The chief source of Shakespeare's tragedy of Richard the Third has long been acknowledged to be either Hall's or Holinshed's prose Chronicle. In addition, some echoes have been discovered in it of the Latin tragedy, Richardus Tertius, of the anonymous English True Tragedie of Richard the Third, and of Marlowe's play, Edward the Second. But for one of the longest and most impressive scenes in Shakespeare's drama, that in which Clarence in prison meets his death at the hands of two ruffians hired for the deed by his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, no source is generally known. For the basis of the entire scene, Hall's Chronicle, which is so close akin to most situations in the play, contains of Clarence's death merely the statement that “attainted was he by parliament and iudged to death, and there vpon hastely drowned in a butte of malmesey within the towre of London.” Mr. P. A. Daniel expresses the common opinion of Shakespearian scholars to-day in saying, “Shakespeare seems to have been indebted to his own imagination only, for the scene of Clarence in prison, his beautiful narrative of his dream, and the less happy dialogue of the murderers.”

The purpose of this paper is to consider two well-known passages in the Old French epic poem, Godefroi de Bouillon, which have been often cited, and quite frequently used as the strongest support of an accepted statement about customs of the Middle Ages, yet in which, so far as I know, no one has called attention to certain misinterpretations and the consequent very different bearing of the text.

When in 1710-11 the Sir Roger de Coverley papers appeared in the Spectator, the art of the novel seemed to have been discovered. The wonder is that people did not sooner awaken to a realization that a new form of art had been created. The faithful description of life and manners was there, the interest of character and incident was also present. The essays needed but to have been thrown into the form of a continuous narrative to have given us at least the germ of the modern novel. As a matter of fact, however, the actual appearance of the novel was delayed for nearly three decades.

The ordinary condition of the mediaeval poet or man of letters who was not connected with the court, but sought patronage among the country gentry or the citizens of provincial towns, was one of more or less complete isolation. If he found a patron he was fortunate, and when he had supplied that patron's needs, or had carried to a conclusion the work upon which he had, by his patron's interest and support, been encouraged to engage, he had little incentive to further literary production unless he could find new patronage. It is perhaps a result of this condition that so many books of the Middle Ages are the work of men who wrote but one book, and that one with the painful care of the amateur, rather than the sure skill of the trained writer. In the majority of cases, or at least in the most typical cases (since generalisations of this kind can be at the best only rough approximations), the provincial writer worked for a single patron, and his “public” consisted of his patron's family and intimates.

Romance, so modern criticism proclaims, is in no wise incompatible with the temper of the heroic epic. As in tragedy moments of poignant emotion are at once heightened and relieved by the introduction of comedy, so in epic a classic clearness of outline and tranquillity of mood are rendered doubly effective when contrasted with the mystery and magic of romance. Nowhere is this more clearly illustrated than in the second adventure of the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf, in which the hero does battle with a supernatural monster far away from the haunts of men. The scene shifts suddenly from the realistic setting at the Danish court, and the very air grows heavy with baleful suggestion,—just as when the lights and feasting of the Wartburg are left behind and the mountain in which Venus holds her revels looms up at twilight. “That,” says the Anglo-Saxon poet, “is an uncanny place.” The situation grows tense with a new horror, not felt even in the earlier scene when the demon Grendel, creeping through the mists of evening, invades once too often the hall of the Danes. The element of strangeness is added to beauty, with marvellous effect.

In an attempt to discuss the influence of Greene on Shakspere, there are two points to be determined: first, what were the distinct characteristics of Greene's romantic comedy, and second, which of these appear in Shakspere's work in such a way as to suggest indebtedness to Greene? To ascertain either of these, preceding and contemporaneous comedy and the sources of the works of both dramatists must, of course, be taken into consideration.

Among the many forms of poetic composition cultivated by the troubadours of Provence during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, one of the most distinctive is that listed in the Leys d'Amors under the name enueg. This word, a Provençal form of the Latin inodium, means literally ‘vexation,’ or ‘that which is vexing;’ and technically it designates a poem which treats the annoyances of life from mere trifles to serious insults, from improprieties at the table to serious misdemeanors. This kind of poem, differing essentially in subject matter from the conventional erotic poetry of the time, belongs rather to that class known as sirventés; poetry which treats public or private affairs with either praise or censure. Like many of the sirventés, the enueg has now and then a didactic purpose; but in most cases the poet voices his own likes or dislikes without any ulterior motive.