Listening to an orator delivering a speech or to a reader reciting good prose, we may notice, running through the speaker's utterances, a characteristic and persistent tune. The voice rises and falls, increases and diminishes, moves now slowly, now rapidly, throws emphasis upon one phrase and takes it away from another, not waywardly and erratically but in accordance with some underlying pattern or scheme of movement. It is this tune or pattern, in some of its simpler and more obvious features, that I mean to consider in this paper. The pattern is the rhythm of prose, and to chart it and discover its law is to effect for prose what metrical scansion does for verse.

To write The Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne drew on mid-nineteenthcentury theories of the prose romance and the central situation of New England romances. The romance was distinguished from the novel by the idea of artistic distance; romancers wanted to set human experience at a distance from their readers' world so that the meaning of the experience would be more clear. To get the distance exactly right, they balanced three sets of opposites: verisimilitude and ideality; the natural and the marvelous; and history and fiction. Hawthorne discussed each of the balances and used them as part of his conception of the form of The Scarlet Letter. The central situation of most contemporary romances about Puritanism provided him with the conflict of the “fair Puritan” and the “black Puritan.” Hester is his “fair Puritan” whose capacity for feeling is opposed to the reasoned but harsh justice of his “black Puritan,” Chillingworth. These two characters in their roles as types define the extreme sides of the moral argument Hawthorne synthesizes in the complex characterization of Dimmesdale.

The 176 verses (44 epigrams) of the Walpurgis Night's Dream in Faust, Part I, are structurally divided into three themes and contain elements of aesthetics, cognition theory, and social criticism. In the relationship between Walpurgis Night and Walpurgis Night's Dream, overlapping tendencies toward concrete characterization and abstract figure-allegories pave the way for that interrelation of the “big” and “small” world which is the basic principle of the artistic link between Faust, Part I, and Faust, Part XI. With polemical intentions, Goethe draws a series of types and characters which, as a body, must be understood in the sense of Hegel as an “abolition” of irony in romanticist comedies. In regard to tradition, borrowings from Shakespeare's Midsummer Night'sDream and The Tempest are combined with adaptations of Domenico Cimarosa and the operas of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It is the inherent unity of seriousness and levity, of the tragic and the comic, of constructive profoundness and slapstick in all these elements which give Walpurgis Night's Dream an important but up to now functionally underestimated place in the complete work of Faust. (In German)

The Topic which I am undertaking to discuss—that of the relation between history and literary criticism—is one which today apparently invites the polemic style. I wish, however, to forego that style and at the same time to refrain from the special defence of, or attack upon, any critic or historian or any school of critics or historians. What I have in mind is the delineation of a certain issue which arises between literary criticism and historical scholarship. This issue I look upon as something unavoidably problematic, part of a troublesome opposition which runs through all our experience—between the particular and the universal, between the contingent and what is in any sense necessary, probable, or ideal, between what merely was and what in any way is. We may think Aristotle's statement that poetry is a more serious and a more philosophic thing than history only a rude beginning of theory (unhappily antithetical), but it is a beginning of something which can scarcely be left alone. The problematic relation between history and criticism has always existed. It may have been adjusted during one long epoch of our tradition, the classical, by a certain neglect of the claims of history. The modern advance of historical techniques and consequent sharpening of historical conscience have, however, sufficiently reasserted the problem and sufficiently increased its difficulty.

Robert Burton has never been known as a commentator on The Faerie Queene and he certainly did not aspire to that honor, but it is my purpose in this article to show that unconsciously he left a valuable set of notes on Spenser's work. Burton was not a critic and his one critical remark about The Faerie Queene sounds oddly to-day, although readers of M. Jusserand's remarks in his Literary History of the English People on Spenser's borrowings from Ariosto will remember some ideas that chime with what Burton says in the passage in question. In his analysis of love-melancholy in the Third Part of The Anatomy of Melancholy he remarked casually:

Our new Ariostoes, Boyards, Authors of Arcadia, Urania, Faerie Queene, &c., Marullus, Leotichius, Angerianus, Stroza, Secundus, Capellanus, &c., with the best of these facete modern poets have written in this kind, are but so many symptoms of love. Their whole books are a synopsis or breviary of love, the portuous of love, legends of lovers' lives and deaths, and of their memorable adventures, nay more, quod leguntur, quod laudantur, amori debent.

In 1786 Gilbert Wakefield pointed out in a very specific way the similarity of certain passages in the poetry of Lucretius, Thomson, and Gray. In our own day, Miss A. L. Reed and Professor H. W. Garrod have indicated the same parallel passages in the three poets, as well as in Collins. My purpose here is to classify this Lucretian influence as definitely as possible, and to describe its genesis and diffusion as part of a broader Vergilian stream.

So many things about the Middle Ages seem strange to the modern reader that it is easy to over-emphasize the differences between the points of view and the methods of medieval and of modern writers. Especially is this true of the writers of fiction. We seldom get more than a brief glimpse of the medieval fiction-writer, specifically the author of medieval romances, actually at work; for example, when we find Chrétien de Troyes using the old book from the cathedral library at Beauvais in the composition of Cligès. Generally we have only the finished product on the one hand, and on the other hand, “sources” of various kinds, folk-tale or saga or classical story. Where the relation between the finished product and the source is close and obvious, as in such romances as Sir Amadas and Sir Isumbras, the mere identification of the source reveals the method of the writer: he found an attractive old story and retold it, adding such embellishments as his audience would probably like. Nothing could be simpler. But the writers of the more courtly and sophisticated romances were not mere redactors; they were authors, in very much the same sense as the modern novelist is an author. And like most modern novelists, they showed their inventive powers, not often in finding new material, but usually in making recombinations of old material. They sometimes had the advantage over the present would-be producer of “best sellers” in writing for specific courtly groups presided over by single leaders of taste. It was therefore relatively easy to discover what their public wanted. Thus Chrétien wrote his Chevalier de la Charrette to satisfy Marie de Champagne, though it seems not to have been exactly in accordance with his own ethical standards.

Describing a year's activity in a half-hour report is an annual challenge that grows more difficult as the pace and scope of the activity increase. The Foreign Language Program is in some ways the victim of its success. One of our early goals was to become an information center and we have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. Requests for materials, information, opinions, and assistance threaten to overwhelm us daily. Three members of the staff do nothing but answer these requests. The ones that are unanswerable are put in my in-basket. Telephone calls and visitors multiply. All this activity we are tempted to think of as interruptions to our real job, long-range planning, deep thinking, foreign languages in the next century. But in a very real sense the magnitude of the interruptions to our job is the sign that we are succeeding, that more and more foreign-language teachers and students and more and more people in general want to know the answers to questions and the solutions to problems of which they were hardly conscious a few years ago. There has been a revolution in language learning in this country and among recent visitors to our office have been language teachers and administrators from all over the world (France, England, Denmark, Germany, Japan, Africa, Australia), who have come to find out what we are doing.

In an article reviewing Werfel's collected poems from the Catholic point of view, Cornelius Schroeder, a Franciscan, maintains that despite constant references to God in his poetry Werfel does not experience any real religious faith. It is Schroeder's contention that Werfel does not succeed in finding a solution to the conflict between nature and spirituality which is so prominent in his poetry:

Als geistiger Mensch kommt er nicht hinweg iiber die Zwiespältigkeit von Natur und Geist, kommt er nicht los von der Qual, in welche die Geburt für die Erde den Geist gestiirzt hat.

A consideration of “Bright Star” and “Ode to a Nightingale” prepares for a reading of Hyperion as a poem of revisionary strife. Keats intends a progress poem that will put Milton, and secondarily Wordsworth, behind him. Entering the threatening ancestral space of Miltonic epic, Keats endeavors to make it his own by correcting Milton's errors in vision and thereby subduing the phantom he raises. Milton, however, will not maintain his place in the past; he returns, uncannily, to subvert Keats as powerfully as Keats subverts him. The impotence and anxiety of the Miltonic Titans are expressive of Keats's failure to write the poem he wishes. His surrogate, Apollo, is waiting to dawn but cannot. Engulfed by a knowledge that is equivalent to the Miltonic legacy, Apollo and Keats are halted at the threshold, in the dark passage that Keats explores in the great odes and in The Fall of Hyperion.

As an Italian scholar has said, Dante's “rime pietrose” are a “questione pietrosa.” The rime pietrose—Pietra or Petra poems—are, strictly speaking, a small group of poems in which there is word-play on the lady's name and disposition. One thinks of Shakespeare's “Will” sonnets. Barbi allots to the Petra group one sestina, one sestina “doppia,” two canzoni, and a doubtful sonnet. Other critics would add more poems as being similar in mood and motive. D'Ancona, conceiving la Pargoletta, la Petra, la Donna Gentile, and Lisetta as “una persona in diversi atteggiamenti,” would include in one cycle nearly all Dante's lyrics not addressed to Beatrice. Certain others would identify la Petra with one other of Dante's ladies. Thus Zenatti, Santi, Misciatelli identify her with la Pargoletta; Serafino identifies her with Gentucca. At the other extreme, Federzoni rejects the idea of a Petra group altogether.

The meaning that attaches to the title Correspondances suggests a likely but overlooked source of Baudelaire's sonnet, the occult science of animal magnetism. Baudelaire's interest in the subject goes back to June 1838 when he discusses it in a letter to his mother. His first Poe translation, in 1848, was Révélation magnétique. In addition, allusions to animal magnetism are found in such poems as La Voix, Bénédiction, and La Mort des pauvres. Baudelaire was probably aware of, and may have attended, a series of lectures on animal magnetism given in 1844 or 1845 by a certain Alphonse Teste. In the printed text of these lectures the word correspondance is used in a sense closer to Baudelaire's than one finds in any other known source of the sonnet. Evidence of the influence of animal magnetism on Baudelaire's works tends to confirm Jean Pommier's belief that Correspondances was composed during the period 1845-46. (In French)

Discussions about academic work often tangle with the seemingly bifurcating demands of teaching and research. occasionally, they celebrate how the two endeavors nurture each other. These professional divisions, which George Levine a decade ago called a “combat” scenario between “two nations” (9), have not been reconciled since then. Despite that persistent tension, when I shifted my professional energies to the academy after several years of community-based social work with not-for-profit organizations serving Hispanic populations, the challenges of balancing teaching and research were not my only concerns. I also wondered how I could incorporate community service into the multiple demands of academic life. Would there be time to devote to the community? Would I find academic work in an area where I might have something to contribute beyond the campus? Aside from location and time constraints, would I find a way to integrate into my faculty identity an engagement with the wider society, or would those endeavors be relegated to a separate self, dissociated from my academic world? I anticipated that extensions of my teaching and scholarship might connect with realms outside the academy. Accepting the challenge, I patiently observed my campus and surrounding community, searching for opportunities for interaction.

Of Shakespeare's four great tragedies the Christian overtones of Othello have been least apprehended. Critics have seen in. it a noble soul caught in the toils of a diabolically cunning being, who tempts him to doubt the divine goodness of one in whom he has absolute faith, but they have failed to see the symbolic force of the characters and the action. For the Elizabethans, however, the noble soul of Othello, the diabolic cunning of Iago, and (he divine goodness of Desdemona would not have had a loosely metaphoric meaning. Desdemona, who in her forgiveness and perfect love, a love requited by death, is reminiscent of Christ, would have represented Christian values; Iago, who in his envious hatred and destructive negativism is reminiscent of Satan, would have represented anti-Christian values. The choice that Othello had to make was between Christian love and forgiveness and Satanic hate and vengefulness. When he exclaimed (III.iii.447—149), “Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow celli / Yield up, 0 love, thy crown and hearted throne / To tyrannous hate,” he was succumbing to the devil, and, like all men who succumb to the devil, his fall was reminiscent of that of Adam.

The preface to Alastor, though at times obscure, ill-expressed, and digressive, is so much briefer and clearer than the poem itself that its interpretation of the work has, not unnaturally, been accepted without too close a scrutiny of the verse it explains. According to the preface, Alastor is an allegory: it represents a youth who is happy in study and in the contemplation of nature until suddenly, thirsting for “intercourse with an intelligence similar to” his own, “he images to himself the Being whom he loves,”—one who unites all that the poet, the philosopher, or the lover can require. “He seeks in vain for a prototype of his conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he descends to an untimely grave.” The remainder of the preface is given over chiefly to denouncing “those meaner spirits” who, no less than “the luminaries of the world,” “attempt to exist without human sympathy” but with whom the poem does not deal. The sounding, irrelevant moralizing of this paragraph tends to conceal two important observations: “The Poet's self-centered seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion pursuing him to speedy ruin,” and the Power of human sympathy struck him “with sudden darkness and extinction by awakening ... [him] to too exquisite a perception of its influences.”

Of the many disputed terms in the Poetics, “imitation,” has always been one of the most fruitful of discussion and of misconception; and these misconceptions are particularly significant because, for whole periods, they were potent in moulding creative activity not only in literature, but also in painting and in music. When “ imitation ” is considered in the light of its technical use in Plato and in Aristotle, its real meaning emerges with some distinctness. Far from the naturalistic theory of a direct and slavish copy of objects and actions, Aristotle's is a distinctly idealistic conception, and signifies “ creating according to a true idea.” Thus, when we are told that Art imitates Nature, “ Nature ” is not a particular thing or act, but is the creative force of the universe. With this conception, we can justify Aristotle's declaration that music is the most imitative of all the arts: it is the most fluid; and its flux is governed most completely by the universal laws of unity, proportion, and symmetry. The conception is almost Platonic; and it makes Aristotelian appear in a sense almost diametrically opposed to the common meaning of the Latin imitatio and the English “ imitation.”

Of all the Euphuists, Robert Greene was the one most fascinated by the rhetorical possibilities provided for literature by science. Similes and allusions drawn from the storehouse of natural history appear on almost every page of his work. One counts references to more than thirty animals, forty minerals and precious stones, fifteen reptiles, thirty birds, fifteen fish, twenty trees, fifteen insects, and sixty herbs in the corpus of his prose romances. The number of his allusions must total almost a thousand—a staggering mass of material for such a mercurial mind to retain. What is the origin of all this learning?

Twenty years after its publication in 1942, Camus's short novel L'Etranger has preserved its wide appeal through its haunting intensity, strange simplicity, and virile freshness. However, the general overemphasis on the philosophical significance of the story, the failure to deal with certain literary aspects, and the obscure or ambiguous features of the novel seem to call for a new appraisal of Camus's masterpiece.