added extensive prose remarks and a provocative title, The Fable of the Bees: Or, Private Vices, Publick Benefits, but he failed to stir a ripple of protest in English complacency, or even to attract attention by his bold thinking. In 1723, publishing his materials once more with extensive additions, by which he had industriously doubled the bulk of his book, Mandeville at last received his reward in the storm of abuse which burst about his head. He was recognized as the disturber of every acceptable idea which good men then took for granted. The Fable of the Bees became notorious. It was read widely in English and translated into French and German. Throughout the century it was thought to merit discussion, and if possible, vigorous refutation by the men in Europe distinguished for either piety or intelligence. By many readers Mandeville was held to be a monster of impiety, a low rogue too vile to be counted human.

During the movement to introduce French classical drama into Spain in the eighteenth century, we find that Racine's authority is cited less than Corneille's in support of theories, but that his tragedies met with greater acceptance. Racine did not loom large as a doctrinaire; his theories were revealed chiefly through the study of his tragedies and in his defenses of these in certain of his prefaces, but they did not force themselves upon the attention of Spanish neo-classicists in the form of connected discourses as did Corneille's.

The Discours sur les Arts et les Sciences, composed in 1749–50, in an age whose leading thinkers were prone to overlook the limitations of reason and the drawbacks of progress, could hardly fail to attract notice, by its enthusiasm and paradoxical nature, if not by any logical organization or historical soundness. The essay was written in a prize contest proposed by the Academy of Dijon for the discussion of the question, “Si le rétablissement des Sciences et des Arts a contribué à épurer les mœurs,” and was awarded the medal. It maintains that the arts and sciences have contributed to the corruption of humanity. To support this thesis, the author cites numerous historical instances in which nations have lost their virtue and their supremacy as learning developed among them. Contrariwise, nations which did not permit learning to advance have been better able to remain great. The arts and sciences undermine patriotism and religion, breed luxury and vice, and are in general a serious degrading influence.

Non, Muse et Grâce, il faut que vous vous accoutumiez à vous entendre dire naïvement qu'il n'y a rien dans le monde de plus aimable que vous, et qu'on voudrait passer la vie à vous voir et à vous entendre.“ Celle à qui Voltaire adressait1 ce galant badinage est la Charmante Iris des Epîtres xxxv (1732) et L (1736?):

Charmante Iris, qui sans chercher a plaire
Savez si bien le secret de charmer . ..

Students of Shelley's highly complex and puzzling personality have always found it necessary to be concerned with the “sisters of his soul.” No great amount of attention has, however, thus far been paid to Claire (Clara Mary Jane) Clairmont, daughter of the second Mrs. Godwin by a previous marriage, companion of Shelley and Mary on the elopement, and thereafter for long intervals a member of the Shelley household. Gossip involving the poet with her was current during his lifetime; veiled charges of misconduct with her were sometimes brought against him, even in print. Partly as a result of a reaction against the virulence and obvious prejudice of these attacks, partly because Claire's liaison with Byron distracted attention from Shelley, but chiefly because it was the settled policy of Shelley's family that in all biographies written with their co-operation the poet's union with Mary should be represented as an ideal one, the Victorian tendency was to deny Claire any real importance for Shelley. Such was Dowden's doctrine, as will hereafter be made abundantly clear; and Dowden has determined the course for subsequent biographers. W. E. Peck either intentionally avoids developing a theory of Shelley-Claire relationships, or fails to do so. In that part of his biography in which he comes closest to committing himself, he shows the Dowden influence.

If the word acrimonious may be applied to anything connected with the gentle personality of William Cowper, it might be to that part of interpretative criticism which has attempted to determine the relationship between his unfortunate obsession of damnation and his religious creed. The Rev. T. S. Grimshawe, F.S.A.—who was so scathingly denounced by Robert Southey, Esq. LL.D.—was of the firm opinion that religion was an adjunct, not a cause, of Cowper's malady: “The impression under which he labored was therefore manifestly not suggested by a theological creed, but was the delusion of a distempered fancy. Every other view is founded on misconception.” Mr. Hugh Fausset, on the other hand, speaks of the “demoralizing unreality” of Cowper's faith. More temperate critics, Goldwin Smith, for example, feel that “religion in this case was not the bane” while David Cecil, in the course of a full chapter on Cowper's madness, has said what perhaps is all that can be said on the subject with certainty: “In vain we scan the imperfect records.”

By 1755 English dramatic audiences as well as English dramatic critics were less concerned with faults in the construction of Shakespeare's plays then they had been twenty years earlier. Largely because of Garrick's excellent acting, the focal point of Shakespearian criticism was shifting from consideration of plot structure to consideration of character delineation. But even though advance was being made in the new criticism as well as in the growth of Shakespeare idolatry, such a varied mixture of realistic material, classical mythology, and fairy lore as Shakespeare used in A Midsummer Night's Dream was bound to fail in presentation. Pepys, nearly one hundred years earlier (September 29, 1662), had seen the play and had remarked that it was the most insipid and ridiculous one he had ever witnessed in his life. In 1716 Richard Leveridge presented his Comick Masque of Pyramus and Thisbe at Lincoln's Inn Fields, where it had nine performances (from April 11 of that year until September 9, 1723). As the title suggests, it was a brief handling of Bottom's playing artisans—a mere fragment of Shakespeare's play. On January 21, 1745 an anonymous Mock Opera, Pyramus and Thisbe, appeared at Covent Garden and enjoyed some twenty-two performances until April 13, 1748. The music was composed by John Frederick Lampe, and the play was slightly longer than Leveridge's. No other performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream in any of its parts is recorded until 1755 when Garrick made his first attempt to give his audiences some more of the material of the play. He was wise, as subsequent events proved, not to try to present it at that time in its entirety. Yet he was vitally interested in the whole of the play and joined eight years later with his friend George Colman in an attempt to produce it in its Shakespearian form.

There is nothing surprising in finding that a part of Edmund Burke's life still remains obscure. With the exception of his political activities within the walls of the House of Commons, almost all of his life is obscure. Such simple vital facts as the date of his birth, the place of his marriage, even the exact place of his burial, are still subjects of doubt. (See N. & Q.,clxxii, 441; 6th ser., v, 274 f.; cxlix, 80).) Almost nothing is known about his first ten years in London. Mr. Dixon Wecter's recent article entitled “The Missing Years in Edmund Burke's Biog-graphy,” PMLA (December, 1938), shows clearly how little is yet known about this period. There are uncertainties as to the times of writing, dates of publication, and even the authorship of works generally considered his. There are uncertainties as to the part he may have taken in several works ascribed to other people. There is a most embarrassing mystery surrounding the sources of his income. Indeed, almost anywhere one looks in his private life, there is some element of mystery.