Three of the riddles in the Exeter Book, usually numbered 1, 2, and 3, are commonly known as the Storm Riddles because of their unusually vigorous and beautiful descriptions of disasters on sea and on land as caused by the uproar of the elements. We owe to Professor Charles W. Kennedy the complete interpretation of riddles 2 and 3. Kennedy, I think, has established two things conclusively: first, that riddles 2 and 3 are actually but one riddle—I shall subsequently refer to it by riddle 2–3—secondly, that the background of the storm riddles is Graeco-Roman cosmological thought. Riddle 2–3 dwells successively on four aspects of the turbulent atmosphere, the submarine storm (R.2, lines 1–12), the earthquake (R.3, lines 1-16), the storm at sea (R.3, lines 17–35), and the thunderstorm on land (R.3, lines 36-66). Lines 67–72 summarize the four themes.

“You have but fed on the roses and Iain in the lilies of life.” With this Swinburnian line Tennyson concludes the introductory section of Maud and turns to the lyrical development of the conflict for which preparation has been made. In its immediate context the statement is deliberately ambiguous, suggesting little more than that Maud has hitherto led a sheltered and luxurious life. Yet the announcement of the lily and rose motifs in this place is not without significance. Considered apart, the two flowers evoke a wealth of traditional symbolic meaning, traceable throughout English poetry from Chaucer on; placed in direct relation to each other as here, they create an added potential for dramatic interplay. That Tennyson understood and desired to exploit the dramatic uses to which symbols may be put becomes apparent on analysis of the conditions under which the lily and rose reoccur in subsequent passages of the narrative.

The meaning of the two lines in the Prologue that refer to the Shipman's yearly trips to Bordeaux with the wine fleet—

—has long been a source of uneasiness to students of Chaucer, an uneasiness which arises in large part from the tone of the rest of the portrait. Since we are told that this man of Dartmouth who sailed the Maudeleyne was without peer as a seaman and without mercy as a pirate, we expect greater knavery than a purely superficial reading of the lines indicates—that the Shipman drank some of his cargo at night. The desire for an interpretation appropriate to the Shipman's general nature led Skeat so far as to suggest that he was a smuggler as well as a pirate: “Very many a draught of wine had be drawn (stolen or carried off from Bordeaux, cask and all) while the chapman (merchant or supercargo to whom the wines belonged) was asleep.” While most of the more recent editors take it for granted that the Shipman's thieving had to do with the legitimate cargo which he had on board, their uncertainty as to its significance is evident in such a gloss as “The shipman stole much of the wine which he was carrying for a merchant; he extracted, in other words, some of the cargo.” The disparity here between the “much” of the first clause and the “some” of the last one is a nice example of the persistent hesitance about Chaucer's meaning.

“Com neer, thou preest, come hyder, thou sir John!
Telle us swich thyng as may oure hertes glade.
Be blithe, though thou ryde upon a jade.
What thogh thyn hors be bothe foul and lene?
If he wol serve thee, rekke nat a bene.
Looke that thyn herte be murie everemo.”
“Yis, sir”, quod he, “yis, Hoost, so moot I go,
But I be myrie, ywis I wol be blamed.”
—Prologue, Nun's Priest's Tale
“But by my trouthe, if thou were seculer,
Thou woldest ben a trede‐foul aright.
For if thou have corage as thou hast myght,
Thee were nede of hennes, as I wene,
Ya, moo than seven tymes seventene.
See, whiche braunes hath this gentil preest,
So gret a nekke, and swich a large breest!
He loketh as a sperhauk with his yen;
Him nedeth nat his colour for to dyen
With brasile, ne with greyn of Portyngale.
Now, sire, faire falle yow for youre tale!”
—Epilogue, Nun's Priest's Tale
The literary pastime of finding real-life models for characters in literature is a fascinating one. In proportion as the vital statistics of the object of the literary manhunt recede in time, the fascination grows. Something akin to the possession of occult powers is felt by the literary detective who can, from a foothold in the twentieth century, reach back three, four, or five hundred years and “get his man.” Admittedly there is a real value in this kind of scholarly effort, but there is also a very real danger. The danger arises from the pleasurable self-hypnosis that often accompanies these ventures. In this state of quasi-suspended judgment, we are not always responsible for our conclusions. It is my desire to examine the results of one of these ostensibly successful manhunts in an effort to suggest that the “culprit” was not actually apprehended after all.

En un estudio previo sobre la “Fortuna lexicográfica de barroco” hubimos de observar que el Diccionario histórico de la Academia Española, en sus artículos barroco y barroquismo, aducía ejemplos del uso de esas voces en castellano, en la acepción de estilo en las artes, obtenidos en obras publicadas en Madrid en 1899 y en 1921 (1a edition en 1884) para barroco, y en 1909 para barroquismo.

Two indispensable prerequisites for successful research in Romance etymology are sustained attention and patience. The worker is at liberty to select problems that suit his personal taste, to assemble a wealth of pertinent data, to examine solutions proposed in earlier inquiries, to cherish the idea of having found the clue to issues previously deemed insoluble. Yet this preparatory work, no matter how meticulously planned and conscientiously carried out, may not yield immediate results: the easily accessible data not infrequently form a vicious circle, the explanations of pioneer workers more often than not serve to confuse rather than to enlighten the present day explorer. With his entire apparatus of research ready for action at a moment's notice, the etymologist, in a state of protracted suspense, must withstand the temptation of prematurely declaring his work concluded. Patiently, humbly, yet with unfailing alertness, he must await the moment of great satisfaction when a chance find (perhaps a passage in a not readily available book or a record in a new dialect glossary) may supply the one unexpected form, usually a precious relic, which helps him to break the vicious circle and step out into the open. This newly discovered form will prove a priceless aid in the reconstruction of the bridge between Latin and Romance; not one of those hazardous suspension bridges on which some nineteenth century etymologists were fond of performing their acrobatics, but a solid, pleasant bridge, allowing for comfortable walking and an enjoyable view of the surrounding landscape. The history of Spanish terco and its cognates is apt to show how radically such a casual find can advance our knowledge.

The unfortunate pronouncements of Menéndez y Pelayo have condemned the poetry of the early Spanish cancioneros to undeserved neglect. A revision is in order, for the subject has importance for both Spanish and comparative literature. This poetry is not a mere jumble of far-fetched superficialities. Progressively purged of license and adapted to Christian courtship and marriage, it yet preserves in fairly definite shape the traditional pattern of courtly love. It is necessary to apply to Spanish cancionero poetry concepts that have been worked out for other European literatures.

None of the deadly weapons of mediaeval legend, not even the darts of Yspadaden Penkawr, is more sinister than Crocea Mors, the sword of Julius Caesar. This Yellow Death, a terrible instrument which inflicted incurable and inevitably fatal wounds, was invented by Geoffrey of Monmouth, who says that Caesar lost it in his first battle with the British when it stuck in the cleft shield of the British prince Nennius and was carried off by him. The episode is symbolic of Caesar's entire association with the British as related by Geoffrey and his followers, for at their hands the great Roman's military reputation suffered even worse than his armory in his encounters with the descendants of Brut.

Gautier has been known to scholarship only as the author of two romances, the Eracle (of 6,593 verses) and the Ille et Galeron (of 6,592). In the prologues and epilogues to these works he mentions a number of illustrious patrons and sheds some light, though a rather dim one, on his own personality. From what he says there, it is possible to date the two romances approximately, so that we know the years of his adult life. The poet claims friendship with Count Baudouin of Hainaut, identified as Baudouin V, brother-in-law and successor of Philip of Flanders; Count Thibaut of Blois, grand seneschal of Louis VII of France; Marie de Champagne, daughter of Louis and Eleanor of Aquitaine and sister-in-law of Thibaut; and Beatrice of Burgundy, second wife of Frederick Barbarossa, emperor of Germany. Anyone familiar with the political friendships and enmities of the time will wonder at the wide acquaintance and patronage Gautier claims.

Macktavelli's three comedies, Andria, Clizia, and Mandragola, are arranged in that order in the edition of Mazzoni and Casella; and that is the order of excellence in which all readers place them. Andria is a good translation of the Latin original, occasionally enlivened by semi-proverbial expressions and the like. It is perhaps hasty, since a few words are neglected. Possibly they were lacking in the text Machiavelli used, though I find them in one Italian sixteenth-century form.

As Heinrich Zimmer—GGA (1890), p. 818, n. 1—saw correctly, the name Arthur is the regular derivative of the Lat. Artorius in Brythonic. Thurneysen—ZCPh, xx (1933), 136—remarks: “Zimmer hatte gesehen, dass Arthur die regelmässige britannische Entwicklung von lat. (Artor oder) Artorius sein kann”, the long Lat. o becoming u in Celtic.