Guillaume Apollinaire's poetry fills the twenty-year interregnum between the end of Symbolism as an organized movement and the birth of Surrealism. The earliest selections in Alcools were composed the year of Mallarmé's death in 1898, and Calligrammes appeared only a few months before Breton and Soupault began their collaboration on Les Champs magnétiques in 1919. The work of perhaps no other poet in France at the turn of the century flows in such a direct current between the two dominant schools of the last seventy-five years. Obviously our appreciation of this period would gain considerably could we but view the poems of Apollinaire in the order in which he created them, proceeding with him from the mellifluous, fin de siècle delicacy of his first published piece, Clair de lune, to the discordant lines of Victoire:

On veut de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons
On veut des consonnes sans voyelles
Des consonnes qui pètent sourdement Imitez le son de la toupie
Laissez pétiller un son nasal et continu
Faites claquer votre langue
Servez-vous du bruit sourd de celui qui mange sans civilité
Le raclement aspiré du crachement ferait aussi une belle consonne

This essay presents an over-all study of Once a Week under its first editor: the origins of the magazine, the scope intended for it by its projectors, the editor and his staff, the contents and contributors, the payments, and the general financial picture, including the expenses, sales, and losses. Occasionally it compares the magazine with two similar and better-known journals: its immediate predecessor, Household Words, and its competitor, All the Year Round.

Recently, in his “Sources and Symbols for Melville's Confidence-Man” (PMLA, lxvi [1951], 363-380), John W. Shroeder has given us what I judge to be one of our most valuable exegeses of this difficult novel. Yet I think his exegesis must be modified somewhat—modified by working as he works, from source to symbol. In this note, meant to be complementary to Mr. Shroeder's essay, I should like to consider further one of Melville's symbols in relation to the source from which it takes its initial meaning. My concern is to try to understand Melville's Indian-hater and the “metaphysics” of his hatred in relation to the tradition from which they are derived.

Some years ago bertram holland flanders discovered in an obscure literary journal called Wheler's Magazine, published in Athens, Georgia, a Longfellow “translation” entitled “A Lay of Courage,” which had not appeared among the poet's collected works. According to its heading the poem had been rendered from the Danish of Ove Mailing, a statesman and historian of some importance but of small reputation as a poet. When Flanders added the translation to Longfellow's bibliography nothing was known of the circumstances of its composition nor had the Danish original been identified. An examination of additional evidence now makes it clear that Longfellow did not translate the poem; that, in fact, he probably did not even consult Mailing's original; and that, actually, he took the product of an earlier translator and, altering it slightly, submitted it to the editor of Wheler's Magazine under his own name.

Extensive manuscript materials in the Ticknor Collection at Dartmouth College now make it possible to complete one of the remarkable cultural, scholarly, and personal records of early American letters—the story of George Ticknor's long and devoted pursuit of Goethe. Ticknor's stature as a literary pioneer is, with this further evidence, markedly increased, and there is new light cast on the beginnings of significant American acquaintance with Germany's great poet.

For a brief period of about eight months, from June 1796 through February 1797, Coleridge sought to augment his income by reviewing for the Critical Review and the Monthly Magazine. The enthusiasm with which he embraced this hope is shown by numerous references in his letters and in those of Lamb. I have found evidence which identifies two more of Coleridge's uncollected reviews—one of them an essay on Greek, Latin, and English prosody which Coleridge wrote as a review of Bishop Samuel Horslèy's On the Prosodies of the Greek and Latin Languages (1796). Unknown to me, Professor George Whalley was at the same time preparing to authenticate this review, and he recently published his evidence together with a complete text. I have some further evidence to add to Whalley's and a demonstration of the significance of the review.

Unter den großen deutschen Schriftstellern des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts hat sich keiner gründlicher und umfassender mit dem Problem der Sprache befaßt als Herder. Nicht nur in seiner berühmten Preisschrift vom Ursprung der Sprache, in der er Süßmilchs Wundertheorie zurückweist und den natürlichen Ursprung der Sprache und ihre organische Entwicklung im Zusammenhang mit der Entwicklung des menschlichen Geistes verficht, sondern auch in zahlreichen anderen seiner Schriften behandelt er das Wesen der Sprache und kommt immer wieder, bald in systematischer Darstellung, bald in eingestreuten geistvollen Bemerkungen, auf dieses ihm am Herzen liegende Problem zurück.

The nonpartisan editorial policy of Addison and Steele's Spectator is well known. “I never espoused any Party with Violence,” Mr. Spectator proclaimed in the first number of the periodical, “and am resolved to observe an exact Neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the Hostilities of either Side.” Although in general the two essayists kept their promise, there is often a noticeably Whiggish cast to their writings; and on one occasion Steele threw neutrality to the winds and involved the Spectator in a bit of party pamphleteering that would have done credit, in substance if not in tone, to the most rabid political hack, Whig or Tory.

It is hard to think of another brief quotation in English literary history so felicitous as the one attributed to John Dryden: “Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet.” Here in a single sentence the family relationship between two great writers is established; Dryden is placed as an incisive and prophetic judge of literary worth; Swift is dramatically provided with cause for turning away from his disappointing “Pindarics” to the remarkable prose connected with his name; his somewhat over-stressed “life-long” hatred for Dryden is given its impetus. And if Dryden may be considered representative of the end of the seventeenth century and Swift of the beginning of the eighteenth century in English letters, a whole new age of prose is conveniently suggested in the eight words Dryden is supposed to have uttered. Whether or not he really did utter exactly those words—and I am quite certain that he did not—makes no great difference now: it is too late to add qualifying phrases to all the biographies, critical essays, monographs, and literary histories in which Dryden's pronouncement may be read. It has assumed a quality of fictional truth that renders it more convincing and more “true” than demonstrably authentic pronouncements could be. It is like some of the equally quotable adjudications of Samuel Johnson, chestnuts from the same tree, which also seem too suspiciously apropos to have been casually voiced, though they may have been recorded verbatim. Indeed, the eight words under consideration sound much less like Dryden than like Dr. Johnson himself; but that is a matter I will refer to later on in this paper.

Recent scholarship has tended to overstress Milton's adherence to Ramism and to overlook his significant deviations in both theory and practice. The distrust of the human thought processes in theoretical or practical deliberation and the faith in the immediate intuitive perception of logical relations, which is the ultra-spiritual epistemology implied throughout the Ramistic logics, were much more in keeping with the enthusiasm of the radical sects of the seventeenth century than with the rationalism of Milton. Milton was an independent thinker in logical matters as elsewhere and the balance of scholarly evaluation is in need of some readjustment.

It was in Marie de Gournay's salon, rue de l'Arbre Sec., and later rue St-Honoré, that took place (prior to the founding of the Académie, in which many of her contemporaries say that she played an important rôle) frequent discussions that were to determine the future of the French language. Her opinions were listened to with respect—though not always followed—by such men as Boisrobert, Ménage, Sorel, Voiture, Malherbe, Racan, and others. Among her staunch friends, besides Montaigne, were La Mothe le Vayer, Claude de l'Estoile, Colletet, St François de Sales, and Michel de l'Hospital. She was also highly esteemed abroad by Juste Lipse, Hensius, Baudius and, in Italy, by Capaccio. She was, at the time of the incident we are about to relate, a vivacious, enthusiastic woman in her fifties, with an extraordinary fund of knowledge, a sharp tongue tempered by a keen sense of humor and a sparkle of wit that earned her the respect of the learned and pensions from the mighty. Charles Sorel insisted on her gentler qualities: “Au-dessus de son savoir je voudrois mettre encore sa générosité, sa bonté et ses autres vertues qui n'avoient point ses pareilles,” and he said that Bouhours “l'a mise au rang des plus illustres filles d'esprit.” The Abbé Michel de Marolles, who was a frequent visitor at her home, was impressed by her kindness : “Elle avoit l'âme candide et généreuse.”

In the first act of The Malcontent, the best known play of John Marston, Pietro is informed that his wife is engaged in an adulterous relationship with the usurping duke, Mendoza. Pietro's informant is Malevole, who is not content with a simple presentation of the facts. Instead, he taunts the foolish old man with a brutal account of the infamy of cuckoldom, tortures him with a lurid description of the wife's lascivious thoughts, suggests, finally, the possibility of unwitting incest:

Mal. Nay thinke, but thinke what may proceede of this, Adultery is often the mother of incest.
Piet. Incest.
Mal. Yes incest: marke, Mendozo of his wife begets perchance a daughter: Mendozo dies. His son marries this daughter. Say you? Nay tis frequent, not onely probable, but no question often acted, whilst ignorance, fearelesse ignorance claspes his owne seede.
Piet. Hydeous imagination. (i.iii, pp. 149-150)

Readers of Mr. Brooks Atkinson's review (New York Times, 19 Feb. 1950) of a recent production of As You Like It must have felt that the critic was at a loss for something relevant to say. The cluttered stage elicited objections (the danger of Miss Hepburn's barking her shins made the reviewer apprehensive—her legs “deserve every possible protection”). But the play itself was dismissed as pleasant but not suitable for tough-minded modern grown-ups: Shakespeare wrote it “carelessly as far as construction and logic were concerned,” and “By modern standards the plot is silly.” After these remarks, it would seem, nothing good could be said for the play. But the day is saved for Shakespeare's fame by the redeeming fact that despite all its demerits the play shows “the matchless genius of Shakespeare.”

During the wedding feast in Heinrich Wittenwiler's Ring* one of the peasants notices how quickly the food is disappearing; so

Er wolt eim fresser legen ab
Und sprach: “Her Guggoch ist ein man,
Der selber lieder tichten chan
Von Dietreichen dem Perner.“

Tricked by the flattery, Guggoch sings a popular song about the great Gothic emperor while the others greedily devour the food. The purpose of this essay is to explain why Wittenwiler chose this particular song for his peasant bard.

The recognition of levels of discourse in Chaucer's writings is no new thing, but it has hitherto been associated more often with aesthetic appreciation than with linguistic analysis. We have been aware that Chaucer was a great master in the adaptation of subject matter to style. We have observed how skilfully he was able to modify figures of speech, rhythms, and choice of words—in short, the rhetorical elements of his discourse—to its content, whether exalted or moderate or lowly (grandis, mediocris, humilis), according to the well-known medieval doctrines of composition. He himself spoke more than once of the requirements for such adaptation in matters of vocabulary “the wordes moote be cosyn to the dede” (CT A 742; cf. H 208), and burel folk in literature should accordingly use earthy terms, while clergy and aristocrats employ different words appropriate to their stations. But he does not specifically mention other matters of language which also serve to mark off, not only the various social levels, but the different types of situation which affect the structure of speech by one and the same person. The handling of sentence structure and syntax may also be shown to manifest a fine correlation with the demands of literary form and intention in Chaucer's work.

[Elements as they are added one by one to form a sentence progressively limit the semantic range of all that has preceded. This causes beginning elements to have a wider semantic range than elements toward the end. The concept of linear modification thus developed knits together a number of otherwise heterogeneous manifestations of sentence order in English, and provides a plausible theory of adjective position.]

The linear geometry of the sentence imposes certain relationships upon the elements that compose it. These relationships are conveniently expressed as dichotomies. Two dichotomies are, figuratively, spatial: they are contiguous versus separate (A is next to B or is distant from B) and within versus without (A is contained within B or is outside B). Two dichotomies are temporal : first versus last and before versus after. While it does not follow that any of these pairs necessarily has linguistic importance, given their location at the very foundation of sentence structure it would be strange if they had not been seized upon for some use in communication. I think it can be shown that all of them have, probably in all languages, though I am concerned here only with the last two, the temporal dichotomies, and even with these, only in two languages.

I. Sága, the Name of a Goddess. Jacob Grimm, in his Mythologie (ii, 759), interpreted the name Sága as a personification of the appellative saga ‘history, story.‘ This interpretation has now been rightly rejected because the long radical vowel a in the proper name Sága is attested by its occurrence in skaldic verse. I question, however, whether this difference in the quantity of the radical vowel in these two forms warrants the conclusion that they are not etymologically related.