This article considers Mark Twain’s 1896 novel Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc in the context of his earlier satirical treatment of nineteenth-century Sunday school books. Though often classified as an anomaly among Twain’s works, Joan of Arc in fact proves perfectly consistent with the author’s most pointed critiques of the moral and religious training of children. Close analysis of Twain’s earlier works on children illuminates his presentation of his ideal child and ideal human Joan. Twain’s novel makes clear that Joan’s virtue is not the result of the type of behavioral training operant in nineteenth-century Sunday school books. By highlighting Joan’s selflessness and emphasizing that she is not motivated by rewards or punishments, Twain distinguishes her from self-seeking Sunday school book heroes and heroines. And by telling the true story of her persecutions, sufferings, and martyrdom, his narrative completely inverts the pattern of the Sunday school books in which “good” children are always abundantly rewarded and “bad” children are always dreadfully punished. Joan remains untouched by the corrupt values of her society because of her moral conviction, courage, and immunity to both threatened punishments and promised rewards. Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc is not, as some have argued, a sentimental departure from Twain’s lifelong pattern of criticizing the social and religious training of children. In Joan, Twain finds a heroine who subverts Sunday school book standards of “goodness” and in the process achieves true virtue.

This essay reads Raphael, the principal expositor of scientific knowledge in Milton’s Paradise Lost, as embodying divergent, virtually antithetical, dispositions towards the prospect of free engagement with natural philosophy within the public sphere. At once stimulating Adam’s curiosity about the natural world while also overzealously curtailing the range of human inquiry, Raphael inadvertently primes Adam and Eve to fall for Satan’s sophistry by advancing undue restrictions in excess of his divine mandate. In doing so, Raphael’s pedagogy conveys the uncertainty experienced by Milton and many of his more anxious contemporaries regarding the precise manner by which one should best navigate scientific discussion within a burgeoning public sphere. Raphael’s dual functions create a dialectic of restrained scientific inquiry that, in the absence of a definitive model for a religiously-informed science predicated on free inquiry, thus constitutes that most Miltonic of paradoxes: the advocacy of investigative liberty superintended by an elite few.

The gods in C. S. Lewis’s novel Till We Have Faces are often supposed to represent the God of Christianity, yet Lewis’s nonfiction suggests that the gods, Ungit and her son the Shadowbrute, should be understood as Venus and Eros, who represent the sex act and romantic attraction, respectively. Throughout the novel, the narrator, Orual, struggles against both sexuality and romantic attraction, and therefore against both deities. By the end of the novel, Orual has reconciled with her sister Psyche as well as with the god Eros. Although there are parallels between Orual’s final visions of Eros and Christian visions of God, the details of the novel tend to undercut the Christian typology that readers have come to expect from Lewis’s fiction.

Although George Eliot only once explicitly references the myth of Cupid and Psyche in Adam Bede, the rest of the novel frequently alludes to the myth, specifically with reference to Hetty Sorrel and her relationship with Arthur Donnithorne. In fact, this myth provides an instructional framework for reading and interpreting Hetty Sorrel’s moral development. The parallel between Hetty and the myth of Psyche, which can be read as an allegory for the moral transformation of the human soul, is noteworthy: what is Eliot trying to accomplish when she compares the grand, mythological development of the human Psyche to Hetty Sorrel’s “little trivial soul?” I will argue that the mythologizing of Hetty’s story serves two purposes. First, it reveals a discrepancy between Hetty’s idealized dream world and the reality of her life. Second, it is when her mythologized dream world is shattered that her life paradoxically begins to mirror the Psyche myth: just as in the Psyche myth, Hetty’s soul grows through trial and suffering. The transformation of the soul, says Eliot, takes many forms and happens in unexpected places and ways. In fact, the sufferings of trivial souls are worthy of recognition even if they achieve only the smallest growth.

This essay discusses George Herbert’s treatment of the good of works in his poetry and prose. I first consider the position of the early modern Church of England on good works and then turn to Herbert’s imagining of sanctification as the natural efflorescence of justification across a selection of his Latin and English lyrics. Next I suggest that The Temple and The Country Parson are twin books that make up Herbert’s vision of the complete Christian, justified and undergoing sanctification. If The Temple forms a map with justification as the collection’s destination, then The Country Parson is a work of “practical piety” with the process of sanctification, the enacting of good works by a justified sinner, as its principal goal. Through these complementary works Herbert projects an ambitious spiritual program, commencing in the justification of the human heart and subsequently evolving into the dispersal of holiness, charity, and good works in the world.

One of James Joyce’s best-known tendencies as a writer of fiction is his avoidance of anything like authorial intrusion. As his best biographer, Richard Ellmann, puts it: “Joyce never insists.” This choice could have presented a problem for him in writing Dubliners, for he intended that collection of stories to be a moral exposé of the “dear, dirty Dublin” that he had fled. A main means of his satisfying both desires is what this essay identifies as “doubling.” Time after time, Joyce gives characters descriptions, mannerisms, modes of speaking, etc., that duplicate those of another character in another story. Simultaneously, he puts characters into similar situations, sometimes facing common dilemmas. Differences in their ways of responding to their crises nudge the reader—who is often predisposed by Joyce’s mnemonic devices—into the moral judgments that Joyce almost certainly hoped to instill.

This essay explains how D. H. Lawrence occupies an unusual place in 20th century ethical discourse—between Heidegger’s privileging of strength-in-aloneness and his ethics of “letting be,” and Levinas’ privileging of the experience of otherness as the fundamental moment of ontology. Lawrence’s rhetoric, especially in his essays, seems to advocate a Heideggerian ethical position; however, by examining The Rainbow and Women in Love, this essay demonstrates how Lawrence’s fiction pushed him towards the acknowledgement that otherness is the fundamental basis for ethics.

Through the juxtaposition of an image (in the prologue) of Christ in Mary’s womb with that (in the tale) of Almachius as a bladder full of hot air, The Second Nun’s Prologue and Tale contributes to the theme in The Canterbury Tales of overcoming tyranny. While the nun’s tale alone presents an overly forceful apologetic, the image that Chaucer includes in her prologue subtly reminds audiences of a more paradoxical relationship between creator and creatures than that of either tyrant-and-subjects or tale-teller-and-audience-to-be-indoctrinated. Chaucer, if not so much the well-meaning nun, emulates the creator of freedom. So too does the tale-telling fellowship, which reveals Christ in its enduring togetherness, despite the attempts of individual tellers to have the last word.