Freud's discovery of the unconscious at the end of the nineteenth century bids fair to be the defining factor in the intellectual life of the twentieth. Already, Freud's ideas seem to have touched everyone from the juvenile delinquent on the corner to the scholar in his study. Biography, history, literary criticism, and, not least, the study of Shakespeare, psychoanalysis has affected them all. Hamlet's Oedipus complex (thanks to Sir Laurence Olivier's film) has become as conspicuous a feature in the popular image of Shakespeare as the controversy about authorship. Freud was a psychologist, however, not a critic, and his remarks about Shakespeare, like all his literary comments, were only incidental to his main study, the mind of man. As a result, his Shakespearian insights are scattered through his works. No one, so far as I know, has clearly established just exactly what Freud said about Shakespeare or where he said it. The purpose of this article is to answer those two questions, that is, to set out in systematic form Freud's comments on, references to, and quotations from Shakespeare, and second, to provide via the footnotes a bibliography for them. I have summarized Freud's remarks in the following order: first, his remarks on Shakespeare generally; second, his views on authorship; third, the points he makes about particular plays and poems (arranged alphabetically). Within these large divisions, references are arranged in order of generality, larger topics first. Topics of equal generality within a given work are put in the order in which they appear in the work. Where Freud made more than one reference to a topic (e.g., a particular character or quotation), the references are arranged chronologically according to the time Freud made them (which may or may not coincide with the order of publication).

This privilege of speaking my mind to you tonight was earned, not by distinguished scholarship, but by my serving you as Executive Secretary and Editor for nine busy years. Milton, therefore, will not be with us at this hour. Instead I invite you to ponder with me one of the most urgent problems that our profession faces: let us call it the problem of George. I am not, of course, referring to my able successor, George Winchester Stone. Our George, as you must have guessed, is the not so able fellow we let do the necessary jobs that we consider unworthy of our own attention.

In All's Well That Ends Well Shakespeare adopted Elizabethan dramatic conventions more literally than in any play written after his apprenticeship in the early 1590's and, as a consequence, produced a comedy more of an age than for all time. At the time when the War of the Theaters was subsiding and the innovations of comical satire were dramatically fashionable, a rash of plays, in fact most of the plays between 1601 and 1604 which are designated roughly as romantic comedies, used the same plot. This story traces the career of a well-born young man who succumbs to lust and riotous living; usually, as the play opens, he is betrothed or married to a virtuous young lady whom he spurns for a courtesan. As the play progresses, the hero grows increasingly obstreperous in the face of the heroine's stalwart devotion to him; finally the hero's sins catch up with him, he is brought to trial in which either his life is threatened or his pride is deflated by the exposure of his follies. In this trial he is purged of his lust, sees the value of the virtuous heroine and, cleansed, rejoins her to live out his days in true love.

The House of Fame is the most curiously constructed of Chaucer's works. Although the poem has all the trappings of a typical love-vision, it deals with a heterogeneous body of subject matter that often seems only remotely connected with love. Love is the dominant theme of the first book, which retells the story of Dido and Æneas, and the purpose of Chaucer's trip to the house of Fame is presumably to hear love tidings. Yet the second book is taken up with the scientific lessons of the eagle, while the third is concerned with Fame viewed first as the maker of reputations and secondly in her role as the disseminator of rumor. How is one to reconcile these themes and make sense out of the haphazard way in which Chaucer has strung them together? Of course, one can dismiss the problem as a case of poor artistry, and that is precisely what many critics have done. Dorothy Everett, for instance, writes of the poem, “As a whole it is not a success, and was perhaps left unfinished for that reason.” However, the poem is so very successful in part and so very nearly complete (the ending, for that matter, may have been suppressed) that it is at least worth speculating whether the failure to make sense out of the whole is our own instead of Chaucer's.

Only fifteen months ago the President signed the National Defense Education Act into Law. Many of you here know what went into getting that legislation in the form necessary for acceptance by Congress. It is no exaggeration to say that without the Modern Language Association there may never have been an NDEA. Certainly, languages would not have received the attention they deserved without the strong support, research, and testimonial efforts of the MLA and its members.

In his masterly study of le Sentiment de l'Amour dans I'CEuvre de Pierre Corneille, M. Octave Nadal makes one reservation regarding Polyeucte. After rooting the spiritual adventure of the martyr in the climate of conjugal love where both blood and spirit stir, M. Nadal acknowledges nonetheless a certain ambiguity in the psychology of the hero. He goes so far as to say that in Polyeucte's speeches one could easily find “des formules” which deny the heroism and grandeur of human love at the same time that “l'action même du martyr ne tend jamais qu'à les prouver et à les consacrer.” M. R. Chauviré and M. Raymond Lebègue have made similar observations.

Four seventeenth-century commentaries on the Polifemo are known to students of Góngora. Two of these are still unpublished: Annotaciones y deffensas al… Polifemo by Pedro Díaz de Rivas, the first commentary to be made of the poem, and the unfinished Notas al Polifemo by Andres Cuesta. The other two were published in Madrid a few years after Góngora's death: El Polifemo de Don Luis de Góngora comentado (1629) by Garcia de Salcedo Coronel and Lecciones solemnes a las obras de Don Luis de Góngora y Argote (1630) by José Pellicer de Salas y Tovar.

Although “I Syng of a Myden” has always been regarded as a superlative lyric, and although it has received detailed discussion by George Kane, John Speirs, and especially Leo Spitzer, there are many features of this extremely complex poem which need to be pointed out: the richness of the imagery, the significance of the puns, and the number symbolism, for example. Nor has anyone singled out the remarkable achievement of our poet in combining the tone of wonder and exultation in Mary's dual role as maiden and mother with an amazing wealth of the natural and theological implications surrounding the event.

It seems safe to say that no writer of the French Enlightenment, with the possible exception of Voltaire, has received so much attention as that strangely paradoxical genius Jean-Jacques Rousseau. We know he was born in Switzerland of French blood, was largely self-taught, and made his vagabond way across eighteenth-century France, leaving in his wake a considerable number of works, the best known of which were all highly incandescent: the two Discourses, Lettre sur les spectacles, La Nouvelle Héloïse, Le Contrat social, Emile, and the Confessions.

When your distinguished Secretary invited me to speak to you today, we spoke casually of a factual report on the language development feature of the National Defense Education Act. It is tempting to rehearse for you what this Act has already done and what it shows certain promise of doing for the development of modern foreign language study in the United States; to report to you that only a year after the Act's passage, more than 50,000 youngsters are getting better instruction as a consequence of institute training for their teachers; that the so-called “neglected” languages have been given so much attention that French, German, and Spanish now feel distinctly neglected; and that more money has been committed for research in the teaching of modern foreign languages in this past year than has been spent for this purpose in all recorded history. But all of this can be read (or told to you by the Prophet Mildenberger and his disciples, who, so far as I can see, are stationed at every corner of this hotel) and I prefer to direct my remarks to a single aspect of the complex language development program in which we are jointly engaged; one that I trust has great common interest for this audience, and one that in its implications suggests some weighty responsibilities for your profession: the role of the college and university in the preparation of language teachers.

In Thorpe's 1609 Quarto there are signs of a “lost” Shakespeare poem in eleven sonnet stanzas, six still together (63–68) and five displaced (19, 21, 100–101, 105). An attempt to restore this poem ends, of course, in rearranging the Sonnets, a practice which has earned its questionable reputation. True, the “original” sonnet order itself is questionable, and modest revision of it, such as Tucker Brooke's, can be plausible. But we should not forget the free-ranging cryptographers whose persistent tampering with Thorpe's text has led to a defensive presumption in its favor. Whether my own efforts lessen this presumption, or simply justify it, is not for me to say. I have tried, however, to introduce some rather stiff standards for rearrangement which are hardly designed to stir up new activity. And so long as mischief does not threaten, perhaps we can afford to be a little more realistic about the 1609 edition, a text without authority for sequence except where the sonnet order clearly justifies itself. Certainly this text is not made authentic by notorious failure to improve it; Hyder Rollins, who did not suffer rearrangers gladly, was very clear on that point (Variorum edition, ii, 83).

It is still undecided in what sense, if any, the ecstasy in Donne's most famous poem should be regarded as mystical. Even if we evade the problem of defining mysticism, there is still the question of what ecstasy meant to the poet. In “The Extasie” the word keeps its literal meaning of ekstasis or exodus of the souls of the two lovers from their bodies, for Donne tells us that they “Were gone out” so as to unite into the “abler soul” which “Defects of lonelinesse controules” (11. 43–44), and makes the discovery that sex was not the source of their love. Recent interpreters have stressed the change which comes over the poem at line forty-nine, where the lover, or as Pierre Legouis insists, the seducer, ends the literal ekstasis of the two souls with a plea for their return to the physical senses of their bodies “Else a great Prince in prison lies” (1. 68).

In Romania LXXVII (1956), 66 ff. Irénée Cluzel has re-edited three of the Catalan troubadour's poems composed in a more popular vein. It is with the second of them (No. 3 of M. de Riquer's edition, Barcelona, 1947) that we are going to deal here.

The title suggests a number of paradoxes. The concept of the “teaching machine” represents, on the one hand, one of the most revolutionary and challenging concepts facing teachers and educators today and, at the same time, looks back to one of the oldest basic psychological concepts of learning within the history of educational theory. Socrates' instruction of the slave boy in the Meno is perfect and persuasive illustration of the system of question-response basic to the efficacy of the modern teaching machine. Socrates, as we know, sought to persuade Meno that the slave boy's knowledge of a mathematical fact came not from teaching, but from questioning, and ultimately from recovery of innate knowledge.

In Hawaii six languages are spoken by sizable groups of people in addition to the official language, English, and the lingua franca, Pidgin. They are: Japanese, Hawaiian, Cantonese, Korean, Portuguese, and Ilocano. No exact figures exist for the numbers of speakers in each group. Some indication, however, can be gained by consulting the 1950 census distribution by “race” of the Islands' population: Japanese 39%, Caucasian 23%, Hawaiian 17%, Filipino 12%, Chinese 6.4%, Korean 1.4%, other 1.2%. Allowance must also be made for the facts that some Hawaiians cannot speak Hawaiian, that some of our Chinese speak Mandarin, and that about ten percent of the local Filipinos speak Visayan or Tagalog rather than Ilocano. Obviously, in a government report, the Portuguese are included as Caucasians; locally they are considered a group apart.

Milton's incorporation as Master of Arts at Oxford is a perennial problem. Resting as it does on the word of Anthony Wood, with no corroboration from either Milton himself or any of his early biographers, it has never been satisfyingly clear. Wood's statement (Fasti Oxonienses, 1721 edition, I, 262) is curious: “1635. … This Year was incorporated Master of Arts John Milton, not that it appears so in the Register, for the Reason I have told you in the Incorporations 1629, but from his own mouth to my friend, who was well acquainted with, and had from him, and from his Relations after his death, most of this account of his life and writings following.” The note under the incorporations for 1629 (I, 247) to which Wood refers is the following: “This Year John French M.A. and Fellow of Merton College was elected public Scribe or Registrary of the University, who being a careless Man (tho' a good Scholar) and more fit for another, than that, employment, hath omitted throughout all his time the Incorporations of the Cantabrigians at the conclusion of the Act, having had sometimes 40, at other times 50 and more incorporated at that time, in several degrees and faculties. Those therefore that I find, you shall have as they follow.” It is perhaps worth while to add, however, that Wood had remarked under incorporations for 1613 (i, 195): “The Incorporations of the Cantabrigians are this Year omitted by the public Scribe.” Evidently John French was not the only lazy scribe.

The year began uneasily, with the Director of the FL Program, Kenneth Mildenberger, on loan as a consultant to the U. S. Office of Education, a loan so long extended that it has practically become a gift, our loss and the country's gain, for Ken, succeeding Bill Parker, is now Chief of the Language Development Section of the Division of Higher Education of the Office of Education of the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. This series, duly extended, ends, as all admirers of “Our Town” will remember, in “The Mind of God.”

According to fiction, the university in. sixteenth-century Wittenberg can lay claim to those two students whose lives and tragical deaths have since seemed to the Western mind to comprise all its longings and strivings, as well as to epitomize its utmost ideal of heroism. According to fact, of course, Hamlet had long been dead before the university there was founded; and this fact, whether they know it or not, is of great advantage to the Shakespeare scholars, for the historical Faust has been a problem child of the critics for centuries. The Faust Book states that he did study in Wittenberg. Melanchthon seems to have been acquainted with him and to have thought that he had studied black magic in Cracow, too. Documentary evidence may indicate that he graduated at Heidelberg. Now whether or not he ever attended any university—and he most likely did not—over three hundred years of research on the Faust Book has had to cope with the many reports, now authentic, now fantastic, and with the many tales now new and now second-hand which were widely circulated about a real contemporary of Luther who sometimes called himself Faust.