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JOHN DONNE AND BAROQUE ALLEGORY

John Donne has been one of the most controversial poets in the
history of English literature, his complexity and intellectualism
provoking both praise and censure. In this major reassessment of
Donne’s poetry, Hugh Grady argues that his work can be newly
appreciated in our own era through Walter Benjamin’s theory of
baroque allegory. Providing close readings of The Anniversaries, The
Songs and Sonnets, and selected other lyrics, this study reveals Donne
as being immersed in the aesthetics of fragmentation that defines
both the baroque and the postmodernist aesthetics of today. Synthe-
sizing cultural criticism and formalist analysis, Grady illuminates
Donne afresh as a great poet for our own historical moment.

hugh grady is Professor Emeritus of English at Arcadia University.

His published works include The Modernist Shakespeare (1992),
Shakespeare, Machiavelli, and Montaigne (2002), and Shakespeare
and Impure Aesthetics (Cambridge, 2009). He has also edited four
critical anthologies and published a number of articles, most of which
have investigated ways in which contemporary critical theory can be
applied to works of early modern literature.
 JOHN DONNE AND
BAROQUE ALLEGORY
The Aesthetics of Fragmentation

HUGH GRADY
Arcadia University, Pennsylvania
 University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom
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education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence.

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107195806
doi: 10.1017/9781108164337
© Hugh Grady 2017
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2017
Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
names: Grady, Hugh author.
title: John Donne and baroque allegory : the aesthetics of
fragmentation / Hugh Grady, Arcadia University, Pennsylvania.
description: Cambridge ; New York : University Printing House, 2017. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
identifiers: lccn 2017012428| isbn 9781107195806 (hardback : alk. paper) |
isbn 9781316646946 (pbk. : alk. paper)
subjects: lcsh: Donne, John, 1572-1631–Criticism and interpretation. |
Allegory. | Benjamin, Walter, 1892-1940.
classification: lcc pr2248 .g67 2017 | ddc 821/.3–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012428
isbn 978-1-107-19580-6 Hardback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy
of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
In memory of Terence Hawkes (1932–2013)
 Contents

Acknowledgments page viii

1 Walter Benjamin and John Donne: Constellations of

Past and Present 1
2 The Anniversaries as Baroque Allegory: Mourning, Idealization,
and the Resistance to Unity 64
3 Donne’s The Songs and Sonets: Living in a Fragmented World 94
4 Allegorical Objects and Metaphysical Conceits: Thinking about
Donne’s Tropes with Benjamin 137
5 The Metaphysics of Correspondence or a Fragmented World?
Baroque Poetics in the Seventeenth Century 170
Conclusion 207

Bibliography 212
Index 226

vii
 Acknowledgments

Conversations with many colleagues were an important part of the gesta-

tion of this work. First and most important in this connection has been
my wife, Sue Wells, who has listened, discussed, proposed ideas, and
supported the project from its beginnings. Indeed, we have shared a
love of Donne’s poetry for the many decades of our relationship. I also
benefited from informal discussions of some of the ideas presented here
with Evelyn Gajowski, David Hawkes, Richard Strier, Arthur Marotti,
Barbara Bono, and Jim Bono.
Parts of an early draft of this manuscript were read and commented on
by Heather Dubrow, who was an important supporter and constructive
critic of this project. I owe a special debt to Theresa DiPasquale, who read
and commented on an early draft of Chapter 1 (and the prospectus as a
whole) and made important suggestions, some of which were incorporated
into the work. Anonymous readers at the journal Modern Philology helped
improve parts of what came to be part of Chapter 3. And two astute
anonymous readers for Cambridge University Press made additional
suggestions that contributed strongly to the final version.
I want to thank Arcadia University librarian Michelle Reale for her
important work in helping to track down appropriate databases, books,
and articles used in this work.
Parts of Chapters 1 and 2 were recontextualized and reframed in an
article in The John Donne Journal 32 (2013): 107–29. Papers drawn from
this project were presented at the 2015 John Donne Society Annual
Meeting at Baton Rouge, LA, February 26–28, 2015, and at the
2017 Modern Language Association Annual Convention in Philadelphia,
January 5, 2017.

viii
 1

Walter Benjamin and John Donne

Constellations of Past and Present

Benjamin, Donne, and the Era of the Baroque

This book began with an intuition about a certain “fit” between the lyric
poetry of John Donne and the account of baroque aesthetics that Walter
Benjamin gave in both his The Origin of German Tragic Drama and later in
his work on Baudelaire in the Arcades Project. I had been immersed in
Benjamin’s theory of allegory in working on the second part of my 2009
book, Shakespeare and Impure Aesthetics, “The Aesthetics of Death and
Mourning,” and in the course of this work, it began to occur to me that
there was another application of this theory, beyond the dramas that
Benjamin emphasized and on which I concentrated in that study, to the
lyric as well. Benjamin had also seen the opening to lyric poetry, and he
went on to apply aspects of his theory to the Symbolist poetry of Charles
Baudelaire in a different era. What occurred to me was that there was a
similar application of the theory to Donne’s poetry, another product of the
baroque age that Benjamin had explored in The Origin. And I was sur-
prised to discover that no previous critic had ever pursued the connection,
despite a burgeoning literature in recent years on Benjamin’s literary-
critical ideas.
This new interest in Benjamin has in part resulted from the persistence
and labors of Harvard University Press, which has over the last twenty
years brought out English translations of major works from Benjamin’s
entire career, so that it is now possible to gain a much fuller understanding
and appreciation of the extent and range of his critical and philosophical
writings in a tragically short career as a socially critical man of letters.1
Benjamin has been most appreciated for his contributions to under-
standing consumer culture and modernity more generally in a series of
well-known essays – and in greater detail in the notes to his never
completed work on Baudelaire and his nineteenth-century context, post-
humously published as The Arcades Project.2 There has also been sustained

1
2 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
attention for some time to the difficult prose of his 1928 “Trauerspielbuch,”
The Origin of German Tragic Drama,3 with its theory of baroque allegory,
which was a major influence on the early deconstructive criticism of the
Yale School critics and which has subsequently found other applications. It
is a unique work and one that is widely acknowledged to be both a rich
resource for subsequent critical theory and a challenge to read and com-
prehend. Its belated reception has unfolded slowly and unevenly – and
relatively selectively, with the theory of allegory, again usually in relation to
Modernism/Postmodernism, getting the most attention.
This work in particular (and the many other aspects of his larger body of
writings), however, are also highly relevant to early modern literature – and
to the works of John Donne specifically – for two principal reasons. First,
Benjamin developed the theory of allegory precisely for the age of the
German baroque in the early to mid-seventeenth century, and he included
aspects of the plays of the roughly contemporary playwrights Shakespeare
and Calderón as well, so it is specifically crafted for Donne’s era and its
baroque connections. Second, its discussion of a unique idea of the allegory
and its differentiation from the symbol, and its speculation on how the
form arose in English Renaissance plays (as well as in the later seventeenth-
century German baroque drama, which is Benjamin’s main topic), is
particularly germane here.4 In addition, while it is obviously less directly
relevant to seventeenth-century literature than is the work on the Trauer-
spiel, Benjamin’s intensive study of Baudelaire in his work on the Arcades
Project in the 1930s5 is connected to the earlier theory in several ways and
will be brought to bear from time to time in what follows as well. Baude-
laire, I should note, was of course often compared with Donne – even
before Eliot’s theory of the dissociation of sensibility in 1921 (and thereafter
quite frequently). Thus, Benjamin’s interest in and work on Baudelaire is
another reason for seeing him as relevant to a study of Donne. For all these
reasons and others to be developed below, this book argues that Walter
Benjamin’s literary theories can help illuminate the poetry of John Donne
and contribute to developing new directions in Donne studies.
While the many details will be developed below in the individual
chapters, I want to note here the way Benjamin synthesizes avant la lettre
two strains within contemporary early modern studies that have usually
been seen as opposites, even opponents: historical, political, and cultural
criticism, on the one hand, and formalism, on the other.6 Benjamin
affiliated intellectually with Marxism in the late 1920s and throughout
the ’30s, and in tandem with Marxist cultural analysis he was committed to
the idea of situating the artwork in its historical context and striving to
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 3
bring out its political implications, particularly for his present (as I will
discuss shortly). He could easily be credited, in fact, as the inventor of
cultural studies, with his career-long innovations in the study of photog-
raphy (beginning as early as 1926), film, children’s literature and toys, and
radio. His famous essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction” has been among the most influential contributions to
cultural studies (and beyond) ever written.7
But like his friend and sometime critic Theodor Adorno, he held that
the form of the work of art was essential to its existence and must be a
central aspect of the criticism thereof. This is obvious in Ursprung des
deutschen Trauerspiels – known in English under the slightly mistranslated
title The Origin of German Tragic Drama. That work was written before he
had decided to affiliate with Marxism, and it was prepared (in vain, as it
turned out) to fulfill academic requirements, but Benjamin always claimed
it as relevant to his more obviously Marxist writings in later life that clearly
built on it. Its central pursuit is the understanding of how a group of
seventeenth-century German dramas traditionally called Trauerspiele
constituted a new literary form, separate from tragedy proper (hence the
mistranslation in the English title), and profoundly connected to the
history of culture in the baroque era. Central to its argument was a highly
original theory of allegory in a special sense defined by Benjamin in the
course of the study.
I will return to these issues in much greater detail below. My point here
is to underline how much of his argument is formalist in nature. This
interest in formalism did not end with his affiliation with Marxism but
deepened and became explicitly materialist. Benjamin became interested in
developing understandings of how aesthetic forms were related to the rise
of capitalism and the complex interactions of historical-cultural develop-
ment. This interest can be seen in almost all the major works of his later
writings: in his analyses of Proust, Baudelaire, and Brecht and in his
pioneering work in photography and film in particular.
It is because of this combination, I think, that Benjamin (and related
theorists along the same lines such as Theodor Adorno and Fredric
Jameson) can help mediate between competing impulses in contemporary
Donne and early modern studies. I hope to exemplify this impulse in what
follows, as I try to give due attention to important issues of form in Donne
as well as his social and political connections. As we will see, this is an
impulse that others in the field are following up on in different ways as
well, as Heather Dubrow noted in her Presidential Address to the John
Donne Society in 2016, to which I will return briefly below.
4 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
This emphasis on form and its connection to its cultural context is a
quality of his work that Benjamin shared with Theodor Adorno. Despite
the many differences that emerged over the course of their years of
intellectual friendship, this fundamental approach to art criticism never
wavered for either. In Benjaminesque baroque allegory, as in Adorno’s
Aesthetic Theory, the function of artistic form is “to make historical content
... into a philosophical truth.”8 Benjamin’s work is fundamentally formalist
and historicist9 – and presentist as well, as we will see.
It is to this last, presentist dimension I want to turn now. Benjamin’s
thinking on the relation of past and present in the production of the work
of art, his theory of the “now” (Jetztzeit), in particular, can help clarify
Donne’s reception history. As I have written previously, Benjamin is
(in the terms of today’s critical lexicon) a “presentist,” a critic committed
to the idea that our readings of the past need to acknowledge and affirm
our own situation in the contemporary world.10 This means, among other
things, that our views of the past will change and develop as our own
culture changes – and so of course must our views and interpretations of
the great writers of the past. Necessarily, we need to think about what kind
of Donne the twenty-first century will give us; or perhaps, it is better to
say, what twenty-first century Donne we will ourselves construct.

Walter Benjamin’s Presentism

The recent publication of what is likely to be for the indefinite future the
definitive critical biography of Benjamin makes the task of getting at some
of the subtleties of Benjamin’s theory of the now-time easier than ever
before.11 He meditated on the problems of the relation of past and present
in the work of art (and knowledge in general) from his earliest days as a
philosopher-critic to his very last work, “Theses on the Philosophy of
History,” and some knowledge of the beginning does indeed help clarify
the enigmatic terms of his last writing on the subject.
In Eiland and Jennings’s account, the theory begins in the young
Benjamin’s reactions in his early university years to a version of
neo-Kantianism that tended to historicize the categories of knowledge
and critiqued the positivistic historicism of Leopold von Ranke, with its
well-known goal of writing history “as it was.”12 Like anyone educated in
the German university system of the day, he was instinctively Hegelian
(since the whole enterprise of cultural history pursued in the German
literature and aesthetics departments of that time was organized according
to Hegelian notions of culture unfolding historically). But of particular
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 5
importance was his reading of the philosophy of Henri Bergson, especially
his Creative Evolution and Matter and Memory.13 It was Bergson’s idea of
lived experience, and of the prolongation of the past in the present, that
helped set off the sparks of Benjamin’s later notion of the importance of
the segmented time in memory and the crucial importance of the present
moment in our experience. 14
The ideas of Nietzsche were also part of the inspiration for Benjamin,
particularly Nietzsche’s criticism of nineteenth-century positivist
approaches to history such as von Ranke’s.15 Eventually in the 1930s, some
ideas of the young Marx (“The world has long dreamed of something of
which it has only to become conscious in order to possess it in actuality”16)
helped fructify Benjamin’s thinking along these lines. Benjamin continued
throughout his career to critique the idea that the past can be reconstituted
objectively and definitively separated from the present in which the
historian lives.
There are obvious lessons to be drawn here that apply to some of today’s
deradicalized historical criticism, including much of the “old” historicism
now making something of a comeback, as well as the “new materialism” of
recent years.17 Attempts within these critical schools to reproduce the past
“just as it was” would amount, in Benjamin’s terms, to an impossible
attempt to restore to the work of art (in this case the work of literature) its
lost aura, its embeddedness in an original ritual-like context that contrib-
uted significantly to the work’s uniqueness, its nonreproducibility. In one
of his most famous essays, Benjamin argues that however valuable the aura
once was, it must give way in our times to the reality of “technological
reproducibility”18 (or “mechanical reproduction” in an older translation).
“Words, too, can have an aura of their own,” Benjamin wrote in a
different essay.19 The aura, strictly speaking, is not the property of the object,
but rather it is a quality of the act of perceiving it – a quality based on
distance, and productive of a sense of uniqueness, of authenticity. Natural
objects also have an aura, Benjamin writes, and we endow them with it. 20
In effect, positivist historical criticism attempts in its readings to repro-
duce the aura of poetry (and other forms of literature), in the process
creating false essences, losing the immediacy of the artwork, that is, its
potential for achieving legibility (to use Benjamin’s term) in our present.
This kind of search for aura, Samuel Weber writes, is one whose goal is to
define for the artwork its “fixed place, that would take its place in and as a
world picture.”21 Instead, I argue, we ought to search for the possibility of
new legibilities, new constellations of meaning created by the aging of the
work and the emergence of the future in our present.22
6 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
Benjamin nurtured these and similar ideas in his long work with and
translation of Proust, his writing about Kafka, and his study of Baudelaire.
It is also a central motif in his study of the seventeenth-century German
baroque dramas or Trauerspiele, as we see, for example, in his famous
dictum from that study, “Allegories are, in the realm of thoughts, what
ruins are in the realm of things.”23 Time is sedimented in the baroque plays
in a way analogous to its complex sedimentation in key works of Modern-
ism such as Proust’s In Remembrance of Time Past, Joyce’s Ulysses, Eliot’s
and Pound’s poetry, or Faulkner’s novels.24 Benjamin was in The Origin
explicit about the connection between the seventeenth-century dramas he
was analyzing and the works of contemporary German Expressionism – he
mentions specifically a 1915 adaptation of Euripides’ The Trojan Women by
Franz Werfel, Die Troerinnen.25
But Benjamin went on to contemplate what happens to the work of art
as it enters history, as it ages and is read and reinterpreted from epoch to
epoch. For him, the afterlife of the work of art is crucial to its meaning for
us, as crucial as is its meaning at its point of origin. Indeed, since the latter
is essentially unrecoverable by us (a fortiori in the case of centuries-old
works) because the original social situation and context have vanished, the
afterlife is even more important – though Benjamin also believed (unlike
some contemporary poststructuralists) that something of the original
meaning always survived, and got recontextualized in subsequent ages.
This is one of Benjamin’s most central ideas, and he returns to it in a
variety of formulas over many years. One of its fullest expressions is found
in the collection of notes for the Arcades Project:
What distinguishes images from the “essences” of phenomenology is their
historical index. (Heidegger seeks in vain to rescue history for phenomen-
ology abstractly through “historicity”). These images are to be thought of
entirely apart from the categories of the “human sciences”: from so-called
habitus, from style, and the like. For the historical index of the images not
only says that they belong to a particular time; it says, above all, that they
attain to legibility only at a particular time. And, indeed, this acceding “to
legibility” constitutes a specific critical point in the movement at their
interior. Every present day is determined by the images that are synchronic
with it: each “now” is the now of a particular recognisability. In it, truth is
charged to the bursting point with time. (This point of explosion, and
nothing else, is the death of the intentio, which thus coincides with the birth
of authentic historical time, the time of truth). It is not that what is past
casts its light on what is present, or what is present its light on what is past;
rather, image is that wherein what has been comes together in a flash with
the now to form a constellation. In other words: image is dialectics at a
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 7
standstill. For while the relation of the present to the past is purely
temporal, the relation of what-has-been to the now is dialectical: not
temporal in nature but figural <bildich> [sic]. Only dialectical images
are genuinely historical – that is, not archaic – images. The image that is
read – which is to say, the image in the now of its recognisability – bears to
the highest degree the imprint of the perilous critical moment on which all
reading is founded.26
This quote – and particularly the striking, Donne-like oxymoron “dialect-
ics at a standstill” – has become rightly celebrated,27 and I will return to it
in Chapters 4 and 5. But Benjamin’s preoccupation with the importance of
the “now” in the understanding of art and culture recurs continually in his
writings. In his last work, “On the Concept of History” (1940), he put it
this way:
History is the subject of a construction whose site is not homogenous,
empty time, but time filled full by now-time [Jetztzeit]. Thus, to Robe-
spierre, ancient Rome was a past charged with now-time, a past which he
blasted out of the continuum of history. The French Revolution viewed
itself as Rome incarnate. It cited ancient Rome exactly the way fashion cites
a by-gone mode of dress.28
Benjamin is thus particularly a theorist of a presentism interested in
mediating constantly between the past of the work’s construction and
the present of the moment of reading. His idea is both to avoid facile
parallels between past and present and to avoid an attempt to isolate the
past from the present. What he calls for is a kind of creative violence (as the
use of the term “blast” in the above quote indicates), a simultaneous,
interpenetrating moment of perception in which past and present reveal
each other in each other:
The true image of the past flits by. The past can be seized only as an image
that flashes up at the moment of its recognisability, and is never seen again.
“The truth will not run away from us”: this statement by Gottfried Keller
indicates exactly that point in historicism’s image of history where the
image is pierced by historical materialism. For it is an irretrievable image
of the past which threatens to disappear in any present that does not
recognize itself as intended in that image.29
To be sure, some caveats and qualifications need to made in our sober
present concerning Benjamin’s ecstatic language in the last quote. First is
his reference to “historical materialism,” a common synonym for Marx-
ism. It is clear to any student of Marxism that this particular version is
one that is unique to Walter Benjamin and has never been universally
8 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
embraced by adherents of what has become a hugely variegated, non-
unified set of ideas. As readers of Benjamin, we need to mentally insert a
kind of “translation,” so that “historical materialism” means in Benjamin
something like the “in-process version of Marxist thinking I am construct-
ing.” Second is the issue of the sense in which it can be said that the past
work's meaning for us in a later time is “intended.” I take this formula as
a rule of Benjamin’s hermeneutics of the construction of the “legibility” of
a work in a later epoch: we must take its meaning as intended for us
because only thus can we grasp what it means now in the Jetztzeit as an
inescapable meaning – one inherent in the socio-historical process in
which the work has been reproduced and refunctioned over the ages.
Such meanings are “intended” because they are the inevitable outcomes of
the aging of the artwork.
In what follows, I want particularly to apply these ideas of the unfolding
of the meaning of the artwork in history to the complicated and virtually
unique case of Donne’s extremely varied reception in history – and
particularly to the invention of the “Modernist Donne” of the post–
World War I era30 epitomized by T. S. Eliot’s famous championing of
Donne and “Metaphysical poetry” in his 1921 article “The Metaphysical
Poets.” It will be necessary as well to review the contemporaneous but
quite distinct development of the idea of the baroque over the same years
in order to properly contextualize one of Benjamin’s key terms and to lay
the basis for one of the latest developments in our understanding of Donne
in the present. This leads to the inevitable issue of what has been and what
should be the contours of a still evolving Donne.

Donne’s Afterlife
The bare outlines of the story of Donne’s reception are well known,
although there have been some fairly recent discoveries that have not
circulated widely beyond Donne specialists. In his early writing career,
Donne cultivated a limited, “coterie” audience but found a wider reader-
ship and became known by a segment of the reading public of his day
through copied manuscripts. In the process, as Ernest Sullivan wrote in an
important study of the issue, “Donne lost all control over his manuscript
readers” because of all the unauthorized copying.31 Many of the poems
also found their way into print during his lifetime (and well after) as
Sullivan also discovered in his ground-breaking study of Donne’s “uncol-
lected seventeenth-century printed verse” from 1993.32 As a result Donne
became a popular poet despite his apparent intentions not to be, and he
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 9
earned a reputation as the great exemplar of the poetry of wit or mental
acuity during his lifetime and for the rest of the seventeenth century and
beyond.
In addition, Donne found imitators in the next generation, most
notably his champion Abraham Cowley, and more remotely perhaps, in
the other so-called Metaphysical poets George Herbert, Andrew Marvell,
Thomas Traherne, and Henry Vaughn. But the triumph of neoclassical
poetics in Restoration culture eventually worked against Donne – as
epitomized in Dryden’s famous criticism of Donne’s style, that “he affects
the metaphysics, not only in his satires, but in his amorous verses, where
nature only should reign; and perplexes the minds of the fair sex with nice
speculations of philosophy, when he should engage their hearts, and
entertain them with the softnesses of love.”33 A whole paradigm shift in
a culture’s poetic sensibility, its instinct for what should and should not be
part of poetry, is encapsulated here. It was a shift of taste that was destined
to decrease Donne’s prestige as a poet during the entire “long” eighteenth
century and well into the nineteenth. 34
But again, Sullivan’s work complicates any simple, one-dimensional
account of this shift in aesthetic taste by documenting that Donne’s poems
found readers and, indeed, publishers in a variety of usually ignored
uncollected printings of Donne’s verse, not only in the first six decades
of the century, but also after the Restoration. His examination of the great
variety of works that included Donne lyrics surprisingly shows that he was
a popular poet throughout the century and found readers among the
nonelite portions of the population, including women, and even young
scholars in grammar schools. Sullivan does not extend his study beyond
the year 1700, but he does show that Donne had many readers well after
Dryden’s critique of him,35 as does A. J. Smith in his John Donne: The
Critical Heritage.
This important qualification does not, however, fundamentally alter the
big picture of a long-term change in the perception of Donne in the
eighteenth century. Samuel Johnson greatly amplified the new taste exem-
plified by Dryden in his much quoted and pejorative remarks on a group
he called (coining the phrase) “the metaphysical poets,” of whom Donne is
the earliest. Johnson, in an opinion that would dominate the reception of
Donne until well into the nineteenth century, wrote, “The metaphysical
poets were men of learning, and to show their learning was their only
endeavor; but unluckily, resolving to show it in rhyme, instead of writing
poetry they only wrote verses, and very often such verses as stood the trial
of the finger better than that of the ear.”36
10 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
Johnson’s opinion was still prevalent in the nineteenth century, despite
the efforts of a few early admirers such as Coleridge, Browning, or (in the
United States) Emerson, Thoreau, and Margaret Fuller. The details can be
studied in an excellent investigation into Donne’s reception in the nine-
teenth century by John Haskin.37 Haskin demonstrates that despite the
strength of the Donne renaissance of the 1920s, it was during the Victorian
era that the tide began to shift, and a Donne revival can be said to have
begun (though climaxing late in the era, in the 1890s) after an approxi-
mately 200-year eclipse.38
This revival, however, turned into a political-aesthetic revolution with
the publication – and subsequent vast influence of – T. S. Eliot’s brief
review of Herbert Grierson’s anthology Metaphysical Lyrics and Poems of
the Seventeenth Century (1921). The review was titled “The Metaphysical
Poets” and was first published in the Times Literary Supplement (Oct. 20,
1921: 669–70).39 Thereafter, as Haskin notes, “The vogue for Donne that
arose in the 1890s was superseded in the twentieth century by a sustained
critical scrutiny that led to Donne’s establishment as a major poet.” 40
Eliot’s essay was one of the most prominent signposts of a complex
cultural process through which Donne’s poetry became a major vehicle for
and outcome of the Modernist aesthetic revolution of the twentieth
century – and exemplified precisely what Benjamin means when he wrote:
“It is not that what is past casts its light on what is present, or what is
present its light on what is past; rather, image is that wherein what has
been comes together in a flash with the now to form a constellation ... The
image that is read – which it to say, the image in the now of its
recognisability – bears to the highest degree the imprint of the perilous
critical moment on which all reading is founded.”41 The moment of the
“Modernist Donne” is precisely such a constellation formed by the cultural
products of two eras brought into close juxtaposition, each stimulating the
other. It is a prime example of “dialectics at a standstill” – two cultural
moments in dynamic interaction but focused in one perceptual moment.

T. S. Eliot: Presentist Critic

T. S. Eliot, who serves so often as an example of conventionality and
conservative thinking is, perhaps surprisingly, closer to Walter Benjamin
than to a more academic critic like Rosemund Tuve42 in his evaluation of
the aesthetic paradigm shifts as they impact our reception of Donne’s
poetry. Such a view was already implied, if not stated directly, in his 1921
“The Metaphysical Poets,” when Eliot linked Donne with contemporary
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 11
poetry (both the previous generation’s Symbolism and, implicitly, with an
emerging Modernism) – claiming as well, of course, that Donne was a
neglected poetic master whose place in the English poetic tradition deserved
(and of course subsequently got) significant upward revision. But Eliot was
explicit about positing a link between Donne and Eliot’s early models, the
minor French Symbolists Jules Laforgue and Tristan Corbière, said to be
“nearer to the ‘school of Donne’ than any modern English poet.” And then
(very significantly for our understanding of the limited but definite parallels
between Benjamin and Eliot), he quotes the opening of the last lyric of
Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, “Le Voyage,” and claims that Baudelaire,
too, had “the same essential quality of transmuting ideas into sensations, of
transforming an observation into a state of mind.”43
Benjamin, of course, spent the last decade of his life attempting to
define how Baudelaire was the first to adopt the requisite poetic techniques
to respond to the onset of a consumerist, commercial, capitalist society
that forms the social basis for the entire Modernist movement in the arts,
and he saw Baudelaire as linked to the baroque poetics he had studied in
his The Origin of German Tragic Drama. This is one of the ways Benjamin
seems already to be writing a preface to a study of Donne’s poetic afterlife
and to Donne’s poetry itself.
In Eliot’s alluding to Laforgue and Corbière, however, I think it is fair to
say, we can see a self-reference on Eliot’s part, an implied claim that his
own poetic practice partakes in the unified sensibility and the complex
problematic striving for unity of the materials of nonpoetic reality that he
identifies for both Donne and the Symbolists. Who can doubt that Eliot
has his own work in mind when he writes, “Our civilization comprehends
great variety and complexity, and this variety and complexity, playing
upon a refined sensibility, must produce various and complex results.
The poet must become more and more comprehensive, more allusive,
more indirect, on order to force, to dislocate if necessary, language into his
meaning.”44 Implicitly then, Eliot, as he did for his French models, claims
in effect to be “nearer to the ‘School of Donne’” than other English poets.
A similar sentiment appears in his 1926 Clark lectures at Cambridge,
when in the opening Eliot acknowledges the recent growth of new interest
in seventeenth-century poetry and states that his own point of view is that
of a craftsman of verse, “centred in the present and the immediate future,”
and avows that he “studies the literature of the past in order to learn how
he should write in the present.”45 The lectures elaborate many of the
briefly sketched ideas of “The Metaphysical Poets” essay and identify three
different eras of “metaphysical poetry” (and unified sensibility): the age of
12 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
Dante, the age of Donne, and the age of the French Symbolists, with each
moment getting extensive treatment as the lectures unfold.
Returning to issues of his connection to Donne some five years later,
writing for the critical tribute to Donne on the 300th anniversary of his
death, Eliot is again quite specific in tying the new appreciation of Donne’s
poetry to the artistic and poetic movements of the early twentieth century.
Eliot does, to be sure, make protests that he indeed believes in absolute
standards of taste and that there is more than “capricious fashion” behind
the critical rankings of the various poets; there will be, he claims, “some
Final Judgment Day, on which the poets will be assembled in their ranks
and orders.” But then Eliot adds: “At any particular time, and we exist only
in particular moments of time, good taste consists, not in attaining to the
vision of Judgment Day, and still less in assuming that what happens to be
important for us now is certainly what will be important in the same way
on that occasion, but in approximating to some analysis of the absolute
and the relative in our own appreciation.”46 It’s hard to be sure how
seriously to take the reference to a Final Aesthetic Judgment Day. It is
an open question how Eliot might have responded to a very similar
observation of Benjamin on this issue of the relation of the past to a given
present: “Of course, only a redeemed mankind is granted the fullness of its
past – which is to say, only for a redeemed mankind has its past become
citable in all its moments. Each moment it has lived becomes a citation à
l’ordre du jour. And that day is Judgment Day.”47 Both writers, lovers of
fragments, longed for redemption and completion in an impossibly frag-
mented present.
Eliot’s off-hand remark may be the germ of the idea behind the
meditations on time and eternity in his 1943 The Four Quartets, but it is
certainly underdeveloped in “Donne in Our Time” – and, as noted, greatly
qualified. At another level, the movement from generalized time to specific
time is reminiscent of another system-undermining dictum from another
theorist of authoritarian bent: “From the first moment to the last, the
lonely hour of the ‘last instance’ never comes,” wrote Louis Althusser, in a
comment on Engels’s view that in Marxism the economic factor is decisive
“in the last instance.”48 There are absolute standards, both statements seem
to say; it’s just that we never get to them.
Certainly, this is not Benjamin’s joyous celebration of the focusing
power of the Jetztzeit, but it is a recognition that aesthetic judgments take
place in the now and are deeply influenced by the perceiver’s present.
And it continues, and amplifies, Eliot’s previous claims for Donne’s
relation to the Modernist moment. We can see something similar
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 13
in spirit, if quite different in its (largely biography-based) analysis, in
Virginia Woolfe’s essay on Donne in 1931.49

Benjamin’s Correction of the Anglo-American Modernist Donne

Eliot perhaps remained the most important Donne critic in terms of
immediate impact, but much of the reception of Donne over the following
decades depended on a group of more academic critics who used Donne’s
poetry to develop techniques of close reading that became vehicles for
promoting the study and appreciation of Donne and methods that helped
professionalize the new discipline of English studies in the twentieth
century: the New Critics.
Besides Eliot, the big names in the critical revolution that helped propel
Donne to the status of major poet are I. A. Richards, William Empson,
and Cleanth Brooks. The first two were, respectively, architect and prod-
uct of the revolutionary English department at Cambridge University in
the post–World War I era, which invented close reading and (what came
to be known as) New Criticism. Cleanth Brooks was one of four leading
American New Critics at first centered at Vanderbilt University in Nash-
ville, Tennessee. But Brooks had studied in Britain at Oxford, discovered
the ideas of I. A. Richards, and brought back his methods to his group in
the United States, one that had already been thinking along similar lines.50
All wrote centrally on Donne and championed him in several ways – in
teaching, in critical essays, and in textbook writing. Through their influ-
ence and that of their many followers, Donne became a central figure of
the Modernist aesthetic revolution of the 1920s and beyond and was a
major vehicle for the revolution in the evaluation of poetic language and
technique that allowed for the development of Modernist poetry in the
first half of the twentieth century.
This New Critical championing of Donne, I would argue, is related to
the Modernist-baroque constellation that Benjamin noted in defining the
connections of the baroque (with its antirealist aesthetic techniques and
emotional extremes) to early twentieth-century German Expressionist art
and literature,51 to the epic theater of his friend Bertolt Brecht,52 and,
centrally, to the poetic techniques of the father of literary Modernism,
Charles Baudelaire.53
While Benjamin’s study of seventeenth-century German drama was
clearly connected to the Modernist moment of the 1920s (displaying, as
we have seen, many commonalities with the Anglo-American Modernist
discovery of Metaphysical poetry), there were significant differences
14 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
between Benjamin’s theory and practice and those of the Anglo-
Americans. This became even clearer when in the 1930s he turned to a
sustained study of the father of Modernist poetry, Charles Baudelaire,
and the socioeconomic forces that helped form Baudelaire’s work. Like
T. S. Eliot, he saw a connection between baroque and Symbolist literature.
But he defined this connection primarily in terms of a common use in
both eras of allegory – allegory in the special sense he defined in his
Trauerspiel book, putting aside the traditional associations of the term
with the idea of narrative connections and instead putting emphasis on
melancholy, an empty world, and fragmented forms resistant to unity
(I will discuss these in more detail in the following chapters). In this
emphasis, he departed radically from mainstream Anglo-American critical
notions, which by and large emphasized in Donne a troubled but usually
successful search for aesthetic unity. Benjamin instead thought that “In the
field of allegorical intuition, the image is a fragment, a rune ... The false
appearance of totality is extinguished.”54
Brooks was perhaps the most explicit in making unity a central critical
principle, as can be seen, for example, in his classic essay on Donne in The
Well Wrought Urn:

For us today, Donne’s imagination seems obsessed with the problem of

unity: the sense in which the lovers become one – the sense in which the
soul is united with God. Frequently, as we have seen, one type of unity
becomes a metaphor for the other. It may not be too far-fetched to see both
as instances of and metaphors for, the union which the creative imagination
itself effects ... Coleridge has of course given us the classic description of its
nature and power.55

Brooks then goes on to quote and paraphrase Coleridge’s celebrated

definition of the symbol, famously contrasted as living and organic, as
against a lifeless and mechanical allegory – an instance of “Imagination”
rather than of a lesser, mechanical “Fancy.” He thus assimilates Donne’s
central figures in the poem (and the Metaphysical conceit more generally)
to the classic status of Romantic unity. This supposition is, as I have already
intimated and will discuss further below in some detail, the direct opposite
of Benjamin’s analysis of the baroque allegory of the seventeenth century.
Empson is, as might be expected, a more complicated Donne critic, but
I think it is fair to say that only in his seventh or last “type” of ambiguity
does he come near to Benjamin’s diagnosis of baroque dissonance. In that
chapter, he defines a “fully divided mind,” invoking Freud’s idea of
the unconscious. He gives many small examples rather than looking at
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 15
complete poems, and Donne is little noted there. Most of the criticism of
Donne in Seven Types of Ambiguity is to be found in chapter 4, in which
“the alternative meanings combine to make clear a complicated state of
mind in the author.”56 The Donne poem criticized at length there is
“A Valediction of Weeping,” and characteristically (and very much against
the grain of Cleanth Brooks’s disdain for biographical criticism), Empson
wants to situate the poem at a specific moment of Donne’s life: he thinks it
was written just before Donne left for the Essex expedition of 1596.
As for the third of these pioneers, I. A. Richards was less a critical
theorist than he was an empiricist investigator of poetic perception –
perhaps, as Chanita Goodblatt argued at the 2015 Reconsidering Donne
Conference at Lincoln College, Oxford, something of a Gestalt psycholo-
gist.57 In the running experiment of his English classes at Cambridge in the
years leading up to the publication of the results of his researches in the
1929 Practical Criticism, he distributed copies of a poem to a class of
undergraduates, the poem unaccompanied by information on its author
or date. The students were asked to explain why they liked or disliked the
poems in an assignment handed in a week after the distribution. In the
analysis and discussion of the results that make up the book, Richards
makes it clear that he believes each poem has a sense and that students are
either correct or incorrect in fathoming it. And he catalogs a long list of
mistakes, false assumptions, irrelevant states of mind, and so on that he
believes are interfering with each student’s encounters with the poems.58
Today, this sounds like a set of bad examples from the Authoritarian
Classroom, but putting this aside, what Richards had done was to invent
the first version of New Critical close reading, and from the first Donne’s
poetry is part of it. Donne’s Holy Sonnet 7 (“At the round earth’s
imagined corners blow”) appears as Poem 3 of the study. And it is clear
in his comments that he believes in a complex but unitary meaning for this
and other poems.
In short, then, the Anglo-American critics of the Modernist Donne were
unifiers, while Benjamin was a fragmenter. The import of this difference –
which in some ways is a matter of emphasis, since the dialectic formed
between the whole and its parts is always complex and open to interpret-
ation – became fully clarified only in the Postmodernist era and with the
advent of deconstructive criticism. The passage from Coleridge casually
evoked by Cleanth Brooks to help define Donne’s unity itself became a
major target of criticism in the Benjamin-influenced writings of Paul de
Man in the heyday of the Yale Critics.59 De Man’s critique of Coleridge’s
deprecation of allegory then became a standard poststructuralist and
16 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
Postmodernist idea. Because of this, and because of some other issues to be
noted in due course, Benjamin’s work is not only a product of the
Modernism of the 1920s but prescient in important ways of the poststruc-
turalist ideas of the recent past. A Benjaminian interpretation would
necessarily reproduce aspects of the Modernist Donne, but on the crucial
question of the unity of the Metaphysical conceit and of the poems more
generally, it would be resolutely tilted toward the side of fragmentation,
disunity, and Postmodernism.

The Baroque and Donne

While the British and American New Critics developed close reading as the
technique they thought was best suited for the study of Donne, an entirely
different approach to him sprang up in Germany and Italy and eventually
became widespread, even developing a following in the United Kingdom
and United States. It was one based on a concept borrowed from art history
and art criticism applied to the study of literature: the definition and
development of a concept of a literary baroque. This was in fact the context
in which Benjamin worked out the details of his analysis of the German
seventeenth-century Trauerspiele in his The Origin of German Tragic Drama.
In that work, Benjamin mostly takes the term “baroque” for granted and
does not provide a definition of it, but he certainly assumes it and explicitly
situates himself in the context of an extensive, mostly German discussion of
this term. His theory of the baroque allegory is in fact a contribution to the
discussion of the nature of baroque aesthetics. But the term has had a
complex provenance. “Baroque” had been specifically borrowed from visual
art history for use in literary studies in the late nineteenth century,60 but the
literature on it had already become extensive as Benjamin worked on his
book in the mid-1920s. Benjamin cites most of the major works of the
literature in the course of his discussion and assumes throughout the much
debated position that the term designates an aesthetic period that followed
that of the Renaissance, mostly in the seventeenth century, and that this
period should not be seen, as Jacob Burckhardt famously had it, as a period
of degeneracy from a Renaissance highpoint, but was instead an aesthetic
period whose works had their own value and aesthetic structures worthy of
respect and study.61 And as Jane Newman argues in detail, Benjamin
supported the idea that the baroque was also a style that specifically had a
long influence on and afterlife within the German literary tradition.62
As already mentioned, Benjamin himself linked his interest in the bar-
oque with the development of art and literature in early twentieth-century
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 17
Germany in Expressionism, and this connection became a commonplace
one as the discussion developed.63 In retrospect, it seems to be a German
parallel to the link established between Donne’s poetry and Modernism in
the United States and United Kingdom by T. S. Eliot and myriads of
followers. But just what is the connection between the two separate
nomenclatures of “Metaphysical” and “baroque” poetry? In Chapter 4,
I will argue that the term “Metaphysical” in this context is an arbitrary and
somewhat happenstance coinage that became accepted for want of a better
term in English literary history. “Baroque,” in contrast, while like every
such term having its own history of chance and association, is international
in application and well accepted in international art history and in the
literary histories of Spain, Italy, and Germany – and several others,
according to René Wellek’s classic article on the subject, to which I will
turn shortly. The crucial problem (noted by numerous writers on the
subject) is that the term “baroque” became, as its usage proliferated, more
a cluster of associations and judgments than a clear concept of its own.
There are numerous issues surrounding it that ask for clarification. Is it, for
example, as some critics claim, the more or less official aesthetic paradigm
of the Catholic Counter-Reformation? Or does it contain a vigorous
Protestant strain as well? Is it a style, an aesthetic period, or both? If it is
a style, is it a more or less universal aspect of aesthetic traditions world-
wide, or is it to be found in some countries but not in others? Is it a
positive or derogatory term? These and more issues have been debated now
for over a century, and there is little consensus even today. Gregg Lambert
argues that such a debate is, in principle, interminable, if only because, “In
the case of the baroque, it has no other mode of existence than expression,
particularly by those who persist in expressing or evoking its name even if
only to deny it. Because the baroque is potentially an ‘empty category,’ it
has often played havoc with the empirical assumptions as the basis of
historical narration.”64 This, it must be emphasized, is an observation
made in introducing what the author sees as a palpable revival of the
baroque in Postmodernist culture, even though for a long time after the
advent of the Postmodernist critical revolution, the baroque seemed to
have disappeared. But I will return to these developments below.

The Baroque in Anglo-American Literary Studies

The term “baroque” was originally a pejorative, usually used in the context
of discussions of art and architecture, to mean something like over-
decorated, absurd, or grotesque. As it evolved into the idea of a specific
18 John Donne and Baroque Allegory
phase of Western art, those negative connotations at first came with it.
Jacob Burckhardt used the term in his 1860 The Civilization of the Renais-
sance in Italy to convey his judgment that the art following the Italian High
Renaissance was degenerative and decadent. In a few decades, however, the
term evolved into a more neutral one, designating an aesthetic or cultural
period of seventeenth-century Europe with a specific style and, even for
some critics, a specific worldview. It eventually became a central term in
the field of art history for the period following the Renaissance and in turn
giving way to Neoclassicism.
The first critic to suggest the term might be applied to literary studies
was the German Heinrich Wölfflin, in his 1888 Renaissance und Barock.65
In his discussion of the history of Italian painting, Wölfflin developed a
contrast between a “classical” Renaissance (epitomized by Raphael and
Leonardo) and a “baroque” period of artists such as Tintoretto and
Caravaggio that followed and established stylistic differences from the
High Renaissance. In a highly influential argument reproduced multiple
times in the literature that followed, he held that it was a matter not just of
differing styles but of “two different ways of seeing the world” that
produced two styles. The baroque was “painterly” rather than “linear” or
“planar”; that is, it attempted to manifest movement rather than solidity. It
organized the painting’s space through a continuous recessionality rather
than as a series of planes. And the baroque attempted to show the thing in
its changeability rather than as a solid “thing in itself.” 66
Later in the same work Wölfflin himself applied the concept to litera-
ture in a contrast, between Tasso (baroque) and Ariosto (Renaissance),
organized along synesthetic versions of the defining characteristics of the
baroque-Renaissance binary he had worked out for painting and architec-
ture. Several subsequent German scholars also applied the concept of the
baroque to English literature in a variety of different ways in a develop-
ment that, we have seen, set the stage for Benjamin’s study of the baroque
allegory. The idea of a literary baroque period was enthusiastically taken up
by Spanish and Italian scholars and soon many others far beyond.67
But in the English-speaking world, the reception of the idea was
decidedly mixed. The essential story between 1946 (the publication date
of Wellek’s essay) and, say, 1985 (the approximate date for the beginning of
the hegemony of theoretical approaches in American literary studies) is
one in which a few eminent, multilingual, often European scholars trans-
planted to America or England argue that the concept of the baroque – as
period, as style, as worldview – is an essential one for the mapping of
seventeenth-century English literary history and for understanding its
 Walter Benjamin and John Donne 19
relation to the rest of Europe in the same period. But they do so in a field
that, while not exactly ignoring them, never adopts their “full program”
but incorporates the concept of the baroque as mostly a stylistic and
thematic descriptor that becomes part of the terminological arsenal within
the discourse on seventeenth-century literary studies – but hardly a
central concept. As we will see, one of those eminent scholars
I referred to above, René Wellek, concedes that this has been the fate of
the term in his 1962 retrospective essay on the subject. Of the four most
prominent proponents of the baroque in the English-speaking world in the
immediate postwar years – Wellek, Wylie Sypher, Mario Praz, and Frank
J. Warnke – Wellek is, I believe, the most important and influential figure
and will get most of my attention here. I will discuss Sypher briefly below
in conjunction with his essay on Donne and Milton, and Praz and Warnke
as bookends, as it were, for the case of Wellek. After that necessary
exposition, I will turn to the issue of how the discussion of the baroque
figured in Donne studies more narrowly construed.

The Baroque Comes to England and America

Mario Praz certainly belongs in a list of influential critics who helped bring
the idea of the baroque to the United Kingdom and the United States, but
there are two caveats to get out of the way first in that regard. There is the
issue of how to date his influence in the English-speaking world. He did
his first work on Donne in Italian, and it was published in Florence in
1925, 68 but it seems to have been little noticed outside of Italy at first. That
began to change with his essay in the 1931 Garland for Donne, “Donne and
the Poetry of His Time,”69 which was favorably mentioned by both T. S.
Eliot and H. J. C. Grierson.70 In it Praz argues that Donne was a
revolutionary within the tradition of love poetry, striking out in a new
direction of dramatic intensity, metrical originality, colloquial style, and
“prosaic” imagery. His lady is not the idealized Donna of the Petrarchan
tradition, but “so much of a flesh-and-blood presence, that she can be
invited to ‘act the rest.’”71
And he adds, in a pioneering coupling of Donne and the baroque,
“Donne’s technique stands in the same relation to the average technique of
Renaissance poetry as that of baroque to that of Renaissance painting. His
sole preoccupation is with the whole effect.”72
Praz goes on to try to isolate the uniqueness of Donne, praising
T. S. Eliot’s general idea of Donne’s mastery of “sensuous thought” and
agreeing with him that this is a quality Donne shared with Baudelaire.73
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Chassidim, the, 3, 4;
“New Chassidim,” 380, 381, 382, 504.
“Chovevi (Lovers of) Zion,” 489.
Christ, 28, 39, 42, 43, 44, 85, 189;
Messianic character of, 190.
Christian Church, prohibition of usury, 106–7;
suppression of, 108;
laws against Jews, 134, 149;
Jews compelled to attend, 185.
“Christian Germanism,” 306.
Christian money-lenders, 415;
Socialism, 426, 428;
Socialists, 422, 424, 427.
Christiani, Pablo, 98–9, 145.
Christianity, and the Jews, 41–61;
tenets of, 42, 43, 98, 99, 103.
Christians, apostacy punished, 44;
massacre of, 49, 100, 144, 148;
at Turkish Court, 174;
repugnance to Jews, 226, 234;
of Rome, 310;
of Roumania, 383.
Chrysostom, John, 47.
Cicero, 18, 19.
Claudius, 23.
Clermont, great Council of, 86.
Clermont-Tonnerre, 296.
Cohen, the Rev. Francis L., 448.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 317–9, 499.
Coleridgean theology, 320.
Colet, John, 274.
Columbus, Christopher, 163.
Concerning the Jews and their lies (Luther), 220.
Confessions (Rousseau), 291.
Confraternity of the Holy Family, 472.
Constantine the Great, 41, 43, 44, 57, 81.
Constitutional Committee of New Haven, 277.
Cordova, 60;
Jews found school at, 71.
Cossacks, 238–9;
war with Poles, 240–1.
Council of Lyons, 132.
Court of Cassation, 435.
Creagh, Father, Jews anathematized by, 471–2.
Crémieux Decree, 436.
Crimean War, 332.
Cromwell, Oliver, 274, 275, 278, 279, 280, 281, 302.
Crusaders absolved from financial embarrassments, 108;
in England, 121;
in Spain, 144;
orgies, 217.
Crusades, the, 83–104.
Cyprus, insurrection in, 35, 36.
Cyrene, insurrection in, 35.
Cyril of Alexandria, 47, 56.
Cyrus, 301, 494.

Dacia, conquest by Trajan, 387, 388.

Dante, friendship with Immanuel, 184, 185, 186–7.
David, 36, 57.
David, Ben, 291.
Declaration of the Rights of Man, The, 296.
De Judaismo, statute, 323.
Denmark, persecution of Jews in, 306.
De Verbo Mirifico (Reuchlin), 233.
Diderot, 286.
Dilke, Sir Charles, 399, 462–3, 469.
Diogo Pires (Solomon Molcho), 170–1.
Dispersion, The, 34–40, 283.
Disraeli, Benjamin, 327, 385, 438, 439, 480.
Divina Commedia (Dante), 179.
Dohm, Christian William, 292, 293, 295.
Dominic, Order of, 95–6, 99, 108, 129, 151, 154, 155, 157, 197, 232,
233.
Domitian, 34.
Don Henry, exploitation of Jews, 148;
anti-Jewish legislation, 149.
Donin, Nicolas, 96, 97.
Dresden, foundation of anti-Jewish society in, 421.
Dreyfus, Captain, 433–4, 435–6;
bill submitted to French Government, 435;
anti-Dreyfus campaign, 479.
Duhring, 419.
Dukhobors, 337.
Dunmehs, the sect of, 176.
Dutch West Indies, proposed settlement of Jews in, 484.

East London Jews’ Fund, 468.

Edict of Nantes, 336.
Edinburgh Review (Macaulay), 321.
Edward I., 131–7;
expels Jews, 137–40, 255, 258, 280.
Egeria, valley of, Juvenal’s description of Jews in, 34.
Egypt, settlement of Jews in, 2;
gods of, 21;
Greek kings of, 22, 35.
Elia, 320.
Eliot, Sir Charles, 514.
Emancipation, the eve of, 286–300.
Emmanuel, King, attempt to convert Jews, 167–8.
England, Civil Wars, in, 130–1.
England, Jews in, 115–40;
first mention of, 115;
expelled from, 137–40, 277, 454;
recognised as British subjects, 284;
right of naturalisation conceded, 284;
rescinded, 285;
prejudice against Jews in, 298, 311;
struggle for enfranchisement, 320–3, 391, 397, 399, 403;
Eastern Crisis in, 437;
anti-Semitism in, 437, 447–51;
alien invasion, 449, 459–60;
intermarriage of Jews and Christians in, 450;
ethics of, 452–5, 461, 467, 477;
anti-alien agitation in, 511.
England, Elizabethan, unpopularity of Jews in, 259.
English view of Jews, 312.
English Zionist Federation, 513.
Eothen (A. W. Kinglake), 321, 322.
Episcopalians, persecution of, 277.
Erasmus, 274.
Esprit des Lois (Montesquieu), 294.
Essays (Rhenferd), 318.
Essenes, the, 14 n., 15, 19.
Europe, training of Jews in, 413;
conflict between Asia and, 437;
(Central), massacre of Jews in, 86–7;
(Eastern), 448, 484;
(Mediaeval), condition of Jews in, 62, 440–2;
myths of, 102;
lower orders, 109;
uniformity of ideals, 409, 410;
(Modern), Jews in, 442;
(Western), Jews in, 55, 482.
European trade (Middle Ages), 109;
indebtedness to Jewish intellects, 328;
humanism, 479.
Euripides, 3.
Evelyn, John, account of Jewish quarter in Rome, 206–7;
in Venice, 207–8;
account of Dutch synagogue, 250, 252.
Exodiad, the (Cumberland & Burgess), 298.
Exodus, Book of, 395.

Factories Act, 334.

Faguin, Juceff, 146–7.
Fairfax, General, 277.
Faust (Goethe), 355.
Feast of Dedication (Chanukah), 4, 448.
Ferdinand II., Emperor, Jewish policy, 235–6.
Ferdinand and Isabella, persecution of Jews, 155–62;
expulsion of Jews by, 163–6, 405.
Ferrer, Vincent, 151–2.
Fichte, 293.
Finland, constitution of, abolished, 336;
new Governor-General appointed, 366, 370.
Flaccus, Praetor, 18, 19.
Forward, New York Jewish daily paper, 370.
France, persecution of Jews in, 100, 102;
banished from, 102;
right of abode in, 294;
capitation tax removed, 295;
Jews formally enfranchised, 297;
legislation in, removing Jewish disabilities, 304, 357, 401;
power of Jews in, 430;
Jewish Question in, 430–6;
prejudice against Jews in, 432;
anti-Semitism in, 490.
Francis, Order of, 95, 108.
Franco-Jewish history, golden age, of, 78–81.
Franco-German War, 416.
Frederick, Crown Prince, 423.
Frederick the Great, 287, 289;
hostility of, 291;
death of, 293.
Frederick II., Emperor, anti-Jewish policy, 101.
Frederick William II., 293.
Frederick William III., 306.
Frederick William IV., 307.
Free Trade in England, 457.
French Religion of Reason, Christian revolt against, 305.
French Socialist Party, 435.
Froissart, 379.

Galatz, Jewish colonies in, 382.

Galicia, 308, 309;
“New Chassidim” in, 380–1, 415, 429–30, 483.
Gallus, 44.
Gaul, settlement of Jews in, 54;
persecution of, 56.
“General Privilege,” the, 287.
Genoa, Jews of, 53;
Jews banished from, 197.
Gentiles, attitude of, to Jews, 24, 28, 29, 31, 39, 40;
hatred of Jews, 154–5, 404.
George II., 284.
Gerizim, Mount, 37.
German chrematistic enterprise, 414.
German Diet, 305, 425;
Liberals, 307;
press appreciation of American Note by Liberal section, 400.
German Empire, 308.
Germany, Jew-baiting in, 69, 82;
boons granted to Jews, 85, 89;
persecution of Jews in, 101, 103, 217, 227–31, 443;
Black Death in, 102–3;
New Gospel in, 293, 305, 306, 327;
Hebrew professors in, 328, 391, 400;
Nationalism in, 411–2, 417;
anti-Jewish movement in, 416–26, 510;
anti-Semitism in, 414, 425, 478;
Jewish wedding customs in, 485;
opposition to Zionism in, 493.
Germany, National Parliament removes Jewish disabilities, 308;
National Liberal Party in, 420.
Ghetto, origin of, 198;
description of Roman, 209, 235, 310, 311;
demolition of, 325;
Russian, 378, 514, 517;
age of, 484.
Gladstone, 322–3, 385, 438.
Godard, 296.
Goethe, 291, 293.
Goldfaden, 355.
Goldsmith, 298–9.
Golgotha, Mount, 37.
Gomez, Antonio Enriquez de, 172–3.
Gordon, Evans, Major, M.P., 460.
Gortchakoff, Prince, 384.
Goths, 388.
Graeco-Jewish feuds, 25.
Granada, 60, 163.
Grant, Mr. Robert, 321.
Greece, Jews in, have same rights as Hellenic citizens, 395;
attitude of, towards Jews, 437.
Greek culture, influence on Jews, 1, 2, 3, 195;
numerals adopted, 5;
language employed in diplomatic negotiations, 5;
Jewish pronouncement on Occidental culture, 5.
Greeks, massacre of, 35.
Grégoire (Abbé), 296.
Gregory, Bishop of Tours, 56.
Gregory the Great (Pope), Jewish policy of, 54, 57.
Gregory VII. (Hildebrand), 83;
canonical law against Jews, 84–5, 108, 187, 245.
Gregory IX., 96, 97, 100.
Gregory X. (Pope), 132.
Grocyn, 274.
Guelph and Ghibelline, strife between, 84.
Guide to the Perplexed (Maimonides), 76–7.
Guilds, 133–4.

Hadrian, 36–7, 38, 39, 44, 57.

Halevi, Jehuda, 72–4, 110, 486.
Haluka, a fund for Jews, 508.
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 355.
Hapsburgs, rule of, 308, 397.
Hasmonaean family, institute the Sanhedrin and restore worship of
Jehovah, 4, 5–7, 19–20.
Hay, Mr., American Secretary of State. See American Note.
Hebraism and Hellenism, 1–17.
Hebrew, as spoken tongue, 5, 276–7;
literature, 64, 304, 355;
history, renaissance of, 325;
new culture, 291.
Hebrew Palingenesia, 328.
Hebron, wine-growing in, 509.
Hegel, 412.
Heine, Heinrich, 327, 328.
Hellene and Barbarian, hereditary feud between, 8.
Heligobalus, Emperor, 39.
Hellas, 9, 30, 44.
Hellene code, 9.
Hellenic literature, 70–1.
Hellenism, causes of failure in Western Asia, 8–9, 326.
Hellenistic culture, centres of, 2, 3.
Henry II., anti-Jewish feeling checked by, 118–9.
Henry III., Jewish quarters pillaged under, 124, 125–7, 131, 132.
Henry IV., Emperor, 84, 85, 88.
Henry VIII., 272, 274.
Heraclius, Emperor, negotiations with Jews, 51.
Herod the Great, 7–8.
Herodians, sect of, 7–8.
Herodotus, 8, 30.
Herz, 291, 292.
Herz, Henrietta, 292.
Herzl, Dr. Theodor, 489, 512;
origin of, 490, 491, 492, 495, 518;
Zionism of, 500–1, 511, 516;
Forest, 517.
Hesiod, 328.
Hirsch, Baron, 361;
fund of, 483;
emigration scheme of, 506.
Histoire Contemporaine (Anatole France), 479.
Holland, Jews in, 245–54, 297.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 312.
Holy Land, the. See Palestine.
Holy Office, the, 156, 158, 160, 169, 171, 309, 311;
defence of, 481.
See also Inquisition.
Honorius, Emperor, 53.
Honorius IV. (Pope), 136–7.
Horace, 24, 31.
Hosius, Bishop of Cordova, 57.
House of Commons, 321, 455, 456;
Jewish members in, 324.
Humanitarianism, 232, 325, 410, 483.
Hungarian Upper House, 427.
Hungarians, ill-treatment of, under Nicholas I., 332.
Hungary, anti-Semitic league in, 425–6;
persecution of Jews in, 443.
Hussite reform movement, 92.

Ignatieff, Count, 335, 341.

Immigration Reform Association, 462, 474.
Innocent III., (Pope), genius and despotism of, 90–5, 126, 185.
Inquisition, the, 95;
in France, 100;
in Spain, 157–8, 170, 196, 234, 311, 405;
in Italy, 202, 234;
in Holland, 246–7, 305, 310, 481.
See also Holy Office.
Inquisitors, Court of, 97, 160–1, 168.
Ireland, position of Jews in, 469–72.
Irish Coercion Bill, 322.
Irish Naturalisation Act, 323.
Isaiah (Prophet), 3, 319.
Islam, Christians embrace creed of, xviii;
victory of, 70;
laws of, 76;
in relation to Christianity, 437.
Isocrates, 408.
Ispahan, war for independence, 61.
Israelitische Allianz, 483.
Italy, Jews in, 54, 182–3;
Christianity in, 187–90, 196, 309, 324, 401, 437.
Ivan IV. (the Terrible), 329, 341.
Ivanhoe (Walter Scott), 312–6.

Jacob of London, 122.

Jacob, typical of Jewish race, 22.
James I., 274;
translation of Bible, 441.
Jassy, Jewish colonies in, 382.
Jayme I., King of Aragon, 98, 144.
Jehovah, Temple of, 21, 28–9;
spiritual worship of, 31, 275, 377.
Jerusalem, 2;
victorious entry into, 4;
Greek architecture introduced into, 5;
sack of, 18;
fall of, 26;
colonised by pagan soldiers, 38, 39;
becomes stronghold of the Cross, 48, 73;
destruction of, 484–6, 487;
extra-territorialisation of, 493;
Professional School of, 507.
Jesus, Society of, 234.
Jesus was born a Jew (Luther), 219.
Jew-baiting, 69, 358, 362, 396, 423;
hatred, 405, 416, 480;
and Gentile, discord between, 42, 149, 194, 352, 482;
Occidental, 496, 500.
Jew of Malta (Marlowe), 259–68, 274, 313, 314, 315.
Jew of Venice (Percy), 268.
Jewish Calendar, the, xviii;
red-letter days, 38, 280, 324;
 black-letter days, 150, 418.
Jewish Colonial Trust, the, 493, 506.
“Jewish Colonization Association,” 398, 512.
Jewish State, the, destruction of, 26–7, 37;
rehabilitation of Jews in, 277, 508.
See also Zionism.
Jewish character, 71–2, 210;
intolerance of, 28–31, 35, 110–1, 249–55, 275;
anti-socialism, 33, 64–6, 99–100, 111, 124, 377, 419, 436, 499;
loyalty, 99;
marriage customs, 31–2, 450;
intermarriage barred, 500, 502, 518;
children contrasted with Gentile, 66;
manner of worship, 66–7;
literature, 71–2, 116, 162, 244, see also Hebrew lit.;
singularity, 116;
patriotism to adopted countries, 279, 376, 413, 446–7, 491;
race, varied types of, 325–7;
survival of the fittest, 327–8;
religious law, see Torah.
Jewish State: an attempt at a Modern Solution of the Jewish
Question, The, 490.
Jewish Territorial Organisation, 517.
Jewish question, the, viewed as a whole, 518.
Jew’s Daughter, the, 199, 258.
Jews’ mental ability, 5, 324, 327–8, 412–3, 440, 441, 463;
as financiers, 367;
commercial, 441;
medical, 67, 69, 76, 174, 191.
Jews, causes of unpopularity, 28, 31–3, 155;
charges against: child murder myth, 47, 101–2, 117–8, 156, 198–
9, 255–6, 383;
“child tribute,” 331;
ritual murder, 339, 424, 426;
debasing coinage, 125, 136–7, 185–6, 345, 363, 365;
 evading military service, 375, 390, 440, 446;
lengthy pedigrees of, 57;
regarded as royal serfs, 89, 103, 123, 124, 305;
missions to, 99;
immunity from disease, 103;
forbidden to own or rent land, 109, 308, 383;
resemblance of, to Puritans, 276;
forced to wear badge, 134, 144, 145, 148, 151;
bill for admission to Parliament, 324;
effect of tolerance towards, 324–5;
as agriculturists, 338, 343, 364;
Talmudist, 347;
fecundity of, 395.
Jews’ Free School, 451–2.
Jews as usurers. See Usurers.
Joachim, 328.
Jocelin, of Brakelond, story of his monastery, 128–9.
Jochanan, son of Zakkai, 25.
John, King, 122–3, 124, 126,132.
Johnston, Sir Harry, 514.
Joseph II., 292–3, 308.
Josephus, 24.
Judaea, 20;
gods of, 21.
Julian, attitude towards Christianity, 44;
towards Jews, 45–6.
Julius Severus, 37.
Justinian, 49.
Juvenal, 24, 31, 34.

Kant, 291, 319.

Karaites, 504.
Katkoff, 335.
Kelvin, Lord, 399.
Kieff, 376.
Kimchi, David, 441.
Kishineff, massacre at, 356–62.
Kitchener, Lord, 503.
Klingenberg, Governor, 374.
Koran, the, 106.
Korobchevsky, 369.
Kronstadt, Father John of, 361.
Kropotkin, Prince Peter, 463.
Kuropatkin’s army, 376.

Langton, Cardinal, passes decree banning Jews, 126–7.

Lansdowne, Lord, 403, 511.
Lasalle, 328.
Lasker, 328, 417–18, 420.
Lateran Council, the Third, 93;
Fourth, 144;
General Council, 108.
Latin language, abhorred by Jews, 64, 147;
as universal medium of communication, 409.
Lavater, 290.
Lazarus, 328.
Lecky, 348, 399.
Leo, the Isaurian, 51, 60.
Leo, the Philosopher, 52.
Lepanto victory, the, 201–2.
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 286, 289, 290, 293, 298, 313.
Light, The (Maimonides), 75.
Limerick, 469, 472;
affair, 472, 477.
Lithuania, Jews of, 101, 329, 376.
Lithuanian Uniates, 337.
Locke, 281.
London Jews, spoliation of, 131;
massacre of, 135–6;
Jewish cemetery in, 280;
Diocese of, 468.
London, East, Jews in, 463, 468.
Louis, “the Pious,” Jews’ privileges under, 79, 80.
Louis IX. (St. Louis), 97, 100.
Louis XV., 294.
Louis XVI., 295.
Loyola, Ignatius, 171, 196, 234.
Lueger, Dr., 428, 429.
Lust, Goddess of, 38.
Luther, Martin, 215–27, 234, 318, 319.
Lutheran rebellion, 233.
Lutherans, 229, 339, 422.
Lybia, devastation of, 35.
Lydda, council at, 38.

Macaulay, 447.
Maccabees, house of, 4, 32;
restoration of the Law by, 325.
Macedonia, Empire of, 1, 408.
Maçon, Council of, 56.
Maimon, 291.
Maimonides, Moses, 74–8, 110, 291.
Manasseh, Ben Israel, 279–80.
Manichaeans, 54, 411.
Marcus Crassus, 20.
Mariage de Figaro (Beaumarchais), 295.
Mariana (historian), 158.
Marr, Wilhelm, 418, 422, 425.
Marranos, 149, 154, 156, 159, 168, 169, 170, 172, 196, 201, 204,
234, 247, 249, 278, 311.
Martyn, Justin (Dial), 10–11, 42, 224.
Marx, Karl, 328.
Medigo, Elias del, 194.
Mediterranean, Jews’ commercial activity in, xvi.
Mehmed Effendi. See Zebi, Sabbataï.
Mendelssohn, Moses, 286, 289–91, 292, 325, 326, 355, 440, 480,
482.
Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Felix, 328.
Mendicant Orders, religious bigotry of, 110.
Mendoza, Cardinal, 156, 157.
Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare), 259, 268–72, 316.
Merovingian kings, 56, 79, 81.
Mesopotamia, 35, 494.
Messiah, the, 43.
Messianic expectation, xix, 39, 43, 85, 90, 200, 212, 251, 278, 281,
282, 298, 494;
frenzy, 150;
era, 279;
dream, 60–1, 326, 486.
Mikweh, Model Farm of, 507.
Millennarians, 278, 279.
Miller, John, 229.
Milton, 279, 281.
Mirabeau, 292, 296, 302.
Mirandola, Count Giovanni Pico de, 233.
Modern Exodus, A (Violet Guttenberg), 467.
Mohammedan theocracy, 383.
Mohammedanism, Jews adopt, 75, 176.
Mohammedans, 59–61, 85, 168;
their view of Jews, 173.
Mohileff, outrage at, 372;
Jewish exodus from, 376–7.
Moldavia, Jews in, 326, 380–1, 382;
 anti-Judaism in, 383;
inhabitants of, 388.
Mommsen, 423.
Money-lenders, see Usurers.
Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, 176–7.
Montefiore, Sir Francis, 507, 513.
Montesquieu, 302.
Montfort, Simon de, 136.
Montpellier, Jewish academy at, 69.
Moorish culture, effect on Jews, 70.
More, Sir Thomas, 274.
Morescoes, 168, 172, 234.
Morgan, D. J., M.P., 460.
Mosaic Decalogue, 9.
Mosaic Law, 9, 39, 42, 277;
ordinances, 502.
Moscow, 337;
no Jewish workman allowed to reside in, 346;
Jews expelled from, 349–50.
Moses, 2, 27, 28, 31, 60, 211, 277, 279, 327;
Law of, in abeyance, 505.
Moses of Crete, 48–9.
Mourousi, Prince, 383.
Muravieff, 334.

Nachmanides, 98, 145, 486–7.

Naples, 52, 54.
Napoleon, 301, 302–4, 305, 309, 311, 410, 412, 416, 446.
Napoleon III., 416.
Napoleonic wars, 457–8, 481.
Narbonne, Council at, 96.
National anti-Semitic Federation, 435.
National Church, a, scheme for, 277–8.
Nationalism (Russian), 334–8, 348, 365, 383, 436;
cult of, 407–8, 410, 445–6, 453;
(Austrian), 426–8;
book on, 434;
(English), 477;
effects of, 411, 416, 488.
Nationalist newspapers, 338.
Nationalists, attitude in Dreyfus case, 435.
Neo-Platonists, 381.
Nero, 24–5.
Nerva, 34–5.
New York, immigration of Jews to, 377.
Nicholas, Edward, 277.
Nicholas I., 332, 335.
Nicholas II., 335, 350, 358.
Nihilism, 334.
Nihilists, 333, 338.
Nine Responses, The, 303.
Nordau, Dr. Max, 512.
Nouvelle Géographie Universelle (Elisée Reclus), 415.
Novoe Vremya, 359.
Numenius, 18.

Obaiah Abu Isa ben Ishak, 61.

Obscurantism, Catholic, 235, 310, 481.
Odessa, 351, 376;
Zionism in, 506.
Odysseus, typical of Hellenic race, 22.
Œcumenical Council held at Rome, 94–5.
Of Riches (Bacon), 273.
Of Seditions and Troubles (Bacon), 272.
Of Usurie (Bacon), 273.
Old Believers, 337.
Omar II., 60.
On Mendelssohn and the Political Reform of the Jews (Mirabeau),
296.
Orestes (Prefect), 47.
Organon, the, 70.
Origen, 42.
Orleans, Councils of, 55.
Ostragoff, Vice-Governor of Bessarabia, 358.
Ostrowez, anti-Semitic disturbances at, 371.
Otto the Great, 82.
Otto II., 82.
Ottoman rule, condition of Jew and Christian under, 383.
Ovid, 386–7.
Owen, Dr. John, 277.

Padua, University of, 194.

Pagan toleration, 29–30.
“Pale of Jewish Settlement,” the (Russia), 346, 351, 362, 381, 463,
513.
Palencia, Council of, 149.
Palingenesia, 301–28.
Palestine, 1–3, 9, 14;
natural characteristics of, 16, 18;
insurrections in, 20, 35;
Jews permitted to re-enter, 38;
Christianity in, 48;
Persian advance upon, 50, 57;
re-conquered by Saladin, 76, 484, 488, 489, 490, 492, 497, 503;
Jewish population of, 507, 508;
agricultural college at, 509;
Jewish immigration, 510;
poverty of, 511, 512, 513, 517.
Palmerston, Lord, 457, 488.
Panorthodox programme, 336.
Panslavism, 334.
Panslavist programme, 336.
Paper currency, invention of, 441.
Papists, persecution of (England), 277.
Paris, Council of, 56;
university of, 410.
Parliament de la Chandeleur, 139.
Partscheff, disturbances at, 371.
Passover rites, 117, 168, 487.
Patriotic League (France), 435.
Paul IV. (Pope), 202–3, 204, 235.
Peace, Roman Temple of, 27.
Peñaforte, Raymund de, 96.
Pentateuch, the, 290.
Pepys, 280–1, 281–2.
Pera, Jewish quarter at, 52.
Persius, 24, 31.
Pester Lloyd (extract), 366.
Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Clugny, 88.
Petrarch, 187, 189.
Pfefferkorn, John, 232.
Phaedo, or the Immortality of the Soul (Mendelssohn), 290.
Pharisees, their teaching opposed to Sadducees, 6–7, 42, 48, 500;
and Sadducees of twentieth century, 495;
feud between, 504–5.
Philip the Fair, predatory spirit towards Jews, 113–4, 405.
Philo, 2;
as envoy to Rome, 23.
Phocas, 49.
Picquart, Colonel, 433, 435.
“Pious,” the, 3, 4;
programme of, 6, 291, 381.