To the researches of Lachmann and Müllenhoff we owe the knowledge that the Nibelungensaga which appears in the Nibelungenlied as an organic and an artistic unity is in reality a composition of two elements: of the Sigfridsaga and the legend of the Burgundians. While it is a well established fact that the latter saga preserved certain reminiscences of the historical annihilation of the Burgundians by Attila in 437, no account can be found in history which might, in a like manner, explain the origin of the Sigfridsaga. It was Lachmann who, for this reason, first advanced the opinion that the legend of Sigfrid was of mythological origin, and this mythological explanation of our legend is, in some form or other, now held by most scholars.

The influence of the Orlando Furioso on Spenser's Faery Queen has long been recognized. Warton, in his excellent Observations, devoted a section to it, and others have here and there remarked upon the affinity of the two poems. I cannot find, however, that any writer has yet given the subject more than casual attention. The reasons for this neglect are, of course, not far to seek. Men read and study the Faery Queen, and men read and study the Orlando Furioso, but few care to read and study them side by side, with the obligation of going through the Morgante Maggiore, the Orlando Innamorato, Rinaldo, and the Oerusalemme Liberata, for casual reference and general illustration. The Faery Queen, as it stands, is nearly twice as long as the Odyssey, the Orlando Furioso is longer than the Faery Queen, and the others are of varying, but always substantial bulk—a rather formidable array. Moreover, despite vast differences of spirit and method, these poems deal with the same subject-matter, romantic chivalry; and too steady converse with romantic chivalry is, to say the least, not stimulating. In view of such conditions and of the work already done by Warton, critics may very probably have felt that further labor in this field would hardly be worth while.

While the Germans have long recognized a Litteraturwissenschaft, we do not often speak in English of a ‘science of literature.’ Do we then lack something which the Germans have, or do they lack something which they think they have? Do we feel that the name is a misnomer? Or is it that we are satisfied to possess the thing without caring how it is called? If this last is so, it were as well perhaps to be a little less indifferent, since names gradually affect modes of thinking. A rose by any other name will smell as sweet, but a rose by the name of rose tempts people to smell of it, especially blind people. It is a fact of some import for the users of German, that they have the convenient word Wissenschaft, which they can apply freely to the serious and systematic study of any subject under the sun. On the other hand, we are not unaffected, and I think the effect is bad, by the drift of English usage toward a restricted application of the word ‘science.’ The tendency leads people to associate with that word not so much the grand ideals of carefulness and love of truth, as rather the particular methods employed, and the kind of accuracy aimed at, in the study of physics and biology. Many are also led to feel that there are spheres of thought in which science has nothing to say; and so, instead of enlarging their conception of science, they become suspicious of it. The result is that we are far from realizing that universal allegiance to the scientific spirit, which in our day we ought to have. Instead, there is a division of sentiment, many persons, intelligent persons too, feeling that for certain purposes science is a blind guide. As if there could be in the long run any better basis of life than the truth ! And as if there could be any more hopeful way of getting at the truth than to keep trying, with all our might, in the light of all the evidence!

This paper is a part of a larger study on the general subject, ‘The Loss or Retention of Weak Syllables in English,’ which I shall publish at a later time.

It is well known that there are words like aged, blessed, learned, in which the e is silent if the word is a participle, but is sounded if the word is an adjective. I am not aware that an explanation of this interesting phenomenon has been offered, other than the usual untenable one that it is “in order to distinguish” the parts of speech. It is my object in this paper to show (1) that this, as well as certain closely related phenomena, is based on the fact that our speech prefers a rhythm consisting of syllables alternately strong and weak, and (2) that this has produced different results in the adjective from what it has in the participle because the usual position of the adjective with reference to the other members of the sentence is not that generally occupied by the participle.

It is admitted by all critics that the Beowulf is essentially a heathen poem; that its materials are drawn from tales composed before the conversion of the Angles and Saxons to Christianity, and that there was a time when these tales were repeated without the Christian reflections and allusions that are found in the poem that has reached us. But in what form this heathen material existed before it was put into its present shape is a question on which opinions are widely different. In the nature of the case we can look for no entire consensus of opinion and no exact answer to the question; the most that one can expect to establish is at the best only a probability.

The difference in the treatment of final unstressed -e among the various ME. dialects has long since been noticed. In Nth., according to Morsbach (Mittelenglische Grammatik §§ 6–9), it became silent (“ist stumm”) about 1350; in Ml. it was in part sounded throughout the fourteenth century, though as Morsbach remarks, “in vielen fällen ist es schon verstummt;” in WSth. and MSth. it was in general retained throughout the century; while Kt. on the whole retains it intact quite up to the middle of the century.

The Old Saxon (or Old High German) Hildebrandslied occupies a unique position among the remains of Germanic antiquity. It is the only specimen of the ancient German national epic preserved in the O.H.G. or the O.S. language. Interesting as this noble poem is, when considered by itself, it gains still more in interest when viewed as an older type of the epic poetry developed into perfection, at a later period, in works like the Nibelungenlied. Its orthography and dialect also offer most interesting problems. These considerations will explain why a renewed detailed examination of the manuscript, orthography, and dialect of the poem were deemed justifiable.

Spain, during the fifteenth century, was very prolific in writers of verse, as a glance at the Cancioneros of Baena, Castillo, Estuñiga, and a number of other early collections, both printed and manuscript, will show. That these were not all poets by divine right, no one perhaps will gainsay, nor would the world have suffered any great loss, if much of their verse had disappeared forever. In the time of Don Juan II. (1407-1454), himself a poet, it seemed to have been considered a necessary accomplishment of every courtier to write poetry, and as the Spanish language falls into measure and rhyme at the slightest provocation, the practice of such an accomplishment was fraught with little difficulty. Still, despite what has been said above, there is a charm about much of the poetry in these Cancioneros that is undeniable, and among their poets many names occur that will always occupy an honorable place in the literature of Spain. With perhaps a few exceptions, the best poetry in these collections is found in the short lyrical pieces. They are often delightfully naive, but necessarily suffer from sameness, love being the theme of most of them, and even this may become wearisome. But there were also poets, though in much lesser number, who turned their thoughts to things spiritual. Of these, two of the most famous were the Marquis of Santillana, and his kinsman Fernan Perez de Guzman, some of whose religious poems are here published for the first time. They are among the best verses that he has written, and are very fairly illustrative of his style and ability as a poet.

For a number of years a mot passed quietly about in the learned world of Paris—fortunately without ever committing the indiscretion of finding its way into print—to the effect that Gaston Paris ought to be elected to the French Academy in order that there might be in that august body at least one member who was an authority on the French language. Another and more piquant form of this much appreciated pleasantry, was that the one man who, as a matter of course, could not expect to be elected to the Academy, happened to be the greatest living authority on the subject of its labors.