Critical comment on Romeo and Juliet in the past hundred and seventy-five years has made two of Shakespeare's alleged errors in that play loom above all others. These I shall call the trespasses of Friars Laurence and John: Friar Laurence, it is said, talks too much and thus detains the final curtain; Friar John enters a house suspected of contagion and, much too conveniently, is detained. My general purpose here is to examine the two problems within a single frame, for I believe they must be so reviewed if the validity of long-standing charges is to be fully tested. Furthermore, although the incident of Friar John is the graver “fault”, my review of that problem is undertaken in part as a means of approach to the lesser “fault”, the speech of Friar Laurence. Refined, then, my primary purpose is to focus some more light on the latter problem. Although the ground is widely familiar, I shall first summarize and briefly document critical opinion on each problem in order to define the issues sharply and to make assurance doubly sure that no reader will suppose that I have invented them.

[4530–4552: 4531, 4536, 4540, 4545 compl; 4552 no inf].

Joseph Addison's Cato is the most important English verse drama of the eighteenth century; Allardyce Nicoll calls it “a landmark in the history of tragedy.” In addition, it is of great political interest, for its production in the turbulent year before the death of Queen Anne made it the rallying piece for Whigs and Tories, both of whom enrolled its propaganda on their side. Hence any document which throws new light on its composition is significant for that reason alone. That Lady Mary Wortley Montagu wrote a critique of Cato before it was produced, and that Addison followed several of her suggestions for improving his tragedy add to the importance of such a discovery. As a letter-writer Lady Mary has a secure reputation, but her brilliant, aggressive intellect impelled her to take a far more active and varied part in the literary scene of her time than has previously been realized. In her serving as play-doctor for such an influential drama as Cato we have further evidence of her versatility.

Critics have advanced various interpretations of Hawthorne's attitude toward the problems of sin and the Fall of Man. Opinions have varied widely, from Randall Stewart's statement that Hawthorne believed in the educative value of sin and in the idea of the Fortunate Fall,1 to Austin Warren's opposite opinion that for Hawthorne sin is “not educative but warping”, that Hawthorne speculates on the problem of the Fall but refuses to believe it fortunate.2 Certainly both men are right in believing that the problems of the Fall and of sin are important concerns to Hawthorne, but it is my belief that Stewart stops short of the central theme in terms of which Hawthorne's works take on added meaning.3 And Warren, in stating, for example, that Hawthorne is speaking for himself in Kenyon and Hilda in The Marble Faun,4 leaves unresolved the conflict between the ways of life of the two couples. In the light of his interpretation, the romance falls apart at the end, the theme which Hawthorne seems to have been developing suddenly denied in the closing passages. It is my contention that these and other difficulties can be obviated if we examine Hawthorne's characters in terms of what F. O. Matthiessen calls the psychology of the head and heart.5

Henry Neville's The Isle of Pines was one of the most popular romances of the seventeenth century. A lusty account of one man's extraordinary generative powers, the work published originally in 1668 went through thirty different issues, including six in English, three in French, one in Italian, four in Dutch, ten in German, and six in Danish.1 Its primary appeal lay probably in its salaciousness, for the tale is short, no longer than a single book of Gulliver's Travels, and its theme is simple. Surprisingly enough, up to the present no critics have perceived this theme, which may be expressed by the Biblical maxim, “In the multitude of people, is the king's honor.” There is no question that population is Neville's theme, but his purpose in treating it is more difficult to decide. Since The Isle of Pines is on the surface merely a display of pornographic primitivism, we cannot know whether it is intended as an allegorical essay on population problems or merely a travesty on contemporary schemes to increase population.

[4748–4791: 4748 suspended; 4752 compl; 4754 more specific title given below; 4755, 4760, 4761, 4762 compl; 4764 no inf; 4769 compl; 4770 ch add New Mexico; 4772 compl; 4773, 4775, 4776 no inf; 4779 delete “D (Valencia)”; 4782 ch add UCLA, delete “D”; 4783, 4786, 4787, 4788 compl; 4789 delete “and Vidos, B. E ”].

The comparative scarcity of evidence as to dramatic performances of saints' miracles in mediæval England has frequently been the subject of comment. The only surviving independent texts of separate plays are those of Mary Magdalen, St. Paul, and the Cornish Meriasek; and the list of recorded performances is far from impressive. Particularly noticeable is the almost complete lack of evidence of such independent Miracles of Our Lady as would correspond to the amazing French series of Miracles de Notre Dame.1 The Lincoln play of the Assumption (sometimes Ascension) and Coronation of Our Lady, undertaken by the cathedral clergy over a long period, and, perhaps, as time went on, linked with the municipal St. Anne's play, is unusual.2 But, if self-contained plays of the Virgin Mary are notable mainly by their absence, there is ample evidence of a well-established group of Death and Assumption of Mary plays within the framework of the regular Corpus Christi cycles. Texts of such groups have survived in the York Register3 and in the Ludus Coventriœ.* Records of such plays occur at Newcastle, where the Burial of the Virgin was played by the masons;6 at Beverley where the priests, and at Aberdeen where the tailors were responsible for the Coronation of Our Lady;6 and, as we shall see, at York. At York, too, as elsewhere, certain features, at least, of the Assumption Play seem to have been incorporated in royal entry civic celebrations.

An inquiry into the sources of Massinger's tragicomedy The Emperour of the East (1632) is made difficult by the abundance and variety of historical literature which contains the principal elements of the plot. On the one hand, the ready availability of the story in Byzantine chronicles has led students of Massinger to search for the sources exclusively in the histories; on the other, the variety in the content of these has made selection virtually impossible, for though many of the histories provide long accounts of the story of Theodosius and Eudoxia, none contains all the details which Massinger introduced in his tragicomedy. As a result, various scholars have proposed interesting, though unsatisfactory, combinations. Langbaine refers his reader to no fewer than five histories; Coxeter, the first editor of the plays, selects the first two of the sources cited by Langbaine, namely Socrates and Theodoret, but he admits that there may be others; Mason, the next editor, repeats Coxe-ter's note; and Gifford in his standard edition is even more vague than his predecessors. But to balance his inconclusive remarks he appends a note provided by his friend Dr. Ireland offering as the main sources Cedrenus and Theophanes, principally because they include the quarrel of Theodosius and Eudoxia; and a second note, this one by Gilchrist, another literary friend, who hazards the opinion that Massinger based his plot on two passages in the Anatomy of Melancholy, in which Burton relates briefly the marriage of Eudoxia and the famous episode with the apple. All of these are unacceptable, however, as both singly and in their sum they leave out of account significant details present in the play. A more satisfactory study of the sources was produced in 1897 by Emil Koeppel, whose conclusions were confirmed three years later by Wolfgang von Wurzbach.

There has long been rather general agreement, especially among American critics, that Victor Hugo was devoid of a sense of humor. For example, in 1869, J. Burroughs commented in a review of The Man Who Laughs: “Most American readers … will feel the want of humor more than anything else.”1 If a book by Hugo dealing with laughter fell ignominiously below the proud American standard of humor, it is not surprising to find T. S. Perry criticizing such “wild novels” as BugJargal and Han d'Islande for being “without a trace of humor.”2 More modern American critics usually continue in the same vein. Rather typical is the comment of C. H. C. Wright, who declares that “Hugo was quite without a sense of humor.”3 Even Elliott M. Grant, one of the leading contemporary defenders of Hugo, can argue in extenuation of the poet-novelist-dramatist's alleged lack of written humor only that his conversation was sometimes witty.4 In general, critics seem to reason a priori that the supremely egotistic disciple of the melancholy Chateaubriand could not possibly have become a humorist.

During his own lifetime Bishop Joseph Hall was nicknamed “our spiritual Seneca” by Henry Wotton and later called “our English Seneca” by Thomas Fuller; as a result it has recently become fashionable to associate him with seventeenth-century English Neo-Stoicism. A seventeenth-century Neo-Stoic is of interest presumably because he points in the direction of eighteenth-century Neo-Stoicism, away from a revealed religion toward a natural religion, away from faith toward reason. In a recent article Philip A. Smith calls Hall “the leading Neo-Stoic of the seventeenth century” and says that he enthusiastically preached the “Neo-Stoic brand of theology” to which Sir Thomas Browne objected. This theology maintained that “to follow ‘right reason’ was to follow nature, which was the same thing as following God.” Smith goes on to say that “what most attracted seventeenth-century Christian humanists like Bishop Hall was the fact that Stoicism attempted to frame a theory of the universe and of the individual man which would approximate a rule of life in conformity with an ‘immanent cosmic reason‘”—though in the same paragraph he also mentions the point “that Neo-Stoic divines of the seventeenth century were interested in Stoicism almost exclusively from the ethical point of view.” He cites Lipsius to show how a Christian might reach an approximation between the Stoic Fate and Christian Providence, leaving the reader to assume that Hall might also have made this approximation. He says that “the natural light of reason, as expounded by the Stoic philosophers, became, for seventeenth-century Neo-Stoics, the accepted guide to conduct” and that “religious and moral writers endeavored to trace a relationship between moral and natural law which in effect resulted in the practical code of ethical behavior commonly associated with Neo-Stoicism.”

The problem we are proposing to discuss is the result of a peculiar carelessness of Montaigne in his chapter on Friendship in his Essais, Book I, 28. He begins by noting that a painter,1 commissioned by him to decorate some of the large panels of his study with pictures, daubs fanciful designs, “crotesques”, around the central pieces. So, remarks Montaigne, his thoughts here are mere figures without any other purpose than to enshrine a great piece composed by his friend, Etienne de la Boétie. This gem is a little essay called by its author Discours de la servitude volontaire, but soon renamed Le contr'un by those who read it. Montaigne then relates that it was written by La Boétie in his early youth (later specified as eighteen) and circulated among appreciative readers who relished its spirited defence of liberty against tyrants. Hence the name of Contr'un. Montaigne insists that it is beautifully composed and if its author had lived and undertaken a long work of reflection, he would have created something memorable that would have made him comparable to authors of antiquity. But this Discours and a Commentary on the Edict of January2 are all he has available now, since he has already published all the other MSS left him by his friend's bequest.3 Montaigne admits that he has a special fondness for the Contr'un because it furnished the means of their first awareness of each other even before they met, thus opening the door to the perfect friendship between them. This relationship was so extraordinary that its like will not be seen more than once in three centuries.

One of the main characteristics of the Renaissance was its break with the attitude towards life of mediaeval society. The new Hellenistic, classical, humanistic spirit taught the Renaissance man that, far from being a groveling worm, he was a glorious creature capable of infinite individual development in a world which was his to interrogate, explore, and enjoy. The Renaissance exalted the human element, stressed the importance of human interests, and asserted the dignity of man—a trend which may be noted in most authors of the period. Rabelais portrays his heroes as giants, to whom nothing seems impossible, and places no limitations on their actions. Shakespeare writes: “What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!” Viewed from the standpoint of a social behaviorist, the Renaissance teaches mediaeval man, whose interests as an individual were completely subordinated to his function as an element in a feudalistic social unit, that it is possible and right for him to assert and realize self. Social conformity is no longer the only possible relation between man and the world about him. Therefore, the Renaissance man, more energetic and enthusiastic than his mediasval forefather, takes pleasure in a certain spirit of opposition to supposed human and known social limitations; he glories in nonconformity, he rejoices in isolation and in standing up against society and in consciously not doing that which he knows the society he lives in expects him to do. “To brave the disapproval of men is tonic. … Conflict is a necessity of the active soul.” In Spain, as elsewhere, the Renaissance exerted the same influence and a like need for self-expression was felt. Let us then examine the state of mind of Calderonian characters, who, living in the seventeenth century, should by then be well imbued with Renaissance thought, in an effort to determine the fundamental psychological needs underlying their urge towards self-realization.

One of the most important recent publications in the field of late mediaeval literature is Eugène Vinaver's edition of The Works of Sir Thomas Malory,1 which has made available a more accurate text for the study of Malory's writings than any scholar has previously had at his disposal. As Vinaver points out in the Preface to this work (i, vi), his edition, which is based on the recently discovered Winchester MS.,2 is much closer to what Malory actually wrote than is Caxton's emended version, and consequently invalidates many conjectures made by those who have known Malory only as he is presented by Caxton. A careful examination of this MS. and a painstaking comparison of it with the sources on which Malory drew have caused Vinaver to reverse several opinions that he previously supported by cogent argument3 and have led him to two general conclusions: (1) that Malory's writings should not be regarded as a unified account of the rise and fall of King Arthur and the Round Table, but rather as eight separate romances whose subjects were drawn independently from the Arthurian cycle (I, XXIX-XXXV) and (2) that the order of composition of the tales was not in the sequence presented by both Caxton and the Winchester MS., since evidence shows (I, XXV-XL) that the story of the war with Rome, which Vinaver calls the Tale of the Noble King Arthur and the Emperor Lucius (Caxton Book v), was written before the Tale of King Arthur (Caxton Books I, II, III, and IV).4

[5302–5404: 5303 compl; 5314 ch add Belfast; 5316 no inf; 5316afor “M.” read “A.L.”; 5319 present add unknown; 5320 no inf; 5322 compl; 5323 ch add Westfield C, London; 5324 compl; 5326 discont, emigration; 5327, 5329 compl; 5336 discont r.n.g.; 5337 name now Brown, Mrs. Faith, ch add Wayne STC, Nebraska; 5340, 5342, 5344–5347 no inf; 5348, 5348a compl; 5352 for “aeke” read “aesse”; 5353 compl; 5354 no inf; 5355 discont, ch of interest; 5358 compl; 5359 discont, emigration; 5360 compl; 5366 ch add California; 5272 present add unknown; 5373b, 5373c compl; 5374, 5375 compl; 5376 now subject of a pupil's diss; 5378, 5381, 5394 compl; 5395a for “M.” read “J.”; 5396 compl; 5397, 5398 no inf; 5399 delete “D”; 5400 compl; 5402, 5403 no inf].

A number of years ago Norman Foerster wrote these words: “Tinlern Abbey is great aesthetically, as we have come increasingly to see; it is aesthetically vital but unsound; in sum, this poem is a superb expression of unwisdom.”1 The sentence reveals the sturdy dualism which might be expected from one who had studied under Irving Babbitt. Perhaps Tinlern Abbey is pronounced “unsound” because it expresses an almost monistic view of human nature: the poet's sensation, feeling, thought, moral awareness, and mystical insight seem to have developed one into the other without a struggle; the lower faculties are not sternly kept in their place by the higher; all commingle almost as equals in the powerful solvent of Wordsworth's memory. If on the one hand acts of kindness are traditionally praised as the best portion of a good man's life, and if mystical vision is acknowledged to possess an aspect more sublime, yet the balance is redressed when “nature and the language of the sense” are praised as the anchor of our purest thoughts, the guardian of our heart, and the soul of all our moral being. The poem is in many ways a romantic's “song of innocence” rather than a humanist's “song of experience.”

With no immediate source of Chaucer's Prioress' Tale yet brought to light, postulations about the nature of this source, such as may be tentatively formulated from a study of the thirty-two available analogues of the miracle, have been made in order to estimate the extent and artistry of Chaucer's contribution to this tale of the little clergeon. Carleton Brown in his admirable studies published in 1910 and 1941 traced the development of the legend from what he considered the most primitive stage through Chaucer's story and the analogues which resemble it most closely. For this purpose Brown divided the thirty-three versions into three groups, A, B, and C, each of which represents a distinct form of the miracle and a distinct pattern of events.