In the first scene of Shakespeare's Julius Cæsar the common people are depicted as if they were English mechanics. We are led to wonder whether the contempt expressed in this play for the vile-smelling and fickle-minded Roman mob represents Shakespeare's own attitude toward his humbler fellow-citizens. Indeed, a larger question suggests itself. John Hampden was already of age in 1616, when the dramatist died; in 1649 Charles I was beheaded, and England proclaimed itself a commonwealth. Did Shakespeare appreciate at all the strength of the movement which sought to put limitations upon the king and to increase the power of the people? Where were his sympathies?

To anyone who has followed the development of the theory of ballad origins, it is well known that there are two main theories in the field for our suffrages at the present time: the communal; and the individualistic, literary, or anti-communal theory. The last name of the second theory is indicative of the attitude of its upholders, for they have in truth been largely occupied with a criticism of the communalists, always demanding of them more and ever more light, and ever, like doubting Thomas, refusing to believe until an actual ballad dating from at least the time of Hereward the Wake is produced for their fingers to touch. The communalists, by an appeal to the well-established facts of folk-lore and ethnology, maintain that the ballads are the product of the communal stage of society in Europe, in which the populace held festive dances, and in which there was actual improvisation of certain traditional lyric narratives. These narratives had their verse-form determined by the dance; and the whole poem from beginning to end was the product of the people, and was not in any way composed by literary persons. Moreover, these ballads have been handed down by oral tradition, and live in the mouths of the people. Of course, there is no claim that one expects to find in the ballads of the collections anything which springs directly from the ancient source; all that is claimed is that the poetic form is handed down, and, so to say, the general ballad tradition. This claim of long descent is substantiated by the very features of the ballads as they exist to-day; by their impersonality, their refrain, their depicting of but a single situation, their use of incremental repetition. Thus, it is maintained, the ballad is not derived from any pre-existing literary material, but is the result of a primary impulse which is as old as man, and out of which the various forms of communal poetry spring. Finally, the ballad is not connected with the popular tale; “it follows an entirely different line and springs from an entirely different impulse.”

About the close of the first year of Elizabeth's reign, the Primacy of all England fell upon a man peculiarly fitted by habit of mind and by previous experience to employ the vast prerogatives of the archbishopric for the revival of ancient knowledge. Master of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and twice Vice-Chancellor of the University, Matthew Parker had already shown during the reigns of Henry VIII and his son that boundless zeal for the promotion of academic culture of which one of the later fruits was to be the education of Christopher Marlowe.

Although both Wordsworth and Coleridge were strongly influenced by the popular ballad, they were attracted by this form for very different reasons and affected by it in very different ways. The one point in common is that this influence was in both cases mainly for good. Wordsworth was drawn to the ballad by its directness and simplicity of style, and by the fact that it often treats of the lower classes of men in what Rousseau would have called a natural state of society. Coleridge took up the ballad for a nearly opposite reason; i. e., because of its remoteness from modern life, a remoteness that left him free play for his imagination. Thus, oddly, Wordsworth cultivated the ballad because it had once been close to common life; Coleridge because it was now remote from common life and gave him a form remarkably susceptible of that strangeness which the romantic genius habitually adds to beauty. Wordsworth preferred the domestic, or occasionally the sentimental-romantic, ballad; Coleridge markedly adhered to the supernatural ballad.

The object of this investigation is to make a study of the metrical use of the inflectional e in Middle English, and to ascertain, as far as possible, the relation between metrical apocopation and grammatical decay. Although a few pre-Chaucerian texts will be examined to indicate dialectical variations, the chief emphasis will be placed upon the works of Chaucer and of Lydgate. These works will be treated chronologically, with a view to explaining the linguistic conditions existing in the transitional period during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

That the critical theories of the seventeenth-century French school of rules find numerous parallels in the work of Thomas Rymer has been perceived by various students of literary criticism. But the recognition of general resemblances has not served, apparently, to secure uniformity of opinion in classifying Rymer as a critic, or in determining the extent to which he represented, in English criticism, the French codification of the rules. Professor Saintsbury states that Eymer had a “charcoal-burner's faith in ‘the rules.‘” On the other hand, Professor Spingarn, who has gone farthest in tracing the parallelisms between Eymer's work and that of preceding critics, regards his work as rationalistic, or based upon common sense, rather than formalistic, based upon rule and precedent. The one would regard Eymer as a participant in the French tradition; the other, as primarily a continuator of certain previously existing English methods. An analysis of the relationship between Rymer and the French critics of the school of rules, more systematic than has yet been attempted, may aid in determining to what extent the critical standards and methods of the French Aristotelian formalists are approximated in Rymer, and what influence the French school had upon one whose criticism, however it may be regarded now, was of great weight and importance for years after it was written.

Satires are of two general types. Those in which the general characteristics of humanity are subjected to ridicule, and those in which the attack is directed at specific individuals and definite events. The first, since humanity has not greatly changed thru the centuries, always retains about the same amount of interest. Nor is it ever much resented because, as Swift says, “satire, being levelled at all, is never resented for any offense by any, since every individual person makes bold to understand it of others, and very wisely removes his particular part of the burden upon the shoulders of the world, which are broad enough, and able to bear it.” This however by no means applies to satire of the second type. There the contemporaneous interest, heightened by the excitement of the knowledge of the persons or the events, is purchased at the expense of posterity enlightened only by a depressing foot-note. Unhappily it is to the second class that Skelton's satires belong. In his lifetime he was palpitatingly alive; as is shown by Hall, his epigrams were on everyone's lips, and even before his death, as in Eastall's Hundred Mery Talys (1526), he was a celebrated character; today his satires are like old riddles the answer to which has been forgotten. The reason for this condition is not only that he dared not, or cared not, to be too plain, but also that, owing to an absence of dates, we cannot be sure exactly to what period his allusions refer. The earliest editions that we have, altho undated, are at least twenty years after his death. This may be because all the copies of the early editions have perished, or because, as he himself intimates in Colin Clout (1239-41), no early editions were allowed to be printed. A second result arising from this condition is that equally we can never be sure of his text. Consequently his satires, at times apparently intelligible, are yet as a whole hopelessly confused.

The seventh play in the Hegge collection of English mystery plays is unique: in it is to be found a striking, and I believe hitherto unnoted, influence of art. James Orchard Halliwell, in his edition of the Hegge plays, calls this play “The Prophets.” But whatever its superficial likeness to the liturgical Processus Prophetarum, and other prophet plays, it is my conviction that this single English play is directly influenced by — indeed, largely derived from—that pictorial representation of the genealogy of Christ which is known in art as the Tree of Jesse, Stirps Jesse, or Radix Jesse.

Among men of the Middle Ages no theme, religious or secular, was more widely popular than the motif of the Seven Deadly Sins. From summae and sermons, from “mirrors” and manuals, from hymns, “moralities,” and books of exempla, from rules of muns and instructions of parish priests, form catechisms of lay folk and popular penitentials, and finally from such famous allegories as De Guileville's Pèlerinage every medieval reader gleaned as intimate a knowledge of the Sins as of his Paternoster and his Creed, and hence was able to respond to every reference to these, explicit or implicit. Moreover this theme, which had absorbed the attention of Dante through many cantos of his Purgatorio, so familiar to Chaucer, had, in our poet's own day, won vivid portrayal from Langland in Piers Plowman and had claimed eighteen thousand lines of prolix analysis in the Mirour de l'Omme of the moral Gower. And even now, while Chaucer's own Tales were in the making, Gower's Confessio was reared high upon the foundation of general interest in this motif. No wonder that it made an irresistible appeal to Chaucer too!

The Provençal biographer's account of Jaufre Rudel's dying visit to the “faraway lady” was first seriously called in dispute by E. Stengel. Afterward, Gaston Paris disposed of the whole legend, as well as of the general reliability of the Provengal biographers, whose testimony had been accepted without question half a century before by Fauriel and others. Monaci, while granting the legendary character of “Melissenda,” attempted to identify Jaufre Rudel's beloved with Eleanor of Aquitaine. Appel, arguing from the number of religious phrases occurring in Jaufre's poems, concluded that the lady of his devotions was the Virgin. Appel's theory, supported as it is by a vast erudition, is confuted in my opinion by P. Savj-Lopez. Giulio Bertoni would adopt a middle ground between those who, like Appel, maintain the idealism of Jaufre's love, or like Monaci, believe that his passion was fixed upon a woman of earth, more or less identified by allusions in his verse. Ramiro Ortiz would accept the conclusions of Monaci, etc., admitting the reality of the lady, but feels that either Jaufre Rudel was directly influenced by certain passages of William of Poitiers, or else some of the minstrels who sang Jaufre's poetry made interpolations borrowed from William.

A comparison of Henry Medwall's Morality Nature and John Lydgate's poem, Reson and Sensuallyte, makes it plain that the two works exhibit remarkable coincidences of character, situation, and language. The general resemblance is obvious enough. In each of the works the plot is allegorical, and in each the hero, who is entitled “Man” in the Morality and, impersonally, “I” in the poem, is a type figure representing mankind. This representative of humanity is in each case approached by the lady Nature, who, after giving him a careful explanation of herself and a thorough list of admonitions, finally sends him away to travel through the world. The allegory which follows is of the familiar type in which the life of man is represented by a journey; but the manner in which this journey is undertaken is carefully specialized in the poem, and in this special form is so strikingly reproduced in the play that one may readily conclude that the former supplied much of the material to be found in the latter.

In an earlier article in these Publications I pointed out that the roses and lilies brought by the angel to Cecilia and Valerian symbolized martyrdom and virginity, and so focussed in themselves the significance of the story. My illustrations, however, were all drawn, as it happened, from the Sermones aurei of Jacobus de Voragine. It is perhaps worth while to put beyond any possible doubt the fact that the symbolism which permeates the Sermones was both widespread and familiar. I shall, accordingly, round out the argument presented three years ago by a number of additional passages drawn from a variety of sources.

In the tenth book of his Historia, Ecclesiastica, Orderic Vital gives an account of Bohemond's surprise and capture by the Turkish Emir, Daliman, and his imprisonment, with other Erench nobles, in one of the Emir's fortresses. Now there happened to live in this particular stronghold the Emir's daughter, Melaz. She had often heard the bravery of the Crusaders praised, and welcomed this opportunity to make the acquaintance of such famous heroes. So she would visit Bohemond and his friends in their dungeon and talk with them. Her favorite topic was the tenets of the Christian faith. Conversation naturally led to a good understanding and assistance on Melaz's part.

The Divine Comedy contains three examples of the repetition of a word or a phrase at the beginning of successive lines, one where the first word of a line is repeated from the last of the preceding line, another pas-

In the thirtieth canto of the Inferno we find a Florentine called Gianni Schicchi, whom Dante puts in Malebolge among the falsifiers for having impersonated Buoso Donati and dictated a false will. Several of the old Commentators tell the story of Gianni Schicchi (sometimes Sticchi), who, though belonging to the illustrious family of the Cavalcanti, seems to have been a notoriously unscrupulous character and particularly clever at impersonation. The best account of the story is given by the so-called Anonimo, and runs, briefly, as follows: Messer Buoso Donati being sick with a mortal sickness, wished to make his will, inasmuch as he thought he had much to return that belonged to others. Simone, his son, delayed the old gentleman until he died. Fearing then that his father might not have left a will in his favor, he sought advice from Gianni Schicchi, who said to Simone Donati : “Have a notary come, and say that Messer Buoso wants to make a will; I will enter his bed, we will thrust him behind, I will bandage myself well, will put his night cap on my head, and will make the will as you wish.” Then he added : “It is true that I want to gain by this.” Simone agreed, all was done accordingly and Gianni Schicchi in a broken voice began to dictate : “I leave twenty soldi to the Church of Santa Beparata, and five francs to the Frati Minori, and five francs to the Predicatori,” and thus he went on distributing for God, but very little money. “And I leave,” he continued, “five hundred florins unto Gianni Schicchi.” At that the son jumped up and said : “We must not put that in the will, father; I will give it to him as you leave it.” “Simone,” replied Gianni, “you will let me do with what is mine according to my judgment.” Simone, out of fear, kept silent. “And I leave unto Gianni Schicchi my mule,” for Messer Buoso had the finest mule in Tuscany. “Oh, Messer Buoso,” said Simone to his supposed father, “this man Schicchi really does not care for your mule.” At which the testator replied : “Silence, I know better than you what Gianni Schicchi wants.” Simone began to wax wrathful, but out of fear he kept silent. Gianni continued to dictate : “And I leave unto Gianni Schicchi one hundred florins which are owed to me by a certain neighbor, and for the rest I leave Simone my universal heir with this clause, that unless every bequest be executed within fifteen days, the whole heredity shall go to the Convent of Santa Croce.” And the notaries having departed, Gianni Schicchi got out of bed, the body of Messer Buoso was replaced in it, and Simone began bewailing his father's sudden death.