Thomas mann began his career under the influence of naturalism. While naturalistic tendencies are apparent in all of his writings, there exists at the same time another tendency, counteracting the danger of one-sidedness inherent in a strictly naturalistic approach to reality. The aesthetically refined world of Der kleine Herr Friedemann, which collapses when confronted with real life and the visionary experiences found in Gladius Dei and Der Kleiderschrank are indications that Mann's broader scope was present in the early stories. Tristan displays both naturalistic and visionary aesthetic tendencies. In Buddenbrooks, it is religion, including Tony's family worship, which balances the naturalistic trend apparent in the style as well as in the concept of biological decadence. In Der Tod in Venedig, myth is used with extraordinary effectiveness to complement naturalism.

“Le 2 avril 1862 le grand bourdon du romantisme annonçait à toute volée l'importante nouvelle du jour; l'apparition d'une merveille. Les thuriféraires étaient à leur poste, brûlant l'encens sur l'autel du maître. De toutes parts s‘élevaient des exclamations, des adorations accompagnées de génuflexions et d'homélies louangeuses, sympathiques.” C'est ainsi qu'un pamphlétaire violent décrit la publicité tapageuse qui accompagne la publication des deux premiers volumes des Misérables, celui des romans de Victor Hugo le plus important par l‘étendue—dix volumes—par sa signification et par la réaction qu'il provoque dans la presse française, réaction rarement égalée dans l'histoire de la littérature. Cette publicité qui joue un rôle considérable dans le succès commercial de l'ouvrage, qui va avoir de l'influence sur l'attitude des critiques et donnera des armes supplémentaires à ses adversaires, fut utilisée au maximum par Victor Hugo, passé maître en son usage.

The first of the “Two other very commendable letters” in the correspondence between Spenser and Harvey has been reprinted in every complete edition of the poet's works since it was first printed by Hughes in 1715 and has been frequently cited by scholars during the past century, either because of the general light which it throws on this oddly assorted pair, or because of its famous reference to the the “surceasing and silence of balde Rymers,” or because of the evidence which it supplies of a close relationship at this time between Spenser and the Earl of Leicester. Nevertheless, there seems to be no general agreement among editors and scholars as to the precise date at which this letter was written; and as a result, every one who has quoted it has put forward his own assumption as its proper interpretation. It is the object of this paper to discuss these assumptions, and to determine, if possible, the true explanation of the date at which this letter was composed.

Not too many years ago if I had been told that I would be addressing this scholarly assembly on the subject of proficiency testing, I would have denied the thought as being synonymous with impeachment proceedings. I would have asserted with calculated dignity that such a subject was too pedestrian for my interests, I would have stated with just the right touch of scorn that such work was the business of social scientists, psychologists, or educationists, in short, to steal a leaf from Bill Parker's book, I would have been willing to “let George do it” or indeed would likely not have cared if it were not done at all. On the offchance that there are some among you who may still feel that same way, I ask you to let me state the case for a project which I have come to regard not only as having a claim to academic status, but one which I believe is worthy of the interest of all who would hold that testing is a proper function of teaching, and that determination of standards of performance within a subject matter field is a primary business of those who have the skills and teach the subjects which are to be evaluated.

With the passing years, the criticism of T. S. Eliot has lost much of the power it once had to influence the literary taste of the age. Yet one casual comment by Eliot echoes again and again through the scholarship and criticism of recent times. “In the seventeenth century,” Eliot wrote in his essay “The Metaphysical Poets,” “a dissociation of the sensibility set in, from which we have never recovered.” Eliot was eventually to confess doubt about the cause of this dissociation, but he did note that, following Donne and Marvell, poetic feeling became cruder, until, in the eighteenth century, “The poets revolted against the ratiocinative, the descriptive; they thought and felt by fits, unbalanced; they reflected” (p. 248).

Smollett's use of life and scenes in the British navy in the early 1740's in his first novel has long been recognized as an original and important contribution to the materials of English fiction. Chapters 24–38 of Roderick Random with their abundant detail, revealing so graphically the brutalities, disease, and official incompetence involved in the conduct of naval affairs in the expedition to Carthagena 1740–41, have not only impressed Smollett's critics but have offered a firm point of departure for the conjectures of his biographers. Yet although these chapters are successful as realistic art, and suggestive in their biographical implications, there always arises the difficult question of how much of this vivid writing is historical fact and how much is fiction. This question must be the concern of critics in determining Smollett's method in the selection of his materials, and it is central to his biography.

At a meeting held on 26 April 1886, to commemorate the tenth anniversary of the founding of the Johns Hopkins University, Basil Lanneau Gildersleeve, Professor of Greek, spoke some words that have with slight variations been more recently applied to the study of modern languages, and indeed to other disciplines. Gildersleeve said in part:

L'ange du Méridien“ is the first in the group of six Chartres-poems in Rilke's Neue Gedichte. It thus occupies a place of honor among the poems which make up the Chartres-cycle. Rilke always devoted much thought and care to the technical questions of the order and arrangement of the poems within his printed works. He must have felt that ”L'Ange du Méridien“ deserved to be first for specific reasons. He must have intended to give particular emphasis to it. We may assume that he meant it to serve as a kind of musical signature or prelude for the other poems of the group, to ”set the tone“ for them. A thematic analysis of the Chartres-cycle might show that, in fact, many of the basic motifs which occur in the other poems are introduced in ”L'Ange du Méridien.“

In France, romanticism is first of all a revolt against a firmly entrenched classicism. In this respect, French romanticism is markedly different from romanticism in England, Germany, or Spain, where classicism had been less in accord with the national temper and had not risen to the glorious heights of the century of Corneille, Racine, and Molière. It is not surprising therefore that classicism, having produced so rich a literature of profound psychological insight, should have prolonged its dominance in France, to a considerable degree, even into the early years of the nineteenth century. It is significant too that in France, romanticism established itself first in prose with Rousseau and his successors, then in poetry with Lamartine, and only at last in drama with the final triumph of Hugo's Hernani in 1830. This sequence corresponds to the degree of resistance in these three literary forms. The victory over the codified rules of classic tragedy could come in France only after a long fight extending over more than a hundred years. This explains why so much of French debate about the theories of romanticism turns about the drama.

Two of the dominant motives in pastoral literature are the “come-live-with-me” theme, which offers to the loved one as inducements gifts generally of a pastoral nature, and the ideal of the “golden age,” which is based upon a personal desire for a patterned idyllic life. The former has been carefully traced by R. S. Forsythe, but the latter has lain neglected in spite of the fact that two of the best known lyrics in the language, Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, utilize this theme. It is the purpose of this paper to demonstrate that the description of the ideal day is a significant and deeply rooted theme which developed gradually during the whole course of the pastoral tradition. Milton's two days derive from this evolution rather than from a few scattered lyrics which immediately preceded his work, as is generally stated.

Wīdsīð maðolade, wordhord onlēac—“Wīdsīð spoke, unlocked his word-hoard:” and the things he said have caused many modern scholars to unlock theirs. This curious Old English poem purports to be an account, told in the first person, of a minstrel's wanderings far and wide over the earth; yet it is full of chronological impossibilities. When the singer claims to have visited not only Eormanrīc, King of the Goths, and Offa, King of the Angles, but also Caesar and Alexander, he justifies his name of Far-Wanderer, but he likewise makes his tale impossible to believe.

In a familiar passage from a letter to W. S. Landor, Wordsworth exposed, as I see it, the central purpose of his art: “Even in poetry it it the imaginative only ... that which is conversant (with), or turns upon infinity, that powerfully affects me.” “Things,” he said, had to be lost in each other and limita to vanish; otherwise he was indifferent. The argument of this essay is intended to suggest an approach to Wordsworth at the poetic level of infinity. This is the realm of pure universals, the insight of poetry which reveals a state of being independent of sensuous limitations. In the sense of Hegel it is the level of reality, possessing a wholly independent being, as opposed to that of appearance, depending wholly in its existence upon the senses. The exact nature of reality remains, of course, a question for pure philosophy; and it is probable that the discipline of philosophy rather than that of literary criticism must judge finally the dialectic of poetry concerned with infinity. Yet the highest attainment of the fine arts is clearly an act of turning upon the infinite, an invocation in the observer or the listener of a sense of endlessness. Medium, form, and technique are the approaches to the ultimate experience inherent in a particular work. As artistic acts from the world of appearance, they may be analyzed and defined by the particular critical disciplines concerned with them. At the end of these functions lies the problem of philosophy. What is the nature of the wholly independent being which all great art attains? Wordsworth implies in his statement to Landor that awareness of the infinite is the final objective of poetry. My purpose is to investigate the method of Wordsworth's thought at the threshold of this objective rather than to define philosophically what the sense of infinity, in itself, contains. It seems clear that nothing more need be said upon the imaginative process as this is explored in Wordsworth's Prefaces or interpreted by his critics.

In discussing the important English dramatic critics during the first half of the nineteenth century (Leigh Hunt, Hazlitt, John Forster, and George Henry Lewes), William Archer concluded that “Lewes alone has anything of note to say upon the principles of dramatic composition, as a living art”, that “Lewes was probably the most highly-trained thinker who ever applied himself to the study of theatrical art in England.” He pointed out that Lewes not only had a “special and personal interest in the art of the playwright which his predecessors lacked” but also had “much more attractive matter for discussion” because the “modern drama, the drama as we know it to-day, was just coming into existence, or rather was just making its existence felt in England.” Consequently it was

The once bleak situation of non-native English speakers in the U.S., who suffered in a monolingual English curriculum and faced discrimination because of their language, has somewhat improved. Passage of the Bilingual Education Act in 1967 and its implementation through fifty-eight projects funded for eight million dollars by the U.S. Office of Education in 1970-71 have given bilingual opportunities to some of the five million American children who speak Spanish or some language other than English as their first language. However, major problems persist. There is need for international cooperation in bilingual activities. Funds are inadequate. Existing American programs cannot yet be reliably evaluated, and they are not reaching enough children. There is some formlessness in their general direction and national shaping. Higher education needs to (1) adjust teaching methodologies, evaluation procedures, and admissions policies until the present culture-biased tests can be replaced by linguistically valid, dispassionate instruments; (2) increase financial aid to non-native speakers of English; and (3) establish special bilingual teacher-training programs and materials-development centers. Development of comprehensive bilingual programs at the precollege and college levels is imperative, despite their enormous cost.

The divided self in James’s fiction may be regarded as an inevitable structural consequence of James’s desire to dramatize the problem of the free spirit in an enslaving world. But the divided self required by art is not essentially different from the divided self known to psychology, and an understanding of the anxieties of that self, particularly of the “obsessive imagery” James uses to depict those anxieties, enriches our understanding of James’s work. The fear of a world that threatens one’s being issues in an elaborate development of an escape motif; of imagery of seizure by the eye and by the world of appearances; and of imagery of petrification, reflecting a dread of being turned into a mere tool or machine. James’s vision of “the great trap of life” permits him to come to terms with his own limitations and culminates in a searching philosophic examination of the problem of free will and determinism.

Students of Goldsmith have long recognized that in the framing of Tony Lumpkin, hilarious problem-child of Mrs. Hardcastle in She Stoops to Conquer, he was in some sort indebted to older English comedy. A resemblance to Humphry Gubbin in Steele's The Tender Husband, acted 1705, seems to have been first noticed by John Forster. Following Forster, George A. Aitken, in his Life of Steele (1889) affirmed that Humphry “certainly furnished Goldsmith with suggestions toward the creation of Tony Lumpkin” and cited the point that both are averse to marrying their cousins. He noticed the resemblance again in his edition of Steele's plays for the Mermaid Series, and it has since been a commonplace in histories of the drama.

As Heinrich Zimmer—GGA (1890), p. 818, n. 1—saw correctly, the name Arthur is the regular derivative of the Lat. Artorius in Brythonic. Thurneysen—ZCPh, xx (1933), 136—remarks: “Zimmer hatte gesehen, dass Arthur die regelmässige britannische Entwicklung von lat. (Artor oder) Artorius sein kann”, the long Lat. o becoming u in Celtic.

Human experience, according to Santayana, may be described as a conflict between the spirit and the imperfections which distract it from the pure and ideal toward which it aspires. And yet, to complete the paradox, there is no spirit without these imperfections, the matrix of flesh and world, space and time, which contains it. This is as much as anything a poet's dramatic vision: it is Yeats's with his passion to preserve the senses in an eternity of time, and it is Wallace Stevens' with his more realistic search for a balance between the antinomies of self and world. For Stevens, the imagination is the single power that can effect the vital unity, in life or in poetry: it alone can provide the aesthetic economy of experience so urgent for the modern romantic sensibility. Stevens is a romantic, or better, a neo-romantic poet who has gone to school to the French Symbolists and post-Symbolists only to conclude that the ends available to the artist are not metaphysical but aesthetic, and thus human. The romantic poet necessarily lives in two worlds: that of his sensual experience and that of his imaginative vision. In those moments when he manages to blend the two, he achieves not only a poem but that singular experience of “truth” from which he draws his spiritual sanctions. And if God is absent from his universe, as he is from Stevens', the moments of reconciliation become increasingly problematical but no less pressing.